Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Shelach 5780

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

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

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

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

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

(יהושע ב:א)

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

(Joshua 2:1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Beha’aloscha 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

(במדבר יא:א)

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

(Bamidbar 11:1) 

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

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

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

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

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

פרקי אבות ד:כא

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

Pirkei Avos 4:21

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

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

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

Parshas Nasso 5780

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

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

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

בראשית רבה מג:ח

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

Bereishis Rabbah 43:8

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

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

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

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

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

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

במדבר רבה יא:ב

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

Bamidbar Rabbah 11:2

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

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

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

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

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

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

Erev Shavuos / Parshas Nasso 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.