Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas HaChodesh 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Ki Sisa 5780 – Special Coronavirus Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Ki Sisa 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Purim 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?”

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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. 

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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.