Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Vayeira 5781

Avraham’s three guests are thoroughly enjoying his hospitality when one begins to inquire about his wife. No mere small talk, this guest shares with Avraham of a miracle that will soon unfold: Sarah, his aged wife, will conceive, and give birth to a son at this time next year. Little doubt could remain as to the true identity of this pack of travelers; they are no mere mortals, but angels. The Rabbis say as much in the Midrash and note further that it is two of these same three angels that continue on towards Sodom, one to overturn the city, and one to save Lot and his family. 

The mysterious prophecy may well be a clear give away, and yet at no point are Avraham’s guests actually referred to as “angels” in the text of the Torah. The Torah introduces these travelers simply as “אנשים—men” when they appear on the horizon outside Avraham’s tent. It is not until they travel to Sodom, that their true identity is revealed by the Torah itself: “וַיָּבֹאוּ שְׁנֵי הַמַּלְאָכִים סְדֹמָה בָּעֶרֶב—And the two angels came towards Sodom in the evening.” (Bereishis 19:1)

Why the metamorphosis? Did their appearance actually change? Were the human disguises worn while being tended to by Avraham shed upon entry into Sodom? The Midrash offers an explanation: 

אָמַר רַבִּי תַּנְחוּמָא אָמַר רַבִּי לֵוִי אַבְרָהָם שֶׁהָיָה כֹּחוֹ יָפֶה נִדְמוּ לוֹ בִּדְמוּת אֲנָשִׁים, אֲבָל לוֹט עַל יְדֵי שֶׁהָיָה כֹּחוֹ רַע נִדְמוּ לוֹ בִּדְמוּת מַלְאָכִים

_{^{בראשית רבה פ׳ נ}}

Rabbi Tanchuma said in the name of Rabbi Levi: Their appearance was that of men in Avraham’s presence, for his ability was great. But their appearance was that of angels in Lot’s presence, for his ability was poor. 

^{Bereishis Rabbah 50}

The answer may well be more puzzling than the original question. Wouldn’t Avraham’s greatness give him more of an ability to see the angels’ true essence, rather than only the human veneer? Wouldn’t Lot’s lack of spiritual prowess prevent him from seeing the angels as true angels?

I’d like to suggest a novel approach to this cryptic Midrash. Perhaps at the heart of the difference between Avraham and Lot is not in how they saw angels, but in how they saw people. Avraham was the paragon of Chessed. His care and concern for his fellow man knew no bounds and he longed for opportunities to dote on them, as evidenced by his waiting at the entrance of his tent, waiting for passersby as our parsha opens. 

Lot is a more complicated character. To be sure, Lot was no stranger to hachnassas orchim either. And yet his compassion towards others was incomplete, even somewhat warped. Consider, if you will, the offering of his own daughters to the angry mob that converges upon his home, so long as they leave his houseguests alone. According to the Midrash, it is Lot’s shepherds’ allowing his sheep to graze on the land of others that triggers Avraham’s suggestion that they take leave of one another. Lot invites guests into his home on the one hand, but will overlook basic human rights on the other. 

What if the angels had not been angels at all, but had truly been men? What would have been Avraham’s perception of such guests? He would have seen the tzelem Elokim—the Divine imprint upon the human form. He would have seen the potential for greatness, the ability to walk in Hashem’s path, the ability of a human being to live a life of morality and decency. 

This is why Avraham offers up his five-star hospitality to three wayfarers. It is because when Avraham saw an actual person, he saw an angel. So when he sees an angel, he appears no different than a man. How Avraham sees his guests says less about how he perceived of an angelic being and more about how he perceived of a human being. 

For Lot, of course, a man is decidedly less. If I can take from another that which is not mine, if I can use my own daughter as a bargaining chip, my impression of a fellow human being is far from angelic. Lot sees angels as angels and men as men because the difference between the two are so stark. Avraham sees angels as men because in his eyes they are very much the same. 

It is critical that we remember that Avraham was far from naive. Avraham saw evil and called it by that name. Avraham criticizes Avimelech for the lack of morality amongst his people, embraces the reality that Yishmael is a poor influence on Yitzchak. Avraham is not living in the blissful haze of self-imposed ignorance of other’s misdeeds. He discerns right from wrong not only in his own behavior, but in others’ as well. And yet what he sees in people is a certain fundamental goodness and wellspring of potential that cannot be dismissed. 

It is possible to passionately argue and vehemently disagree with the decisions, lifestyle, even values of another person and still see the Divine spark that shone so brightly in the eyes of Avraham Avinu. We tend to read Parshas Vayeira with a certain regret over no longer being able to see angels. But far more worrisome is that we have trained ourselves to no longer see men.

If we could learn to see men the way Avraham did, perhaps angels would be more willing to pay a visit. 

Lech-Lecha 5781

No national water carrier and no desalination plants. No bakery on every corner and no falafel stand in every neighborhood. No cars and no busses, no high-speed light rail and no international flights. Comparing the Aliyah of today to that of Avraham’s certainly helps to soften the sense of overwhelm felt by those who embark upon that holy mission. But Avraham’s Aliyah to Israel was not only a move to a land that would be deemed primitive by today’s standards, but even by the standards of the ancient world in which he lived. 

Avraham hailed from Mesopotamia, the cradle of advanced civilization. This region was developing far more quickly than neighboring lands, enjoying some of the basic furnishings that are the hallmarks of society even today. In being directed to travel to and settle in the Land of Canaan, Avraham was being asked not only to relocate, but, from a perspective of scientific development, to settle into an earlier and more primitive era of history.

Consider this reality in the context of what Avraham’s mission is ultimately about. “Lech lecha” is not an isolated event, but the beginning of a process by which Avraham will spawn a nation whose responsibility it will be to fulfill G-d’s will and draw His presence from Heaven to Earth. Avraham is tasked with advancing humanity towards its next great phase, and yet the chosen launchpad is in a location where society is playing catchup. The story of spiritual development will take place well beyond the hotbed of scientific development. The path towards G-d will not progress along the same arc as technological discovery. 

At the end of last week’s parsha, a great technological feat is right in the Torah’s crosshairs. Following the Flood, a society emerges that is unified in purpose and is poised to accomplish great things. It has discovered a means of harnessing fire in a furnace or kiln in order to make bricks and is now capable of building impressive structures. But it is here that things go awry. Rather than building palaces to G-d, they build a tower in an attempt to overtake G-d. This was a society whose successes were only in the technological sphere, but never achieved the promise it once showed of being able to dial the spiritual needle forward.

Strikingly, the next time we encounter a furnace in the narrative is a famous episode not contained in the Torah, but in the Midrash: it is the story of Avraham’s encounter with Nimrod, when the latter throws him into a furnace for his heretical beliefs, from which he is rescued only by Divine intervention. Technological progress and spiritual development are oftentimes far from parallel. 

Fire makes another important appearance a short while later, again in the Midrash. As a parable to explain Avraham’s discovery of Hashem, the Midrash describes a traveler passing by a palace. The palace is clearly lit from within, and the traveler reasons that it cannot possibly be that the illuminated residence is without a master. Thereupon, the master calls out to the traveler, snuffing out any doubt. The illuminated palace is referred to in the Midrash as a בירה דולקת, a term that just as easily connotes a palace that is not only lit up, but one that is ablaze, that would send flames shooting up to the sky, not unlike a furnace.

Draw a line from the Tower of Bavel, to Nimrod’s Furnace, to the burning palace that symbolizes Avraham’s eureka moment, and what emerges is a reminder that what represents a great technological discovery is far from inherently worthwhile from the perspective of driving history and society towards a better future. Fire is misused in an attempt to overthrow G-d, and again in an effort to snuff out the father of Judaism and monotheism while still in embryonic form. Fire is “redeemed” not in of itself; but only when it becomes a tool in Avraham’s path toward G-d. 

The Torah is providing a warning: be wary of assuming that every technological advance is indeed a step forward. The arcs of science of religion are by no means inherently at odds with one another, but by not means should they be presumed to be aligned.

What does all this matter for the average person? Science, after all, will continue along in its inexorable march of discovery and development, whether I watch from the sidelines with a smile or a scowl. But this consideration is still a major one when we consider our own personal lives and the choices we make about how to live them. What is the path that new gadgets, tools, and apps must take in order to gain entry into our lives? Do we serve as active gatekeepers, pondering the full expanse of their influence in ways both good and bad, or have we defaulted to leaving the gate wide open because progress, after all, is always a good thing? 

Even highly effective and worthwhile tools can come with major costs: providing easier access to that which is spiritually corrosive, serving as major distractions from family time and other important pursuits, and creating one more bucket of attention and upkeep that further carves up the mere twenty four hours in a day that have already been overly sliced and diced. 

Consider the apps you’ve downloaded in the past year. If you deleted them, what would you be giving up, and what would you be gaining? Are you a better, happier, more productive person for having them, or not? The answer may well be that you are. The fire the Midrash speaks of in Avraham’s discovery of Hashem carries a redemptive note; not every new development is evil simply because it is novel. And yet the Torah’s ambivalence makes clear the need to have these conversations and to consider the impact of such new developments on our lives. Newer does not always mean better; a step forward on the arc of technology is not always an advancement towards our most important goals. We must remember where we want to end up and carefully consider what tools will help us get there, and which will ultimately set us back. 

Parshas Noach 5781

When Noach emerges from the ark, he is hit with the exact commandment that we would have expected: P’ru u’r’vu, to be fruitful and multiply. With the earth’s population having been completely wiped out in the Flood, it is incumbent upon Noach and his family to ensure the future of humanity by having children, who will then have children in turn. 

וַיְבָ֣רֶךְ אֱלֹקים אֶת־נֹ֖חַ וְאֶת־בָּנָ֑יו וַיֹּ֧אמֶר לָהֶ֛ם פְּר֥וּ וּרְב֖וּ וּמִלְא֥וּ אֶת־הָאָֽרֶץ׃ 

בראשית ט:א

And G-d blessed Noach and his sons and said, ‘Be fruitful and multilply and fill the earth.’

Bereishis 9:1

Obviously, it takes two to tango. Noach’s mission to help repopulate the world will be only as successful as his wife’s interest in this calling. And yet it is here that we confront the great curiosity of this mitzvah. As seen in the pasuk above, the charge to procreate is given to Noach and his sons, but not to any of their wives. This is true not only in the era of Noach, but in halachic terms as well: the obligation of having children as an actual mitzvah devolves exclusively upon men. Why would a responsibility that perforce demands the participation of both genders be presented to men and not women?

The Meshech Chochma offers an insightful explanation. Perhaps, he suggests, women are not commanded in this mitzvah because they more naturally assume the role of mother all on their own. Left to their own devices, women surge towards motherhood in a manner that outstrips the male desire for fatherhood. An actual halachic demand would be superfluous motivation for a woman to have children; hence, no mitzvah is issued.

We tend to look at the Torah and its mitzvos as the one and only source for legitimate holiness. And yet contained in the Meshech Chochma’s comments is the assertion that this should not necessarily be so. Hashem’s voice can indeed be heard in every word contained in the Torah, but, apparently, can also be heard from within ourselves. When Hashem created the human being b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of G-d, he was created with Divine software already installed. To listen closely to the natural tendencies of the human heart is to hear the Divine word.

Naturally, this idea has its limitations. Not every human urge can be presumed to bear Hashem’s imprimatur; not every impulse can be equated with a halachic mandate. Indeed, the Torah provides us with a framework for determining which of our inner voices to listen to and which to silence. Again and again, the Torah demands that we overcome our instincts in the interest of coming closer to Hashem. Self-sanctification before self-indulgence. 

Yet it is critical that we recognize how so many of our natural tendencies are naturally aligned with the Torah’s demands. Much like the drive for motherhood, our innate sense of fairness, mercy, and compassion are in complete consonance with the dictates of the Torah. Why is this important to be aware of? For one, it adds a further dimension to the gratitude we owe Hashem. Just as its worth reflecting on the marvels contained within the physical human body and appreciating the gift of sight, digestion, or respiration, we should also develop gratitude to Hashem for the natural Divine impulses He’s endowed us with in our spirit. 

A further point is that reflecting on how many of our natural tendencies are morally virtuous should give us a great sense of confidence in our ability to develop a profound and powerful relationship with Hashem. There is a world of difference between viewing a life of Torah and mitzvos as one that demands a virtual overhaul of all that we are as opposed to one that simply augments our natural state, ensuring that we need only amplify those already holy tendencies that have always existed within us. 

One final point that I think is worthy of our consideration is less about our relationship with Hashem and more about our relationship with the world. And by that I mean the world beyond the Jewish People. That Klal Yisrael enjoys a closer, warmer, and deeper relationship with G-d than any other nation is axiomatic. And yet if we look out onto the world and see a mass of people bereft of any holiness because of the absence of the Torah, we are making a grave mistake. The tzelem Elokim imprinted upon every human being means that many of the drives and impulses that animate each of them are reflective of Hashem and stem from a holy source. Yes, the Torah keeps those impulses in check, erects effective guardrails, and ensures that we are kept from falling prey to negative tendencies. But even without the Torah, the human being is capable of no small measure of holiness and Divine reflection. When the homeless are sheltered, the underprivileged are cared for, when decent people devote themselves to their family members, their neighbors, or fellow citizens, we are seeing the Divine light flicker within the human spirit. Let’s remember to appreciate it as nothing less.

Parshas Bereishis 5781

I’ve always been amused by the arbitrary sprinkling of clothing in the cartoon animal kingdom. Mickey Mouse wears shorts and a top, while Bugs Bunny goes au natural. In such a world, degree of nakedness amongst these various creations could actually be ranked. In the real world, where every animal bears it all, no such comparison could possibly exist. And yet in Parshas Bereishis, the nakedness of one animal stands out above the rest:

וְהַנָּחָשׁ הָיָה עָרוּם מִכֹּל חַיַּת הַשָּׂדֶה אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה ה׳ אֱלֹקים

בראשית ג:א

And the snake was more naked than any beast of the field that Hashem, G-d, had created.

Bereishis 3:1

To be sure, the term ערום in the pasuk above is generally translated as “clever” or “cunning” in order to make more sense in context. Hence, the snake is described as being more shrewd than the other animals. And yet the plain meaning of ערום as “naked” cannot be ignored. The selection of this word to describe the Snake can be no mere coincidence.

What, then, do we make of this description? 

If you’ve taken seriously the season of the Yamim Noraim, you’ve likely thought a lot about sin and what drives it. How do we ultimately succumb to the sorts of errors we know to be wrong and contrary to our purported value system? Typically, I think, we flex our great muscles of rationalization and explain away the act as not truly being sinful. “This is a different circumstance,” or, “He really had it coming to him,” or, “That’s only a mitzvah for tzaddikim.” The behavior is reframed so that our definition of sinful behavior no longer matches, and we gain license to do as we please.

The Snake, however, puts forth a different approach, in a continuation of the very same pasuk quoted above: 

וַיֹּאמֶר אֶל־הָאִשָּׁה אַף כִּי־אָמַר אֱלֹקים לֹא תֹאכְלוּ מִכֹּל עֵץ הַגָּן

בראשית ג:א

And [the Snake] said to the woman, “Even if G-d said, ‘Do not eat from every tree of the Garden.’”

Bereishis 3:1

The statement is an awkward one, like something of an unfinished statement. It would seem that the end of the Snake’s quote would be best capped with an ellipsis. Taken literally, the Snake appears to be arguing that G-d’s commands are irrelevant. Even if He indeed prohibited eating from the trees..do it anyway! Why subject yourself to the misery of obedience? 

It is with this bug planted in Chava’s ear that the Torah describes her subsequent infatuation with the Tree of Knowledge, whose fruit G-d had commanded to not eat:

וַתֵּרֶא הָאִשָּׁה כִּי טוֹב הָעֵץ לְמַאֲכָל וְכִי תַאֲוָה־הוּא לָעֵינַיִם וְנֶחְמָד הָעֵץ לְהַשְׂכִּיל וַתִּקַּח מִפִּרְיוֹ וַתֹּאכַל וַתִּתֵּן גַּם־לְאִישָׁהּ עִמָּהּ וַיֹּאכַל׃

בראשית ג:ו

And the woman saw that the tree was good to eat and that it was desirable to her eyes and pleasing as a means of wisdom. She took from its fruit and ate and she also gave to her husband along with her and he ate.

Bereishis 3:6

If we connect these dots, the following scenario emerges: The Snake encourages Chava to be less concerned with G-d’s edicts and more concerned with the demands of her own heart. Setting her sights upon the tree, she feels an inner stirring, is taken with the tree and its fruit, and eats.

This is not a story of a sin that has been mentally bent into a shape that now resembles something less heinous; it is the story of lending greater importance to personal desires than to G-d’s commands. The former is a sin in disguise, dressed up to appear innocuous. The latter is a sin unveiled and without pretense; it is a naked sin.

I’d suggest that this is precisely why the Snake is described as being ערום. Clever, yes, but more importantly, he is naked. The Snake is representative of a particular path towards sin, one that doesn’t bother entering into an inner conflict between my wants and G-d’s, between responding to my own impulses and fulfilling G-d’s wishes. 

Attitudes and sensibilities shift over time and every generation must be attuned to its unique challenges. In our world, it seems, the seduction of the Snake has reared its head more prominently than in generations past. Sensitivity to the needs of the individual—to be sure, a fine pursuit in of itself—has become a near obsession, to the point that objective standards of morality and decency are not as obvious as they once were. 

What is the result of living in such a world? The danger of equating personal interests and moral norms. In our zeal to validate the individual, we have made it more difficult to turn a deaf ear to the Snake’s advances. By telling Chava that her every impulse is justified, we’ve failed to remind her that forbidden fruit is truly forbidden. 

How do we defend against the Snake? Is it to insist on a one-size-fits-all approach to serving Hashem so that no room is left to confuse subjective ambition with objective good? No, this has never been the approach. The system of Torah is broad enough to allow for multiple parallel wavelengths that all achieve genuine Divine service. 

But at the very least, we need to aware. Aware of the slippery slope that our generation is perched upon as we coddle the individual and justify every personal ambition. Some of those ambitions may well be beyond the pale of what Hashem considers proper, and that is a reality we need to embrace with clarity and courage. That my eyes, heart, and mind tell me I should eat is simply of no consequence if G-d has told me otherwise. 

Parshas Devarim / Shabbos Chazon 5780

What is Eichah doing here?

אֵיכָ֥ה אֶשָּׂ֖א לְבַדִּ֑י טׇרְחֲכֶ֥ם וּמַֽשַּׂאֲכֶ֖ם וְרִֽיבְכֶֽם׃

(דברים א:יב)

How can I alone bear your trouble, your burden, and your quarreling?

(Devarim 1:12)

Moshe Rabbeinu invokes the word Eichah as he ponders how he can manage the enormity of leading the Jewish People. Offering a sneak peak of Tisha B’Av, this pasuk is read in the same trop as Megillas Eichah, which never fails to send a brief shiver down my spine.

If Moshe’s concerns seem to fall short of the tragedies usually associated with Tisha B’Av, the Midrash only makes things more puzzling:

 שְׁלשָׁה נִתְנַבְּאוּ בְּלָשׁוֹן אֵיכָה, משֶׁה, יְשַׁעְיָה, וְיִרְמְיָה. משֶׁה אָמַר (דברים א, יב): אֵיכָה אֶשָֹּׂא לְבַדִּי וגו’. יְשַׁעְיָה אָמַר (ישעיה א, כא): אֵיכָה הָיְתָה לְזוֹנָה. יִרְמְיָה אָמַר: אֵיכָה יָשְׁבָה בָדָד, אָמַר רַבִּי לֵוִי מָשָׁל לְמַטְרוֹנָה שֶׁהָיוּ לָהּ שְׁלשָׁה שׁוֹשְׁבִינִין, אֶחָד רָאָה אוֹתָהּ בְּשַׁלְוָתָהּ, וְאֶחָד רָאָה אוֹתָהּ בְּפַחֲזוּתָהּ, וְאֶחָד רָאָה אוֹתָהּ בְּנִוּוּלָהּ

(איכה רבא א:א)

Three prophesied with the language of Eichah: Moshe, Yeshayah, and Yirmiyah. Moshe said, “How (eichah) can I bear it alone?” Yeshayah said, “How (eichah) has [the city] become like a harlot?” Yirmiyah said, “How (eichah) she sits in solitude!”

Rabbi Levi said…[Moshe] saw it in tranquility, [Yeshayah] saw it in wantonness, and [Yirmiyah] saw it in defilement.   

(Eichah Rabbah 1:1)

On the one hand, the Midrash connects these three declarations, linking the statement of Moshe Rabbeinu in our parsha to the tragedies of national moral decay and the destruction of Jerusalem referred to by the later prophets with the same word. But on the other hand, the context and import of Moshe’s statement would appear to be completely at odds with these cries. Indeed, the Midrash itself refers to Moshe’s declaration of the word Eichah to have been made at a time of peace and tranquility. To be sure, the job of leading the nation was a struggle, but at the moment Moshe utters these words, the people have put the forty years in the desert behind them and are poised to enter the Holy Land. Why is a Tisha B’Av motif visited upon this seemingly innocuous pasuk? 

The Shem MiShmuel explains that the Midrash is describing the evolution of sin. When we see behavior we don’t approve of, we sometimes react in a wholesale denouncement of that person’s character. They are behaving that way because they’re nasty, vindictive, or completely lacking in yiras shamayim. But the truth is far more nuanced. In reality, sin can sometimes be reflective of qualities that are decidedly noble.

Someone talks loudly in shul and disrupts others around them. Are they inconsiderate and boorish, or perhaps heimish and friendly? The reality is that both are true. Despite our tendency to view human behavior in black and white terms, even poor behavior may well maintain a foothold in redeeming qualities of one’s personality. 

What Moshe Rabbeinu saw, the Shem MiShmuel explains, was a nation of divergent opinions. Leading and managing such a nation is challenging, but, at the time, the system still worked, hence the characterization of this period as being one of שלוה—tranquility, according to the Midrash.

But from diversity can come divisiveness. Unfortunately, this was the case for the Jewish People. What began as a truly noble mark of the people—a diversity that enabled the growth of a far broader web of ideas, thoughts, and innovations than would have been possible with only one mode of thinking—eroded into a divisiveness that undermined community and nationhood. 

The Midrash asserts that the era of Moshe was one of tranquility, yet still must be linked with the times of Yeshaya and Yirmiyah. It is not enough to mourn the spiritual deterioration of the Jewish People; we must understand where the story begins. 

We make comprehensive assessments not only of others, but, unfortunately of ourselves, too. In both instances, they are a copout. When launched at others, a complete stripping down of a human being into a superficial one-line label of “rude/nasty/apikores” or the like insulates us from the need to judge favorably one we find ourselves at odds with.

When used against ourselves, these overly simple definitions are similarly unfortunate. “I just don’t have the ability/time/wherewithall/talent/strength/focus/personality” is a statement we may be quick to credit ourselves for making it sounds delightfully humble and self-effacing. But it also becomes a shield we can hide behind as we excuse any behavior that may just take some work to get right. 

Recognizing that what may present as “bad middos” are actually “good middos” that have strayed from a path of decency or productivity is a helpful first step in fighting against ourselves. Insisting that possess absolute flaws in our character or ability does not create fertile ground from which to grow. Viewing ourselves as fundamentally good and immensely capable reframes the landscape and provides motivation to achieve more. 

Consider:

“I’m so slow,” vs. “I work methodically.”

“I’m really impatient,” vs. “I love when things move efficiently.”

“I can’t control myself,” vs. “I’m really passionate about certain things.”

“I get totally distracted,” vs. “I have a wildly creative mind.”

In each example, the former is a means of excusing poor behavior cloaked in a veneer of humility. The latter is a positive reframing of a struggle that begins to point to ways that same quality can be productively harnessed. 

Chazal tell us that the Mikdash was destroyed because of baseless hatred: divisiveness that had run amok within our nation. In the Midrash above, they offer the recipe to correct that failure: see the kernel of goodness in that very same behavior so that we can redirect, rather than resign. Both nationally and personally, this is the roadmap to redemption.

The Three Weeks 5780

I hate Zoom.

To be sure, this bit of technology is responsible for making the COVID-19 pandemic a whole lot more tolerable. With an utter shutdown of in-person contact, the ability to talk, learn, and “hang” on a virtual platform has been a welcome blessing.

All the same, I, like many others, have come to loathe Zoom. Though better than nothing, it is impersonal and sterile. More than anything, it has become the icon of a period characterized by social distancing, by strained human contact.

On the one hand, it’s difficult to pinpoint what exactly Zoom lacks compared to the live version. What exactly makes a shiur on Zoom different from a shiur in shul? It’s hard to articulate—I’m not sure it comes down a specific “this” or a particular “that”—but it feels distant. It’s just not the same, just not the real thing. And, like so many, I crave the real thing.

One of the most difficult aspects of Tisha B’Av and the Three Weeks of mourning that precede it is in trying to grasp what exactly we are lacking. We do our best to connect to and ruminate over the sorrows and tragedies of the past, reminding ourselves that, somehow, were it not for the destruction of the Bais Hamikdash, these horrors would never have come to pass. 

And yet these matters, however tragic, are ultimately secondary. They are the byproduct, the result of the loss of the Mikdash. But what of the Mikdash itself and of its absence? Intellectually, we know that its loss means the loss of a great many mitzvos that cannot be performed. But does the observant Jew who incorporates Halacha into every waking decision truly feel mitzvah-deprived? The Churban meant the loss of an edifice dedicated to serving Hashem. But shuls, yeshivos, and batei medrash dot the landscape in whatever regions Jews now call home.

What, then, does the loss of the Bais HaMikdash mean?

.וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם

(שמות כה:ח)

And you shall make for Me a Sanctuary, and I will dwell in your midst.

(Shemos 25:8)

As described in the pasuk above, the difference between having the Mikdash and not is the difference between whether or not G-d will dwell in our midst. With or without a physical Sanctuary, G-d is in the driver’s seat. The question, to some degree, is whether or not we’re in the car with Him. Do we share the same space, or is our relationship long-distance?

Much like the earlier analysis of Zoom meetings, It’s hard to fully articulate what is missing when we “get together” from afar. But it is a distinction we undoubtedly feel, even if it is impossible to adequately describe in words. Even when no physical contact exists, simply being in the same room as another person heightens the experience with greater warmth, connection, and closeness.

In some sense, this is the difference between the presence and the absence of the Bais Hamikdash. We have innumerable mitzvos and halachos to fully furnish a meaningful lifestyle. We have the power of tefilah to serve as our voice to G-d, and the power of Torah that allows us to listen to His. There are infinite points of contact that allow us to craft a relationship with Hashem. And yet, it’s all on Zoom. He does not dwell among us—is not present in the room—the way that the Mikdash would allow Him to be. What we mourn on Tisha B’Av and the days leading up to it is not complete obliteration of a relationship with Hashem; we bemoan the chasm that has been inserted between ourselves and G-d. Do we still connect? Sure. But remotely. And, as we know all too well, connecting remotely just isn’t the same. 

When you next feel that twinge of annoyance at the sight of a class, call, or meeting being held over Zoom, try to lean into that feeling just a bit. The uneasiness and frustration over the continued inability to sit at the same table, to share the same space, and to fully connect is precisely what we’ve been missing for the past 2,000 years.

Parshas Shelach 5780

Average leaders learn from their successes; great leaders learn from their mistakes. The more colossal the blunder, the greater the opportunity to analyze just what went wrong, and set a course in the opposite direction, ensuring that neither the leader nor the organization fall prey to a similar error in judgement again.

If ever such a blunder was made, it is the one recorded in this week’s parsha. From the opening words, “שלח לך—Send for yourself,” Chazal see the decision to send spies into Eretz Yisrael as one that lays with Moshe, as opposed to being mandated by Hashem. Its ultimate success or failure, then, ought to write the playbook that the future leader will take as well.

But it doesn’t. The mission of the spies blows up in the face of both Moshe and the nation, and the resulting debacle seems to make clear that such a mission should be viewed forever more as a fool’s errand, never to be repeated. Yehoshua, having been one of the spies himself and also the right-hand-man of Moshe Rabbeinu enjoyed a front row seat for the whole affair and its aftermath. 

So what is the first act that Yehoshua himself performs upon assuming the mantle of leadership from Moshe? He sends a delegation of spies to scout out the Land.

וַיִּשְׁלַ֣ח יְהוֹשֻׁ֣עַ־בִּן־נ֠וּן מִֽן־הַשִּׁטִּ֞ים שְׁנַֽיִם־אֲנָשִׁ֤ים מְרַגְּלִים֙ חֶ֣רֶשׁ לֵאמֹ֔ר לְכ֛וּ רְא֥וּ אֶת־הָאָ֖רֶץ וְאֶת־יְרִיח֑וֹ

(יהושע ב:א)

And Joshua son of Nun secretly sent from the Shittim two men—spies—saying, “Go see the Land and Jericho.”

(Joshua 2:1)

Considering all that Yehoshua experienced—that he had lived through the blunder of the first time spies were sent into the Land—how could he possibly repeat the same error? How could he not learn from such an overt mistake?

The Malbim, in his commentary on Sefer Yehoshua, presents a number of distinctions that separate the spies sent by Yehoshua from the spies sent by Moshe, one of which is the difference in the number of spies that were sent. Whereas Moshe sent twelve spies, Yehoshua sent only two.

This is a difference, explains the Malbim, not only in number, but in kind. The twelve spies sent in the generation of Moshe served as representatives of the entire nation, with each tribe therein being represented by its Head of Tribe. This was a public mission, undertaken by the people themselves. Indeed, as Moshe reminisces in Parshas Devarim (see 1:22) over the manner in which this mission ultimately came to pass, he notes how the initial request actually came from the people, rather than a suggestion that he himself put forth. 

That Yehoshua sends only two spies is an indication that this is not a nationwide agenda, but rather, something that Yehoshua undertakes himself as leader. There is information that he wishes to gather, but doesn’t believe that said information needs to be subject to the interpretation of the nation as a whole.

Yehoshua, then, did indeed learn from the folly of the first mission. His response, however, was not to abandon, but curtail. To transform a reconnaissance mission from a public affair to a private one. Ensure that only he would be privy to the information gleaned by the spies, without the need to pass public interpretation and approval. In Yehoshua’s estimation, it was not the mission per se that was problematic, but the public nature of the affair. Not everyone is going to “get it”, so why invite them in? The second reconnaissance mission is kept out of the public eye, and the disaster that was the result of the first mission was this time averted. 

As a society, we have a hard time keeping things private. Social media has facilitated a culture of sharing personal moments, decisions, and opinions that a generation ago would not and could not have been made available for public consumption. Even when what is shared is of relatively little importance, we must be mindful of the pattern we are developing just the same, as we train ourselves to seek the approval of others in ways that may ultimately prove damaging. 

Why do we post and share the things we do? Is there some part of us that feels a bit more at ease when others validate the experiences we enjoy or the opinions we hold? I don’t mean to suggest a comprehensive detachment from social media, just for a bit of mindfulness. What begins innocuously can develop into an inability to autonomously make decisions, even ones that truly shape the contours of our lives. Do we want those decisions—on any level—in the hands of others? An internal check in before posting and sharing, asking ourselves what we seek to accomplish by doing so, can help curb the trend and remind ourselves to avoid a default setting that demands external validation for internal satisfaction.

Michah HaNavi enjoins us to, “Walk modestly with your G-d—הצנע לכת עם אלקך”. Rules governing the clothes we wear seem to fall short of what sounds like the more comprehensive approach to religious life spoken of in this pasuk. Modesty means keeping things under wraps. It means recognizing that not everyone will understand or approve of your next step up in your davening or learning. Others will naysay your ability to tackle that Chessed project or have the impact on the Jewish world you envision achieving. You may know in your heart of heart what’s best for your children’s chinuch, but friends and neighbors may say otherwise. הצנע לכת declares that there is neither the need to convince them nor give them the opportunity to convince you. It means standing in Yehoshua’s shoes and appreciating that not all matters need be shared. 

Parshas Beha’aloscha 5780

If all would have continued according to plan, Parshas Beha’aloscha would have been the last parsha of the Torah. The Jewish People should have packed their bags at Sinai, dismantled the Mishkan, and prepared for one short journey that would have brought them all directly into the Land of Israel. Moshe, Aharon, Miriam, the entire nation. Everyone would have marched from Sinai and descended upon the Holy Land just a few days later.

So how did a matter of days swell to become another 38 years? Many would be tempted to blame it on the infamous Chet HaMeraglim that we’ll read about next week. Following the sin of the spies, the Jews of that generation are condemned to meet their demise in the dessert, before ever entering the Promised Land.

But if you connect the dots back further, you find that the spies were not the beginning. No, the initial unraveling of the Jewish People’s fortunes actually begin far earlier, in this week’s parsha. 

Two pesukim appear in Parshas Beha’aloscha that are curiously marked off by a backwards letter Nun before and after. These pesukim deal with the transporting and setting down of the Aron Kodesh as the Jews journeyed through the wilderness, and Chazal comment that the letters that mark them off serve to indicate their status as a completely separate book of the Torah unto themselves.

What comes after these two pesukim, then, should be viewed as being entirely distinct from what came before them. Prior to the two pesukim, we were last informed of the Jews leaving Sinai. After the two pesukim, everything falls apart. 

וַיְהִ֤י הָעָם֙ כְּמִתְאֹ֣נְנִ֔ים רַ֖ע בְּאָזְנֵ֣י ה׳ וַיִּשְׁמַ֤ע ה׳ וַיִּ֣חַר אַפּ֔וֹ וַתִּבְעַר־בָּם֙ אֵ֣שׁ ה׳ וַתֹּ֖אכַל בִּקְצֵ֥ה הַֽמַּחֲנֶֽה׃

(במדבר יא:א)

The people took to complaining, and it was evil in the ears of Hashem. And Hashem heard and His wrath flared. A fire of Hashem raged against them, consuming at the outskirts of the camp.

(Bamidbar 11:1) 

This is the first pasuk following the break created by the two pesukim that stand as their own independent “Sefer”. And it only gets worse from there. There are complaints about the mann, a longing to return to the food they enjoyed in Egypt, Moshe despairs of being able to lead the nation alone, and the Parsha concludes with Miriam and Aharon speaking Lashon HaRa about Moshe. It is not until next week’s parsha that the episode of the spies unfolds, along with its disastrous implications for the people. 

What emerges, is that the episode of the spies is part of a longer narrative. The Torah begins a brand new Sefer in the midst of Parshas Beha’aloscha, and it is a tragic one. The dream of establishing a new society in Eretz Yisrael is pushed further and further afield through one misstep after the other, until the opportunity is entirely lost, at least for that generation.

The pasuk quoted above begins to tell the story, yet, at first blush, it tells us frustratingly little. If this is the beginning of the end for this generation’s chance at full redemption, wouldn’t a bit more detail be helpful? What did they complain about? What were their concerns, frustrations, and gripes? Couldn’t a more precise rendering equip future generations with a greater ability to avoid making the same mistakes?

I would suggest that the Torah is vague because, in truth, the details would only obscure the truth, rather than sharpen it. The reality is that it doesn’t matter what the people were complaining about, only that they were complaining. Pessimism is a mode of being—a mindset we enter into—that will feed off anything and everything if we give it oxygen to breathe. The truth is that there will always be things to complain about, always parts of our life that feel suboptimal and don’t live up to our dreams and expectations. Submitting to focus on those aspects of our lives develops a pattern of behavior that ultimately becomes all-consuming until life has unraveled, much the way it did for the generation we read about in our parsha. 

.רבי אליעזר הקפר אומר הקנאה והתאוה והכבוד מוציאין את האדם מן העולם

פרקי אבות ד:כא

Rabbi Eliezer HaKafar says: Jealousy, desire, and honor remove a person from this world.

Pirkei Avos 4:21

Rav Eliyahu Dessler commented on the unusual expression used in the above quote. A person may be a sinner or a miscreant for exhibiting the behavior mentioned, but in what way is he “removed from the world”? Rav Dessler explained that the world that Hashem created is fundamentally good and happy. Contained within the world around us is all that we need to be truly satisfied and fulfilled. But when we use our energy and resources to focus on what we want, what we’re owed, and what ought to be, we detach ourselves from the reality of what we have, what we’ve been given, and how right so much already is. When we operate on this wavelength we remove ourselves from the world of happiness and goodness that Hashem has already planted us in. 

This is what happened as the Jews pulled away from Sinai. The Torah is telling us that the specific nature of the complaint is immaterial. By not naming the complaint, we can more easily see our own behavior inside of it. We won’t make the mistake of assessing our lives as more difficult or our concerns more troubling, and our gripes becoming more justified as a result. Negativity may initially appear as an innocuous kvetch, but can so easily develop into a consistent mode of behavior that removes us from the world of blessing Hashem has actually placed us in. 

A complaint is a step in the direction of embracing the right to maintain expectations for how the world should treat me. If this is a pattern of behavior we find ourselves submitting to, let’s catch ourselves early on. As our parsha illustrates, one complaint begets another, and another, and another. In telling a story that begins with an expression of negativity, our parsha plots a story that finishes with an unfortunate ending. Let’s write a different one for ourselves.

Parshas Nasso 5780

Especially in the absence of regular school, incentive programs have become very important. With our kids being home for many more hours a day than any of us are accustomed to, offering a reward in return for good behavior has been helpful in encouraging them to do their work and play nicely with each other. Considering our shrunken attention spans, rewards usually get doled out the same week, if not the same day. When you operate beyond the bounds of time, of course, reward for stellar behavior may not be dispensed until whole generations later. 

A reference to one such example is contained in Parshas Nasso. Our parsha contains the Birkas Kohanim intoned daily by the Kohanim in the Bais HaMikdash and still recited in various forms today. The Midrash seeks to know why the Jewish People merited this special blessing and finds the answer in a rather unspectacular word:

מהיכן זכו ישראל לברכת כהנים?…ר׳ יהודה אמר מאברהם: ׳׳כה יהיה זרעך׳׳, ׳׳כה תברכו את בני ישראל 

בראשית רבה מג:ח

From where did Israel merit the blessing of the Kohanim? R’ Yehudah said, from Avraham: “So shall your offspring be,” “So shall you bless the Children of Israel.” 

Bereishis Rabbah 43:8

R’ Yehudah suggests that we be mindful of the simple word, “כה—So”. This word appears here in introducing the Birkas Kohanim—“So shall you bless”—and likewise appears in the promise G-d made to Avraham that his progeny would be like the stars of the heavens. 

What is troubling about the Midrash is that the cause-and-effect seems missing. The blessing received in our parsha is pinned on the blessing that Avraham received in Parshas Lech Lecha, but what he did to merit either blessing is still a mystery. 

I once heard a remarkable interpretation of the promise made to Avraham from Rabbi Ephraim Wachsman, who suggested that Hashem was not so much providing Avraham with a promise of how numerous his future progeny would be, but with a prediction of the quality of their character. “Look at the stars and start counting,” says Hashem. “Impossible, you say? It can’t be done? Well let me assure you that your children will regularly engage in the impossible. And My blessing to you and to them is that more often than not, they will achieve just that.”

It seemed impossible to build a Torah community on American shores so tolerant of assimilation, and to reestablish a Jewish State in Eretz Yisrael after 2,000 years of exile. Yet, “כה יהיה זרעך—So shall be your offspring.” Time and again, the progeny of Avraham would set sights upon the impossible—an exercise no less futile than counting every star in the heavens—and would triumph.

The Midrash Rabbah on our parsha describes a lackluster reception to the news of being blessed by the Kohanim:

אָמְרוּ יִשְׂרָאֵל לִפְנֵי הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא,  רִבּוֹן הָעוֹלָמִים, לַכֹּהֲנִים אַתְּ אוֹמֵר שֶׁיְבָרְכוּ אוֹתָנוּ, אֵין אָנוּ צְרִיכִים אֶלָּא לְבִרְכוֹתֶיךָ, וְלִהְיוֹתֵינוּ מִתְבָּרְכִים מִפִּיךָ… אָמַר לָהֶם הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁאָמַרְתִּי לַכֹּהֲנִים שֶׁיִּהְיוּ מְבָרְכִין אֶתְכֶם, עִמָּהֶם אֲנִי עוֹמֵד וּמְבָרֵךְ אֶתְכֶם…וּלְכָךְ הוּא אוֹמֵר: מַשְׁגִּיחַ מִן הַחֲלֹּנוֹת, מִבֵּין כִּתְפוֹתֵיהֶם שֶׁל כֹּהֲנִים. מֵצִיץ מִן הַחֲרַכִּים, מִבֵּין אֶצְבְּעוֹתֵיהֶם שֶׁל כֹּהֲנִים

במדבר רבה יא:ב

Israel said to Hashem, “Why have You told the Kohanim to bless us? We have no need for any blessing other than Yours!” Hashem responded, “Even though I have told the Kohanim to bless you, I am with you and I stand with them and bless you.” This is the meaning of, “He watches from the windows,” that is, from between the shoulders of the Kohanim as they bless. “He peers through the latticework,” that is, from between the fingers of the Kohanim as they bless.

Bamidbar Rabbah 11:2

I would suggest that the two Midrashim drive at the same point. What it means to receive the blessing from the Kohanim is to recognize them as the human conduits of Hashem, as His blessing is channeled through the very arms and fingers of the Kohanim themselves. The Jewish People time and again take on the impossible and succeed in such missions because of the absolute conviction that it is our destiny to succeed. It is G-d’s work after all, as much as ours. That same mentality that allows the Jewish People to perceive of Hashem’s guiding hand from behind the human veil makes them appropriate recipients of the Birkas Kohanim, where once more, Hashem peers through the latticework of human endeavor. 

The unique nature of the Jewish People cannot be overstated. More than any people in history, we have come back from the brink of extinction to enjoy renaissance after renaissance. Indeed, “כה יהיה זרעך—So shall be your offspring”: a people that will always rise above expectations and achieve far more than naturally possible. Hashem offers His providence, promises the Jews a glorious destiny, and we have leveraged our unique position crafted by both to achieve more than can or should be expected of any other people. 

This is an issue of critical importance, not only in establishing pride in our own achievements, but in maintaining a sense of understanding and sympathy for those who have not enjoyed similar success. 

The country is in a state of deep reflection, concern, and turmoil over the murder of George Floyd and the demonstrations—some peaceful, others criminal—that have followed in its wake. Let me state what I hope is obvious: responding to Floyd’s wrongful death with demonstrations demanding that we not view African American blood as cheap is appropriate noble. Responding by crowbarring the face off an ATM machine and looting designer clothing stores is shameful and counterproductive. 

But as a Jewish community, I suggest that we be careful not to fall into the trap of making comparisons to our own narrative. It is tempting to point to our own nation as an example of a people that was underprivileged, met with bigotry and oppression, and yet painstakingly clawed its way out of the socioeconomic cellar to achieve success. How enticing it is to remark indignantly, “If we did it, why can’t everyone else?” The answer lies in the brilliant light shining down from the nighttime stars and through the fingers of the Kohanim as they bless the nation. Our story and identity are singularly unique. We have been blessed with unparalleled endowments of personal character and Divine Providence. The very nature of being the Am HaNivchar, Hashem’s Chosen Nation, means that it is unfair to expect the same of others.

We can judge acts of nobility and of criminality on their own merits. Let’s maintain enough respect in our unique position to leave our own remarkable achievements out of the calculation.

Erev Shavuos / Parshas Nasso 5780

We are dazzled by heroics. When the hero faces his greatest challenge and still overcomes the odds, we are left awestruck. Whether a home run in the bottom of the ninth against the toughest closer in baseball, or Batman finding a way out of the Joker’s deathtrap, these are the moments that captivate our minds like no other.  

For the past two months, we’ve lived without heroics. No dramatic face-off between ourselves and our nemesis, the coronavirus, burrowing ourselves deep into the security provided by our private homes. Why? Because we’re safe, responsible people. Only a fool puffs out his chest and insists that he’s invincible, boasting that he can go toe-to-toe with any enemy and come out unscathed. For anyone who’s had the option, the responsible approach has been to avoid danger, not seek it out and show ourselves tougher. 

This is a lesson that is more easily accepted when it comes to our bodies than when it comes to our character. Somehow, we appreciate that even a healthy body can be compromised by illness, but find it hard to believe that healthy character can be compromised by vice. A healthy person can become sick, but an ethical person should never falter. 

Parshas Nasso takes a different approach. Immediately on the heels of relating the story of the Sotah—a woman who commits adultery under a particular set of circumstances—the Torah immediately pivots to a discussion of the laws of the Nazir, who, among other things, abstains from wine for the length of his vow.

Rashi, quoting the Gemara in Sotah, explains this odd juxtaposition:

לָמָּה נִסְמְכָה פָרָשַׁת נָזִיר לְפָרָשַׁת סוֹטָה? לוֹמַר לְךָ שֶׁכָּל הָרוֹאֶה סוֹטָה בְקִלְקוּלָהּ יַזִּיר עַצְמוֹ מִן הַיַּיִן, שֶׁהוּא מֵבִיא לִידֵי נִאוּף

Why is the portion dealing with the Nazir placed next to the portion dealing with the Sotah? To tell you that whoever sees the Sotah in her disgrace should separate himself from wine, which can lead to adultery.

The Torah’s approach to exposure to the Sotah episode is far from heroic. There is no insistence made by the onlooker that he’s a cut above the weak minded folk who succumbed to this sin. No, the Torah encourages caution, rather than heroics. Beware of the fact that you’re a human being and that human beings are susceptible to mistakes and erosion of character. Make no assumption that you’re beyond this behavior and that sin is simply beneath you. Don’t be blind to the sad reality that even great people can slowly slip if they act with anything less than vigilance in securing their spiritual health. Don’t be a hero. Be real, be honest, and be careful.

Perhaps this philosophy is embedded into the very fabric of the Jewish calendar, forcing us to consider the relationship between the Sotah and Nazir as we celebrate the inception of our relationship between ourselves and the Torah. We need to be mindful of just what an overhaul of our very personalities, drives, and natural desires the Torah asks of us. In doing so, the Torah makes no demand that purposely plough through a spiritual minefield; but that we carefully navigate our way around it. When hazards emerge on the horizon, the Torah insists that there’s no shame in avoiding them. 

Do we hope to embed the Torah’s values so deeply into our consciousness that nothing will ever sway us from our commitment to them? Of course. But we must be humble enough to admit that when exposed to prolonged challenges, we will likely falter. First in mindset, then in deed. Our Parsha encourages us to own up to this reality and adopt a fitting strategy and avoid picking fights on behalf of our conscience if we could simply have crossed to the other side of the street. 

In the tefilah immediately following the morning Birchos Hashachar, we ask that Hashem protect us and keep us away from spiritual harm: “ואל תביאנו לא לידי חטא ולא לידי עברה ועון ולא לידי נסיון—Please do not bring us to sin, nor transgression, nor iniquity, nor a test.” This last request is odd. Why ask to be shielded from scenarios that test our meddle and valor, rather than simply request the ability to overcome all such challenges? The answer is that we’d be asking for the miraculous. Character can and will be tested; at times in incredibly difficult ways. Indeed, these tests may well make us stronger. But bringing tests upon ourselves in an effort to display machismo of character is reckless. Such influences ultimately erode our character and resolve, and we naturally become weaker of spirit as a result. 

In truth, perhaps saying that we shouldn’t play the hero is overstating things. What’s actually needed is a more realistic assessment of what a hero truly is. Like a gold glove outfielder who makes a remarkable diving catch when absolutely called for, we hope to develop enough strength of character to withstand extraordinary tests when they arise. But day to day life calls for far less flash and pizzazz, for an eved Hashem as much as a ballplayer. The player who tries to make the highlight reel on every play is acting recklessly. First and foremost, being a hero means cautious and responsible, and avoiding the urge to unnecessarily turn the routine into the thrilling. Whenever possible, a true hero avoids heroics.

As we approach Matan Torah, it’s worth considering what areas of our avodas Hashem demand more responsibility and caution. Are there specific groups of friends that challenge my ability to speak properly? Are there modes of entertainment that erode my modesty or inner kedusha? Are there environments that bring out the cynic in me? One bent on foolish heroics would continue to dive headlong into these fraught environments, convinced that he will rise above all difficulties. But the Parsha prods us along a different path; one of humility and caution that circumvents the challenges rather than passing right through their midst. This is path that leads straight to Sinai.