Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Bo 5783

Even if you had no idea what a zoo is, it would become immediately apparent upon visiting one who is in charge and who is not. Despite the beautiful and spacious habitats the animals enjoy, despite the many employees who busily prepare and provide their food, the fact is that the humans roam free and the animals can not. Being stuck behind a border, a fence, or a wall, means that you are imprisoned.

How intriguing it is, then, that on the very night that would clinch liberation for the Jewish People, they were stuck behind a wall. As the Plague of the Firstborns raged throughout Egyptian households, the Jews were commanded to remain indoors as well, to not venture beyond the homes in which each korban pesach would be consumed. Surely an allowance to loiter in the public thoroughfares would have served as a fitting indicator that the tables had turned, that Hashem had passed control from Pharaoh to the Jews. Why keep them penned up inside?

Imagine being alive in that generation and actually living through the Ten Plagues. You’ve witnessed all that’s happened to Pharaoh and his once-glorious empire, and you can’t help but feel that justice is being served, that ultimately Hashem will not favor anyone who uses his power to manipulate and subjugate, rather than to uplift and provide. 

And while these are important lessons, it’s hard to fully personalize them. You, after all, are not Pharaoh and never will be. You do not wield the authority and influence that he does, and simply have no ability to be cruel or kind towards others as he has. Though you may soon go free, liberation creates freedom, not power.

But then, just at the plagues reach a crescendo, you look around the home in which you are prohibited from leaving and see the faces of your children and siblings and closest friends, the members of the chaburah with whom you are sharing the korban Pesach. And suddenly, you realize that while a king or monarch may hold limited influence over an enormous number of people, you hold enormous influence over a limited number of people. To the loved ones gathered around to celebrate, you are a king. Your word is weighty, your thoughts and ideas can shape the very lives of those dining with you. The ability to uplift or to provide, and conversely, to manipulate or subjugate is indeed yours. 

Perhaps it is for this reason that Hashem insisted that we remain home on that fateful night. With respect to the masses, the throngs that comprise our community, nation, and planet, our influence is diluted. By locking the doors, Hashem reminded each and every Jew of their status as a king or queen to those who occupy the orbit closest to them. What do we do with that influence? Enjoy a power trip? Make demands? Leverage relationships for personal satisfaction without feeling the responsibility to reciprocate? Or do we use that influence as a platform to care for and provide to those around us? Those most in need of our love and affection, those for whom a word of approval and consideration coming from our mouths means so much more than if it came from a true leader or monarch.

It is an entertaining mental exercise to allow your mind to drift every so often and answer the question, “What would I do if I were king or queen? If I had all that power, what would I do with it?” Perhaps the doors had to be shut for that very first meal we ever ate as a People to remind us all: You are kings and queens. You have all that power. Now what will you do with it? 

Parshas Vaeira 5783

I don’t have any hard data, but I have to imagine that it is a significant percentage of Seder tables around the world at which Moshe’s absence from the Haggadah is noted, along with the explanation of how critical it is to realize that it was Hashem, and not Moshe, who was ultimately responsible for our redemption.

Yet while Moshe’s presence in the actual Chumash is unavoidable—there’s simply no way to provide a proper detailing of the story without mentioning the human leader of the Jewish People—Moshe’s role in the Exodus is heightened in the Chumash in a manner that is almost uncomfortable.

וַיֹּאמֶר ה׳ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה רְאֵה נְתַתִּיךָ אֱלֹהִים לְפַרְעֹה וְאַהֲרֹן אָחִיךָ יִהְיֶה נְבִיאֶךָ׃

^{(שמות ז:א)}

And Hashem said to Moshe, “See that I have placed you as an elohim for Pharaoh; and Aharon your brother will be your agent.”

^{(Shemos 7:1)}

Hashem does not merely describe Moshe as His own ambassador or spokesperson, but rather as an elohim—a power or master—over Pharaoh. Hashem utilizes the same term by which He Himself is described and attributes that authority to Moshe with respect to Pharaoh.

Why is Moshe placed on such a surprising pedestal? Wouldn’t the story be more accurately described by downplaying Moshe’s own prominence and highlighting Hashem’s involvement? Why does the Chumash move so far afield from the path taken by the Haggadah? 

While the message of the Haggadah is critical. The message of the pesukim is no less so. The Midrash )Shemos Rabbah 8:1) describes that the name elohim was chosen for Moshe specifically as an act of sharing the glory with Him. The very act of creation is one of humility—of Hashem allowing room for other beings to exist—and that trait is on display in calling Moshe by the very term Hashem uses to describe himself. 

The Haggadah reminds us to see past the other forces and recognize Hashem’s involvement throughout the unfolding miracles. But the pesukim remind us that others were indeed involved, invited in by Hashem Himself.

What emerges is fascinating. That while Hashem incorporates others into the process, He still reaps the rewards of their endeavor. Hashem’s glory is not lessened as a result of Moshe’s involvement, it is heightened. Moshe plays an important role, but it is ultimately Hashem Who is recognized for liberating His chosen nation.

Using Hashem as a model for our own behavior always has its shortcomings. Yet I have found that on a human level, a similar reality unfolds when the limelight is shared. When it comes to glory and prestige, our natural inclination is to preserve for ourselves rather than share it with others. If we can accomplish a project or hit a milestone on our own, involving others will only dilute the recognition that will ultimately be coming our way. We’d much prefer to cross the finish line ourselves than while holding hands with others. 

But that mode of thinking is so sadly narrow. If we’re crossing the finish line by ourselves, the race is so lame it’s probably not getting much attention. By onboarding others into our dream and vision, there’s the ability to accomplish something so much greater, something that leaves plenty of room for a whole team of people to be thanked and lauded.

I’ve been embarrassed on more than one occasion for receiving thanks for a program or initiative at our shul that I simply had nothing to do with. And while it feels like a scam to be applauded for someone else’s work, it reflects a reality of adopting an outlook of plenty rather than scarcity. When many people are involved the results are greater. When the results are greater, there’s more appreciation to go round, not less. 

Do we spend more time focusing on what we want to accomplish, or on what we want to accomplish? One of the great ironies of life is that we tend to receive greater recognition when we share the stage with others and put on a show that is far more grand than what we could do all on our own. We can build a sandcastle all on our own and receive exclusive rights to the accolades. To build a skyscraper, we’ll need partners, but we’ll sacrifice none of the congratulations. It is only natural to be reluctant to share the limelight. But when we do, it becomes a whole lot brighter. 

Parshas Shemos 5783

If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? 

If I perform an act of chessed, and no one even notices, does it make a difference?

Moshe, despite his reluctance, is instructed by Hashem to go and serve as the liberator of the Jewish People. To the question of how he will convince them that it was indeed G-d who sent him, Hashem provides him with a series of three miracles to perform that will convince the People that his mission is of Divine origin.

One of the miracles is the transformation of Moshe’s hand from a healthy one to one afflicted with tzara’as. Moshe is instructed to perform the act as he stood at the burning bush, to understand fully what would take place when he would do so again in the presence of the people. Moshe brings his hand into the folds of his robes and draws it back out in a state of tzara’as. He then repeats the feat, and the hand has returned back to normal.

But in removing the tzara’as, a small inconsistency appears in the text. The pasuk (4:7) speaks of the flesh returning to normal as it is drawn “from his chest,” a term that does not appear when the hand was first afflicted. Rashi comments that this is significant. The Torah is stating that in returning back to good health, the hand transformed immediately upon being withdrawn. In the first place, when the hand was afflicted, it seems that there was a brief lag. This, says Rashi, informs us of Hashem’s chessed, illustrating His interest in providing health more quickly smiting with illness.

Yet I can’t help but wonder, did Moshe even notice? 

How quickly does it take a person to bring his hand to and from his chest? It’s a matter of nanoseconds. And all this while Moshe is experiencing direct revelation, no doubt overcome by the awesome reality of standing on hallowed ground in G-d’s very presence. Was he really checking his watch? 

I’d venture that it doesn’t really matter. Because it’s actually not about Moshe. It’s about Hashem. 

Moshe may not have noticed the speed with which he was healed relatively to the speed with which he was afflicted. His life may have been completely unchanged by the fact that his tzara’as dissolved more quickly than it appeared. But Hashem isn’t looking to score points with Moshe. He’s not looking to impress Him. He is simply acting from His essence, and that essence is chessed. 

The Torah is giving us a peek at the difference between doing chessed and being chessed. When you do chessed, there is a calculation of how much the other person needs this, and, to some degree, how much will they notice this. If they don’t know I’ve done it for them, what difference does it all make?

The difference it makes is in defining who we become as people. Hashem performs chessed because He is chessed. Or put in other words, Hashem performs chessed because He loves. Life is better without tzara’as than with tzara’as. Hashem wants Moshe to be better off as quickly as possible. Not because Moshe will notice. But because Hashem loves Him.

We expect that our kindness will be recognized. Being considerate, after all, demands that you take stock of what someone’s done for you and respond with appreciation. But the next time it doesn’t work out that way, try to keep it from ruffling your feathers. Lean into the experience of having given without it being recognized. There is something about that act of kindness that is actually more pure. That you’ve given out of love rather than for acknowledgment. That you gave because you care about that person, not because you’d hoped that they’d notice. That you didn’t just do chessed, but actually became chessed. 

Parshas Vayigash 5783

A captain of a battleship is informed that another ship is in his sea lane, pitting the battleship on a collision course with the other. The captain tells the signalman to communicate that the other ship needs to change course by 20 degrees. The response comes back, “Advise you change course 20 degrees.” The captain, annoyed, tells the signalman to inform the other ship that he is a captain, and the other must change course. The response comes back, “I am a seaman, second class, advise you change course 20 degrees.” The captain, at this point incensed, says, “Send back: ‘I am a battleship. Change course 20 degrees.’” The response, “I am a lighthouse. Change course,” quickly changes the captain’s mind.

Stephen Covey shares the lighthouse story in his classic book, “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People,” as an introduction to the powerful role that paradigms play in our view of the world. It’s true not only of captains of battleship, but of Yosef’s brothers, and the rest of us as well.

Yosef reveals himself to his brothers with the simple words, “אני יוסף העוד אבי חי—I am Yosef, is my father still alive?” In the astonished silence that follows this revelation, Chazal discern intense rebuke in Yosef’s words. The Midrash quotes Rebbe Elazar ben Azarya as commenting on this interaction, “אוי לנו מיום הדין, אוי לנו מיום התוכחה—Woe to us from the day of judgement, woe to us from the day of rebuke!” (Bereishis Rabbah 93)

Yet the rebuke is difficult to detect. To be sure, the brothers were stunned by Yosef’s revelation, but Yosef doesn’t exactly rain fire and brimstone down upon them, admonishing them for their wrongdoing. How does the revelation amount to rebuke?

According to Rav Chaim Shmulevitz, Yosef was effectively telling his brothers that he was a lighthouse. In other words, that the lens through which they viewed their lives was completely warped. Upon first hearing Yosef’s dreams, the brothers saw him as a danger, someone looking to upend their way of life, setting himself up as the central authority of the family, with everyone bowing down to him. It was wrong, unnatural, and painted Yosef as a threat. Everything that followed—throwing Yosef in a pit, dipping his coat in blood, selling him into slavery—was all a means of thwarting his plans and preventing his dreams from coming to fruition.

And now, in a flash, they see everything differently. Yosef is the viceroy of Egypt, with vast stores of food at his disposal. From from threatening the family, his role as a figure worthy of bowing down to is revealed as the means by which the family will actually be saved. In an instant, every act of hostility towards Yosef is proven misguided.

We think of rebuke as pointed criticism aimed at one’s actions. But what the brothers experience is even more reproving; it is the denunciation of the very underpinnings upon which they had built their lives. By causing the foundation to crack and crumble, Yosef left them sitting in the ruins of all their erroneous actions built upon it.

The words “rebuke” and “criticism” feel harsh; they’re not the sort of things we would actively seek out. Yet being beset by the wrong paradigm means being imprisoned in a cell of our own making. We cannot grow and develop if every step forward is upon a path that only seems to lead ahead because we are seeing it through a lens that itself is warped.

So how do change those lenses? The inherent challenge in doing so is that our entire orientation is formed by the paradigms we operate within. It’s easy to endorse thinking outside the box, but doing so is terribly difficult. The interior of the box, after all, is all we’ve ever known.

The case of Yosef’s brothers is illustrative. Ultimately, the paradigm shift is brought about from beyond the tight circle of those all thinking alike. Once trapped in the wrong paradigm, it is unlikely that the captain himself could conceive that the smaller boat heading his way is actually a lighthouse; he needs the lighthouse attendant to expand his view from the outside. While thinking beyond our own paradigms can be nearly impossible on our own, we can invite the opinions of those who see things from a completely different perspective to share how they view the world.

How much do we encourage those other voices and how much do we shut them down? How curious are we to hear a different viewpoint and attempt to see life from someone else’s perspective? How quickly do the words, “That’s just not my style,” or “That’s just not how our organization does things,” slip out of our mouths? Our lives, professions, and operations need not be altered in response to every ill-conceived suggestion, but adopting an approach of curiosity and interest to new ideas allows for the pipeline of transformative paradigm shifts to remain open. 

Anyone can get caught in the rut of covering a huge amount of ground while traveling entirely in the wrong direction. The quicker someone tells us to turn the car around, the quicker we’ll arrive at our destination, and the more gas we’ll save. The more others feel we’ll be receptive to their thoughts, ideas, and perspectives, the more likely we’ll be to receive what may be life-changing advice.

Parshas Vayeishev / Chanukah 5783

People, even great people, mature only over time. So when we find that Yosef is referred to early on in Parshas Vayeshev as a “na’ar,” a term that literally means youth, but often carries a distinctly juvenile connotation, it is not necessarily surprising. Yosef is, after all, only seventeen years old when the parsha begins. Rashi seems to underscore this sentiment in explaining that this term refers to Yosef’s preoccupation with his external appearance, and the time he spent styling his hair and putting himself together.

ּThe Kli Yakar, though, offers a fresh take on this description, noting the specific context in which it’s found. The Torah does not claim that Yosef was a “na’ar” in every sense, through and through. Rather, “והוא נער את בני בלהה ואת בני זלפה נשי אביו—he was a ‘na’ar’ towards the sons of Bilhah and the sons of Zilpah, his father’s wives.” It is in the company of these brothers in particular that the Torah notes this youthful, juvenile quality of Yosef.

Compare this to the very next pasuk, in which Yosef is described as the “ben zekunim” of his father, someone of decidedly mature qualities and characteristics. It is the same Yosef who invites both descriptions. How is this so? 

The Kli Yakar explains that the Torah is describing Yosef’s ability to connect with others in a manner that would be relatable. Yes, when in the presence of his aged and saintly father, he is poised, mature, wise beyond his years. But when around his brothers, he groomed himself in a manner that made him most relatable and approachable. When in the company of those far younger, he takes on a different persona and connects on a wavelength most comfortable for them.

Does this mean that Yosef had no identity of his own? Far from it. What it means, simply, is that from a young age Yosef understood the importance of connecting with people on their own terms. Yosef was no chameleon, he did not abandon his message, identity, or values in the interest of becoming who everyone else wanted him to be. Indeed, Yosef shares his dreams with his brothers despite digging himself into a place of extreme unpopularity because he felt that the message contained in them needed to be shared. But whenever possible, Yosef presents himself in a manner that those he’s trying to impact will be most receptive to his message.

The sefer Mikra Mefurash suggests that perhaps this is why Chazal identify Yosef as the force that will come to neutralize the ideology of Eisav. Eisav was described as a “Man of the Field,” being drawn to the outdoors and developing into an expert hunter. Though he may not have possessed the typical appearance of the scholar, Eisav’s role was to nevertheless develop an internal religious persona, external trappings notwithstanding. Ultimately, Eisav failed. But Yosef succeeded in this capacity, already from a young age. Yosef’s inner depth and commitment could not be easily discerned by the external packaging alone. Indeed, it is Yosef who ultimately assumes the garb of the Egyptian nobility, yet continues to live his own private life and raise his children in a manner that would make his ancestors proud. 

There is much to be learned from Yosef in this regard. We can get caught up at times with the importance of speaking the truth and “telling it like it is” that we lose all sense of doing so in a manner that others may be most receptive to. When criticism or critique needs to be offered, it can be rattled off without care or concern for packaging those words in a way that will permit them to be fully heard and absorbed. Being “truthful” has come to replace being cordial. This is particularly true online, where the immediate discomfort we might otherwise feel in being harsh to someone in their presence is dulled and obscured. 

In other ways as well, we should be mindful of Yosef. When we attempt to impart values, goals or ideals—be it to children, students, or team members—we can’t expect that the ideas that animate us will have the same impact on others. We need to think about what’s of interest and relevant to them and consider ways to align those realities with our own hopes and expectations. We need to give thought not only to the message, but the messaging. 

As Chanukah approaches, we’d do well to remember that the Jewish relationship with Greek culture is not entirely hostile. When Noach turned to bless his two sons, Shem and Yefes, the progenitors of the future nations of Israel and Greece, he said, “G-d will give beauty to Yefes, yet He will dwell in the tents of Shem.” The beauty of Greece is, indeed, a blessing, albeit an imperfect one. The problem arises when beauty becomes a means unto itself, rather than the attractive packaging within which the item of true value is contained. The tents of Shem can be of great beauty—and ought to be—if they are to be the vehicle that will draw greater interest to Hashem Who resides within. 

Chanukah celebrates the banishing of foreign influences from our Holy Temple. But that Temple, let’s remember, was jaw-droppingly beautiful. Impressive architecture, kind and cordial language, and a presentation that resonates rather than repels, represent a type of aesthetic to be fully embraced. We should strive to be truthful. But there’s nothing wrong with making the truth as attractive and inviting as possible. 

Parshas Vayishlach 5783

I’ll sometimes raise a question at the Shabbos table—parsha, halacha—and unintentionally solicit a strange response. It’s almost Pavlovian—one of my younger children will shoot a hand up in the air, waiting to be called on.

“Sweetheart, it’s ok, it’s not school.” Yet maybe my kids are on to something.

Dinah’s abduction is not only a personal trauma, but one that impacts her family around her. In sizing up what Yaakov had done to deserve such a harsh punishment, Rashi is surprisingly forthcoming, offering not only one reason, but two. 

Rashi first explains that Yaakov is punished for having withheld Dinah from his brother, Eisav. At their fateful meeting, Dinah was nowhere to be found because Yaakov had concealed her from sigh, fearing that his brother might set his eyes upon her and wish to take her as a wife.

But Rashi subsequently offers a different explanation—that Yaakov is punished for having tarried en route back to Eretz Yisrael. Had Yaakov journeyed more swiftly back to his parents’ home, Dina would not have been taken.

So which one is it? Was the punishment of Dinah’s abduction brought on by Yaakov’s unwillingness to entertain her marriage to Eisav? Or was it a function of acting without the requisite zeal to return to his parents’ home? 

Rav Avraham Orenstein, author of the Divrei Avraham answers simply, it was both.

Yaakov could not possibly be taken to task for being unwilling to marry his daughter off to Eisav. Allowing his daughter to enter into a marriage with Eisav would have been completely reckless. Was Yaakov to believe that Dinah’s marriage to Eisav’s would have created such a comprehensive turnaround in the environment of his home that it would be an appropriate place for Dinah to live? 

No, certainly not. Unless there was further influence from elsewhere. 

When Yaakov and Eisav part ways, Eisav urges that they travel together, side by side. Yaakov refuses. Eisav, after all is heading to Mount Seir, and Yaakov intends to return back to his parents’ home. Ultimately, though, Yaakov doesn’t head straight back. He delays, stopping along the way. If, in reality, he wasn’t in such a rush to return home, then perhaps he could have actually traveled alongside his brother. 

It is here, suggests Rav Orenstein, that the two explanations of Rashi merge into one. Yaakov is punished for not doing more to help steer his brother back to a good path. Was giving him Dinah as a wife the answer? No, a positive influence at home may not have sufficed. Was traveling alongside him the answer? No, a positive influence from beyond the home may not have been enough. 

But together, they would have done the trick. Yaakov and the burgeoning camp that his growing family constituted would have been a powerful influence on Eisav. He’d be surrounded by people who committed to Hashem in their dress, speech, and deeds. He’d see them davening and learning. And lest Eisav believe he could simply retreat to his own home to escape it all, there would be Dinah, exhibiting the same sort of behavior that Eisav saw all around him. With strong influences both beyond his home and within his home, Eisav really could have changed. 

I don’t want my kids to raise their hands at the Shabbos table. But maybe they’re on to something, that synergy between home and school—influences from without and influences from within—is critical. Chinuch is not something that can be outsourced to school. If not reinforced at home—through our own behavior as parents and the expectations we make of both ourselves and our children—the chinuch we’re providing our children is under developed. 

But chinuch cannot only be the product of the home. However rich and vibrant an atmosphere we may create in our homes, however clear we may articulate our family’s values and truly live them, influences beyond the home are incredibly powerful. Knowing what’s happening in our kids’ schools, knowing who their friends are, knowing who and what they’re connecting with online. Assuming that they will transcend a barrage of negative influences because they know what their family stands for is simply asking too much. 

And by the same token, when we assess the relationship between external and internal influences, it is critical that we consider our own lives as well, not only those of our children. How well-integrated are the environments we ourselves travel in? Does my kosher home give me license to keep close company with individuals who are sorely out of step with my goals and values? Does my stellar chevrah permit me to do what I want, watch what I want, or act how I want at home? Do I see the world outside my home as a welcome retreat from the values I live by in my home? Do I see my home as a chance to escape the pressures of living by the values of my friends, shul, and community?

Adults and children alike thrive on consistency and integrity. When we create an atmosphere reflective of what we aspire to become, we must do so both inside and out. There is no limit to how much we can develop and grow as people when we surround ourselves by the right influences, both within our homes and beyond them.

Parshas Vayeitzei 5783

Had Yaakov simply decided to turn in for the night, surely he would not have been blamed. He was a long way from home and had no clear destination. According to Rashi’s understanding of events, Yaakov arrives all the way in Charan—the city he’d first set out for—only to feel a twinge of guilt over having possibly passed up on praying at the sites hallowed by his father and grandfather before him. He makes an about face, and before making much progress, finds that the sun has abruptly set, and it’s time for him to make camp.

But before he goes to sleep, he prays. Not just any prayer, but a prayer of significant intention, one that is described in a way that indicates that Yaakov was gearing up for just this occasion. Yaakov’s prayer is described with the words “Vayifga BaMakom—And he entreated at the place.” But the word Vayifga is an unusual one, connoting a premeditated intervention or attack. When Avraham makes sets out to purchase Ma’aras HaMachpeilah, a cognate of this word is used, as Avraham asks the locals to “Pig’u li b’Efron ben Tzochar—entreat Efron ben Tzochar on my behalf.” Vayifga is to set your sights on your objective and to pounce.

Which is puzzling when it comes to Yaakov’s prayer. When he wakes from the spectacular vision he dreams that night, the Torah records his surprise that he’d somehow ended up in such an awesome place. He had no idea where he was, yet prayed as though this was the Makom, precisely the location where he ought to pray.

Perhaps this is exactly what the Torah intends to highlight. Yaakov was planning to arrive at a holy site and pray there. When would he get there? Tomorrow. Maybe the next day. He had no sense that he’d already arrived at a place so saturated with holiness—that Hashem had brought him to Har HaBayis prematurely. Yaakov didn’t believe that he was anywhere special. But the sun set, and he had a chance to pray. Vayifga. He attacked. He entreated. He pounced. 

The day doesn’t always go as planned. We’d had hopes for accomplishing so much, for getting so much done, for crossing so many items off our lists. Instead, things zigged and then zagged and—in a bewildered state of how it all went so wrong—we’re ready to just check out and look to tomorrow for a fresh start. Tomorrow will be the day when things get back on track. Tomorrow will be the day when we arrive at the correct destination.

To this manner of thinking, Yaakov pushes back. He won’t just write the day off. Perhaps he’s not where he truly hopes to be, but it’s a nice hilltop nonetheless, and the day hasn’t quite ended, why not daven?

The prayer that Yaakov instituted that night was Maariv. A tefilah that’s recited after nightfall, when the day is largely over. It may well have been a day when we told ourselves we’d learn Torah, we’d volunteer our time, or we’d comport ourselves in a manner reflective of Hashem’s middos. And something went wrong. Or many things went wrong. And the day didn’t prove nearly productive as we would have liked. It may be a day we’re tempted to simply write off, to pledge a reset, that tomorrow things will be better. 

But Yaakov impels us to do something else. To daven. There’s still time yet before you turn in. Make the most of it. Wring out what’s left of the day, no matter how it’s gone until now. A reset doesn’t have to take place in the morning or after the weekend or in the summer. There may be huge opportunities that come our way before then and it would be a shame to waste them. 

Maariv is more than a tefilah, it’s a mentality. One that says I don’t need to wait until later to crawl out of my funk, I can recalibrate now. I don’t need to be irresponsible or impatient or insensitive for the rest of the night simply because it’s how I’ve already acted today. I can wring out some remaining opportunity in this day, however wrong things may have gone until now.

Yaakov doesn’t just go to bed. It’s been a confusing, confounding day. Tomorrow he’ll arrive at his destination, but that doesn’t stop him from davening tonight. Had Yaakov hesitated, perhaps he’d never have seen that great vision and never heard Hashem’s comforting words. Perhaps he’d have missed out on it all had he been the sort of person who schedules opportunity for later, rather than one who seizes opportunity whenever it may arrive.

Parshas Toldos 5783

You should try out for the basketball team! You should explore your artistic side! you should learn more bekiyus!

Why? Maybe because I didn’t and wish I would have. Or maybe because I did and I see you as an extension of me. 

The Torah describes that a natural affinity that Yitzchak and Rivkah had towards each of their two sons; Rivkah being drawn to Yaakov and Yitzchak to Eisav. What was it about Eisav that captured Yitzchak’s attention? Rashi describes that Eisav would pose questions to his father that bespoke a deep concern for spiritual matters, noting specifically that Eisav would ask Yitzchak the appropriate manner of tithing items such as salt and straw.

Yet is Yitzchak’s interest was that his progeny care about serving Hashem, why this especial interest in Eisav? Yaakov is described as being “yosheiv ohalim—sitting in the Tents of Torah.” Why didn’t Yaakov’s behavior pique Yitzchak’s interest as much as Eisav’s?

Rav Gedalia Shorr offers an insightful approach. Chazal consider Yitzchak to be the paragon of the trait of gevurah, or inner fortitude. This is a quality expressed through denying oneself of one’s own visceral wants in the interest of fulfilling a greater value. Many expressions of this quality can be detected throughout Yitzchak’s life, but perhaps none greater than his willingness to be sacrificed by his father. Yitzchak was prepared to transcend his very will to live in the interest of abiding by Hashem’s request.   

Rav Shorr explains that Yitzchak was drawn to Eisav because he saw himself in this particular son. It is not so much that Eisav exhibited greater dedication to spiritual pursuits than his brother, but rather that he was someone who struggled with in those pursuits to overcome his other interests. Yitzchak was an “ish sadeh—a man of the field,” not one naturally drawn to the Bais Medrash as Yaakov was. When it came to dedicating his life to Hashem, Eisav was in turmoil. Yitzchak saw himself in that struggle and deeply identified with this particular son.

In a study performed in the Netherlands in 2013, parents who saw their children as an extension of themselves were at far greater risk of living vicariously through their children. Doing so is poses a major threat to one’s children. When I see myself in my child, they become a proxy for my own experiences. I push them to achieve that which I missed out on in my childhood and may still regret. Or I may pressure them to take the same path that I did in life without concerning myself with the nuances that separate their life from my own. Identifying with our children can be a powerful means of connecting with and caring for them, but it’s critical that we stop short of seeing their experiences as an actual extension of our own.

This idea sheds new light on the remarkable achievements of Yitzchak as a father to Eisav. Yitzchak sees Eisav’s struggles not unlike his own. He is drawn to Eisav as a result and is bent on helping him succeed. Yitzchak was no “ish sadeh,” no “man of the field,” but when he sees this quality in Eisav, his goal is not to suppress those instincts, only to guide them towards proper expression. When Yitzchak prepares himself to bestow the blessings upon Eisav, he requests that Eisav go out to hunt and bring back delicious food for Yitzchak to enjoy. Yitzchak sees himself in his son, but does not demand he take precisely the same path. He is own experience makes him more acutely concerned for his son, but he stops short of living vicariously through him.

How do we mimic Yitzchak? How do we see enough of ourselves in our children that we care deeply for them and leverage our own life experience to help them, without succumbing to the trap of viewing their lives as an extension of our own? By reminding ourselves that there is only one area in which we can become better through our interactions with our children: parenting. Their on-field achievements do not make us better athletes. Their masterpieces do not make us greater artists. Their middos do not make us tzaddikim. But guiding them in a manner that is most appropriate for them—rather than ourselves—does make us great parents, irrespective of the results. Heaping unfair pressures or expectations may indeed result in the results we’ve imagined, but those results are theirs alone, and we’re left with lousy grades on the parenting report card. 

Ultimately, Yitzchak’s attempts to guide Eisav are largely unsuccessful. Far more nefarious behavior lurks beneath the surface of inquiries regarding how to tithe salt and straw. But Yitzchak is not Eisav and Eisav is not Yitzchak. Eisav may take a wrong path, but Yitzchak comes out a remarkable parent. He identifies with his son, but only enough to love him and attempt to guide him in a manner most appropriate for son, not for father. Had Eisav turned out differently, Yitzchak would not receive any further accolades. But by parenting in the manner he did, Yitzchak does add “great father” to his already impressive resume.

Parshas Vayeira 5783

Last year, we made a point of scheduling our shul “Hachnassas Orchim Shabbaton” to coincide with Parshas Vayeira. The image of Avraham Avinu recovering from his bris milah and keeping watch for potential guests on a sweltering hot day is precisely what we should keep in mind when we consider the importance of playing host to those in need. This year, the Shabbaton has already been held. Perhaps it’s bashert. Because we should consider not only how to provide chessed, but also how—and when—it is to be accepted. As hosts, we should strive to be like Avraham. But as guests, we should consider the behavior of the angels. 

The Torah describes Avraham taking note of the passersby with the word “וירא—and he saw.” But the word is used twice, prompting Rashi to explain that the second usage is not to indicate Avraham’s seeing the would-be-guests with his eyes, but refers to his comprehension and understanding of how they acted. Specifically, Avraham “saw,” that is, he understood, why the guests remained at a distance, despite the fact that he was clearly approaching them to invite them in. Avraham realized that, in Rashi’s words, “לא רצו להטריחו—they didn’t want to burden him.”

Our communities are built upon the values of Avraham and Sarah. We sit by the entrance to our tents, peering out at the world beyond, and are prepared to offer food and shelter, comfort and conversation to all those in need. We cook meals for those whose lives have been upended by tragedy or by celebration, we host guests, and we ready ourselves for the Erev Shabbos SOS call from someone whose car broke down on the Turnpike and needs a place to stay. Chessed has become the hallmark of the Jewish community. Avraham and Sarah would be proud.

But it’s worth pausing every now and again and asking—would the angels be proud? Chessed, hospitality, and giving have become so interwoven into the fabric of what our communities are about, that we can forget to fulfill the mandate of derech eretz presented by the angels—to hesitate before accepting that kindness. 

Rashi describes the angels as being conscious of the fact that by accepting Avraham’s invitation, they’d be a tircha—a burden to him. They’re not wrong. Avraham would expend significant effort and hefty expense in putting out a spread for these guests. To be sure, this was what Avraham wanted to do. It’s what he longed for and represented an opportunity to walk in the footsteps of Hashem. But the toil, effort, and burden cannot be denied.

The angels ultimately accept. But they hesitate. And there’s great merit in doing so.

At the very least, when we pause before accepting another’s kindness, we have the chance to reflect and to appreciate. When we hesitate for a bit, allowing some mental rumination over not wanting to put the other person out, we’re less likely to take their chessed for granted and give ourselves the chance for sincere gratitude. Our communities are infused with such remarkable kindness that we can come to take it for granted or even begin to feel entitled as a result of being members of the community ourselves.

There’s another factor to consider as well. The angels stop and consider the burden imposed on their host. If we are regularly doing the same, there should be no small number of chassadim that we could be asking for that we ultimately don’t. We simply cannot impose our burden upon another.

How do we decide? When do we politely request, and when do we avoid asking for another’s help and assistnace? 

A helpful rule I think is to compare the burden we’re asking the other person to take on relative to what our own burden would be. “Can we come for Shabbos? We’ll be stuck in a hotel outside the eruv otherwise” is an obvious example of a fair ask to make because the burden incurred by suffering through such a miserable Shabbos so obviously outweighs the burden being asked of others to host. But “Can we come for Shabbos? We’ve had a stressful week and are too tired to cook” should give us more pause. Our hosts may well have experienced stress this week as well. The burden we’d experience is likely not very different from the one we’re asking someone else to take on. 

Every scenario is different. But it begins where the angels began—pausing to recognize that giving another the opportunity for chessed is also placing a burden upon them. 

There are thousands of ways we do and could rely upon the kindness and generosity of others. That such kindness is available is proof that we are following in the footsteps of Avraham and Sarah. But we must follow in the footsteps of the angels as well. Those footsteps were slow to form—they stood their ground, hesitating, considering—before they ultimately followed Avraham home. If we pause before accepting chessed, we can become more grateful than if we take the kindness of others as a given. And if we pause, we may find that it is we who should be doing the chesed, by withholding the burden from our friends’ shoulders. 

Parshas Lech Lecha 5783

On a recent trip to the school cafeteria, I walked by a student’s open computer screen and noticed something odd. He was playing a video game and his avatar was racing across the screen trying to hunt down the other players and shoot them. In the corner of the screen I spotted the names of those players—his rebbeim! I asked the student, “Are you actually playing against the rebbeim?” “No,” he responded, “We just use their names because it’s funny when the screen flashes, you’ve been killed by Rabbi So-And-So.”

When you hijack someone’s identity, that person is at the mercy of your behavior. People may think he’s wasting his time on video games. Worse yet, people may think he’s a thief.

This is exactly what’s at stake for Avraham when he realizes the need for he and Lot to go their own ways. Avraham’s shepherds have been chastising those of Lot for allowing their sheep to graze on the land not their own. 

In speaking to Lot and expressing the need to take leave of each other, Avraham refers to them as being, “אנשים אחים אנחנו—we are brothers.” Rashi quotes the Midrash that interprets this phrase to refer to their similar facial features—Avraham and Lot actually looked alike. 

Which provides an important insight on the need for Avraham to separate from Lot. Avraham is building a career preaching monotheism—the reality of just One perfect G-d Who serves as a role model for humankind to follow. What would happen if someone so close to him—indeed, someone who could be mistaken for him—would be seen by others acting unethically? Avraham can’t allow all the progress he’s made to be undermined by Lot. He cannot allow people to retreat from monotheism because its chief proponent comes to be seen as a charlatan. Lot must go.

What’s astounding is what comes next:

הֲלֹא כׇל־הָאָרֶץ לְפָנֶיךָ הִפָּרֶד נָא מֵעָלָי אִם־הַשְּׂמֹאל וְאֵימִנָה וְאִם־הַיָּמִין וְאַשְׂמְאִילָה׃

^{בראשית יג:ט}

Behold, the entire land is before you! Depart now from me. If towards the left, I will go right. And if towards the right, then I will go left.

^{Bereishis 13:9}

Rashi explains that Avraham’s description of going left should Lot go right, and vice-versa, was not to say that Avraham would be distancing himself from Lot as far as possible. Rather, should Lot go left, Avraham would be at his immediate right. Wherever Lot settles, Avraham would not be far. 

Standards are a difficult thing to maintain, particularly when other people are concerned. It’s far easier to be amiable and easy-going than it is to draw a line and insist it not be crossed. But even more difficult is resisting the urge to erect a fence, even after the line is drawn. Living in the murky space of disassociation on the one hand and maintained interest and concern on the other is a very difficult dance. 

Yet this is precisely what Avraham undertakes. There can be no doubt that Avraham has great care and concern for Lot, but he parts ways just the same. Avraham is bent on teaching people about G-d’s values, and turning a blind eye to Lot’s misconduct would compromise the entire enterprise. But Avraham never fully retreats. He cares too much for Lot. Moreover, having been in his orbit for so long, Avraham feels responsible for Lot.

Life has its “Lots”. There are people we grow apart from, not only because we don’t have the bandwidth to keep up, but out of a concerted effort to take a step in a different direction. Spiritually, professionally, personally. “My value system comes under fire whenever we speak.” “I can’t tolerate the language they use.” “Their pessimism is grating and really holding me back.” 

Such steps may well be necessary, but we don’t need to run for the hills. Avraham Avinu finds a way to thread the needle, keeping appropriate distance so his life’s mission can still go fulfilled, but staying close enough to continue caring for someone who was close and ought to continue to be in his orbit. Distance doesn’t need to mean severance. We can move on to the left or the right, but stay close enough to care.