Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Emor 5783

Let’s face it, Pesach cleaning and prep can be somewhat traumatic. And it takes a while before we’re fully able to come up for air. It’s not uncommon for vestiges of Pesach—a chametzdik appliance still sitting in the garage, a refrigerator shelf yet unliberated from its plastic and foil prison—to remain for a number of weeks following the conclusion of the Yom Tov. It’s a good thing that Shavuos is a relatively easy holiday to prepare for, and that we’re given a good six weeks to recover before it arrives. But what if a different Yom Tov was thrown into the mix right at the same time of year? What if Sukkos had been slated for Nissan, rather than Tishrei? Because at first glance, this is exactly how it should be. 

This week’s Parsha describes Sukkos as a holiday that commemorates the protection Hashem provided when we dwelled in the wilderness. That being the case, it seems odd to celebrate Sukkos six months after we’d first gotten there. Pesach catapulted the Jewish People into the Midbar and into Hashem’s protective embrace. We were surrounded by the Clouds of Glory and furnished with materials with which to construct our makeshift homes. Why not celebrate the holiday that commemorates that phenomenon immediately after celebrating the Exodus itself?

Rabbeinu Yaakov ben Asher, the Tur, famously suggests that Hashem commanded us to celebrate Sukkos in the fall rather than the spring in order to make the observance of the mitzvah more conspicuous. At a time when people are typically retreating back indoors after the summer, the Jewish People make a point of moving outdoors.

The Vilna Gaon offered another explanation. Sukkos, he explained, is not the commemoration of the Jewish People first being ensconced in the Clouds of Glory. Indeed, this event took place in Nissan. Rather, on Sukkos we celebrate the return of the clouds. With the sin of the Golden Calf, the clouds dissipated, signaling a departure of Hashem’s Presence from the camp. On Yom Kippur, the Jews were forgiven, and then launched the project by which Hashem’s Presence would be drawn back into their midst: the construction of the Mishkan. Given a number of days to collect the necessary materials, and then distribute them amongst the craftsmen, the actual construction began on the 15th of Tishrei, which is precisely when the Torah tells us to celebrate Sukkos.

This understanding transforms the meaning of Sukkos. Sukkos is not just a commemoration of further protection and miracles offered by Hashem as we left Egypt; it is a celebration of the Jewish People’s return to G-d and His acceptance of our repentance. 

There are two halves to that whole. That Hashem accepts us back when we’ve gone astray is certainly worth celebrating. But that the people possess a drive to return, and act on that drive, is no less a cause for celebration. And while that behavior may seem obvious, consider the act in the context of contemporary times, and it is anything but.

Imagine that following the smashing of the luchos and a subsequent diatribe from Moshe Rabbeinu about the demands of monotheism, the majority of the nation stands with bowed heads, regretting their sin and committing to a return to Hashem. But one group emerges, explaining that Moshe doesn’t fully understand. “It’s not that we’ve committed idolatry,” they explain, “it’s just that we are idolators. We identify as idolators. This is who we are. In fact, it’s how G-d made us. So He likely understands.”

Framing desire as identity changes the playing field. It also makes repentance impossible, as one cannot possibly be guilty of simply being who they are. So what would Moshe’s response have been? With all due compassion and understanding, I can only imagine it would have gone something like, “No, friends. G-d gave you the desire to worship idols. But also the mandate to overcome that desire, to behave otherwise. G-d is not distressed by your desire, but by your behavior.”

It is difficult for us to understand the drive to worship idols. But it is a craving recorded throughout the annals of Tanach; a burning desire plaguing the Jewish People for much of their history. Who’s to say that in centuries and millennia from now, our descendants will have any better ability to understand our desires than our ability to understand our ancestors’? Which is to say that we cannot marginalize the desire for idolatry or to assume that it somehow pales in comparison to the temptations we feel and encounter today.

So suppose the conversation with Moshe continued. “But Moshe,” they say, “We just can’t abide. The desire’s too great. We need the calf. We’re going to keep worshipping it.” 

“Look,” says Moshe, “That’s ultimately between you and G-d. I can’t tell you it’s ok, but I also can’t run your life.” 

“Thank you for understanding. So we can wear golden calf necklaces to shul?”

“Excuse me?”

This is part of the danger in confusing desire, behavior, and identity. Identity is not something to apologize for or to be embarrassed by. When we start to view desire as a fundamental part of who and what we are, the behavior it beckons us toward is no more something to be ashamed of than the color of our eyes or skin. Behavior, no matter how immoral, can be excused—and even celebrated—when it is framed as an inexorable result of who I fundamentally am. 

That the Nation does not respond in this way is a testament to their ability to separate interest, impulse, and even behavior from identity. They desire the idol, but do not identify by that desire or the behavior that it motivates. This is a moral triumph.

The Parsha begins with instruction to Kohanim, a series of laws by which they must abide, above and beyond the demands placed on other Jews. What would we say to a Kohen who claims to not be a Kohen at all? Not because his father and grandfather weren’t Kohanim, but because he is certain that he possesses the soul of a Levi or Yisrael that was somehow, mysteriously, deposited into the body of a Kohen? Prohibitions against interacting with dead bodies don’t apply to he, he explains, because he’s not a Kohen. He can finally engage in cleanups of cemeteries and join the Chevrah Kadishah—work that will be deeply meaningful and a fulfillment of lifelong spiritual yearnings. 

I would feel terrible for that Kohen. I hope we all would. That we’d do our best to understand the tortured existence of living life with deep-seated desires to both violate halacha and to abide by it. To appreciate the plight of a person whose impulse for certain behavior is so strong that they’ve begun to assimilate it into their very identity. I hope we’d be there for them in their suffering, that we’d extend as much friendship and understanding as possible.

But I also hope we wouldn’t allow that Kohen to join the Chevra Kadisha. Or for him to come along on the shul trip to clean the cemetery. Because doing so would be making the statement that if you badly enough desire to act out of consonance with the Torah—enough to fundamentally identify by such a desire—it’s actually ok to act on it. We cannot dictate how people act in private. But we can protect our institutions and communal spaces from tacitly making the sort of statement that undermines what Judaism is fundamentally all about.

It is a difficult stance to take. Communities are built on tolerance, on ceding territory to those who think differently from you. If that fellow who insisted on wearing a golden calf around his neck used to sit next to you in shul, you’d long for him every time you noticed his empty chair. Your heart would ache when the bus headed out for the cemetery and your Kohen friend who’s convinced he’s a Yisrael was left behind. But if we are serious about building public institutions that advance G-d’s will rather than suppress it, we cannot allow those institutions to give credence to the idea that Hashem’s will can be applied arbitrarily.

A Jew is identified as but one thing: a member of the covenant between G-d and His Chosen People. That covenant does not assume a desire to abide by its demands at every turn. Indeed, we may desire the exact opposite at times. But we are not our desires. We are people called to define ourselves by the mandate to transcend our desires, rather than succumbing to them.

Parshas Acharei Mos-Kedoshim 5783

The CEO issues the order that all employees meet in the atrium for a full, “all-hands-on-deck” meeting. The room is abuzz with anticipation and nerves over what could be so important as to share in such a dramatically public forum. The CEO approaches the podium, clears his throat, and carefully dissects the performance of a couple of his assistants, explaining that, though they’re doing an adequate job, there are ways they could transform their performance from satisfactory to stellar. It’s not that anyone is getting fired, but it would be a boon to the company if every employee would do the same. The meeting ends, and a sense of bewilderment descends upon the crowd. “What in the world?”

Parshas Kedoshim begins with the enigmatic instruction of “קדושים תהיו—You shall be holy,” which the Ramban famously interprets as a charge to soar above the heights of the letter of the law. One may follow all the strictures of the Torah, explains the Ramban, and yet emerge nonetheless as a “נבל ברשות התורה—a repulsive person with the Torah’s permission.” One could work his way down the checklist of every red line that halacha presents and yet be fundamentally motivated by desire, pettiness, and greed. The mitzvah of Kedoshim is to do more than just abide by the Torah’s demands, it is to comprehensively transform into the ideal Torah personality.

Which, of course, is a decidedly private matter. Whereas those red lines are drawn for the masses, providing general instruction for behavior that all must abide by, the call of “Kedoshim” is something that requires personal introspection of every individual. What motivates me? What am I living for? What’s my relationship with the Torah? Am I merely fulfilling my obligations or actually becoming a person of values? 

It is this process, implicitly called for in the charge of “Kedoshim” that makes the context in which this command is issue so puzzling. Hashem instructs Moshe, “דבר אל כל בני ישארל—Speak to the entirety of the Children of Israel,” when you convey this precept of “Kedoshim.” A gathering of this variety is not typical of the other mitzvos of the Torah, which were required to be related to the Jews only after the entire nation was gathered together as one. 

Why, then, does Kedoshim of all mitzvos buck that trend? Kedoshim is the enterprise of transforming one’s performance from satisfactory to stellar. Which is an analysis that is personal and private and is far from “one size fits all.” It is those “one size fits all” considerations that would be most appropriate for a company-wide meeting. Let every member of the nation hear as one the need to believe in G-d, keep Shabbos, eat kosher, and not steal pens and legal pads from the supply closet. Why take pains to create the most public of venues to share the most personal of instruction?

The Chasam Sofer offers a beautiful explanation. When we think of “Kedoshim,” the process of becoming holy, we may well think of the recluse—the person who withdraws from public life into a monastic existence, shunning the social interactions and influences that will undoubtedly erode his personal sanctity. If the call is to be “kadosh,” to be “holy,” then a retreat from communal life must be in order.

To this Hashem says, “דבר אל כל בני ישראל—Speak to the entirety of the Children of Israel”. Yes, the interpretation of “Kedoshim” demands personal scrutiny of one’s own life, experiences, and personality. But the incorrect assumption that one must withdraw from living a fully connected life—connected with family, with community, and with society—en route to holiness must to be set straight.

This is a critical statement. Not only because it grabs the would-be-recluse by the coattails and draws him back into the community before he isolates himself in the name of holiness. But, far more importantly, it tells the rest of us who would never be capable of such a thing that we must nevertheless demand holiness of ourselves. Those of us who enjoy the company of people, who seek the support of our communities, who thrive upon the love and affection of friends and family, could easily make the unfortunate error of assuming that holiness ought to be left to some other class of people. For those of us who are “normal,” we’ll be forgiven for falling short of holy.

The Torah insists otherwise. Holiness can be found in a table shared by friends, and is demanded in that space. You, specifically, who are found in the company of others, must consider how you speak each other and what are the topics of conversation. Not only with respect to the red lines of halacha—lashon hara, gossip, or profane speech—but what is the content of the banter? Is it materialistic or meaningful? Vapid or value-minded? Clothing and decor, or ideals and ambitions?

The masses are gathered to hear Kedoshim, because Kedoshim is a practice that is expected to be fulfilled in that very venue. Those who thrive on the social connections that a properly functioning society affords—the most normal and typical of people—can’t afford to sell themselves short. Opportunities abound for enhanced kedusha in the most pedestrian of places, and seize them we must.  

Parshas Tazria-Metzora / Yom HaAtzma’ut 5783

Read the first few pesukim of Parshas Tazria, and you’d have no sense that giving birth to a child is a cause for celebration. The opening pesukim of the parsha detail the various korbanos the new mother must bring and outline the various states of purity and impurity she will pass through as a function of childbirth. 

It’s all rather mystifying. Having recently been blessed with a new baby, it hardly captures the feelings of joy and elation of bringing a new child into the family and the outpouring of love, food, and mazel tovs coming our way from friends and family. How, exactly, is the Torah framing the experience of bringing a new life into the world? 

One of the most challenging aspects of the halachos the Torah presents is why the mother becomes spiritually impure at all. Spiritual impurity is something typically associated with death—as in touching a dead body, dead animal, or certain other creatures—or at least with the missed opportunity for life—as a woman experiences at each menstrual cycle. Blood that could have supported life renders a woman temei’ah when it leaves her body. Why, then, does giving birth to a living child do the same?

Perhaps this phenomenon actually does fit into the same framework the Torah has already constructed around tum’ah. Ritual impurity is the state that the body enters when it becomes separated from life. The tum’ah experienced at childbirth is even greater than that of menstruation because the mother becomes detached not only from that which could have been life, but from that which actually developed into a life. The tum’ah is not in any way sorrowful; it simply reflects a reality of the mother once holding life within her, that now has departed for the world beyond.

Perhaps this approach can shed further light on another mystery of Parshas Tazria. Why does the Torah prescribe two weeks of impurity for giving birth to a girl, yet only one week for a baby boy? If the tum’ah of childbirth is a function of becoming disconnected from the life that once grew inside the mother, it actually makes perfect sense. Whereas giving birth to either a boy or a girl detaches life from the mother’s body, giving birth to a girl means becoming separated from a life that itself can support a life. 

What the mother experiences in terms of tum’ah actually helps to accentuate the miracle of what has been created. A new life has been created, and that life is full of promise, full of potential. Indeed, this new life will hopefully beget more life one day. 

Implicit in this understanding is that a major part of what is being celebrated when a child is born is not what they are, but what they can become. Yes, a baby is a new life. But what has been accomplished at the point that the mazel tovs stream forth and the feelings of simcha begin to wash over the parents? To no small degree, it is the potential of what this child may grow up to do and to become. 

There is the hope that this baby will grow up to develop good middos, to daven, to learn Torah, to give tzedakah. And, hopefully, to become a mother herself. 

When should this all be celebrated? When it happens? When those achievements actually become a reality? Yes, then, too. But long before, as well. The very birth of a child is a simcha because of all the potential latent within them. We need not wait for the potential to become a reality to begin to give thanks, express gratitude, feel simcha.

The State of Israel will turn 75 years old this week, which, in the scope of Jewish History, makes it something smaller than a newborn infant. To be sure, in its short existence, Medinat Yisrael can already boast an impressive resume of accomplishments that should make any religious Jew’s jaw drop and eyes moisten. Providing safe access to our People’s holiest sites, facilitating the establishment of hundreds and hundreds of yeshivos and seminaries, creating a safe and high-quality standard of living for millions of Jews to simply live in the Holy Land.

But perhaps even more thrilling is the potential. We may have become fixated upon the version of the Yemos HaMashiach that provides for a Bais HaMikdash to descend from the sky. But Chazal provide another version of things as well, one that the Rambam apparently favors in his treatment of the matter at the end of Mishnah Torah, where he quotes: “אין בין עולם הזה לימות המשיח אל שעבוד מלכיות בלבד—There is no difference between this world and the Messianic Era other than subjugation to foreign powers alone.” 

If the Age of Mashiach looks a lot like the world as we know it today, we’ll need roads, and farms, and desalination plants, and a national water carrier. We’ll need buildings, and gas stations, and bus terminals. The infrastructure—the Yishuv Eretz Yisrael—that has been facilitated by 75 years of a Jewish government in Eretz Yisrael carries enormous potential. And that potential is something to be recognized and celebrated. 

Whenever we’ve taken our family to a playground in Israel, I can’t help but feel stirrings of simcha. Both because of the life and vitality that has already taken root, but also because of the potential for more life, more development, more accomplishment in the future. 

The State of Israel is no utopia. From a halachic vantage point, it is a highly unfinished product. But I can’t help think that my new daughter is, too. So much more to grow, so much more to become. But I don’t need to wait for it all to actually happen. I thank Hashem now for the gift she already is, and for all the potential that lays ahead. 

Parshas Vayikra 5783

Much has been said about the problem of hagiographies in the Jewish world. When the life of a great rav is depicted in such a way so as to describe only his triumphs and none of his challenges, we are rendered with a saintlike picture that no longer holds much of a lesson for the average Joes reading the story. “Of course the Chofetz Chaim did that. He’s the Chofetz Chaim. What does that have to do with me?”

I don’t know what the precise sweet spot is between an honest portrait of a great person’t life and the pitfall of relating the sorts of anecdotes that actually become denigrating. But one thing that gets lost in the shuffle of this particular conversation is another critical point. That we can learn from great people not only in how we are so similar, but how we are so different.

Parshas Vayikra begins with a call—one that Hashem makes to Moshe and to Moshe alone. Rashi explains that the term “Vayikra,” represents a call from Hashem that Moshe perceived as actual sound, despite no one else being capable of hearing it. In truth, this is a description that accurately describes not only the difference between Moshe and the rest of his generation, but between Moshe and the rest of history. 

In the seventh chapter of Hilchos Yesodei HaTorah, the Rambam describes the process of achieving prophecy. Far from coming as a sudden shock to the prophet, nevuah is something that required tremendous preparation, deliberately clearing one’s mind of other thoughts, reaching a state of inner calm and tranquility, and readying oneself to perceive of Hashem’s messages. Much was needed to raise the proverbial antenna so that Hashem’s voice could come through over the airwaves. 

Not so for Moshe Rabbeinu. The Rambam quotes the Torah’s descriptions of Hashem speaking with Moshe in a manner of “one speaking with his friend” and a connection so close and almost casual that it could be characterized as speaking “face to face.” 

In this regard, it is impossible to learn from Moshe by identifying closely with him. Moshe’s ability to interact and converse with Hashem exceeded that of even the greatest of nevi’im, let alone the rest of us. But what we can do is remind ourselves of just unlike Moshe we are. Whereas Moshe needed no further preparation, whereas Moshe was always at the ready to speak with G-d, we must remind ourselves of just how much effort must be made to ready ourselves for an encounter with Him.

When we pray, we speak to Hashem. When we learn Torah, He speaks with us. These two halves comprise the whole that is our running dialogue with Hashem. Do we prepare ourselves for that conversation?

In his description of prophecy mentioned above, the Rambam speaks of how nevi’im would enter a meditative state in order perceive of the Divine word, clearing their minds of other thoughts. A walk through the woods or sitting in the lotus position for a number of minutes in advance of every tefilah or shiur may not be realistic. But we can all give more thought to trying to arrive at either in a more mentally prepared state.

We tend to qualify punctuality or lateness to davening or learning in quantitative terms. When we’re on time, we can daven or learn more. When we are late, less. When we are on time, we accomplish a quantitatively larger amount of Talmud Torah, when we are late, it is smaller. But we should consider the further reality that these mitzvos are effected not only in quantity, but quality as well. The earlier we are, the more time there is to detach from whatever we’ve just come from and ease further into what we’ve now come to do. We can daven or learn in a state of greater calm and lean into the sense that we are engaged in a conversation with Almighty, attempting to hear His word, or articulately sharing ours with Him. 

We’ve all had those conversations where the lips of the person opposite us is moving, but we’re just not hearing their voice. Our minds are a miles away, still processing the residue of whatever we’ve just been doing. We do our best to respond with something—anything—that may sound half-intelligent, but end up sounding ridiculous because our thoughts are elsewhere. We can’t be caught in an endless loop of our conversations looking this way. Not those we have with other people, and certainly not those we have with Hashem.

Moshe Rabbeinu was unusual. Vayikra—Hashem called and Moshe’s mind was at the ready for a conversation with Master of the Universe. There is great value in appreciating just how different we are. We desperately need to prepare ourselves. To have a few moments of space to pivot from the space we’ve just rushed out of into the one we hope to occupy with Hashem. 

Parshas Vayakhel-Pekudei 5783

The Mishkan is completed and a final tally is made. Every last donation made and every last dollar spent is accounted for. And you can’t help but think, “That’s a lot of gold.”

It was just one week ago, after all, that we read of the awesome blunder of the Chet HaEgel. The folly of reaching for physical objects and precious metals as a means to connect with an infinite G-d. One would think that gold should never again be touched as a conduit for spirituality. Yet here we are, in the very next parsha, employing the same material used for the Calf in the construction of the Mishkan. What separates the two?

Rav Soloveitchik pointed to the pasuk that makes all the difference between the two, profound in its simplicity:

כְּכֹל אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה׳ אֶת־מֹשֶׁה כֵּן עָשׂוּ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אֵת כָּל־הָעֲבֹדָה׃

^{שמות לט:מב}

According to all that Hashem had commanded Moshe, so did the Children of Israel do all the work.

^{Shemos 39:42}

The difference between the Egel and the Mishkan—the only one that mattered—is that the latter was commanded by G-d whereas the former was not. As Rav Soloveitchik explains, this distinction marks the difference between employing aesthetics in the service of G-d and worshipping the aesthetic itself. 

There is any number of skills, talents, and objects that can theoretically be utilized as a means of attaching ourselves to Hashem. Delicious food can enhance the Shabbos and Yom Tov experience and beautiful melodies can uplift our prayers. But once any such item has fallen beyond the parameters of halachah, of “all that Hashem had commanded,” it is not longer a medium towards G-d, but an unfortunate end unto itself. As Rav Soloveitchik noted, one who lights Shabbos candles before leaving for shul has elevated Shabbos with its light, but one who lights candles after returning from shul has desecrated Shabbos and has placed a well-lit room on the pedestal where G-d ought to have been.

This theme finds further expression in the selection of Betzalel as the chief artisan in the fashioning of the Mishkan. How did the Jewish People—a nation of slaves—come to possess such a talented craftsman in their midst? Rav Soloveitchik notes that the only reasonable explanation is that these were talents he honed in the company of Egyptians. Betzalel’s oppressors no doubt identified the embryonic talent that existed in him and provided him with the training that would allow him to make the most significant possible contribution to Pharaoh and Egypt.

Betzalel’s talents were not Jewish, per se, yet Hashem was not dismissive of his abilities simply because they were developed in less-than-holy circles. But at same time, there is no blanket seal of approval offered to Betzalel for his abilities alone. Betzalel is not remembered for the striking landscapes he painted of the Egyptian skyline, nor of the fine specimens of carpentry that were the product of his own imagination. He is applauded for taking his talents and using them in the service of Hashem. The creative spirit burns more brightly in the artist than most other individuals, and the determination to subdue that creativity in the interest of following strict orders is a testament to Betzalel’s religious fortitude and offers an impressive model for the rest of us to follow.

The aesthetically beautiful and mouthwateringly delicious are more accessible in our generation than perhaps any other in history. The average Jew of today has means at his disposal that his great grandparents could only have dreamed of. What is more, we live in a world that asserts that what is artistic, creative, and beautiful is of inherent value. One need only express their inner talent and produce something pleasing to their audience to be heralded as having done something of great value. A song with good rhythm, a page-turner of a book, and a riveting movie are lauded as great contributions to society, even if they do not further any moral or religious value. 

Which is to say that we have our work cut out for us. In a world in which beauty is itself a value, we must insist instead that beauty facilitate values. Gold is dazzlingly beautiful, but only truly so when it becomes a Sanctuary, rather than an idol. 

Parshas Ki Sisa 5783

Parents often have to determine whether the lesson they’d like to teach their children is actually worth the effort. Kids make a mess, and proper chinuch dictates that you should really have them clean it up so they learn to be responsible. But after a long day, it’s not always feasible to stand watch over a cleanup project that you could just do yourself in a fraction of the time. Sometimes, the parents just clean up their kids’ messes themselves.

The Midrash Tanchumah connects the dots between this week’s parsha, telling of the tragedy of the Chet HaEgel, and this week’s maftir, encapsulating the laws of the Parah Adumah. The Midrash offers a mashal of a child who scampers away from his mother, and, crayon in hand, begins to vandalize the walls of the royal palace. The mother is forced to get to work cleaning up the mess that her child has made. This, explains the Midrash, is the reason the connection between the Golden Calf and Red Heifer, the mother cow serving as a source of purity in order to clean up the “mess” of sin brought about by the young calf. 

Simply understood, the Midrash would appear to be speaking of idolatry as a form of death. Indeed, if Hashem is the true source of life, then when He is replaced with some other power or deity that, the idolater effectively cuts himself off from life itself. Enter the Parah Adumah which restores purity to one who has come in contact with a dead body. 

Yet the specific type of idolatry that the Egel represented doesn’t appear to fit this template. Idolatry is usually born out of the sense that one does not need G-d any more. He enjoys health, happiness, and prosperity, and is confident that he can continue to successfully pursue them without G-d. He’s now taken with some other power or force that has removed the need to bow his head to Hashem. Idolatry is an inflation of ego to the degree that there is no longer room for G-d. 

But the Golden Calf was altogether different. It wasn’t an inflation of ego, it was a deflation of ego. It wasn’t about removing Hashem from the picture, it was about the people downplaying their own ability to access Him. In the absence of Moshe, with their leader apparently gone, the Jews found themselves without a means to still engage with Hashem and fell back on practices foreign to Judaism. 

The Chet HaEgel was certainly a sin. It was a colossal mess. But what makes it the sort of mess that the Parah Adumah should come clean up?

Moshe begs Hashem to forgive the people and his plea is accepted. Even better than a one-time pass, Hashem actually teaches Moshe the formula for beseeching Hashem’s mercy whenever the People will be in need of doing so in the future. As the Torah tells it, Hashem “passed before” Moshe and articulated the thirteen attributes of mercy—a description of Hashem’s kindness and forbearance that serves as the core of Slichos prayers to this day. 

The act of “passing before” Moshe is striking, as it is a description of Hashem in human terms that is nearly unparalleled in the Chumash. While the Torah isn’t short on its usage of anthropomorphisms, they can usually be understood rather easily as metaphors. That Hashem took the people out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm doesn’t suggest that enormous body parts actually descended from the sky. But describing a direct interaction with Moshe in terms of physically passing before him raises more of an eyebrow. 

Seizing on this oddity, Rabbi Yochanan stated:

אִלְמָלֵא מִקְרָא כָּתוּב, אִי אֶפְשָׁר לְאוֹמְרוֹ. מְלַמֵּד שֶׁנִּתְעַטֵּף הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא כִּשְׁלִיחַ צִבּוּר, וְהֶרְאָה לוֹ לְמֹשֶׁה סֵדֶר תְּפִלָּה

^{(:ראש השנה יז)}

Had the verse not written it, it would be impossible to say it. Yet this teaches that the Holy One Blessed Be He wrapped himself [in a talis] like a prayer leader and showed Moshe the proper order of prayer. 

^{(Rosh Hashana 17b)} 

It was insufficient for Hashem to simply verbally relate to Moshe how to pray. Rather, Hashem showed him how to do so in as human a display as Hashem’s infinitude could possibly muster. 

Why was this necessary? Perhaps because of the specific nature of the idolatry the Jews had just committed and the unfortunate thinking that lay behind it. The Jews believed that without Moshe, they would have no ability to access Hashem. They needed to be shown how faulty that brand of thinking was. That each of them had immense potential, that they possessed an incredible ability to connect with the Divine. Hashem showed himself as nearly human so that human beings could recognize and identify with the Divine spark in each of them. 

Perhaps, then, the Parah Adumah is the perfect corrective for the Chet HaEgel. Constructing an external deity was a statement that G-d was too far beyond the average person to access. This was a terrible mistake. The soul breathed into every human being is a Divine spark that resies within each person and creates the ability to emulate G-d, to walk in His ways, and to connect deeply with Him. 

Believing in that reality is not an excess of ego, it’s a simple recognition of truth. To not believe in one’s own ability to achieve incredibly great things is to deny the very life force that Hashem has installed within the human being. It is a form of death. Which is precisely what the Parah Adumah is charged with cleaning up. 

To be blind to the immense endowments that every human being has been gifted is an error of theological proportions. Following the greatest sin in history, Hashem recognized that the Jews’ problem was not believing in themselves too much, but too little. Humility is the recognition that our accomplishments do not live up to our enormous potential. But the denial of that ability itself, the assessment that one isn’t all that special, talented, or gifted, is far from humility. It is robbing oneself of the ability to become all that Hashem has prepared us to be. 

Parshas Tetzaveh 5783

Though the Torah is generally viewed as either a collection of mitzvos, or a chronicle of Jewish History during the time period it details, one would be forgiven for assuming that the sefarim of Shemos, Vayikra, and Bamidbar actually comprise a biography of the life of Moshe Rabbeinu. From the time Moshe is born, no single parsha over the course of these three books omit a reference to the great leader of the Jewish People. Except one. Parshas Tetzaveh.

In explanation, the Baal HaTurim offers what has become a popular, if cryptic explanation. In next week’s parsha, responding to Hashem’s threat that He will destroy the Jewish People as punishment for their construction of the Golden Calf, Moshe says, “ואם אין מחני נא מספרך אשר כתבת—If you do not forgive them, then erase me from the Book You have written.” 

The Baal HaTurim explains that when a tzaddik utters a curse, it comes true—if only in part—even if the condition upon which it is stipulated is ultimately unfulfilled. So potent and powerful are Moshe’s words, that they cannot be completely disregarded. In some capacity they indeed come true, as Moshe’s name is stricken from Parshas Tetzaveh. 

Yet it seems so unfair. Moshe Rabbeinu made the ultimate sacrifice—or was at least willing to make the ultimate sacrifice—for the Jewish People. Moshe aligned himself with the people, insisting that any remembrance of him be removed from the Torah if the People would be destroyed as punishment for their sins. The People are forgiven. Hashem hears Moshe’s plea. Why, then, should he be punished with the removal of his name from Parshas Tetzaveh?

In one of the most surprising interactions in the Torah, Leah tells off her sister Rachel when she makes a request of some flowers brought home by Leah’s son, Reuven. Rachel asks if Leah could possibly spare a few, and Leah responds, “המעט קחתך את אישי—Is it not enough that you’ve taken my husband?” Leah is indignant, how could Rachel be so bold as to ask for anything further from her, having already stolen her husband Yaakov’s heart and distracting him from giving Leah his undivided attention?

Of course, that’s all backwards. It was Rachel who Yaakov was originally supposed to marry. Rachel whose hand he had worked for for seven long years. Leah came into the picture only through the trickery and deception of her father, Lavan. How could Leah possibly launch such an accusation at her sister?

Rav Shalom Schwadron explains that Rachel had arranged things in such a way so as to never allow Leah to realize that Yaakov was not hers by right. As far as Leah knew, Yaakov had married her first, and Rachel only came along later on. From Leah’s perspective, Rachel was nothing more than an interloper. And Rachel wanted it this way. Rachel was sincere in her desire to protect her sister from the anguish of feeling like a runner-up. Every step she took and every word she uttered to her sister gave the impression that Yaakov more rightly “belonged” to Leah than to herself. When Leah was unnerved by Rachel’s request to now be given some of Reuven’s flowers, Leah was only responding in the manner that Rachel had herself directed.

Perhaps a similar situation unfolds here with Moshe Rabbeinu. Why does Moshe stick his neck out for the Jewish People as he does, suggesting that if the Jewish People are wiped off the map, then his name should be wiped clean from the Torah? Moshe was saying that his identity was bound up with the Jewish People. He had dedicated his entire life to bridging the gap between the Jewish People and Hashem, serving as Hashem’s ambassador to Pharaoh, leading the People out of Egypt, delivering them the Torah from Har Sinai, and instructing the people in its ways. Moshe was saying to Hashem, “It’s all about the People, it’s not about me.”

And Hashem takes Moshe at his word. As the final commandments are issued that will make the Mishkan complete, that will allow the nation to build a vehicle allowing Hashem’s Presence to reside in their midst, Moshe is removed from the narrative. Why? Because as Moshe himself has said, it’s about the People, not about him.

How do we respond when we’re taken advantage of? When guests overstay their welcome, when people make excessive claims on our time, when neighbors or friends ask for unreasonable favors? We probably respond with indignation. “Where do they get off?!” 

But it’s worth looking at things from a different perspective. Perhaps they’re just taking us at our word. Perhaps all those times we’ve said, “Don’t mention it,” “No problem,” and especially, “Any time,” coupled with a pleasant demeanor and a genuine smile, we’ve actually succeeded in conveying to others that they should feel comfortable enough to make some outrageous asks. 

Major requests or favors may leave us feeling we’re being taken advantage of. To be sure, not every request can be filled given our limited time and resources. But before getting too annoyed, pause for a moment and consider where the request is coming from. If you’ve previously responded to someone’s thanks with a sincere “My pleasure,” they may just be taking you at your word. Perhaps you’ve become someone who people view as seeing kindness and generosity as pleasurable. Don’t be too upset. Give yourself a pat on the back instead.  

Parshas Truman 5783

I’m sure that the following assessment is so overly simplistic that it will make any capable accountant shudder, but here goes. If you’re young, put money into a Roth IRA, not a traditional IRA. Why? Because though you pay taxes on money contributed to a Roth IRA when it goes in, you don’t pay taxes when it’s pulled out. If you expect to be in a higher tax-bracket later on in life, you’re better off paying taxes now than later. Why do you expect to be in that position? Because when it comes to business and finances, we all intend to grow.

דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה מֵאֵת כָּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ תִּקְחוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִי

^{שמות כה:ב}

Tell the Children of Israel to take funds for Me; from every person whose heart moves him shall funds be taken for Me. 

^{Shemos 25:2}

Many commentators are struck by the usage of the word “ויקחו—they shall take” in the above pasuk. As the national fundraising effort begins in order to construct a Mishkan, wouldn’t it be more accurate to command the people to engage in giving rather than taking?

Rav Dovid of Kotzk offers a fascinating interpretation. He suggests that the term ויקחו is used to connote the enterprise of מקח וממכר, literally, buying and selling, but a term used broadly refer to business transactions in general. Our relationship with Hashem should be treated like a business.

Perhaps that sounds like a cheapening of mitzvos. It’s not. There is a certain serious mindedness we develop when it comes to our finances because of the innate drive for all that money can provide, be it material comfort, luxuries, or simply survival. And while we undoubtedly give great consideration to our spiritual pursuits, we can easily let ourselves off the hook. There are not, after all, the same metrics that stare us in the face when it comes to assessing our spiritual position as our financial one. 

How do we begin to treat spiritual business like our material business. The first goal should simply be to have goals. The expectation that our finances will be better later on in life than they are now, that we’ll have grown and developed as earners, is axiomatic. Do we maintain the same assumption in the spiritual realm? If so, what are we doing to get there?  

I want my business to grow and expand. I have plans for how to increase clientele and bring on additional employees. My business and finances of the future will dwarf their current standing, and I have a strategic plan to get there. But what about my knowledge of Torah? Or my Shemoneh Esrei? Do I envision growth and expansion in these areas as well? Or am I content to discharge the daily obligation but fundamentally be in the same place in decades from now as I am today?

I pay attention to my investments and consider ways to wisely expand my portfolio. What about my middos? Will I be only as good a listener, only as patient a spouse, only as humble and kind when I retire as I am right now? Or do I consider the development of character no less important a business than a material one? If I have goals set and strategy implemented to grow the one, what about the other?

Consider the מקח וממכר—the business management of owning a home. It’s your most valuable asset and you treat as such. There’s thought and consideration given to improvements and upgrades, with an eye towards whether or not the resell value will increase. Do we give the same attention to our spiritual assets? Do we concern ourselves with how to upgrade our mitzvos? Are we bent on ensuring that the way we put on tefillin, light Shabbos candles, or sit in a Sukkah will be fully upgraded in years from now, or are we content with letting our mitzvos simply sit and gather dust? How can we ensure that the way I do a mitzvah in years from now will be fully upgraded from the way I do it today?

When Rabbi Yaakov Yosef Herman (of the “All For The Boss Fame”) would reflect on the number of guests he had the fortune of bringing into his home and seat around his table, he would famously remark, “Business is booming!” There is a certain degree of seriousness, care, and attention that is lent to a business endeavor, whereas religious duty can otherwise slide into a state of perfunctory observance. When it comes to business, we set our sights on growth and move tenaciously towards that goal. Business of the spiritual realm deserves no less.

Parshas Yisro 5783

The names that Moshe Rabbeinu gives his sons are surprising. If you’ve been blessed with children, you know the process—a combination of considering generations past, of what simply lands well on the ear, and of expressing some hope for the sort of life that the child will lead or will provide to others. It is this last consideration that gives rise to names like “Bracha,” “Simcha,” or “Nechama,” signaling the anticipation that this new baby will provide blessing, happiness, or comfort to those around it. 

Moshe doesn’t follow this arc when naming his sons, though. As Yisro arrives in the Jewish camp with Moshe’s sons in tow, we are reminded of their names and of the meaning behind them. Moshe calls them Gershom and Eliezer, reflecting first that “גר הייתי בארץ נכריה—I was a foreigner in a foreign land” and “כי אלקי אבי בעזרי ויצילני מחרב ברעה–For the G-d of my father aided me and saved me from the sword of Pharaoh.”

In naming his sons, Moshe seems to reflect on the misfortune of being separated from the rest of his brethren, having been chased from Egypt by Pharaoh, and now living as a stranger in a strange land. Why dwell on the troubles of the past, rather than expressing the hope for a better future?

The Pardes Yosef offers an incredible explanation. Moshe did not give his children their names simply to set the historical record straight, but to provide them with an educational lesson they could never escape. 

Moshe’s sons could well have grown up with an inescapable sense of loneliness. They were so different from everyone around them, monotheists in a polytheistic land. They had no family members or friends—no society around them—to normalize their experience. If only they could be surrounded by others who had similar beliefs and practices, they’d have found the promised land. 

Moshe gives them names that will forever remind them of the folly of that thinking. Creating a strong community of those who will similarly serve Hashem, abide by similar dress, and speak a similar language is insufficient. Moshe states “I was a foreigner in foreign land,” not to describe his experience in Midian, separated from his family in Egypt, but to describe his experience in Egypt, separated from his ancestral homeland in the Land of Israel. 

Even as Moshe lived the “good life” in Egypt—and bear in mind, that he was not subject to the oppression and servitude that others were—he was conscious of the fact that there was more to hope and strive for. The name Moshe gives his second son is the chilling sequel. “G-d saved me from the sword of Pharaoh.” The comfort and security that Moshe had enjoyed turned on a dime. Suddenly he was an outcast. In truth, he never belonged in the first place.

This is the message that Moshe wants his sons to learn and relearn every time they introduce themselves. Home is not a function of getting great numbers of Jews together so you begin to feel that you belong. Home is only one place on earth. Eretz Yisrael. Period.

When times are tough, Eretz Yisrael floats to the top of the collective Jewish consciousness. It embodies an escape from the harsh realities of the exile. But when that reality is not so harsh, it can be easy to forget. When things are comfortable, it can begin to feel like home. When the oppression is non-existent, we can slide into a deep state of belonging where we already are. But where we are is simply not home.

This is an important reflection for our time, when so many of the oppressive conditions that have been the hallmark of galus are not present. But it is an especially critical reflection on the eve of an iconic cultural event. 

The Super Bowl is fun and it is exciting exciting. Watching the greatest professional athletes alive perform under immense stress is great entertainment. But we need to be on guard. Sports can easily seep into our lives and take root to the degree that we not only obsess over it, but even come to identify ourselves by it. “Eagles fan” or “Giants fan” becomes a defining feature of who we are. 

Not only is it not who we are, it’s part of culture that is not home. When we have the opportunity to entertain ourselves “just like everyone else” we need to be mindful of the slippery slope of feeling too great a sense of belonging. Watching a sporting event needs to come with an ability to maintain our own autonomy and free thinking, an ability to view ourselves as being decidedly “apart” even as we enjoy that which can bind us to the culture at large.

How much time and attention does the game occupy before it even starts? How much time afterwards? Can you step away from the screen to go daven? To put the kids to bed? To help a child with homework? These are the indicators that we’re enjoying with detachment, that we aren’t becoming obsessive, that we don’t feel the need to see watch every moment of a cultural phenomenon that belongs to a culture other than our own.

Why are the names of Moshe’s children repeated here, in Parshas Yisro? Perhaps as a reminder that even in the environment of the Midbar—far from the oppressive hand of the Egyptians, ensconced in the Clouds of Glory, with food falling from the sky—they still had to press on because they were not yet home. Whenever foreign terrain begins to feel particularly familiar, particularly comfortable, and particularly entertaining, we must remember the same. 

Parshas Beshalach 5783

In his remarkable work, “Man’s Search For Meaning,” Dr. Viktor Frankl commented that a major turning point in his life—one that allowed him to transcend the brutal suffering experienced in Auschwitz—was when he stopped asking what he expected of life and began asking what life expected of him.

The Jewish People safely cross the Red Sea but soon find themselves lacking the most necessary of all provisions when crossing a desert: water. The people complain for lack thereof and Hashem instructs Moshe to cast a piece of wood into a pool of bitter water, thereby making it miraculously potable.

Our tradition tells us that it was at this spot—Marah, literally, “bitter,” so named for the episode mentioned above—that the Jews received more than just water. This spot actually served as a precursor for the Har Sinai, and the Jews were gifted with three mitzvos, Shabbos; the Parah Adumah, or Red Heifer; and the mitzvah of Dinim, setting up a court system.

Why these three mitzvos, specifcally, and why now?

The Chasam Sofer offers an incredible insight into the event of transforming the bitter pool into drinkable water. The pasuk states that after Moshe cast the wood into the pool, “וימתקו המים—the water became sweet.” The Chasam Sofer observes that when one adds sugar or other flavoring agents to something bitter, the underlying bitterness remains nonetheless, it has simply been masked by the addition of the new ingredient. The coffee is just as bitter as it ever was; it just no longer tastes so.

To say, thought, that “וימתקו המים—the water became sweet” suggests a more comprehensive transformation. That which was bitter has not simply been masked, the bitter water is not merely more palatable, it has actually been changed into something new, something different, something sweet.

The Chasam Sofer explains that the wood or “עץ” that Hashem directed Moshe to throw into the water represented the “עץ חיים—the Tree of Life”, an allusion to the Torah itself. The Torah that serves as our interface with Hashem bears the potential to serve as a similar catalyst for all that is bitter in our own lives—the challenges, the setbacks, even the tragedies. When there is an awareness that what I experience is not accidental or haphazard, things did not simply turn out that way due to an unfortunate twist of fate, but have been tailor-made and presented to me by the Almighty in order allow me to discover yet unknown abilities and talents within myself, those same struggles can actually become sweet, challenging though they may be.

In this same vein, perhaps this is the reason for the presentation of these three specific mitzvos to the Jewish People at this same juncture. What do the mitzvos of Shabbos, Parah Adumah, and Dinim have in common? They habituate a person to recognizing that his own plans, interests, and sensibilities are not the be-all and end-all, that there is something greater and beyond him to submit to, and that the script that he’d write for himself may not be the correct one to produce.

Dinim brings a person in touch with an obvious submission to the authority of those who can view his case more objectively. Of course the plaintiff believes the other guy owes him $10,000 in damages, but the judges may not. Dinim is an exercise in recognizing that when others view his affairs from a place of objectivity, he may receive a different verdict than the one he wanted

Parah Adumah is, of course, the quintessential chok, or mitzvah that transcends human logic and reasoning. It is the paradigm of submitting the failings of our own cognition and appreciating that Hashem’s wisdom and understanding far outstrips our own.

Shabbos fits the same pattern. Shabbos is not solely about what we wish to do and accomplish, but is a day when we hand our affairs over to Hashem and submit to His vision for how we are meant to behave. We take a step back from our business, our earnings, and our creativity, and allow Hashem to fill the void left behind.

These three mitzvos in tandem provide crucial instruction for how we are to view the unfolding of our lives, particularly when challenges arise. They are a reminder that it is far wiser, healthier, and more genuine to ask what life expects of us rather than what we expect of life. That is mentality that can serve as the proverbial splinter in the bitter waters, transforming life’s challenges into care packages from Hashem, as he beckons us to become truly extraordinary people, people we may never have become if left to our own devices, writing a life’s script devoid of challenges or struggles. That splinter of wood has the capacity to make the water more than just palatable, it can actually make for a truly sweet drink.