Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Beha’aloscha 5782

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

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

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

^{במדבר ח:ג}

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

^{Bamidbar 8:3}

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

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

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

שמשון הלך אחר עיניו לפיכך נקרו פלשתים את עיניו

^{סוטה פרק א משנה ח}

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

^{Sotah, Chap. 1 Mishnah 8}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Nasso 5782

“GET YOUR HEADS DOWN!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Bamidbar / Shavuos 5782

“This baby’s ready to come out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Bechukosai 5782

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

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

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

^{ויקרא כו:יג}

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

^{Vayikra 26:13}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.