Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Vaeira 5784

How remarkable is it to create the universe in six days? It really depends on your perspective. If the expectation is that forces of nature will naturally coalesce to create the cosmos and all they contain, then six days is a pitifully short amount of time. But beginning with the premise that an omnipotent G-d is at the helm, the question becomes, “What took so long?” 

The same could well be asked of the transformation of a slave people into G-d’s chosen nation, liberated, ennobled, and redeemed. With the Almighty at the helm what took so long?

In the opening pesukim of Parshas Vaeira, Hashem lays out a full plan of action for delivering the Jews from Egyptian bondage. The terminology is quite familiar to anyone familiar with the four cups of wine at the Seder, as each stage of the redemption is represented by another cup.

Hashem tells Moshe, “והוצאתי, והצלתי, וגאלתי, ולקחתי—I will take them out, I will save them, I will redeem them, I will take them unto Me” (Shemos 6:6-7). And although these terms are sometimes spoken of as the “ארבע לשונות של גאולה—The four expressions of redemption,” Rav Baruch Epstein, author of Torah Temimah, points out that the Talmud Yerushalmi that serves as the source for linking the terms found in our parsha with the four cups we drink at the Seder, doesn’t refer to four expressions of redemption, but to four redemptions.

The difference, the Torah Temimah explains, is not just one of semantics. Speaking of four expressions of redemption is to say that the one, singular redemption is can be referred to in four different ways. Speaking of four redemptions is to say that the geulah unfolded in four different phases. That it didn’t happen all at once.

And why not? Why couldn’t Hashem snap His divine fingers and collapse all four components of the geulah into a single instant? He quite certainly could have. There was no inability on the giving end, but the receiving end is a different matter altogether.

Becoming the chosen nation represented a massive transformation, one that the people themselves simply could not undergo overnight. A pot of water takes time to come up to a boil, even with an endless supply of fuel. Hashem could provide the fire, but it would take time for the Jewish People to come up to temperature. 

The Baal Shem Tov was once asked why, if everything G-d created ultimately serves some valuable purpose, did He create the capacity for herecy? When could the capacity to deny G-d be worthwhile? He answered that at times we’re meant to forget about Hashem because we’re supposed to assume the role of Hashem. When we interact with others, when we provide for others, we shouldn’t be relying on Hashem to take over, but should see ourselves as being solely responsible for those relying on us.

How does Hashem act? Slowly. Not because He must, but for the sake of those relying on him. Because the reality of the human condition is that people do not make an immediate about face, do not go from zero to sixty in mere moments. Certainly not with any long-lasting results. 

When we are in position to guide and to lead—in Hashem’s position as it were—we would be wise to remember this reality. Whether we’re trying to create a new office culture, hold our children to a higher standard, or lead a new initiative within our communities, we must remember that people need to move slowly en route to substantive change.

If we know this ahead of time, we can follow another play in Hashem’s playbook—develop a plan for rolling the project out in phases. Hashem’s proposal for redemption is not to push the people as far as they can go, then take a break and come up with a new plan. From the very outset He has a hefty goal for what His beloved nation is to become, but has plans to arrive at that goal in phases. 

Do you want your children to have better study habits? Want your team to hit a higher sales target? Want your friends to engage in more chessed and volunteerism? Think big, develop impressive goals, but break them down into smaller chunks. Don’t get frustrated by the slow pace at which people change; know that truth ahead of time and simply plan accordingly. 

Hashem could have brought the geulah in one fell swoop just as you can incinerate a pot of water in an instant with a bomb. But if you’re looking for a nice, steady boil, you need to be prepared to wait patiently.

Parshas Shemos 5784

The magician calls a member of the audience up on stage and poses a benign-enough question. “What’s that on your wrist?”

“It’s my watch.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s my watch.”

“Please examine it again! Give it a good hard look! Again, what is that object?”

“It’s just my watch. I’m certain.”

We expect such theatrics from a magician because of the nature of his craft. The magician won’t perform any magic at all, only an illusion. He needs the participant to be fully on board that what he’s now in possession of is really just a watch, because in a moment, that watch will be swapped for a bouquet of flowers or an exotic bird right from under his nose. The trick itself demands the setup—confirmation that at present, it’s really just a watch.

Hashem is about to perform a trick on Moshe Rabbeinu’s staff. His opening question? “What’s that in your hand?” 

Really?

וַיֹּאמֶר אֵלָיו ה׳ מַה זֶּה בְיָדֶךָ וַיֹּאמֶר מַטֶּה׃

^{שמות ד:ב}

And Hashem said to him, “What is that in your hand?” And he said to Him, “A staff.”

^{Shemos 4:2}

Hashem will shortly transform the staff into a snake. And that will be an act of supernatural physics-altering miraculousness. The staff won’t be swapped for a snake. Hashem will transform the very object itself. Moshe knows he’s speaking with the Master of the Universe, not the magician he hired for Gershom’s third birthday party in Midian. Why all the dramatic flair?

Rashi explains that the reason for this “magic trick” in the first place was actually to serve as a bit of rebuke to Moshe Rabbeinu. In the preceding pasuk, Moshe responded to Hashem’s instruction to go liberate the Jews, saying, “והן לא יאמינו לי—But they will not believe me.” How can he successfully lead the people if they won’t believe that he’s been sent by G-d and that the time for the redemption is at hand?

Moshe’s doubting of the Jewish People’s faith, the assumption that they would not believe, constituted a form of lashon hara spoken about them. Hashem responded to this by transforming Moshe’s staff into a snake—the symbol of inappropriate speech, dating back the Serpent’s misleading of Chava in Gan Eden. 

But why was Moshe wrong? If we look just a bit further downstream in Jewish history, we find that Hashem Himself questioned the People’s faith. With the unfolding of the Exodus in Parshas Beshalach, a route out of Egypt had to be selected, and Hashem decided to lead the People along a circuitous path. Because should they journey directly, the thought of conveniently returning to Egypt at the first sign of hardship would prove too tempting. “כִּי  אָמַר אֱלֹקים פֶּן־יִנָּחֵם הָעָם בִּרְאֹתָם מִלְחָמָה וְשָׁבוּ מִצְרָיְמָה—For Hashem said, ‘Perhaps the Nation will reconsider upon seeing war and will return to Egypt.’” (13:17)

Moshe is not the only one to doubt the People’s commitment to the dream of liberation and redemption. Hashem does the same. What, then, was so wrong with Moshe’s response? Why is he rebuked for expressing a sentiment so similar to that of Hashem’s?

The answer is in one small word, “פן—pen.” Maybe, lest, perhaps. Hashem does not express certainty that the People will falter, only concern that they might. He devises a plan to mitigate this worry, but does not state conclusively that the People will waver in their faith. And this coming from the only One who actually knows what the future truly holds. 

But in Moshe’s response, concern is replaced with conviction. Moshe is not worried the People will not muster due faith, he considers it a forgone conclusion.

Which perhaps explains the theatrical precursor to Hashem’s “magic trick.” Hashem asks Moshe, “What is in your hand,” prodding him to consider, “Are you truly certain about any of the things that lay before you? Even something right before your very eyes? That you’ve held in your hand for countless hours and has never shown itself to be anything more than a staff?”

The Mishna in Avos (5:6) lists Moshe’s staff as one of the items created by Hashem at twilight of the sixth day of creation. Which is to say that Moshe’s staff was not now transformed into something different, unusual, and magical. It was, in fact, always that way. It always had the capacity to turn into a snake, to produce blood from water, lice from earth, and to split a sea. Moshe just never knew it. He knew it only for what it was at face value: a wooden staff. 

“What’s in your hand?” Hashem asks Moshe. Because it’s actually far more than he believes it to be, than he can perceive with his eyes. And if there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to the staff, perhaps there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to the Jewish People. 

What looks like a staff can actually become something so much more because it is precisely how Hashem programmed it to be. And what looks to be a stubborn Jew—set in his ways, a hardened creature of habit—can actually become something so much more because it is precisely how Hashem programmed it to be. 

Hashem’s concern is that the Jews may be set in their ways, may not rise to the occasion. Indeed, there are no promises that potential will be actualized, that the awesome endowments of the Jewish neshama will be brought to bear. But He insists that it can happen. And insists, likewise, that every other Jew truly believe in that possibility.

It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve looked across the shul, or the street, or even right in the mirror, and have seen the same stubborn person, forever exhibiting the same behavior, remaining annoyingly unchanged for years. Make no firm assumptions about who that person can and will be in the future. His soul is programmed with the capacity to transform him into something so incredibly great, so vastly different from who he is now, it would make the transformation of a stick to a snake look like a trick performed by a magician at a three-year-old’s birthday party. 

Parshas Vayechi 5784

Seventeen years later and it appears that we’re back to square one. For all the kindness Yosef has repeatedly shown his brothers, for all the conciliatory remarks and the insistence that he bore no grudge against them, they are nonetheless concerned that with the passing of their father Yaakov, the fissures between Yosef and themselves have been torn wide open. They muse to themselves following Yaakov’s passing, “Perhaps Yosef will bear hatred against us and will repay all the evil we’ve done to him.” (Bereishis 50:15)

Rashi explains that these concerns did not appear out of thin air. Rather, the passing of Yaakov did bring a marked change in Yosef’s behavior in its wake. Whereas Yosef had previously dined alongside his family, since Yaakov’s passing he now dined alone.

The brothers jumped to an understandable conclusion: While Yaakov was alive, Yosef put on a good show and a friendly face. But with his father gone, there was no longer a need to keep up the charade, and he distanced himself from the brothers who had scorned him in his youth.

The brothers’ assessment may have been reasonable, but it was in error. The Midrash (Bereishis Rabbah 100:8) provides a glimpse into Yosef’s actual thinking, and it couldn’t be further from what his brothers assumed. When Yaakov was alive, he would seat Yosef alongside him at the head of the table, and Yosef obliged. But what was he to do now in his father’s absence? On the one hand, his office as viceroy of Egypt demanded that he sit at the head. Yet his place within the family made such distinction uncomfortable. Could he assume more honor than Reuven, the oldest of the brothers, or than Yehudah, who had been blessed by their father with the sovereignty over the developing nation?

Yosef was in a pickle over where to sit, so he sat nowhere. He took his meals in private, avoiding the inherent awkwardness of the situation and of the uncomfortable conversation he’d need to have with his brothers. Yosef was out to protect his brothers, but, sadly, ended up hurting them.

We sometimes imagine that we are doing a great service to our relationships by avoiding the difficult topics or ignoring the elephant in the room. We don’t want to bring up the frustrations and annoyances, often because we don’t want to hurt the friend, spouse, or sibling’s feeling. 

But as Peter Bromberg so brilliantly put it, “When we avoid difficult conversations, we are avoiding short-term discomfort for long-term dysfunction.”

Had Yosef tackled the issue head-on, there would have been short-term discomfort. He and his brothers would all over squirmed over the conversation over who really ought to sit at the head of the table. But had everyone been forthright in their concerns, had everyone kept a friendly and concerned tone, the family would have emerged on the other side of the uncomfortable conversation with clarity in how to move forward and conviction in their love for one another. There would have been discomfort, but no dysfunction.

What happened to Yosef is what happens to us. We try to protect the feelings of others; we don’t want to engage in a conversation that may cause hurt or ill-will. So we retreat. But in that retreat we do more harm than good. We’re not only depriving ourselves of a relationship that could be more emotionally rich and meaningful, we are depriving the person opposite us of the same. In an effort to preserve the relationship, we can come to undermine it.

Not every gripe needs to be shared, not every complaint needs to be aired. But in the course of any close relationship, issues will continue to arise and continue to irritate. Avoiding those issues isn’t doing our spouse, friend, or sibling a favor any more than ourselves. When these challenging moments begin to bubble up, we can’t just walk away from them. When we eat alone, we’re not only punishing ourselves, but those we used to dine alongside as well.

Parshas Vayigash 5784

“Don’t run!” This is the sort of advice one would expect from a concerned mother whose children suddenly go into full-on Pavlovian mode upon hearing the familiar jingle of the Mr. Softee truck. Prudent advice to be sure, but not the sort of direction we might expect if the occasion called for something more profound or inspiring.

When the brothers take leave of Yosef, we’d expect profundity and inspiration. What we get is, “Don’t run.”

Yosef sends his brothers back home to retrieve their father and make preparations to move the entire family down to Egypt. As he does so, he leaves them with just one word of advice, “Al tirgezu badarech — Do not quarrel en route.” (Bereishis 45:24)

Rashi offers two homiletic interpretations as to what Yosef was really driving at. Yosef may have been telling his brothers not to get swept up in halachic discourse while they traveled, or perhaps was warning them against the pitfalls of pesiah gasah—of taking unduly large steps as they traversed the terrain en route back to Canaan. Be careful. Don’t run.

Of all the critical advice, encouragement, or even rebuke that Yosef could possibly have offered at a time so ripe with emotion, why were these the words he chose?

Rav Yosef Salant suggested that Rashi’s two interpretations are actually one and that in reality, Yosef was cautioning his brothers not to repeat their mistakes of the past.

How did we get here? How did we arrive at this place of Yosef’s descent to Mitzrayim? The brothers saw him as an enemy, as an interloper looking to usurp the highest rank in the family pecking order, and as a crazed and narcissistic dreamer. And they decided to do away with him. “Looking back now,” Yosef suggests, “Can you see that that decision was made too hastily? Can you see now that you should have spent more time considering the issue? From other angles and additional vantage points?”

“Don’t quarrel on the road,” Yosef tells his brothers. “That’s what happened last time. You became embroiled in a halachic decision that should have been given more time, but you didn’t didn’t give it more time. You didn’t wait to return home, to talk things over with our father, to ask for his insight and his perspective. You decided on the road—on the fly—to throw me in a pit, to sell me into slavery. Hashem had my back—all our backs—but your behavior was unjustified.”

“In other words,” Yosef continues, “You took steps that were too large. You jumped to conclusions without giving the matter its due, its proper consideration and deliberation. What happened as a result? Pain and suffering. Our father sunk into a state of mourning from which he’s still not recovered. I suffered humiliation, pain, and loneliness.”

The brothers erred in a way that should be more identifiable today than perhaps any other in history. If in an era of traveling by foot, donkey, or horse at best, the human psyche wants to move swiftly and decisively in solving one problem so it can quickly move on to the next, how much more so in a time in which people, goods, and information are ferried about in just a fraction of the time?

In a world in which everything moves quickly, it is so much more difficult to stop the clock and slow things down. We have grown accustomed to instantaneous communication, troves of information always at our fingertips, and traveling miles and miles away in just minutes. 

But the rapidity with which the world moves has not changed the fundamental truth that Yosef urged his brothers to remember: important things tend to take time. Major life decisions need to be thought through slowly. Impressive careers must be painstakingly built. Meaningful relationships take years of commitment to lovingly craft. 

When Moshe Rabbeinu is first called upon by Hashem to serve as the emancipator of the Jewish People, Hashem’s voice emerges from a bush that burns but will not be consumed. What is the meaning of this symbol at such a critical juncture? I once heard a beautiful interpretation from Rav Judah Mischel, shlit’’a. How could a bush be ablaze without actually becoming destroyed? If time was stopped. In a halted slice of time, the bush would be on fire but would not actually burn. Moshe leans into a stoppage of time—ceasing from all his own errands and preoccupations to see the great site of a burning bush frozen in time—and emerges as the liberator of the Jewish People.

The Jewish Nation descends into Egypt as a result of moving too quickly. We begin to rise up out of Egypt by slowing things down. We move from steps too large to steps appropriately small.

The world moves more quickly today than ever before and it is impossible to remain unaffected. The question is, are we trying to stand our ground, or are we blindly leaning into the quickened pace of life? Are we making efforts towards preserving our ability to think slowly, methodically, and deliberately, or have we jettisoned that mode of operating in favor of diving headlong into the hurried frenzy of today’s world?

There is value in slowing things down purely l’shmah—for its own sake—for the sheer purpose of maintaining that muscle memory for when it becomes critically necessary to call upon it. Putting down the phone just for the sake of disconnecting. Slating time to read a whole book rather than just perusing headlines or snippets of articles. Going for a walk just to clear your head and slow down the frantic pace of the daily grind.

If we forget how to take small steps, we will have no ability to do so when life truly demands it of us. Be it a critical Shemoneh Esrei, building a valuable relationship, or making a weighty decision about the direction to take in life. 

Servitude began with steps too large, redemption came through steps shortened and slowed. What shape do we want our own steps to take?

Parshas Vayishlach 5784

In a game that has become baseball lore, Curt Schilling pitched seven innings of spectacular baseball as blood oozed from his right ankle, visibly soaking his sock. It was a do-or-die moment, and his Red Sox went on to win the game, ultimately defeating the Yankees in the American League Championship Series. It was the first and only time in baseball that a team has recovered from a 3-0 deficit to go on to win a best-of-seven series. A week later, the Red Sox went on to win the 2004 World Series.

How would Schilling’s performance be remembered if the Red Sox didn’t win the game or the series? And what if it was just an exhibition game? The glory of the effort in the face of debilitating pain is dulled when the objective isn’t achieved. Or when there wasn’t much of an objective in the first place.

Yaakov Avinu’s famous altercation with the angel leaves him battered and bruised, emerging from the scuffle with an injured leg. The battle is a critical one, and so is the injury. The Torah commands us to refrain from eating the gid hanashe, the portion of the animal that parallel’s Yaakov’s own wound as a means of commemorating the fight. It is this battle that results in Yaakov’s name being changed to Yisrael, derived from the Hebrew declaration that Yaakov had “struggled with beings both divine and human and have prevailed.”

The battle is a big deal. But Rav Soloveitchik posed the simple question, “Why?” What was it that Yaakov Avinu achieved in that battle? Did he become wealthier? More powerful? More respected? The Torah is clear to point out that this altercation occurs while Yaakov is “l’vado,” all alone, disconnected from his family. The stands were completely empty, no spectators to cheer Yaakov on or behold his wrestling prowess. Yaakov leaves the battlefield no more famous or prosperous than he’d been before. Yaakov clearly struggled, but what did he achieve?

Rav Soloveitchik explained that what Yaakov achieved was the struggle itself. Struggles cleanse, clarify, and uplift. Yaakov’s injury is forever preserved in halacha and memory because it is the physical embodiment of spiritual pursuit, in which overcoming tension and difficulty is in of itself a victory worth celebrating. 

The mere struggle to maintain one’s fidelity to Torah and mitzvos and the values they embody helps entrench those values deeper within one’s consciousness, makes them more valued and beloved. It is impossible in the spiritual realm to have struggled and come away with nothing, for the struggle is itself a victory in hand. As Rebbe Yitzchak said, “אם יאמר לך אדם יגעתי ולא מצאתי, אל תאמין—If one tells you, ‘I have struggled but have not found success, do not believe him. (Megilah 6b)”

The War in Gaza is not without its goals. Rendering Hamas impotent, rescuing hostages, and creating a safer Gaza are all critical objectives. But what has remarkably emerged from the war is something not initially identified as one of its aims, though it’s proven already to be one of its most important achievements. The Jewish People, particularly the Jews of Eretz Yisrael have come together, uniting in a state of unprecedented achdus. Videos of secular and religious Jews embracing, visiting, and assisting one another have overwhelmed everyone’s social media feeds. And conversations with friends on the ground in Eretz Yisrael insist that it’s not just selective curation; these vignettes are very much illustrative of the overall mood sweeping through Israeli society.

How did this happen? Where did this come from? From our very name. “Yisrael,” “Israel,” enshrines for all time the enormous, though subtle, achievements of struggle. When you struggle with an enemy, you remember who your enemies are and who they are not. You remember to harp on what you have in common with your own brothers and sisters, rather than what you don’t. You remember the fragile nature of life and how you want to spend it and how you don’t. Issues are clarified in the crucible of struggle in a way that they cannot otherwise be.

To say that it is unfortunate that such an immense, tragic struggle needed to emerge in order to achieve these feats is a massive understatement. If only we could have arrived at this state of unity through some other means. Why it had to be this way is impossible to answer; Hashem runs the world and has His calculations. 

But we can use the moment to remind ourselves to reframe struggles—even far lesser ones—when they arrive. We are born to struggle and built to struggle. From the series of red lights that challenges our patience, to the busy day ahead that makes it difficult to focus in davening, to the daily stresses that strain our shalom bayis. Without the struggles, we would more easily achieve these goals. But without the struggles, would they mean nearly as much? If we didn’t have to fight for them, would we be the same people?

We are referred to as B’nai Yisrael, a name that derives from Yaakov’s fateful struggle. A struggle in which the gains could not be quantified, yet changed him forever, as well as the nation he spawned. If we could hit the delete button on our problems, our challenges, our struggles, we may be tempted to do just that. But what a mistake it would be. The struggle is not the impediment to all we wish to achieve, it is the very road that will take us there. 

Parshas Vayeitzei 5784

If anyone deserved a good night’s sleep, it was Yaakov Avinu. Lonely, travel-weary, and frightened by the prospect of leaving Eretz Yisrael, Yaakov could surely be forgiven for sprawling out in the first location suitable for making camp and getting some well-deserved shuteye. 

Yet as the sun set and the world grew dark, Yaakov did not turn in the for the night. He had a job to do.

“ויפגע במקום—And he encountered the place.” Chazal interpret this encounter as one of tefilah. It is the last of three oblique references to the prayers undertaken by the patriarchs, each at a different time of day, that set a framework of daily prayers into place that we continue to follow to this day. Avraham established Shacharis, Yitzchak Mincha, and Yaakov gifted us with the evening prayer of Maariv, referenced here in this episode at the beginning of Parshas Vayeitzei.

In each of these three instances, a word other tefilah—prayer—is used. In the case of Yaakov davening Maariv it is the term “Vayifga—and he encountered.” The word is used in a number of contexts and is a tricky one to pin down, but at least on one level it connotes a sense of something accidental, something one did not quite plan for. Consider, for instance, one of the Torah’s references to the mitzvah of returning a lost object:

כִּי תִפְגַּע שׁוֹר אֹיִבְךָ אוֹ חֲמֹרוֹ תֹּעֶה הָשֵׁב תְּשִׁיבֶנּוּ לוֹ׃

^{שמות כג:ד}

When you encounter (tifga) your enemy’s ox or his donkey wandering, you shall surely return it to him.

^{Shemos 23:4}

A pegiah is what occurs not through planning, but chance. (Or more accurately, through providence.) At a point of unimaginable exhaustion, Yaakov Avinu chances upon a set of circumstances that demands prayer. If he had things his way, he’d be tucked away in the home of his saintly parents, with no thoughts of departing the Holy Land. If the home of his scheming, idolatrous uncle was indeed the best place to find a bride, surely a servant could be hired to undertake the task without needing to be personally exposed to that environment. After all, it worked for his parents. 

But due to a series of unexpected events, Yaakov finds himself where he does. And he so desperately needs Hashem in his corner. So before he yields to exhaustion, he davens.

The legacy of Yaakov Avinu and his tefilah is that of a prayer that is expected and demanded of us even though we may not feel like uttering it. We may be exhausted—perhaps by prayer itself—having already davened as much as we can muster. We may be frustrated by the whole process, “Hashem I didn’t ask for this dismal situation; everything was just fine the way it was before. Why is it my job to pray for it to end?” We may be tired, cranky, annoyed, or in any other state that seems to choke heartfelt prayer from coming out. 

To this, Yaakov responds, “Pray.” The Vayifga that he experiences is an unplanned, unpleasant state. It is not the Shacharis recited with the rising sun on the morning of your son’s bris. When joy and gratitude are the tailwinds blowing you into shul. It’s the Maariv of darkness and confusion when you don’t feel like davening because you wish the whole situation that demands your tefilah would never have happened in the first place. And you’re tired and exhausted and just want to go to sleep and have someone wake you up when it’s all over.

We find ourselves in a challenging time for prayer. It’s a time when the words and feelings and tears don’t seem to flow as easily as they did a few weeks ago when news of those massacred and those taken captive and those called up to fight first hit our ears. There’s the reality that human beings simply tend to move on and find it difficult to stay focused on any given issue for a prolonged period of time, even if that issue is of grave importance. And there are feelings that we’ve davened so much already and we’re exhausted from it—can’t we finally just go to sleep and be woken up when it’s all over?

Vayifga is the prayer that demands us to size up the situation at hand, more than how we feel about it. It’s the prayer that we say because we know in our hearts how meaningful and important prayer truly is. It’s the prayer we recite because of how desperately we need Hashem in our corner, despite the fact that we’d far prefer it if the bell had already rung and the fight was already over. 

The unfortunate reality is that things are not better today than they were on Simchas Torah. Following the pogrom of that day, or within the first few days afterwards, those who’d been killed were already lost. Those taken captive were already imprisoned in enemy territory. Where we are now is worse. Now those captives have weeks of suffering under their belts. Now chayalim are actively in harm’s way. Now families have already endured nearly fifty days of absence from their husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons who have been called up to fight. Our prayers should be even more fervent now than they were then.

Emotion on demand is a very tall order. And perhaps one that’s beyond us. But Vayifga teaches us that even if we can’t daven with quite the same meaning and kavannah as we did a month and a half ago, we can still take it as seriously. We can continue reciting the Tehilim we signed up for. We can continue treating shul with reverence. We can continue coming minyan on time. 

We may wish it was already over, but, Vayifga, we’ve encountered a different reality. When it comes to the demand to call out to Hashem in prayer, we do not have the luxury of setting the stage, only of acting upon it. The situation we encounter today demands prayer only more urgently than the one we encountered six weeks ago. Let’s respond to this encounter as our forefather did.

Woody Allen once said that ninety percent of life is just showing up. This was precisely my intention in attending the mass rally in Washington D.C. this past Tuesday. It was not about direct lobbying or having impassioned conversations with my representatives in Congress. The rally was about being a face in the crowd, just being present, part of a huge scene that would indicate broad, overwhelming support for Israel. Just by showing up.

That was my intention, and I hope I succeeded in accomplishing that mission. That elected officials who believe Israel’s operation in Gaza to be just, now have something to point to when others are attempting to avert their attention to all those who consider Israel to be the villain in this war. “But these are also my constituents, I have to respond to them as well.” I hope it worked.

What hadn’t occurred to me when I decided to attend the rally was that something else altogether might be accomplished. Something that, again, without really doing anything at all could be achieved simply by showing up.

What was that? Nikki Haley summed it up well in a Twitter post: 

Today, ~300K people marched in DC in support of Israel & against antisemitism. No one was assaulted. Nothing vandalized. No one hiding behind masks. Lots of American flags. A stark contrast w/ the pro-Hamas protestors. This is a fight between good & evil, & good will prevail.

None of the behavior that Haley identified as being present at Tuesday’s rally was planned. Nobody set an alarm the night before on their phone to go off at 1 PM with the reminder, “Don’t assault anyone at the rally,” or, “Remember not to vandalize property.” I can’t imagine anyone standing at the coat closet the morning of agonizing over whether or not to bring that menacing-looking mask along to wear on the National Mall. People were just being themselves. They were just showing up.

When you’re an ordinary, normal mensch, there can sometimes be great drama in just showing up. Because more often than not you can count on others to be anything but. Against a backdrop of reprehensible behavior, acting with just a modicum of decency can make you a standout. 

What Nikki Haley described in her tweet is what we’d refer to as a Kiddush Hashem. Demonstrating that living a life dedicated to Jewish values—even when the finer of points of halacha are not necessarily adhered to—means acting in a way that is pleasant, refined, and courteous. 

Which is a more collective expression of another Kiddush Hashem—one accomplished by an individual—that also took place at the rally. When Ishay Ribbo exited the stage, he did so with the simple words, Hashem yishmor aleichem—May G-d watch over you. Words that are remarkable only because of the dearth of G-d-talk throughout the other presentations. Ishay didn’t beat anyone over the head with his religiosity. He just acted himself. He showed up. Read some Tehilim. Acknowledged Hashem. But when the coolest guy to take the stage is also the frummest guy to take the stage—and he’s not afraid to simply be himself—it’s a powerful statement.

We’re often looking for ways to have an impact. Whether it’s a family Chanukah party or an office get-together, we’re often looking for ways to best express our brand of Torah living to those who live otherwise. How do we make it understandable, palatable, normal, impressive, impactful? I don’t think we place enough value on just showing up. Just being ourselves. We may not be Ishay Ribbo, but if we’re liked and respected by peers, colleagues, and family members, we have a platform. And we can use that platform to just be ourselves. To be normal, and pleasant, and charming—and make a bracha before we eat our food, and after our food, and wear modest clothing and yarmulkas. We need not bludgeon everyone around us with our frumkeit, nor be embarrassed to be ourselves. 

If we want to properly showcase our values, we need not overthink it. If you’re a mensch, it will come through. If you’re religious, it will come through. We can make a Kiddush Hashem just by showing up.

Parshas Chayei-Sarah 5784

Avraham insists that a wife not be taken for Yitzchak from the local population. But what if Eliezer can’t find a suitable woman willing to come back from Aram Naharaim? What if the mission is a failure? What if the insistence that Yitzchak be found a bride proves incompatible with the insistence that that wife be from Avraham’s extended family? What if you can’t have both? 

If Avraham had lived today, many would suggest that he not bother to answer that question. Because today you can identify that two values may stand in contradiction and offer no resolution as to how to proceed. Just point out the problem, no solution necessary.

I can understand those who call for the annihilation of Israel. Who believe that the Jewish People essentially have no right to a Jewish state. That Jewish blood is cheaper than Arab blood. Those who believe that the pogrom of October 7 was a great service to humanity may well be evil—but I understand them.

What I cannot understand are those who consider October 7 an abject atrocity, and yet call for a ceasefire in Gaza. Who feel that Israel was wrong for invading, for going to war. For whom the plight of innocent Palestinians getting caught in the crossfire is so horrific that Israel’s continued pursuit of Hamas is unjust.

In every moral war there is the sad reality that innocent people are killed. That sad reality exists in this war as well. That is a problem. So what’s the solution?

Many apparently feel that no solution need be offered. Identifying the problem is sufficient. “Israel has a right to defend itself,” yet, “Allowing civilians to be killed is wrong.” A problem, indeed. So what should Israel do? How can they defend themselves against Hamas without killing civilians? If you’ve brought up the problem, what are you offering as a solution?

In hindsight, we know that Eliezer’s mission to Aram Naharaim is successful. Rivka is every bit the worthy bride of Yitzchak and is gladly consents to the proposed shidduch. Isn’t it odd, then, that the Torah even bothers relating Eliezer’s concern and Avraham’s response to it? Do we really need to know the Plan B, considering that Plan A ultimately worked out just fine?

We certainly do. Because Avraham’s approach to decision making in the face of competing values is a critical model for us to follow, many thousands of years later. And in those intervening millennia, so many who may even view themselves as Avraham’s successors appear to have lost their way.

What happens when the demand to marry Yitzchak off and the demand that his wife come from Avraham’s own family cannot both be fulfilled? To this, Avraham makes a tough decision: Eliezer will be absolved of his responsibility to find Yitzchak a wife. When two values cannot simultaneously be held, one must be dropped.

Don’t tell Israel to defend itself but also insist that the very nature of defense be transcended. Preventing further acts of terror from Hamas means going to war with them. And war means human casualties. Evacuation notices have been dropped, warning has been given, a safety corridor has been opened. But people will still die. That’s what war looks like.

Given certain realities, you can’t marry off Yitzchak and also keep him away from the maidens of Canaan. Avraham understands this and tells his servant, “If push comes to shove, don’t marry him off.” 

There are tradeoffs in life. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. If you insist that Israel stop killing civilians, have the guts to say what you really mean: Israel doesn’t have the right to defend itself. Hamas should be given the opportunity to rearm. Israel should sit around until it’s wiped off the face of the earth. 

There are surely plenty of bald-faced anti-semites who have no compunction about saying those words. But I wonder how many others have just never grown up. Are still children in adult bodies who haven’t come to terms with the realities of necessary tradeoffs—harsh, brutal tradeoffs—that you sometimes need to make in life. 

Avraham had practice. When told by Hashem to sacrifice his son, Avraham was confronted with his responsibilities as a father on the one hand and his responsibilities as a servant of Hashem on the other. There could be no neat reconciliation of the two. His decision has harsh, brutal, and absolutely correct. The decision to sacrifice Yitzchak was an act of spiritual heroism that continues to pay dividends for Avraham’s progeny to this day.

And that act also positioned Avraham to make a tough decision in giving Eliezer his marching orders. What if Plan A fails? In reality, Plan B never comes to bear; Eliezer’s mission is in fact successful. But Avraham’s consideration of the issue provides a critical model for us to follow. Things won’t always work out as we want. Deeply held values will sometimes butt heads. What happens then? Some shrug their shoulders and keep their heads in the clouds. Others understand you can’t have it all. And they heed the call of making some very difficult decisions. 

Parshas Vayeira 5784

“It is important to also recognize the attacks by Hamas did not happen in a vacuum.” So said United Nations Secretary-General Antonio Guterres in his comments on the atrocities committed against Israel on October 7. And by no means is he alone. Scores of people have called upon the world to consider the context in which the Simchas Torah pogrom took place. 

You know what? Let’s roll with that.

With the arrival of Yitzchak on the scene, Yishmael finds himself in Sarah’s crosshairs. She sees Yishmael behaving in a way that will negatively influence her own son, and insists that Yishmael be ousted from her tent. What does the Torah say about Yishmael’s behavior? Metzacheik—he laughed.

What’s so terrible about laughter? Isn’t Yitzchak himself—that prized child of Sarah—himself named for laughter? Wasn’t “Yitzchak” the name chosen by G-d himself for the boy, after Avraham laughed upon hearing the news that Sarah would indeed conceive and give birth? 

Why is laughter ok for Avraham, but not for Yishmael? This is the sort of unfairness that Queen Rania of Jordan might label a “glaring double standard!” 

The answer is that laughter doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Laughter can be menacing, taunting, maniacal. Or it can be sweet, innocent, thoughtful.

Yishmael’s laughter is laughter of mockery. It’s laughter that occurs in the context of the seriousness of Avraham’s home and makes light of the values that were on display there. Indeed, Chazal connect the term metzachek—Yishmael’s laughter—to other instances of the term used in connection with idolatry, murder, and immorality. Yishmael’s laughter undermines all that Avraham does in the service of G-d.

Avraham’s laughter is not dismissive of G-d, but of the physical world that is so easily bent at His will. Avraham’s laughter is the laughter that happens at the end of a good joke, when the punchline makes you realize you’ve been looking at things all wrong until now. It’s the startling realization that what I thought I knew is misinformed—a woman can have a baby at the age of 90—so long as G-d wills it.

Avraham and Yishmael both laugh, but they are worlds apart.

The IDF and Hamas both kill. But they are worlds apart.

What separates them? Yes, Mr. Secretary-General, how right you are. Context. 

Hamas kills indiscriminately and without warning. In a context of kidnapping and parading victims through the streets. Of raping and pillaging and torturing its victims. Of sadistic taunting and proud phone calls back home letting Mommy and Daddy know how many Jews I killed today. Not military targets or terrorists. Jews. 

And all of that provides the context in which the IDF kills. Having identified pure evil and vowing to expunge it from the earth. In providing fair warning for non-military citizens to move to safe zones away from the fighting. In identifying specific targets and eliminating them. In uprooting evil without feeling the need to violate evil’s wife and daughter, behead evil’s children, or mutilate evil’s body just for kicks.

In the midst of the Cold War, William Buckley once responded to suggestions that the US and USSR employed similar practices. He said, “To say that we and the Soviets are to be compared is to say that the man who pushes an old lady into the way of an oncoming bus, and the man who pushes an old lady out of the way of an oncoming bus, are both people who push old ladies around.” (Hat tip—Phil Dolitsky)

Most behavior cannot be identified as good or evil when examined under a microscope. Fair judgement comes from pulling back and appreciating the broader context in which that behavior is demonstrated. The assessment of that context and resulting judgment is a moral imperative.

Is a laugh profane or pure? Horrific or holy? The Torah insists that it depends on the context.

Torture and mutilation are not rendered acceptable acts by the claim that another nation is living in your land. But torture and mutilation do provide context that make war against those who committed them called for, reasonable, and moral—even when war by its nature assures collateral damage in the loss of innocent lives. 

No, Queen Rania, there’s no glaring double standard. Like a stopped clock twice a day, the Secretary General is actually correct. The attacks by Hamas did not occur in a vacuum. They occurred in a context of barbarism and sadism and depravity. Don’t confuse their bullets for ours. To do so would be laughable. 

Parshas Lech-Lecha 5784

How can they possibly have so many rockets? You’d think this relatively small group of terrorists would surely have run out by now. But they just keep coming and coming in seemingly endless supply. 

This was one of the first questions I fixated on in the initial days of the war. Of late, I’ve turned to another: How can they possibly have so many people? 

Hundreds of thousands have taken to the streets of London, New York, and elsewhere to protest Israel’s right to defend itself, or, in other words, its right to exist. How can there possibly be so many people dedicated to such a warped and unjust cause? Where did they come from?

Avraham Avinu bursts onto the scene of history with feat after impressive feat, each a public spectacle that surely would have grabbed the headlines of the day, should any have existed. 

Over the course of barely more than one parsha, Avraham is miraculously saved from being burned alive, is gifted with vast wealth by the king of Egypt, and wages war almost completely on his own against a mighty axis of four powerful kings.

By the end of this week’s parsha, Avraham is wealthy, famous, and a known miracle worker. One can only imagine the platform that coalesces around him from which he can preach his cause and spread monotheism to the masses. 

Indeed, the Torah makes clear that Avraham was fully engaged in this sort of work. At the beginning of parsha in noting his relocation to Israel along with “all the souls he made in Charan.” Rashi quotes the well known interpretation that the souls he made were those individuals he and Sarah convinced to join the ranks of his burgeoning band of monotheists. 

It is against the backdrop of all that goes on in this week’s parsha that makes a comment in next week’s parsha so striking. In Parshas Vayeira, Hashem decides to inform Avraham of His decision to destroy Sodom, and does so because “כי ידעתיו—for I have known him,” (18:19) which Rashi interprets as an expression of love. Hashem loves Avraham and feels compelled to share otherwise classified information with him. What is the reason for this special bond? The pasuk continues, “לְמַעַן אֲשֶׁר יְצַוֶּה אֶת־בָּנָיו וְאֶת־בֵּיתוֹ אַחֲרָיו וְשָׁמְרוּ דֶּרֶךְ ה׳ לַעֲשׂוֹת צְדָקָה וּמִשְׁפָּט—Because Avraham will instruct his children and his household after him, and they will abide by the path of G-d, to do what is righteous and just.”

For all of Avraham’s highly public exploits, for all his efforts in promoting the path of G-d to the masses and proclaiming monotheism from the rooftops, Hashem’s love for Avraham is born out of something else entirely. It is not the public preaching that makes Hashem so enamored with Avraham, but the private instruction he offers his own family. That Avraham will direct his own children toward the path of G-d is what creates an everlasting bond of love between Hashem and Avraham. For all the efforts made in the public sphere, it is those made within the home that are most significant.

It is interesting to note that of the billions of monotheists who have graced the earth between Avraham’s time and today, none trace their lineage back to the “converts” that Avraham brought with him to Israel from Charan. None claim as their ancestor a traveling merchant or vagabond who chanced upon the doorstep of Avraham and Sarah and was convinced by their arguments to adopt a lifestyle of ethical monotheism. The monotheists of today trace their descent back to Avraham directly. They claim Avraham, and his children, and their children, as their forebears. It was not Avraham’s public preaching, but the instruction he provided to his own children in his own home that ultimately changed the face of humanity.

Perhaps Hashem is so taken with Avraham’s dedication to instructing his own family in the ways of G-d because, over the course of many generations, it is far and away the most effective means of creating systemic change. Make a scene in public and make a splash. Teach your children and change the world.

How did we end up with 100,000 people on the streets of London calling for jihad in the face of Israel’s inhumanity? A birthrate that far outstrips the rest of the population and the indoctrination of those children with jihadist dogma. The minds of these 100,000 people were not shaped by public sentiment, but by instruction from their own parents and communities. It is the dark side Avraham’s accomplishments, of what made him beloved to Hashem.

In pursuit of our own cause, public demonstrations, marches, and petitions certainly have their place. But they are stopgap measures, intended to keep Israel from being completely steamrolled in the court of public opinion and giving them enough cover to fight the war that must be fought. These are not the sort of efforts that change the world fundamentally, the sort of efforts that give Hashem the sort of nachas provided by Avraham. 

What can we do for the war effort in Israel? There are physical responses—chayalim risking their lives to defend the Jewish People, mass volunteer efforts, and donations of money and goods. There are spiritual efforts—increasing our Torah, tefilah, and faith in Hashem. These are efforts that will aid the Jewish People in the here and now, providing immediate safety and security through physical defense and spiritual merit.

But there’s a long-game we mustn’t forget. We have the ability to change the face of the Jewish People, even the world, through the instructing of future generations. When we inculcate values of serving Hashem and of keeping His Torah and mitzvos in our children, we are having an oversized impact on what the world will look like generations from now. We can only produce so much light on our own, but if our children become inspired to bear the same torch, in but one generation we’ll have increased the light by an order of magnitude.

If we’re taking our Torah more seriously, our tzedakah more seriously, let’s also take the chinuch of our children more seriously during this time of need and distress. Don’t just spend time with your children—or your grandchildren, nieces, and nephews—teach them, learn Torah with them. Talk to them about the importance of mitzvos, about the transience of material comforts, and the eternal value of spiritual pursuits. Have meaningful conversations about what life is truly about and what it is not. Teach them about emunah and bitachon, about developing a personal relationship with Hashem, and drawing more of His Presence into the world. We have a war to win not only now, but in future generations as well.