Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Emor 5784

In commenting on the importance of personal upkeep, Abraham Lincoln famously said, “If you give me six hours to chop down a tree, I’ll spend the first four sharpening the axe.” A more modern-day example—for those who don’t regularly chop trees down with axes—may be the need to charge a cell phone. If you use you phone to communicate, research, or navigate, you know how important it is to ensure that the battery not become depleted. 

In that vein, we need to be aware that simply plugging in the phone doesn’t always work. I’ve had the unfortunate experience more than once of leaving my phone plugged in and assuming it was charging, only to find that many minutes later, my battery was roughly at the same level. A quick double-tap on the home button revealed the culprit. Unbeknownst to me, I had over a dozen apps open, all idling in the backdrop, draining my phone of any charge just about as fast as it was coming in.

There are times in life that we think we’re recharging. But if our operating system is pulled in a dozen different directions, we’re likely not getting the boost we need.

Parshas Emor presents a command to provide olive oil for the lighting of the menorah, a command that ostensibly seems redundant. After all, this same instruction was already issued in Parshas Tetzaveh, alongside the other materials that needed to be donated for the construction and functioning of the Mishkan. The Ramban explains that our parsha is referring to a second donation that needed to be made after the first round of oil was used up. While Parshas Tetzaveh explains how the menorah would be fueled, Parshas Emor addresses the refueling. 

It is interesting to consider the preceding pesukim in light of the Ramban’s comment. The mitzvah to replenish the oil comes immediately after a discussion of the various Yamim Tovim throughout the year. One may well be tempted to think of a holiday as a mere commemoration of events gone by. The Jewish People were liberated from Mitzrayim, they arrived at Sinai and received the Torah, they were protected by the Clouds of Glory throughout their travels through the midbar; and we remember these great events by celebrating the holidays associated with them. 

But the Yamim Tovim are not only opportunities to remember, but to reflect; not only to recall, but to refuel. Every Yom Tov bears incredible messages that can transform our lives for the better, great sources of energy we can plug into in order to recharge.

The Netziv notes that with respect to remembering the Exodus, the Torah provides us with two different mitzvos: Sippur Yitzias Mitzrayiim, relating the story, and Zechiras Yetzias Mitzrayim, remembering the events. The former is fulfilled once a year as we gather round our Seder tables; the latter twice a day as part of the recitation of the Shema. The Netziv explains the relationship between the two as being that of a primary text and a short outline used to remember the full piece. Once a year we remind ourselves of the story in its entirety, its meaning, and its import. We are encouraged that “כל המרבה בסיפור יציאת מצרים, הרי זה משובח—The more one engages in the retelling of the story of the Exodus, the more praiseworthy his it.” That act is not only a once-a-year commemoration; it serves as a refreshed memory bank that—once reviewed on the Seder night—can more easily be accessed through the pithy statement of zechirah contained within the Shema. 

On the Seder night we remind ourselves of Hashem’s Providence, the unique covenant between Him and His Chosen Nation, His willingness to overturn the very laws of nature in order to guide history in the manner He deems fit. We recharge the battery with the critical thoughts and themes that we’ll need to draw on throughout the rest of the year.

And how do we do so? Not only by plugging in the phone, but by shutting down all the unwanted apps. We sit, we discuss, we read—all on a night dedicated to that purpose. Simply going through the motions of eating matzah and marror and drinking cups of wine—without focused attention on what it all means would leave us with an unsharpened axe to chop down the trees that lay before us. We’d be connecting our device, but would walk away uncharged.

We’ve now moved into a different period of the year, stepping away from Pesach and approaching Shavuos. Like the other Yamim Tovim, there is an opportunity here not only to commemorate, but to connect—in a way that leaves us replenished in some critical areas of Jewish identity. 

But it doesn’t happen on its own. We can count our way through Sefiras HaOmer, curate the best cheesecake recipes from our favorite cookbooks, even make plans to stay up learning the entire night—yet still emerged uncharged simply because our attention is fragmented and unfocused. 

How do we ensure a Sefirar HaOmer and Shavuos that replenishes the depleted fuel supply? By know it won’t happen automatically and making efforts to consider and reflect upon the meaning, value, and fulfillment of Torah in our daily lives. We’re presently marching towards Har Sinai, counting off each day as we come closer and closer. What if we spent just mere seconds pausing and considering the import of that activity as we do so? If each night upon counting Sefirah and if at some point over Shavuos itself we stopped to consider the critical questions we need to be asking ourselves about the real-life relationship that exists between ourselves and Mattan Torah.

What has my relationship with Torah looked like this year? Has my Talmud Torah increased or decreased? Has my vigilance in keeping the mitzvos grown stronger or weaker? What can I do continue to improve further or to course correct? Who are the people who most positively influence my relationship with Torah and how can I be around them more often? What are the habits that create the most space for Torah study and how do I better institutionalize them in my daily routine?

The Yamim Tovim provide us with the same mandate as the oil of the menorah: to recognize that the tank naturally runs out and the importance of refueling when it does. But while we can simply press olives by rote and replenish the supply, recharging the mind and spirit require focus and attention. Can we carve out a few precious moments en route to Har Sinai to not only plug ourselves in, but to turn off the static making noise in the background?

Yom HaAtzmaut 5784

It takes a home run ball roughly five seconds to travel from home plate and out of the park. Just five seconds. In that brief instant, a game can be decided, an entire season altered. But there’s always more to the story.

Take one of the most iconic home runs ever hit. In Game 1 of the 1988 World Series, Kirk Gibson came up to bat for the Dodgers as a pinch hitter in the bottom of the ninth inning. Gibson faced Dennis Eckersley, the A’s lights-out closer, and, despite being hampered by injuries in both legs, Gibson worked a full count. On the next pitch, Gibson drove the ball for a two run homer, and won the game for the Dodgers who never looked back. They defeated the A’s in five games and were crowned World Series champions. 

You might say that the game was won in a mere five seconds, the time it took for that fateful home run to travel from swing to stands. But you’d be wrong.

At the beginning of Parshas Vaeira, Hashem tells Moshe that he will now witness the miraculous salvation of the Jewish People. The plagues would soon begin to unfold, Egypt would be left in shambles, and the Jews would be liberated.

Rashi quotes the Gemara Sanhedrin 11a that places emphasis on the word “ועתה—and now.” Now, at this point in history, Moshe would witness great miracles, but later on, when the Jews would enter the Land of Israel, he would not. Moshe had questioned Hashem’s ways, had second-guessed the merit in being selected as Hashem’s delegate to Pharaoh, and was now punished as a result. Although he would indeed witness the Exodus from Egypt, he would not be present for the conquest of Eretz Yisrael.

We are often surprised to read of the harsh manner in which the giants of the Torah are judged for their seemingly minor errors. Yet even allowing for that reality, in what way does Moshe’s punishment fit the crime? Why is being withheld from the triumphant entry into Israel an appropriate consequence for Moshe’s incredulity over the manner in which the redemption from Egypt unfolded.

Rav Shimon Schwab offers a most interesting explanation. He notes that in Parshas Mishpatim, the Jewish People are told that the conquest of Eretz Yisrael will happen slowly. “מעט מעט אגרשם מפניך—Very slowly shall i expel the nations from before you (Shemos 23:30)”. A process such as this would require patience; an expectation that redemption would unfold at a crawl. One lacking this middah would be unworthy or even incapable of living through such a process. Moshe had shown that, considering the degree of near-perfection expected of him, this particular trait was somehow lacking. If he could not wait patiently through the redemptive process of Yitzias Mitzrayim, he would not merit seeing the eradication of the seven nations of Canaan from before the Jewish People. 

If ever there was a redemption that could be characterized as happening in an instant, it was the redemption from Mitzrayim. The Jewish People went from servitude to liberation in less time than it takes to bake a batch of matzos. The word “chipazon—haste” looms large over the narrative of the Exodus, demanding that we remember just how swiftly our salvation occurred. 

How, then, can Moshe be reprimanded for expecting the redemption to happen quickly? Isn’t a quick redemption exactly what came about?

It really comes down to when you start the clock.

Kirk Gibson’s home run took mere seconds to clear the outfield fence. But there’s more to the story than the swing alone. At three balls and two strikes, Gibson later related that a thought suddenly pierced his mind like a shard of glass. He recalled that Dodgers scout Mel Didier had told hm that with a full count on a left-handed hitter, Eckersley was sure to throw a backdoor slider. Gibson realized that he now knew exactly what pitch he’d see next. He set up for it, saw it coming his way, and knocked it out of the park.

How long did it take Didier to do the research necessary to glean that bit of information about Eckersley’s habits? How many hours of tape did he need to watch before that pattern became apparent? Two? Five? Twenty? 

How much time does it actually take to produce a home run, then? It’s hard to say. Do you start your clock at the batter’s swing on the ball? Or when he first took batting practice that day? Or when his team’s scout first started watching tape of the opposing pitcher he was likely to face that day? Or when he received advice from his coach back in high school on how to stay grounded even in moments of great stress and intensity?

Redemption operates on an ever-unfolding timeline. When measured from the moment immediately before that redemption becomes final, it indeed occurs in a moment of chipazon, of great haste. But it is also true that that moment of haste was launched from a platform that took months to build and years to develop. 

A Jew must live with a simultaneous consciousness of both narratives. It is most certainly the case that “ישועת ה׳ כהרף עין—Hashem’s salvation comes in the blink of an eye.” But it is also the case that the years, or even centuries, of sacrifice, dedication, and trauma that precede that single moment are part of the redemptive process as well.

This week marks Yom HaAtzmaut, the anniversary of the miracle that is the founding of the State of Israel. The State of Israel was born in an instant, really. One brief speech from David Ben Gurion in an art gallery in Tel Aviv on that fateful afternoon of May 14, 1948, and the Jewish People had reestablished political autonomy in Israel. 

It took but a moment, yet it was so much more than a moment. The UN vote for the partition plan had come months earlier. The first uprisings against the British had come well before that. The Holocaust which so greatly impacted the founding of the Medinah began in 1941. And fervent prayer petitioning the Almighty to allow His children to return home had been underway since the destruction of the Second Bais Hamikdash.

So how long did it take for the State of Israel to be established? Either five seconds or nearly two millennia. It depends when you start the clock.

Simchas Torah marked the greatest single-day massacre of the Jewish People on Israeli soil in two thousand years. Anti-Semitism runs rampant on college campuses and in the streets of major cities across the globe. Resolutions to withhold weapons from Israel it so desperately needs to fight a war it never asked for are being given credence in the halls of power. Double-standards fuel unfair condemnations of Israel and its military activities. 

How do we process all we are witnessing? By remembering the two timelines of Yom HaAtzmaut, and every redemption the Jewish People have ever enjoyed. Redemption is both a slow, grueling process, and also occurs in a mere instant, it all depends on when you start the clock. We must remind ourselves that every sacrifice, every act of heroism, every tefilah uttered is counted and slowly mounts to a crescendo of redemption. And we must also remember that that redemption can come in a brief instant. That there will come a great turning point when, in the matter of mere seconds, we will leave the darkness behind and enter a space of unimaginable light.

Parshas Acharei Mos 5784

When you sell a piece of real estate for profit, you’re in line to be hit with a heavy tax burden on those earnings. Enter the 1031 exchange: a vehicle that permits you to defer taxes on those earnings if the proceeds are used to purchase another property within a given timeframe. What happens when you sell the next one? Repeat the process, or pay up. It’s a great investment option, but you’re stuck on that carousel forever.

I once heard a brilliant analogy offered to describe this position: It’s like holding a wolf by the ears.

So long as you have the wolf’s ears in your grasp, the beast is subdued and he cannot hurt you. Of course, you’ll need to hold those ears forever. Because if you ever let go, he’ll attack. And the longer you hold on, the worse his bite will be. Wolves don’t generally appreciate having their ears held, after all.

And it’s true not only of certain investment strategies, but of how we develop and grow as people.

Acharei Mos introduces us to the issue of pigul, the ability of one’s mindset to adversely affect the korban he brings. Though we generally think of a blemished korban as one that is beset by some physical wound or malady, pigul is not physical, but metaphysical. If one slaughters the korban while planning on consuming it at a time not permitted by halacha, the korban is defiled. 

What is intriguing about the flaw of pigul is not only that a korban can be rendered unfit despite being physically whole and intact, but that pigul applies only when the korban is physically whole and intact. The “stain” of pigul attaches only to a korban not beset by any other physical shortcoming. An animal missing a piece of its ear or suffering an unsightly cleft in its lip cannot be rendered as pigul no matter how errant the mentality of the one who slaughters it.

This, explains Rav Yaakov Kaminetzky, actually underscores a great principle in our development in Divine service. It is only against the light and clean fabric that the stain stands out as ugly or offensive. When our behavior is proper and our character noble, errors, mistakes, and mishaps are more noticeable. A foul word from the mouth of a saintly person is horrifying, whereas that same word escaping the lips of someone known for such behavior hardly turns a head. Only when your korban is complete can it become marred by pigul.

Which begs the critical question, maybe I’m just better off being blemished? Why work to become whole only to run the risk of a new flaw? Why make efforts towards pristine character, just to be held to a standard that will make a future mishap regrettably noticeable? why bother becoming the person held to the higher standard? 

The answer is that we are perpetually holding the wolf by the ears. Left to our own devices, we’d be gobbled up by the wolf within—laziness and conceit, insensitivity and irresponsibility. We must begin to improve and to grow lest we become loathsome version of ourselves. Yet as soon as we take a step up, we’re stuck climbing forever. We hold the wolf at bay, but can never let go of his ears. Having become a caring and generous person, an act of selfishness and greed is now horrifying. Considering the steps you’ve taken towards being so responsible and committed, acting recklessly or with laziness has become uncouth. 

There’s an unfortunate reality that occurs whenever a minyan struggles to get to ten. Everyone looks around, thinks about the people who usually come, and question why they’re  not here today. How could they have slept late? Why couldn’t they push themselves for the sake of the tzibbur? Where’s their sense of communal responsibility? 

Of course, it’s not exactly fair. Why are these questions asked of the small group of people who come nine times out of ten, rather than the multitudes who never make an appearance? Who never bother showing up because it doesn’t quite suit their schedule, or because they’d rather get a bit more shuteye, or because whether there is or is no minyan is simply of no concern to them? Why do we lay blame at the feet of those who have a good record but had an off day, rather than those who have a poor record from the start?

For the same reason that pigul shows up on a pure korban, and that a stain shows up on a clean shirt. And we shouldn’t bemoan it; we should be flattered by it. When we receive flack or criticism that we’re frustrated by, we should consider what this means of our character at large. “This behavior is viewed as being beneath me. Which means that I’m viewed as being above it.” Rather than become mired in the mistake, we can be encouraged by the sense that we are being held to a higher standard because our general track record indicates that we ought to be better. 

We can’t afford to let the wolf roam free. And while we may not initially appreciate being criticized by others for having let those ears go, we’d be wise to remember what’s really behind those words. An recognition of our strong our grip truly is and just how capable we are of subduing the beast who stands opposite us.

Parshas Tazria 5784

“If the only vision we have of ourselves comes from the social mirror—from the current social paradigm and the opinions, perceptions, and paradigms of the people around us—our view of ourselves is like the reflection in the crazy mirror room at the carnival.” 

– Stephen Covey, “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People”

We need to be on guard against judging ourselves through the eyes of other people, lest we emerge with a distorted, unrealistic, and damaging view. But the reverse is likewise true. When we interpret the behavior of others through the lens of our own lives and experiences, we’re guilty of using that same funhouse mirror, rather than a clear pane of glass.

Any child knows the punishment the Torah holds in store for the sin of speaking lashon hara.  Tzara’as. The metaphysical skin-disease that the Torah discusses in this week’s parsha is understood by Chazal as afflicting a person who has spoken disparagingly of his neighbor. 

We know that lashon harah leads to tzara’as. What we spend less time considering is what tzara’as leads to in turn. 

כָּל־יְמֵי אֲשֶׁר הַנֶּגַע בּוֹ יִטְמָא טָמֵא הוּא בָּדָד יֵשֵׁב מִחוּץ לַמַּחֲנֶה מוֹשָׁבוֹ׃

^{(ויקרא יג:מו)}

All the days that the affliction is upon him he is impure. He shall sit in isolation; outside the camp shall his residence be.

^{(Vayikra 13:46)} 

Tzara’as is not the ultimate consequence of speaking lashon hara, isolation is. Why is this so? Rashi comments that when someone speaks lashon hara, he is driving a wedge between that person and those around him. Those who hear the disparaging remarks think less of him and the close bonds they once shared are now frayed. The subject of the lashon hara has been isolated from those once close to him; the one who spoke those words now experiences the same.

We have undoubtedly witnessed such situations firsthand. A person disparaged by another suddenly doesn’t know who his friends are and aren’t. Who ignored the gossip and who believed it? Who’s still on my side and who isn’t? Perhaps giving the slanderer a taste of isolation—a sense of what the slandered is going through—could lead to corrected behavior in the future. 

Yet there is a well known example of lashon hara—and consequent tzara’as—that doesn’t fit this bill. At the end of Parshas Beha’aloscha, Miriam is punished with tzara’as for having spoken lashon hara about Moshe, questioning his decision to leave his wife to be fully available for any incoming Divine message. Miriam pointed to her own marriage, as well as that of Aharon’s, as evidence that one can both serve as a prophet while still maintaining a proper marriage.

Miriam’s lashon hara wasn’t an attempt to marginalize Moshe. Her claim was that Moshe was unduly marginalizing himself. Why was the self-imposed rift necessary? Why couldn’t Moshe be more aligned with the behavior that she and Aharon demonstrated? Why couldn’t he be closer to his family, rather than choosing to isolate himself from them? If tzara’as and the isolation it brings is meant to simulate the experience of the person spoken about, how do we understand it as a consequence of Miriam’s lashon hara, speech that attempted to draw Moshe closer, rather than push him further to the fringes?

Perhaps, then, there is an additional message conveyed to the metzora by their imposed isolation. Namely, to avoid the temptation to compare oneself to others. Miriam’s error was in assuming that what held true of her held true of Moshe. That if she could serve as a nevi’ah and also a wife, then Moshe could be both a navi and a husband. Yet Miriam and Moshe were not alike. Moshe had to be at the constant beck and call of Hashem in a way that no other navi did and could therefore not be bound by the natural constraints of a normal life and marriage. 

When we compare ourselves to others, it is natural that lashon hara will follow. Why do they act in a way that I never would? Why aren’t they as dedicated, sensitive, or charitable as I am? Why aren’t their priorities in order the way that mine are? Seeing the shortcomings of others as compared to our behavior—or, at least, the impression we have of our own behavior—opens the door to speaking unkindly of them.

It is turning the funhouse mirror not on ourselves, but on others. It is using a lens distorted by our own subjective personalities and experiences in an effort to see others clearly. And it doesn’t work.

Isolation, then, becomes a corrective measure in this regard as well. The metzora is removed from the rest of society as if to say, “See yourself as different and apart. See the great distance that divides you from everyone else. Make no assumptions about the struggles, challenges, and difficulties the other faces based on your own. Do not presume that the advantages and privileges that have led to your accomplishments are shared equally by others and that they should be held to the same standard. Don’t judge others as compared to yourself. See yourself in isolation from them, and them in isolation from you”

What if before we spoke about another person, before we sized up their behavior and their character, we attempted to think of them apart from us? Perhaps they struggle more than I do? Perhaps they didn’t have the role models I have? Perhaps they are more limited in their resources—emotional, financial, or social—than I am? If I think of them in isolation from me, does that change my perspective?

Attempting to see a person independent of ourselves can lead to a complete paradigm shift. We can go from being judgmental to being compassionate. From making unfair assumptions to attempting to understand the full picture. How much more clearly might we understand those around us if we learned to question the very lenses through which we view them? 

Parshas HaChodesh 5784

I remember once visiting the Israel Museum in Yerushalayim and seeing a pair of ancient tefilin. There was much about the tefilin that were so similar to my own and I recall being struck by the sense that something I do each morning truly transcends time, connecting me with practices kept by Jews who lived thousands of years before. But, at least for a moment, another thought slipped into my head. 

“Pfft. Mine are nicer.” 

Parshas HaChodesh is the special maftir we read in advance of Rosh Chodesh Nissan each year and serves as a reminder of how things are actually supposed to get done. No checking a printed calendar, no browsing myzmanim.com. No, the dates of the Hebrew calendar are supposed to be determined in a more ad hoc capacity. You determine the first of each month only once the new moon appears and then continue to count from there, until the process is repeated anew the next month.

That the Jewish calendar is now pre-determined, that you can check right now when Pesach is scheduled to fall in the year 2050 is something to bemoan. Only because of the destruction of the Bais Hamikdash, the disbanding of the central Bais Din, and the loss of proper rabbinic ordination, do we find ourselves in this fix. The defaulting to a pre-calculated calendar is an unfortunate reality, not an achievement to be celebrated.

Which is at odds with the usual arc by which history unfolds. The difference between ancient tefilin and my tefilin is representative of the standard interaction between technological advancements and halachic practice. The modern era has graced us with heavy duty machinery, hydraulic presses, and other novelties that have made for a more beautiful set of tefilin.

Rabbis and laymen alike make no apologies for seizing upon new developments that will permit a more beautiful manner of fulfilling a mitzvah. We relish the fact that enhanced growing methods make for more beautiful esrogim, new materials permit more sound and waterproof sukkahs, and modern day candles, oil, and wicks make for enhanced Shabbos or Chanukah lights.

Yet when it comes to Kiddush HaChodesh, an apology is issued. Yes, the calendar is more precise now than ever, but it’s a shame. True, we’re relying upon sound mathematical calculations, but what a pity. No, the calendar cannot be thrown into confusion by an isolated foggy morning the way it once could, but how we miss those days of old.

Halacha generally welcomes the development of new technology and new methods. Why is the establishment of the dates of the Jewish calendar any different?

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that the expression used by the Torah to introduce the process of sanctifying the new moon is precise. The Torah says, “החודש הזה לכם ראש חדשים—This month is for you the first of all months.” The first month is not only identified as such, but is branded by the words “to you,” as actually belonging to the Jewish People. 

A holiday, Rav Hirsch explains, is a celebratory rendezvous between Hashem and His People. It is a time to be together, to enjoy one another’s company, and to remember fondly the experiences of the past that the holiday commemorates. In truth, this is not something that can be demanded of the People any more than a husband can demand that his wife celebrate their anniversary. If it must be demanded, there’s nothing to celebrate. If there isn’t an eager willingness to participate, then what’s the point?

Hashem says, “לכם—To you. You’re in the driver’s seat. You control the calendar. You determine when Pesach comes. Because if I must demand it of you, if I must impose it upon you, if I have to threaten that you’d better be at the Seder Table on such-and-such a day or else, then what’s the point of it all?”

The reality is that we are bound by the mitzvos. There are expectations and demands that we perform. And when that performance can be made better, more precise, or more beautiful by supplementing human frailties with modern advancements, we welcome those opportunities with open arms. But not for the calendar itself. The calendar must be beset by human limitation and be subject to human error. If it’s not, it’s not really “לכם—yours.” A calendar bereft of human weakness is also stripped of human emotion.

Where, then, does that leave us today? Pesach—the 15th of Nissan—will fall on a day already determined centuries ago. It is calculated and formulaic, rather than an expression of love and yearning. Perhaps, though, we can generate the emotion no longer latent in the establishment of the date itself by at least being conscious of the language we use and the tone we strike in making our preparations for the holiday.

Pesach places more demands upon us than any other holiday by far. The cooking, cleaning, shopping, and kashering necessary for Pesach has no peer anywhere else on the calendar. What mentality do we adopt in undertaking these tasks? What is the language we use in readying ourselves for Pesach prep? Do we speak of chores and errands? Do we gripe and groan? 

What if the language we use and the energy we emit focused more on the excitement of being around the table with family and friends? The anticipation of nachas in hearing our children and grandchildren share divrei Torah? The appreciation of being freed from slavery and being uplifted by the purposeful living Hashem has blessed His chosen nation with?

The journey leading to Pesach is meant to be a decidedly human one. One that allows for human error, but also encourages human emotion. The current calendar has eradicated error, but let’s ensure that the journey is still rich with emotion. With love, with longing, and with anticipation of enjoying a night around Hashem’s table.

Parshas Pekudei 5784

“Why wasn’t I invited to the wedding? I’ve davened one row behind them for years. Our kids have been in class together since nursery. We co-chaired the PTA event last spring. How could they be so cold and unfriendly? “

So you call an old friend and share your tale of woe. What a snub! Where’s their sense of community? Their basic middos?

And your friend reminds you, “Last month, I called you with almost the same issue. And remember what you told me? You don’t know anyone else’s finances, maybe they’re really on a budget, have limited invites. Maybe they’re just harried by all that has be done and just overlooked it.”

“That was different,” you say. 

Was it really?

Parshas Pekudei provides a reckoning of all the money in and all the money out. After completing the construction of the Mishkan, the books are made public for all to see. Here’s what was donated, and here’s what was spent. Complete transparency. Well, almost.

As we begin moving down the list of precious metals collected for the capital campaign, we find an interesting distinction between the gold and silver that had been donated. A complete accounting is provided for the silver—both what was raised and also what it was used to construct. But there’s less transparency when it comes to the gold. We’re told how much was raised, but not what was then made from it. 

Rav Yehonasan Eybeschitz explains that the distinction lies in where each asset came from. The campaign to raise the necessary silver was supported by the nation in its entirety; every single man donated a silver half-shekel to the cause. The gold on the other hand was sponsored only by the nedivei lev—the generous few who wanted to go above and beyond the call of duty. 

Where the entire nation was concerned, surely there would be those who would demand a detailed account of how every last half-shekel would be spent. But among the most magnanimous, the self-selecting group of those who decided to donate gold out of their own generosity, there would be no such demand. The generosity of spirit that motivated them to donate in the first place would not permit the sort questioning and suspicion that would demand a public record of every penny spent.

Indeed, some people are more trusting, others more skeptical. But where were the skeptical folks when it came to the gold? Granted, they may not have donated to the cause personally, but why should that change the demand for transparency? If what’s at stake is fairness and honesty, why not insist on a full reckoning of all the gold spent with the same urgency as the silver, whether they had contributed or not?

Because much of what actually lies beneath the surface of alleged righteous indignation may actually be personal, vested interest. And that doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you a person. And people are complex. No individual, no matter how righteous, can provide testimony in a Bais Din for a case involving a family member is a litigant. No judge, no matter how holy, may adjudicate if he’s received special favor from one of the two litigants.

So what’s the path forward? Are we never permitted to call out unfairness or mistreatment simply because we may be personally involved? Are we necessarily wrong to make a demand that others behave with propriety if we would personally benefit from that changed behavior?

The story of the gold and silver donations to the Mishkan may help construct a worthwhile exercise to perform when we find ourselves in this situation. If I find myself insisting that the books be opened on the donations of silver for all to see, let me ask myself in all honesty: “Am I making the same demands for the gold donations? Why not?”

In other words, before I go off on the insensitivity of the baalei simcha for not inviting me, let me ask myself: Have I ever complained so adamantly before on behalf of someone else being snubbed? When my friend called me with the same complaint last month, was I as hot and bothered as I am now over the injustice of the whole thing, or did I see all the ways in which that behavior was actually excusable?

If a neighbor seems to invite everyone but me for a Shabbos meal, didn’t come to the shiur I hosted, or committed any other one of life’s regular offenses, how did I react relative to when something similar happened to someone else? Was I equally horrified by the affront they’d suffered, or was my response more measured when I wasn’t the one slighted?

When we find ourselves getting hot and bothered by others’ behavior, we can pause for a moment and consider what our response would have been if it happened to someone else instead. Would we be equally passionate and offended by the disrespect, dishonesty, or show of poor character? Or would we brush it off as being largely excusable and try to talk our offended friend off the ledge? 

A moment of honest reflection can sometimes bring clarity and calm to a situation. “I’ve never made such a fuss over someone else’s gold. Why am I only doing so for my own silver?” 

Parshas Vayakhel 5784

A child comes home from school, walks through the door and plops his knapsack down on the floor. A terse dialogue ensues that, no matter how many days in a row the same routine has been played out, leaves his parents’ jaws squarely on the floor.

“How was your day?” 

“Good.”

“What’d you learn?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing? Nothing?! How is that even remotely possible? You haven’t seem the kid for hours, he was sent off to an institution of rigorous education, and spent the entire day in the company of those whose life mission it is to educate youngsters. Nothing?!

Well, adults, guess what? Far too many of us are guilty of the same crime.

Moshe presents Betzalel to the People as the chief artisan presiding over the construction of the Mishkan. But the press release is issued as though it is already old news; that somehow the people had already known that Betzalel was so chosen, despite having never been told. 

וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל רְאוּ קָרָא ה׳ בְּשֵׁם בְּצַלְאֵל בֶּן־אוּרִי בֶן־חוּר לְמַטֵּה יְהוּדָה׃

^{שמות לה:ל}

Moshe said to the Children of Israel, “See that Hashem has called the name of Betzalel, son of Uri, son of Chur, of the Tribe of Judah. 

^{Shemos 35:30}

Rav Moshe Feinstein asks why Betzalel is introduced in this manner. Moshe references a “calling” that has already been made, but when did this happen and why would the people know about it?

Rav Moshe answers with a startling insight. He explains that the immensely talented Betzalel was never formally called. Rather, the talent he possessed was itself the calling. That everyone knew of Betzalel’s talents was one and the same as knowing that he had been called to perform the work, to dedicate his talents in the service of Hashem and the Jewish People. 

Talent, explains Rav Moshe, is both an invitation and a demand. The abilities one possesses were not gifted to him arbitrarily, but by design, and with strings attached. There is an expectation that those abilities will be honed and will be utilized for the sake of holy work, of avodas hakodesh. 

It’s an astounding statement. But also one that may not resonate with the average person. Because the average person is not an artist. There is no special talent or artistic flair that can be employed in the service of Hashem and the Jewish People. No ability to work with precious metals or weave thread in such a way as to construct a residence for Hashem’s Presence. 

But talent knows many forms. And the mistake so many of us make is in overlooking the talents we do indeed possess. If not artistically talented, if not in possession of the sort of ability that allows them to paint a beautiful picture or play beautiful music, we define themselves as talentless.

“What are you good at?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing? Nothing?! How is that even remotely possible?

People spend their waking hours engaged in activities that call upon them to perform tasks and produce results. Oftentimes, they are even paid good money for such work. But we define those activities as being something less than the product of talent. It’s business. It’s life. It’s stuff. It’s not talent. 

And that’s all wrong. Yes, the Mikdash needed an artisan. But communities and shuls need lots of skills. They need web designers and accountants and bookkeepers and organizers and copywriters. We default to thinking of art galleries and concert halls as the exclusive places in which talent is exhibited, but talent is on display just as much in our offices and homes, inside of our laptops and scrawled across the pages of our daily planners. 

I recently met someone who was telling me about the work he does for couples going through divorces, trying to help mediate and ensure that a get is issued in a proper fashion. He didn’t share his whole story with me, but when I asked about how he got involved in this realm of communal work, he told me, “Hashem didn’t have me go through my own experience just to keep it all to myself and not help others.” This man’s experience yielded certain expertise, and he paid it forward in the form of assisting others going through similar challenges. 

A prime example of this sort of work has been undertaken by “Living Smarter Jewish,” an organization dedicated to providing basic financial guidance for the frum community. This is a group of professionals who could easily have responded, “Nothing,” when asked what they’re talented at. “We’re CPA’s and financial planners. Not woodworkers and painters. We don’t have talent.” Oh yes they do. And they’re using that talent in a big way.

In our own community, a small group of remarkable women understood that identifying and utilizing talent could raise money for our brothers and sisters in Israel. How easy it would have been to respond with a shrug of the shoulders instead. “We don’t have any talent. Baking? Baking’s not a talent, it’s just what we do to get ready for Shabbos.” But baking is a talent. And cranking out flyers is a talent. And organizing the effort is a talent. In identifying those talents, “Baked B’Ahava” was born. And those talents have to date yielded over thirty thousand dollars in funds raised for important organizations in Israel.

There are countless similar examples, and yet far too few. There is immense talent and ability that resides in the individuals comprising our nation that could yet be leveraged in the interest of the Klal but doesn’t. And not because there aren’t enough hours in the day or because people are overcommitted, but simply because they don’t recognize the talents they have for what they truly are and don’t recognize the enormous impact they can have by sharing them.

If we had a need to put a resume together, we’d painstakingly comb through our daily grind in search of skills and abilities that underpin all that we do and accomplish. We’d compile the list and present it before a would-be employer to give them a sense of all we could bring to the company. 

And there is no shame in that. The call to earn an honorable livelihood for ourselves and our families is one we must answer. But there is another call that must be answered as well, one that demands a very similar response. It is the call made by the talent itself. It demands that we  first recognize the incredible array of skills and abilities that possess and to label them as such. And then to consider how such talent can be leveraged in direct service of Hashem and of His People. 

Gold and wood may not be your talent. But something else undoubtedly is. That talent is a call. How will you answer it?

Parshas Ki Sisa 5784

A Billy Bookcase is a fairly straightforward enterprise. But nonetheless, I’ve always been grateful for the instruction booklet the good folks at Ikea tuck inside. Without a picture to serve as your guide, you could easily do something wrong, like install a shelf backwards (in fact, I’ve found that even the inclusion of the instruction booklet won’t necessarily spare you from this fate if you’re not following carefully). The more complex the item, the more necessary it is to have a picture as your guide.

So how complex is a half-shekel?

Hashem calls upon Moshe to perform a census with not only words, but a picture. Hashem says, “זה יתנו—This they shall give (Shemos 30:13),” which Rashi explains to mean that Hashem was presenting an actual depiction of the coin itself. A half-shekel made of fire was  actually conjured up to provide Moshe with a visual-aid.

The usage of the word “זה—This,” is similarly explained elsewhere. In Parshas ּBehaaloscha, Hashem describes the construction of the Menorah, saying, “וזה מעשה המנורה—And this is the construction of the Menorah (Bamidbar 8:4).” Here, too, Rashi explains that Hashem was pointing to an image, one he had conjured for Moshe so he could understand the full scope of the Menorah and have a hope to craft it out of gold.

Using a  Billy Bookcase as a frame of reference, an image of the Menorah, with all its decorative embellishments, should most certainly come with a depiction of what the finished product should look like. But a half-shekel? Are words alone really insufficient to adequately describe something as simple as a coin?

The Chasam Sofer explains that the point was not the image itself, but what the image was made of. Hashem didn’t just show Moshe an image of a coin, but a coin of fire. Why? Because, as the old adage goes, “רחמנא ליבא בעי—Hashem wants our hearts.”  A donation given begrudgingly is hardly the point. If the nation is to be elevated through the process of donating to the Mishkan, it must be performed with passion and interest. It’s not only the coin, but the fire that burns behind it.

This was surely a challenge for any pauper who had to scrounge around to come up with his half-shekel. For anyone who had to tighten his belt and his budget weeks and months in advance of the collection date, giving up the half-shekel with a fire and passion, with a desire and willingness, was surely no small feat. 

But the Torah is clear that the demand of this mitzvah is placed not only upon the poor, but upon the wealthy. “העשיר לא ירבה והדל לא ימעיט—The wealthy may not increase, nor may the pauper decrease (Shemos 30:15).” It would be one thing if the wealthy Jew is expected to give according to his means. In that case, his inner struggle would be no less than that of the poor fellow called upon to donate a mere fraction of the billionaire’s pledge. But if the expectation is a mere half-shekel across the board, independent of net worth and financial means, what challenge does the wealthy person face? Why does he need to be implored to be dedicated, passionate, and aflame with religious ambition? 

When you’re young, hungry, and inexperienced, the entry-level job feels perfectly appropriate. There are no expectations that one be handed the corner office and a plaque on the door. We don’t yet have the talent or know-how for such grandiose expectations.

But then we develop. We hone our talents and build our portfolios. And our expectations grow. Not only of the compensation and benefits we should receive, but of the position we ought to fill. We can’t bring ourselves to work in the copy room when we ought to be in the conference room. 

Which is the great challenge in developing wealth. Not only monetary wealth, but a wealth of experience, talent, and ability. It is difficult to have achieved without feeling one has arrived. How can we bring ourselves to take baby steps when we’ve already covered so much ground? 

A daily tip on raising children? I’ve been a parent for decades! A ten-minute limud during my lunch break? I learned three sedarim a day in yeshiva, for crying out loud! A book on improving my marriage? I just celebrated my thirtieth anniversary!

So what do we do instead? Nothing. The large steps are too daunting to face and the small steps are beneath us. So where do we remain? Stuck. Frozen in place in the shadow cast by our oversized bank accounts. All we’ve achieved isn’t leveraged as proof of our ability to succeed, it becomes the albatross around our neck that hampers the small steps needed to continue moving and growing. “You’re a billionaire, you can’t just give a half-shekel. So give nothing at all. Stay right where you are.” 

To this, Hashem produces a half-shekel of fire. If we’re on fire, passionate about the cause of sculpting ourselves in the image of G-d, ablaze with the passion to become the best possible versions of ourselves, we’ll gladly take the baby-steps needed. 

It’s the first half-shekel that trains the future philanthropist. The first ten minutes that begins to craft the future masmid. The first page of insights that begins to forge a more patient parent or attentive spouse. It’s hard to generate much fire around tiny advances, but we can be burn with the passion of becoming new people. 

If we’re on fire, we’ll be unencumbered by the disparity between what we’ve already achieved and what we must now do to continue to grow. We’ll push ourselves towards a path of new growth and fresh success. One half-shekel at a time. 

Parshas Tetzaveh 5784

There is something unnerving about the notion of backroom politics. We’d like to believe that elected officials simply take the podium in front of their colleagues, speak their conscience about policies they’d like to see instituted on behalf of their constituents, and, after some debate and conversations, votes for or against are cast. But things are not so simple. There are negotiations—some above board, many undoubtedly not—that take place behind closed doors to curry favor, drum up support, and pledge to “scratch your back if you scratch mine”. It’s the backroom where the real action happens.

And it’s not just true in Washington. It’s true on Har HaBayis as well.

The Gemara in Yoma 44a makes an interesting comment about the ketores—the incense whose service is described in Parshas Tetzaveh—and the unique impact it has in the negotiating process with the Almighty. Whereas lashon hara can serve to unravel the entirety of our relationship with Hashem—indeed, the Chofetz Chaim notes that lashon hara is the specific sin referred to when the Rabbis identified baseless hatred as the reason for which the Bais Hamikdash was destroyed—it is the ketores that serves as the focal point of the backroom negotiation that restores the bond.

Why does the Ketores of all things possess this unusual ability? Precisely because it is a significant feature of the backroom. Or, as the Gemara puts it, “יבא דבר שבחשאי ויכפר על מעשה חשאי—Let that which is done in secrecy atone for that which is done in secrecy.” The ketores, burned in the interior of the Sanctuary, uproots the sin of gossip, slander, and other forms of improper speech which are also typically shared in secret whispers.

Why should this be so? Why is the private nature of the two acts any more meaningful than just a happenstance similarity? What is the significance of the secrecy the ketores and lashon hara share in common?

As opposed to the secretive conversations held by power brokers and policy makers, the goings on of the inner sanctum of the Bais Hamikdash is common knowledge. Hashem describes in the Torah exactly what will take place behind the closed doors of the Sanctuary. Despite the ketores being a service that only Kohanim may perform, everyone else is fully aware that it takes place, despite it being shielded from the public view.

Which is exactly the point. We are meant to be aware of the private enclaves of the Bais HaMikdash because we are meant to think of those areas are no less important as the public spaces. When it comes to holiness and sanctity, we do not consider less significant that which we do not see. 

Do we hold ourselves and our own holiness to the same standard? 

In public, we want to be seen as charitable and generous. We want others to see us as baalei chesed, as someone people can rely upon in times of need. Does that chesed extend to the private domain as well? What is the determination to refrain from lashon hara if not a commitment to act charitably with our words? To be generous in our assessment of others? To ensure that the sanctity and kindness that we radiate in public is equally present in private? 

Can we condition ourselves to equate public and private in our own behavior no less than we do in the arena of the Bais Hamikdash? Not that “I’m really a generous person, but I’m ruthless in business”. Not that “I’m sensitive towards the needs of others, I just make outrageous demands of my employees”. Not that “I’m kind and sweet, but I scream at my kids when nobody’s watching”. And not that, “My heart is wide open for chessed, but only in public action, not in private speech.” 

We daven three times a day for the restoration of the Bais Hamikdash. All of it, in its entirety. Inside and outside, private and public. When it comes to holy spaces we want things full and complete. If we want to be holy people, we must expect the same of ourselves. 

Parshas Terumah 5784

“Rabbi, great drasha. Very inspiring!”

If I was more polite, I’d just say “Thank you.” But sometimes I can’t help myself. 

“Really? Inspiring? Tell me, what are you inspired to do?”

The Tanna D’Bei Eliyahu notes that the juxtaposition of this week’s parsha and last week’s is far from coincidental. At the end of Parshas Mishpatim, the Torah presents another version of the experience at Har Sinai, highlighting certain elements that weren’t present in the first telling of the story back in Parshas Yisro. It is there in Parshas Mishpatim that the famous response of the Jewish People to being offered the gift of the Torah is recorded: “נעשה ונשמע—We will do and we will listen.” Before ever knowing what the Torah actually contained, the Jewish People bought in. So convinced were they that Hashem had their best interest in mind, so electrified were they by being in His presence, that they were willing to accept whatever it was that Hashem had to offer.

It is precisely following this acceptance that we find the opening words of this week’s parsha, “ויקחו לי תרומה—Take for me a donation.” The Jewish People have committed themselves to the Torah, to a covenant with Hashem. They are bowled over by His kindness and by His providence and never want to let go or to be let go. And so, now comes the big question: Are they willing to pay for it? 

“Na’aseh v’nishma” has become the anthem of the Har Sinai experience. There are moments when we feel ourselves back at that awesome gathering. We are inspired and uplifted. We are certain of Hashem’s Presence and our direct relationship with Him. We are convinced of the value and beauty of living rich spiritual lives. The shiur, the tisch, the shmoneh esrei, the sunset—something moved us to identify more deeply with Hashem and His mitzvos and we commit mentally to doing more.

What happens when we experience that direct contact with Hashem? When we’re inspired? Inspiration itself is worth very little unless we act upon it. Now, not later. 

Hashem is with us in moments of inspiration. And whether we hear it or not, He turns to us at those times and whispers three words in our ear: “ויקחו לי תרומה—Make a donation.” Don’t just have these feelings, actualize them. Don’t just be moved, do something. Don’t just say “Na’aseh v’nishma.” Launch the campaign.

There are times when the call of giving terumah is quite literal. When we feel enriched by the Torah provided by our shul, when we gush with pride over the latest d’var Torah our child brought home from school, when we’re moved by the work of a remarkable chessed organization, what we feel can’t be the end of the story. We need to ensure the future of those institutions that do so much good, that bring us such fulfillment, that are helping redeem the world. We need to get out our wallets and give.

But it’s not only institutions that need to be built and supported; we as individuals are no different. Just as feelings of inspiration won’t secure the future for valuable institutions, such feelings are meaningless in securing our own future growth and development. Feelings dissipate frighteningly quickly and do little to change our trajectory.

Feelings are only as valuable as the new practices they spawn. An emotional high and a vague mental commitment—“na’aseh v’nishma”—demands something practical and tangible to be immediately converted into in order to have any staying power. 

Inspired to learn more? Make the immediate deposit into your learning. Don’t go to bed until you’ve started that new sefer or scheduled the chavrusa. Inspired towards chesed? Sign up to volunteer. Right now. Because feelings of inspiration that are left un-actualized will soon vanish. If there’s no new habit that’s been installed in your routine, there will be nothing left of the time you spent at Sinai.

Rav Chaim Volozhiner noted that the call to build a Mikdash—a place of sanctity for Hashem’s Presence—is issued with the expression “ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם—And you shall build for Me a Sanctuary and I will dwell within you.” Hashem doesn’t describe that He will dwell “within it,” inside of the Mikdash edifice the people construct, but rather, “בתוכם—within you.” The construction of a Mikdash is an exercise that relates not only to a building, but to the development of the individual Jew, within whom Hashem will come to rest once that human being is transformed into a Mishkan.

The call to make a deposit into the collection plate is made immediately following the spiritual high of Har Sinai. When as individuals we enjoy moments that channel some of that same energy, the response must be the same. Make a deposit. Immediately. Channel the inspiration to change, to grow, to develop into something concrete. Something that will construct a new, better you where the old one once stood. Those feelings of inspiration will evaporate in an instant. How will we ensure that they’ll have a lasting impact?