Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Behar 5782

They tell the story of an executive who, standing on the precipice of major professional burnout, decides to take an extended leave of absence and get away from it all. He books a small villa in Tijuana where he can recuperate and starts to get to know the lay of the land. One day he comes upon a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that serves up the freshest, most delicious grilled fish. He speaks with the proprietor and asks him his secret, but the reply is nothing more than a shrug of the shoulders. 

“It’s just really fresh,” he answers. The exec is intrigued. “Well what’s your business model? What does your life look like?” The owner responds with his daily schedule. He gets up at dawn, takes out his fishing boat, and pulls in the day’s catch. He hauls it to his small store where we works from the late morning until the early afternoon, earning enough in those few hours to support his family’s modest lifestyle. 

“What do you do the rest of the day?” the executive presses. “I go home,” he replies. “First a short siesta, then I play soccer out in the yard with my kids. I cook dinner with my wife and we sit down as a family. Afterwards, some friends or family come over and we have some wine out on the veranda. I strum my guitar and we tell stories, sing, and laugh together. We turn in early and the next morning I’m up again at dawn.”

The executive’s eyes widen. “My friend, you’re sitting on a gold mine with this restaurant of yours. You should consider franchising. In your free time after work you ought to be working on growing your business.” “What then?” he asks. “Then you’d have a whole fleet of restaurants paying you royalties.” “What then?” he asks further. “Then you could consider building further. Expanding into America.” “What then?” he presses. “Then the money would really come pouring in. You could have hundreds, maybe thousands of franchises and you could be collecting from all of them!” “And what then?” he insists. “Then you’d have the free time to do whatever you like. You could end your work day early, go home and play with your kids, cook with your wife, have dinner with the family, and spend the evenings sipping wine with your friends and playing your guitar.”

וְכִי תֹאמְרוּ מַה־נֹּאכַל בַּשָּׁנָה הַשְּׁבִיעִת הֵן לֹא נִזְרָע וְלֹא נֶאֱסֹף אֶת־תְּבוּאָתֵנוּ׃

ויקרא כה:כ

And if you shall say, “What shall we eat in the seventh year if we may not sow and may not gather our crops?
^{Vayikra 25:20}

Rav Aharon Asher Volinetz, in his sefer Osher Aharon, notes that the concern voiced by the farmer in the above pasuk seems to be off base. If one cannot work in the land during the seventh year, then the problem is that there will be nothing to eat in the eighth year. It is the previous year’s crops that would be utilized in the coming year more so than the crops of that same year. Why is the farmer jumping the gun?

He answers with a salient insight. A person can become so preoccupied with what the future does or doesn’t have in store that it can be impossible to appreciate the blessing already present in his life. We can obsess over the expansion of a fish-restaurant franchise that lose sight of the fact that the goals we actually wish to attain may already be in hand.

Ambition is a generally positive quality. We are inspired by people who see beyond the present and can hold an image in their mind’s eye of a future time more impressive than the current circumstances. We want to be around such people and we want to be such people ourselves. We want to be bold and enterprising, not to sell ourselves short through underachievement and small thinking.

Indeed, ambition is a wonderful thing. But it can also be an unfortunate distraction. We can be so tomorrow-minded that we ignore the good fortune of today. We can become so nervous about retirement that we can’t bring ourselves to enjoy the present. We can become consumed with what can be built in the future that we are blinded by the fact that what we truly want to achieve already has been.

There may be plenty of food in the pantry in the seventh year. But the fact that there isn’t enough for the eighth year means I can’t even enjoy the meal I’m eating today. My disposition is characterized by worry and complaint rather than contentment and gratitude. 

The fisherman continues to ask the executive who hounds him, “What then?” It’s critical that at times we ask ourselves the same.

Lag B’Omer 5782

A number of weeks ago, I wrote about the Gemara in Niddah (31b) that addresses the korban chatas that a woman would bring after giving birth when the Bais HaMikdash stood. The Gemara attempts to resolve why it is that a chatas, a sin offering, of all korbanos is appropriate, insofar as bringing a new Jewish child into the world could not possibly be construed as any sort of sin. 

Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai suggests that the chatas is brought not as a function of giving birth, but of the promise a woman makes while laboring through birth pangs. It is presumed that at some point, a woman insists that she will never go through such an arduous experience again, that this will be the last child she brings into the world. Returning to her husband would place her in violation of this oath, and it is for this reason that she must bring a korban chatas.

There is some significant pushback to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s explanation. The Gemara proceeds to quote a number of objections raised by Rav Yosef to Rabbi Shimon’s rationale stemming from a number of technical issues regarding the violation of this oath and the role of a korban in doing anything to ameliorate the situation. 

No defense is offered on behalf of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. Perhaps because there is no real means of disarming Rav Yosef’s attacks that deal with technical halachic considerations. For Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, the Torah’s demand for a korban may be born out of a broader philosophical concern. One that Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai was uniquely positioned to discern.

Where did Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai come from? What was the great turning point in his career of Torah study that could be credited with his ultimately becoming one of the Jewish People’s most brilliant sages, teachers, and leaders?

The Gemara in Yevamos tersely describes that catastrophe that led our nation to associate the Omer with mourning. Rabbi Akiva sat at the helm of a yeshiva whose student body numbered 24,000. In the brief period between Pesach and Shavuos one fateful year, all 24,000 perished. The Gemara records the spiritual cause of this physical plague: שלא נהגו כבוד זה לזה—they did not treat one another with respect. 

It is difficult to appreciate the scope of this loss; 24,000 is a number too large to wrap our heads around and to understand its magnitude. The number of affected families, the number of people sitting shiva, and the utter unraveling of so much of the progress that the Torah world had been making to that point in producing the talmidei chachamim of the next generation. Who could have blamed Rabbi Akiva if he had sunk into an irreversible state of depression, living out his remaining days far from public service? It is unfathomable that someone who absorbed the full brunt of this tidal wave of death and destruction could possible resurface and move on. Yet the unfathomable happened:

וְהָיָה הָעוֹלָם שָׁמֵם, עַד שֶׁבָּא רַבִּי עֲקִיבָא אֵצֶל רַבּוֹתֵינוּ שֶׁבַּדָּרוֹם וּשְׁנָאָהּ לָהֶם: רַבִּי מֵאִיר, וְרַבִּי יְהוּדָה, וְרַבִּי יוֹסֵי, וְרַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן, וְרַבִּי אֶלְעָזָר בֶּן שַׁמּוּעַ, וְהֵם הֵם הֶעֱמִידוּ תּוֹרָה אוֹתָהּ שָׁעָה.

יבמות סב:

And the world was desolate until Rabbi Akiva came to our sages of the south and taught them: Rabbi Meir, Rabbi, Yehudah, Rabbi Yosei, Rabbi Shimon, and Rabbi Elazar ben Shamua. And they are the ones who restored Torah at that time.

Yevamos 62b

The Rabbi Shimon mentioned in the Gemara above is none other than the great Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. Which leaves us to wonder: what would have happened had Rabbi Akiva succumbed to despair? What if Rabbi Akiva never made that fateful trip to the south and began to teach a new group of five following the loss of the 24,000? What if Rabbi Akiva had said, “It’s just too painful. I can’t do this again.”?

Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s entire life was predicated on his rebbe’s insistence that such words are treif. There is no point at which one may say it’s too hard to persevere, it’s too painful to press on. And so it is unsurprising that it is Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai who wags a long scolding finger when a woman makes an oath—whether out loud, or maybe only in her mind—that she can’t go through it again, that the pain is too great to bring another neshamah into this world. Because where would Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai—or the rest of us—had been if Rabbi Akiva had allowed himself to think the same? 

Our mesorah associates two events with Lag B’Omer: the end of the plague that consumed Rabbi Akiva’s many thousands of talmidim, and the death of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. It is unusual to turn a yahrtzeit into a celebration, and yet perhaps for Rabbi Shimon it is most fitting. Because notwithstanding all that he produced and accomplished in his life, the Jewish People marched on even after his passing—a value that his very life and career personified. That Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai was someone worth remembering may say even more about the tenacity of his teacher than of his own, which translates into an insistence that a Jew must always rebound and must never give up. 

On those days when we just want to pull the covers back over our heads. Or those times in our life when we just want to throw in the towel. When we feel we would be justified in giving up and closing up shop. It’s worth keeping Rabbi Akiva in mind. If we cave and just pull the covers back over our heads, how many would-be Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s might we be leaving behind?

Parshas Kedoshim 5782

“Good job, tzaddik!” “Thank you, tzaddeikes!” 

I often find myself using these terms to convey that one of my children has gone beyond the call of duty. Whether overachieving in school, performing an unusual act of chessed, or exceeding expectations in some other manner. Telling my daughter she’s a tzaddeikes is like saying, “You’ve really transcended yourself. You’ve gone beyond who you naturally are.” 

But like many others, I’m using the term incorrectly. 

Among a smattering of other mitzvos, Parshas Kedoshim instructs us to use proper weights and measures when selling merchandise. A shopkeeper’s scales must be accurately calibrated; a merchants counterweights use to determine the proper amount being given to the customer must be honest and true. Interestingly, the term the Torah uses to describe this equipment is “tzedek.”

מֹאזְנֵי צֶדֶק אַבְנֵי־צֶדֶק אֵיפַת צֶדֶק וְהִין צֶדֶק יִהְיֶה לָכֶם אֲנִי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם אֲשֶׁר־הוֹצֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם׃

^{ויקרא יט:לו}

Scales that are tzedek, weights that are tzedek, an eiphah that is tzedek, a hin that is tzedek shall you have. I am Hashem Your G-d Who took you out of the Land of Egypt. 

^{Vayikra 19:36}

The Torah’s expectation is not that a merchant will provide his customer with more than what he payed for. Only that he will not shortchange him. The scales need not be tipped in the favor of the buyer; they need only perform the job that they are meant to.

In fact, this is how the Mesilas Yesharim uses the term, “tzaddik”. In drawing a distinction between a “tzaddik” and a “chassid,” he explains that it is the latter who goes beyond the letter of the law. The tzaddik, on the other hand, simply fulfills only what the Torah expects of him. No more, no less.

Of course, easier said than done. The Torah presents us with a series of dictates that are, frankly, challenging. We may not eat what we like, say what we like, or look at what we like. The Torah’s demands are difficult, even if we seek only to fulfill them to a T, without aiming to exceed its expectations. 

But it is here that the Torah’s usage of the term tzedek. Can be so helpful. Tzedek as applied to accurate weights and measures is a reminder to read the Torah and its mitzvos not as a series of demands, but of endowments. 

A scale can properly weigh produce so long as it wasn’t manipulated. A weight can provide an accurate reading provided it wasn’t doctored. A Jew can achieve tzidkus—a full and proper observance of all the mitzvos of the Torah—simply by being ourselves.

When we read the Torah, we’re reading about ourselves. The mitzvos are not a collection of rules and regulations unnaturally imposed upon the Jew, demanding that he be someone he really isn’t. The mitzvos, rather, are about discovering what we’re entirely capable of and what we were designed to do. A mitzvah is a revelation into the immense ability that Hashem has endowed the Jewish spirit with. To learn Torah is not to learn about a foreign body of laws, but to learn about oneself and what every Jew is capable of. 

Parshas Acharei Mos 5782

On the holiest day of the year, the Kohen Gadol reached his hand into a box and pulled out two lots, corresponding to the two goats selected for that day’s service. The lots determined the future of each goat as being destined either for the mizbeach, or to be thrown from a cliff in the wilderness beyond the Bais Hamikdash.

How were the goats selected, before the selection? When it came to determining which goats would be used for this process, their fates being determined by the lottery, how did these goats come to be chosen?

The answer is that the goats were standouts in their similarity to one another. The Gemara in Yoma notest that the goats needed to be of the same height, weight, and build as one another, and needed to purchsed for the same price and on the same day. These two goats are selected, because, as best as possible, they appeared to be twins.

Why is this necessary? Why is striking similarity a prerequisite in selecting the pair of goats that will be processed in the two very different manners depicted above?

Rav Shamshon Raphael Hirsch sees the goats as representing two different paths in life. There’s the path towards the Bais HaMikdash—towards a life in Hashem’s presence—and away from it. The selection of two identical goats makes clear that what separates the two is not inborn talent or acumen, but avodah—the willingness to work hard, to go through the process. To sacrifice.

When we see others achieve that which feels beyond our abilities, what story do we tell? Likely one outlining the advantages they’d received and the innate talents they possessed. Of course they accomplished what they did, considering all they had going for them. Of course we fell short, considering all that stood in our way. 

The goats remind us not to default to that narrative. The goat that ends up in the very center of the Bais Hamikdash on Yom Kippur is simply the one that undergoes the sacrifice that puts it there. That goat was neither taller nor stronger not of better parentage than the other, it simply went through the arduous process of sacrifice. 

When we say, “Well he’s a genius,” we commit two acts of disservice. The first to the alleged “genius,” as we strip away the triumph of overcoming every challenge and obstacle and distill the process of success down to a fluke of DNA. The second is to ourselves, as the true difference-makers of success, perseverance, grit, and sacrifice, are overshadowed by what we innately lacked. 

The communal avodah of Yom Kippur serves as a guide for the personal one. Teshuva that apologizes for errors committed is meaningful only if accompanied by an acceptance that it didn’t need to be so. That my IQ, bank account, or physical abilities did not themselves determine the life I would and could live. A sin is only a sin if I could have chosen otherwise. The goat that lands on the altar, fully consumed in the presence of Hashem, the pinnacle of the avodah on the holiest day of the year is no different from the goat that is thrown from a cliff. There is nothing about either goat that makes clear the path it will take. So which path will we choose for ourselves?

Shabbos HaGadol 5782

A casual visitor—particularly one without any horticultural interests—may well wonder why Cherry Hill township decided to adorn a two mile stretch of one of its primary roads, Chapel Avenue, with the absolutely ugliest species of tree money can buy. The answer lasts for about three weeks in the early spring, when those trees burst forth with the most remarkable display of delicate pink flowers imaginable. So while living amongst gnarled, stocky arboreal lumps for the better part of a year may be underwhelming, the explosion of cherry blossoms that ultimately develops makes it all worthwhile. We just need to be patient.

Plant development is not only the calling card of the season in which Pesach occurs, it is a theme that actually makes an important, albeit hushed, appearance in the haggadah itself. The main body of the haggadah is comprised of the pesukim of Arami Oved Avi, a passage that serves as a declaration of thanksgiving made by a farmer when bringing his first fruits to the Bais Hamikdash. 

On its surface, this is an odd selection. In identifying a portion of the Chumash that should be used to tell the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim, the obvious choice would have been segments from the parshios at the beginning of Sefer Shemos, which actually relate all that happened during the slavery itself and the liberation from it. Instead, we use the same words that were offered by the farmer as he gives thanks for the bounty of his field and reflects on the long and winding road of Jewish history that led to this point.

Yet perhaps these pesukim enjoy an important connection to one of the most ubiquitous motifs of the entire evening: instructing our children. Although the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim is to be related whether or not there are children at the table, the mitzvah itself is conveyed by the Torah with the term, “V’higadta l’vincha—And you shall relate to your child.” There are numerous practices we undertake at the Seder all “so that the children will ask,” so that, with their curiosity piqued, we can relate to them the content of this story.

Who are the children we speak to? As the haggadah reminds us, the conversations between parents and children described by the Torah are conveyed in four different ways, suggesting that the mitzvah may occur with four different sons, possessing four different personalities. The conversations are different because the children are all different. And the Torah indicates that the way a chacham would be spoken to will not suffice for the rasha or tam. 

As parents, we are often caught off guard by who our children turn out to be. We were expecting the chacham and are given something else. We thought our children would be wiser, more committed, more religious. And the frustration that follows may in part be fueled by the feeling that they now stand at a distance not only from our own initial hopes, but from a connection to the Torah itself. 

On the Seder night we are reminded that every Jew has a connection. The Torah presents not only four sons, but four ways of adjusting the story so it may be presented on the right wavelength and strike a chord with the child who is listening. We may have expected a chacham, but the Torah itself anticipated many others. We are reminded that whoever our children may be, each can enjoy a relationship with our history, with our story, and with our Torah.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggested that in addition to four individual sons, we might further understand them to all be consolidated in one person, albeit at different points of life. That is to say that the four sons may actually be four stages of development that everyone passes through. We begin as the she’eino yodei’a lish’ol, quite literally incapable of asking questions as our language skills have not yet emerged. Even once the child speaks, he has not immediately developed into a sophisticated person, and is characterized as a tam, a simple one, for a while. It is not uncommon to enter into a stage of rebelliousness at some point, asking needling questions without any interest in seeking answers, a stage characterized by the contrary rasha. Finally, through the experience of living life, we emerge as the chacham, humble and eager to learn.

Perhaps it is this take on the four sons that demands the inclusion of an agricultural motif at the seder. By telling the story through the words of the farmer grateful for the bounty of his field, we are reminded of the slow emergence of fully edible fruits from what was once a nearly imperceptible bud. Farming is an occupation that demands patience. So is parenting. 

With ripening fruits in our mind as we relate the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim to our children, we are reminded of an important corollary to the fact that we may be speaking to someone other than the chacham we’d hoped for. As we curtail our message as the hagaddah instructs us to do, as we follow the hagaddah’s guidance to do our best to reach the rasha, tam, she’eino yodei’a lish’ol, or whoever else our child might be, we’re reminded to be patient. The fruits in the farmer’s basket didn’t ripen in a day; it took a long, slow process to see them finally emerge into a finished product. Children are no different. Even the greatest chacham began his life as a she’eino yodei’a lish’ol. A child may not yet be a chacham. But perhaps one day he will be. In the meantime, the Torah has a version of the story to be shared with him as well.

Parshas HaChodesh/Parshas Tazria 5782

“I love comedy, I’ve done it most of my career. But I’m saddened that the world has lost its sense of what should not be made fun of. When a woman’s appearance, altered by disease, can be openly mocked in front of her family, thousands of friends and colleagues, and millions watching at home, society needs to look itself in the mirror. Some things need to be too sacred to joke about.”

That’s the tweet I wish Will Smith could have sent out the day after the Oscars. Instead, he had to dedicate his efforts to apologizing for his embarrassing behavior. What separated what actually happened from what should have and could have?

As we begin to clean, kasher, and shop for Pesach, there is one item that looms over every stage of preparation as public enemy number one: Chametz. It is to be utterly eradicated from our homes and replaced with its less offensive cousin, matzah. And what separates the two? Time. Cross over that fateful eighteen minute mark and that which would have been Kosher for Pesach instead becomes reviled as chametz. 

The lesson is one of alacrity. As Chazal famously interpret, the Torah’s command of, “Ushmartem es hamatzos—Guard the matzos,” can be alternatively read as, “Ushmartem es hamitzvos—Guard the mitzvos.” It’s not just about matzah. Matzah is but a prism through which we should view the full breadth of our mitzvah observance. When opportunity presents itself, we shouldn’t sit around; we should move quickly to seize that opportunity before it’s too late. 

But rushing is not always advisable. While we should be motivated to strike while the iron’s hot, there are indeed times when the best thing we can do is pause. As Parshas HaChodesh begins to set the tone for the spirit of matzah, Parshas Tazria provides an important counterbalance. 

In describing the manner of purification a woman would undertake following childbirth, the parsha includes instructions for the karbanos she would bring as part of this process. One of these karbanos was a chatas, a sin offering, which would appear counterintuitive. What could possibly be sinful about bringing a child into the world? Of all karbanos to offer, why is a chatas appropriate after such a holy act?

This question is addressed in the Gemara in Niddah 31b by Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, who suggests that the chatas relates to what the woman undoubtedly considered at some point during the throes of childbirth. Namely, that she would never again conceive and give birth, the pain being too great to endure another time. Albeit momentary, it is this thought that must be atoned for through a sin-offering. Even the fleeting consideration of never again bringing a child into the world demands proper attention and expiation. 

Rav Avigdor Nebenzahl wonders what ultimately makes a woman come around. If the institutionalization of the chatas suggests that these thoughts go through every woman’s mind at some point during childbirth, what is it that causes the change in perspective?

Rav Nebenzahl answers simply, that it’s nothing more than time. Given some time to separate herself from the physical pain of labor, the mother regains her composure and her perspective. Having a child is the blessing of a lifetime and should not be sacrificed for the pain of a few isolated minutes or even hours. At a safe distance from the pain itself, everything is viewed more clearly. Which is a powerful lesson.

How different things would have been if Will Smith could have counted to ten. With just a small cushion of time from the searing pain of his wife being publicly mocked, he likely could have regained his composure. Ten or twenty seconds after the joke ended, the crowd would have moved on—that’s how standup works—and storming the stage at that point would have been far too late to be plausible. 

And as the pain and anger of the moment slowly subsided, inevitably replaced with the elation of winning his first Oscar, Smith could have woken up the next morning with better perspective. He could have crafted a critique of a joke that went too far and the culture that permits such things, all while calm and composed. He would have received sympathy and maybe even have affected some real change. Instead, what could have been the best night of his life became the most embarrassing night of his life. 

The difference between what was and what could have been is nothing more than time. With the passage of time we become removed from the pain we experience and can view it in more objective and reasonable terms. When we act in the midst of the pain, we thrash around embarrassingly, saying and doing things we so often regret.

How do we know whether to act according to Parshas HaChodesh or Parshas Tazria? How do we know when to be quick, hasty, and impassioned as matzah, and when we should pause long enough to let the charge out of the moment? Pain is a good place to start. When we’re uncomfortable, angry, or distressed in some other way, we’d do well to remind ourselves that we won’t act our best, and that we’d be best served to not act at all. There are so many means at our disposal today for our voices to be heard by the masses, it is almost never the case that a reaction must occur on the spot in order to be meaningful.

How do we want to wake up the morning after? After the pain has subsided? Do we want that discomfort to be replaced by feelings of humiliation, having overreacted in the heat of the moment? Or by an opportunity to respond in a manner that’s measured and reasonable? Do we want to be remembered by thoughtful words or by embarrassing actions? The choice is ours if we’re willing to wait. 

Parshas Shemini 5782

The kids are getting older and finding time to bond and connect as a family seems to be slipping away. Though everyone’s doing well—no major catastrophes at school or at home— you want to do something to help solidify the relationships that bond your family together. So you find a way to rework your schedule and commit to start having dinner together as a family. It’s opening night of your new resolution, and just as you slide into your seat at the table, the phone rings.

In all likelihood, it’s about solar panels. But it rings and rings and rings some more. What do you do?

In its treatment of what makes animals kosher and non-kosher, Parshas Shemini offers a simple manner of determining the kashrus status of fish. Fins and scales means kosher; lacking either means not kosher. 

But for all its seeming simplicity, the criteria provided are actually redundant. As the Mishnah in Niddah teaches:

כל שיש לו קשקשת יש לו סנפיר ויש שיש לו סנפיר ואין לו קשקשת

^{:נדה נא}

All that have scales have fins. But there are those that have fins that do not have scales. 

^{Niddah 51b}

The Torah could have demanded only that fish have scales to be kosher, and said nothing about fins. The fact is, having scales means that the fish will have fins by definition. Why bother with a criterion for kashrus that is automatic and need not be checked for?

Rav Shaul Alter suggests that fins and scales are metaphors for two types of people. In emphasizing the need for fins—necessarily present on any scaled fish though they may be—the Torah makes its bid for the type of person it hopes we will become. Scales protect; fins propel. 

A Jew can look at the laws of the Torah and respond with scales. We must be protected from the potential fallout latent in each mitzvah. We want to stay on Hashem’s “good side”, dodge punishment, and evade pangs of guilt. So we do what we must, checking off the boxes next to each halacha we encounter and remain protected from any possible harm resulting from leaving our obligations unfulfilled. Just as scales protect the fish’s body from harmful elements surrounding it, we cordon off each mitzvah and fulfill it before it harms us. 

A fin is something else entirely. A fin propels the fish from one place to the next, and therein lies the other perspective we can hold of Torah and mitzvos. A mitzvah is not merely an obstacle lying in the way of all that I would rather do, it is that which propels me along a path of upward spiritual mobility. Each mitzvah helps to perfect me as a person and strengthens my relationship with Hashem. A mitzvah is not that which gets in the way of my true objective, it is the objective itself. 

The Torah instructs us to look for fins. Perhaps not so much to determine what kind of fish it is, but to remind us of what kind of people we should be. And as we do our best to become more like fins and less like scales, I’d argue that that personality overhaul would be well advised in arenas even beyond the direct performance of specific mitzvos.

In The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, Stephen Covey constructs a four-quadrant matrix for analyzing how we spend our time. The matrix evaluates activities according to two factors: importance and urgency. Covey submits that sustained, meaningful growth comes from the disciplined pursuit of spending time in Quadrant Two—that which is important, though not urgent.

If we would honestly evaluate our lives, we could all identify areas where increased effort would yield truly impressive results. But we default to spending time on things that are urgent, whether or not they’re important. And there is no shortage of activities that carry the sense of urgency, that we feel must get done right now at the expense of everything else, despite the fact that they may be rather unimportant. We respond to diffusing crises rather than fulfilling goals.

Instituting family dinners is a “Quadrant Two” activity. It’s not urgent, there’s no immediate crisis at hand that demands immediate attention. It’s simply an expression of considering what we want our relationships with our spouse and children to look like in ten, twenty, and thirty years from now and working backward to construct the life that will allow for it to happen. And it’s working beautifully, right until the phone rings.

We know full well it’s about solar panels, but there is something about the sound of a ringing form—an echo of some more foreboding alarm—that prompts us to interrupt what we know to be important for the sake of that which is urgent.

So much of life is lived through the prism of scales. Experiences rank only when they become crises, when there is a sense of urgency that drives us to act and to protect until we can return to tranquil equilibrium. That which may well be important—will help us to grow and develop in life changing ways—is easily ignored because it doesn’t prompt us into a defensive posture. 

Dinners with the family, a few sessions with a personal trainer, or a professional aptitude assessment may be wonderful ideas. But the avoiding these initiatives will not pose a clear and present threat to my life as it exists right now, so we procrastinate, forget, and ignore. We are scales—we shield and defend when a crisis threatens to overturn the apple cart. But absent the crisis, we’ll remain largely inert.

The Torah emphasizes to look for fins. Not to know what to eat, but to remember what to become. Become someone who moves from point A to point B, not just a person who protects the area already gained. Identify areas where you can grow, activities that will propel you forward in life. What will make your professional life, family life, and spiritual life more robust and more meaningful? Recognize those items and pursue them. Know ahead of time that they may never feel urgent, will never muscle their way into your schedule all on their own. You’ll have to clear the path for them, with your elbows out, and your fins cutting through the water.

Don’t answer the phone. It feels urgent. But it’s not that important. 

Purim 5782

Eli Stefansky may be the most popular Maggid Shiur on the planet. He delivers a daily Daf Yomi shiur to a live audience near his home in Ramat Beit Shemesh, Israel, that is simultaneously broadcast over Zoom and recorded for viewing and listening across a host of video and audio platforms. At present, Reb Eli’s Youtube channel boasts 12.1 thousand subscribers. It wasn’t always that way.

The Midrash (Bereishis Rabbah 30:8) comments that a group of people scattered across the pages of Tanach witnessed the dawn of a new world. Among them was Mordechai, who witnessed a complete about-face in the Persian government’s policy towards the Jews at large and towards him personally. Mordechai is part of a group that includes Noach, Yosef, Moshe, and Iyov, each of whom witnessed a climactic shift in the functioning of either the physical world or of society. The word that identifies every member of this select group is striking in its banality: “היה—it was.” 

But what appears pedestrian on the surface actually bears far greater depth. Throughout the story of Megillas Esther, Mordechai maintains a steady stream of activity, always calculating his and Esther’s best next move. Even when things seem utterly hopeless—a genocidal decree against the Jews signed by a king completely indifferent to their cause—Mordechai doesn’t lose hope. He remains outside the palace, certain that something can be done to right the ship.

For Mordechai, “היה” is not only a word that frames the time period of a given pasuk, it was an entire philosophy. What happened in the past would not cast a long shadow over the future. Change can occur, realities can shift. What has already transpired does not dictate what yet can occur. Mordechai insists this is so and finds himself at the right place at the right time, helping direct the future along a far more promising trajectory. Had Mordechai’s response to Haman’s decree been to dejectedly lock himself in a room and simply give up, he’d never have the impact that he ultimately did. Because he could turn the page on the past, he availed himself of the opportunity to direct the future. 

When Eli Stefansky first started giving a Daf Yomi shiur, it was attended by 5-6 people. Someone in his position could easily have said, “I’ve tried the Daf Yomi thing, and it’s just not happening.” Past experiences have a way of seeping into the future and coloring perspective of what’s possible. If something great was going to happen, wouldn’t it have happened by now? By looking at a dearth of attendees as “היה—it was”, Reb Eli could build an incredible future without being saddled by the past. He developed his style, honed his skills, built an audience. And that audience is now many hundreds of times larger than what once was—היה. 

Living by such a credo is no simple feat. Yesterday’s baggage weighs us down and it’s a real challenge to drop it and keep a bright-eyed view of the future. Perhaps what allows Mordechai to do so is captured in one of the best-known quotes from all of Megilas Esther: 

כִּי אִם־הַחֲרֵשׁ תַּחֲרִישִׁי בָּעֵת הַזֹּאת רֶוַח וְהַצָּלָה יַעֲמוֹד לַיְּהוּדִים מִמָּקוֹם אַחֵר וְאַתְּ וּבֵית־אָבִיךְ תֹּאבֵדוּ וּמִי יוֹדֵעַ אִם־לְעֵת כָּזֹאת הִגַּעַתְּ לַמַּלְכוּת׃

^{(אסתר ד:יד)}

If you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from somewhere else, while you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows, if perhaps you have attained your royal position for just such a moment.

^{(Esther 4:14)}

Responding to her fear of approaching Achashveirosh uninvited, Mordechai assures Esther of the need to bear the responsibility of the Jewish People upon her shoulders. But not because she is their only hope. Indeed, if Hashem intends to save the Jewish People, there is nothing Esther can do to torpedo that Divine plan. But if she cannot bring herself to approach Achashveirosh, she will be missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime—the chance to partner with Hashem to help bring the salvation to fruition. 

We bring past failures into the future because we come to identify ourselves and our abilities by them. If we’ve failed before, we’ll do so again. But Mordechai has a different perspective—what we do and don’t do is less about our own abilities and more about Hashem’s interests. If Hashem wills it, future success is limitless, irrespective of what past failures suggest. 

What if we lived life that way? Yes, I’ve struggled in the past—earning a living, maintaining Shalom Bayis, understanding what I was learning. And yes, if future success was predicated on my own efforts alone, my past record would indicate more trouble ahead. But if I can see Hashem behind all that transpires, the possibilities for future success remain limitless.

Faith in ourselves begins with faith in Hashem. And Purim more than any time of year reminds us to seek out Hashem’s presence even where it’s not readily apparent. If Hashem is in control, no failure of the past should serve as a curb against the future. What happened yesterday is היה, it was, and has no bearing on what can be achieved tomorrow. 

Parshas Pekudei 5782

When I was learning in yeshiva, the notion of making any meaningful donation to the institution was well beyond my means. But I made a mental note—and even related to a few friends—that if I was ever in a different position, I’d want my money to go towards coffee. The coffee station was located in the basement of the yeshiva and I’d always thought of it in terms the furnaces located in the bottom of the great steamships of old. Coffee kept the engines of the Bais Medrash turning, providing everyone with the caffeine needed to stay alert. I wondered how I could accomplish this feat. How could I be sure that my donation would go to coffee, and not to, say, toilet paper?

The Midrash describes a frightening moment in the personal audit that Moshe Rabbeinu undertook following the completion of the Mishkan. As Moshe attempted to balance the books, there were 1,775 shekalim that could not be accounted for. Moshe was worried he would not be able to justify where the missing shekalim went and that suspicions would arise that he’d lined his own pockets with them. The “Aha!” moment finally came, and Moshe realized that the missing shekalim had actually been spent on the vavei ha’amudim—the small hooks with which the fabric partitions surrounding the courtyard would be affixed to the posts from which they hung.

The Kotzker Rebbe explains the reason for the initial oversight and the subsequent breakthrough. More than making sure that the income and expense columns matched, Moshe Rabbeinu was tracing the individual half-shekels from coin to coffee. Each coin donated was destined for a particular purpose within the Mishkan—more or less holy, more or less impactful—based on the purity of intention of the donor. Those who gave with the greatest sincerity enjoyed the distinction of their coins going towards the most critical and elevated aspects of the final structure. There was no coffee in the Bais Hamikdash, but had there been, the donations of the greatest tzaddikim would surely have gone to pay for it. 

It was within this context that Moshe was baffled by the missing 1,775 shekels, representing the half-shekel donations of 3,550 Jews, within whom he could not detect sufficient intention to qualify for inclusion in the Mishkan at all. Where could these donations possibly have landed within an edifice that would serve as the very resting place of the Shechinah?

Moshe ultimately realized that these donations went towards the small hooks. The Kotzker Rebbe explains that Moshe’s breakthrough was in understanding that even when a Jew’s own thoughts, intentions, and actions may fall short, he can always have a place through the power of connection to those holier than himself. Much like this group of donors to the Mishkan, the hooks created holiness by association.

Everyone wants to feel personally accomplished, and the assessment of how much we have or have not accomplished is often viewed through the prism of our surroundings. When we’ve achieved more than those around us, we feel good; when we haven’t, we don’t. Which can lead us—consciously or subconsciously—to a sad state of underachievement. We can surround ourselves with people we know we can outshine—or at least feel confident comparing ourselves to—as a means of easing the burden of self-development from upon our shoulders.

How do we bring ourselves to associate with people whose achievements and motivation outstrips our own, despite the inherent attack upon our own ego that we’ll be inviting? Perhaps by flipping the script. If we have a tendency to surround ourselves with underachievers so that our own accomplishments stand out, we need to remind ourselves that an association with a great person is an accomplishment in of itself. 

The company we keep is a statement of our values. Being around people who exercise, or learn Torah, or gossip, means we’ll be exposed to those activities and will likely be influenced to do more of it ourselves. We’ll be met with opportunities to engage in similar behavior, and will naturally avoid opportunities that can erode that behavior, simply by spending time amongst that group. 

You may have the smallest net worth of anyone at the country club, but by playing golf amongst those billionaires, you’ll be exposed to deals and relationships that will undoubtedly deepen your pockets. And the same is true of being the biggest ignoramus in the Bais Medrash, publishing the fewest articles amongst your colleagues, or having the largest waist size of all your friends. While the tendency may be to abandon that group to let your ego expand in the presence of less accomplished people, the reality is that your production will increase by staying in the orbit of those greater than you. Before you run for the hills so your own achievements will appear greater, remind yourself that staying in the company of those overshadowing you is actually its own achievement. 

It was the hooks that held the curtains up and gave them value as an integrated component of the Mishkan. While there is great comfort in simply falling to the floor and being compared to that which is beneath us, the hooks remind us to look up and to associate with those greater. While we may stand out less, we’ll ultimately achieve so much more. 

Vayakhel 5782

If you frequent a gym, you know that January is the busiest month of the year. According the International Health, Racquet, and Sporstclub Association (IHRSA), 12% of all new gym memberships take place in January. Which is not surprising. High on the list of most commonly adopted new year’s resolutions is some version of losing weight or getting in shape. As the new year rolls in, gym’s enjoy a surge of new members looking to make good on the promises they made to themselves.

And not surprisingly, it often doesn’t work. Also according to the IHRSA, most gyms lose about 50% of new members within the first six months. The initial inspiration or determination that we feel when the goal is first articulated can soon dissipate. There is a huge difference between adopting a goal and achieving it.

Which perhaps is why Parshas Vayakhel exists, despite its feeling very much like a re-run. The earlier parshios of Terumah and Tetzaveh have already provided detailed instruction as to how the Mishkan, its furnishings, and the bigdei Kehunah were to be fashioned. Yet all this information is given a second screening as the Torah describes in Parshas Vayakhel and Pekudei how the Jewish People actually went about constructing it all, followed by a full reckoning of all the funds and materials raised and spent on the project. 

To be sure, the Mishkan was a seminal achievement in the annals of Jewish history. But it is striking how the Torah—so economical in its word count—opts to fully rehash every design element as it was dutifully implemented. Surely a simple, “They did all they were commanded to do” would have sufficed.

But, of course, it would not have. Simply because an item is on the agenda does not mean that it gets done. Though the commandments received in Terumah and Tetzaveh surely shaped the Mishkan’s construction into a national goal, a goal is not accomplished as easily as it is written. The spike and decrease in gym memberships over the first six months of the year tells us all we need to know about the unlikelihood of making good on one’s ambitions. That the Mishkan is constructed in full, no corners cut, is an astounding triumph in the people overcoming themselves. In place of the lethargy that typically sets in not long after a project is first launched, the Jewish People developed steadfast resolve. Every detail is emphasized because no single one was sure to happen. That it did is remarkable and deserves to be recorded. 

In this light, perhaps we can gain new understanding into the opening of the very name of parsha: “Vayakhel—And he gathered.” Moshe Rabbeinu gathered the people to inform them that Shabbos would need to serve as a day off from the work of building the Mishkan, and to then charge them with the amassing of the materials needed to begin the work. The commentators are puzzled by the nature of Moshe’s gathering the people. Whereas a chain of command was usually employed to get the word out to the masses about any given mitzvah, here specifically, we find that Moshe addressed the nation as one.  

In another enlightening statistic from the IHRSA’s 2018 report, those who attended classes rather than working out on their own were 56% less likely to cancel their membership. Transforming a personal ambition into a collective undertaking can be a game changer. We gain from the built-in accountability and social pressure that can help us think twice before we ditch our goal. We are also less likely to doubt the virtue of our goals after the initial novelty wears off when we are surrounded by others dedicated to the cause. Finally, the activity itself can become more enjoyable when joined with a social component.

If Parshas Vayakhel is about telling the triumph of keeping to one’s goals and seeing them through, the word Vayakhel may describe how to get there. Sticking to our goals can be challenging, doing so as a cohesive group can help to remove many of the inherent hurdles.

If you’ve struggled with keeping to goals in general, or to a specific goal in particular, the answer may not be persevering through brute force alone. While accomplishing a meaningful goal will never be easy, there’s much we can do to help grease the wheels and make the process more enjoyable. 

Is there a means of transforming the private goal to a communal one? If you can’t stay motivated towards your goals, consider creating a group or chaburah that works on them together. Consider finding an accountability partner who you can share your goals with and vice-versa, even if your goals are substantially different from one another. The encouragement you’ll receive and even that bit of embarrassment you’ll feel if you can’t report positive results will help keep you on target. 

The Jewish People achieved their goals because of Vayakhel—they formed a group around their collective ambition. Partnering together and forming groups of our own can go a long way in allowing us to do the same.