Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Bamidbar / Shavuos 5784

I own a fascinating book that attempts to solve the mystery of where exactly Har Sinai is. Is it indeed located in the Sinai Peninsula, or perhaps elsewhere, even as far east as Saudi Arabia? Tracing the path of the Exodus from Egypt to Sinai is challenging in part because the actual terrain is nondescript. Had Sinai been in the middle of a densely-populated ancient city, some remains of the even would no doubt have been left behind to be discovered later in history. But the Torah wasn’t given in the middle of a metropolis; it was given in the Midbar. And that is exactly the point. 

וַיְדַבֵּר ה’ אֶל משֶׁה בְּמִדְבַּר סִינַי. לָמָּה בְּמִדְבַּר סִינַי, מִכָּאן שָׁנוּ חֲכָמִים בִּשְׁלשָׁה דְבָרִים נִתְּנָה הַתּוֹרָה, בָּאֵשׁ, וּבַמַּיִם, וּבַמִּדְבָּר.

^{(מדרש במדבר רבה א)}

“And Hashem spoke to Moshe in the Wilderness of Sinai.” Why is it specifically referred to as the Wilderness of Sinai? The Sages taught that the Torah was given with three qualities: fire, water, and wilderness.

^{(Midrash Bamidbar Rabbah 1)}

It is no coincidence that Bamidbar is the parsha read immediately before Shavuos. As the above Midrash notes, the events of this next book of the Torah are reported as occuring not only in the wilderness, but the Wilderness of Sinai, emphasizing that the giving of the Torah was in fact given in the wilderness. Interestingly, this is not the only motif the Midrash speaks of in the context of the giving of the Torah, but mentions fire and water as well, citing scriptural allusions for these qualities afterward. 

What does each of these features represent, and why are they spoken of all in the same breath?

Fire and water are opposing forces. Depending on the given interaction, water may well extinguish fire, or fire will turn water into vaporized nothingness. This is likewise true in terms of the direction they travel in. Fire is a form of energy that surges upward, flames rising from the fuel that sustains them. Water, on the other hand, moves perpetually downward, snaking through any cracks and crevices it encounters to find the lowest possible place to reside in.

Torah can well take on either form, depending on the person or life circumstance. 

Torah can be fire, propelling us forward, motivating us to move beyond our present selves. Baalei Teshuva know well the feeling of spiritual jet fuel that Torah infused them with, setting on a course towards new levels of observance. Torah as fire is the form it takes on when we are motivated to ascend, to climb higher than where we presently find ourselves. 

Yet Torah can also be water, finding us in our lowest place and offering us comfort and solace in the depths of despair. Torah binds us to Hashem and reminds us that there is meaning in suffering and reason in tragedy, even if we can’t viscerally feel it. 

Whether in an instance of fire or water—whether Torah is spurring us towards new growth or offering comfort when we’re down—we possess a palpable sense of the Torah’s value and import in our lives. We understand acutely how lost we’d be without it, how critically we depend on its guidance and instruction.

But what happens when it’s neither? When—at least largely—life is set, predictable, and rather static? No great spiritual overhaul on the horizon, nor great catastrophe looming over us. What happens to our relationship with Torah during these times? When we need neither jet fuel nor solace?

To this, the Midrash reminds us of the Midbar, the wilderness. A bleak, unadorned landscape. The Midbar is plain. The Midbar is boring. The Midbar is Torah.

Our relationship with Hashem, in many respects, is a relationship like any other. There are times that it may feel novel, fresh, and exhilarating—when the relationship is on fire. And there are times when we’re so very grateful to have someone who will hold our hand through challenging times, providing comfort when we’ve arrived at a low point. 

But what happens when we feel neither? It is here that the Midrash makes the point that Torah is not only fire and water, but a Midbar as well. Like any human being we are close with, the majority of time spent in one another’s company is filled with the uneventful, pedestrian routines that comprise the vast majority of life. The Midrash reminds us that there is nothing wrong with us—or the relationship—for feeling that things are humdrum or commonplace. If every relationship ended when thing became bland, no marriage could successfully survive the sorts of basic chores and errands that are so critical to a properly productive life. 

It is in those moments that we demonstrate our greatest commitment to the other. The bulk of a marriage is marked by neither the fire of Sheva Brachos, nor the descending water of a crisis that makes companionship necessary. It is marked instead by laundry and finances and meal plans. And it is in those moments that a successful couple shows that they are dedicated to the relationship nonetheless. 

Were we to always feel exhilarated by each mitzvah or relieved by the stability that Judaism offers in difficult times, would our relationship with Hashem truly be a relationship at all? Or would it be little more than self-indulgence, responding to our own needs and impulses, rather than to the wants and needs of our Beloved? Most of life is a Midbar—marked by neither highs nor lows. It is precisely there that the Torah was given and precisely there where we must constantly renew our commitment.

Parshas Bechukosai 5784

A young MBA fresh out of business school embarks on a career of finance, and he’s scared stiff. Will he or won’t he succeed? Does he have what it takes? The right instincts? The tenacity? 

He sets up a meeting with an uncle 20 years his senior for some advice and perspective on the sort of goals he should set for himself. 

“Well,” his uncle tells him, “You want to have made your first million about 10 years in. If you clinch that, it will open you up to visibility at your firm, and you’ll have sufficient capital for your own private investing. Grow your portfolio. Diversify. You should be at about $5-7 million 20 years from now. That’s where I am.”

“Wow. So twenty years. Then I can finally relax?”

“Relax?!” replies his uncle incredulously. “I’m more anxious now than ever!”

Parshas Bechukosai describes the relationship the Jewish People are to enjoy with Hashem in language that conveys more closeness and intimacy than perhaps any other in the entire Torah:

וְנָתַתִּי מִשְׁכָּנִי בְּתוֹכְכֶם וְלֹא־תִגְעַל נַפְשִׁי אֶתְכֶם׃ וְהִתְהַלַּכְתִּי בְּתוֹכְכֶם וְהָיִיתִי לָכֶם לֵאלֹקים וְאַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ־לִי לְעָם׃

^{(ויקרא כו:יא–יב)}

I will establish My dwelling place amongst you and My soul shall not repel you. I shall walk amongst you and I shall be your G-d and you shall be for me a nation. 

^{(Vayikra 11-12)}

Rashi notes the unusual degree of closeness conveyed by the second pasuk, commenting that Hashem is speaking of Himself as walking among the people with such comfort and familiarity that they will not so much as tremble from being in His Presence. Which, Rashi explains, is precisely why Hashem then refers to Himself as “Elokim,” the name that connotes the attribute of judgment and fear. Lest you believe that the Jewish People may relate to Hashem only in fondness and affection, we are told that Hashem is “Elokim” nonetheless. Trembling, no. Fear, yes. 

What exactly does this mean? How are we to understand the transition away from fear of Hashem only to arrive at a place of fear once more?

The Nesivos Shalom explains based on a foundational concept propounded by his forebear, the first Slonimer Rebbe, the Yesod HaAvodah. With respect to interacting with Hashem out of yirah—fear—we tend to believe in a linear progression. One would initially observe the mitzvos out of fear of divine retribution, but the expectation is that he would advance from that position to one of genuine ahavah—love of Hashem and His Torah, and fulfill the mitzvos with that attitude instead.

But the Yesod HaAvodah explained that the relationship is actually cyclical, rather than linear. Fear begets love, but love begets fear. A different sort of fear, but fear nonetheless. Whereas the initial anxiety over punishment and damnation is hopefully replaced by love and affection, as that relationship continues to deepen, fear is supposed to come surging back. We are so taken with our Beloved, that we fear letting Him down. We fear distancing ourselves from Him. We fear being without Him. 

The seasoned veteran is gripped by a very different fear from the newly minted MBA. Whereas the latter is frightened of never making it, the former has tasted wealth, knows it well, and has a far more acute sense of what it would actually be like to live without it. He lives with more anxiety than ever because the luxury and accolades to which he has become accustomed he knows he cannot now live without.

When it comes to wealth, materialism, or status, one would be wise to enter the hamster wheel ever so cautiously, to avoid one’s very life and identity to become too firmly entwined with the successes enjoyed along the way. 

Relationships, on the other hand, are of a different character. Meaningful relationships—be they with G-d or man—should be thoroughly embraced. And doing so means allowing them, even directing them, to become characterized by the cycle of fear, love, and fear.

I may advance to a state of loving Hashem, but it is important to be mindful of the stage of fear that should come afterwards. I can appreciate all that Hashem has blessed me with and yet still slip into a state of complacency. I can be enamored with Hashem, reflect on His greatness, maintain gratitude to Him in my mind and heart, yet still slip away. It is important to fan the flames of love so that a bit of fear is re-introduced into the relationship. A degree of near-anxiety that I can still slip away. That for all my appreciation, the relationship can still fester if not actively maintained and cultivated.

And what is true of our relationship with Hashem is similarly true of our human relationships as well. In a good marriage, love grows and expands. Spouses come to know and understand one another better and better, and there is an ever increasing body of work to be grateful to one another for. And yet with all that love and appreciation, the relationship can still stagnate and backslide. Gestures of affection can grind to a halt, outward expressions of interest and gratitude can evaporate. We can even come to be dismissive of certain actions as the kind of things that newlyweds do, but that are beneath the established veterans of marriage. 

Which is a pity. As a loving relationship advances, it should be met with a certain anxiety. Not the anxiety of the newly married, nervous that they won’t get this marriage thing right. But the anxiety of someone fully confident in their ability, yet worried they’ll forget to properly use that ability. Anxious that they begin to take for granted, even as they love. Nervous that they not do all they can to impress, even as they admire. Worried that they not sufficiently convey affection with their actions, even as it looms large in their minds. 

Consider for a moment the people you love the most. Has the relationship halted there, or has it advanced to something even more special? How do we advance beyond love and arrive at the top of the cycle of fear?

Parshas Behar 5784

But little Har Sinai just stood there and sighed, 

“I know I’m not tall, I know I’m not wide 

The Torah can’t be given on me 

For I’m a plain mountain,” he said simply.

If you’re a parent of young children and haven’t heard these lyrics in a while, just wait. As the count towards Shavuos continues to march on, kids prepare for the upcoming holiday in school and Uncle Moishy’s “Little Har Sinai” seems to be a cornerstone of that education. The upshot of the song is that, as Chazal teach, Har Sinai is chosen as the mountain upon which the Torah is given specifically because of its humble nature, Sinai being relatively modest in size compared to other mountains surrounding it. 

Adults and children alike remember that Har Sinai was small. But we need to remember that it was also a mountain. 

Strict adherence to halacha has a remarkable impact on elevating our day to day lives. Tying one’s shoes goes from a completely banal activity to something infused with sprituality when we become conscious of which shoe goes on first, what order we tie them in, and how it all relates to the attributes of chesed and din. Fold in the duties of the heart—those ideals and philosophies of which we must always be conscious—and the totality of life is an ennobled experience, suffused with religious heft.

When a religious farmer goes to work, he is not only tilling the soil and earning a livelihood. He is mindful of which crops may be planted near one another and which may be kept apart. Which animals may be harnessed beneath the same plow and which not. How he treats his animals and whether they are being subjected to any undue pain or mistreatment. The market value of the produce he is cultivating and the mandate against price gouging. The family members for whom he is responsible and working hard to provide for them, much how Hashem provides for us all. Farming is physical and laborious, yet is spiritual and lofty when undertaken within the framework of Torah living.

And that poses a serious problem. Not only the problem of following through on the demands to spiritually enrich and uplift, to maintain fidelity to halacha and Torah values even while buckling beneath the stresses and pressures that are the hallmarks of this world. But the problem of realizing that there’s yet something more. That holy work itself is marked by peaks and valleys. That even as every nook and cranny of one’s life becomes a place marked by kedusha, there is yet a mountain left to climb. 

It is an interesting feature of Judaism that the most remarkable events and experiences occur on mountains. The location of the Bais Hamikdash. Akeidas Yitzchak, the greatest act of religious submission in history. And, of course, the giving of the Torah on Har Sinai. These serve as reminders that while we may live with a certain spiritual consciousness in all that we do, there moments in life that rise above the normal spiritual playing field, that demand more of us, that beckon us to climb the mountain.

In a certain sense, ruchniyus begets ruchniyus; when we engage with the holy, a pattern of behavior develops that motivates us to continue surging ahead. But it poses a challenge as well. When my work environment is a place of sanctity, when my home is a place of sanctity, when we see every interaction, phone call, and errand as ultimately serving Hashem, we can become so content with lower degrees of spirituality that we excuse ourselves from ascending upward. I can daven a sloppy mincha because I’ve gotten my does of kedusha elsewhere. I can skip out on my daily learning because I gave tzedakah or helped my child with her book report. These may well be holy endeavors, but they rest in the valley of Divine interaction, rather than at the peak.

Perhaps this is why Parshas Behar introduces the laws of Shemitah with the statement that these mitzvos were given at Har Sinai. Indeed, all mitzvos were given at Sinai, and yet special attention must be given to Shemitah in this regard. 

Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky notes that in next week’s parsha, two items are identified as the root cause of the curses that would one day befall the Jewish People and force them from the land. The first is a lack of Torah study, or, more precisely, a lack of effort and toil exerted in that enterprise. The second is that in ousting the Jewish People from Eretz Yisrael, the land will have an opportunity to recoup the Shemittah years that went unobserved and can now lay fallow. 

Rav Yaakov explains that there is no contradiction between the two issues presented. What is a farmer supposed to be busy with during the year that his fields lay fallow? Torah study. More than anything, it is to be treated as a year during which he can make up for lost time, spending his days in the Bais Medrash in a way that the demands of farming did not previously permit. A failure to observe Shemittah does not only mean that the land continues to be worked, but that the farmer himself does not pivot to intense Torah study during the time that halacha has now freed him from his labor.

Is that to say that the farmer had been wasting his time until now? Not at all. As previously cited, there is a long list of mitzvos that can only be fulfilled through working the land. But the landscape of holiness is marked by peaks and valleys. The farmer was performing his religious duties during six years of labor, but now it’s time to climb the mountain, to engage in serious Torah study, to have a direct interaction with Hashem and let His words seep deeply into his mind.

Of all the agricultural mitzvos—and they are many—it is Shemittah that is identified as being revealed, “Behar Sinai—upon Mount Sinai”, for the experience of Torah study is a more direct interaction with Hashem than many other mitzvos. It is an experience that resides at the top of the mountain.

Yes, Sinai was low and humble. But it was also a mountain. And as we become increasingly adept at seeing the holiness in our errands and in our earnings, in our companies and our conversations, we can lose sight of the importance of those experiences that reside at the top of the mountain. 

As impressive as the view may be from down below, we must remind ourselves to not be content. It’s truly spectacular at the top.

Parshas Emor 5784

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yom HaAtzmaut 5784

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It really comes down to when you start the clock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Acharei Mos 5784

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Tazria 5784

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

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

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

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

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

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

^{(ויקרא יג:מו)}

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

^{(Vayikra 13:46)} 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas HaChodesh 5784

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

“Pfft. Mine are nicer.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Pekudei 5784

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

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

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

“That was different,” you say. 

Was it really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vayakhel 5784

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

“How was your day?” 

“Good.”

“What’d you learn?”

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

^{שמות לה:ל}

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

^{Shemos 35:30}

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you good at?”

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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