Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Noach 5784

If you were in shul this past Shabbos afternoon, or the Monday or Thursday morning thereafter, or have simply been reviewing this week’s parsha and gotten as far as the first the first three pesukim, you likely had the wind briefly knocked out of you:

וַתִּשָּׁחֵת הָאָרֶץ לִפְנֵי הָאֱלֹקים וַתִּמָּלֵא הָאָרֶץ חָמָס׃

^{(בראשית ו:יא)}

And the earth became corrupt before G-d. And the earth was filled with Hamas (lawlessness).

^{(Bereishis 6:11)}

If you missed the pasuk in any formal study of the Parsha, social media likely complied in bringing it to your attention. The Torah refers to lawlessness (or violence, or perhaps thievery) with the Hebrew word, Hamas. Not only is there the recognition that the earth had become filled with Hamas, but just two pesukim later, Hashem tells Noach that as a result, it must be destroyed.

It is chilling reading these words as the Jewish People find themselves ramping up for war with a group of the same name.

In this pasuk, G-d speaks in very broad and general terms. The entire earth was infected with Hamas. Every human being other than Noach and his family were beset by this unusual strain of depravity. G-d can make this sort of statement. Because He’s G-d. We need to remember that we’re not.

What existed in the time of the Flood is unique in world history. The notion that every human being on earth sunk to a state of abject moral destitution is not something we’ve known since that horribly wayward generation. Ten generations later, Hashem sets His sights on Sodom, Amorah, and the outlying areas. These cities also suffered from moral bankruptcy and the populations therein needed to be wiped out. 

But such broad, sweeping characterizations of huge throngs of people is a job that needs to be left to Hashem. Sometimes evil becomes so pronounced in action that it can be easily identified. We can readily make that sort of assessment about Hamas, now more than ever. What troubles me are the assumptions some are willing to make about all those standing in the background, the “extras” in the drama in which Hamas terrorists play the leading role. What we know is that terrorists who commit atrocities against innocent people are evil. What we don’t know is that the two million people they rule over are equally so. Broad characterizations of that nature are for G-d to make, not man.

Why do we go this route?  Because it’s easier to go to war against an enemy that is purely evil than one that is partly evil. It calms the nerves to believe that every casualty of this war is no less guilty than the terrorists who infiltrated Israel and carried out inhumane atrocities against our people. I feel more justified in calling for a war in which many people will be killed if every one of those people is actually a monster in hiding.

But do we know that that’s the case? Do we have any proof that the average civilian in Gaza is as contemptible as bona fide terrorists?

Israel must go to war. The blessing of military might that Hashem has endowed Israel with is the ability to uproot enemies that pose a threat to the Jewish People. The cold, hard reality of war is that achieving that goal means collateral damage. It means people who should not be blamed for the war will nevertheless perish in it. 

What, then, is the great difference? If war is inevitable, if it must occur, if it is the only means to the desperately needed end of safety and security for the Jewish People, who cares how we choose to characterize our enemies in that war? I think there are at least three differences.

Firstly, it means restraint. I don’t mean the sort of restraint that is sometimes imposed on Israel by other countries, by the media, or by popular opinion that hampers its ability to adequately protect itself and see evil fully uprooted before demands are made that it pull back. But the sort of restraint that is the hallmark of humanity, of not giving oneself carte blanche to attack anything and everything in sight because “they’re all evil anyway.” The sort of restraint that considers the snuffing out of a human life to be something of such magnitude that it can’t be spoken of in a cavalier manner and acts in way that attempts to limit the carnage of war while still fulfilling the stated objectives of war.

Secondly, the difference is one of honesty and truth. In a Beis Medrash, one doesn’t tolerate claims and assertions not based on fact. When we begin to paint millions of people in broad strokes, based on emotional stirrings and leanings, we’re violating a basic middah that Hashem demands of us. What is infuriating about the way the media reported the hospital explosion in Gaza is that it parroted information that various outlets wanted to be true, but had no proof that it actually was. That is an abhorrent way of operating, one that we must be above. What proof can be offered about the thoughts and feelings of two million people living in Gaza? If we have none, we can’t jump to conclusions.

Finally, giving ourselves license to make assumptions about the character of others has a cascading effect. “Everyone in Gaza is evil,” lies on the same continuum of “Everyone hates us,” and “Every non-Jew is an anti-semite.” It’s untrue and it’s unfair. So many people far beyond our own ranks have stood up and spoken up for Israel and the Jewish Nation these past two weeks. They have denounced terrorism, barbarism, and anti-Semitism, without the need to contextualize the beheading of babies against the backdrop of Israeli colonialism. There are many good and decent people in this world, and they’re not all Jews. They deserve our adopting a mentality that isn’t quick to paint people as evil out of convenience.

The Torah describes that in unleashing the Flood upon the earth, Hashem tore open all the springs of the “תהום רבה—the great deep” (7:11). Rashi notes that this punishment was measure for measure, for the people of the earth had sinned in a manner of “רבת רעת האדם—greatly evil was man’s wickedness” (6:5). The key term, the one the comparison is based upon, is “רבה” or “great”. The people sinned excessively, and Hashem punished them with excessive water.

Water can be the greatest possible blessing to mankind. In proper measure, rivers swell and produce fertile farmland, streams carry freshwater inland to make it possible to cultivate more fo the earth. But in overabundance, water is disastrous. Indeed, it can drown the whole earth. From the punishment, we can infer the crime. This was a generation of excess, that went all in on their desires, interests, passions and acted without restraint. Hashem showed them that even that which is a blessing in proper measure, becomes catastrophic when not reigned in.

We need to exercise judgment when called for. We cannot be afraid to identify evil, decry evil, and even wipe it off the map. But we also need to exercise caution in applying that label too broadly. War is oftentimes the only means a nation has at its disposable to protect itself. It may be necessary, but it’s not pretty. Let’s not make ourselves feel better about it by being less than honest.

While I try to use this space for thoughtful and cohesive comments on the Parsha and what’s going on in the world, I’m having a very hard time producing anything cohesive right now. I hope to at least be thoughtful. What follows are scattered thoughts from a confused mind during disorderly times.

We’re Supposed To Be Sad

It was just a couple weeks ago that I was speaking with community members in advance of Yom Kippur, discussing their specific medical concerns and whether or not they could and should fast. In nearly every conversation, I noted the importance of differentiating between discomfort and an acute medical need. Fasting is uncomfortable and difficult. It is supposed to be uncomfortable and difficult. Eating on Yom Kippur is for those to whom fasting poses a threat to their health, not to their comfort.

I think that a similar rubric is required now as well. For some, sadness spirals too quickly into depression, and they will need to take heavy precautions in insulating their emotional and mental state from the realities of these dark days. But most of us should be sharing in the national mourning of the Jewish People. The discomfort thereof is not an exemption from this obligation.

At the time of writing, the death toll from the Hamas attack on our People exceeds 1,200. 1,200 funerals. 1,200 shiva homes. Tens of thousands of mourners left to cope. Yes, unity means tehilim and tzedaka and care packages and volunteering and activism, but it also means simply feeling the pain of our brothers and sisters. Both because it lends greater urgency and meaning to the above activities we undertake on their behalf, but also simply to hold their mourning and grief alongside them and to allow our tears to mix with theirs.

If you are sad, if you’ve been crying, if you’re distracted throughout the day, you’re probably right where you should be. Sadness is uncomfortable, but it is the emotion we’re called upon to feel right now.

Sometimes people need to eat, even on Yom Kippur. But most of us just need the reassurance that we’re going to be hungry, it’s ok to be hungry, and we’re supposed to be hungry.

Most of us are going to be sad, it’s ok to be sad, indeed, we’re supposed to sad. This is what it means to be a caring, feeling Jew right now. 

On Civilians and Soldiers

Israel is now at war with hundreds of thousands of soldiers in tow. May Hashem watch over and protect every one. But should there be any casualties, Rachmana l’tzlan, be on guard. Such deaths will be reported as those of soldiers, not civilians. Don’t fall prey for one moment to terminology that makes those deaths seem any more legitimate or any less horrific and offensive. 

What is the difference between a 30 year old father of three killed in his home and a 30 year old father of three killed in Gaza who is there only in an attempt to uproot the sort of evil that will kill a 30 year old father of three in his home? 

The 300,000 Israelis who were called up to fight are computer programmers, accountants, and rebbeim. They are not bloodthirsty pirates looking to rape and pillage or expand borders or achieve personal glory. They are civilians who have been called upon to uproot terror and protect their People and Land. 

Putting on a khaki-green uniform may change the technical application of an international war crime. But it does not alter truth or dilute morality. There are not 300,000 soldiers itching to fight, there are 300,000 civilians who have no other choice.

“Your Departure Is Too Difficult”

Shemini Atzeres is something of an add-on holiday. It belongs to the holiday season stretching from Rosh Hashana to Sukkos, and yet has little character of its own. It is not until we put down the arba minim and exit the sukkah that we celebrate it. Where did this day come from and what is its purpose? 

Rashi on Chumash (Vayikra 23:36) explains that “Atzeres” should be interpreted as a “stop” or “halting.” Hashem tells the Jewish People that after all this time we’ve spent in such close quarters throughout the Yamim Tovim, “Kasha alai preidaschem—Your departure is too difficult for Me.” Hashem holds onto us for just one more day because He cannot bear to see us go.

It was this day, the day when Hashem says I cannot bear your departure, that hundreds of Jews were mortally wounded, ultimately departing this world altogether. 150 departed their homes at knife and gunpoint, carted off into captivity. Three hundred thousand were called upon to depart their families and homes to join the fight to defend the Jewish Nation and Homeland. 

I don’t know what this means. Hashem’s ways are beyond human comprehension. But what I’ve done with this realization is to turn it into a tefilah. “Hashem, You Who cannot tolerate a premature departure of Your People from Your embrace, were robbed of an Atzeres, a day we stay with you and do not depart Your company. You are owed a day when Your children can finish their tefilos, can finish their hakafos, can finish their celebrations of Yom Tov in Your company. Bring them home soon, in safety and security, so they may finish the Atzeres they started.”

Shemini Atzeres 5784

If you’re sitting down to work in one location for a while, it’s a good idea to keep your phone or laptop plugged in. If you’re stationary, why bother draining the battery? Ultimately, you’ll need to get up and go, and it’s worth making sure that the battery is fully charged while you can.

The Torah refers to Shemini Atzeres in highly particularistic terms: “ביום השמיני עצרת תהיה לכם—On the eighth day, it shall be a gathering for you.” Every Yom Tov is observed exclusively by the Jewish People, yet on Shemini Atzeres there is an emphasis placed on the holiday being for you—for the Jewish People specifically.

The Sfas Emes explains that during this time of year, the entirety of Creation receives an infusion of novelty. Rosh Hashana marks the judgment day of the universe and all its inhabitants—Jew and non-Jew, man and animal—and this process continues through Yom Kippur and into Hoshana Rabbah, the final day of Sukkos. The entirety of the universe benefits from the judgment and relaunching of the cosmos during this period of year. Upon its conclusion, at Shemini Atzeres, the Jew is highlighted as having processed this time of year in a unique manner.

The Sfas Emes notes that whenever a person receives a present, he benefits in two ways. The first, is from the gift itself and whatever function it serves. The second, far more profound way, is the gift within the gift, the very relationship that has been strengthened through the bestowing of the present. 

Sukkos is the celebration of being invited into Hashem’s space—The “צילא דמהימנותא,” or, “Cover of Faith” as it’s referred to by the Zohar. As a present in of itself, the sukkah is a far cry from the penthouse of a posh hotel. But we do not rejoice in the sukkah because of its physical trimmings. We do so because Hashem has chosen to share His abode with us, and there can be nothing more meaningful or flattering than that reality.

Shemini Atzeres is the celebration of having a unique relationship with Hashem that no other nation enjoys. It is the culmination of this entire period of the year, one that greatly benefits all of humanity, but is unique to the Jewish People in terms of the relationship that exists behind it. It is that relationship we celebrate and that relationship that makes Shemini Atzeres “לכם—just for you.” 

On Shemini Atzeres we transition from the Sukkah back into our homes, an experience that bridges the Yom Tov season with the lives we live the rest of the year. As we exit the sukkah, we are leaving Hashem’s home and entering our own. What happens when one leaves the home in which He is hosted? The halacha is clear; the host must escort the guest out. The Sfas Emes beautifully describes that this is exactly the phenomenon we enjoy on Shemini Atzeres. Hashem does not send us out of the sukkah unceremoniously; He escorts us a host escorts his honored guests. The unique relationship we enjoy with Hashem is on full display, and Shemini Atzeres becomes a holiday that is “לכם—just for you.” 

The Yamim Tovim charge our spiritual batteries by making major deposits into our relationship with Hashem. Ultimately, we can’t stay plugged into the wall. Our year-round responsibilities don’t permit the rigorous schedule of shul-going, seudah-prepping, and other elements of the season of Yamim Tovim. But as this time draws to an end, it’s critical that we take a bit of time to reflect of how much Hashem has invited us into His space and how much time we’ve spent there. Our relationship is real, it is deep, and it can withstand the vicissitudes of the rest of the year, even as life transitions back to “normal.”

How do we best ensure that the relationship stays healthy and strong? How do we best ensure that the battery not die on us? The answer is embedded into the very way we’ve come to celebrate this upcoming Yom Tov. For Shemini Atzeres has morphed into a day with a different title altogether: Simchas Torah. The Sfas Emes suggests that we have come to associate Shemini Atzeres with Simchas Torah because it is the Torah that contains all the blessings—all the enhancements to our relationship with Hashem—that we’ve come to enjoy throughout the Yamim Tovim of the past few weeks.

When we daven, we speak to Hashem. When we learn Torah, Hashem speaks to us. A relationship doesn’t last when only one side gets a turn to speak. If we’re serious about holding on to the relationship we’ve developed with Hashem over the past few weeks, we need to give serious thought to how often we allow His voice to reverberate throughout our lives. Where can we open up another space for limud Torah in our lives? Where can we engage in a deeper conversation with Hashem throughout the year?

Simchas Torah is the natural conclusion of the couples’ retreat we’ve enjoyed with our Beloved for the past few weeks. How do we ensure that the joy of Torah is woven into the fabric of our lives all throughout the year? How can we ensure that we the conversation, the closeness, and the relationship with Hashem is not something only felt a few weeks of the year?

Sukkos 5784

My grandmother was the most frugal person I’ve ever known. When she was over, she’d always busy herself with housework, lending as much of a helping hand as possible. And when she did the dishes, it was not uncommon to find disposable cups that had been washed and left to dry alongside the real glasses. A once-used plastic straw would occasionally lay upright next to the drying forks and knives, and even the paper towels that were used to wipe the rim of the sink would be laid over the top of the drying rack, anticipating a second lease on life. 

The world has changed, as have people, and that degree of frugality can no longer be found. But there is something beautiful about it—about the recognition that there’s far usability in so many of the things we’re quick to discard. And while it may not be worth our time to rinse and reuse plastic cups and straws, we should at least be willing to rinse and reuse elements of our own character that we may have prematurely earmarked for the trash bin.

In locating the time for celebrating Sukkos, the Torah tells us that it should be done, “באספך מגרנך ומיקבך—When you gather from your threshing floor and from your wine press” (Devarim 16:13). The Gemara in Sukkah 12a understands these words not only as instruction for when to celebrate Sukkos, but how to do so. Specifically, that when we gather the plant matter that remains after threshing our grain and pressing our grapes—the discarded stalks of wheat and grape vines now bereft of their fruit—we are holding in our hands that which should be utilized for the s’chach of the sukkah. 

There is something about this description that makes the sukkah seem almost like an afterthought. Indeed, in describing the materials that Torah references as befitting for s’chach, the Gemara states, “בפסולת גרן ויקב הכתוב מדבר—The verse speaks of the refuse of the threshing floor and the wine press.” As Jews engage, on the one hand, in the pursuit of the most beautiful specimens of the four minim that money can buy, they simultaneously gather materials that the Gemara considers “refuse” in fulfillment of the other great mitzvah of Sukkos. Why is the s’chach referred to in such harsh terms?

Much is made of the relationship between Sukkos and the holidays that so closely precede it, Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. It of course is no accident that we’re barely given time to get our needs for Yom Tov in order before we are commanded to pivot directly from the Aseres Y’mei Teshuva to celebrating Sukkos. Perhaps as we emerge from this season of teshuva, the materials we gather for the sukkah is helping us make the appropriate transition to life in our renewed, repented state.

If you took the teshuva process seriously, you undoubtedly identified areas of your own character and personality you’d prefer to be without. If my jealousy, impatience, and lust could simply be exorcised from within me, how many fewer transgressions would I have committed? How much more easily could I have become the person I truly wish to be? 

To this, the Torah tells us no. Do not believe that the teshuva process has identified parts of your very self that ought to be discarded. For it is the p’soles—the very waste of the harvest—that is actually used to construct the sukkah, the shared space you’ll enjoy with the Shechinah. Sins can be spoken of in strict black and white terms. Middos, on the other hand, lay on a continuum. If a portion of your character has heretofore churned out underwhelming outcomes, it can nonetheless be repurposed redirected towards more positive results.

The person who wishes he could crush his impuosity may actually have the fire in his belly to launch immensely worthwhile projects. The person frustrated by his predisposition towards laziness may actually be blessed with tolerance and the ability to be still and considerate without getting antsy. Who we are at our very core should not—and, frankly, cannot—be discarded. It is this very “waste” or “refuse” that can become the stuff of which our abode with Hashem is constructed.

It is easy to be dismissive when it comes to unwanted aspects of our own personalities. Indeed, identifying parts of who we are as objectively “bad” lets us off the hook, doesn’t it? Hashem made me this way, after all, which means I’m just doomed to failure. And He can’t possibly hold it against me.

What is far more difficult is to turn those middos over a few more times and consider, “How can I use this?” This nugget of my character that caused so much trouble this past year, that left a laundry list of “al chet’s” in its wake—how can it be redirected towards more desired results? It’s easy to identify refuse, to see something as useless and pointless. But as we sit under roofs of p’soles, we should consider how we can wash and clean those aspects of ourselves we’d initially choose to just be without. How can we be more frugal with our very middos? What is the p’soles of our lives that can be rediscovered for the immense value hidden within?

Parshas Haazinu 5784

“Helicopter Parent” is a pejorative term. It refers to the incessant presence of a parent who just won’t go away, won’t give their child the space to independently grow and develop. A micromanager. A bubble wrapper. It seems that Hashem is a hovering parent, too. But He keeps just enough distance.

In one of the most beautiful allegories in all of Tanach of the relationship between ourselves and Hashem, Parshas Haazinu describes:

כְּנֶשֶׁר יָעִיר קִנּוֹ עַל־גּוֹזָלָיו יְרַחֵף יִפְרֹשׂ כְּנָפָיו יִקָּחֵהוּ יִשָּׂאֵהוּ עַל־אֶבְרָתוֹ׃

^{דברים לב:יא}

Like an eagle rousing its nestlings, he hovers above his young, he spread his wings to take them, to bear them upon his pinions.

^{Devarim 32:11}

The pasuk sounds like it’s describing Hashem as a helicopter parent. But  Rav Tzaddok Hakohen explains that the intention of this metaphor is actually not to convey how close Hashem is, but how distant. 

The reality of the hovering bird, explains Rav Tzaddok, is that its wing will briefly graze the body of the baby, but then retreat the very next moment. There is a constant back-and-forth, or up-and-down, that the bird hovering above the nest is engaged in. We touch the parent’s wing one moment, but in an instant it departs.

Rav Tzaddok notes that this is the fundamental state of Hashem’s interaction with the world He created. So much so, in fact, that we find the notion of His hovering presence referred to as early as the very first stages of the creation of the universe. In just the second pasuk of the entire Torah, we read that, “ורוח אלקים מרחפת על פני הים—The spirit of G-d hovered upon the surface of the water.” 

There is a natural ebb and flow in the connection we will feel with Hashem, and it’s critical that we be aware of that from the outset. The nature of an omnipotent being interacting with a finite world means that there will be distance, that being acutely conscious of Hashem’s presence will be sporadic at best. 

What difference does that all make? A colossal one, actually. How often do we feel that we’ve sensed Hashem, became fully aware of His presence in our lives, only to find that that feeling has dissipated but a moment later. And where does that leave us? At best frustrated that we couldn’t hold onto the feeling, that there must be something wrong with us. And at worst, doubting if the experience was even real in the first place. It departed so quickly, was I just imagining the whole thing? 

We can begin to question our own spiritual aptitude and ability to properly connect with Hashem at all. And if we’re so bad at it, why bother in the first place?

It is crucial that we realize that this is just the way it is. That it is meant to be this way. The reality of our relationship with Hashem—by its very nature—is that one moment will feel His feather upon our cheek, feel the air from His beating wings upon our face, and the next moment we can’t detect Him at all. If we start to define the health of our relationship with Him by the constancy of feeling His presence, we’ll soon feel disheartened. 

We must always be of this mindset and have this awareness about our interaction with Hashem, but even more so during this time of year. The Gemara in Rosh Hashana 18a notes that the ten days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur is the period of time referred to by the pasuk in Yeshaya (55:6), “דרשו ה׳ בהמצאו קראוהו בהיותו קרוב—Seek out Hashem while He may be found, call out to Him while He is close.” This is a time of year when Hashem is closer—more accessible—than any other time of year.

Have you felt that? Have you felt Hashem’s hand upon your shoulder, guiding you towards teshuva, towards a better path, giving you opportunities for spiritual growth that have come more easily than they usually do? Have you felt His embrace while davening on Rosh Hashana, convinced that you were closer than ever?

Consider yourself fortunate if you have. There’s nothing more blissful than feeling close to Hashem—it is quite literally a taste of Paradise here on Earth—but know that it won’t last. It can’t last. It’s the nature of the world Hashem Has constructed—He hovers, but He doesn’t land. If you believe that you’ve reached a new plateau in your relationship with Hashem, when the earth gives out beneath you you’ll be completely unprepared for the landslide that follows.

The key is to find those things now that will keep your feet planted even when the rug is swept out from beneath you. Define your relationship with Hashem by the mitzvos you perform, the Torah you learn, and the sacrifices you make, not by feelings alone. Feelings are fleeting. They’re supposed to be. It’s part and parcel of the system He devised.

And what if you haven’t experienced those feelings? If you haven’t felt Hashem’s wing brush your side? Not every baby in the nest necessarily will. Hashem’s presence is constant, but the feeling is elusive. Did you daven on Rosh Hashana in earnest? Are you using the Aseres Y’mei Teshuva to develop better habits and put more distance between yourself and the bad ones? Then you’re close. Very close. Staying in the nest is a win, whether you feel the father bird or not. And, by the way, the longer you stay in the nest, the more likely you’ll feel Him at some point.

On this note, there’s one more startling observation Rav Tzaddok HaKohen makes. When we recite a bracha, we vacillate between referring to Hashem in the second person and the third person. We begin a bracha with “Baruch Atah—Blessed are You,” speaking with Hashem as though He is directly opposite us. But it immediately devolves into “Shehakol nih’yeh b’dvaro—For everything was created by His word.” Not “Your word,” but “His word”! This, explains Rav Tzaddok, is just how quickly we can go from feeling Hashem’s Presence to not, from sensing Him palpably to not. From the beginning of a sentence to its end, we can see Hashem before our very eyes, to not being able to discern Him through the haze.

If we know this, we can act accordingly. We can cut ourselves slack for not always feeling the way we believe holy and spiritual people are supposed to feel. Indeed, for not always feeling how we ourselves felt during moments of intense spiritual clarity. We can operate with the knowledge that Hashem hovers just above our heads, even if we don’t always feel it. 

Parshas Nitzavim-Vayeilech 5783

A number of years ago, my family and I were winding our way through Ben Gurion Ariport, about to make the return flight home from Israel. Posted on the wall between security and the terminal was a poster I won’t soon forget. In bold text were the words, “בחו׳׳ל, המדינה זה אתה! ייצג אותנו בכבוד!—In the diaspora, you are the State of Israel! Represent us honorably!”

There is much truth in that sign. On many occasions, I’ve been stopped by a complete stranger who took my yarmulke as license to share their thoughts about Israeli politics and policies—whether enthusiastically for or virulently against—as though it was a badge connoting my position of ambassador on behalf of the Jewish State. 

It is, perhaps, for similar reasons, that the Jewish People rose to their feet as Moshe Rabbeinu wound down his final instruction to his beloved nation, poised to send them off into Eretz Yisrael without him at their head.

In the first pasuk of this week’s double-parsha, Moshe comments, “אתם נצבים היום כלכם—You are all standing here today.” Why is it of any consequence that the Jews were standing, rather than sitting? Why make specific mention of their physical posture in addressing them?

It is interesting—telling, really—that Moshe uses the word נצבים rather than עומדים. While the latter would be the term used to describe that one is neither sitting nor lying down, נצבים, bears the connotation not only of standing, but standing for. Related to the word נצבים is the word מצבה, a monument—a stone or other item that marks a location as being significant. That the monument itself stands erect is irrelevant; its purpose is to call attention to what lays behind or beneath it. 

This, then, is the charge that Moshe is giving his people. They must remember that they stand for something greater than themselves. Living a life of mitzvos is about more than just fulfilling an abstract collection of items on a checklist; it is about serving as a representative of Hashem by leading a life reflective of His ideals and values. 

The State of Israel wants every Israeli—indeed, every Jew—to be conscious of the role they serve in representing the State. Moshe Rabbeinu wanted every Jew passing into Israel to be conscious of doing more than just appeasing G-d by observing His mitzvos, and then getting down to the business of building a comfortable life and realizing their own personal goals. A Jew is a representative of G-d, and there can be no greater responsibility, nor more sublime privilege, than that.

It is worth noting that a מצבה—a single-stone monument erected in service of Hashem—is actually forbidden by the Torah. Though the Torah records such stones being placed by the Avos, they were deemed forbidden in the formulation of the Torah given to the nation at Sinai. Rav Moshe Feinstein explains that a מצבה cannot be used as an expression of our serving Hashem because, being comprised of but one stone, it is static. A Jew’s avodah, on the other hand, must be dynamic, ever growing and developing as he or she advances in age. 

I’ve long believed that this is the reason behind the custom of placing small stones on the headstone when visiting a grave. Being that a grave marker is comprised of but one single stone, we may give the impression that the legacy of the individual whose remains are buried under that stone are fixed. But memory doesn’t work that way. As we remember those who impacted our lives, their example continues to shape our actions long after they’ve passed. We add stones upon paying a visit to their grave to indicate that their legacy continues to expand and grow, even without their physical presence.

אתם נצבים—you are all standing, or rather, you are all monuments. Every Jew serves as a representative of Hashem’s Torah, values, and ideals. And as such, every Jew must be mindful of the Torah’s prohibition against a מצבה, and its inherent pitfalls. We must demand of ourselves not only that we grow in mitzvos, exercising greater care and caution in observance of halacha as we grow older, but also that we serve as better representatives of Hashem with each passing year. 

The Baal HaTanya comments that the day Moshe gathered the People at the beginning of the parsha was none other than Rosh Hashana. “אתם נצבים היום כלכם—You are all standing here today” suggests an especially important day, namely, the first day of the year. 

As Rosh Hashana approaches, it is of particular importance that we consider how we’re advancing as representatives of Hashem’s values. Was this past year better than the previous one? Will this coming year be better still? Have we become more refined, more polite, more friendly? Are we more responsible, honest, and caring? Are we quicker to offer a smile and a compliment than we’ve been in the past? Do people who cross our paths feel uplifted, energized by being in the presence of someone living with G-d?

If you wear a yarmulke, or any other Jewish trapping, strangers may well assume that you represent the State of Israel. They’re also likely to assume that you represent the Jewish People and its understanding of Hashem’s principles and values. Be sure to act the part. The totality of mitzvos we fulfill, halachos we perform, and middos we perfect should combine to create a state of being ever conscious of Hashem’s presence. See the privilege in serving as a monument on G-d’s behalf, and continue to add to its size and grandeur. 

Parshas Shelach 5783

A number of years ago, I led a trip to Israel with my old congregation in Ohio. It was a group of about twenty people, many of whom had never been to Israel before. The expectations were high for the trip of a lifetime, and many months had gone into crafting the itinerary together and scheduling nearly every moment of the trip in advance. As we made our way to Yerushalayim directly from the airport, we stopped at the Haas Promenade, a beautiful lookout overseeing the Old City and the surrounding areas. While there, I handed out a special gift to every member of our party, bracelets emblazoned with the letters “WWJD” (thank you, Oriental Trading). I explained that for our purposes, the letters didn’t stand for what the rest of the world might surmise. As far as we were concerned, they stood for, “What Would Joshua Do?”

The juxtaposition of two seemingly unrelated parshios often piques the curiosity of the Chachamim. In the case of Parshas Shelach, Chazal wonder why it is that the story of the spies being sent into Israel comes immediately on the heels of the finale of last week’s parsha, detailing the punishment Miriam receives for speaking lashon hara about her brother, Moshe. They explain that that episode should have served as a cautionary tale for the spies, but they sadly missed the point.

Sadly, I think I may be missing the point as well. Miriam speaks lashon hara about Moshe, perhaps the greatest human being to ever live. Moshe is the conduit of the Divine Will from G-d to the People, and serves as the leader of the chosen nation. Even if we were to draw the lesson from being punished for criticizing such a person of such incredible renown to the average individual, how can we be expected to extend the lesson further to even include real estate? The sin of the spies was in giving an unduly harsh and pessimistic view of the Land to the nation awaiting their report. If they were indeed at fault, in what way is their misstep linked to Miriam and to the sin of lashon hara?

A closer look at Miriam’s infraction is in order. Though the precise critique of Moshe is not especially clear from a reading of the pesukim themselves, what is clear is a comparison she makes between herself and Aharon on the one hand, and Moshe on the other. 

וַיֹּאמְרוּ הֲרַק אַךְ־בְּמֹשֶׁה דִּבֶּר ה׳ הֲלֹא גַּם־בָּנוּ דִבֵּר וַיִּשְׁמַע ה׳:

^{(במדבר יב:ב)}

And they said, “Did Hashem speak with Moshe alone? Did He not speak with us as well?” And Hashem heard.

^{(Bamidbar 12:2)}

The Torah is informing us of what lies at the crux of Miriam’s lashon hara, and, in serving as the Torah’s paradigm for lashon hara in general, what oftentimes lies at the crux of this sin in all its various iterations. Specifically, the error lies in the assumption of a parallel between my own life and experience, and that of the other. If Moshe is not the only navi—“Did Hashem not speak with us as well?—then he should not abide by behavior different from that of other nevi’im. It is this comparison and sin that begins to blaze an errant trail for Miriam, and for us as well.

Where does our own lashon hara emerge from? A similar mistake. The assumption that if another person’s behavior or attitudes don’t jive with my own, they may be roundly criticized for it. But isn’t that very comparison so often off base? Who is to say that the person I’m now slandering shares a similar background, worldview, mindset, or personality to my own? Isn’t it possible that the differences between us—items beyond one’s control—have helped to create the unfortunate behavior I’m now speaking about? 

To be sure, actions themselves may well be objectively improper. But in passing judgement on the person exhibiting them, have we fully taken stock of challenges or shortcomings they innately possess that I may not? And is their behavior even objectively wrong, or only seen as such when viewed through the lens of my own experience, that may simply be different from theirs?

It was this lesson the spies should have learned. In transitioning to life in Eretz Yisrael, they may well have assumed—correctly to no small degree—that life would be shifting from the supernatural to the natural. No more food falling from the sky and no more Clouds of Glory. The Jewish People were to enter a land that they’d need to cultivate and protect themselves, without Divine Intervention. They made an assumption and projected it upon the Land.

But they were wrong. Miracles would still exist, if perhaps more subtle. Yes, the land is inhabited by giants, whose fortifications are overwhelming and whose grapes are the size of bowling balls. They compared the facts on the ground to their own expectations, and saw the Land as a death trap.

But those very expectations were made in error. Yes, the Land would need to be conquered through miraculous means, but it most certainly would have. Yes, the enormous fruit didn’t align with their assumptions about their new life, but those assumptions should have been questioned. The parallel between Miriam and the spies is in the error of parallels. If my own expectations do not align with the reality I see before me, perhaps those expectations should be questioned. Perhaps I should reconsider before I ridicule.

Yehoshua saw things differently. He may well have had his own assumptions about what life in Israel would be like, no different from the other spies. But he was unfazed when those assumptions didn’t match what he saw before him. This was my message to my congregants when I handed out those bracelets. “What would Joshua do?” Our trip was sure to have its share of disappointments and not everything would go according to plan. How we would react was a choice that was up to us. We could grow bitter and annoyed and leach negativity into the rest of the group, or we could adjust our expectations and roll with the punches. We kept the bracelets on, and opted to see the Land as Yehoshua did. It wasn’t perfect, but it was phenomenal trip.

Why am I disappointed or frustrated with my child? Is it because of genuine wrongdoing or misbehavior on their part, or does their behavior simply not align with my preconceived notions of how children ought to behave? If their interests don’t align perfectly with my own, does it become a source of tension, or do I bring myself to adjust the expectation that their lives and personalities simply won’t parallel my own to a T? 

Am I in a fight with a spouse or a friend or a sibling because they’re really being impossible and unreasonable? Or am I just witnessing a different way of dealing with or reacting to some situation or issue? Is the problem really with the other person, or is the problem with my inability to budge from my own expectations?

Have I truly been shortchanged by Hashem? Or are my expectations for how much I ought to be blessed with simply too grand? 

In Parshas Ki Seitzei (Dev. 24:9), we are commanded to remember how Hashem punished Miriam for her actions. We are falling short of that obligation if we remember only the symptom but not the underlying cause. Miriam was a holy woman, a prophetess, whose lashon hara was a far cry from the biting gossip or slander that can at times cross our lips. It is the root of the problem that links us. Before we speak, before we judge, before our demeanor turns dark and cynical, we need to ask ourselves how much of the fault lies in the other person’s behavior, and how much lies in my assumptions about how they ought to act.

Parshas Beha’aloscha 5783

The house looked so much more appealing on AirBNB. You don’t even need to set foot inside before realizing that the pictures posted online must have been from years ago and bear no resemblance to the home in its current state. But a perusal of the agreement you signed indicates that you’re stuck. Already paid in full, no refunds, this is home for the next two weeks. You may resign yourself to staying put. But every night, as the loose spring from the mattress bores into your back, you’ll be counting the days until you can sleep in a more comfy bad, among walls that don’t smell quite so much like mold.

:וּבְהַאֲרִיךְ הֶעָנָן עַל הַמִּשְׁכָּן יָמִים רַבִּים וְשָׁמְרוּ בְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אֶת מִשְׁמֶרֶת ה׳ וְלֹא יִסָּעוּ

^{(במדבר ט:יט)}

When the cloud lingered over the Mishkan many days, the Children of Israel observed Hashem’s mandate and did not journey on.

^{Bamidbar 9:19}

The Ramban explains that this pasuk refers to arriving at a destination not unlike the one described above. Not always was the nation ushered towards an idyllic oasis to set up camp and erect the Mishkan. There were stops throughout the wilderness that were far from pleasant. But the people abided by Hashem’s insistence to stay wherever He so guided them, and did not journey on until the cloud departed from upon the Mishkan.

The Panim Yafos, Rav Pinchas Horowitz, notes something unusual about this pasuk, grammatically speaking. Though the verse describes the activity of the Jewish People as it already happened in the past, the Hebrew word for “journeying” is conjugated in the future tense. It would seem that the pasuk would be more correctly translated as “it will not journey on,” rather than “it did not journey on.” How do we make sense of this awkward use of language?

Rav Horowitz points to perhaps the most famous parallel instance in the Torah, when Moshe led the nation in exultant song following the splitting of the Yam Suf. The words of the Shirah are introduced with the words, “Az Yashir Moshe,” typically translated as, “Then Moshe sang”. But here again the future tense is used, connoting strangely that Moshe will sing at some point in the future.

Rashi explains that what is being described is the impetus to sing. The thought, idea, desire to sing is conveyed through the change in tense. The Torah is emphasizing not only that Moshe sang, but that it occurred to him to sing. That he recognized that the moment called for calling out to Hashem in joyous song and led the nation in the same. 

Rav Horowitz suggests that the Torah has the same intention in speaking of the people’s travel—or lack thereof—by using the future tense. It’s not only that the people didn’t travel, it’s that they didn’t even think of traveling. Despite the uncomfortable conditions of some of the stations of the wilderness, they gave no thought to travel until Hashem gave them the go ahead. No mental space was afforded to being in a different location so long as nothing could be done about making those thoughts a reality.

This may seem like rather unimpressive praise. Why would the people waste their time longing for something that could not come to fruition? Why spend time ruminating over something if nothing can presently be done about it?

Indeed. And yet we all do. I often marvel at where my own thoughts end up right in the middle of a Shemoneh Esrei. Things I need to take care of over the course of the day. My to-do list, errands I need to run, and what I’m going to eat for lunch. And what happens at the end of a Shemoneh Esrei marked by those thoughts and ruminations? I’m no closer to accomplishing any of those tasks, and I’ve wasted the opportunity to connect to Hashem in tefilah. 

How do we move away from that state and closer to one of “לא יסעו,” of not even thinking about traveling elsewhere? How do we live in and utilize the present moment, rather than squander it on meaningless worrying about the future? 

To be sure, one portion is bitachon—trusting that Hashem is in control and that our own ability to shape and mold our lives and the world around us is severely limited. Hashem has our backs and it’s unlikely that He’s interested in rewarding distracted davening, distracted time with our family, and distracted Torah study with greater support and Providence. If there’s a moment Hashem wants us to be in, we need to remember to be in it fully. He’ll cover the rest.

And even when it comes to our own agency, it’s worth stepping outside ourselves and realizing the sheer folly of distraction and meaningless worrying. If you’re busy putting your child to bed, having your head in a conference room or on a business call or in a Shabbos menu unlikely moves the needle forward in any of those endeavors in any real sort of way. But those precious moments with a child on your lap, fully connecting through Goodnight Moon and Krias Shema have at least partially been squandered. 

One part is faith and trust in Hashem; the other part is faith and trust in our own inability. We are unable to bring desired scenarios into manifest reality just by thinking of and worrying about them. If I know that I’ll be busy with shacharis for the next half hour, if I know that I’ll be busy with my family until the kids are in bed, if I know I’ll be spending this evening out with my spouse, there could be no less efficient use of my time than thinking about all the things that I’ve committed to not actually doing anything about in the present moment.

The Jewish People could have spent their time fantasizing about a better location in the Midbar, but that wouldn’t have gotten them there any sooner. There are all sorts of destinations we want to arrive at in life, and we should head there when the time is right. But when the time is wrong, clearing such thoughts out of our consciousness will only help making the most of each precious moment we’re given.

Last year, I received a picture from a friend with the caption “Only in Israel.” The picture was of the digital ticker mounted on one of the cars of the Jerusalem light rail. What was displayed was neither the name of the current stop, nor the next. And it wasn’t the time or the temperature. What was written across the screen, rather, for the edification of all the passengers was, “היום ארבעה ימים בעומר—Today is the fourth day of the Omer.” 

Only in Israel? I’m not so sure.

A few days later, I came across a video on a friend’s WhatsApp status. It was of a flight attendant of clearly non-Jewish persuasion. Mic in hand, making announcements at the front of the cabin. After mentioning the expected travel time from Fort Lauderdale to Laguardia, she finished, “And some of our passengers may be interested to know that today is the ninth day of the Omer.” 

When we consider what makes Israel special, it is often these kinds of phenomena. The sort of event, behavior, or display that only makes sense in the context of an immense Jewish population. Only in Israel would it be reasonable to publicly exhibit the day of the Omer, because anywhere else, nobody would know what it means. But it’s not quite true, as the announcement of the day of the Omer on a flight from Florida to New York after Pesach indicates. Get enough Jews together—even in the diaspora—and they suddenly have the buying power to create similar experiences outside of Israel.

It is true that such occurrences take place in Israel more frequently. But, given the right circumstances, sticking within specific neighborhoods, gathering together a large enough assemblage of Jews, any one of these items can take place outside of Israel as well. Advertisements for Chanukah presents rather than Christmas presents, offerings of kosher food in shopping mall food courts, and the publication of Shabbos candle lighting times in major newspapers are all feasible and actually occur wherever a large enough Jewish population exists to demand it. 

That is to say that such phenomena are born out of the quantitative Jewish population in a given geographical area, rather than by the qualitative advantage than one geographical location has above another. An experience born out of the latter is a more genuine “Only in Israel” experience.

What are those experiences? They are the big things. So obvious so as to have become cliched and not the type of material that’s prime meme fodder. 

It is davening at the Kosel, in the presence of the last remnant of the grandeur that was the Second Bais HaMikdash. Something no shul on the planet can provide, no matter how many minyanim gather within it.

It is visiting Ma’aras HaMachpeilah. Where just feet below the beautiful structure built above it lay the founding Avos and Imahos of Judaism. The place purchased by Avraham himself as a final resting place for his wife, and where Kalev came to pray for the fortitude he’d need to stay strong against the negativity of the other spies. Something no other cemetery on earth can claim, no matter how great the tzaddikim buried there.

It is enjoying an afternoon in a playground in Yerushalayim with your family, witnessing the rebirth of the Holy City before your very eyes, and being struck that you are part of the fulfillment of Zechariah’s prophecy, when he said, “וּרְחֹבוֹת הָעִיר יִמָּלְאוּ יְלָדִים וִילָדוֹת מְשַׂחֲקִים בִּרְחֹבֹתֶיהָ—And the streets of the City will be filled with boys and girls playing in the streets.” Something not even Six Flags or Disney World on Chol HaMoed Pesach can boast, no matter how many smiles it puts on the faces of Jewish children.

Even after the founding of the State of Israel, these features of Israel which we enjoy today were not yet a reality. No, these are not the miracles of 1948, but the miracles of 1967. And as we come to anniversary of the Jewish victory in the Six Day War, we must remind ourselves of those miracles and give thanks for them. These are miracles that are unique to the Land of Israel by definition, not only because Israel is now home to such a large population of Jews, but because of the inherent sanctity of the Land itself and its location at the crux of Jewish history, both past and future. 

That the hopes and dreams of thousands of years have begun to materialize in our times is a blessing of immense proportions, and one we mustn’t overlook. The nature of big things is that they become so bound up with life and experience themselves, that they tend to be overlooked. We are surprised by announcements of the day of the Omer in public places and delight in the fact that the seventh day of the week is referred to as “Shabbat” in even the most secular of Israeli neighborhoods, and marvel at the finding of Chalav Yisrael shoko in a gas station in the middle of the Negev. Yet while we should continue to smile at each of these micro-finds, we must be ever mindful of the miracles that exist on the grand, macro level as well.

Yom Yerushalayim is an opportunity to pause and reflect upon the stark difference that exists between the Israel of today and the Israel of just 56 years ago and thanking Hashem for all that’s been accomplished, in ways both large and small.

Parshas Behar-Bechukosai 5783

“I’m not just a Jew at heart.”

This is the mantra of every Jew dedicated as much to the fine print of halacha as to the broad concepts that comprise the Jewish ethic. We believe firmly that that the love for G-d one may feel in his heart is inadequate; love must be demonstrated in the nitty-gritty of halachic demands. 

Which makes the association between Har Sinai and Shemittah understandable. At least partially.

The opening passage of Parshas Behar, dedicated to the laws detailing observance of Shemittah, is introduced with the statement that these laws were given at Har Sinai. Being that all mitzvos were related at Har Sinai, this sort of declaration for one particular mitzvah appears odd. Rashi explains that Shemittah is chosen because it is a mitzvah that contains both broad principles as well as minutia, and the Torah is conveying that it was not only the general outline of the mitzvos that were given at Sinai, but all the individual details as well.

But then, couldn’t the same be said of all mitzvos? Couldn’t every mitzvah both be painted in broad strokes and also analyzed for all the small details it contains? Aren’t eating matzah, honoring parents, or giving tzedakah also replete with fine details? Why Shemittah, specifically?

Parshas Bechukosai contains the infamous Tochacha, the rebuke ominously presented to the Jewish People describing all the punishments that will befall them should they veer from Hashem’s expectations of them. Rav Yaakov Kaminetzky notes that the Torah identifies not one specific sin, but two, as responsible for triggering the Tochacha. 

The Torah introduces the Tochacha with the words “אם בחקותי תמאסו—If you will reject My laws. (26:15)” From Rashi’s analysis of the first words of the parsha, we know that the term בחקותי refers to engaging in Torah study, suggesting that a lack of Torah study is the reason for the nation being punished.

Yet later on (26:34), the Torah describes how the barren state of the Land following the punishments of the Tochacha will allow the Land to “recoup” its lost Shemittah years that went unobserved. So which is it? Does the Tochacha come about because of laxity in Torah study, or due to violation of the mandate of Shemittah and refraining from agricultural work every seventh year?

Rav Yaakov explains that it is both. What happens when one lets his land lie fallow? What does he do with all the time ordinarily spent out in the field? Towards what endeavor does one now channel all the energies usually expended on wringing produce from his field? The answer must be Torah study. For six long years, he’s worked and labored. Due to the realities of agricultural work, the farmer likely had little time to dedicate to understanding Hashem’s Torah. But now the opportunity has presented itself. How will he now spend his time?

Chazal say that a person’s true mettle may be detected in three ways—בכוסו, בכיסו, ובכעסו—through his drinking, through his wallet, and through his anger (Eruvin 65b). Where in one’s wallet—one’s expenditures—do we find sufficient grounds for sizing him up as a person? It’s on the margins. Two people in the same neighborhood will largely have the same expenses. Their resources will overwhelmingly go towards food, gas, and mortgage. What differentiates one from the other is in what remains. How’s the rest spent? On the functional or the frivolous?

The same goes for time. Time is easily gobbled up on work, family, and religious obligations. The true test is in what remains, the excess. How many hours are spent on hobbies and relaxation, how many hours are spent on family and spiritual enrichment? How many hours over a sefer, how many hours in front of a screen? 

In giving the farmer a year off, a year of forced vacation, the Torah’s assumption is that that time will be used wisely. That in creating that measure of excess time, the farmer will go back to the fields not only having spent more time in the hammock, but having spent more time in the Bais Medrash. Will his greatest achievement be the number of masechtos he’s learned, or the number of novels he’s read?

Shemittah is the Torah’s example of a mitzvah that was given at Sinai—the place where the covenant between Hashem and His People was solidified—because it is representative of the relationship as a whole. If we truly love another person, we’ll make time for them. It is understandable that the bulk of our day will be dedicated to other necessary pursuits, but if we’re not making time at the margins, in the excess, it says something about our dedication at large. 

The same is true of our relationship with Hashem. It is not only the כלל, the general principle, that counts, but the פרט, the individual detail. That the vast majority of the farmer’s life needs to be dedicated to cultivating his farmland makes perfect sense. But what about the excess, the seventh year, when he’s freed up? Does that window of opportunity get squandered by habit, or does he really make it count?

It’s easy to give a general glance and see everything as fine. How much time really exists for more Torah, more chessed, more tefillah? But if we look at the particulars, there’s surely more we can accomplish. Five or ten minutes here and there. Days when we’re off from work. Vacation time that can be leveraged towards a bit of spiritual advancement. The פרטים, the details, of Shemittah is what the Torah wants to highlight. The details of our lives is oftentimes where the greatest growth can be achieved.