Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Shemos 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vayechi 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vayigash 5780

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

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

Ugh. 

---

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

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

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

Rashi cites the Midrash explaining the nature of this preparation:

לתקן לו בית תלמוד

To prepare a house of study

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chanukah 5780

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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