Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Behar-Bechukosai 5780

Our parsha furnishes us with the Jewish equivalent of the question, “What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?” Parshas Behar informs us from the get-go that what is to now be related are mitzvos that were stated at Har Sinai. Then, we get hit with agriculture. The Torah dives headlong into a series of mitzvos that help create the contours of what the Shemittah year will look like, as the land lies fallow every seven years.

As Rashi, quoting the Midrash Toras Kohanim asks:

מָה עִנְיַן שְׁמִטָּה אֵצֶל הַר סִינַי? וַהֲלֹא כָל הַמִּצְוֹת נֶאֶמְרוּ מִסִּינַי? אֶלָּא מַה שְּׁמִטָּה נֶאֶמְרוּ כְלָלוֹתֶיהָ וּפְרָטוֹתֶיהָ וְדִקְדּוּקֶיהָ מִסִּינַי אַף כֻּלָּן נֶאֶמְרוּ כְלָלוֹתֵיהֶן וְדִקְדּוּקֵיהֶן מִסִּינַי

What is the relevance of Shemittah to Mount Sinai? Were not all the mitzvos stated at Sinai? Rather, just as Shemittah was related with it’s generalities and particulars and specific laws, so were all mitzvos stated both in general and in particular at Sinai.

The Midrash answers that Shemittah is a paradigm for a fully explicated mitzvah. Just as our parsha provides individual details that comprise the mitzvah, so were all other mitzvos related in the same manner at Har Sinai.

If you’re still troubled, you’re not alone. Scores of commentators are left scratching their heads, wondering what makes Shemittah so special. Couldn’t, in truth, any mitzvah be utilized as a means of teaching that both general principles and specific details were related at Sinai? Why is Shemittah, specifically, chosen?

The question becomes compounded if we consider what the individual Shemittah years ultimately lead to, also contained in this very section of the Parsha. While every seven years brings a Shemittah, seven revolutions thereof bring the Yovel—the “Jubilee” fiftieth year following seven Shemittah cycles when the land again lies fallow. But more than a mere carbon copy of a Shemittah year, the Yovel brings about another phenomenon:

בִּשְׁנַ֥ת הַיּוֹבֵ֖ל הַזֹּ֑את תָּשֻׁ֕בוּ אִ֖ישׁ אֶל־אֲחֻזָּתֽוֹ׃

At this Jubilee year, each man shall return to his holding. 

At the Yovel, prior sales of real estate are dissolved, and the land reverts to its original owners. The serves to ensure that tribal and familial borders will ultimately be maintained, irrespective of short-term changes in ownership. Come the Yovel, members of Naftali must vacate the land they purchased in Zevulun, constituents of Asher may no longer live amongst Binyaminites.

If something about that feels off, perhaps you’re influenced by the moving description of the Jewish People accepting the Torah at Sinai, when all that divided the the individual members of the nation melted away. The Torah describes the encampment of the Jewish People at Sinai with the word “ויחן–and it camped,” in the singular, rather than the plural, as would have been more grammatically appropriate. Chazal famously explain that the state of the nation was “כאיש אחד בלב אחד, like one individual with one heart.” At Sinai, we achieved achdus, unity. We were singularly minded in our desire to accept the Torah and achieved a state of oneness that caused all individual borders and divisions to disappear.

Why, then, the Yovel? Why redraw those lines, reconstruct those barriers? Why not allow for the land to indeed be sold in perpetuity, allowing for a full integration of individual families and tribes into one Klal? Moreover, why select this specific area of the Torah to be framed by the recollection of Sinai, an event that seems to stand in such clear distinction to what the system of Shemittah and Yovel ultimately accomplish?

I once heard the following remarkable story from Rabbi Efrem Goldberg of Boca Raton Synagogue. BRS was hosting Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz as a scholar-in-residence, and Rabbi Goldberg was getting him settled in at the home of his host on Erev Shabbos. As Rabbi Steinsaltz made himself a coffee, he asked Rabbi Goldberg, “So tell me, what makes your shul special?” Rabbi Goldberg responded with the official tagline, which he believes wholeheartedly truly characterizes his congregation: “Valuing diversity; celebrating unity!” “Well of course,” Rabbi Steinsaltz responded, nearly absent-mindedly as he stirred his coffee, “without diversity you don’t have unity, you have uniformity.”

What Rabbi Steinsaltz offered as an off-the-cuff remark over a cup of coffee is one of the deepest insights into communal and national cohesiveness I’ve ever heard. Further, I’d suggest it is precisely why the Torah tells us that the Shemittah-Yovel system, more than any other mitzvah, was stated at Har Sinai.

What was achieved at Sinai—one individual with one heart—was, indeed, a fantastic display of achdus. But it is at the same time unsustainable. Real life creates difference and distinction. We will not always be enraptured by a Sinai-esque experience that allows for those distinctions to be ignored. Utlimately, differences of opinion will arise; varying approaches to issues will bubble to the surface. Naftali is not Zevulun; Asher is not Binyanim.

The Torah is reminding us that this, too, is from Sinai. A singular mindset being adopted by an entire nation or community is but one model of achdus. In real life, however, these moments are rare and unlikely to be regularly achieved. Instead, the Torah provides us with an alternate model, no less valid. Embrace the distinction, the borders, the barriers, but do so peacefully and respectfully. Revel in the fact that Klal Yisrael contains a multiplicity of perspectives and personalities and yet we can still achieve harmony. Don’t hide from the fact that tribes will abide by different approaches and families will respond to similar circumstances in different ways; lean into it. Anything less would be a demand not for unity, but uniformity.

The reaction that shuls across the country had to the coronavirus pandemic was a Har Sinai moment. Within mere days, shuls were closed in an effort to maintain public health and safety, as one individual with one voice. The reopening of our shuls is now the question at hand, and the response has been markedly different. Different decisions have already been issued—in some instances, even by individual shuls within the same community—on the question of whether and how to allow for minyanim to occur. 

Is this a failure to achieve achdus that we should decry and bemoan? It depends on our response. If we appreciate the message of the Yovel, we can respond respectfully, understanding the inevitability of individual organizations to have different responses to similar questions, and appreciating the latent value in that reality. If we view our present circumstance through the lens of Yovel, we’ll understand it as an expression of achdus no less valid than the one achieved at Har Sinai.

The comparison between the road to Sinai and the road to Yovel cannot be overlooked. As we are so mindful of during this time of Sefiras HaOmer, Mattan Torah occurs only after completing a series of seven sevens. Seven weeks of seven days apiece brings us to the foothills of Sinai. Following a similar journey—seven Shemittah cycles of seven years apiece—we arrive at the Yovel. The journey to Har Sinai reminds us of the importance of achdus. The journey to Yovel reminds us of what achdus will usually look like. Unity is achieved not when we insist upon being the same, but when we learn to respectfully embrace that which makes us different.

Yom HaAtzmaut 5780

We’ve all had the experience of feeling under appreciated. We work hard, try our best, and produce a result of which we may personally be proud, yet is met with criticism rather than congratulations. And it’s infuriating. “Why,” we ask ourselves, “are these critics focusing on what went wrong, rather than what’s gone right? Why comment on what the event/presentation/project was lacking, rather than express gratitude for all that it had?”

We’re all guilty of this criticism on some level, and, in truth, it’s the unfortunate byproduct of sophistication. Life experience sharpens our minds, allows us to develop our analytic capabilities, and it becomes difficult to hold back from noticing—and commenting—on what is lacking, irrespective of the enormity of what’s been achieved. When presented with items of great complexity, we respond with detailed analysis, and what rises to the surface of our minds is what’s amiss and what went wrong. 

But what we lose in the process is gratitude. Gratitude demands that we respond somewhat superficially to whatever we are presented with. Because if we analyze too deeply, we are bound to find fault, and, once found, it is fault that fills our minds. It takes conscious effort to feel genuinely grateful that you had our family over for a meal, when the chicken was a little overcooked and it took too long to finally bentch. 

If we tend to be cynical of the acts of human beings, we are generally less so of Hashem’s. When it comes to Divine activity, we are more adept at shrugging our shoulders, recognizing that we’re usually at a loss to explain all the ins and outs of Hashem’s plan, and simply saying thank you for the blessings provided. 

Yom HaAtzmaut poses a challenge in this capacity, because it is a day when human involvement and Divine intervention converge. In assessing the day and its import, we can easily turn to the human side of the coin and our sophisticated brains naturally do their analytical thing. We dissect and discern, ponder and probe, and can end easily overlook the opportunity to properly thank Hashem for the blessings conveyed by way of a Jewish State, in favor of finding fault with a government that falls so short of religious and halachik ideals. 

I’d suggest that we do our best to separate the two fields and make Yom HaAtzmaut a day to focus more on Divine, rather than human, achievement. If assessing human achievement becomes mired in debate over religious validation of a secular government, perhaps simple gratitude to Hashem can be expressed without getting caught up in such arguments. A person who desperately needs a vehicle for his commute to work and receives a car through some series of Divinely orchestrated events, can and should give thanks to Hashem. His gratitude in no way indicates that this would be his ideal choice of car or that he finds no fault in the human engineering of the vehicle. In a conversation with his friends, he can detail every issue he has, from gas mileage to counterintuitive layout of the dashboard. But if those issues prevent him from saying thank you to G-d, he is guilty of a moral failure. 

The Gemara in Brachos 19a relates how Choni HaMaagel narrowly escaped excommunication. Choni was famous for his forwardness in standing in a circle he’d drawn on the ground and standing in it to beseech Hashem for proper rainfall, with the proviso that he would not exit the circle until his prayers were answered. As rain began to fall, first too heavily, then too lightly, Choni responded with, “Lo kach sha’alti—this is not what I asked for.” Shocked by such a response, Shimon ben Shetach refrained from excommunicating Choni only because of his reputation and body of work until that point. 

If Lo kach sha’alti is an inappropriate response from the mouth of a great Sage, all the more so from our own. Does the modern State of Israel fulfill our every dream of what Jewish sovereignty ought to look like. By no means. But the blessings it allows for are numerous, and we cannot allow them to go unappreciated or unnoticed because, “Lo kach sha’alti,” we still hope for so much more.

It is because of the Jewish State that the mitzvah of yishuv Eretz Yisrael is enjoying a renaissance, allowing Jews even well-off in Chutz La’Aretz to legitimately consider relocation to the Holy Land and to thrive there. It is because of the Jewish State that my family and I have had the privilege of traveling to sites that Judaism holds most holy and dear in peace and security. It is because of the Jewish State that millions of secular Jews can at least speak Lashon haKodesh and are connected to authentic Judaism through myriad points of contact that do not exist in the diaspora. It is because of the Jewish State that eating produce of admas kodesh is a regular occurrence, even halfway across the world. It is because of the Jewish State that Eretz Yisrael is populated by countless yeshivos and that the promise of Ki Mitzion teitzei Torah is alive and well. It is because of the Jewish State that tens of thousands of Jews that had suffered persecution in their countries of origin are now living in safety. It is because of the Jewish State that world-wide Kiddush Hashem is possible through the humanitarian efforts made to countries benefiting from Israeli technology and know-how.

Not unlike the one that gets us to work in the morning, the State of Israel is a vehicle; one that has provided the Jewish People with blessing and bounty, with safety and security. From a religious perspective, it is far from perfect. But if imperfection prevents us from saying thank you, we are guilty of ingratitude. Gratitude always demands that we view things somewhat superficially and ignore shortcomings that our sophisticated minds so easily discern. My gratitude to Hashem need not be an admission that all is perfect or that we yet hope for more. Nevertheless, zeh hayom asah Hashem, nagilah v’nism’cha vo, this day is one made by Hashem, let us be celebrate and rejoice on it.

Parshas Tazria-Metzora 5780

Even if you’re keeping the “first half” of Sefira, this Friday–serving as both Erev Shabbos and Erev Rosh Chodesh–affords us the opportunity for shaving and haircutting. Whatever your plans for tomorrow, I’d recommend we all take a good look in the mirror and opt for a haircut of a different sort.

Upon reentry into society, the Metzora must undergo a process that smacks of a fraternity hazing ceremony. Among other requirements, he must shave his entire body, inclusive of all facial hair, down to his very eyebrows. Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch compares this ceremony to its inverse, a time when Halacha calls not for the removal of hair, but for its growth; namely, when one accepts a vow of nezirus. 

Why must the Nazir grow his hair while the once-Metzora shaves it? Rav Hirsch offers a compelling explanation: hair, as an insulator from atmospheric conditions, represents a barrier from the rest of society. A Nazir is one who seeks to retreat from society as a means of strengthening his inner world and personal character, and so must grow his hair long. The Metzora, on the other hand, reenters society, having been previously isolated during the period of his tzara’as impurity. The Metzora removes all his hair—that which insulates him from society—as a means of demonstrating outwardly his readiness to reconnect with his friends and neighbors. 

I think it’s worth considering Rav Hirsch’s comment in light of the best known case of tzara’as presented in the Torah, that of Miriam’s. Miriam spoke Lashon HaRa of her brother, Moshe, and is immediately punished by contracting tzara’as. This serves as the primary source for the relationship Chazal point to between this particular sin and its corollary punishment. In this capacity, considering Miriam’s actual comments about Moshe is truly illuminating. Miriam’s sin is in comparing herself and Aharon to Moshe, following the latter’s divorcing his wife in order to be fully available for prophecy. Miriam asks:

(הֲרַ֤ק אַךְ־בְּמֹשֶׁה֙ דִּבֶּ֣ר ה׳ הֲלֹ֖א גַּם־בָּ֣נוּ דִבֵּ֑ר (במדבר יב:ב

Was it only Moshe with whom Hashem spoke? Has He not also spoken with us? (Bamidbar 12:2)

What, precisely, was Miriam’s crime? It was in comparing herself and Aharon to Moshe. She had experienced prophecy, yet was nevertheless capable of continuing on with normal family life. Why would prophecy demand that Moshe separate from his spouse if no such demand was ever made of Miriam? Perhaps, even, Miriam was not so much questioning Moshe as much she was questioning herself: if prophecy demanded that Moshe leave home, should she, as a prophetess, follow suit?

This is the mode of reasoning that often lies at the root of lashon hara. The behavior or activities of another person are disparaged because they fall short of our expectations we would have for ourselves in that same situation: “I would never be that rude, selfish, or unkind, where does he/she get off?!” The episode of Miriam’s tzara’as is a reminder—in a far more innocuous manner, at that—of the error not only of making these comments, but of submitting to the thought processes that precede them. The reality is that the other person is not me, and is in possession of a different personality, different life experiences, and different sensibilities. Am I really in position to judge them or speak ill of them? 

The metzora goes into isolation for a period, removing the ability to compare others with himself. He must get to know himself apart from his friends and peers. No more ability to prop up his own ego by means of disparaging others, no more opportunity to deride others for not being more like him. 

Following Rav Hirsch’s interpretation, the ceremony of shaving one’s hair upon returning to the community, is truly ingenious. One must remove the barriers between himself and others, transitioning from viewing life through only his own experience and begin to see the world through the eyes of others as well. The less I insulate myself, the more I truly connect to others, the more capable I am of understanding their side of things and of appreciating that they process life differently than I do. Rather than responding with Lashon HaRa and derision, I identify with their struggles and difficulties, and even their shortcomings. The removal of hair is a  symbolic removal of the mental and emotional barrier between myself and whoever stands opposite me. The metzora is being reminded to be better tuned in to the wavelength others operate on, rather than being fixed only upon his own.

Much has been made of the similarities between the world of the metzora and the world in which we now live, our social distance mirroring the quarantine that the Torah prescribes as necessary for rehabilitation from tzara’as. But I’d like to consider the flip side of this coin. 

Yes, in a very real sense, this is a time of unprecedented social isolation. But in another sense, this is a time of unprecedented social connection. Though we may not be socializing with the company we usually keep outside of our homes, for those living with other family members, we are hyper-connected in a way we have never experienced. Many of us are living in a shared space with children, spouses, and parents and are spending more daily hours together than ever before. For many, the corona epidemic has increased the number of daily hours of being connected to others, not reduced it. 

What happens when we hyper-connect, but maintain the barriers of old? What happens when we are constantly sharing our space with the same small group of others, but view their behavior and actions only through the prism of our own subjective consciousness? We create a powder keg of misunderstanding and frustration just waiting to explode. The Torah’s response to connectivity is to remove barriers, to peel back the layers that insulate us from understanding the way that others think and how they operate. 

Now more than ever, we must adopt that approach. If you’re living with a large family, there can be literally hundreds of situations that occur daily in which you are in direct contact with someone managing a situation differently than you would, or responding in a manner completely at odds with your sensibilities. It is critical that we not live only in our own minds, risking passing judgment on everyone around us for not living up to our own expectations, and creating an utterly toxic home environment as we do. Just as the metzora must become more receptive to the inner workings of others upon reconnecting with society, today’s unusual circumstances call on us to do the same as we seek tranquility and understanding within the micro-societies inside our very homes.

We need to follow the metzora’s lead. It’s time for a spiritual haircut.

Shevi’i Shel Pesach 5780

With the near arrival of Shevi’i shel Pesach, we prepare to commemorate what is perhaps the greatest single miracle in all of history. Yet to read the Torah’s description is to be reminded of an oddly natural dimension of the story:

וַיֵּ֨ט מֹשֶׁ֣ה אֶת־יָדוֹ֮ עַל־הַיָּם֒ וַיּ֣וֹלֶךְ ה׳  אֶת־הַ֠יָּם בְּר֨וּחַ קָדִ֤ים עַזָּה֙ כָּל־הַלַּ֔יְלָה וַיָּ֥שֶׂם אֶת־הַיָּ֖ם לֶחָרָבָ֑ה וַיִּבָּקְע֖וּ הַמָּֽיִם׃

שמות יד:כא

Then Moshe held out his arm over the sea and Hashem drove back the sea with a strong east wind all that night and turned the sea into dry ground, and the waters were split.

Shemos 14:21

Why the description of the eastern wind that blew all night long? If this was, indeed, a miraculous event, wouldn’t a more apt description be that Hashem had simply parted the waters? Doesn’t the inclusion of the eastern wind in the narrative only detract from the miraculous nature of the act? If the Torah itself describes Krias Yam Suf in this fashion, could the Egyptians really be blamed for seeing this as a natural—if somewhat unusual—occurence? 

The Midrash records an interesting conversation that Rabbi Yosi bar Chalafta once had with a Roman noblewoman:

אָמְרָה לוֹ מַה הוּא עוֹשֶׂה מֵאוֹתָהּ שָׁעָה וְעַד עַכְשָׁו, אָמַר לָהּ, הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא יוֹשֵׁב וּמְזַוֵּג זִוּוּגִים, בִּתּוֹ שֶׁל פְּלוֹנִי לִפְלוֹנִי. אִשְׁתּוֹ שֶׁל פְּלוֹנִי לִפְלוֹנִי, מָמוֹנוֹ שֶׁל פְּלוֹנִי לִפְלוֹנִי. אָמְרָה לֵיהּ, וְדָא הוּא אֻמָּנוּתֵיהּ, אַף אֲנִי יְכוֹלָה לַעֲשׂוֹת כֵּן, כַּמָּה עֲבָדִים כַּמָּה שְׁפָחוֹת יֵשׁ לִי, לְשָׁעָה קַלָּה אֲנִי יְכוֹלָה לְזַוְּגָן. אָמַר לָהּ, אִם קַלָּה הִיא בְּעֵינַיִךְ, קָשָׁה הִיא לִפְנֵי הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא כִּקְרִיעַת יַם סוּף

(בראשית רבה סח:ד)

She said to him, “What has [G-d] been doing from [Creation] until now? He said to her, “Hashem sits and makes matches”… “She said to him, “Is that His craft? Even I can do so!”…He said to her, “If it is light in your eyes, it is as difficult to Hashem as the Splitting of the Sea!”

(Bereishis Rabbah 68:4)

The Midrash continues by describing the disastrous attempt made by the noblewoman, as she attempts to pair her female servants with her male ones over the course of one evening, resulting in a night of anger and fighting amongst the couples. As compared to the process she haphazardly undertakes in just one evening, Rabbi Yosi describes Hashem’s process of matchmaking as taking place since the beginning of time. What is necessary in properly pairing two people together—or, indeed, any other sort of matchmaking necessary for human functioning—is not only Divine might, but Divine choreography. This sort of miracle occurs not through a complete overturning of natural law, but in the coalescence of a thousand details that have been manipulated over the course of a thousand days, or even a thousand years. 

I’ll submit my own story as an example. My wife and I were set up by one of my best friends, with whom I’d been close since we’d learned in yeshiva together in Israel. That particular yeshiva wasn’t actually my first choice. I was really set on attending another yeshiva altogether until I had my interview. I was sitting right outside the office, the door to which was open, as a good friend of mine had his interview. The visiting rebbe was—I felt—unnecessarily harsh on my friend as he read the Gemara, and I was completely turned off, deciding then and there that I wouldn’t attend (perhaps an unfair assessment; I was a teenager, remember).

Connecting all the dots, it emerges that if I hadn’t been able to hear my friend’s interview—and one critical comment in particular—I wouldn’t have met my wife. If the school had provided the visiting rebbe with a slightly more private area, or if he had decided to close the door, or if I’d gotten up to go to the bathroom, I may well have found myself in that yeshiva the following year, as opposed to the one I ultimately chose. Which would mean I’d never become friends with the guy who ultimately set me up with my wife. A chair positioned just a few feet too close to an open door was what resulted in the shidduch between me and my wife. 

Perhaps this is precisely what’s being described by the Torah in the moment before Krias Yam Suf. It was the eastern wind that blew and split the sea. Is it possible that this was a “natural” phenomenon, however impressive and bizarre? That tornado type winds hit the sea at just the right angle, causing the waters to part and uncovering dry land beneath? Perhaps. But what are the odds that the Jewish People would be there at the time? That it would provide the perfect escape precisely when it was needed? That it would occur at the exact moment that the Egyptians arrived at the shore and threatened to mow down the Jews?

Every match made is the result of nearly limitless sub-matches that have been made at just the right time in just the right place in order to yield the right results. The comparison of matchmaking  to Krias Yam Suf is precise; both require Hashem’s pulling of near infinite strings, choreographing thousands if not millions of opportunities and experiences, in order to create the final result. 

If we fail to see miracles in our daily lives it is because we are waiting to see Hashem intervene by use of a supernatural vehicle, by miraculous means. But that is a mistake. It is not with the sudden wave of the hands that the magician performs his craft, but the careful setting of the stage and the painstaking choreography that delivers true magic. 

The eastern wind may well be the most important character in the entire story of the Splitting of the Sea. It is the element that reminds us how Hashem tends to involve Himself in history, how He chooses to make His magic. Miracles do indeed surround us; we need only remember what to look for. 

Shabbos HaGadol 5780

Where should the story actually begin? As we set out to relate the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim, it would seem obvious that the scope of the tale we tell should should be bookended by the the borders of Egypt. Describe how we got there, how we left, and all that occurred in between. But this obvious approach appears to be the subject of a debate between Rav and Shmuel, related in the Gemara in Pesachim (116a):

מתחיל בגנות ומסיים בשבח: מאי בגנות? רב אמר, מתחלה עובדי עבודת גלולים היו אבותינו. ושמואל אמר, עבדים היינו

[The Mishna said], “Begin with the disgrace and end with the glory.” What is the “disgrace”? Rav said, “That our ancestors were originally idolators.” Shmuel said, “That we were once slaves [to Pharaoh].” 

Shmuel’s opinion is readily understood. But what of Rav’s? In attempting to explain the Mishna’s call for a theme of “מתחיל בגנות ומסיים בשבח—Begin with the disgrace and end with the glory” in relating the story of the Exodus, Rav sees the starting point as occurring in the generations that preceded even Avraham Avinu. How could Rav suggest that such a wide net be cast as we attempt to relate a story pertaining only to our deliverance from Egyptian servitude? 

Rav Soloveitchik (see Harerei Kedem Vol. II, 87) offers a novel and immensely compelling explanation. He posits that the Mishna’s demand that we “begin with the disgrace and end with the glory” is not made with respect to the mitzvah of Sippur Yetzias Mitzrayim—of telling the story of the Exodus—but the mitzvah of Hoda’ah—of giving thanks to Hashem. Rav believed that while the storytelling itself may well be limited to a discussion of what happened in Mitzrayim, the true nature of the thanksgiving we’re meant to offer on the Seder night pertains to our developing into a Holy Nation, covenantally bound to the One True G-d. The thanks we owe Hashem in this capacity begins with the disgrace in our own ancestors’ acceptance of paganism, many generations before we’d ever set foot in Egypt.

The telling of a story is a mere factual rendition of what occurred. Though the best and most compelling stories may indeed include some element of redemption from a humiliating, harrowing state, this is not, per se, a prerequisite for storytelling. Hoda’ah—thanksgiving—on the other hand, is different. One cannot truly give thanks without appreciating the difficult background from which the current blessings have emerged. It is only by first noting the “disgrace”—the dark, trying reality of yesterday—that we can truly express gratitude for today’s change in fortune. In the realm of hoda’ah, we must acknowledge the role of struggle in properly accentuating blessing, making it more fully palpable. Only against a dark landscape can light be truly appreciated. 

If expressing gratitude necessitates an awareness of the contrast between bad times and good, I’d suggest two important exercises as we prepare for Pesach this year. The first is to contrast the present with the future, as we maintain our faith in Hashem and hope for brighter times ahead. This year has its difficulties. The COVID-19 epidemic has visited pain, suffering, and isolation upon our society. But this is not the end of our journey. Next year, we’ll be able to offer praise, true praise to Hashem for the blessings of that future time, and that praise will be more genuine than ever as we compare it to the hardships of this year. Next year we will appreciate the simple joys of sitting around a Yom Tov table with friends, of standing shoulder to shoulder as we recite Hallel, of hearing the Mah Nishtanah recited by a grandchild, so much more acutely than ever. This year does not stand on its own; it is the difficulty of this year that will make next year’s hoda’ah even more potent.

And a second exercise. Let’s not only look to the future, but to the past as well. Yes, our numbers will be fewer this year as we gather around the Seder tables. Some will be dining without any company whatsoever. But when contrasted to other times—indeed, when contrasted with the struggles we read about in the Haggadah itself—there is so much we can be truly thankful for. We are not at the mercy of vicious overlords who use us as their personal property to amass fabulous wealth for an empire not our own. No matter the circumstances, we are not as isolated as Yaakov Avinu when he found himself removed from his family, living with an Aramean uncle who sought to physically break and spiritually destroy him. Whatever one’s personal situation, each of us has the care and support of communities with more extraordinary means and resources than ever before in Jewish history. Let’s appreciate the contrast between times far darker than our own and the relative light of today, and offer Hoda’ah to Hashem.

May we know times of greater health, prosperity, and companionship soon. Let us appreciate the struggles of this year for the role they will play in providing more pronounced joy in the future. And let us make this year one in which we can still offer hoda’ah, seeing that far darker times of old have yielded to the still present blessings of today.

Parshas Vayikra 5780

As the curtain opens on Sefer Vayikra, a strange new world appears on the Torah’s stage. Sure, we’ve read through a wave of Parshios at the end of Sefer Shemos that detail the construction of the Mishkan and its furnishings, not to mention the unusual vestments that are the Bigdei Kehuna. But Sefer Vaykira marks the transition from concept to reality. The Mishkan as it was actually occupied. The Kohanim as they really served. Not abstract structures and clothing, but real life. Korbanos brought to the Mishkan and then offered. Daily ritual actually being observed, actually being lived.

And it feels utterly foreign. Like nothing we’ve ever seen before. Personally, I’ve always had an easier time with the previous five Parshios. That a mizbeach must be constructed and that clothing for Kohanim must be produced is somehow easier to digest than the notion of sacrifices actually being offered on that mizbeach or that Kohanim would actually scurry about the grounds of the Mishkan or Bais HaMikdash performing the avodah. Individual objects and an unusual building are far easier to conceptualize than activity and a manner of life so different from our own.

I think this underscores one of the key problems in considering, anticipating, and hoping for the era of Moshiach. How do we truly long for something that feels so foreign? How do dream of something that stands at such odds with the reality we know?

The Gemara in Brachos 34b notes the opinion of Shmuel, that “אֵין בֵּין הָעוֹלָם הַזֶּה לִימוֹת הַמָּשִׁיחַ אֶלָּא שִׁעְבּוּד מַלְכוּיוֹת בִּלְבַד — There is no difference between the world in which we live and the era of the Moshiach, other than the issue of subjugation to foreign nations.” The Rambam codifies this version of the Messianic Era at the end of Hilchos Melachim and goes on to describe a time period that will parallel our own in so many ways. But even if the Yemos HaMoshiach will not be an end to the natural order, it will still be an order radically different from the one we experience today. The Bais HaMikdash. Korbanos. Kohanim. Purity and Impurity. It is this unfamiliar era that that is the subject of the Sefer we begin this Shabbos. And as we read, our heads spin in silent, somewhat abashed disbelief: How can we possibly go from here to there?

If upheaval of the old order is difficult to fathom, perhaps events of the past two weeks have expanded our imaginations. For many of us, the wild communal festivities of Purim were muted only slightly by the presence of Purel and latex gloves. We ate together, prayed together, danced together. I look back at those pictures now and they feel as though they were taken eons ago; part of a different world and different era altogether. And yet the intervening transition from then to now has lasted mere days. 

Two weeks ago, the notion of shutting the doors to the shul as a means of curbing viral infection seemed absurdly foreign. Two weeks ago, the idea that otherwise healthy friends and family members would not be able to get together for the Seder seemed outrageous. How quickly once alien modes of living can come to occupy the present reality.

Living through an upheaval can provide many spiritual lessons. Lessons of humility and of dependence on G-d to escort us through a world that we’re woefully incapable of controlling ourselves. But it also provides a lesson of hope, of recognizing that a path from here to there–from somber present to brighter future–is not nearly as distant as it seems. We are living through an exercise in rapid global transformation of some of the most basic manners of social interaction and human behavior, a description that will one day prove accurate in describing the metamorphosis necessary to usher in the Messianic Era. The upheaval of today makes the upheaval of tomorrow feel so much closer at hand. 

What appears foreign today? What seems outrageous? Most years I would sheepishly admit the difficulty in seeing a path from the present to the Yemos HaMashiach: the Mikdash, the Korbanos, the Kohanim, and all the other items Sefer Vayikra will begin to enumerate. This year, a revolution in how we live isn’t a theoretical future that needs to be imagined, it is the reality of the present. 

The Midrash Lekach Tov on Megilas Esther notes, “ישועת ה׳ כהרף עין—The salvation of G-d comes in the blink of an eye.” I believe that this year more than I ever did. 

Parshas HaChodesh 5780

Even without the ability to formally read the special Maftir in Shul, Parshas HaChodesh looms over us, a reminder that Chodesh Nissan is around the corner and that the rising sun of Pesach is beginning to fill the sky. The selection for maftir reminds us of the first mitzvah ever commanded the Jewish People as a nation, that of the Sanctification of the New Moon, and of the need to count Nissan as the first of all months. The notion of “firsts”, of beginnings and of novelty, permeates the parsha of HaChodesh, as the remaining pesukim describe the first Seder ever held, the first night that the Jewish People ever celebrated their new nationhood.

How did they do so? In a manner that is simultaneously bizarre and yet resonant, especially during our current situation, so characterized by isolation and distance. Just two pesukim after Parshas HaChodesh comes to a close, we find Moshe conveying the necessary instructions to the trusted elders of the Jewish People: 

וּלְקַחְתֶּ֞ם אֲגֻדַּ֣ת אֵז֗וֹב וּטְבַלְתֶּם֮ בַּדָּ֣ם אֲשֶׁר־בַּסַּף֒ וְהִגַּעְתֶּ֤ם אֶל־הַמַּשְׁקוֹף֙ וְאֶל־שְׁתֵּ֣י הַמְּזוּזֹ֔ת מִן־הַדָּ֖ם אֲשֶׁ֣ר בַּסָּ֑ף וְאַתֶּ֗ם לֹ֥א תֵצְא֛וּ אִ֥ישׁ מִפֶּֽתַח־בֵּית֖וֹ עַד־בֹּֽקֶר׃

Take a bunch of hyssop, dip it in the blood that is in the basin, and apply some of the blood that is in the basin to the lintel and to the two doorposts. None of you shall go outside the door of his house until morning.

The Jews are taking note of their nationhood for the very first time, reflecting on their communal relationship with G-d, yet they are told to so in private. On a night when social connection would seem to be the most obvious modus operandi, Hashem calls for social distancing. Why?

To be sure, the reality of Makkas Bechoros plays a role. The unique relationship between Hashem and the Jewish People notwithstanding, on this night, death would be indiscriminate. It would be the blood on the doorpost, and the zechus that it generated, that would alone insulate the Jews against destruction and leave the souls within each Jewish home undisturbed. 

But to no small degree, the question remains. Why did Hashem rig the system in this fashion? Why not offer the Jews an opportunity for a get together while Makkas Bechoros served to distinguish Jew from Egyptian? Why not create a bubble, if only for a few minutes, during which the Jewish People could congregate, experiencing the great sweep of nationhood on this night which celebrated nationhood itself?

In truth, perhaps it was nationhood precisely that the Jews were celebrating. In enforcing a strict lockdown, ensuring that only small groups could gather behind closed doors, they were being taught to appreciate how a strong nation is built and what will make it thrive. The family is the building block of the nation, and a nation is only as strong as the individual families it calls its members. To dive headlong into a mass national gathering without first strengthening the core, would be to build a house on a rotting foundation. 

The questions of nation vs. individual or of community vs. family is not an “either-or” proposition; it is “yes-and”. Strong individuals make a strong community; strong families build a strong nation. We can become so preoccupied at times with the need to stay connected to everyone else, to volunteer for everyone else, to sign up for everything and anything offered in the communal sphere, that we can forget to close the door and to stay behind it for a while. To build and to strengthen the relationships within the home, before the relationships beyond it deplete and overwhelm us.

I’m not one for seeking out the “Why” of historical events. The Da’as Elyon is too complex to attempt such exercises in an era bereft of prophecy and ru’ach haKodesh. It is taking stock, rather, of the opportunities presented by historical phenomena that is most valuable. Is the COVID-19 pandemic a tool being used by Hashem to correct a particular societal shortcoming? Maybe. Is this the coming of the Moshiach? I don’t know. I sure hope so. But what I am certain of is that there is an opportunity brought on by recent events that people of our generation struggle mightily to create on their own: closing the door and looking inward. We have been given an opportunity to spend time with family members we don’t often enough connect with on a deep and meaningful level. We are in a position to assume more of the load of v’shinantam l’vanecha that is otherwise outsourced to school. In a world in which so much of our time is spent connecting outward, we can now spend more time connecting inward.

In celebrating the first night of nationhood, our ancestors were told to reinforce the bonds of family. As we begin to prepare for Pesach this year, it seems Hashem is telling us the same.  Let’s see the opportunity in this moment to fortify the relationships that matter most, the ones  that will strengthen not only our families, but ultimately, our nation as a whole. 

Parshas Ki Sisa 5780 – Special Coronavirus Post

So much of Judaism is accessed through carefully constructed systems. Our schools and our shuls, our rabbis and our teachers, our minyanim and shiurim. These are the systems we have painstakingly built to dispense spirituality in a streamlined and impactful manner. 

What happens when there’s a breakdown in those systems? When the typical means of accessing kedusha is no longer available? Parshas Ki Sisa provides a cautionary tale on this very issue.

Moshe Rabbeinu was a spiritual access point that the entire nation came to depend upon. He was the communicator of Torah, the conduit that linked G-d and His people. And then, he seemed to have vanished. According to the Jews’ count, forty days had already elapsed since Moshe’s ascent to Har Sinai, and yet he was nowhere to be found. Feelings of despair were augmented by an apparition of Moshe’s death, conjured up by the Satan himself. 

The Jewish People panicked. With the once reliable system for dispensing spirituality now upended, the Jews quickly descended into a very dark place. The hysteria of having no means to access holiness led them to idolatry. The zeal for idolatry begot murder. The morally unbridled behavior soon gave way to promiscuity. 

This regrettable behavior provides us with a clear view of what not to do. What, then, should the Jews have done? They should have paused. They should have considered. Moshe Rabbeinu was unique; indeed, irreplaceable. The void left by Moshe’s departure could not be fully restored. But steps could be made towards effective spirituality, even in Moshe’s absence. Had they paused, had they calmly deliberated and assessed, solutions—however imperfect—could well have been found. 

No more Moshe to teach us? Let’s look within our own ranks for the greatest available pedagogues. No more Moshe to convey the next word of G-d? Let’s seek out the best remaining nevi’im. No more Moshe to study Torah at the highest level? Let’s develop the next generation of scholars. When systems break down, we need to find new resources. Sometimes apart from ourselves, and sometimes within our very selves. 

We are now living through a great breakdown in the systems we have relied upon for our daily spirituality. The institutions and framework we turn to for a steady stream of ruchniyus are no longer accessible the way they were yesterday. The response must be the one called for by this week’s parsha, the path unfortunately not taken by the Jews at Sinai, as hysteria gave way to an abandonment of Hashem.

This is a time to dig a bit deeper into our own reservoirs of ability and of commitment to Torah. The call is now made upon each of us to not be allowed to backslide simply because the landscape has changed. If minyanim are not an option, then we need to daven with even greater kavanah and passion. If live shiurim are canceled, then we need to push ourselves to maintain our schedule of learning and to do so with even more focus and intensity. If the in-person interaction that is the hallmark of community is suspended, we must make use of all that technology has to offer to remain connected and supportive of one another. 

I implore you to not slow down, to not go on vacation from ruchniyus, simply because the usual modes of accessing it have been temporarily discontinued. Now especially is not a time for haphazard davening, for distracted learning, for a dearth of neighborly care and concern. Let’s maintain and even increase all these practices, even at a time when we will need to martial greater effort in order to do so. 

With or without minyanim, let’s maintain the same times for tefilah and daven together as a community, even if physically separated from one another. Let’s maintain our shiurim and chavrusos by phone and webcast, and prepare a space ahead of time to learn distraction free and fully engaged. Let’s be mindful of the friends and neighbors we won’t be seeing in person and make the time to call and to connect.

May our renewed commitment serve as a Zechus for ourselves, Klal Yisrael, and all humanity. 

Parshas Ki Sisa 5780

I know nothing about construction. Being the rabbi of a shul presently undergoing a significant renovation project, this is something of a disadvantage. Still, there are certain things that even a novice like myself intuitively knows. For example, a basic rule of thumb: First build, then furnish. You can’t deck out the building before the building is built. Yet as obvious as this may seem, when Betzalel—who is to serve as the chief craftsman of the Mishkan construction project—exhibits his knowledge of this concept, Moshe is amazed by Betzalel’s insight.

Hashem provides Moshe with the instructions he should convey to Betzalel in this week’s parsha. And in doing so, Hashem abides by the self-evident principle mentioned above:

אֵ֣ת ׀ אֹ֣הֶל מוֹעֵ֗ד וְאֶת־הָֽאָרֹן֙ לָֽעֵדֻ֔ת וְאֶת־הַכַּפֹּ֖רֶת אֲשֶׁ֣ר עָלָ֑יו וְאֵ֖ת כָּל־כְּלֵ֥י הָאֹֽהֶל׃

The Tent of Meeting, the Ark of the Covenant and the cover upon it, and all the furnishings of the Tent.

First build, then furnish. The sequence Hashem provides calls first for the Ohel Moed—the actual structure of the Mishkan—to first be built, and only then to have the Aron Kodesh and the other furnishings crafted. Don’t find yourself in the position of having all the vessels crafted without any edifice to actually house them in. Makes perfect sense. 

Yet according to the Gemara in Brachos 55a, Moshe did not convey the instructions to Betzalel in this manner, but according to the sequence in which the various dimensions of the Mishkan are recorded in Parshas Terumah, namely, with the furnishings first and the edifice second.

Not surprisingly, Betzalel catches the error. Quite surprisingly, Moshe is dazzled by Betzalel’s wisdom:

(.שמא כך אמר לך הקב”ה עשה משכן ארון וכלים אמר לו שמא בצל אל היית וידעת (ברכות נה

[Betzalel said,] “Perhaps G-d actually said to you, ‘[First] make the Mishkan, [then] the ark and the vessels’?” [Moshe] said to him, “Perhaps you were in the shadow of G-d (Betzel E-l) and you knew?” (Brachos 55a)

Betzalel merely suggests the obvious. Why is Moshe so taken with an insight that any layman could easily intuit?

Perhaps the explanation lies in considering not what Betzalel said, but to whom he said it. Moshe Rabbeinu represented the greatest level of authority within the nation, and served as nothing less than the conduit between G-d and His people. So revered was Moshe by the Jewish People that at the first sign of his disappearance, a mania ensued in which the people resorted to forging a golden calf as a new means of connecting with G-d. The people trusted Moshe to do no less than deliver Hashem’s directives to them so that they may properly serve Him. In essence, Moshe’s word was law.

This is the figure addressing Betzalel and who provides him with counterintuitive directions. Furnishings before the building? Strange, to be sure. But then, so many other mitzvos are beyond human understanding and logic. And these are direct orders from Moshe Rabbeinu, the highest human authority Klal Yisrael could boast. Wouldn’t Betzalel be well within his rights to give a “You’re the boss” shrug of the shoulders and proceed with the instructions given?

Instead, Betzalel speaks up, and in doing so receives well-deserved praise from Moshe. It is hard to speak up when confronted with the directive of a superior. It is easier to accept than to ruffle feathers, to be passive rather than be accused of insubordination. To be sure, Betzalel is as polite and respectful as can be, but nevertheless proceeds to ask Moshe Rabbeinu, “Are you sure this is how it should go?” 

Moshe’s response is telling. “שמא בצל א–ל היית וידעת, Perhaps you were within the shadow of G-d (Betzel E-l), and you knew?” What gave Betzalel the temerity to speak up? The knowledge that he was in the shadow of G-d, not only the shadow of Moshe. That there was a Higher Authority, beyond that of Moshe that he had to answer to and be responsible for. It was this conviction that gave Betzalel the courage to ask.

It is often easier to avoid asking questions, avoid even mild pushback, avoid accusations or perceptions of being mutinous. But Betzalel reminds us of what may be at stake when we avoid those unpleasant conversations. By placing ourselves only within the shadow of a superior, we may well be absolving the responsibility of acting within the shadow of “The Superior.” Asking appropriate questions in appropriate tones is not the same as upsetting the applecart with unwarranted zealousness. Indeed, Betzalel questions Moshe without questioning Moshe’s authority. But tough questions at time need to be answered, uncomfortable conversations at time need to be had. We must remember that we fall within Hashem’s shadow, that we dwell within His Presence, and that we need to answer to Him not only for all the words that we speak, but also for all those we don’t. 

Purim 5780

“You’re our only hope.” “It’s up to you.” “If you don’t save us, no one will.”

It’s time to lay it on thick. Esther is the lone chance for survival, the one advocate the Jewish People have who can convince the King to give them legal sanction to protect themselves against the oncoming Persian onslaught. Yet these are not the words that Mordechai chooses to encourage the Queen.

כִּ֣י אִם־הַחֲרֵ֣שׁ תַּחֲרִישִׁי֮ בָּעֵ֣ת הַזֹּאת֒ רֶ֣וַח וְהַצָּלָ֞ה יַעֲמ֤וֹד לַיְּהוּדִים֙ מִמָּק֣וֹם אַחֵ֔ר וְאַ֥תְּ וּבֵית־אָבִ֖יךְ תֹּאבֵ֑דוּ וּמִ֣י יוֹדֵ֔עַ אִם־לְעֵ֣ת כָּזֹ֔את הִגַּ֖עַתְּ לַמַּלְכֽוּת׃

If you will keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another place, while you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows if perhaps you have arrived at your royal position for just such a moment?

Mordechai expresses to Esther not the urgency of her participation for the sake of the Jews. Indeed, he is utterly convinced that the Jews themselves will be fine in the end. Relief and delivery will simply come about from some other source. Esther is nearly let off the hook. 

Why, then, should she act? Not so much for the Jews’ sake, but for her own. “Perhaps you have arrived at your royal position for just such a moment.” Make no mistake, declares Mordechai, the Jewish Nation will live, but will it be because of you, or in spite of you? Esther heeds the call, confronts Achashveirosh, and the rest is history.

Earlier this week, I attended the AIPAC Policy Conference in Washington D.C., the hallmark event for the nation’s largest pro-Israel lobby. And as I walked the halls of the massive convention center, I hoped that I was walking in the footsteps of Queen Esther herself. 

18,000 people turned out for the conference, representing the full gamut of the Jewish people and beyond. Young and old, Jews and gentiles, Orthodox and Reform, liberals and conservatives were all represented to learn, to lobby, and simply to be counted.

The presence of so many from such varied backgrounds puts an important question to the frum community: Why bother? The life of an Orthodox Jew is already overcrowded with obligations to an endless register of important organizations that are critical to our community specifically, to say nothing of the commitment to a halachik lifestyle that squeezes us even further for time and resources.

Isn’t it reasonable, then, to offload Israel advocacy onto the plates of others? Those who are not burdened with the responsibilities unique to the Orthodox community?

Perhaps. But it would be tragic to miss out on the opportunity to engage. Even as Mordechai insisted that Jewish survival was a fait accompli, he encouraged Esther to get involved just the same. Our involvement in important work, our assuming critical responsibilities, is valuable in of itself, even if the results are already a given. 

Sefer Mishlei teaches that “לב מלך ביד ה׳—The heart of a king is in the hand of G-d.” (21:1) Decisions made by kings of empires and heads of state are too important to the wellbeing of so many others for decision making to be given over to the pure free will of those leaders. Hashem takes the reins and drives history towards its ultimate terminus. 

Yet it is not the result, but the involvement in such activities that should animate our spirits. When the Obama administration provided over $1 billion in military aid to furnish Israel with the Iron Dome, it saved the lives of countless Israelis. When the Trump administration recognized Israel’s sovereignty over the Golan Heights, it helped to ensure Israel’s security and expand opportunities for yishuv Eretz Yisrael. Did these accomplishments require the participation and advocacy of the frum community? Perhaps not. But who would want to miss out on the opportunity to be part of something so extraordinary?

And there is a further reason to encourage advocacy from our community that also finds its source in Mordechai’s words. It is the words themselves. Mordechai goads Esther into action even as he insists that it will be Hashem who ultimately cares for His People. This dual reality is something that a religious person is well acquainted with as it shapes every waking moment of his or her life. We engage in acts of hishtadlus, exhibiting appropriate and responsible efforts to achieve material comfort and physical well being. Yet we insist simultaneously that הכל בידי שמים—it is all in the hands of G-d, and His will alone determines success. 

This is a perspective that religious Jews can offer as a gift to the world of political advocacy. A view of politics through the lens of religion and profound faith in Hashem is one most likely to be offered by the frum community. Sadly, the political landscape naturally inclines towards the philosophy of “כחי ועוצם ידי עשה לי את החיל הזה—It is by my own might and the strength of my own hand that this achievement has been made.” Whether born of ignorance or hubris, G-d’s presence is often absent from the narrative told by politicians and lobbyists, and we must assume the role of reinserting it in the interest of Kiddush Hashem. 

Indeed, things have already started to change, with policy conference now being fully kosher, large conference rooms chronically overflowing during scheduled minyan times, and more and more yarmulkas dotting the crowd in each successive year. The community that sees G-d’s Will as being manifest in every area of life has a critical contribution to make in the political arena. 

Advocacy is about seizing opportunity. It may well be the case that the results of political involvement are a foregone conclusion, predetermined by Hashem. But, to paraphrase Mordechai’s pitch to Esther, who knows if our community reached its royal position for just such a moment? Perhaps the blessings of the freedom, the wherewithal, and the means to impact important policies have been provided specifically because we have a unique role to play in the process. The privilege of advocating for Israel and the Jewish community, and the ability to do so in a proud religious voice are opportunities we dare not squander.