Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Vayakhel-Pekudei 5783

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

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

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

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

^{שמות לט:מב}

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

^{Shemos 39:42}

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Ki Sisa 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seizing on this oddity, Rabbi Yochanan stated:

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

^{(:ראש השנה יז)}

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

^{(Rosh Hashana 17b)} 

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Tetzaveh 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Truman 5783

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

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

^{שמות כה:ב}

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

^{Shemos 25:2}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Yisro 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Beshalach 5783

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

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

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

Why these three mitzvos, specifcally, and why now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Bo 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vaeira 5783

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

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

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

^{(שמות ז:א)}

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

^{(Shemos 7:1)}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Shemos 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vayigash 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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