Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Vayeishev / Chanukah 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vayishlach 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vayeitzei 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Toldos 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vayeira 5783

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Lech Lecha 5783

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

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

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

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

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

What’s astounding is what comes next:

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

^{בראשית יג:ט}

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

^{Bereishis 13:9}

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Noach 5783 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Bereishis 5783

Everyone gets a trophy! Well, almost everyone.

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

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

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

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

^{בראשית א:יא}

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

^{Bereishis 1:11}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Balak 5782

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

מַה־טֹּבוּ אֹהָלֶיךָ יַעֲקֹב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל׃

^{במדבר כד:ה}

עַל שֶׁרָאָה פִתְחֵיהֶם שֶׁאֵינָן מְכֻוָּנִין זֶה מוּל זֶה

^{רש׳׳י שם}

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

^{Bamidbar 24:5}

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

^{Rashi, ibid.}

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

What are those things? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Chukas 5782

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

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

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

^{רש׳׳י יט:א}

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

^{Rashi 29:1}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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