Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Noach 5783 

As Oren Segal of the ADL put it, Kanye West has more followers on social media than there are Jews on the planet. We should, then, be rather amazed by the publicity and financial tailspin that Kanye’s recent anti-semitic remarks have sent him into. With his relationship with Adidas terminated, his net worth has been slashed to a quarter of what it was just a few days ago, and he is now on the outside of the Forbes’ billionaires list looking in. It is no small societal achievement in favor of tolerance and decency. And we should pause to consider and applaud it. 

It’s impossible to read Parshas Noach without pondering the question, “How might Avraham have acted differently?” And this is not mere cynicism or an unfair devaluation of Noach’s righteousness. The commentaries, going all the way back to the Midrash, make the Noach-Avraham comparison, highlighting that much of the language the Torah uses in describing the two invites this assessment. 

To be sure, Noach’s spiritual achievements are jaw-dropping. To emerge from an utterly debased society as the head of the lone family on the planet worthy of salvation is really saying something. But one cannot help but wonder if, had Avraham been there instead, would more people have perhaps ended up on the boat, beyond just his immediate family members? 

In the Torah’s initial description of Noach, it is described that, “את האלקים התהלך נח—Noach walked with G-d.” High praise, indeed. Yet, as Rashi points out, a description later on of Avraham notes that, “ה׳ אשר התהלכתי לפניו—Hashem, before Whom I have walked.” Rashi explains that while Noach needed G-d by his side to support him in his journey toward morality, Avraham could walk independently and of his own strength. 

The comparison between walking next to G-d and walking before G-d suggests another point as well. Namely, that Avraham saw himself as G-d’s ambassador. It is the ambassador who takes leave of the physical presence of the country or administration he works for in order to promote their values and ideals to others who may not be immediately at hand. Avraham promotes G-d from the soapbox and acts as G-d would in every interaction with others. Avraham teaches people, feeds people, and prays for people.

Avraham’s influence is impressive in his own lifetime, but his influence on the full gamut of human history is simply unparalleled. Many billions of people alive today can directly trace their own values back to those first propounded by Avraham, not to mention the many billions more who have lived between his generation and ours. People who believe in ethical monotheism, in equality before the law, in the value of human life, in social responsibility, may all use different titles and names to best describe their religious and social affiliations, but it would be quite fair to refer to them all as “Abrahamites.” 

We, especially in the frum world, often lose sight of this. We lose sight of the degree to which Avraham was effective. We spend so much time pointing to the many ways in which society has slipped into a moral backslide over the past number of generations, that we don’t adequately consider the many moral victories. We take note of immodesty, but not of tolerance. We recoil from indecency, but don’t appreciate equality. We bemoan a diminishing family ethic, but can become oblivious to institutionalized kindness and charity. There are moral failings, but also moral victories. They are part of the legacy of Avraham and his shaping of the world around him, and we’d do well to appreciate them.

Adidas cutting ties with Kanye West is a moral victory. Not because Adidas’ motives were necessarily so pure. One can only imagine that a calculation was made—will we lose more money by retaining Kanye and his brand, or by cutting them? But that such a question would even need to be explored is impressive in of itself. That the public backlash to Kanye’s remarks could be so fierce as to force all the Adidas brass into the room is remarkable. That just a few generations after the Holocaust, a German company could be all but forced to part ways with an otherwise immensely popular celebrity due to public outcry over his antisemitism is an extraordinary feat. And it is one we should stop to acknowledge.

Progress never moves in a straight line, and anti-semitism is not over. But the downfall of Kanye West is an impressive point along the trajectory that Avraham Avinu first launched. Had their historical positions been reversed, Avraham would likely have brought far more people on his boat than Noach. Avraham didn’t walk next to G-d, he walked in front of Him, broadcasting His values to all who would listen. His influence truly has shaped the world for the better. Kanye West’s story is a reminder that we’re still feeling that influence today. 

Parshas Bereishis 5783

Everyone gets a trophy! Well, almost everyone.

The words “ki tov—It was good,” are repeated so frequently throughout the creation narrative that it appears at first glance as though every feature of the created world receives Hashem’s stamp of approval. Upon closer inspection, though, there is one glaring omission.

On the second day of creation, when Hashem sets the firmament to divide between the lower and upper waters, the words “ki tov” are not used. Rashi explains that this is because, in truth, the work was not yet done. Hashem considers the firmament to be in its fully proper ad completed state only once Day Three arrives, when the lower waters are gathered together to form seas and oceans. Once this is achieved, the term ki tov appears. It is stated twice in the description of the events of Day Three—once in reference to all that was newly created on that day, and once as a final seal of approval on the firmament, whose creation began the day before but was only completed on the third day.

This is all to say that Hashem uses the term ki tov more selectively than we may have first realized. Which begs the question, why is Day Three worthy of a “ki tov” at all?

.וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹקים תַּדְשֵׁא הָאָרֶץ דֶּשֶׁא עֵשֶׂב מַזְרִיעַ זֶרַע עֵץ פְּרִי עֹשֶׂה פְּרִי לְמִינוֹ אֲשֶׁר זַרְעוֹ־בוֹ עַל־הָאָרֶץ וַיְהִי־כֵן

^{בראשית א:יא}

And Hashem said, “Let the earth sprout vegetation: seed-bearing plants, trees of fruit that bear fruit of its kind with the seed in it, upon the earth.” And it was so.

^{Bereishis 1:11}

Rashi comments that the term “eitz pri,” “trees of fruit,” used in this pasuk is precise. Hashem called for trees to be brought forth from earth that would not only produce fruit, but would taste like fruit themselves, trees whose bark would be no less delicious than the fruit that would ultimately hang from its branches. Yet the earth did not do so. In the next pasuk, when the trees that were actually brought forth are described, the term used is “eitz oseh pri—trees producing fruit.” The trees yielded fruit, but did not taste like fruit themselves. The earth fell down on its job.

Hashem’s response? “Ki tov!” Which is difficult to swallow. If every day of creation gets stamped with a glowing “ki tov” without discernment, then why does Day Two get left behind? And if a “ki tov” is to be withheld when undeserved, why does Day Three receive the accolade, despite the obvious shortcomings? 

Perhaps the difference between the two lies in who has come up short. When Hashem considers the firmament of the second day of creation, He is assessing His own work, not that of another. And so He exercises greater scrutiny. There is no “ki tov” awarded when Hashem knows full well that He can and will do better, when the as-yet imperfect creation can still be perfected.

But the failure of producing trees with delicious bark is not Hashem’s own. It was the earth that fell short, that didn’t fully comply with the orders given. It is here that Hashem is less demanding, less insistent that “ki tov” be uttered only once things are absolutely perfect. While the flaw is recorded, the deviation from Hashem’s initial command can be clearly identified, the misstep doesn’t stand in the way of Hashem’s stamp of approval and acceptance. Day Three is still, “ki tov,” errors and all.

In an address given in Yeshivat Har Etzion during the month of Elul many years ago, the late Rav Yehuda Amital noted that human beings possess a remarkable capacity both for scrutiny and for acceptance. Scrutiny tends to be directed towards the other—other individuals, groups, or organizations—that we disagree with or are unimpressed by. Acceptance, on the other hand, is directed towards ourselves. When we fall short, it’s justified. When we stumble, we rationalize. When we commit errors, they are isolated examples, unreflective of the bigger picture of who we really are. To grow as people, though, we must flip the script—to scrutinize our own behavior a bit more and be more demanding of ourselves, while extending the courtesy of understanding towards others whose imperfections we so readily notice. 

“Ki tov” is a flipping of that script. Hashem holds Himself to a higher standard, as it were, compared to the creations that do His bidding. He cannot abide a premature “ki tov” when there is yet more He demands of Himself. The earth, on the other hand, even after a major folly, does receive Hashem’s imprimatur. It is “ki tov,” the flaw notwithstanding.

What would we look like if we were a bit slower to hang the badge of “ki tov” on our own lapels? What would the world look like if we placed it a bit more easily on those around us?

Parshas Balak 5782

Bilaam attempts to curse the Jewish People and unwittingly finds himself blessing them instead. Time and again, he issues prophetic words that G-d places in his mouth speaking of the enviable qualities of the nation rather than casting aspersions upon them. In one of the best known instances, Bilaam speaks of the arrangement of the tents in the Jewish camp. 

מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל׃

^{במדבר כד:ה}

עַל שֶׁרָאָה פִתְחֵיהֶם שֶׁאֵינָן מְכֻוָּנִין זֶה מוּל זֶה

^{רש׳׳י שם}

How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel!

^{Bamidbar 24:5}

This was on account of having seen that the entrances of the Jewish tents did not align with one another.

^{Rashi, ibid.}

Rashi’s explanation of Bilaam’s praise is that the Jewish residences were arranged in such a way so as to ensure that no outsiders could see within. The people are being praised for keeping certain things behind closed doors and out of the public eye.

What are those things? 

When we think of being modest, our minds generally go to keeping covered those parts of the body or those activities of a particularly private or intimate nature. But consider that in describing the intentional staggering of the Jewish tents, Rashi notes that what became misaligned were the tent openings. It wasn’t the bedroom windows and it wasn’t the entrances to the mikvaos or the latrines. It was the front doors to their homes. Which means that what was shielded from the public eye was far more than we would expect. It was dinner with the family. It was casual conversations in the living room. It was the goings-on of daily life, well beyond its most intimate dimensions.

The Jewish People were engaging in far more than modesty; they were engaging in privacy. Which has become something of a lost art. Though modesty suffers its own struggles in our generation, privacy far more so. The notion that our bodies must remain covered and that certain behaviors are not appropriate for public consumption is axiomatic, at least for most. Yet many have completely lost the sense that other, more humdrum experiences should likewise not always be shared. That there is merit in refraining from clicking “post” or “send” for its own sake. 

Why is this? What exactly is the advantage of privacy? Why is Bilaam moved by the fact that the Jewish People did not permit onlookers into their kitchens and dens without careful prior consideration?

The answer is that privacy makes for more genuine experiences. When we become accustomed to sharing every plate of pasta or walk on the beach on instagram, we erode the amount of personal engagement we have in any given experience and replace it with an interest in pleasing the masses. 

Was the bit of advice I just gave my daughter really for her? Or was it just part of manufacturing a good facebook post? Was the family vacation really about strengthening relationships? Or was I trying to generate social media fodder? It is so much more difficult to consider the people actually in the room when we’re concerned with how it will be perceived on the screens of thousands of others. When we leave the door open we dilute and distort the experience for those actually living it, ourselves included. 

Closing the physical door is a relatively easy operation. But being selective about when we leave the door open or closed to the full gamut of our personal experiences is increasingly challenging. Technology affords us the ability to leave that door wide open. We enjoy the likes and the flattering emojis, we get a brief high when what we’ve done impresses, shocks, or otherwise engages others. But in doing so too often, we pay a hefty price in privacy. Which is to say, we pay a hefty price in how authentic we are. It can become more about those outside the door than those inside of it. 

The answer is not a wholesale abandonment of social media. Sharing experiences can create a valuable sense of connectedness with friends and family members we may not get to see often enough in person. But the risks are nevertheless real. Consider, perhaps, the following challenge. When is it that you tend to post, tweet, and share an otherwise personal or private experience? Dinner out with your spouse? Day trip with the kids? Encountering some beautiful scenery? Tell yourself that the next time it happens, it’s just for you. No posting, no tweeting, no sharing. Let the moment be personally meaningful, for you and others there in person. Lean in to the experience and tell yourself you’ll value it on its own merits, without needing the likes, emojis, and accolades of others. Train yourself to build a beautiful tent. The first step is to know you can close the door from time to time. 

Parshas Chukas 5782

Imagine a candidate for public office preparing for an upcoming debate. He’s sitting at campaign headquarters flanked by his staff. “Okay, Senator, they’re going to ask you about the budget. How can you possibly maintain that you’ll both balance the budget and lower taxes? What will you respond?”

“Well what if I just tell them it’s none of their business?”

לפי שהשטן ואומות העולם מונין את ישראל לומר מה המצוה הזאת ומה טעם יש בה לפיכך כתב בה חקה גזירה היא מלפני אין לך רשות להרהר אחריה

^{רש׳׳י יט:א}

For the Satan and the nations of the world will deride Israel, saying, “What is this mitzvah [of the Red Heifer], and what is the reasoning behind it?” Therefore, it is written that it is a chok—an abstract law. [G-d declares], “It is a decree I have issued. You have no right to consider it.”

^{Rashi 29:1}

The Torah introduces the mitzvah of Parah Adumah—the ceremony of the Red Heifer—by labeling it as a chok—a mitzvah whose meaning transcends logic and rational understanding. As Rashi explains it, this is in order to shut down an inevitable conversation. Outsiders will look at this mitzvah and be baffled by it. They’ll ask about its reason and relevance. And Hashem’s response is, “It’s none of your business.”

To be sure, Parah Adumah is seen as the quintessential chok. Though many of the Torah’s mitzvos defy rational explanation, Parah Adumah appears even more strange than the rest. But is it so that no attempt could be made to explain it? At least in part? Commentaries from the Midrash through the modern day set about to shine light on why a cow of all animals was selected to create purity, the symbolism of the color red, and many other facets of the mitzvah. Couldn’t some of this same insight have been shared with those questioning the mitzvah’s import?

The question posed by the Wise Son and Wicked Son in the Haggadah are strikingly similar. Both wonder why the mitzvos being performed are important to those gathered at the table. Yet while the Wicked Son is taken to task for using the word “לכם—to you,” a seeming indication that he removes himself from the Jewish Nation, the Wise Son uses the same word and escapes any such scolding. 

What separates the two, many suggest, is something that cannot necessarily be picked up in the dry text of the Haggadah that we read. It is tone. It is body language. It is the facial expressions that accompany the otherwise innocuous question being asked. The Wise Son evinces curiosity, while the Wicked Son sneers. The Wise Son wants answers; the Wicked Son is resigned to ask questions and poke holes.

Over the course of my life I’ve received many a question about the beanie on my head, the strings hanging out of my pants, and the small rectangular object nailed to my doorpost. Items that have piqued the curiosity of those unfamiliar with them, prompting a sincere inquiry. But not everyone is so sincere. A question is often just a means of window dressing an attack in order to make it appear benign. 

The expression used by the Gemara that Rashi quotes above is “מונין—they deride.” This is a group whose mind is already made up about the Jewish People and whose mission is to mock and taunt. Parah Adumah, a highly enigmatic mitzvah, proves a suitable tool to aid in the attack. But answers cannot be given if the question isn’t really a question.

Instead, the Gemara notes that Hashem’s response is, “None of your business.” We’d do well to learn from His example and put into practice the same behavior. 

It is so easy to get roped into a debate when someone begins to ask questions and poke holes. We feel the need to defend our position, the direction we’re taking, or some deeply held belief. The closer any of these are to our heart, the more easily our blood boils when pressed. We’re baited into the conversation and we spend time and energy on a battle that can’t be won, and then walk around angry and annoyed that, “So-and-so had the audacity,” and, “Who does he think he is?” and, “Why can’t he see how foolish he’s being?” Which is to say that the other guy’s mission has been accomplished.

Why are there people who want to bring us down? Any number of reasons. Their own jealousy, pettiness, self-consciousness, or even just boredom. And poking holes in what you’re doing or what you believe is far easier than addressing any of those other issues. But be careful before you fall headlong into a debate that is pointless from the get-go.

Instead, try to pause and briefly assess the person’s intention. Is this person inquisitive or passive-aggressive? Are their inquiries genuine or are they just trying to get a rise out of me? Are they posing questions that I haven’t thought of and can actually learn from by answering them, or am I getting sucked into a fight I can’t win because they’re not actually interested in what I have to say? 

If the former, engage. But if the latter, find a way to elegantly duck out. If, “None of your business,” isn’t quite in your comfort zone, find a more agreeable way of shutting down the conversation. 

“Good point, I’ll have to think on that.” 

“Actually not sure about that yet, still figuring it out.” 

“Well what do you think about it? Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Oh, that’s so interesting. Thanks for sharing that. Bye, now.” 

Earnest inquiry is a critical part of any path to success. Those who will pose honest questions that help us refine our beliefs or tactics are the best kind of people to keep in our orbit. But keep your ears out for detractors—those who question and needle purely for its own sake. Such people threaten your optimism, your self-esteem, and your success. Find a way to tell them it’s just none of their business. 

Parshas Korach 5782

“Let’s buy a new house.” 

This is my go-to response when my wife mentions some minor fix or adjustment required on our home. Anything from “that light bulb needs to be replaced” to “the screen is coming out of the sliding door” is fair game for my tongue-in-cheek response. It’s meant to be absurd. Who in the world would buy a new house just to avoid some minor issue? But, upon reflection, I think this absurd response actually merits a closer look.

What was it that prompted Korach to rally the troops against Moshe and Aharon and question their leadership? Rashi, quoting the Midrash Tanchuma, explains that it actually had very little to do with Moshe and Aharon themselves. Rather, Korach was jealous of the appointment of Elitzafan as the head of the Kehas branch of the tribe of Levi. Korach believed that he himself was more worthy of the position and moved to lead a rebellion against the leaders responsible, namely Moshe and Aharon.

Leaving aside the contemptable nature in denouncing the great leaders of the Jewish People, Korach’s plans were quite obviously misguided for another reason altogether. At present, Korach is a Levi, and as such serves in his own right in a position of prominence relative the vast majority of the Jewish People. But if he succeeds in his rebellion, who’s to say he’ll land in any better a position than he’s already in? Perhaps what will be left after all the dust of rebellion settles is a society disinterested in any leadership or hierarchy altogether. What makes him so certain that he’ll be any better off?

The answer is that the impulse to buy a new house in response to a light bulb that’s gone out is actually quite real. If I’m honest with myself, the reason I say it in response to such trivial repairs is not only to be humorous; on some micro level it actually opens a small pocket of fantasy that it’s nice to escape into momentarily. Changing bulbs, replacing a screen, tightening a door knob—though insignificant on their own, collectively string together to make for a task list that seems never-ending. Wouldn’t it be sweet to just say, “Forget it, we’ll buy a new house”? To imagine that it’s just that easy to make the problems all go away offers some sort of strange release.

But in the end, we all change the lightbulbs. For two reasons. The first is that if it’s additional effort we’re looking to avoid, we won’t find it in buying a new house. Buying a home is a massive undertaking all its own and will gobble up far more man hours than just changing a light bulb here and there.

But more importantly, we stick with the house we already have because a new one won’t offer any solution to the annoyance of changing light bulbs. The new house will come with its own set of tasks and frustrations. Many will be identical to the ones that exist in my current house, while many others will be similar in kind even if they are different in form. 

Nobody buys a new house to avoid changing a lightbulb because the gap between the existing problem and the proposed solution is so obviously large. But shrink that gap and that same impulse starts to become a major force to contend with. 

This is what Korach was up against. He was frustrated by a system and sought to tear down the system rather than finding some other means of dealing with or solving the acute source of his frustration. He could have found ways to live with the distinction that simply being a Levi would afford him. He could have created other means of achieving more fame and prestige within the system as it already functioned. But there’s something so alluring about clearing the slate and starting over.

A reboot is an appealing fantasy. That somehow if we shook up the Boggle board of life, the letters would fall in a far more convenient and advantageous locations. But it is rarely so. More likely, we trade one problem for another, and find that new frustrations emerge where old ones were covered over. Had Korach succeeded, it is hard to imagine that he would have succeeded at all.

If not in response to a blown light bulb, perhaps you’ve indeed considered just buying a new house. Or moving to a new community. Or quitting your job. Or your line of work altogether. Or any other dramatic life change as a means of solving some of the mounting problems owed to your present state of being. Do such changes have merit? Or are you just walking the trail blazed by Korach?

The best way to assess is by honestly asking ourselves if we see the drawbacks of making the change. If we view a change as a panacea for all our current aggravation, we should slow things down. Solving some of life’s problems always lead to new ones. Do we see them? If we’ve identified that a career change may mean better pay, but also demand more hours. If we see a new community as providing more dining options, but also a larger mortgage. If we see that a new house may mean more bedrooms, but that I’ll be changing more—not fewer—light bulbs, then we’re in position to make an honest, principled assessment. If we don’t see the problems ahead, the change is a dream, and we need to wake from our slumber.

Did Korach appreciate the problems his rebellion would create? It’s hard to see that he did. Change is often the right move to make, but change for change’s sake is a fool’s errand. Drunk on the prospect of what a new beginning could magically offer, Korach was sadly blind to the fact that tearing down the system as it stood was unlikely to yield any of the results he so desperately wanted.

Parshas Shelach 5782

It’s a losing proposition. Just close up shop and move on to the next venture.

But you can’t, you say. Because you’ve already put in so much time, effort, and money into getting this business up off the ground, you cant just walk away now. No metric or reasonable narrative in the world ends with you turning a profit, but you simply can’t pry yourself away once you’ve already invested so much.

This is the sunk-cost bias. It’s a force with enough power to suck you deeper and deeper into a black hole of resources, all while feeding itself on resources that have already been spent. It’s the stuff that money pits are made of and keeps us glued to our investments, possessions, or activities, even when it’s clearly prudent to walk away.

A sunk-cost bias can be really harmful. And it can also be really helpful.

The twelve spies collectively enter the Land of Canaan and appear to make Chevron the first stop on the itinerary. But while the Torah describes the entrance into the Land using the plural, “ויעלו—and they went up,” it speaks of coming to Chevron in the singular,  “ויבא—and he came.” Rashi explains that in fact, it was only one of the spies who visited Chevron:

ויבא עד חברון. כָּלֵב לְבַדּוֹ הָלַךְ שָׁם וְנִשְׁתַּטֵּחַ עַל קִבְרֵי אָבוֹת שֶׁלֹּא יְהֵא נִסָּת לַחֲבֵרָיו לִהְיוֹת בַּעֲצָתָם

^{רש׳׳י יג:כב}

And he came to Chevron. Kalev alone went there to bow down upon the graves of the patriarchs, so that he would not be swayed by his companions to be included in their evil counsel.

^{Rashi 13:22}

Rashi explains that it was Kalev alone who went to Chevron and that he did so in order to pray at the graves of the Avos, at Ma’aras HaMachpeilah. Apparently Kalev already sensed what was brewing, that his fellow spies were planning on rendering a less-than-rosy report of what the Holy Land had to offer and was concerned about being influenced to do the same. 

To be sure, Kalev’s concerns were noble ones. But in what way was a visit to Chevron the answer? Perhaps it was simply a means of petitioning Hashem in an especially holy location, hoping to achieve truly impactful results through such super-charged tefilos. Yet it is odd that for something that would seem to ultimately come down to Kalev’s own bechirah chafshis—his free will—that no indication is given for how he intended to strengthen his own inner fortitude against the schemes of his fellow spies. Why only seek divine assistance without trying to help himself directly?

I’d suggest that the visit to Chevron was meant to serve this purpose as well. Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov enjoyed a powerful relationship with Eretz Yisrael, one they sacrificed for mightily. Avraham picked himself up from a bustling civilization in order to live in the relative exile of dusty, backwater Canaan. Yitzchak experienced the hardship of famine and was prepared to exit the Holy Land to seek sustenance in Egypt before Hashem appeared to him, insisting he must remain. Yaakov was born and raised in Israel and trembled in fear over the prospect of leaving it behind for the asylum that other lands would offer against his brother’s attempts at his life, or, again, from famine. It was only Hashem’s promise of protection that swayed him to leave his beloved land. 

Kalev visited the graves of his great ancestors to remind himself of their dedication to the Land of Israel. In part, perhaps to rouse within himself a determination to remain committed to the Land himself. “If they could be so dedicated, then so could I.” Yet it’s hard to imagine that—as close as he was to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, relative to our own times—that Kalev imagined himself as being capable of what his ancestors were. “They were awfully dedicated, but they were far more impressive people,” is a reasonable response to wriggle free from the responsibility of such unfair a comparison.

Rather, I believe Kalev was reminding himself of the cost that the Avos had already sunk into Eretz Yisrael. “I may not be as great as my ancestors, but I don’t really need to be. Nobdoy’s expecting me to make the same sacrifices as them, but I can’t just drop the ball now. Not after all they’ve already done. They sacrificed, they cared, they longed. Is the Jewish People’s connection with the Land of Israel really going to end in my generation? Not if I can help it.”

Beware of sunk-cost bias when it begins to suck you further and further into the house you never should have bought, the investment you never should have made, or the business you never should have started. But lean into it—hard—when it offers to pull you deeper and deeper into the values you know you must live by. 

We may not be expected to make the same sacrifices or take the same spiritual strides as the giants of the past. Perhaps it is unreasonable to expect to live up to the same standard as our ancestors and leaders who lived just mere generations ago. But it is critical that we consider all they accomplished if only to grow more insistent that we will maintain their legacy. What they sacrificed for Talmud Torah. For Shabbos. For showing kindness when selfishness would have been more than justified. If we can’t achieve their same heights, we must at least keep the ball in the air. 

Parshas Beha’aloscha 5782

James Clear, author of the book, Atomic Habits, recalled a conversation he once had with an elite weightlifting coach. “What’s the difference between the best athletes and everyone else?” “It comes down to who can handle the boredom of training every day, doing the same lifts over and over and over.”

In the hierarchy of great life challenges to overcome, we rank “boredom” as pretty low. But as Clear points out, we probably shouldn’t. 

וַיַּעַשׂ כֵּן אַהֲרֹן אֶל־מוּל פְּנֵי הַמְּנוֹרָה הֶעֱלָה נֵרֹתֶיהָ כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּה ה׳ אֶת־מֹשֶׁה׃

^{במדבר ח:ג}

And so did Aharon do, he set up the lights towards the face of the menorah, just as Hashem had commanded Moshe.

^{Bamidbar 8:3}

Why does the Torah assert that Aharon followed the instructions he received from Moshe? Rashi explains that this is in order to praise Aharon, emphasizing his willingness to comply with the directive to light the Menorah.

Which is odd sort of praise. Would we have expected Aharon to do otherwise? Is it so virtuous to simply follow orders, particularly when those orders originate from Hashem Himself?

Rav Moshe Shapiro explains by citing an odd turn of events in the first perek of Maseches Sotah. While the first number of mishnayos detail the laws of the Eishes Sotah—the woman suspected of carrying on with another man—an abrupt change than occurs and attention is turned to Shimshon.

שמשון הלך אחר עיניו לפיכך נקרו פלשתים את עיניו

^{סוטה פרק א משנה ח}

Shimshon followed his eyes, and so the Phillistines gouged out his eyes.

^{Sotah, Chap. 1 Mishnah 8}

Rav Shapiro suggests that this sudden about face from discussing Sotah actually tracks a famous teaching of Chazal as to the juxtaposition we find in last week’s parsha between the description of the Sotah and of the Nazir. The rabbis explain that one who witnesses all that happens to the Sotah will likely accept a vow of neziras upon himself, abstaining from wine in order that he not fall prey to the sort of licentiousness exhibited by the Sotah.

The mishnayos in Maseches Sotah follow the same arc: detailing what takes place with the Sotah, then pivoting to a discussion of the most famous Nazir who ever lived, Shimshon. And it is here that a subtle qualification is made regarding the virtue of using nezirus as a means of keeping Sotah-like behavior at arms length. Extreme steps in religious observance may well have their place, but only if supported by sound commitment to the halachic baseline.

Shimshon’s ultimate undoing was that he followed his eyes. No nazirite behavior, no limitations on alcohol, no commitment to growing one’s hair long or of staying away from corpses or cemeteries can take the place of guarding one’s eyes from tempting sights in maintaining spiritual health.

Perhaps it it is for this reason that what follows the discussion of Nezirus at the end of last week’s parsha is the record of all twelve nesi’im bringing precisely the same offering as one another to dedicate the Mishkan. It was the exact same donation, day in day out. No variation. No outdoing what had previously been done. No going above and beyond. No prohibition against wine. Or haircuts. Or cemeteries. 

In a system of halacha that makes largely similar demands each and every day, finding novelty in the form of accepting new, strange mitzvos is compelling. We are seduced by the thrill of the  different and exciting. And we can easily slip into the mistake of accepting new stringencies practices, or even a new religious identity. All without doing the hard work on the core of who and what we are. I’d rather adopt a shiny, new cause than just recommit to the same Shacharis, Mincha, and Maariv.

Which is what makes Aharon’s behavior so praiseworthy. His greatness is that he didn’t add. Didn’t attempt to do more. To “outdo” the mitzvos themselves. To find meaning in the same old same old. To see as fresh the same avodah performed every single day. To not be put off by the monotony of repetition. The same oil, the same wicks, the same menorah every day and not succumb to the need for “freshening it up” or adorning it with new bells and whistles, new ornamentation. 

That is a profound accomplishment. It is the accomplishment of grit—or, in other words–of tolerating boredom. When things become mundane or monotonous, when the the thrill of novelty wears off, how do we act? Do we quickly move on, hoping the next project or program will be the panacea that finally animates us with never-ending excitement? Or do we buckle down and continue to set up and the light the exact same lamps, day after day.

Machiavelli said, “Men desire novelty to such an extent that those who are doing well wish for a change as much as those who are doing badly.” The itch to change, the desire for novelty is no indication that you’re on the wrong track. It’s only an indication that you’re human. Success comes not to those who are quickest to abandon ship and move on, but to those who can tolerate the inherent boredom in doing the work that matters most.

Parshas Nasso 5782

“GET YOUR HEADS DOWN!”

I vividly remember my grandfather relating how he belted these words to anyone within earshot as bombs began to fall on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. It stands out in part because it revealed a side of him I never really knew and seemed at odds with the smiling, jovial personality he’d always been around me. But with shrapnel whizzing by overhead, barking life-saving instructions is a necessary move.

I think about those words as the Torah describes the exact opposite at the beginning of Parshas Nasso. The term used by Hashem to instruct Moshe to take a census of the B’nei Gershon is “Nasso es rosh,” literally, “Lift the head.” Indeed, the term nesius rosh—lifting the head—is always the term the Torah uses for counting, whether the various branches of Shevet Levi, or the Jewish People as a whole. 

If keeping your head down is the obvious human response to saving yourself from possible danger, then asking that heads be lifted may well be suggesting that each person counted willingly put himself in harm’s way. True, no bombs were being dropped on the Jewish People as Moshe organized the census. Yet the reality that exposing your head leaves you vulnerable—if only theoretically—is present just the same and is symbolic of an attitude the Torah expects us to adopt.

Parshas Nasso focuses on counting the leadership, the three families that comprise the tribe of Levi who serve as the educators of the nation and help manage the Mishkan. And in saying that the ranks are counted through a lifting of the heads, the Torah makes a subtle reminder about what it means to serve as a leader. Namely, that you’re making yourself vulnerable and exposing yourself to danger. 

It is a common gripe at the rabbinic conferences that I attend that there just doesn’t seem to be any way to make everyone happy. Every policy you adopt, every program you offer, every statement you make will bring a smile to one face and a frown to another. Behind every person you make happy is another you’ve angered. Every stance that some applaud will be lambasted by others. It’s a frustrating proposition, yet with Nasso, the Torah is reminding us that that’s just how it is. If you want to be counted amongst the difference makers, know that you’re leaving yourself exposed. Bombs will burst and shrapnel will fly. The answer is not to keep your head down, but to accept the inherent hazards in keeping it held high.

The Torah, of course, does not stop at counting the leaders of the nation. Sefer Bamidbar delivers a comprehensive reckoning of the entire nation, not only the elite. Which means that the need to accept the realities of lifting one’s head and being exposed to attack is not only for the clear leaders, but for everyone who wants to count. To keep one’s head down is to go uncounted; it is to disappear entirely. To matter in any capacity, everyone needs to come to terms with the impact their decisions will have on others, and that by necessity they will please some and anger others. 

This is not to say that we are all meant to go through life with our elbows out, emboldened by the Torah having condoned behavior that upsets others. In a million different ways halacha demands that we be sensitive to those around us and do everything in our power to lessen the pain of our fellow man. There does, however, come a point where attempting to make everyone happy is counterproductive. Far worse than a benign exercise in futility, we cripple our own ability to make any meaningful difference as we dodge every contrary word, every critical facebook post, and every other bit of shrapnel that flies around in public. 

Keeping your head down is safe, but if we want to count, the Torah insists we lift our heads up. 

Parshas Bamidbar / Shavuos 5782

“This baby’s ready to come out.”

These words are often uttered by expectant mothers approaching—or surpassing—their due dates. And while it may be nothing more than a bit of projection—It’s not the baby at all, but the mother who’s ready—perhaps the mother’s on to something. Maybe the baby really is ready to live life the way it was meant to be lived.

The Chovos HaLevavos dedicates an entire section of the sefer to what he calls the “Sha’ar HaBechinah,” or “The Gate of Discernment.” In this section, the obligation to discern and discover Hashem’s wisdom by studying the world around us is outlined and explained. In a particularly beautiful passage, the Chovos HaLevavos describes the miracle of a fetus developing in its mother’s womb:

At the beginning of a human being’s existence, the Creator appointed the mother’s body to serve as a crib for the fetus so that it might abide in a safe place, a strongly guarded fortress, as it were, where no hand can touch it, where it cannot be affected by heat or cold, but is shielded and sheltered and where its food is ready for it. Here it continues to grow and develop, even becomes capable of moving and turning, and receives its nourishment without any effort or exertion. This nourishment is provided for it in a place where no one else can in any way reach it, and is increased as the fetus develops until a definite period.

^{Chovos HaLevavos, Gate of Discernment, Chapter 5}

In recently studying these words, I was struck not only by the reframing of fetal development as being miraculous, but also by how familiar each of these miracles feels from an entirely different context altogether. Indeed, each detail is not only a benefit received by the infant child prior to birth, but also served as benefits to the new nation as it crossed through the Midbar. 

The Ananei HaKavod, or Clouds of Glory, served to protect the nation from foreign enemies, absorbing arrows and other projectiles that may have been fired in its direction. The Clouds also maintained a climate-controlled environment, keeping the Jews comfortable as they traversed the rough terrain. Moreover, Chazal describe how the terrain ultimately wasn’t that rough at all, the Clouds leveling the ground as they traveled, not unlike the built-in shock absorption the baby enjoys while floating in a liquid bath inside the womb. Finally, just as a baby is supplied nutrition from the mother without any effort demanded of it, the nation enjoyed similar treatment in its own infancy, as food literally rained down from heaven without the need for struggle or toil. 

The experience in the Midbar was one in which Hashem didn’t only care for the Jewish People. He saw them as a fetus in a stage of embryonic development, and treated them accordingly. And without a doubt, it was all necessary. Making the transition to a life of monotheism, Torah, and halacha is no easy one and demanded an intense dose of Hashem’s care and Presence in order to give the Jewish People a fresh start.

Looking back at that period, it can be tempting to let out a wistful sigh. “Halevai.” If only we had it so good and so easy. If only life was so simple and straightforward. If only we lived at the intersection between the desolation of the Midbar and Hashem’s open miracles, with someone else paying for clothes, food, and the utility bill, and with foreign influences and pressures being kept at bay, we’d also thrive in our Torah learning and observance. 

Maybe. But, at some point, this baby’s ready to come out. The miraculous Midbar experience directly mimicked the experience of being in the womb, both to provide the developing nation with what it needed in that generation, but also to state clearly that things can’t go on like this.

Nine months in the womb is only a preparatory phase, a training ground. It’s the closed course where a driver can first lay hands on the steering wheel and a foot on the pedals. But winning a trophy means getting out on the racetrack and stacking it with other talented drivers. Parents love their child immediately upon birth, but pride is something that comes much later. Achievement is what comes about from navigating life’s challenges, not getting a free pass on them all. Nobody would suggest that the womb is where the child ought to stay, despite the innate perils of entering the real world.

This, too, is our reality as a nation. Bamidbar precedes Shavuos each year to remind us that “Bamidbar”—it was in the Wilderness that Torah was first given and observed. And while the attendant miracles necessary to make a go of that environment seem awfully enticing, a Jew’s triumph comes in exhibiting dedication in the face of adversity, in keeping Shabbos when the pressures to bill more hours are quite real, to learn Torah when society views its values as archaic, to seal our lips from juicy gossip when social media beckons us to do the opposite.

A Midbar is a controlled environment, necessary for an initial training period, but not fertile ground for growth and development, for long-term success and achievement. A miraculous midbar is comfortable, but it’s not where we’re meant to be. We have much more to offer, much more to impact. We’re the baby ready to come out, to live life the way it was meant to be lived, to succeed in our role as the Chosen Nation specifically as life provides obstacles that must be overcome.

Parshas Bechukosai 5782

As far back as I can remember, I helped my parents prepare for Shabbos and Yom Tov. I have vivid memories of standing in my family’s sukkah as it was slowly being assembled, lending a hand in any way I possibly could. And because these memories stretch back to my earliest years, it occurred to me at some point—perhaps the point at which similar scenes began to unfold with my own children—that the “help” I offered wasn’t really help at all. In those especially young years, allowing me to help was just my parents’ acquiescing to my desire to be part of what seemed like an exciting process. 

But while you can pull a fast one on a little kid, assuring them that they really are offering valuable assistance, it is more difficult to play the same game with shrewd and experienced adults. An adult would know that shining yet another flashlight during bedikas chametz is redundant and that neatly lining up the sukkah hardware isn’t actually helping move things along. Why, then, does Hashem bother with the charade?

אֲנִי ה׳ אֱלֹקיכֶם אֲשֶׁר הוֹצֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם מִהְיֹת לָהֶם עֲבָדִים וָאֶשְׁבֹּר מֹטֹת עֻלְּכֶם וָאוֹלֵךְ אֶתְכֶם קוֹמְמִיּוּת

^{ויקרא כו:יג}

I am Hashem your G-d, Who took you out of the Land of Egypt, from your state of slavery. I broke the pegs of your yoke and had you walk upright.

^{Vayikra 26:13}

The pegs of the yoke, Rashi explains, are inserted through the latch on either side of the yoke, keeping it securely fastened to the neck. A person bearing a yoke around the neck cannot actually walk upright simply because these pegs have been broken or removed. It is not until the yoke itself is removed that he is free of its weight and can become walking properly.

Yet as the Torah describes it, this final chore was left to the people themselves. And while a child may get a thrill out of tapping in the last nail in the sukkah, it is difficult to understand what satisfaction an adult would receive by performing a task so easily accomplished without him. Yetzias Mitzrayim was a one-sided affair; Hashem liberated us in miraculous fashion and doing so all on His own. If He was prepared to remove the yoke pegs, why not just remove the yoke Himself?

The answer lies in understanding freedom not only as a state of being, but a state of mind. One can be given their liberty, but until such time as they embrace their new independence themselves, the change in circumstance doesn’t do them much good. They’ll still walk around broken and bent, despite the yoke no longer being around their necks. In that sense, removing the yoke in any meaningful way is not something that Hashem could do for us, but a choice we had to make ourselves. 

For all its challenges, there is safety and security in abdicating independence. The physical yoke represents oppression and tyranny, but can also free a person from the mental and emotional yoke of autonomy and decision making. While the yoke is in place, I cannot be held responsible for the shape my life takes. Once it is removed, once it is clear that I have been given the opportunity to develop and thrive, we can easily buckle under the weight of a brand new burden. 

Free of any physical yoke, we often adopt a narrative of being restrained by external forces nonetheless. It’s the narrative of inability due to no fault of my own. It’s the insistence that the pegs are stuck firmly in the yoke and prevent me from doing more. “I can’t make the time.” “I just don’t have the discipline.” “I don’t come from that background.” “I don’t have the family support.” “I don’t have those resources.” “I’m just not that person.” 

Every one of these claims and the many others that we make are not without a kernel of truth. Every person is challenged by circumstances and uncontrollable setbacks to some degree or another. But in insisting that we cannot achieve more, are we facing difficulties that are actually insurmountable, or are we just tripping over our own feet? What if the talents and abilities to transcend our struggles have actually been provided to us, but we just haven’t thought to fully use them? What if we’ve been telling ourselves that we’re under a yoke for so long, it never occurred to us that the pegs may have already been removed?