Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Vayeitzei

I couldn’t help but wonder, “What took so long?” When I arrived at yeshiva that morning, a series of faces greeted me in the stairwell. There were still a few minutes to go before Shacharis began, and the students were still in “chill mode”—phones on, headphones out. I settled into my seat in the Bais Medrash, talis and tefillin on, and watched the steady trickle of students arrive for davening. But absent among them were the students I’d seen earlier upon my arrival. They’d made it to the building with time to spare, but didn’t make it to Shacharis until after Pesukei D’Zimrah was well under way.

So what took them so long?

But as I replayed the morning’s events, I actually found myself pondering another question altogether. 

“How did they make it in to davening so quickly?” 

If you follow the narrative contained in the pesukim, it would appear that when Yaakov leaves home he travels immediately to Charan, barring the one short night he spends under the stars, dreaming of angels and ladders. But in making the calculation, Chazal find that fourteen years go missing, unaccounted for in the chronicles of Yaakov’s escapades since he’d left his parents’ home. For these fourteen years, they explain, Yaakov hid himself away in Yeshivas Shem V’Ever, hitting the books for a deep dive in Talmud Torah before entering into the spiritually compromising atmosphere that would pervade his destination, the home of Lavan.

Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky wonders why this was necessary. Yaakov, after all, had already studied under the tutelage of Avraham and Yitzchak, his saintly grandfather and father. What more would be gained by studying in the Yeshiva of Shem v’Ever? Why not complete the mission he was instructed to complete by his parents without delay? 

Rav Yaakov explains that the Torah Yaakov learned from his father and grandfather was of a different variety than that which he would now study. Until now, Yaakov was enveloped in a spiritual cocoon—the home of Yitzchak and Rivkah. Heading to the house of Lavan, Yaakov was now about to face far more antagonism over his beliefs and way of life than he had ever previously experienced. And that demanded a different brand of Torah, of preparation, of education.

Shem lived during the Flood, a time when the world’s population was considered by Hashem so morally vacuous that they deserved to be wiped off the face of the earth. Ever lived during the Dor Haflagah—the generation responsible for building the Tower of Bavel, a direct challenge to Hashem’s sovereignty. The Torah that would be shared in the Bais Medrash they founded would be of a unique variety, one that would speak to the immense challenge of insulating oneself against a harsh environment of immoral influences. This was a Torah that Yaakov had not yet learned, so he took the time to do so. 

Different situations, different generations, call for education of different varieties and tones. The challenges of Yaakov’s youth are not the challenges of his adult life, and he needed to re-educate himself accordingly.

Which is the realization I had when I saw my students dragging their feet a bit. What did my morning routine look like when I was in high school? Didn’t we basically head straight for Shacharis as soon as we entered the building? Isn’t that just what you do?

And it occurred to me that they have something that I didn’t: A smartphone. An endless stream of entertainment at the ready, all in the palms of their hands. When I was in high school, how difficult was the transition from putting my things down in my locker to going to daven? Not nearly as challenging as prying myself away from a phone and surrendering it for the remainder of the school day upon arrival at Shacharis.

Which left me more impressed by their behavior than disappointed. How quickly they made that pivot. How quickly they transitioned from mindless entertainment to davening. 

The challenges our teenagers face today are not the challenges we faced when we were their age. And that should motivate us to periodically replace annoyance with admiration. No, perhaps we didn’t act like that, talk like that when we were kids, but these kids are up against a lot more, are influenced by a world at odds with our sensibilities and values in a way we thankfully never were. 

But it must also motivate us to do what Yaakov did. To realize that while the environment of growing up in Yitzchak and Rivkah’s home demanded one form of education, standing on the threshold of Lavan’s house, a new form was now needed.

If the only lesson we draw from the challenges of today’s world is how impressed we should be by the accomplishments of our children, we’re doing them a disservice. It’s critical that we recognize those difficulties and do everything we can (even while they kick and scream) to help alleviate those challenges.

If we found tefilah boring when we were younger, how much more lackluster must it feel for a teen today? After a bus ride spent watching YouTube and TikTok videos? How can we expect kids to successfully pivot from screens to sefarim in such close succession? What can we do to widen the gap between the two, to allow for some space for their minds to recalibrate, to ready itself for something more intellectual and contemplative?

Rare is the teenager who freely relinquishes the opportunity to own the latest technology, to have free access to whatever apps and content he or she so fancies. In a moment of honesty, they may well recognize the detrimental effect such liberties have on what they wish to accomplish in life, but teenagers cannot provide themselves with the education and precautions they need; that is for parents to do. 

We want our children to engage with Tefilah and Torah. In the best of circumstances, it’s an uphill battle. What’s made it uniquely more challenging in this generation is that so many are being asked to so engage against the backdrop of devices that do anything but prime their minds for these holy activities. 

Yaakov recognized that new times and new situations called for a new mode of education. And he was old enough to provide himself with it. Children are not so capable. If we’ve found that they are growing up in a different, more hostile world, if we recognize that they need guardrails not part of the educational package of a generation ago, it is up to us as parents to provide them. 

Parshas Toldos 5786

In May 2012, an 18 year old took the stage at Benedictine University’s “Youth Government Day.” A prominent political activist by the name of Bill Montgomery was in the room and he later noted that while the other speakers at the event had bored the audience of a few hundred high-school kids, they began to pay rapt attention when this new speaker took the mic. Montgomery approached the young man and encouraged him to pursue political activism full-time. The speaker’s name was Charlie Kirk. A month after that first meeting, he and Bill Montgomery co-founded Turning Point USA.

Which isn’t the least bit surprising. It’s exactly what anyone would have imagined as the first foray into a lifetime of advocacy and activism: taking the mic, leading the conversation, sharing one’s personal thoughts with the crowd. Someone who had never demonstrated those skills would never have become Charlie Kirk. 

But he may have become Yitzchak Avinu. 

The Gemara in Shabbos 89b describes a conversation Hashem had with the three Avos, one after the other. Disappointed with the behavior of the Jewish People, Hashem shares His plan to destroy them. He turns first to Avraham, then to Yaakov, both of whom can only concur with the Divine intention to obliterate the Jewish People. 

But then Hashem turns to Yitzchak and shares His accusation. “Your children have sinned.” Yitzchak responds with indignation. “My children? When they accepted the Torah, placing ‘na’aseh’ (we will perform) before ‘nishma’ (we will hear), did they not become Your children as well?”

Yitzchak is successful and the execution is stayed. Yitzchak, as it turns out, succeeds in advocacy where both his father and son walk right past the podium and never even pick up the mic. 

If we look to the Chumash to uncover clues—hints to Yitzchak’s future success in impassioned advocacy—we come up empty. It is Avraham and Yaakov who live lives dotted with dynamic escapades, telling off their adversaries, boldly engaging new horizons of spiritual activity. 

Yitzchak is not the one at the podium. He is not the leader, he is the follower. It is his father who takes the lead as they march off to the Akeidah. When famine strikes Eretz Yisrael, Yitzchak first attempts to descend to Egypt—just as his father had done—before receiving Divine instruction not to. Yitzchak goes to Grar and poses as Rivka’s brother, rather than her husband, mimicking the behavior of his father when he and Sarah arrived in the same land. Of the remarkably little the Torah tells us about Yitzchak, one of the few episodes featured prominently is Yitzchak’s efforts in re-digging his father’s old wells, and calling them by the same names that his father did. 

Yitzchak is not portrayed as the dynamic innovator, but as the dutiful follower. Avraham enjoyed a long career of taking the mic; Yitzchak did not. But when it came to advocating for the Jewish People, it is Yitzchak who strides defiantly to the podium. How did this come to pass?

Perhaps Yitzchak’s advocacy does not come in spite of his long resume of following in his father’s footsteps, but specifically as a result of it. One can only imagine Avraham’s response to the news that the Jewish People had sinned. “How can that be? Proper belief has been handed to them on a silver platter. I already wrote the playbook for them, all they needed to do was follow. If I had sinned, I could have claimed theological confusion; if they’ve sinned, what excuse could possibly be offered?”

But Yitzchak would have an entirely different opinion. One born out of a life of following. No new horizons, no stepping out into the unknown. A life dedicated to simply emulating those who came before you, following in their footsteps, abiding by the script they’d already written. 

Looking at the relatively little that the Torah chose to teach us about the life of Yitzchak, it is hard to see it as anything other than monotonous, particularly in comparison to the lives of Avraham and Yaakov.

But monotonous doesn’t mean easy. It means maintaining fidelity to principles that you never authored, forfeiting the natural satisfaction born of living your own life and fulfilling your own ideals. Yes, much of the heavy lifting has already been done for Yitzchak, but in a certain sense, that only makes his life more difficult. How do you generate passion for something that doesn’t feel entirely personal? 

When the Gemara paints the picture of Yitzchak going to bat for the Jewish People, it is simultaneously validating the struggle and shaking us by the lapels. On the one hand, it is giving credence to the difficulty we experience in finding many aspects of our avodah monotonous and impersonal. I daven words that aren’t mine, I abide by zmanim I didn’t select, I wear tefilin without customizing the shape, color, or parshios that are tucked inside. That is hard to do. Yitzchak Avinu knows it, and defends our lapses during that struggle.

But it’s also a wakeup call. To not equate the stimulating with the valuable. To not look to a mitzvah’s resonance on a personal level as a barometer for whether or not we’re cut out for that mitzvah. One may feel a certain satisfaction in managing his startup, completing his pet project, or engaging with a hobby he’s personally selected and developed in a way he does not when living by principles and laws imposed upon him from the outside. There is real mesirus nefesh—real sacrifice—there. But we sacrifice for things that are important. And importance and resonance are not one and the same.

Yitzchak Avinu looks to us and says, “I get it. It doesn’t feel like your own. And that’s hard. Believe me, I know.” It is our job to look back to Yitzchak Avinu and say, “Yet we’re still supposed to perform, aren’t we? After all, you can only create a dynasty by following what came before you.” 

Parshas Chayei Sarah 5786

Clearly nervous and fidgety, Rav Yisrael Salanter asked the innkeeper if everything was alright.

“No, actually,” he responded. “The shochet we use is sick and I’m afraid we’ll run out of meat.  We’re expecting a large crowd of guests in the coming days.”

“Not to worry,” Rav Yisrael assured him. “I know how to perform shechitah. I’d be happy to help.” 

A sense of relief visibly washed over the innkeeper and he thanked Rav Yisrael profusely. The next morning, the Rav made his way to the innkeeper’s desk.

“Sorry to ask. But I need a loan. Might you be willing to lend me 50,000 kopeks?” 

The innkeeper was completely taken aback. So was Rav Yisrael Salanter.

With the passing of Sarah, Avraham turns his attention to finding a wife for his son, Yitzchak, tasking his trusted servant Eliezer with this critical mission. Eliezer takes an oath to seek out a wife for Yitzchak only in the region of Avraham’s homeland, and to steer clear of the local Canaanite population.

If Avraham will not undertake this mission, and if Yitzchak will not go find a wife for himself, then Eliezer is the likely man for the job. We already know Eliezer, know him to be Avraham’s servant, the one who looks after Avraham’s affairs.

Yet in relating Avraham’s selection of Eliezer for this task, the Torah acts as though we don’t know Eliezer at all, feeling it necessary to provide a description of who exactly Eliezer was. 

וַיֹּאמֶר אַבְרָהָם אֶל־עַבְדּוֹ זְקַן בֵּיתוֹ הַמֹּשֵׁל בְּכׇל־אֲשֶׁר־לוֹ שִׂים־נָא יָדְךָ תַּחַת יְרֵכִי׃

^{בראשית כד:ב}

And Avraham said to his servant, the elder of his household, who had charge of all that he owned, “Put your hand under my thigh”

^{Bereishis 24:2}

If the description of being in charge of Avraham’s household is necessary to identify this servant as Eliezer, rather than some junior member of Avraham’s staff, why not just refer to Eliezer by name? We are, after all, already acquainted with Eliezer and his position in Avraham’s household (see ּBereishis 15:2). 

The Be’er Mayim Chaim, Rav Chaim Tyrer, explains that the Torah is doing far more than merely identifying Eliezer; it is highlighting the priorities of Avraham Avinu. 

Eliezer had Avraham’s full vote of confidence in running his household, managing his assets, and generally overseeing all his earthly affairs. But finding a wife for his son—the next matriarch of the nation they would build—was no earthly affair. The Torah is emphasizing that for Avraham, the management of those matters that fell in the realm of the finite was one thing. Here, Eliezer’s virtue was unimpeachable. But for matters that pertained to the infinite, greater assurances were necessary.

For many, sadly, the exact opposite is true.

When Rav Yisrael Salanter asked for a loan, the innkeeper stammered. “I don’t know anything about you!” he exclaimed. How could the rabbi be so presumptuous as to request such a large sum of money without so much as offering any proof of his character or trustworthiness?

Rav Yisrael pressed on, “If you know so little about me as to be suspicious of my repaying a loan, how can you consider me reliable enough to trust my shechitah and feed it to all your guests?”

What makes Avraham Avinu special is not that he could answer correctly when asked if proper shechitah is more important than 50,000 kopeks. It’s that he acted on it. That the primacy of the spiritual over the material, of the infinite over the finite, was not only a philosophy that existed in his mind, but in his deeds. For Avraham, any care or concern extended to his material assets would not only be replicated in the spiritual realm, they would be magnified.

If posed that same question, we’d likely respond correctly as well. The efficacy and quality of shechitah impacts us eternally. A few thousand dollars does not. And we know it.

But a more important exercise is in considering the actions we take in protecting our various assets. Are the material and spiritual at least on par? Or is there a gap?

What do we do to protect our material assets? We have conversations with experts to identify how to receive the best returns. We follow their growth carefully to ensure that they’re performing the way we’d hope and expect. We create objectives to determine success and optimization.

The same can be done for spiritual assets. Seeking out advice from experts—those who know us well and who have achieved a measure of spiritual growth that we are envious of—who can help us manage our portfolio. Devising ways to track our growth in Torah study, in daily habits we wish to inculcate, in punctuality in tefilah. Adopting formal goals that ensure that our accounts aren’t flatlining, that we continue to surge towards new benchmarks in avodas Hashem. 

It is a wonderful thing to protect our wealth. But if we’ve learned how to do so, can we copy those skills, those insights, those abilities, and apply them elsewhere? If we know how to protect our kopeks, do we similarly protect our shechitah?

Parshas Lech Lecha 5786

A number of years ago I sat at a community Friday night seudah trying to crack the code of starting a great zemer. With participants spread out across a large room, how do you get them to stop shmoozing and start singing? I and a few others started pacing as we sang, hoping to draw others in as we walked. To no avail.

For the next round, we just sat. The few of us who were interested in singing would do so, and the rest of the room would ignore us. And wouldn’t you know it? As we sat together singing, more and more people walked over to join us. Soon nearly the whole room was singing, all without even trying to convince them. 

With the daunting task of journeying to a completely foreign land before him, Avraham is promised by Hashem that all will work out well. Hashem will bless Avraham, make him into a great nation, and will make his name great. All in all, Hashem vows, “It will be a blessing.” (Bereishis 12:2)

Rashi comments that this final commitment is to Avraham alone. It will be a bracha so personal, so tailor-made, it will not even be shared by his children. Referencing the first bracha of Shemoneh Esrei, Rashi explains that although each of the three Avos will be referred to at the beginning of the bracha, only Avraham’s name will be mentioned in its conclusion: “Magen Avraham—The Shield of Avraham.” 

Did Avraham suffer from anxiety over being outdone by his son or grandson? Was Hashem trying to put his mind at ease with the promise that his progeny would not suprass him? As the Gemara in Sanhedrin 105 notes, “בכל אדם מתקנא חוץ מבנו—A person is jealous of everyone, save his son.” Of what relief is it to Avraham that the bracha all Jews will one day recite will be sealed with his name alone? 

The Shearis Menachem notes an interesting trend that unfolds over the lives of the Avos: a pivot from turning outward to turning inward. Avraham and Sarah are all about outreach, teaching others about the existence of G-d and the impact that such a philosophy has on daily living. When Avraham journeys to Canaan, the Torah records that he made the trek along with the “souls he had made in Charan,” a reference to all those he and Sarah had taught and who ultimately accepted the truth of monotheism. 

We find no such following consolidating around Yitzchak and Yaakov. Neither is depicted by the Torah as getting up on the soapbox, and even the hachnassas orchim so characteristic of Avraham and Sarah are not mentioned regarding the next generations of Avos and Imahos. In a decided about-face from the practices of Avraham, Yaakov is characterized as the “יושב אהלים—The one who sits in tents,” a reference to his dedicated Torah-study, but a description as well of someone whose religious profile is insular and does not include the intentional outreach so typical of Avraham.

This, explains the Shearis Menachem, is Hashem’s intent in telling Avraham that he alone—not his children—will be a blessing. That in conclusion, at the end of days, it will be Avraham’s philosophy of turning outward, of saving the planet, that will prevail. Ultimately, our national mission is about more than just ourselves, but about the elevating the entire world. At the conclusion of history, the blessing of the Jewish People is as Avraham imagined it, with Judaism proving a gift given not only to the Jewish People, but to all of humanity. For through it, even the other nations would be uplifted and redeemed, benefiting from the paradigm of morality, decency, and spirituality that the Jewish People would serve as. 

Which begs the question, why only in the end of days? Why did we ever veer from Avraham’s worldview to begin with?

In truth, perhaps we never did. Perhaps we were just concentrating our voices so the song would be more compelling. 

Because that is exactly what happened on that Friday night. In bringing the “singers” together, the zemer was stronger and more beautiful than when we were scattered around the room. When the product was weak, our direct marketing campaign garnered little interest. Once we’d inadvertently created a great product, it sold itself, and even developed its own gravitational pull. 

Why did Yitzchak and Yaakov turn inward? Why no mention in the Torah of their hachnassas orchim, converts to monotheism, or diplomatic escapades? How did Judaism go from being housed in a tent open on four sides to one that closed off the openings in favor of creating more wall space for shelves of sefarim? By recognizing that to fully realize the vision of turning outward, it had to first turn decidedly inward. It had to focus its efforts on its own adherents, members of that initial familly-nation, before it could hope to influence others. It needed to turn itself into the strongest possible product—of scholarship, of middos, of faith—if it would be compelling enough to convince others of the value of its most basic principles. 

Yitzchak and Yaakov hadn’t abandoned Avraham’s worldview any more than Avraham himself had. Perhaps it is telling that the anecdote the Torah selects to share with us to demonstrate Avraham’s outreach is the one that ends in the foretelling that a son will be born. And that from that point on, we hear nothing more of their guests, converts, or students. Only of their intent to provide their son with the most ideal environment in which to grow and develop, even if the creation of said environment demanded banishing his half-brother from the home. Not exactly the behavior we’d expect from Avraham considering his resume until this point. 

Had Avraham had a change of heart? Had he ultimately realized the error in trying to convince the world of Hashem’s existence? Had he looked back on his career and ultimately considered it a life wasted? Certainly not. But with the emergence of a son, Avraham realized the best way to bring the world around would be to raise that son properly. And for him to do the same for his son. And so on and so forth throughout history. Until the Jewish People would become a product so compelling, it would essentially sell itself. 

This is the promise Hashem makes Avraham. In the end, in conclusion, the bracha is yours. Your view, your vision. One that imagines not only a nation redeemed, but a world redeemed. Yitzchak, Yaakov, and everyone that followed may have needed to turn inward, but ultimately their voice will be so powerful, so mesmerizing, they simply can’t be ignored. By turning inward, they’ll start singing a tune so sweet, that the rest of the world will surely join in. 

Parshas Noach 5786

The Gerrer Rebbe, Rav Avraham Mordechai Alter, also known as the “Imrei Emes” managed to escape Europe and emigrate to Eretz Yisrael in 1940. When the Holocaust finally ended, the Rebbe confirmed that but one of his grandchildren, Reb Noach Yaskovitz, had survived. When grandfather and grandson were finally reunited after the war in Yerushalayim, the Rebbe embraced him with great vigor, holding his grandson tight and repeating again and again, “Vayishaer ach Noach! Vayishaer ach Noach! “And only Noach was left….”(Bereishis, 7:23)

In the midst of their intense reunion, the loving Zeidy looked into his grandson’s eyes: “Why do you think Hashem saved Noach? Because he would rebuild the world. We, too, survived in order to rebuild!”

Throughout Parshas Noach, the great flood is referred to time and again as the Mabul. Yet in referencing the flood many generations later, the navi Yeshaya—in a section read as haftarah for Parshas Noach—refers to the event as “מי נח, The Waters of Noach.” (Yeshaya 54:9)

After leading a moral life in the face of a wayward society around him, building a massive ark by hand, and tending to the needs of the myriad animals protected inside, what did Noach do to deserve such an unfortunate byline, being forever linked by the navi with the tragic waters that inundated the world and washed out nearly all of humanity?

In the very first pasuk of the parsha, Noach’s name is mentioned no fewer than three times and the Rosh offers an intriguing explanation as to why. He suggests that the reference is to three people throughout history who saw their environs settled, destroyed, and then resettled. The first is, of course, Noach himself. The second is Daniel, who saw the Bais Hamikdash, saw it destroyed, and saw it rebuilt. The third is Iyov, who witnessed his own home go from a state of tranquility to utter ruination, and then reestablished once more. 

“Noach” is a symbol not only for a world ruined, but of a world rebuilt. 

Perhaps this is the distinction between the description of the Flood in the parsha itself and the description offered generations later by Yeshaya. The term “Mabul” connotes destruction, which is exactly the way the waters were experienced as the inundated the earth. 

Yet when the destruction had subsided, there was an opportunity to rebuild. For the only people left on earth to create a covenant with Hashem. To offer korbanos. To turn the ark outward, imbuing the new world with the kindness, care, and sensitivity previously shown to the animals. For Shem to launch a yeshivah that would train all who would enter its portals in the ways of monotheism and morality. 

It would take time—years, even millennia—for the opportunities offered by rebooting the world to become fully realized. But when they did, it could be traced back to Noach. Recognizing that all that was ultimately achieved was attributed to him and the new spirit he breathed into the world reborn around him. 

To call the waters Mei Noach is not to disparage Noach, to lay the blame of the destruction at this feet, but to credit him with the fulfillment of the promise contained within those very waters. Generations after the flood, they can be called by Noach’s name because of the hindsight that the intervening years provide that attribute to Noach all that had been accomplished since the world was destroyed. 

Were the waters that inundated the earth devastating, or were they constructive? The answer is “Yes”. 

It is always this way. A fire is sometimes precisely what is needed to give the forest a chance for new life and vitality. And it is often a crisis or even a tragedy of some variety or another that clears the landscape in a manner that permits growth far greater than what could have been achieved if life simply continued to bounce along without incident. 

No one would ever choose pain, let alone tragedy. Yet we don’t have to. They come upon us at times whether we’re ready or not, whether we want them or not. The question is only how we’ll react to them. Will we see only the devastating impact of a Mabul? Or identify the opportunity to rebuild and to flourish that characterized the Mei Noach?

It can help to put ourselves in the shoes of Yeshaya haNavi, someone viewing the events with the advantage of hindsight, already aware of how it all turned out. What story will I want to be told years from now? What recollections do I hope will be shared generations in the future? And what response do I need to choose today in order for that to be so? Do I want my great-grandchildren to tell stories of the Mabul that ruined me? Or the Mei Noach that became the opportunity I seized to become a builder?

The Imrei Emes would never have opted into the pain and suffering visited upon him by the Holocaust. But it was never his decision to make. What was his decision was how he would react to that tragedy, the Mabul that inundated his life and the world around him. And as he held his grandson, he insisted that they not waste their time wallowing in pain or self-pity, but that they commit themselves to rebuilding the world. Just as Noach had done before them. 

Parshas Nitzavim 5785

A few years ago, I stood in my front yard with a landscaper, sharing my tale of woe. There was a particular bed that, while producing beautiful flowers every spring, was also inundated with weeds and encroaching grass each year. Why was this happening? And what could I spray to kill off what I didn’t want while preserving what I did?

“Well, how’d you first lay the bed out?” he asked. “Did you dig deep enough to get rid of the grass roots? Did put down a weed barrier?”

“Uh…not exactly…”

“Well, in that case, you can keep spray all you like, but the weeds and grass will keep on coming back. If you want to do it right, you’re going to have to get back beneath the surface and kill it all off at the roots.”

Sage advice.

One of the most iconic pesukim describing the process of teshuva, one recited every day of Selichos and throughout the liturgy of the Yamim Noraim, comes from Megilas Eichah. Yirmiyahu implores his fellow Jews, “נַחְפְּשָׂה דְרָכֵינוּ וְנַחְקֹרָה וְנָשׁוּבָה עַד־ה׳—Let us search our ways and investigate, and we will return to Hashem.” (Eichah 3:40)

The process Yirmiyahu calls for demands two actions, “נַחְפְּשָׂה דְרָכֵינוּ—searching our ways,” and “וְנַחְקֹרָה—investigating”. The first term suggests a general surveying of our behavior. What are we doing and what are we not? Which mitzvos are we performing properly, which aveiros are we violating? We are attempting to achieve a baseline consciousness of our own deeds.

“וְנַחְקֹרָה—investigating” is something else. It is a derivative of the word “Chakirah,” a term that in classical yeshiva learning has a very specific connotation. A chakirah is an investigation of a particular mitzvah or halacha, with two or more slightly varied approaches offered to understand how it functions or operates. 

Is the Torah’s demand that we see tzitzis (וּרְאִיתֶם אֹתוֹ) a function of the garment, or of the person wearing the garment? Does the halacha require tzitzis only for clothing typically worn in the daytime, when the strings would usually be visible? If it is the former, then any daytime attire, made to be worn during a time of day when the clothing can easily be seen, would require tzitzis, even if one chose to wear such a garment at night. If the latter understanding is correct, the individual would be obligated in affixing tzitzis to any garment, so long as he wears it during the day, when he can see the tzitzis. 

Chakirah seeks to understand the underlying mechanics of the mitzvah, not only to classify or describe it at the surface level.

Applied to teshuva, chakirah demands that we not only make a reckoning of our activities or middos, but that we dig deep to discern why we do the things we do. Not only that we notice and identify sin, but that we analyze our own minds and hearts to understand the pathology of sin. What are the stressors that trigger this behavior? In what environment do I trend towards this behavior? Who are the people I am around when I act this way? Has this sin becoming a coping mechanism for some tension I feel in my life? 

Yirmiyahu HaNavi insists that teshuva is not just about acknowledgment, but discovery. “נַחְפְּשָׂה דְרָכֵינוּ” is identifying the sin. It is noticing the weeds once they have grown up high and cast an ugly shadow over the surrounding flowers. “וְנַחְקֹרָה” is getting to the bottom of the issue. It’s discovering the weeds at their root and taking measures to ensure that they can never develop in the first place.

In one of his final messages to the Jewish People, Parshas Nitzavim contains a stern warning that Moshe Rabbeinu issues the People, concerned as he is that they may veer towards idolatry upon entering Eretz Yisrael. He questions, “פֶּן־יֵשׁ בָּכֶם שֹׁרֶשׁ פֹּרֶה רֹאשׁ וְלַעֲנָה—Perhaps there is amongst you a root producing poison weed or wormwood”. (Devarim 29:17) 

The Tzror HaMor quotes a tradition that the first letters of the final four words of the pasuk above can be assembled to write the word “שופר”. The shofar, he writes, as the blaring reminder that we wake from our slumber and perform teshuva, has the ability to pry up those vile roots that Moshe Rabbeinu referenced. 

How does this occur? What sort of teshuva does more than just spraying a topical herbicide, allowing the root of the problem to remain firmly embedded within us, capable of producing unwanted behavioral weeds? What sort of teshuva attacks the sin at it’s very root? A teshuva of chakirah, of sincere self-analysis that does more than identify the problem, but asks earnestly, “Where is this coming from?”

Nachkorah—let us fully investigate. Let’s ask the right questions. Not to simply say what is so often said when we attempt to change behavior, that “I’ll try harder this time.” Let’s recognize that there’s only so much trying that can be done to suppress a weed whose root is firmly implanted. At some point, we must dig deeper, study the environment, the atmosphere, the very soil that permits the weeds to develop, and install a better system that will produce a more beautiful result. 

Parshas Ki Savo 5785

When I was a child, Thomas Jefferson was a hero, the founding father who had authored the Declaration of Independence and lent articulate voice to so many of the principles upon which the country was founded. Recently, that legacy has been called into question. Should we maintain such a generous view of someone who, on the one hand, wrote that “All men are created equal,” yet simultaneously owned slaves?

To some, this is just another frustrating example of cancel culture. To others, it is a refreshingly honest look back at a historical narrative we’ve been too quick to blindly accept. But either way, it underscores a point everyone can agree upon: Actions speak louder than words. Don’t just give lip-service to principles of morality; live by them.

Yet, what if the opposite had been true? If Jefferson had emancipated all his slaves, yet had never authored the words, “All men are created equal?” Would everyone now be content? 

I hope not. Because as much as actions speak louder than words, in truth, they are not loud enough. The words themselves are still incredibly important.

Just as the first fruit on the tree makes an appearance, the farmer immediately wraps a ribbon around it, consecrating it for Hashem. Months later, similar fruits collected from each of his trees are delicately placed in a basket the farmer and begins the trip up to Yerushalayim. It’s an arduous journey, carefully balancing the basket on the back of his donkey over the three day trek, but he’s delighted. Every rocky step, every bead of sweat, every calloused fingertip is another expression of gratitude to Hashem for the bounty of his family’s farm.

Arriving at the Bais Hamikdash, he hands the Kohen the basket and then makes a proclamation: five pesukim describing the long, winding road the Jewish People have taken from the treachery of Lavan, through the oppression of Mitzrayim, to the glory of the current moment: the blessing of Jewish-grown produce upon holy soil. 

The declaration is important. Not only as an additional expression of gratitude, the icing on the cake of months of activities already evincing his profound gratitude to Hashem, but because without it, apparently, this farmer would be cast as a total ingrate. When the pasuk (26:3) instructs the farmer “You shall say to [the Kohen],” prefacing the declaration that the farmer will make, Rashi explains “For you are not ungrateful.”

Really? If he keeps quiet, ungrateful? If he’s more of the reserved type, not one for declarations of a religious nature, his gratitude would be called into question? After dedicating the first fruits from their very inception, carefully monitoring their development, shlepping them up to Yerushalayim on rocky terrain under a blazing Israeli sun, all to present to Hashem in the Bais Hamikdash, an ingrate?

Apparently so. Because as much as actions speak louder than words, words must nevertheless be spoken. Of course you love your children. You work hard for them, clothe them, shelter them, shuttle them, bathe them, root for them at little league and display their artwork on the wall. Those actions bespeak the love you have for them in your heart. But they need to hear “I love you.” Your spouse needs to hear “I appreciate you.” Your friend needs to hear, “I’m in awe of you.” 

Express those words without any actions to back them up? The words will ring hollow. But display the actions without speaking the words? Something is sorely missing. You can labor for days and weeks and months to express your hakaras hatov to another person, but those actions must be framed and labeled by words. “Thank you. I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

Why is this so? There may simply the way our brains are wired that processes spoken words in a way that is even more profound than being doted on and given to. That we somehow just feel more loved, admired, or appreciated by hearing words that convey those sentiments than we would be if we are only the recipients of actions that intend to send the same message. That words are just magical.

But perhaps there is more, a consideration for the giver, not only the receiver. That when I act in a way that conveys gratitude or love, I am producing something that is an outward expression of my own creativity and talent. A basket of fruit, a dream vacation, a new treehouse. It is an object intended to acknowledge and highlight the recipient, but there is a whole lot of “me” in it. I built it, planned it, designed it. But with words, we surrender all that, and surrender more fully to the other person in turn. “Thank you,” states that I needed your assistance. “I love you,” states that my life would be incomplete without you. “I appreciate you,” means that I acknowledge something in you that I myself am lacking. All without reversing the spotlight: “And do you see these beautiful fruits I grew? And how I packed the basket? And how far I walked?” No me, just you.

While actions can speak louder than words—demonstrating that we’re willing to undertake the effort implied by the principles we profess—the words are still critical. They are an act of humility, of pure recognition of the contributions, merit, and value of the other, that even well-meaning actions simply cannot achieve on their own. Don’t just show Hashem you’re grateful, don’t just demonstrate your love for your family and friends. Be sure to say it out loud. 

Parshas Ki Seitzei 5785

An elderly non-Jewish woman is crossing the street, her age and body language suggesting that her senses and reflexes are not in tip-top shape. So she probably doesn’t see the bus coming. And considering that she’s covered in dark clothing from head to toe and that it’s nighttime and that the streetlight overhead only flickers on every thirty seconds or so, the driver  of the oncoming bus likely doesn’t see. You see all this and assess.

You have all the time you’d need to dart into the street and snatch her from the bus’s collision course without posing any risk to your own life or wellbeing. But…meh. You’ve had a long day and you’re just not up for heroics today. And so, disaster strikes. 

Here’s the question: What Torah violation did you just commit?

And here’s the answer: None. 

In describing the importance of maintaining proper weights and measures for commerce, the Torah sternly warns against engaging in deceptive commercial practices. The pasuk declares, “כִּי תוֹעֲבַת ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ כׇּל־עֹשֵׂה אֵלֶּה כֹּל עֹשֵׂה עָוֶל—For an abomination to Hashem, your G-d, are all who do this, all who act dishonestly (25:16).”

The Torah emphasizes that it is casting a wide net in rendering a dishonest person as guilty of to’eivah, abominable behavior. “All who do this, all who act dishonestly.” It’s almost as though the Torah feels the need to respond to an observer’s question of, “But even that guy?” 

“Oh, yes, even that guy.” 

Who is that guy?

The K’sav Sofer explains that the inclusive “All who do” and then “All who act” refers even to someone not strictly acting in violation of halacha. He’s deceptive and dishonest, but deftly so. He carefully skates around any obvious halachic red line, avoids being accosted by anyone who might thumb through the Shulchan Aruch and place a black and white violation right under his nose, can respond triumphantly to anyone who questions his behavior with the defiant retort of, “Where does it say it’s assur?”

According to the K’sav Sofer, this is the fellow the Torah has in mind. Even that guy. The guy who was careful not to openly violate and clear halacha. His carefully manicured behavior? A to’eivah. Abominable. 

The K’sav Sofer explains that in this regard a critical distinction exists between mitzvos bein adam la’Makom—those mitzvos we perform in direct service of Hashem—and mitzvos bein adam la’chaveiro—mitzvos between man and man. Our knowledge of serving Hashem—what constitutes a mitzvah and what constitutes an aveirah—can only be revealed by Hashem Himself. It would never have occurred to us on our own to take four minim on Sukkos or that Hashem would be so perturbed by our wearing wool and linen. 

Not so when it comes to our treatment of other people. Even without the Torah’s guidance in this realm, we would have come to many of its conclusions all on our own. Our very conscience can guide us towards dealing with people fairly and honestly, with respect and dignity. And we are bound by that intuition. Even when no halachic obligation exists, a moral one does nonetheless.

The K’sav Sofer notes the distinction between the very first two sins in all of human history: Adam and Chava’s eating of the fruit of the Eitz HaDa’as, and Kayin’s murder of his brother Hevel. While Adam and Chava were specifically commanded to refrain from eating from this one tree, Kayin is never commanded not to kill but his held accountable just the same. Because Kayin knew murder to be wrong, whether or not it was ever codified as such. 

When one sees a fellow Jew in trouble, he is obligated to save him. Refraining from doing so is a violation of the Torah’s command, “לֹא תַעֲמֹד עַל־דַּם רֵעֶךָ—Do not stand by the blood of your brother (Vayikra 19:16).” But the term “רעך—your brother” limits this mitzvah exclusively to fellow Jews. What, then, of non-Jews? What of the little old lady crossing the street, right in the path of an oncoming bus? What pasuk do I violate in letting “nature” run its course?

Perhaps none. Yet such behavior is obviously unacceptable. It is the sort of behavior included in the Torah’s emphasis that “All who do this, all who act dishonestly” are guilty of abomination. 

Our lives are governed by the Torah and by the Shulchan Aruch. But also by our conscience. Not everything can or should be included in the physical contract that outlines the way we are supposed to live our lives. In some areas, we’re just supposed to “get it”—to intuit that there’s a right way to treat people and a wrong one. And to treat them wrongly is beneath who we are meant to be as people. It is abominable. Whether or not any pasuk clearly articulates the violation.

In Hilchos Melachim (10:12), the Rambam does discuss a number of practices to be maintained in our relations with the outside world. For while the Torah itself obligates these behaviors only when interacting with other Jews—visiting the sick, burying the dead, and providing tzedakah—we are mandated to perform such acts for non-Jews because of “Darkei Shalom—The Ways of Peace.” 

Darkei Shalom is often understood as a purely pragmatic consideration: act this way so as to not draw the ire of the non-Jewish world. But in sourcing the concept in Tanach, the Rambam quotes a telling pasuk: “טוֹב ה’ לַכּל וְרַחֲמָיו עַל כָּל מַעֲשָׂיו—Hashem is good to all and His mercy is upon all His creations (Tehilim 145:9).” 

We exhibit mercy and exude kindness, treat others—all others—with respect and dignity, not only to keep the peace, but because it’s what Hashem would do. Because there may be items omitted by the Chumash and avoided by the Shulchan Aruch, that are nonetheless obligatory. Purely because our Divinely-endowed conscience insists that it is so. 

Parshas Shoftim 5785

There’s something that’s always captivated me about Yosemite National Park—it may simply be that it was the first national park I’d ever actually heard of—and this summer, I finally had my chance to get there. It didn’t disappoint. Our final moments in the park were spent at Glacier Point, a spot overlooking the entirety of the Yosemite Valley, with the iconic Half Dome at the center. Then, driving out of the park at dusk, we watched the sun set behind the Sierra Nevada mountains, our jaws agape.

These were greatly spiritual moments, opportunities to witness firsthand the Divine imprint upon the world, at every switchback of the long winding road leading out of Yosemite. It occurred to me only later that, in truth, recognizing the Yad Hashem in the natural marvels our family had witnessed was insufficient. Hashem’s handiwork wasn’t only present in the Yosemite Valley, but in the road leading there as well. 

Parshas Shoftim contains the formula for determining whether or not we should follow the instruction of an alleged prophet. Perhaps the most obvious of all the possible indicators is if a prophet foretells of an event that ultimately does not come to pass. In considering this possibility, the Torah states, “If the prophet will speak in the name of G-d, yet the matter will neither happen nor come about (לא יהיה הדבר ולא יבוא), this is a matter that G-d has never spoken. (18:22)”

On careful examination, the Torah uses two seemingly identical terms. The event foretold will not happen. Nor will it come about. What is the difference between the two?

The Vilna Gaon explains that the former refers to the direct hand of G-d, while the latter refers to something brought about by the hand of man. The first may refer to an unusual weather pattern, the second to an unlikely team winning the Super Bowl. While other factors must also be considered, the prophet cannot be dismissed as a navi sheker, a false prophet, should either such phenomenon come to pass. 

The Vilna Gaon explains that although the prophet claims to speak in the name of G-d, the foretelling of some human event is not beyond the pale of his declaration. Because, in reality, the events of humankind are likewise orchestrated by G-d. Yes, human beings must exercise their free will to fulfill what they set out to accomplish, but without Divine assistance in the form of health, cognitive functioning, and the Divine orchestration of myriad other factors, nothing would ever be achieved. 

Which is to say that Hashem should be perceived not only in the majestic sites of Half Dome or El Capitan, but in the easily overlooked asphalt roads that lead to them. In the bathrooms and water fountains that make the visit comfortable. And in the legislation that preserved the park’s beauty to the benefit of the millions who visit each year. Such achievements are, in many ways, even more remarkable than the sites themselves, and are all a part of Hashem’s dominion over this world. 

These are critical thoughts during this time of year. We find ourselves less than a month away from Rosh Hashana, a holiday dedicated to the recognition of malchus Hashem, Divine sovereignty, as one of its most prominent themes. Yet it doesn’t come easily. Even the most spectacular of natural wonders can be shrugged off as nothing more than a nice experience. More challenging yet, the human hands that ostensibly furnish so much of the world around us can easily obscure the Divine hands operating behind them. What is required is consciousness, reflection, and meditation to discern how it all falls within the scope of Hashem’s providence. 

The Hebrew word for universe—עולם—is a derivation of the word העלם, hidden. The world around us can easily conceal G-d’s presence if we don’t make a conscious effort to see it. If you had the opportunity over the summer lay eyes on some of Hashem’s masterful works, it’s a good time to look back at the photos you took. Of the mountains, the ocean, the woods, and to view them with spiritual glasses. But then to expand that view. To know that it’s not only the mountains, but the roads that lead to them. Not only the beach, but the boardwalk. Not only the woods, but the cabin you slept in.

We have ample time to position ourselves well to recognize Hashem’s sovereignty. Not only over the cosmos, but over history. Not only over the natural world, but over human endeavor. Not only over what He Himself created, but of what He’s allowed us to create as well.

Shabbos Chazon 5785

Jews are obsessed with the past. While I imagine that it is all too typical that children will sit beneath a Christmas tree tearing wrapping paper to shreds without any member of the household having mentioned a word about the birth of the alleged savior, it is nearly impossible to conjure up an image of a Jewish boy or girl—however otherwise assimilated—eating a latke or munching on matzah without somebody around the table referencing the miracle of the oil that lasted eight days or of how G-d smote the Egyptians with Ten Plagues.

Yet if there is one holiday in which this obsession with the past reaches its zenith—a day on which we pore over accounts not only of one particular generation, but of all nearly all generations—it is neither Chanukah nor Pesach, but Tisha B’Av. Tisha B’Av bids us to reflect not only upon the tragedy of one singular historical event, but upon Tragedy as a theme that winds its way throughout Jewish history. 

If remembering is a distinctly Jewish enterprise, then Tisha B’Av may just be the most Jewish day of the year. Yet we must be careful. Careful that we not be so Jewish that we forget to be human.

In his book, Stumbling on Happiness, Dr. Daniel Gilbert performs an exercise that he describes as a rite of passage for every psychologist: defining just what it is that sets the human being apart from the rest of the animal kingdom. And he comes up with the following: The human being is the only animal that thinks about the future.

Animals can remember instances of pain or pleasure from the past and use those recollections to make life-preserving decisions in the present. Artificial intelligence can make calculated projections about what the future may look like based upon vast amounts of data from the past. Yet neither can truly imagine—to conjure up an image of what the future could look like and to see that image in the mind’s eye. 

But it’s not just a parlor trick relegated to one particular species. This ability, it is found, may well be the difference maker between achieving success in the future and falling short of it. Dr. Charles Garfield, a NASA mathematician-turned-psychologist has done extensive research on peak performance. And what his findings show is that the greatest commonality that exists amongst peak performers—from astronauts to athletes—is the practice of visualization. Peak performers see and feel what is about to happen in all its rich, vivid detail before it ever does. They sense the pressure, feel the sweat on the backs of their necks, and envision their success all in advance of any of it actually becoming manifest. By conjuring up that image, they create a goal so real that the path leading toward it is no longer foreign, and can be fully acted upon.

So I wonder with more than a tinge of concern: does our obsession with the past at times come at the expense of visualizing the future? In our crawling back through the annals of history to make the pain of past generations our own, in the reciting of Kinnos reflecting on tragedies endured by our people, in recalling that all such horrors are the eventual byproduct of a Mikdash destroyed and the strained relationship between Hashem and His people, in doing all this do we forget to imagine and envision? Imagine a world that has been repaired? Envision the glory of a people whose bond with their Creator has been fully healed and strenthened? 

Do we remember without visualizing? Are we so Jewish that we forget to be human?

The first word of the haftarah we read on Shabbos provides it with its title: Shabbos Chazon. The haftarah is the image that Yeshaya had of a possible future world—so real that it could be described in great detail. The image is largely a bleak one, of the Jewish People’s continued slide into a state of Churban. But it likewise contains a vision of rebirth and restored glory. A future of repentance and restoration. A future of return and rebuilding. 

Chazon means that there is enormous power not only in remembering, but in looking to the future. This is something we do regularly as individuals. And even if it’s an exercise we haven’t perfected, we certainly understand its importance. We don’t want to merely drift through life and arrive at some unintended destination. We want to set a course, through intentional imagination and visualization, and then fill in the steps necessary to get there.

Perhaps Shabbos Chazon reminds us of the importance of that exercise not only on a personal level, but a national one. Are korbanos brought to the Bais HaMikdash only by people wearing turbans and sandals, or suits and ties? Are bikkurim brought to Yerushalyim on the back of a donkey, or even in the trunk of a car? Is the King of Israel someone who appears only the back half of Nevi’im Rishonim, or also on major news outlets and media platforms?

When the vision is sharp and current, an extension of the world we presently know and now only of one that exists in the ancient past, there is a goal tangible enough to move towards. When we close our eyes and create a Chazon, we can more naturally and effectively fill in the steps that will lead us toward it. 

Tisha B’Av is dedicated to remembering. But before we remember—the pain and horror of all generations past—let’s also visualize and imagine. So that we not only recall a broken world, but envision a repaired one. A world of love and harmony. Of sensitivity and kindness. A world that measures success not in cars or real estate or toys, but in mitzvos and morality. A world in which the public is more fascinated with talmidei chachamim than with movie stars. In which children are more concerned with growing up to maintain honest business practices than the right batting stance. 

Imagine these things. Build the Chazon. Because that’s the first step in making it a reality.