Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Shabbos HaGadol 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vayikra 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas HaChodesh 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Ki Sisa 5780 – Special Coronavirus Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Ki Sisa 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Purim 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.