Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Terumah 5784

“Rabbi, great drasha. Very inspiring!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Mishpatim 5784

One of the bright spots in the darkness of the COVID-19 pandemic was the food distribution program. Once a week, we’d drive to the distribution site and our van would be loaded with food boxes provided by the government to supplant the food that school-aged children were (at least theoretically) no longer receiving through their schools’ meal programs. On my way home one evening, I noticed that the light on my dashboard indicated that my trunk was open. I said a small tefilah and asked Hashem for the latch to hold nonetheless. The last thing I needed was eight gallons of milk spilling all over Cooper Landing Road. 

That particularly year, I was teaching the first perek of Bava Kama, which discusses and explicates many of the laws found in Parshas Mishpatim, including those related to damages. I shared the vignette with my students and asked, “What would you say about this case? What if I had spilled my groceries and created a hazard for other other drivers or pedestrians to contend with?” They responded, “Oh! It’s a Bor birshus harabbim—a pit opened in a public place!”

Though a bit more complicated halachically speaking, it was just the reaction I was hoping for. As this week’s parsha teaches, one who digs a pit in the middle of a public road becomes responsible for the damage done to others’ property as a result. And the principle is applied more broadly than just pits, holes, or trenches. If my food packages had tumbled out of my van and had caused damage to someone else’s car, perhaps I would have been responsible to pay for those damages.

The impact we have on the world matters. Whether our intention is to cause damage or not, we become responsible for what we drop in the public thoroughfare and its adverse effect on others. 

In the Laws of Idol Worship, the Rambam discusses the interactions we as Jews have with members of non-Jewish society at large. A question arises: If I can make a buck by selling an idol to an idolator, am I permitted to do so? The Rambam declares this prohibited, but far more intriguing than the ruling itself is the comparison to another law:

כְּשֵׁם שֶׁאֵין מוֹכְרִין לְעוֹבֵד כּוֹכָבִים דְּבָרִים שֶׁמַּחֲזִיקִין בָּהֶן יְדֵיהֶן לַעֲבוֹדַת כּוֹכָבִים כָּךְ אֵין מוֹכְרִין לָהֶם דָּבָר שֶׁיֵּשׁ בּוֹ נֵזֶק לָרַבִּים כְּגוֹן דֻּבִּים וַאֲרָיוֹת וּכְלֵי זַיִן וּכְבָלִים וְשַׁלְשְׁלָאוֹת.

^{רמב׳׳ם הל׳ עבודת כוכבים ט:ח}

Just as we do not sell items to idolators that will encourage their performance of idolatry, so do we not sell them something that can cause harm to others, such as bears or lions or weapons or ropes or chains.

^{Rambam, Laws of Idolatry, 9:8}

That both laws should be prohibited makes perfect sense. The prohibition against idolatry is one of the seven Noahide laws, prohibited for non-Jews as much Jews. We want neither to encourage a violation of this basic moral demand, nor be responsible—even indirectly—for the creation of a public hazard. 

But are they at all comparable? Is the prohibition against facilitating idolatry in any way similar to the responsibility we have for keeping innocent people safe from the weapons that we may wish to provide others with? 

If your milk or groceries spill out into the road, your knee jerk reaction is likely to clean it up. Why? Because someone can trip and fall. I can’t allow my actions to cause physical harm to an innocent person. Evidently, the Rambam sees no difference between physical harm and spiritual harm in this regard. Indeed, the two prohibitions are identical. “כשם—Just as,” one must withhold introducing objects into society that can cause physical harm to others, so too when it comes to that which causes spiritual harm. Encouraging idolatry is not only problematic for the individual I may sell idols to; it becomes a societal issue because of the culture I help to foster. 

The idol is set up in the living room of but one individual. But that individual is emboldened in his practices, invites others to participate, and a wave of sinful behavior surges outward from the original transaction I engaged in. We cannot differentiate between the physical and spiritual wellbeing of those who my actions will ultimately impact.

Imagine walking through a crowd at kiddush and trying to balance a cup of soda and bowl of cholent while snaking your way towards a chair at the end of the room. En route, your body twists, your arm turns, and everything ends up on the floor. What do you do? You clean it up. Because no matter how hungry or thirsty you may be, no matter how antsy you are to just finish up and get back home, you’d never allow your actions to cause harm to others. If someone can slip or trip on your mess, you’ll clean it up.

We need to consider spiritual hazards in the same light. We make a grave error when we consider our talking in shul as being a personal decision, being reflective of nothing more than our own commitment to davening or our personal relationship with a Bais Haknesses. We need to think about who else we’re impacting, who may slip and fall on the mess we’re making, who will be enticed to step away from meaningful tefilah to engage in the conversation now taking place, or simply be interrupted and distracted from being able to pray properly.

Lashon Hara is not a personal consideration of how “frum” we may or may not be. Nor is dishonesty or anger or a flippant attitude towards serious matters. When displayed in the company of others, these become groceries that lie in the street, hazards for others to become accustomed to, influenced by, and trip over. Our minds may classify certain behaviors as personal decisions, but they can help to fuel a harmful culture that we become responsible for.

And let’s remember as well that the opposite is likewise true. When we’re assessing the value of any given mitzvah—those that are performed publicly in particular—it’s critical that we consider not only the mitzvah in of itself, but its impact on others and the culture it helps create. Coming to shul to daven or to learn, especially doing so punctually, is not only an expression of my personal relationship with Hashem. It helps encourage others to do the same and influences others for the better. When we speak properly, calmly, patiently, respectfully, we are not only becoming more refined, but creating a culture of refinement as well.

Gandhi once brilliantly stated, “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” How we act and speak is far more than a reflection of our own personalities or personal commitment to virtuous principles. It is a kernel of influence deposited in the public sphere that slowly radiates outward, affecting those around us. Our behavior changes the world one way or the other. When we enter the room, will others be inspired and uplifted, or will they trip and fall?

Parshas Yisro 5784

If you are partcularly familiar with something, you may comment that you know it “like the back of your hand.” But how well do you know the back of your hand, really? It’s worth taking a closer look, because hands can be a very valuable commodity. According to salary.com, the average salary for a hand model in New York City is well over $70,000. 

But Yisro, for one, seems to hold hands in great disdain.

וַיֹּאמֶר יִתְרוֹ בָּרוּךְ ה׳ אֲשֶׁר הִצִּיל אֶתְכֶם מִיַּד מִצְרַיִם וּמִיַּד פַּרְעֹה אֲשֶׁר הִצִּיל אֶת־הָעָם מִתַּחַת יַד־מִצְרָיִם׃

^{שמות יח:י}

And Yisro said, “Blessed is G-d Who saved you from the hand of Egypt and from the hand of Pharaoh. Who saved the nation from beneath the hand of Egypt.

^{Shemos 18:10}

Yisro arrives on the scene and immediately praises Hashem for all He’d done for the Jewish People, liberating them from Mitzrayim. And he is fixated on hands. Yisro remarks that we were saved from the hand of Egypt, the hand of Pharaoh, and again, the hand of Egypt. And whereas the reference to hands could be dismissed as the appropriate figure of speech were it stated once or twice, appearing three times in one verse creates conspicuous emphasis.

Rabbi Ephraim Twersky offers a beautiful explanation based on a comment of the Chasam Sofer. The Chasam Sofer suggests that the most truly caustic element of the Egyptian servitude was the Jewish People’s perceived loss of their own autonomy. It is no coincidence, he explains, that the first episode that the Torah shares of the Jewish enslavement was the forced construction of the cities of Pisom and Raamses. The Gemara in Sotah (11a) explains that the etymology of these cities’ names suggests shaky and unstable foundations. Try as they might, the Jewish People’s building efforts were an exercise in futility; the ground upon which they built could not support any structures they attempted to erect.

This was the entirety of the Egyptian servitude—a sense that the Jews’ actions didn’t matter or make a difference. That they could never move the needle forward, that what they did had no impact on the world around them. It was an attitude embedded within the very caste system of ancient Egypt itself—that there was no such thing as upward mobility, no way out of the lowest rungs of society. If you were born a slave, you remained a slave, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

Rabbi Twersky suggests that this is precisely what the Jewish People were liberated from. On the one hand, Yetzias Mitzrayim was a recognition of G-d’s control and authority over the world and all that it contains. Yet on the other, it was a reaffirmation of man’s role in how that world functions and operates, that what we do doesn’t just sink into the ground like a building built on quicksand. That when we endeavor to construct, Hashem allows those creations to be upheld.

Yisro’s reappearance in the Jewish camp is marked by the words “וישמע יתרו—And Yisro heard.” What, exactly, did he hear that prompted his return? Rashi explains that it was the two events of Krias Yam Suf and the war with Amalek. Rabbi Twersky offers an incredible insight. In both situations, the Jewish salvation occurred through miraculous means. But in both situations, the hands of Moshe had to be lifted in order for the miracle to occur. The message is clear—Hashem is ultimately in control, but He demands the participation of human beings. The miracle is just an offer on the table; the people need to reach out their own hands in order to accept it. 

This, then, is Yisro’s preoccupation with the salvation from the hands of the Egyptians. Being saved from the Egyptians’ hands, from Pharaoh’s hands, meant a restoration of the Jewish People’s own hands. The hands that Moshe Rabbeinu lifted over the sea to cause it to split and the hands he raised towards the heavens to bring about victory over our enemies. The hands that build, construct, create, with lasting impact. Not in defiance of Hashem’s plans, but in consonance with them.

Faith in Hashem is a critical middah we must strive to develop and expand, particularly when it comes to our own accomplishments. We can arrive at a place of untold arrogance when we view only ourselves as the authors of our achievements. It wasn’t just us who built the practice, got the promotion, made a wise investment. There were more forces than our own charm in winning over a future spouse, more than our own acumen in turning a profit, more than our own skills in passing a test.

But the relationship between Hashem’s control and our efforts cuts in the other direction as well. Hashem endows us with ability, invites our participation, and also demands our efforts. Emunah and bitachon can serve as an unfortunate escape from the responsibility we ourselves are meant to undertake in advancing towards our goals and designing the lives we want to live. 

I was once speaking with a close friend who was seeking a new position. I checked in with him at some point, asking how the job hunt was coming along. “Not going much of anywhere,” he responded, “Just how Hashem wants it I guess.” It was a disheartening thing to hear considering how little effort I knew he’d put in. There was more networking to do, more fine-tuning of his resume, a wider net to cast into the job market. 

“It’s what Hashem wants” is the constant recognition we all must have that our own efforts have no impact on their own. But it cannot become a motto that permits us to abandon the great gifts and abilities Hashem Himself provided us with. There’s proper emunah and there’s misplaced emunah. Proper emunah provides context for the efforts we make; misplaced emunah let’s us off the hook from making those efforts in the first place.

Yisro identified the salvation from Egypt’s hands as characterizing what the redemption was about at its core. To be saved from their hands is to be returned to our own. The hands that play a role in creating a better life and a better world. The hands that helped to split a sea and defeated our enemies. The Egyptians robbed us of those hands, let’s not rob ourselves of the same. 

Parshas Bo 5784

There are few images more chilling than that of an individual with numbers tattooed upon his arm. The notion of being reduced to no more than a number in the eyes of another human being is deeply disturbing. Emerging from the horrors of oppression, of slavery, one can imagine how great the desire to rediscover one’s unique identity must have been. To proclaim that one is not just one in a series, but an individual. 

How interesting, then, that the very first mitzvah this former slave is to perform will force him to be subsumed within a group, rather than stand out as an individual. 

דַּבְּרוּ אֶל־כׇּל־עֲדַת יִשְׂרָאֵל לֵאמֹר בֶּעָשֹׂר לַחֹדֶשׁ הַזֶּה וְיִקְחוּ לָהֶם אִישׁ שֶׂה לְבֵית־אָבֹת שֶׂה לַבָּיִת׃ 

^{(שמות יב:ג)}

Speak to the entire congregation of Israel saying, “On the tenth of this month each one shall take for themselves a lamb for his family, a lamb for his home.” 

^{(Shemos 12:3)}

The very first instruction that each Jew receives is not to find his own way, his own identity, to explore who or she is as an individual, but to fulfill an act on behalf of their families. Indeed, should one family be incapable of consuming an entire lamb, multiple families are to join together, diluting the individual experience even further. 

Rabbi Shamshon Raphael Hirsch notes that this same notion is reflected in the placement of the blood on the doorframe of the home. The first entry that an individual Jew takes into mitzvah observance is not to consecrate his own private room or private bed, but the entire home that is a shared space for his entire family, and—as indicated by this very meal—even other families and friends as well.

How was a Jew legitimately supposed to make the transition from being no more than a number to being liberated, if liberation meant something less than coming into their own individual identity? 

The answer to that question is contained just a few pesukim later, as Moshe relays the instructions he received from Hashem to the Jewish People and offers more detail as to what that first night of mitzvah observance is supposed to look like.

וְהָיָה כִּי־יֹאמְרוּ אֲלֵיכֶם בְּנֵיכֶם מָה הָעֲבֹדָה הַזֹּאת לָכֶם׃ וַאֲמַרְתֶּם זֶבַח־פֶּסַח הוּא לה׳ אֲשֶׁר פָּסַח עַל־בָּתֵּי בְנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל בְּמִצְרַיִם בְּנׇגְפּוֹ אֶת־מִצְרַיִם וְאֶת־בָּתֵּינוּ הִצִּיל וַיִּקֹּד הָעָם וַיִּשְׁתַּחֲווּ׃

^{(שמות יב:כו–כז)}

And it shall be that when your children say to you, “What is this service to you?” And you shall say to them, “It is a Pesach offering to Hashem, Who passed over the homes of the Children of Israel in Egypt, as He struck Egypt and saved our homes.” And the nation bowed and prostrated themselves.

^{(Shemos 12:26-27)} 

An individual can live the most extraordinary life, completely unfettered from any yoke or demand placed upon him by others. Yet even as he exercises every imaginable freedom, there is one prison he cannot escape: time. The Jew suddenly liberated from his Egyptian overlords could easily dive headlong into a life of personal fulfillment, but would only be shackled by the limitations of his own life and the sadly narrow space it occupies on the timeline of history. But by dedicating himself to his family, he escapes that constraint, and creates an influence and legacy that can live on forever.

The latter mitzvah helps to frame and explain the earlier one. Yes, Hashem demands that we dedicate our lives not to ourselves, but to others. But in so doing, He gives us the key to liberating ourselves not only from human oppressors but from the constraints of existence itself. Long into the future, his children and grandchildren will live lives that he shaped and influenced. Will abide by values he crafted at the Seder table. Will recall fondly the wisdom he imparted and the mesorah he conveyed.

It is precisely in this way that the Jewish People rebounded from the oppression of the tyrants who left numbers tattooed upon their arms. In the years 1946-1948, the birth rate in the DP camps of Europe was the highest in the world. And this despite the abysmal conditions those camps provided as the environment in which to raise children.

Why did the Jewish People respond this way? Because they had learned the message that Hashem conveyed to the slave nation on the eve of their liberation. To live for oneself is but to trade one sort of imprisonment for another. To be truly free is feasible—paradoxically—only by sacrificing some of one’s own freedom in the interest of providing for others.

In his introduction to Sefer Shemos, the Ramban notes the tradition of referring to the book as Sefer Geulah, or Book of Redemption. He explains that this theme occupies the entirety of the Sefer, concluding only with the construction of Mishkan, providing a resting place for Hashem’s Presence here on earth.

Here is another dimension to the communal nature of the Korban Pesach and to sanctifying with blood not a private space, but a shared one. No individual can build a Mishkan. It is, by its very nature, a public, national project. And yet it is only through its construction that true redemption is achieved. Which is to say that an individual is imprisoned not only by the time in which he lives, but by his own finite talents and abilities. 

There is only so much that one person can achieve all on his own. But through partnering with others, dedicating oneself to a broader community rather than just oneself, we can transcend our own shortcomings. We become part of something so much bigger than just ourselves. 

We can live for ourselves and become imprisoned by all the shortcomings inherent in that enterprise. Or we can live for others—our families, our communities—and become truly liberated.

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.