Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

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.

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.