Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Terumah 5780

We can occupy the same space, and yet be worlds apart. Parshas Terumah describes the two keruvim sitting atop the Aron Kodesh as facing towards one another (25:2). Yet elsewhere (Divrei Hayamim II 3:13), the keruvim are described as facing outwards, towards the Mishkan. The Gemara in Bava Basra (99a) offers a surprising resolution: perhaps the keruvim pivoted. The keruvim represented the relationship between Hashem and His Nation. When the Jews fulfilled the Divine Will, the keruvim faced one another; when the Jews fell short, the keruvim turned away.

Consider this latter position of the outward facing keruvim. When the Jewish People turned away from Hashem, this behavior was reflected in the keruvim likewise turning away from one another. And yet even at such a time, they were remained so close, bound to the same golden lid atop the Aron. So close, and yet so far apart.

Spouses will always enjoy plenty of shared experiences. The rhythms of life create them automatically. But we can be near even as we grow distant. The frequency of the communication can create the illusion of true connection, but even as we interact, we may be “looking out”, rather than “looking at”.

We can fall into the same trap in our relationship with Hashem. There are so many points of contact—myriad halachos we dutifully fulfill—that life is abuzz with mitzvos. But what of Torah study? Learning Torah is the mitzvah that, more than any, speaks to our direct and deep connection with Hashem. Putting life on hold to stop, to listen, to really look at Him. 

Deep connection with a spouse can fall to the wayside because it never feels urgent. There is no clear deadline, nothing about the natural order of life that demands a night out to really engage with one another. Real conversation with Hashem can likewise be swept aside for lack of a deadline. We may maintain an intellectual awareness that without Torah study, our relationship with Hashem will be lacking. But because there is no specific time or event that triggers this mitzvah, it is hard to bring ourselves to engage. Precisely because it is always a good time to learn, it is never a good time to learn.

How do we change this dynamic? By adopting a system that creates a demand and a deadline for meaningful connection. Scheduling a date night with one’s spouse ensures that other items on the to-do list are set aside so that we can spend time “looking at” rather than “looking out”. And the same is true of Torah study. Without committing to a system that demands that we learn, we will rationalize and justify: “Life is just too busy to spend time turning our gaze towards Hashem’s Torah. But no matter, our keruvim are still affixed to the same plane as His.” Committing to a system of learning gives us the edge needed to triage our task list and make time for what is truly important.

It is here that I’d like to make a pitch. In just a little over a week, Daf Yomi will begin its second volume, Maseches Shabbos. I am new to Daf Yomi, having begun with the start of the new cycle less than two months ago, but I have found the system to be a huge boon to my relationship with Hashem, providing a system that demands that I look at Him, not just move about the same space.

Daf Yomi cannot be shirked as easily as some other systems. I am no stranger to a set seder of learning or to a chavrusa, but the need to finish a given quantity of Torah every day creates a demand that cannot be wriggled out of. What happens when a chavrusa is sick? Or when you’re running behind and sit down to learn ten minutes later than scheduled? Rare is it that that time goes made up. But Daf Yomi demands that it be made up, because that page-long conversation with Hashem needs to be finished today. Though self-imposed, the backing of a global movement of tens of thousands of adherents is an extraordinary incentive to not fall behind.

Daf Yomi has also added extraordinary breadth to the conversation with Hashem. Though it can be difficult moving at such a fast pace, it is that pace that ensures exposure to a panorama of topics that would go unstudied in another style of learning. 

The daily demand and the expansive nature of Daf Yomi comes with another advantage: turning its study into a family affair. Learning Daf Yomi has made necessary not only personal sacrifices, but those of my wife and children as well, accepting that their husband and father will be less available as he commits to the program. But never has there been as much interest and pride in my learning. The news of new chapters being completed every few days and the promise of finishing a masechta every few months has animated their interest in this learning. Coupled with the feeling that they are part of a “club” of other families similarly dedicated to this calling has created a sense more than ever that it is our entire family looking consciously towards Hashem, not just one member thereof.

There is no relationship that commands our respect and attention more than our relationship with Hashem. Though the nature of life and of being human make this difficult to pursue, having the right system in place can help turn this nebulous objective into a crystalized reality. I feel blessed to have adopted a system that has helped immensely. I hope you’ll consider joining me.

Parshas Mishpatim 5780

The young student sat squirming in his chair in the rabbi’s office, his eyes darting from the office door to the Gemara that sat open on the desk before him. His meeting with Rav Moshe Feinstein had been momentarily interrupted as the Rosh Yeshiva was called out for some urgent matter, but assured he would return shortly. Those few moments were enough to set his curiosity ablaze: what a thrill it would be to have a peek inside the Rosh Yeshiva’s personal Gemara. 

The boy made up his mind and quickly scampered to the other side of the desk, leaning over the Sefer and scanning the handwritten notes dotting the margins. But as he leaned, he knocked the inkwell from its stand. The ink spread slowly over the open Gemara, and the boy was seized with dread. Quickly retreating to his seat, he sheepishly hung his head and awaited judgment. Reb Moshe returned just a moment later, and immediately sized up the scene. The Rosh Yeshiva’s reaction was one that the student would remember with gratitude the rest of his life: “Doesn’t the Gemara look so pretty in blue?”

---

After six years of service, the eved ivri—the Jewish servant—has a choice to make: to go free, or to stay on? Initially sold in an effort to save himself from destitution, the Torah recognizes that this man may have grown rather comfortable in his new environment. If he so chooses, he can accept yet another term of service, terminating with the Yovel, the Jubilee celebrated every fifty years. And all it will cost him is a bit of earlobe.

Should he choose to remain, the Torah prescribes a ceremony: his master stands him by the door and pierces his ear with an awl. Rashi (21:6) quotes a classical interpretation of this unusual ritual:

אֹזֶן שֶׁשָּׁמְעָה עַל הַר סִינַי כִּי לִי בְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל עֲבָדִים, וְהָלַךְ וְקָנָה אָדוֹן לְעַצְמוֹ, תֵּרָצַע

That ear which heard on Mount Sinai what I said, (Leviticus 25:55) “For unto Me the Children of Israel are servants” and yet its owner went and procured for himself another master — let it be pierced!

Piercing the ear serves as a reminder that voluntary servitude violates, to some degree, one of the core messages we were meant to absorb at Har Sinai: that Hashem is our master, and no other. Voluntarily allowing a human being to control one’s time and decisions in some way detracts from the submission we should feel to Hashem alone.

Yet if the ear must go punished, why six years late? From the very outset, the Eved Ivri chooses to submit to the authority of a flesh and blood master. If this detracts from the purity of his relationship with Hashem, why not pierce his ear the moment he crosses the threshold into the home of his master?

The Torah is teaching us that what is considered unbecoming behavior at a later stage in life is not necessarily so at an earlier one. Or more poignantly, what is acceptable behavior at an earlier stage of life is no longer so as time passes. In effect, the Torah is teaching us that, as people, we must develop.

In many areas of life, we take this principle for granted. We expect that praise for our accomplishments will continue only as they become more impressive. Landing the entry-level job out of college is met with adulation by one’s friends and family. But holding down that same job for the next twenty years will not be met with praise. From athletes to academics, we expect to witness an increase in skill level as time passes and experience mounts.

But do we expect the same of character? Aside from what we do, what about who we are? When it comes to kindness, generosity, faith, commitment, sensitivity, patience and the multitude of others middos that comprise our very personalities, do we expect growth, or do we just point to our internal wiring as the justification for never improving?

The way we act, think, and feel are not predetermined by our genetic material. They are aspects of our being that can be honed like any other skill. The Eved Ivri is not taken to task in year one for submitting to a human master. In year one, his actions are understandable. But as time marches on, there is an expectation of development. His relationship with Hashem should have deepened over the course of the six year term of servitude. He should have grown into a new person, one who sees submission to a human master as beneath a true servant of Hashem, even if this consideration was not on the radar of the man he was six years prior. 

---

There is an important post script to the story about Rav Moshe Feinstein I related above. News of this incident traveled throughout the yeshiva, adding to the already robust lore painting Reb Moshe as a man of remarkably saintly qualities. Some time thereafter, a student was meeting with Reb Moshe. Discussing the boy’s trajectory, the student noted of himself self-effacingly that the bar for success should be kept low. After all, he was not the sort of tzaddik who could simply turn the other cheek if a valued possession of his was ruined, say, if someone spilled ink all over his Gemara. Understanding the reference, the Rosh Yeshiva responded firmly, “It took me my whole life to do that!” 

Reb Moshe’s admonishment was clear: make no assumptions about who you can become based on who you presently are. Great people are not born, they are made; painstakingly handcrafted through years of personal development. If we see ourselves the way the Torah does, who we are today need not be the ceiling for who we can become tomorrow. 

Parshas Yisro 5780

Bureaucracy gets a bad wrap. Sure, the red tape that prevents employees further down the food chain from using their own best judgement and make their own decision leads to all sorts of annoyances for those of us little people trying to just get some answers and get things done. From passports to insurance coverage to credit card payments to medical bills, how frequently we find ourselves in need of the elusive higher-up who can actually authorize the decision we need as we tread water at the lower levels of the bureaucratic abyss. 

But bureaucracy is not without its redeeming value. After all, sending the entire population of customers, consumers, and citizens right to the top to resolve even the simplest of issues would create a nightmarish logjam, and would also sideline the most senior members in the organization from handling the most vexing problems. The CEO can’t man the customer support hotline, the general manager can’t sell hot dogs in the stands, and the governor can’t be the one to fill potholes. 

It’s an obvious principle of management; so how was it lost on Moshe Rabbeinu? Moshe’s father-in-law, Yisro, enters the camp to find that his son-in-law is serving as the sole judge for the entire population. Yisro succinctly sums up the issue to Moshe:

(נָבֹ֣ל תִּבֹּ֔ל גַּם־אַתָּ֕ה גַּם־הָעָ֥ם הַזֶּ֖ה אֲשֶׁ֣רעִמָּ֑ךְ כִּֽי־כָבֵ֤ד מִמְּךָ֙ הַדָּבָ֔ר לֹא־תוּכַ֥ל עֲשֹׂ֖ה וּלְבַדֶּֽךָ׃ (יח:יח

You will surely become worn out—you as well as this people that is with you—for this matter is too hard for you, you will not be able to do it alone. (18:18)

Moshe is ultimately swayed by Yisro’s advice to institute a hierarchical system and install other judges who can handle lower-level cases. But what took so long? The need to reserve our greatest talents to solve the most difficult problems is obvious to us all (occasional griping notwithstanding). Why didn’t Moshe detect the need for this from the outset?

Perhaps Moshe himself offers the answer. Moshe’s response to his father-in-law’s inquiry is terse, yet revealing. Upon being questioned as to why Moshe hears all the people’s cases himself, he explains:

(וַיֹּ֥אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֖ה לְחֹתְנ֑וֹ כִּֽי־יָבֹ֥א אֵלַ֛י הָעָ֖ם לִדְרֹ֥שׁ אֱלֹקים׃ (יח:טו

And Moshe said to his father-in-law, “For the nation comes to me to seek out G-d.” (18:15)

Moshe’s assessment is simple, yet profound. Indeed, for one who seeks an interaction with Hashem, there could be no better conduit than Moshe. Who better to convey G-d’s answer to questions of halacha, G-d’s verdict on a particular court case, G-d’s solution to a dispute between two parties, than the person who enjoyed the closest possible relationship with Him? The people want to connect to Hashem, and there is no one who could facilitate that rendezvous better than Moshe; how can he deprive his people of that?

A careful read of Yisro’s argument to Moshe is enlightening. “נבל תבל”, he says, “You will surely become worn out.” Moreover, “גם העם הזה—so will this nation.” Yisro doesn’t simply make a pitch for greater efficiency. He warns that what Moshe wants to offer most—himself—will waste away under the enormity of the workload and that the system will invariably implode. Every Jew may be worthy of an encounter with Moshe Rabbeinu, but the limits of space and time make that impossible. Forging ahead on the current path means inevitably arriving at a breaking point. It will mean the cruel irony of being left incapable of servicing a single Jew as a result of attempting to service every last one. 

None of us is in as high demand as Moshe Rabbeinu, but, then again, our energy and ability is not of his caliber, either. The reality of being pulled in too many directions is one we all have to face and it is difficult to retreat from for the same considerations that Moshe had. Every project is important, every organization is worthy, every neighbor is beloved. Each has a valid claim to lay upon our time, money, and energy, and saying “no” feels callous and dismissive. 

Yet we must allow Yisro’s words to ring in our ears as well. “נבל תבל,” we will surely become worn out. In our zeal to seize every opportunity and validate every request, we’ll eventually run out of steam. One’s own self is his greatest asset and that self needs to be properly preserved to have true value and make a real impact. 

Even more importantly, “גם העם הזה,” even the people that surround us will suffer from our overwork. Being there for others in a depleted state robs them of the best version of ourself that could possibly be offered. It means providing one’s spouse, children, friends, coworkers, neighbors, and anyone else in our orbit with a sub-par version of ourselves because we insist on doing it all, even as the walls of reality close in around us. 

Productivity guru David Allen once said, “You can do anything, but not everything.” This, in effect, was the message of Yisro and the one heeded by Moshe, our greatest teacher. If we try to be everything, we will end up being nothing; if we try to help everyone, we will end up helping no one. Saying “yes” to one opportunity necessarily means saying “no” to another. It is critical that we assign each word to its proper place. 

Parshas Beshalach 5780

Jews are meant to be moderates. When it comes to the business of shaping our character, honing our very personalities into their best possible version, we are warned to avoid extremism. In his classic formulation of proper character development, the Rambam (Hil. Dei’os 2:2) declares the importance of shunning extremism and of allowing our personalities to occupy the middle of the road.

Only two exceptions are noted: anger and arrogance. Here, the general rule of thumb cannot be applied. So toxic are these two traits that one should drive his character towards the extreme end of the spectrum, developing and practicing equanimity and humility with atypical gusto. Against this backdrop, one understands why the Torah’s description of Moshe as being the most humble man on earth (Bamidbar 12:3) is most notable indeed.

The Torah itself offers a description of the perils of haughtiness:

(וְרָ֖ם לְבָבֶ֑ךָ וְשָֽׁכַחְתָּ֙ אֶת־ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ…וְאָמַרְתָּ֖ בִּלְבָבֶ֑ךָ כֹּחִי֙ וְעֹ֣צֶם יָדִ֔י עָ֥שָׂה לִ֖י אֶת־הַחַ֥יִל הַזֶּֽה׃ (דברים ח:יד–יז

And your heart will be raised and you will forget Hashem, your G-d…And you will say in your heart, “My own strength and the might of my own hand has produced all this wealth for me.” (Devarim 8:14-17)

One can see the vicious cycle developing: pride in our own achievements leads us to ignore the reality of Divine assistance, further emphasizing our own hand in achieving success. Pride compounds yet further and G-d is increasingly removed from the formula.

The Torah’s stance would appear clear. The holiest Jew who ever lived is lauded for having distanced himself from this quality to the greatest degree imaginable. Pride is a despicable middah, reserved for those who have lost their grip on what it means to live an ennobled life. 

Strange, then, that pride is also ascribed to G-d Himself:

(אשירה לה׳ כי גאה גאה סוס ורכבו רמה בים (טו:א

I will sing to Hashem, for He has shown great pride; horse and rider He has hurled into the sea. (15:1)

It is axiomatic that any quality ascribed to Hashem falls short of His true essence. We are finite people with finite orientations, and the Torah speaks of G-d in a manner we can readily understand. Still, if pride is taboo in the world of middos, why would the Torah apply it to Hashem?

Perhaps a solution can be found in Rashi’s explanation of Hashem’s pride, referenced in the pasuk above:

שֶׁעָשָׂה דָּבָר שֶׁאִי אֶפְשָׁר לְבָשָׂר וָדָם לַעֲשׂוֹת; כְּשֶׁהוּא נִלְחָם בַּחֲבֵרוֹ וּמִתְגַּבֵּר עָלָיו, מַפִּילוֹ מִן הַסּוּס, וְכָאן הַסוּס וְרֹכְבוֹ רָמָה בַיָּם, וְכָל שֶׁאִי אֶפְשָׁר לַעֲשׂוֹת עַל יְדֵי זוּלָתוֹ נוֹפֵל בּוֹ לְשׁוֹן גֵּאוּת

For He had performed that which flesh and blood could not. When one wages war against another, he may throw him from his horse, yet here, Hashem hurled horse and rider [as one unit] into the sea. Anything that no other can achieve may be referred to by the term “pride” (גאות).

The destruction of the Egyptian army was a necessary feat, both to practically save the Jewish People and to allow G-d to show Himself as capable of surpassing the parameters of the natural world. What G-d accomplished at Kriyas Yam Suf was something that only He could achieve. What, then, was the source of G-d’s “pride”? The knowledge that He had fulfilled His duty, that He had done precisely what was expected of Him.

Therein lies the difference. Pride can be an inflated sense of self, the result of seeing myself as the lone actor in my life and ignoring the blessings and Divine assistance provided by Hashem. This is the trait that begets apostasy, the trait that the Rambam demands we distance ourselves from to the nth degree.

But if we believe that proper humility demands that we turn a blind eye to our personal successes, we’re making a mistake. The knowledge and feeling of success is what helps fuel our desire for the same in the future. Ignoring achievement means living without a model of what to replicate and without the motivation to push ourselves to enjoy success once more. Most importantly, a deemphasis of our successes creates a warped sense of the unimportance of our actions: if our successes are meaningless, so, too, are our failures. 

For a proper paradigm, we need to incorporate Hashem’s pride into the fold. A proper assessment of our own successes begins with sizing up what our responsibilities are and an honest reckoning of whether or not we’ve fulfilled them. If we have, a measure of pride is in order. Just as “pride” does not always bear a negative connotation in English (consider being “proud” of one’s children), so, too in the Holy Tongue. The arrogance the Rambam rails against is by no means the brand of pride that Hashem exhibits at the Yam Suf. 

Pride need not make us arrogant. If we are honest about our accomplishments, but also our own shortcomings, G-d remains in full view even as we enjoy the satisfaction of having achieved our goals and fulfilled our responsibilities. If we remain honest, we’ll remain humble. When we do, pride becomes the fuel that motivates future accomplishments, not a stain on the resume containing them.

Parshas Bo 5780

There’s redemption, then there’s redemption in style. The Jews were gifted with the latter. Considering that Hashem was prepared to provide the Jews with their every need as they traveled through the wilderness, the wealth with which they left Egypt was stunning. But there is one item on the shopping list the Jews consulted as they emptied Egypt out of its wealth that is especially perplexing: 

(ובני ישראל עשו כדבר משה וישאלו ממצרים כלי כסף וכלי זהב ושמלת (יב:לה

The Children of Israel carried out the word of Moshe and requested from the Egyptians vessels of silver, vessels of gold, and garments. (12:35) 

If the Divine plan was to ensure the financial wellbeing of the Jewish People even beyond their travels through the wilderness, gold and silver are appropriate gifts. But what made the garments critical? Against the backdrop of gleaming vessels crafted from precious metal, how valuable could the clothing possibly have been?

To complicate things further, consider Rashi’s comment on the pasuk above:

ושמלות – אף הן היו חשובות להם מן הכסף ומן הזהב, והמאוחר בפסוק חשוב

And the garments – these were yet more precious to them than the silver and gold; whatever is mentioned later in the verse was more precious.

The garments weren’t a pack of tic-tacs grabbed at checkout just because. Far from a mere impulse buy, Rashi describes the clothing as the peak of the Egyptian haul. What made these items so precious?

I once went out to LA for a friend’s wedding and upon a quick look through my suitcase after arriving a the hotel, I realized I’d forgotten a tie. Thankfully, it took me all of ten minutes and fifteen dollars to right this wrong with a quick stop at a department store en route to the wedding. But under theoretically different circumstances, I wonder how much I’d have been willing to pay to ensure the proper dress. $100? $200? More? When push comes to shove, how much is it worth to be dressed appropriately, to rid oneself of nagging feelings of self-consciousness for an entire evening, and to avoid presenting oneself in a manner that is out of place or disrespectful? 

When you’re starving, food is worth more than fair market value; when you face embarrassment of being underdressed, the same is true of clothing. Through this lens, what is remarkable is not that the Jews valued fancy clothing even more than hard cash, but that they viewed the event of a rendezvous with Hashem in the desert to be worthy of such finery. So repugnant was the notion of serving Hashem in lackluster attire, that clothing became even more valuable than gold.

One of the greatest benefits of living “out of town” is a decided drop in materialism. Making a simcha costs a fraction of the price, sponsoring kiddush is not an over-the-top arms race to outdo whatever was served last week, and expectations for how we dress and how much we spend on our dress are relaxed. This creates an advantage not only in our wallets, but in our consciousness. When the static and noise of gashmiyus is silenced, ruchniyus can ring loud and clear.

Yet there is a dark side to this coin as well. There is such a thing as too casual when it comes to an affair that by its very nature ought to be more formal. While clothing can be a manifestation of materialism, it can also serve as demonstration of appropriate kavod—be it Kavod Shabbos, kavod haTefilah, or kavod Bais Haknesses. While we should never feel the need to dress to impress our friends, we should feel some pressure to dress in a way that gives honor to Hashem. The challenge in communities like ours is to avoid the former and maintain the latter. 

Smaller communities tend to be more diverse. A smaller population means that niche groups fuse together rather than creating their own separate sub-communities. In turn, our shuls play host to individuals of more diverse backgrounds, hashkafos, and upbringing. This makes a discussion about standardized dress an absurdity; what is considered proper Shabbos, tefilah, or general shul attire for one may be completely off the mark for another. 

Still, I’d propose that we all broadly consider two key issues:

Consistency – Do you dress differently for Kabbalas Shabbos and Shabbos Mincha? For Tuesday shacharis and Sunday shacharis? Is there a conscious reason for this, or more of a shrug of the shoulders? If asked what your mode of dress is for Shabbos or davening, could you respond definitively or would it be a vague, “It depends…”? An encounter with Hashem is a significant enough engagement to necessitate some prior consideration and motivate the extra effort in assessing why we dress the way we do and perhaps forcing us to remember where we left our tie after Shabbos lunch.

Trajectory – If your mode of dress has changed in recent years, have you taken a step up or a step down? Do you find that you’re “letting yourself off the hook” more frequently than you used to? That what you now wear on Shabbos would previously have been beneath your standards? I’m not referring to style, brands, or labels, of course, but formality. Did I once abide by a sense that approaching Hashem was a more formal affair than I do now? Does that represent a positive trajectory avodas Hashem, or a negative one?

When a big event approaches, the question of “What am I going to wear?” inevitably crosses our minds. This same question plagued our ancestors on the eve of Yetzias Mitzrayim, causing an overvaluation of clothing that in most other contexts would have been absurd. But an encounter with Hashem is, indeed, a big event, and demands that we give the question some serious thought every time such an encounter draws near. 

Parshas Vaeira 5780

As a society, we are notorious for leaving vacation days on the table. Life is too busy, work is too important, and vacationing is too expensive to actually go about using the time off that as employees we are entitled to. We tell ourselves that in the grand scheme of things, a few days off is such a fleeting engagement that it can’t possibly be worth the hassle. Our parsha seems to tell a very different story. 

Seven plagues are unleashed upon Egypt over the course of Parshas Vaeira, and the Jews are inching closer and closer to being let free. But, free for how long? At the end of Parshas Shemos (5:3), Moshe requests nothing but a three-day’s journey out into the desert. Again in this week’s parsha (8:25), Moshe reiterates the intention to bring the Jews out for only a short while. Taking Moshe Rabbeinu at his word, Yetzias Mitzrayim would have amounted to a short excursion into the desert for the people to serve Hashem, offer sacrifices, and then immediately return to the slavery that had begun 210 years prior. 

At first blush, the holiday in the desert seems like nothing more than a ruse; the promise of an entire nation to willingly return to slavery seems about as sincere as a gambling addict promising to repay a loan on time. And yet, why bother with the charade? Hashem is willing to compel the Egyptians to set the Jews free with supernatural plagues; why are they trying to pull a fast one on Pharaoh?

Rav Yaakov Kaminetzky (אמת ליעקב ג:יח) offers an astounding explanation: when Moshe asked for three days, he actually meant it. As per the promise made to Avraham, his descendants were to be enslaved for a full 400 years. Yet 210 years in, the Jews were assimilated nearly beyond recognition and were in desperate need of a spiritual shot in the arm. Rav Kaminetzky explains that what the Jews needed was not so much a retirement from slavery, but a vacation from it. A three day vacation could have served to recharge the spiritual batteries, rekindle the relationship between G-d and His People, and strengthen their resolve in seeing the next 190 years through while remaining spiritually unscathed. Had Pharaoh acquiesced, this vacation is all the Jews would have taken at this juncture. Remarkably, it actually could have worked.

Perhaps we don’t take vacation time because we see it as having value only while it actually lasts. In this capacity, a vacation is as fleeting as it is fun. Sure, it would be nice to relax, but it will end all too quickly, and then it’s back to life as normal. Our parsha creates a different paradigm: time away is not only valuable while you are away, but also once you get back. A vacation planned and taken with intention can leave you rejuvenated long after you resettle back into the regularly scheduled program of life. 

Let’s consider just two of the elements of the would-be three-day retreat out into the desert and how they can be replicated in our own lives:

Strengthened relationships – The Jews were looking to do more in the desert than veg. The stated purpose of this retreat was to connect with Hashem, to offer sacrifices, to spend time with Him. What if strengthening relationships was an official, stated goal of our vacationing? Be it with Hashem, our spouses, children, or all of the above? A vacation can be a time to revel in a longer Shmoneh Esrei without fear of morning rush hour or a soon-ending lunch break. It can be a time to deeply connect with family members unencumbered by the usual stresses of work and home. It’s an opportunity to enjoy deep conversation without being beholden to a phone. These are benefits that come about through the conscious decision to use a vacation to connect with those most important to us and can be had without spending an arm and a leg on airfare, hotels, or costly activities. A meaningful retreat need not be pricey; the Egyptian desert wasn’t a five-star resort.

Disruption – Simply disrupting the routine can have value in of itself. The very first middah discussed by the Mesilas Yesharim is that of zehirus, which he effectively defines as “consciousness”. This middah serves as the gateway to all further character refinement, for without a clear consciousness of self and an awareness of our own behavior, it is impossible to improve or set out on a new path. Indeed, the Mesilas Yesharim writes that one of the primary strategies of the Yetzer HaRa—the Evil Inclination—is to increase the workload and busy-ness of life to such a degree that the possibility of contemplation and reflection of the path taken is simply squeezed out for lack of time and mental space. One of the very items that keeps us from taking time off—the compulsion to keep the balls forever juggled in the air lest catastrophe strike should they ever be set down—creates the immense need to do just that. Left to our own devices and routines, we will never adequately reflect upon them and leave no space to ever consider a minor tweak–let alone a major change of course–that could render us happier, more fulfilled, and overall better people. 

Three days was legit. Three days, nothing more, nothing less. But if it seems like a three day vacation would hardly even be worth bothering with, we’d be well advised to reconsider the enormous impact that just three days can potentially have. 

Parshas Shemos 5780

Moshe is rescued from the water and finds the motherly embrace of an Egyptian princess. He has been spared the fate of the other Jewish babies cast into the Nile, and it is time for his sister, Miriam, who watched the episode unfold from behind the bulrushes, to return home and inform her parents that the baby survived. Yet Miriam lingers. Realizing an opportunity at hand, she musters the courage to reveal herself to the princess and offer assistance in finding a wet nurse for the baby. The princess agrees, and Miriam succeeds in “finding” her own mother to fill the role. Baby Moshe is reunited with his family for a period of two years.

This act is remarkably brave. Miriam is a seven year old and a member of the slave nation residing in Egypt, yet has the temerity to approach the princess. Who’s to say that such a show of nerve would not be met with a death sentence? Where did Miriam find her voice?

In their book, Option B, authors Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant discuss a number of strategies for raising resilient children. The book is a combination memoir and how-to guide for coping with tragedy, written in response to the sudden and tragic death of Sandberg’s husband, Dave Goldberg. One of the strategies they discuss is “mattering”, which they define as “Knowing that other people notice you, care about you, and rely on you.” They go on to quote research demonstrating the importance of mattering: its ability to boost self-esteem well beyond the home and to act as a curb against anxiety and depression.

The idea of mattering was first conceptualized by University of Maryland sociologist Morris Rosenberg, who noted that the positive affects of mattering only appeared when the child perceived that they mattered to the parents. A parent had to demonstrate that the child mattered in a way that the child could clearly understand in order for the benefits take shape.

Herein lies much of the challenge. Valuing the opinion of a child at times requires the devaluing of one’s own opinion. For the child to be right, the parent may need to be wrong. More difficult still, the parent needs to be willing to show it in order to truly make a difference. Against a default setting of, “I’m the parent, I know best. You’re the child, what do you know?”, true mattering can be difficult to convey.

We know very little of Miriam’s life prior to her conversation with the Egyptian princess. But on the pasuk of וילך איש מבית לוי ויקח את בת לוי (ב:א), “And a man went forth from the house of Levi and married the daughter of Levi (2:1),” Rashi comments that the man and woman in question are none other than Amram and Yocheved, the parents of Miriam and Aharon. Moreover, Rashi adds that this was the second time the same couple was wed, having previously divorced in response to Pharaoh’s decree that all newborn Jewish boys be cast into the Nile. It is Miriam who saves the relationship, declaring to her father that his practice, which would also prevent a girl from being born, was even more damaging than that of Pharaoh’s, which affected only the boys. Amram is convinced, reunites with his wife, and baby Moshe is born.

How easy it would have been for Amram to dismiss his daughter’s argument to remarry her mother. “Miriam, sweetie, these are things for the adults to figure out. We know what we’re doing. Now run along and go play.” Yet he stops, he listens, and most alarmingly, actually considers her words. No, Miriam does not have the life experience or breadth of knowledge that he does. But she matters to him and her opinion is worth considering. Acquiescing to her argument will mean making the clear statement that in this instance, his seven year old daughter’s thinking was more on target than his own, yet Amram proceeds to follow her advice. Not only does Miriam matter to her father, she perceives clearly that she matters to him.

Perhaps the first episode explains the second; perhaps it is Miriam’s knowledge that she matters to her father, that her opinion has been validated at home, that gives her the courage to express her opinion once more to one of the leaders of all of Egypt. 

Consider the impact of Amram’s parenting. By listening to his daughter, the redeemer of the Jewish People is born. By showing her that she mattered, she developed the self-esteem to broker a deal with one of Egypt’s most powerful rulers, reuniting baby Moshe with his own mother. If not for that two-year long tie to his mother, would Moshe have become the leader he did? Would he have developed a Jewish identity so strong that he could not bear the sight of a Jewish slave being struck? Would he have been the type of person to kill the Egyptian taskmaster in the interest of sparing his Jewish brother? Would the arc of Jewish history have continued undeterred towards liberation?

Showing others they matter can be difficult. In validating the opinions of others, we admit that our own may not be up to snuff. By following the advice of a child, a friend, or colleague, I admit that I’m at a loss for what to do. By demonstrating that someone else matters, I silently declare that I am in need of their insight. Perhaps we can be encouraged in this exercise by the story of Miriam. She knew she mattered, and that alone may well have been the difference maker in nothing less than the redemption of her nation.

Parshas Vayechi 5780

The pasuk of “Shema Yisrael” may well be the best-known in the entire Torah. Taught from the earliest of ages and then repeated multiple times in our daily tefilos, it is a verse embedded in our Jewish consciousness.

So we’ve memorized our lines, but do we know our audience?

Shema Yisrael appears in the Torah in Parshas Va’eschanan, as part of Moshe’s last charge to his people before they cross into Eretz Yisrael without him. In this context, the “Yisrael” that Moshe refers to is the Nation of Israel. Moshe is addressing the gathered nation and informing, reminding, reiterating to them the importance of belief in one, unified G-d. 

When we repeat these words as part of our morning and evening tefilos, we likely step right into Moshe’s shoes. The “Yisrael” in our declaration matches that of his. We call out to the rest of the nation to remind them that “Hashem Echad”.

The Rambam (Hilchos Tefilah 1:4) informs us of another moment in history in which the same words were spoken to a completely different audience. In this week’s parsha, Parshas Vayechi, Yaakov gathers his children as he lays on his deathbed. According to the Midrash, Yaakov intended to reveal to his children when the Messianic Era would commence, but his ruach hakodesh—his holy spirit—departed, and he was rendered incapable of accessing the information he wished to share. Yaakov was concerned that this was perhaps a function of the company he was keeping; had one of his sons veered from the path of service to Hashem? Yaakov boldly poses the question to his gathered children and receives the resounding answer: “Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad.” In this version, the “Yisrael” referred to is not the Nation of Israel, but Israel himself, i.e., our patriarch Yaakov. Yaakov’s children address their father and resolutely insist that they have remained dedicated to the covenant. 

Why does the Rambam mention the context in which this verse was originally recited? What difference does it make if we recite the Shema of Moshe or that of the sons of Yaakov?

The answer is the audience. When we recite Moshe’s Shema, we’re speaking to the nation about their faith. When we recite the Shema of Yaakov’s children, we’re speaking to Yaakov Avinu, responding to an inquiry about our own faith. To step into their shoes is to feel our ancestor questioning our own religiosity, faith, and observance. 

What kind of Shema do we typically recite? Do we spend more time saying the Shema of Moshe Rabbeinu, or that of the B’nai Yaakov? Is our religious expression defined more by our questioning of why others aren’t doing more, or of why we aren’t doing more ourselves? Do we comfort ourselves through the assertion that others need to take “Hashem Echad” more seriously, or do we own up to the need for a personal assessment, detached from comparison to others?

In reminding us of the first Shema ever recited, the Rambam is guiding us to consider the declaration contained within these holy words as one that is deeply personal. “Hashem Echad” is a credo that I must be personally responsible for, not only dictate to others. In this light, Shema is a twice-daily exercise in personal ownership; an opportunity to assess what steps I myself could be taking to solve life’s greatest problems, before assessing how others have fallen down on the job. 

There is an old quip that tells of an elderly man relating how his view of life changed as he aged: “When I was a young man, I thought I would change the world. When I grew older, I thought I would change my community. When I grew older still, I thought I would change my family. I now hope that I can just change myself.” Rav Yehuda Amital, the late Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Har Etzion, would comment that, unfortunately, this assessment is all wrong; it is precisely those who cannot change themselves who attempt to change the rest of the world. 

Reciting the Shema is meant to remind us that if the world needs change, we best look first to change ourselves.

Parshas Vayigash 5780

I will often encourage my students to think beyond tests. To not merely study well enough to fare well on an exam, but to truly develop skills in Torah learning: how to decipher a Gemara, a Rashi, a Tosfos. “This way you’ll be able to continue learning independently for the rest of your lives,” I tell them.

“But Rebbe, I don’t want to be a Rebbe.” 

Ugh. 

---

Before his descent to Egypt with his family, Yaakov sent his son Yehudah to prepare the way:

(ואת יהודה שלח לפניו אל יוסף להורת לפניו גשנה (בראשית מו:כח

He sent Judah ahead of him to Joseph, to prepare ahead of him in Goshen (Bereishis 46:28)

Rashi cites the Midrash explaining the nature of this preparation:

לתקן לו בית תלמוד

To prepare a house of study

In commanding Yehudah to do so, perhaps Yaakov was mindful of a precedent that had already been set by one of his other sons, referenced earlier in this very parsha.

When Yosef sends his brothers back to Canaan to collect their families and father and return to Egypt, he makes a point of sending wagons that will transport them back down. Rashi (מה:כז ד׳׳ה את כל דברי יוסף) quotes the Midrash that the purpose of sending wagons, specifically, was meant as a word-play. “Wagon” in Hebrew is agalah, which is related to the word eglah, meaning “Calf”. With this, Yosef communicated to his father that he still hadn’t forgotten their last study session, when they pored over the details of the mitzvah of Eglah arufah—the ritual of breaking a calf’s neck when an unidentified corpse is found in the wilderness of Eretz Yisrael. 

Why is this Yosef’s message to his father? Why not a reference to some other shared memory between father and son related to tefilah or chessed or Shabbos that only Yosef was privy to and would have served as proper authentication that it was indeed Yosef sending for his father? Perhaps Yosef was interested in communicating not only that he was physically alive, but also how, precisely, he maintained his spiritual health. When it comes to creating a relationship with Hashem strong enough to survive exile, only Talmud Torah will suffice.

Shir Hashirim is dedicated to the idea that we view our relationship with Hashem as a marriage. Throughout the Sefer, Hashem and the Jewish People speak of one another as דודי, “my Beloved”. There is much to making a successful marriage work, but a vital dimension is truly knowing one’s spouse. Two people can support one another financially, cook meals for one another, do errands, and even raise children, but fall short of truly knowing one another. Something is desperately missing in this scenario and without the critical connection that comes through knowledge of one’s spouse’s likes and dislikes, their thoughts, dreams, aspirations, and values, the marriage is on the rocks. 

The same is true of our marriage with Hashem. We can, as it were, run errands for Hashem; dutifully perform each task written on the “Honey-Do” list—sit in the sukkah, eat the matzah, light the candles, put on the tefillin—without ever taking the time to get to know Him. The result is an underdeveloped marriage and a relationship that may well buckle under the strains and pressures that life will naturally place on it. 

It is no accident that from the very first Parsha of the Torah, the act of cohabitation is often referred to as “ידיעה”, or “knowing”. Knowledge and intimacy are inseparable. If we hope to come close to our Beloved, a knowledge of His beliefs, values, and perspectives on life are critical. It is a relationship with Hashem secured through Torah study and Torah knowledge that will stand the test of time and can secure the Jewish future even against the onslaught of an Egyptian exile. This was Yosef’s message to his father, and Yaakov’s message to the rest of his family in insisting that a yeshiva be founded before their descent to Egypt. 

A Rebbe or a Rabbi is a moreh derech—one who can help show the way. In keeping with the allegory of Shir HaShirim, a Rabbi is more of a marriage counselor than anything else. He can provide insights and instruction along the way, providing pointers and strategies for an effective relationship. But ultimately, it is the husband and wife who are responsible for their own marriage and it is they who must take the time to communicate and truly get to know and understand one another. 

This past week witnessed an event that could not serve as a more encouraging sign of Jews taking responsibility for effective communication with their Beloved. The Siyum HaShas was a spectacle of a Kiddush Hashem, as hundreds of thousands gathered to celebrate all those around the world who have committed to solidifying their relationship with Hashem through understanding and knowing Him, as best as they are able. 

Daf Yomi has emerged as a remarkable movement since its inception nearly one hundred years ago. Whether or not you get on board with the study of the daily daf, every one of us needs to passionately subscribe to the philosophy that stands behind the program: that Torah study is not only the purview of rabbis, but is something that must be committed to by every Jew interested in a sincere and meaningful relationship with our Beloved in Heaven.

The response to my students is a message that we all need to imbibe: Don’t learn Torah because you want to be a rabbi; learn Torah because you want to be a Jew.

Chanukah 5780

Our dishwasher broke. More precisely, a single button on our dishwasher broke. A few decades ago, the appropriate course of action would have been overwhelmingly clear: call a repairman, and have him fix it. But cheap, mass production of appliances compared with increasingly expensive physical labor makes a tough decision out of what would once have been an obvious choice, so that we’re now stymied. Do we repair, or do we replace?

This is a phenomenon that extends beyond my own dishwasher. We live in a disposable generation. Appliances, furniture, and clothing are more often worthy of replacement rather than repair. Media is produced rapidly and consumed in ever-shrinking nuggets, with the next song, clip, or highlight available immediately for near-mindless consumption. We produce, we consume, we discard, we move on. 

All of this aligns with a basic human tendency that we naturally possess: a desire for the new and novel. The allure of a sparkly new building exceeds even a finely renovated one. Beginning a new Sefer is more enticing than diving back into an old one from wherever it was that the bookmark was last placed. A new hobby, a new craft, a new pursuit animates our imagination in ways that turning to one previously engaged in ever could.

Yet we give something up when we engage in the new and jettison the old: depth. True depth of knowledge, genuine mastery of a subject or discipline can occur only when we take the time to reengage in that which we’ve already done. Hopping from one interest to the next provides stimulation that can only come through novelty, but leaves us bereft of truly comprehensive and enriching experiences. By skipping to the next Sefer we never make a siyum. By picking up the next hobby, we lose the chance to truly master the previous one. By jumping from friend to friend, we fall short of ever really getting to know a single one.

The Gemara in Chagigah (9b) stresses this point when it states, “אינו דומה שונה פרקו מאה פעמים לשונה פרקו מאה ואחד”, “One who reviews his chapter 100 times cannot be compared with one who does so 101 times.” Though the draw towards the novel is great, there is immense value in returning to the old for another round.

Chanukah is a holiday that demands that we stop. Chanukah commemorates not a rebuilding, but a refurbishment. How interesting that the anniversary of the building of neither the first nor second Bais Hamikdash—nor the original Mishkan—is commemorated with its own holiday, yet the mere refurbishment of the Bais Hamikdash is celebrated on Chanukah. The ability to refurbish—to breathe new life into that which has already been created—is a critical lesson that Judaism demands we learn. Old enterprises, limudim, and relationships can be returned to and made to shine once more.

Refurbishment and rededication is precisely the cause that the Maccabees had fought for from the onset of their revolt. In increasing numbers, the Jews of Israel turned from Judaism in the interest of hellenization. Greek culture was novel and enticing compared with the ancient practices of Judaism that many found stale. The answer to this impulse is not to insist upon Judaism by rote, no matter how unstimulating it may feel. But rather, to reengage with new enthusiasm and vigor. To become excited by the prospect of mastering that which we’ve already done so many times. To become expert in that which we’ve already studied, and to complete that which we’ve fallen short of finishing. 

Rosh Hashana tends to be a time of accepting new “kabbalos”—new enterprises and practices that we can add to the current repertoire. Adding something new in anticipation of a new year may well be appropriate. But as we celebrate Chanukah, let’s consider something more aligned with the message of this holiday. Don’t just add; refurbish. Go back to the masechta you never finished, recommit to a relationship that’s stalled, rejuvenate a positive practice that’s gone cold. Chanukah reminds us that we need not start over, we need only breathe new life into that which has already been started. 

Writing a blog is something I’ve been meaning to do for some time, and it comes with the thrill that all new enterprises do. But it also makes me consider all that I’ve laid out in the lines above. New ventures are new and exciting, but can also turn our lives into a reckless blur of novelty, as we abandon other important projects whose loose ends have never properly been tied off. Thank you for joining me in the new; I hope to take the time alongside you to reinvigorate the old.