Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

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. 

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.