Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

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. 

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.