Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Nitzavim 5785

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

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

“Uh…not exactly…”

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

Sage advice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Ki Savo 5785

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Ki Seitzei 5785

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

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

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

And here’s the answer: None. 

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

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

“Oh, yes, even that guy.” 

Who is that guy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Shoftim 5785

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbos Chazon 5785

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Mattos-Masei 5785

An impoverished fellow is desperate for a meeting with Rothschild. Pulling any strings possible, he finally succeeds, and enters Rothschild’s impressive office. As the fellow sits down, Rothschild sizes him up, his unkempt hair, shabby clothes, and shoes falling apart. 

“Mr. Rothschild,” the man begins, “I greatly appreciate your taking this meeting. I’ve been waiting for some time to have the opportunity to speak with you.”

“Is that so?” Rothschild asks. “You could have fooled me. I would have thought that if the meeting was that important to you, you would have dressed up a bit for the occasion.”

“Dear Mr. Rothschild,” the man replied. “If I could have dressed any better, I wouldn’t need a meeting with Rothschild.” 

In referencing the Heads of Tribes that Moshe address at the beginning of the Parsha, the Torah uses the term “Rashei HaMatos,” literally, the heads of the staffs. Indeed, the staff in the hand of an individual may well have bore the connotation of leadership of a given group, but the same could be said of the word “shevet,” a term that also means tribe in the usual context, yet more literally refers to a rod or staff. 

Yet “mateh” conveys an additional layer of meaning not present in the word “shevet.” The term “mateh“ connotes inverting, of bringing that which is higher down to a lower plane. In Hebrew, “l’hatos,’’ is to incline or invert. When one strikes with a mateh, he does just that, bringing the top of the staff down low.

This, suggests Rav Aharon of Cherynobyl, is the implicit message to the leaders of the nation in referring to them as “Rashei HaMatos”. That despite their elevated state, despite all they’d achieved, despite their impressive resumes that made them worthy to serve as leaders in the first place, there is a pronounced need for leaders to invert and incline, to lower themselves in the interest of truly connecting with and caring for those they lead.

The “mateh” is a powerful symbol not only for reminding leaders of their mission and how to fulfill it successfully, but also as a means of reframing one of the greatest challenges that leaders can face. Namely, maintaining patience and poise in the face of the failures and shortcomings of those you attempt to lead.

Consider parenting as one example of leadership. A parent’s goal is to teach their child critical life skills, to imbue them with a system of proper values, and to shepherd them to a state of maturity. In a very real sense, then, success as a parent hinges enormously on the behavior of the child. If the child is receptive to the parent’s messaging and leadership, the parent will feel accomplished. If not, not. 

Which means that every foolish misstep and immature blunder that the child makes cuts deep. A parent has staked so much on the success of his child, that the child’s failure feels like his own. And the same goes for direct reports in an office, students in a classroom, or any other venue in which a leader pours enormous time and energy into the shepherding of others towards a series of goals. When they fail, so has he.

There’s much to be said about the importance of decoupling the success of the leader from the success of those he leads, but even assuming that the narrative is fundamentally true, that the reality is that the success of the leader is determined by the led, the mateh reminds us of another, simultaneous, reality. And that is that if it is the leader’s role and privilege to lead, then those who are led must not be perfect; they must stumble and fall. 

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about the importance of followers. That without followers, there are no leaders, only individuals whose goals are too vast to possibly accomplish themselves. That is something for not only the followers themselves to remember, but the leaders as well. That what they seek to accomplish can be done only through partnering with those willing to walk behind them. 

The notion of mateh adds another element. That if the followers never faltered, they wouldn’t need the leaders. Consider once more the example of children. How often do we become frustrated as parents that our children have exhibited poor behavior, demonstrate immaturity, or behave irresponsibly in some other manner? Yet isn’t it those very moments that prove the need for us as parents to begin with? If our children always behaved admirably, would they need us at all for direction and guidance? If our children were perfect, would the nachas we’d receive from them be genuine?

Parenting, like all areas of leadership is an exercise in inverting the experience, wisdom, and talent we possess, making it accessible to those under us. There is no greater satisfaction that helping someone in need and guiding those in need of assistance. Yet if those individuals who turn to us for guidance, who provide us with the gratification of leadership would always exhibit stellar behavior, they wouldn’t need us, and we’d be bereft of the joy of leading.

If the pauper could dress better, he wouldn’t need Rothschild. And if Rothschild weren’t needed, would he be Rothschild at all?

It is not the objective to ensure that those we lead are forever failing, all in the interest of maintaining our leadership. Indeed, Rav Shamshon Raphael Hirsch commented that the teacher is the person whose role it is to make himself superfluous. Creating a cadre of forever-needy followers cannot be the objective of any sincere leader.

But the reality of mateh is something that at the very least can help us be more patient and understanding when we suffer the frustrations of leadership. In truth, we should be neither surprised nor annoyed by less-than-stellar behavior from those we lead. After all, if they were perfect, they wouldn’t need to be led. 

What if the next time your child was disrespectful, your team member exhibited incompetence, or your student was lazy, you responded not with annoyance, but with an accurate assessment of what you were witnessing? “Of course they’re not perfect. If they were, they wouldn’t need me. And what a privilege it is to be needed.”

Parshas Balak 5785

In Vienna 1923, at the First International Congress of Agudath Israel, Rav Meir Shaprio launched a program that changed the Jewish world. He proposed a regimen of Gemara learning whereby one page of the Babylonian Talmud would be studied each day, thus uniting world Jewry in a shared daily limud. With that audacious proposal, Rav Meir Shapiro founded Daf Yomi.

Sort of. 

In Midrash Rabbah 14:20, Chazal record a gripe shared by the collective nations of the world: The Jewish People decided to accept the Torah because they were led by the most extraordinary leader in history, Moshe Rabbeinu. Had another nation been gifted with such a luminary, it too would have pined for a connection with G-d and would have been eager to accept the Torah. Hadn’t G-d provided the Jews with an unfair advantage?

Parshas Balak, explain the Chachamim, serves as a retort to that claim. Enter Bilaam, whose prophetic abilities Chazal describe as being on par with those of Moshe’s, and in some ways, even surpassed them. With Bilaam at the helm, Moav could have become Israel, and the spiritual achievements achieved by the latter could at least have been shared by the former. And yet the opportunity was squandered. Even with Bilaam, the people of Moav remained far from spiritual nobility. Even under a great leader, Moav remained Moav.

Yet, was it really the same? Was Bilaam actually a reasonable stand-in for Moshe Rabbeinu? Bilaam was a conniving mercenary, willing to weaponize his remarkable prophetic powers and sell them to the highest bidder. Moshe was a transcendently righteous individual whose famed humility was unsurpassed. How could it have been lost on Chazal that apportioning Moshe to the Jews and Bilaam to Moav was far from even-steven?

Perhaps Chazal hold a different view of the interaction between the leader and the led. That much of the refinement of character and personal acumen possessed by the leader is actually facilitated by the people who will ultimately be in his charge. In other words, Moshe became the Moshe we know because of the people who surrounded him and the environment they provided. And so did Bilaam. 

Could Bilaam have become like Moshe Rabbeinu? Perhaps he actually could have. But it would have required the very best of all those around him. The sort of people who would hear that G-d wanted to impart His wisdom to them, to impose upon them a mode of living that would be spiritually uplifting on the one hand but immensely challenging on the other and would respond with, “Na’aseh v’nishma”. 

Perhaps it is not that the people of Moav failed because of the shortcomings of their leader, but that their leader failed because of the shortcomings of his people.

Which means that as much as the world needs its leaders, it needs its followers even more. The rank-and-file, going about their business, choosing right over wrong thousands of times throughout their daily lives, all in a manner that never makes the headlines. 

I remember sitting at MetLife Stadium during the last Siyum HaShas and watching the image of Rav Shmuel Kaminetzky appear on the screen. “How different,” I thought. Compared to the faces usually shown on those screens—athletes, singers, and the like—Rav Shmuel’s visage served in delightful contrast. But the most remarkable thing about that spectacle was not Rav Shmuel—neither his face nor his words. Rather, it was the 100,000 strong who showed up to hear him, to listen to the Gadol HaDor recite the Hadran in completion of all of Shas, to celebrate the learning accomplished by tens of thousands worldwide. 

And the same can be said of the movement that is Daf Yomi itself. Was the Jewish People fortunate to have the leadership of Rav Meir Shapiro? Undoubtedly. Is he responsible for the success of Daf Yomi as a movement? Sort of.

What would have become of Daf Yomi had Rav Meir Shapiro’s proposal fallen on deaf ears? If there hadn’t been the response of thousands worldwide—even in those earliest years—who were willing to be led? If there hadn’t been throngs of carpenters and accountants and physicians who heeded his call? And had such a Jewish world not existed, would Rav Meir Shaprio have even become Rav Meir Shapiro?

“Leadership” is all the buzz, whether at corporate outings, professional in-services, or teen summer programs. And yet if we focus on leadership alone we may well be failing to properly develop the one area that permits leaders to enjoy any measure of success. It is not enough that we step up and lead; we must be doubly prepared to step up and follow. 

Parshas Chukas 5785

Absent the number of a Christian theologian saved on my phone, the extent of my research was an AI-generated response on Google. Still, the assessment resonates, at least for this relative layman. The question: What is the difference between Catholic and Jewish guilt? 

The answer:

Catholic guilt is often associated with a pervasive sense of wrongdoing and sin, stemming from the concept of original sin and the need for atonement. Jewish guilt, in contrast, is often described as a feeling of not doing enough, or falling short of expectations, and is linked to the emphasis on personal responsibility and mitzvah (good deeds) in Jewish tradition.

Seems largely right to me. 

Or, to sum it up perhaps more succinctly, a comment I read to the same question posed on Reddit: 

Catholic guilt comes from your priest. Jewish guilt comes from your mother. 

In introducing us to the mitzvah of Parah Adumah, Parshas Chukas presents us with what is generally considered the most baffling of all mitzvos, the one that lies even further beyond the limits of human reasoning than any others. The pasuk even presents this mitzvah as “זאת חקת התורה—This is the chok of the Torah”, referencing the category of mitzvos that transcend human logic, and speaking of this law as the quintessential example thereof. 

Rashi, quoting the Gemara in Yoma 67, speaks of a conversation between us and the foreign nations surrounding this mitzvah, that never really gets off the ground. The Gemara tells of the nations antagonizing the Jews, demanding a reason for the Parah Adumah, effectively mocking our inability to explain it. So the Torah reminds us it’s not ours to explain. It lays in a realm beyond explanation. It’s a chok. Period.

And yet this very statement appears undermined by Rashi’s own comments on the very same pasuk. Quoting from the Midrash Tanchuma, Rashi actually provides a window into understanding this otherwise enigmatic mitzvah. The Midrash offers a mashal of a boy who sneaks into the king’s palace and makes a mess. Upon discovering the mischief, they summon the boy’s mother to clean up after him. It is only fair, after all, that she should be held responsible for the misdeed of her own son.

The Parah Adumah—an adult female cow—functions in a similar manner. A baby calf was front and center during perhaps the greatest sin ever committed, that of the Egel HaZahav. Hence, it is the mother cow that must now come and provide atonement for the sin of the child.

A beautiful bit of symbolism, and not nearly the sort of explanation that transcends all logic and rational thought. So why, when the other nations come knocking, do we not reach for this mashal, answering the question head-on with insight and reason?

Rav Yechiel Michel of Zlotschov explained that, in reality, it is precisely this mashal that the other nations have in mind when they come to antagonize us, needling us for an explanation of the mitzvah. Knowing that Parah Adumah is linked to the Egel HaZahav, it is their intention to accost us, demanding an interpretation of a mitzvah that they know will only dredge up our past foibles. It is to this that we are given the gift of the label “chok,” providing us with the opportunity to shut down the conversation, to deny that human logic can at all be applied to an understanding of Parah Adumah.

But why beat around the bush? Why not just reply head on? Perhaps because there is so fundamental a difference in our understanding of guilt—its origin and how it functions—that no satisfactory conclusion to the conversation with the other nations can ever be arrived at.

Our guilt—as the quip above so aptly puts it—comes from our mothers, not from our priests. Jewish guilt is not a theological axiom of human existence. A guilty conscience is not inherent. It emanates, rather, from a deep-seated understanding of just how much we’re capable of, of the gadlus ha’adam, the innate greatness of a human being. The sort of guilt that would come from a Jewish mother, because of boundless potential her children are endowed with. 

Which means we need not live forever beneath a dark cloud. We need only be better, inch ever closer to the fulfillment of the potential our mothers—or whomever—may recognize within us.

Or, to put it in other terms, the escape from Jewish guilt is teshuva, the process whereby we shed sins of the past in favor of a more virtuous future. But to do so, we must process those sins, not hide from them. If guilt, sin, or a stain on our soul is unavoidable—simply part of the human condition—we would certainly bury our heads in the sand. But if we can transcend all that, then there is no sense in cowering in fear of previous errors. We would far prefer to tackle them head on and to emerge better for it.

The nations ponder Parah Adumah, trying to bait us into a humiliating admission of sins past. Too late. We’re already doing it. 

I don’t actually know which of the foreign nations is being referenced in the conversation about the Parah Adumah that Chazal describe. Only that it is a decidedly foreign one. One that, because it so vastly differs from the Jewish understanding, makes a conversation about the subject of sin, guilt, and the possible emergence from both, a conversation that cannot possibly go anywhere. 

In Jewish thought, there is no fear in confronting sins of the past. Because they are rectifiable. And in rectifying our sins, we emerge not only unscathed, but even better than we were before. As the Gemara famously notes in Berachos 34b, “מָקוֹם שֶׁבַּעֲלֵי תְשׁוּבָה עוֹמְדִין — צַדִּיקִים גְּמוּרִים אֵינָם עוֹמְדִין—Where those who have repented stand, not even wholly righteous people stand.” 

The stain of sin is not inherent to the human being. Quite the opposite. Judaism sees man as being fully capable of transcending past errors and emerging holy and pure. Jews should talk about sin, strategize ways to overcome it, and laud the virtues of those who do. We just may need to have such conversations amongst ourselves. 

Parshas Korach 5785

The criticism levied at the government over the span of just a few days has been dizzying. Before bombing Iran, naysayers insisted America was teetering on the edge of entering what would surely be a protracted campaign, maybe even a World War. A couple days later? The bombing wasn’t extensive enough, unclear that it really did the job at all. Voices in one direction, and in the exact opposite direction—sometimes coming out of the very same mouth. 

So what should you do when you just can’t win? You do you. It’s what Moshe Rabbeinu would have done. 

“Moshe’s not the only one!” The criticism of Korach, citing the fact that, after all, “כל העדה כלם קדושים—The entire congregation is replete with holy people” does more than sting; it reverberates with a familiarity of other criticism we heard all too recently. Just a few short parshios ago, it was Miriam who had been critical of Moshe Rabbeinu using similar language, comparing his activities to those of the people surrounding him: “הרק אך במשה דבר ה׳—Was it only with Moshe that Hashem spoke?” 

Both Korach and Miriam take issue with Moshe’s behavior not in a vacuum, but as compared with his surroundings. For Korach, Moshe’s ascent to the throne, as it were, is inappropriate, considering that those around him are likewise qualified. For Miriam, there is something about Moshe’s behavior that is unsettling, not in of itself, but in comparison with other prophets that Hashem had likewise spoken with.

What are we to make of this parallel? Is the Torah suggesting that Korach and Miriam should somehow be spoken of in the same breath? Korach goes down as one of the great rabble-rousers of Tanach, while Miriam is remembered as one of the most righteous women of all time. 

We name our daughters Miriam. When was the last time you heard the name “Korach” proclaimed at a bris?

I would suggest that the inherent similarity between the critiques offered by Korach and Miriam exists not to teach us about either of them, but rather, to teach us a great deal about Moshe Rabbeinu.

First, something of a novel approach to Miriam’s critique offered at the end of Parshas Beha’aloscha, though one that maintains fidelity to the simple reading of the pesukim themselves. The actual concern Miriam has with Moshe’s actions is—at least as stated by the Torah—vague. We know only the broad topic of the conversation she has with Aharon about Moshe, namely, “על אודות האשה הכשית אשר לקח—Regarding the Cushite women that [Moshe] had taken.” The problem, it seems, is with Tzipporah, Moshe’s wife. And while the classical interpretation focuses on Moshe’s divorcing Tzipporah—a step necessary to be at the constant prophetic beck and call of Hashem—a strict reading of the pasuk suggests that Miriam may have been criticizing their union in the first place.

Consider that Miriam and Aharon were, as Miriam herself points out, prophets and leaders of the nation in their own right. And while Moshe had looked beyond the literal B’nei Yisrael for a spouse, his two siblings had looked within. Aharon was married to Elisheva, the sister of Nachshon ben Aminadav, and, according to Chazal, Miriam married Calev. Both Calev and Nachshon would serve as heads of the tribe of Yehudah—the shevet identified as the one that would ultimately produce the future kings of Israel. And Calev and Nachshon themselves would achieve great renown as one of only two spies to return from Israel with a positive report of the Land, and as the first to jump into the Yam Suf and serve as a catalyst for perhaps the greatest open miracle in all of history.

In Jewish terms, both Aharon and Miriam married into the aristocracy. Moshe, did not. Spectacularly so.

This is, perhaps, Miriam’s concern. “הרק אך במשה דבר ה׳—Was it only with Moshe that Hashem spoke?” The profile of a Navi, of a leader, is not the sole purview of Moshe to define. There are rules and assumptions and expectations. Royalty marries royalty. How can the effective King of the nation marry a simple woman not even of Jewish origin?

To this, the Torah includes a description of Moshe’s character immediately after recording Miriam’s critique. A description that, though serving as something of a non sequitur when viewed through the lens of other interpretations of the story, in light of this proposed understanding makes perfect sense. 

The Torah tells us, “וְהָאִישׁ מֹשֶׁה עָנָו מְאֹד מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל־פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה—The man, Moshe, was exceedingly humble, more than anyone else upon the face of the earth.” Why didn’t Moshe marry a woman from the upper echelons of Jewish society? Not to make a statement, but simply out of humility. The notion that he needed to marry someone from a particular group, class, or layer of the sociopolitical pyramid hadn’t occurred to him. He needed only marry a tzadeikes, a righteous woman who shared his worldview, his dedication to Hashem, and who would raise their children to do the same.

And herein lies an understanding of the comparison between Miriam’s critique and that of Korach’s. If Miriam’s claim was, in effect, Moshe was too humble, too aloof from the demands and expectations placed upon him as Rabban Shel Yisrael, then Korach’s claim was the exact opposite. Moshe has arrogant and power-hungry, inappropriately grabbing the reigns of leadership for himself. 

What did Miriam and Korach each bring to support their claims? Comparisons to those who surrounded Moshe. For Miriam, Moshe needed to compare himself to the other nevi’im and act with more gravitas and stature. For Korach, Moshe needed to compare himself to all the other holy members of the holy nation and stand down, so other equally competent leaders could be given a chance.

If you’re keeping score, it sounds like Moshe can’t win. 

And, I would argue, that that is precisely the Torah’s point. For all the value in keeping your antennae out, in being conscious and aware of the standards and norms that surround you, sculpting your behavior purely by examining yourself in the social mirror is not only self-destructive, it is ultimately impossible. There will always be a group on your right pushing you in one direction and a group on your left pushing you in another. Your behavior will always be too arrogant for some, too humble for others. There will always be voices calling for you to change, comply, and follow in a particular manner, while other voices calling for a move in precisely the opposite direction. 

How does Moshe react? He doesn’t. He does him. Stays the course. Maintaining the confidence that a call to change is not in of itself a sufficient justification to do so. After all, succumbing to that call will only make the other call—the one that will always be present, demanding that the exact opposite move be made—ever louder. 

Parshas Shelach 5785

I had a thought this past week. If a nuclear weaponized Iran posed a pronounced physical threat to all of Israel–and even beyond–then in one fateful decision, Binyamin Netanyahu saved the lives of millions of Jews. And I’m not certain that the sustained observance that is my entire life’s work can measure very favorably against that one achievement. For all my Shabbasos and tefillin and pages of Gemara, I think Bibi just leapfrogged me.

But I’m not depressed. I’m inspired. 

The spies return from Eretz Yisrael and issue their infamous report to the rest of the people, pulling no punches. Among other damning conditions, the Jews will be surrounded by enemy nations upon entering the land—Amalek to the south, the Chitim, Yevusim, and Emorim to the north, and flanked to the west and east by Canaanim. There will be nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The Jewish People will be sitting ducks. 

Calev and Yehoshua have a different perspective. And what is so fascinating is that it is just that—a different perspective. They do not argue the facts, insist that the other spies had been lying or even exaggerating. Only that they’re viewing things incorrectly. “עלה נעלה וירשנו אתה—We will do up and inherit the Land (13:30),” Calev insists. “Despite what you’ve said, despite the essentially factual report you’ve delivered, nevertheless, we will rise up, enter the Land, and conquer it.” 

What made Calev so sure? Why did he interpret the presence of strong, enemy nations as something eminently navigable, while everyone else was scared off?

There is a telling phrase the people use in responding to the spies’ report, as they begin to devise a plan to return to Egypt, rather than face certain death in Canaan. “נתנה ראש—Let us appoint a head (14:4),” they say, one who will be able to lead them back the way they came. Rashi brings Chazal’s interpretation of this term saying that the “head” they referred to was actually avodah zarah—a false deity. 

The Jews who entertained a return to Egypt did not see the situation in which they found themselves as fixed. There was no absolute destination at which they must arrive, and not even a definitive theology within which they must abide. Things were fluid; they were still shopping around. “If Canaan won’t work, we can find a different Land. If this G-d won’t permit it, we’ll find one who will.” 

The Mesilas Yesharim famously begins his work by noting that the first step in proper avodah is a clear definition of one’s responsibilities and obligations. And while he is addressing the subject of avodas hakodesh—of serving Hashem—the same can be said of any enterprise. It is not until we know clearly what we absolutely must do, must achieve, that we begin to construct a proper roadmap for getting us there. 

For Calev and Yehoshua, the objectives—and obligations—were clear. “Hashem told us we’re going to Canaan. It is the fulfillment of a promise that long predates our own generation, going back to the days of our ancestor, Avraham. There is no other way, no other Land, and no other G-d. So I guess this is just going to have to work out.” 

For all the warnings to Knesset, Congress, and on international media outlets, many doubted whether or not Binyamin Netanyahu had the courage to attack Iran. Apparently he did. Whatever you may believe about his leadership as a whole, whatever mistakes or blunders may pockmark his resume, when it came to Iran, Netanyahu pulled the trigger. And saved millions of Jewish lives. A claim that few others in history can truly make. 

How did he do it? By entering the same space that Calev did—believing that there simply was no other alternative. Iran could not be permitted to attain nuclear weapons. Period. A philosophy shared by many others in Israel—political leaders, Mossad agents, airforce pilots. And it’s this insistence that changes the landscape. That leads to brilliant strategies, daring missions, and military cunning. To the salvation of millions of Jewish lives. When you believe that there is simply no other way, a bottleneck is formed behind the objective, that squeezes every resource and effort towards that one and only goal.

So I am left inspired. By the prospect of what can be achieved once arriving at the conviction that there is simply no other way. That Hashem demands it, that our People need it, that this is how it has to be. How many of our goals are left unfulfilled not because we are truly lacking the time, energy, or resources, but simply because we equivocate over how important it really is? 

“Do I really need to finish that Masechta?” “Really need to save for retirement?” “Really need to lose twenty pounds?” There is a popular Jewish expression, based on a number of statements of Chazal, that “אין דבר העומד בפני הרצון—There is nothing that stands in the way of one’s will,” or, loosely, “When there’s a will there’s a way.” Indeed. But it is oftentimes the will that proves elusive. How do we get it? There will be a will when we insist there’s just no other way.