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Parshas Vayeishev 5785

Among the all time great feuds contained in the annals of Tanach, that of Yaakov and Esav certainly ranks somewhere near the top. It is a lifelong feud, the quarreling beginning in utero, and, even as the two brothers apparently make amends in the fateful meeting of last week’s parsha, Chazal give every indication that the rivalry will perpetuate. Indeed, contained in Yitzchak’s blessings to his two sons is the implicit understanding that when one of the two shall rise, the other shall decline. 

Yet a pasuk in Sefer Ovadiah notes that it is not Yaakov alone who stands in the opposing corner of the ring, ready to square off against Esav. Yosef stands there with him. 

וְהָיָה בֵית־יַעֲקֹב אֵשׁ וּבֵית יוֹסֵף לֶהָבָה וּבֵית עֵשָׂו לְקַשׁ וְדָלְקוּ בָהֶם וַאֲכָלוּם וְלֹא־יִהְיֶה שָׂרִיד לְבֵית עֵשָׂו כִּי ה׳ דִּבֵּר׃

^{עבדיה א:יח}

The House of Jacob shall be fire, and the House of Joseph flame, and the House of Esau shall be straw; they shall burn it and devour it, And no survivor shall be left of the House of Esau—for Hashem has spoken.

^{Ovadiah 1:18}

Rashi quotes this pasuk in his very first comment on Parshas Vayeshev in explanation of its juxtaposition to the events at the end of Parshas Vayishlach, specifically, the genealogical register of Esav’s offspring. Rashi explains that Yaakov felt intimidated by the throngs of powerful tribes that emerged from Esav, worried that they could pose an existential threat to the nation he himself sought to build. The Torah responds, in light of the above pasuk, with the answer to Yaakov’s worries. “אלה תולדות יעקב יוסף—These are the descendants of Yaakov: Yosef.” Yosef is mentioned before any of Yaakov’s other children—before all those who were born before him—because he will serve as the countermeasure to all the muscle of Esav’s family mentioned in the preceding parsha.

Why is this so? What is so special about Yosef in particular? What makes Yosef so uniquely suited to act as the antidote to the toxin that is Esav?

There is a beautiful explanation I found quoted from the sefer, Mikra Mefurash, which suggests that Yosef ultimately fulfilled all the potential and promise latent in Esav that he himself failed to achieve. 

Esav was an “ish sadeh”, a “man of the field,” whose pursuits took him far beyond the tents of Torah frequented by his brother. Yet there was no reason why Esav could not contribute positively to his family, only that his contributions would be of a different variety. Yitzchak saw great promise not only in Yaakov, but in Esav as well. If Esav could head out into the world and return home with food for his family, he could be an integral part of the nation that Yitzchak sought to build. It was on this premise that when Yitzchak turned to bless Esav, he asked him to first head out to the field and procure meat for Yitzchak to enjoy. 

Yet Esav succumbed to the influence of the field. He defined himself not as someone living in Yitzchak’s home who would venture out on occasion, but as someone rooted in the world outside who would periodically return home. Who unburdened himself of his birthright and sold it off to his brother. He married women who brought idolatry right into his home. He became violent, gluttonous, a product of influences received anywhere but his parents’ home.

Yosef emerged as the exact opposite. Yosef—sold to Potiphar, seduced by his wife, cast into a prison cell, then installed in the most prominent position of secular authority a Jew has ever known—interacted with the culture of the world outside as much as any Jew in history and was given every opportunity to be swayed, influenced, and defined by a value system completely foreign to that of his saintly parents. And yet he never was. He remained the same Yosef he had been his entire life, a scion to the spiritual dynasty first launched by his great-grandparents, having never succumbed to the entrancements of the world around him. 

Yosef was the anti-Esav. 

Which is a mantle we must be ready to assume. Even as we attempt to live insular lives, protected from the influence of values foreign to our own, we are deeply engaged in the world around us. For most of us, a foreign language serves as our mother tongue, our work environments bring us into regular contact with the non-Jewish world, our mode of dress permits us to move about secular society rather seamlessly, and our ability to access secular culture and values is greater than at any point in history. 

Will we become Esav? Or can we be Yosef? 

It is a critical question to always be mindful of, but particularly so in the days preceding Chanukah, a holiday that commemorates the miracles that ensued when the Jewish People rose up against their Greek overlords. The Greeks’ goal was not genocide, but assimilation. To replace the Jewish value system and way of life with a secular one. The Greeks did not seek to wipe out the Jewish People, only the Jewish spirit.

As we consider assimilation and the celebration of the great Jewish refusal to submit to its allure, we must remember that the question of being an Esav or a Yosef is not a zero-sum game. The question we must answer is not as simple as “Are you ‘in’ or are you ‘out’?” 

Assimilation falls on a continuum. Where on that continuum does each of us lie? How much are we captivated by the field outside as opposed to the happenings inside the tent? Are we animated most by the goals we’ve set for business or recreation, or for spiritual development and growth? Where am I spending my best energies and where am I mailing it in? If I have a five-year plan for my professional life, do I have the same for my learning and davening? 

We spend an awful lot of time in the world beyond Yaakov’s tent. Does that time define us, shape us, give us our truest sense of meaning and fulfillment? Or is it merely what we must do—responsibilities we must discharge—before returning back to the tent? 

As Chanukah draws near, as we remember the awesome sacrifice of the Chashmonaim, their fight against influences that had crept into the Jewish tent, we should take stock of our own tents. How can we distance ourselves further from Esav and draw closer to Yosef?

Parshas Vayishlach 5785

Daniel Penny is a free man. It’s a shame it took so long.

Penny was acquitted of manslaughter this past week in relation to the death of Jordan Neely, a homeless man who boarded the same New York City subway car as Neely and screamed, according to one bystander, “I don’t have food, I don’t have a drink, I’m fed up. I don’t mind going to jail and getting life in prison. I’m ready to die.”

Penny, a former Marine, placed Neely in a chokehold, restraining him until police arrived. Neely was later pronounced dead. 

Upon the acquittal, Congresswoman Summer Lee of Pennsylvania commented on X, “The acquittal of Daniel Penny in the murder of Jordan Neely is a painful reminder of a long-standing reality: vigilante violence against Black people often goes unchecked. Jordan deserved compassion, not violence.”

Actually, he deserved both. 

As he journeyed from Charan, having fled the home of Lavan without so much as a goodbye, Yaakov is ultimately overtaken by his uncle. Lavan scolds him for absconding with Lavan’s daughters and grandchildren without a proper farewell. Yaakov will have none of it. He rails against Lavan, lambasting him for his mistreatment and trickery, and noting his own honesty and integrity throughout the years he worked for Lavan.

Yaakov will not back down from a fight. 

An entirely different scene plays out when Yaakov receives word that Esav’s camp is approaching his own. Yaakov becomes conciliatory, sending Esav a hefty tribute, being sure to refer to Esav as his “master” multiple times, and ultimately engaging Esav in a warm embrace when his heretofore raging brother shows that his anger has subsided.

Yaakov backs down from the fight. 

Perhaps Yaakov is simply a pragmatist. Sure, he’d have given Esav the same earful he gave Lavan, but the four hundred soldiers Esav marched with made that impractical. Yaakov could chastise Lavan for his behavior, stand toe-to-toe with his uncle and decry his animosity because he posed no mortal threat. Esav, on the other hand, marched with an army, ready to kill. A different approach would have to be adopted.

Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, though, sees an altogether different distinction to be made between the two encounters. Lavan receives a tongue-lashing because he had no legitimate argument to make. Yaakov had done only right by Lavan, and was subjected to Lavan’s scheming and manipulation as a result. Lavan would be put squarely in his place.

Esav was simply a different story. Yes, Yaakov had purchased the birthright from Esav fair and square. But Yaakov had to resort to some measure of subterfuge in order to receive the blessings from his father in Esav’s place. Esav had indeed been tricked, and Yaakov, as a result, understood his brother’s anger and resentment. It was only right to act differently towards him than he did towards Lavan.

Is this to say that Yaakov regretted his actions? That if he could do it all over again, he’d defy the instructions of his mother and let Esav receive their father’s bracha? Or, at the very least, tip his hand and inform Esav of his intention to speak with Yitzchak and convince him to change his mind about which son ought to be blessed?

Certainly not. It is to say only that even while being convinced of one’s position, he can still hear and appreciate the case of his rival. Yaakov did what needed to be done, but he had a heart for Esav and understood where he was coming from. Even as Yaakov felt undeniably justified in his own actions, he could appreciate why Esav felt wronged.

The reverse is likewise true. The recognition of the pain of another person or people is not sufficient to justify the cause for which they may be fighting. Being marginalized or wronged in some way is reason to have others identify your suffering, but not enough to act out with impunity in any way you deem fair. Compassion cannot completely overwhelm our sense of right and wrong, of meting out appropriate consequences. 

Homelessness is a terribly sad predicament and when a homeless person says “I don’t have food, I don’t have a drink, I’m fed up,” our hearts should go out to him. But when he says “I don’t mind going to jail and getting life in prison,” he should be restrained from behind until the police arrive.

Which makes Daniel Penny a hero, not a criminal. But ours is a society that too often permits justification of any and all actions on the heels of the compassion we feel for the aggrieved. Yaakov Avinu understands Esav, he even has a heart for Esav, but he doesn’t agree with him, doesn’t condone his behavior, and doesn’t agree to rewrite history so that Esav can get his way. 

We should have compassion for Jordan Neely because he suffered. But that shouldn’t blind us to right and wrong, to the injustice of threatening innocent people on a subway car, and to the heroism—rather than criminality—of Daniel Penny. Summer Lee insisted that Jordan Neely deserved compassion, not violence. No, he deserved both.

Parshas Vayeitzei 5785

It would be difficult to conceive of two individuals from the past hundred years who lived their lives more fully than the Lubavitcher Rebbe and the Chazon Ish. The Rebbe’s influence can be felt in the vibrancy of Jewish life in the most far-flung communities across the globe and in the many thousands of lives dedicated to Jewish observance as a result of the outreach movement he launched. One cannot find a yeshiva that does not prominently display the works of the Chazon Ish nor identify a single area of halacha in which his incisive halachic decisions do not carry enormous weight in practical observance. 

Two great sages, two great leaders, two great lives. Yet both lived without children. So did they really live at all?

To walk by her sister’s tent was to take a stroll into an abyss of agony and despair. The baby’s cries clearly audible, the sound of young children reciting their morning brachos, the tricycles and scooters strewn about the yard. And all the while, Rachel has no children of her own.

Rachel finally turns to her husband, Yaakov—perhaps after he announced he had to head out for a bit to learn with Reuven, or take Shimon to mishmar—and cries, “הבה לי בנים ואם אין מתה אנכי—Give me children, and if not, it is as if I am dead.” 

Over the top? Melodramatic? Rashi doesn’t think so.

Quoting the Gemara in Nedarim, Rashi cites this pasuk as precedent that someone without children is considered dead.

Which is really mean.

Does a man or woman without children have nothing to live for? Is their Torah or Tefilah or Shabbos or Chessed somehow cheapened in Hashem’s eyes because they have no ability to share those experiences with progeny? If they live lives dedicated to the Jewish People, to just causes, to upholding decent values, have their lives had no meaning? 

Can anyone doubt the enormous contributions made by the Lubavitcher Rebbe and the Chazon Ish to the Jewish People? Can it actually be said of men of such astounding accomplishments that their lives didn’t matter because they never had children?

Why be so mean? 

There are two answers. The first is offered by Tosfos in Nedarim 64b, the Gemara cited by Rashi referenced above. Why give the infertile such a harsh label? Tosfos answer, it’s not for them, it’s for us. “ונפקא מיניה למבעי עלייהו רחמי—The practical difference it makes is that we must know to pray for them.”

To be excessively optimistic about a person’s plight and to incessantly look on the bright side of things in an effort to cheer them up, is to simply ignore the plight itself. “They don’t have children, but they have each other.” “She’s not married, but she enjoys her independence.” “He’s been in shidduchim for years, but he has such freedom to learn.” “You know the Lubavitcher Rebbe didn’t have children, neither did the Chazon Ish. And they lived full, productive lives.” In making the attempt to see another’s pain only through rose-colored glasses, we can become callous to that pain. We can presume they’re fine. We can forget they’re hurting. We can forget to daven. 

There are incredible organizations dedicated to helping those struggling with infertility. How much of the engine running each organization is fueled by the very harsh assessment that living without children is something less than life? By Chazal’s raw and real declaration that life without children is like death, regardless of the myriad ways that one can still a hugely productive life? If we pretend there is no problem, would we bother trying to find solutions?

And there is another reason why characterizing childlessness in such harsh terms is critical. Not only for the onlookers, but for those potentially facing the issue themselves. A teaching of Chazal that equates childlessness with death is undoubtedly uncomfortable for those mired in that very situation. But it may well also be somewhat responsible for the successful marriages and family lives of countless others. 

Ours is a culture that places an enormous value on marrying at a rather young age, starting a family quickly, and having many children. And that culture is partially shaped by statements such as this one. To say that to be without children is something less than true life creates pressure to marry and have children. And while that pressure can indeed be painful for those trying to do so but have not yet cleared the hurdles set along the course, it is that very pressure that helps motivate many others towards the finish line. 

If Chazal hadn’t spoken of childlessness in the most dramatic of terms, it would ease the pressure not only off those who can’t get married or can’t have children, but also off those who simply don’t get married or won’t have children. The culture that places having children as the highest value could easily give way to one that says, “It’s really your call. There are lots of ways to find happiness and fulfillment. Do what feels right to you.” 

Which means that we need to be able to do both. To continue to maintain the standard of getting married young and having large families, with all the attendant pressure it creates on those facing enormous challenges doing so, while also sensitizing ourselves to the plight of those who want nothing more than to be married and have children, but have not been able to do so. 

On a communal level, this means forging ahead with the sort of programming that emphasizes children and highlights married couples—youth groups, Shalom Bayis classes, couples’ nights, family events, and the like—recognizing that it is that very emphasis that helps to create a culture that encourages marriage and having children to the greatest degree possible.

But simultaneously, to recognize the pain that individuals and couples experience when they feel that so much of the frum world revolves around what they don’t presently have. It means following the approach of Tosfos, that onlookers recognize the acute pain felt by those attempting to have children but have been stymied in those efforts. It means attempting to help through prayer and through concerted efforts to help them achieve their goals. 

But it also means increased sensitivity in other ways. By giving space to a couple without children to not attend a bris or hakafos on Simchas Torah without being badgered with mindless comments like “Where were you? How could you miss it? Everyone was there!” It means being careful not to make too much of a spectacle of giving children brachos on Friday night or allowing the conversation at the table to be monopolized by topics like carpool and after-school clubs when there are those in the room who simply cannot participate.

The equation of childlessness with death is shocking, but it’s not mean. We are meant to be shocked. Shocked out of our obliviousness and take note that there are people around us suffering mightily. So that we can be more sensitive towards their needs, help them achieve their goals, and daven for them. And also to shock those whose decisions about marriage and children still lay before them. That rather than be lulled to sleep by a society increasingly apathetic to the responsibility of procreation, to instead be keenly attuned to the Torah’s demand that for life to be lived to the fullest, it is to be shared with children.

Parshas Toldos 5785

In 1982, the Kahan Commission launched an inquiry into the massacre of the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps in Lebanon, attempting to determine whether or not select Israeli officials and military personnel bore culpability for the event.

When Prime Minister Menachem Begin was called to give testimony, he was asked to provide his name for the court record. He responded, “Menachem ben Ze’ev Dov v’Chassia Begin,” referring not only to his last name, but to his parents’ names, in a formulation evocative of an aliyah to the Torah or of signing a kesubah. 

Begin was insistent that for a Jewish proceeding he would be referred to as a Jew, in the manner that Jews have been referred to dating back to Biblical times.

If it was good enough for Yitzchak Avinu, after all, it would be good enough for Menachem Begin. 

Parshas Toldos begins with the declaration that what will follow will be a description of Yitzchak’s progeny. But not just “Yitzchak,” rather, “Yitzchak ben Avraham.” Surely at this point in the Biblical narrative there is little need to assert which Yitzchak is being referred to, yet we could understand the Torah’s describing him using the traditional formulation.

What is truly surprising are the next words. 

“Avraham holid es Yitzchak—It was Avraham who sired Yitzchak.”

Well, yes, yes of course.

Why is such a description the least bit necessary, especially considering that Yitzchak had just been identified not only by his own name, but by Avraham’s as well? Why the need to emphasize that, indeed, it was Avraham who sired this Yitzchak ben Avraham?

Rashi explains that this statement—further emphasizing the biological relationship between father and son—is necessary because this very fact had been called into question during Sarah’s pregnancy. Rashi relates that the scoffers of that generation insisted that it was not Avraham to whom Sarah had become pregnant, but to Avimelech, the King of Gerar who abducted Sarah for a night until returning her to Avraham under Divine threat of heavenly retribution. 

Rashi further explains that in response to the scoffers’ claims, Hashem intervened and gave Yitzchak the exact likeness of his true father. Immediately upon his birth, there could be no doubt that Yitzchak was indeed the biological son of Avraham. Hence the Torah’s emphasis that “Avraham holid es Yitzchak—Avraham sired Yitzchak.” 

That the claim of these scoffers needed to be addressed in that very generation is one thing, but why does the Torah itself make reference to this event for all time? Was this a claim that continued to dog Yitzchak and his future progeny until the time of the giving of the Torah centuries later? And if it did, would the Torah’s testimony prove sufficient to silence the baseless accusations made by members of other nations? Did the Jewish People themselves continue to doubt Yitzchak’s pedigree until the Torah itself asserted that he was indeed Avraham’s son?

Most likely, none of the above. Rashi gives every impression that upon Yitzchak’s birth, the rumor mill immediately ground to a halt, and no trace of doubt remained whatsoever by the time the Torah was given.

Rather, the Torah is simply preserving for all time a critical lesson that applies no less to our lives than to those of Avraham and Yitzchak: Scoffers existed not only in Avraham’s generation, but in every generation. Irrespective of the evidence, there will always be those who doubt, dismiss, and naysay. 

Consider for a moment the nature of Yitzchak’s conception and birth in the context of Avraham’s lengthy and impressive resume. Regardless of the true identity of Yitzchak’s father, Yitzchak was unassailably a miracle baby. Ninety year olds simply do not become pregnant, yet here was Sarah, the nonagenarian, with child. Sarah was incapable of conceiving until G-d Himself intervened.

Now which man in the picture does that reality obviously align with, who himself had a long history as the subject of Divine providence and miracles? Avraham walked through fire, survived a famine, became fabulously wealthy, and nearly singlehandedly overthrew the tyranny of the “Four Kings”.

And, oh, by the way, Avraham wasn’t sterile. He had already had a son with another woman and everyone knew it.

Against that backdrop, how could anyone possibly suggest that Sarah’s child was anyone but Avraham’s? Avraham the holy man, whose dedication to the One G-d was world-renowned, and with whom G-d had clearly reciprocated with the blessing of a charmed life. Avraham who was fully capable of having children, and was simply waiting for the Divine intervention that would make it possible to do so with Sarah.

When Sarah became miraculously pregnant at ninety years of age, could there be any doubt as to who was the father? 

Yes, there could be. Because there always is. There will always be naysayers who exploit the most unreasonable of doubts, who mock, jest, and spin information in ways that are completely ludicrous and undermine the best efforts of good people who seek truth.

“You’ll never pull that of.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“You’re thinking way too big.” 

“When did you get so frum?” 

“You don’t have the time, the money, or the experience to pull that off.”

It is true that one cannot be so thick-skinned as to be impervious to criticism and suggestion. But even the most preposterous of claims will find someone to give them voice. Which means that the mere presence of those who will mock and deride isn’t proof that we must have it wrong, that what we seek to accomplish is somehow off-base.

The new career you’re trying to launch, the institution you’re trying to build, the sefer you’re trying to learn—these are all enterprises that need to be analyzed thoughtfully. But the scoffing and cynicism they may well provoke are no indication that they are unreasonable goals to set. And more than scoffing and cynicism were an indication that Yitzchak was not the child his true  parents claimed him to be.

By the time the Torah was given, all doubt that Avraham was Yitzchak’s true father had surely melted. Yet the fact that those had to doubt had to be preserved for all future generations. Because there would be no future generation in which naysayers would not once more rear their heads. We must be ready for them, and be ready to ignore them. 

Parshas Chayei Sarah 5785

I was recently speaking with my daughter and bemoaning the recent trends in presumed gift-giving (gift-demanding?) following a couple’s engagement. Sure, the ring under the chupah is an ancient tradition and even halachically required to a large degree. The diamond engagement ring? Originally Jewish? Who knows? But, again, it does seem to go back a number of generations. But what about the kallah tennis bracelet? When did such lavish gifts become standard? Where did that originate? Lakewood? Brooklyn? Monsey?

Hmm…maybe Charan…

Bucking any possible concern of “raising the standard,” Eliezer heaps an impressive array of jewelry upon the new kallah-to-be. Recognizing that Rivkah passed his test with flying colors, providing water for both him as well as his camels, he presents her with the spectacular betrothal gifts of a gold nose ring and two gold bracelets. 

Over the top? Too ostentatious? Perhaps this is what motivated Chazal to see more in these gifts than objects of mere material luxury. As Rashi explains, the two bracelets represented the two luchos, their weight—recorded in the pasuk as ten shekels—serving as a reference to the Aseres Hadibros. And the nose ring was one beka in weight, the same as the weight of the half-shekel coin that each Jew would one day use to participate in the census. 

So there is a spiritual dimension to these gifts as well. A Jewish dimension. The jewelry is representative of Torah, of mitzvos, of the connection between Hashem and His Chosen Nation.

And of a census. 

A census?

Of all possible elements and themes to be plucked from the coming thousands of years of Jewish history, why does the object used for a census become critical in this first meeting with Rivkah? 

Perhaps for the same reason that the half-shekel was used for a census in the first place. Many explain that it was specifically a coin of a half-denomination that was used to count the Jewish People in order to emphasize the relationship between the individual and the nation. Namely, that the individual is incomplete on his own. The Jew in isolation is but a half, unfinished, until he becomes bound to the Klal, which completes him. 

As a message contained within one of the betrothal gifts, Eliezer both emphasized the importance of the actions Rivkah had already demonstrated, and likewise encouraged her along a new course as well.

Rivkah saw Eliezer as someone in distress, a weary traveler in desperate need of refreshment both for himself as well as his animals. She saw him as a half who needed someone else to step in and make him whole. And she rose to the challenge, going above and beyond in assisting a stranger in a time of need.

In referencing the half-shekel of the census, Eliezer was telling Rivkah, “What you’ve done is more than just a good deed. It is the very foundation upon which an entire nation will rest—a nation you’ll have the opportunity to spawn with my master, Yitzchak.” Chessed is part of the very fabric of our nation, the manner in which we echo Hashem’s activities perhaps more than any other. It is through Chessed that we insist that G-d is good and kind, and man can strive to become remarkably like Him. 

But there was another message latent in the reference to the half-shekel, one that intended to prod Rivkah towards a choice that she was perhaps hesitant to make. The half-shekel is not only a reminder to see another’s half and try to make it whole, but to likewise see oneself as but a half—an incomplete fragment—when disconnected from others. 

“Rivkah,” Eliezer was suggesting, “What you’ve done here all you own, in this spiritually hostile environment is uncanny. That you’ve become someone who recognizes G-d and is bent on inculcating His attributes into your own character is awe-inspiring. But don’t believe for a moment that you’ve reached the pinnacle of all you can achieve and of all you can be. It’s not until joining up with another half that you can truly be whole.” 

It is specifically through connecting with others that we can become all we were meant to. It is impossible that we have all the answers and all the insights, that the recipes for all we wish to achieve are already present in our very own minds, that our character need not benefit from the influence of other great people in order to be molded into its most refined version.

For Rivkah, the question of attaching to others or not was rather binary. Would she venture out with Eliezer or stay behind? Would she continue to grow in isolation or join up with another? Would she remain a half, or become a whole?

For us, it’s not simply a matter of choosing whether to interact with others or not. We already live in vibrant communities, our lives intersecting with others on a daily basis. It is less a question of whether to interact, but of how to do so. 

We may well love our family members, neighbors, and friends. But do we regularly stop to appreciate how valuable each is in the process of becoming a more complete person? Do we recognize every interaction as an opportunity to learn some new virtue, discover some new strategy to become better and more whole? Are we forever scanning the room, appreciating all that there is to learn from the people around us?

A daily minyan can serve simply as the backdrop for proper tefilah, or as an opportunity for our half shekel to be made whole by drawing lessons from the people around us. The person who always arrives punctually. The one who steadfastly keeps his tefillin on until the very last kaddish. The gabbai who is so well-organized. The fellow who makes a point of walking to the back and greeting every new face. The friendly one who makes a bit of early morning small talk with everyone around him, infusing a bit of joy into everyone’s day at the earliest opportunity.

A simcha, a parlor meeting, a social event—these can be mere items on the agenda, the time spent at which may or may not be all that enjoyable. Or they can be opportunities to mine for gold. To interact with others, to attach to what lays beyond ourselves, to see in real time the qualities others possess that we’d do well to inculcate into our own character. 

Eliezer urged Rivkah to step outside her comfort zone, to become part of something greater than herself, with the promise that she would become greater in turn. Those opportunities exist for us as well; we need only make use of them. 

Parshas Vayeira 5785

British journalist William Norman Ewer once wrote:

How odd of G-d

To choose the Jews.

Perhaps the most amusing response to these lines was authored by humorist Leo Rosten:

Not odd

of G-d,

The goyim

annoy ‘im. 

Yet a more accurate, albeit less humorous, explanation for how and why we became the Chosen People is from an unknown source:

How odd of G-d

To choose the Jews.

It’s not that odd;

The Jews chose G-d.

This is the story that unfolds as Avraham sits at the entrance of his tent on a blazing hot day.

Avraham convalesces following his bris milah and is visited by an honored guest, Hashem Himself. The Torah frames this interaction by referencing Avraham before referencing Hashem. Translated literally, when the Torah says “וירא אליו ה׳,” it is saying “And appeared to [Avraham], did Hashem,” rather than “And Hashem appeared to [Avraham]”. 

If anything, it would be more appropriate and reverent to reverse the order, making mention of Hashem before Avraham. And while the nature of the Holy Tongue makes either ordering acceptable, the nature of the Torah is that neither would be mere coincidence. So why does the Torah refer to Avraham, the receiver of the vision, before Hashem who provides it?

Rav Menachem Mendel Krengel, author of the D’vash V’chalav explains the phenomenon according to a principle developed by the Rambam in Moreh Nevuchim. Namely, that for all the references the Torah makes to Hashem’s changing of locations and shifting moods, Hashem is, in fact, stationary and stoic. Hashem does not, can not, change His position or His disposition. When we speak of Him doing so, it is only as a means of engaging with Him on terms we better understand, given our framework of operating within time and space. 

This, explains, Rav Krengel, is why the emphasis in the encounter recorded in the opening of Parshas Vayeira is placed on Avraham, not Hashem. In reality, Hashem did not move closer to Avraham; Avraham moved closer to Him. Though Chazal speak of Hashem “visiting” Avraham, no such visit took place in terms of the way we would ordinarily think of one. 

Hashem did not pick Himself up from His throne and sidle up next to Avraham, Divine hand tenderly clutching the human one, enjoying the time together before He’d need to head back home. It’s critical that we think of Hashem in those terms, conjure up the sort of mental images that permit us to see Him act in a manner no less kind and compassionate than a human being.

Yet it is likewise critical that we perform the occasional reality check and recognize the fundamental flaw latent in speaking of Hashem in this manner. Hashem doesn’t move within space; he exists beyond it. Hashem doesn’t change feelings; He transcends them.

We must embrace this reality not only so that our thoughts and philosophies are theologically sound. There is a practical element, too, that impacts how we engage with Hashem and generally lead our lives. 

Avraham’s interaction with Hashem is one that every human being fundamentally craves. We want to feel holy, spritual, and connected to something vastly greater than ourselves or our finite lives. So we wait for Hashem to make it a reality, to open the door and make contact, just as He did for Avraham.

But Hashem didn’t open the door to Avraham. Avraham opened the door to Him. 

When we feel caught in a spiritual malaise, how much time do we spend waiting for something to happen, waiting to feel motivated and inspired, for Hashem to reach down and touch us, and how much time do we spend in reaching up and touching Him? In doing what we can to enhance the mitzvos we perform, the Torah we learn, the prayers we recite? In doing these things with fewer distractions, with greater focus, and with some forethought as to how we can make them more meaningful experiences?

It’s an attitude we need to adopt not only in our spiritual pursuits, but in every area of life. What is true of the spiritual is often true of the physical and what is true of our relationship with Hashem is often true of our human relationships. The victories we hope to achieve in life—professional success, marital bliss, or deep, meaningful relationships with our children—may well be ripe for the taking, but they demand that we seek them out. The pot of gold may already be prepared and waiting, but won’t be delivered to our doorstep.

How do you react when your goals go unrealized? When life doesn’t look the way you’d hoped or expected? Does the problem lie with a universe that hasn’t provided you with the success you crave, or do you consider what further steps you can take towards achieving the life you want?

Had Avraham simply sat at his doorstep waiting to feel holy, begrudging the fact that he didn’t, he would never have achieved the relationship with Hashem that he ultimately did. And neither will we. We’ll be stuck feeling sorry for ourselves, or even worse, becoming complacent, certain that we’re simply not cut out for the religious vigor that seems to animate others. 

Success, in whatever arena of life, may be wholly accessible. But it won’t come looking for us. Hashem didn’t really knock on Avraham’s door; Avraham came knocking on His. Success may well be waiting for us, but we need to go get it.

How odd of G-d

To choose the Jews.

It’s not that odd.

The Jews chose G-d.

Lech Lecha 5785

A number of years ago I found myself together with a group of friends in the Matersdorf neighborhood of Yerushalayim during Sukkos. Realizing that were were in the immediate vicinity of Rav Chaim Pesach Sheinberg z’’l’s  home, we decided to see if we could pay a visit. We found the Rosh Yeshiva in his sukkah and asked for a bracha in our learning. He responded matter-of-factly, “You should have hatzlacha in your learning.”

No fireworks. No drama.

It didn’t feel like the heavens had parted and something magical had taken place. Yet receiving a bracha from a great tzaddik is a time-honored tradition.

So how does it work?

The common assumption is that a tzaddik has more pull with Hashem. He’s in Hashem’s inner circle so to speak, and what he says carries more weight than that of the rank and file. When a tzaddik gives a bracha, Hashem pays closer attention. 

But looking at the parsha, perhaps there’s something more.

וַאֲבָרֲכָה מְבָרְכֶיךָ וּמְקַלֶּלְךָ אָאֹר וְנִבְרְכוּ בְךָ כֹּל מִשְׁפְּחֹת הָאֲדָמָה׃

^{(בראשית יב:ג)}

And I will bless those who bless you, and those who curse you I shall curse. And the all the families of the earth shall be blessed through you.

^{(Bereishis 12:3)}

Hashem promises that those who either bless or curse Avraham will receive their appropriate comeuppance, yet there is a striking inconsistency between the two groups. Regarding those who bless Avraham, the reward is stated before the recipient: “I will bless those who bless you.” Yet regarding those who curse, the recipients of the punishment are mentioned before the punishment itself “And those who curse you I shall curse”. Why is the order reversed from one group to the next?

The Vilna Gaon explains that Hashem did so to maximize the impact of the bracha Avraham would receive and, conversely, to mitigate the impact of the curses he’d be subjected to. 

For those poised to bless Avraham, Hashem would bless them first, even before the blessing had been uttered. Why? Because the blessing already received makes the blessing offered even greater. A successful person has a set a new benchmark for himself. He sees the next rung as a true—and entirely attainable—measure of success. He enjoys expanded horizons than someone with fewer achievements, someone who’s achieved less bracha. And he blesses the person opposite him accordingly, according to what he now sees as possible. The bracha he’s experienced expands the bracha he gives.

For those who will curse, Hashem rigs the system in the opposite direction. He holds off on punishing them until after the curse has been uttered so that the accursed life that they wish upon Avraham is not something they’ve actually experienced, not something they hold in their mind’s eye when they conjure up a miserable fate for Avraham. Having lived a relatively good life, their intent when they curse is subdued. First-world problems rather than third-world problems. Not utter poverty, just burnt toast.

Which may offer an additional layer as to the impact of receiving a bracha from a great and holy person. When my friends and I asked for a bracha in our learning from Rav Sheinberg, we were asking someone who has already known immense success in his own learning, and so the horizons have been pushed out farther. Pushed out farther in his own life, and pushed out farther in the bracha he offers others. Anyone can wish another person hatzlacha in their learning, but what that hatzlacha means to that person is very different from what it meant to Rav Sheinberg. 

Which should light a fire under us. Not only to jump at the opportunity to receive a bracha from a holy person, worthwhile though it may be. But to do our best to place ourselves in the same orbit as people who have achieved success in whatever arena of life may be important to us. 

The bracha of a talmid chacham may well be more impactful. But so are his horizons and perspectives. He holds an expansive view of what a person is capable of achieving in learning, because of all that he’s already been blessed to achieve. Being around someone like that can greatly impact your own sense of what’s possible, of what you yourself of truly capable of, of what can be accomplished with hard work and perseverance. 

The bracha of someone with professional success, or who has raised impressive children, or who enjoys a wonderful marriage, is likewise different from those who have not been so blessed. But beyond the bracha they can offer us are the attitudes and the perspectives they can offer us. They’ve known success and have lived success and possess a mindset of abundance rather than scarcity.

Who are the people around you who have achieved the things that you want to achieve in life? How can you find a way to be in their orbit more frequently, for their outlook to rub off on you and inspire you to see what is possible and to expand your horizons? 

Seeking out a bracha is, indeed, a time-honored tradition. But so is seeking out time and interaction and influence. When one who has achieved success offers us a blessing, we should be eagerly willing to receive it. But if they’re willing to allow us into their lives, into their minds, into their attitudes and aspirations, we should perhaps be even more eager to seize that opportunity.

Parshas Noach 5785

The Flood is summoned upon the earth not only by means of rains from above, but from waters below. The Torah describes that “כָּל־מַעְיְנֹת תְּהוֹם רַבָּה, All the subterranean springs overflowed (Bereishis 7:11),” thereby inundating the land above. And contained within that swelling of the springs was an unspoken message for humanity.

Rashi quotes the Midrash that the term “רבה—overflowed” deliberately mimics the same word used in a different context at the end of Parshas Bereishis, describing the wayward character society had begun to demonstrate. There, the pasuk states,

וַיַּרְא ה׳ כִּי רַבָּה רָעַת הָאָדָם בָּאָרֶץ וְכָל־יֵצֶר מַחְשְׁבֹת לִבּוֹ רַק רַע כָּל־הַיּוֹם׃

^{(בראשית ו:ה)}

And Hashem saw that the evil of man had overflowed upon the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was purely evil all day long. 

^{(Bereishis 6:5)}

These subtle textual allusions are always curious. What exactly does the Midrash mean to suggest that the two pesukim—taken in tandem—are trying to convey? What is the notion of evil manifested as רבה such that Hashem chose to punish society through a רבה of his own? Why does the overflowing of evil demand purging through the overflowing of water?

Perhaps the answer can be found in analyzing the end of the above pasuk detailing society’s moral tailspin. When Noach emerges safely from the ark at the end of the parsha, he offers sacrifices to Hashem from the kosher animals that had been saved. Hashem accepts the offering and determines to never again destroy the earth, recognizing, after all, that “כִּי יֵצֶר לֵב הָאָדָם רַע מִנְּעֻרָיו—The inclination of man’s heart is evil from his youth.” Man faces an uphill battle towards good, and, in the future, Hashem’s consideration of that reality will stay His hand before bringing utter destruction upon the earth as punishment for man’s moral failure.

Still, Hashem doesn’t appear to regret bringing the Flood. Further, there is an enormous difference between the description of the society destroyed by the flood and the description later offered of the fundamental nature of man. The latter notes that man is inclined towards evil. But the Generation of the Flood is described as people whose “every inclination…was purely evil all day long.” 

What happened to man? How did he go from being someone who possessed a desire for evil into someone completely corrupted by those desires? How did he becomes someone who had nothing but evil thoughts, plans, and leanings all day long, without letup? How did evil come to define him?

The answer is רבה—it overflowed. The flood came about through the overflowing of the waters of the deep to serve as a guide to what went wrong in the lives of the members of that generation. The waters were always there, always existed, but they were suppressed, kept in check. What happens when you stop holding the waters at bay? When you decide to just let them be? They inundate the world and come to define the earth’s very terrain. 

This is the choice we have to make with inclination towards evil that lurks within each of us. That it exists is nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to deny. It is intended to be there, placed within us by an omniscient Creator. 

But it is meant to be kept in check. We are meant to struggle, to push back, to keep the drive towards evil at bay, much the way Hashem suppressed the waters of the deep until He decided to flip the switch and let them out.

Why did He flip that switch? Because that’s exactly what people had done. They’d seen their drives and urges and stopped struggling. They confused that inclination with that essence and believed the struggle to be futile. They identified with their anger, jealousy, lust, and other urges and said “This is me. This is who and what I am. I can’t deny myself. I’ll let that beast of its cage.” רבה—it overflowed. From the depths of each person—from a place that undoubtedly existed within him yet needed not define him—the inclination towards evil surged forth until his character was wholly corrupted. 

That we will have wants and interests that fall outside of acceptable and decent behavior is to be expected. But those wants and interests don’t need to overflow—to become the whole of our character. They can be kept in check. In this regard, we should value and recognize every small step we take towards that end. When we tell ourselves “no”, push back against an impulse, quiet the inner voice that makes a demand that is not truly in our best interest, we are developing muscles of greater moral discipline and making the statement that we can live with impulses without being defined by them. 

When we push back against ourselves—maintaining times we won’t check our phones, refraining from removing our tefilin until we’ve fully finished davening, suppressing mindless fidgeting while bentching—we’re making a statement far more impactful than the individual decision suggests. We are insisting that our impulses don’t define us, that we can keep them in check. That we can keep the floodwaters at bay, keeping them from ultimately overwhelming our character and our lives. 

Parshas Nitzavim-Vayeilech 5784

If you went on a walk in the woods and found someone standing at the foot of an enormous maple tree muttering to himself, “What a desk! What bookcase!,” what would you make of him—a madman, or an artist? I think we’d give him the benefit of the doubt. No, no piece of furniture yet exists, yet it’s unlikely that he’s hallucinating. Far more likely he’s a carpenter. What stands before him is the raw material from which the beautiful furniture he sees in his mind’s eye can be produced.

As Moshe Rabbeinu’s life draws to an end, Hashem announces this reality, doing so with unusual emphasis. “הן קרבו ימיך למות—Indeed, your days are approaching death (Devarim 31:14).” The Midrash notes that the use of the word “הן—Indeed” is not just to punctuate the declaration with greater seriousness, but actually serves to tie this statement to others that Moshe had been made previously.

The Midrash (Devarim Rabbah 9:6) describes Moshe’s reaction to Hashem’s declaration that He would die and would not have the opportunity to lead the People into Eretz Yisrael, prefaced by the word “הן—Indeed”:

“But, Hashem,” Moshe said, “Didn’t I praise you with that very word when I said, ‘הן לה׳ אלקיך השמים ושמי השמים—Indeed, to Hashem, your G-d, belong the Heavens and the uppermost Heavens (Devarim 10:14)’? Why is this same word now being used against me?”

“True,” Hashem replied, “But you also used that same word to sin, when you said, ‘הן לא יאמינו לי—Indeed, [The Jewish People] will not believe me (Shemos 4:1)’ Therefore, it is appropriate that that same word now comes to end your life.” 

The word “הן—Indeed” appears to connect sin and punishment. In the earliest days of being selected as leader of the Jewish People, Moshe doubted them, thinking them incapable of maintaining faith in Hashem’s salvation after all they’d gone through. It is this sin that is remembered now, identified as the cause for Moshe Rabbeinu being prevented from continuing his leadership into the Holy Land. 

Why is this?

Perhaps it has less to do with Moshe distancing himself from the People, and more with Moshe distancing himself from himself.

In one of the better-known comments in all of Hilchos Teshuva, the Rambam demands that we appreciate the full import of the endowment of free will. He insists that we “not be like the fools who believe that Hashem decrees in advance whether a person will be a tzaddik or a rasha. Rather, each and every person has the ability to be a tzaddik like Moshe Rabbeinu or a rasha like Yeravam (Hil. Teshuva 6:2).”

Moshe Rabbeinu looked upon the Jewish People and insisted that they could not believe. But why not? Moshe himself believed in Hashem, maintained hope in His salvation, in spite of all the trials and tribulations he and the rest of the nation had been through. Why could he believe but they couldn’t? What made him different?

The answer is choice. Moshe had exercised his free will—time after time—to deepen his faith in Hashem, the knowledge of His Presence, and his certitude that He would one day save His people as promised. The people had made other choices—again and again—and now found themselves further from the closeness and intimacy that Moshe enjoyed with Hashem.

Yet if it was only a series of choices that landed the two parties where they presently sat, the story was far from over. Free will means that in any moment, a person can make other choices and begin to curve his path towards a different destination. If Moshe was Moshe because of the choices he’d made, the People—far as they presently were—could likewise begin to choose better. Choose belief. Choose faith. Choose hope. 

To declare that the People could not choose better is to say, in effect, that what separated the People from Moshe was something fixed, something predetermined. That Moshe’s own belief could not have been otherwise. It was the product not of choice, but of faith.

Moshe wasn’t only distancing himself from the People, but from himself, from the credit due him for having chosen properly. Middah k’neged middah, in direct correspondence to Moshe’s “הן—Indeed”, Hashem removed Moshe from his position. If the People could not choose better, then Moshe could not be rewarded for his own good choices.

The fellow in the forest gazing up at that gorgeous maple isn’t a fool, he’s a visionary. He sees the tree not only for what it is, but what it can become. “What a desk! What a bookcase!” These are the beautifully crafted items waiting to emerge from the wood, ready to be carved from the raw material that lay before the artist. 

If we looked in the mirror and started muttering to ourselves, “Moshe Rabbeinu! What a beautiful Moshe Rabbeinu!” perhaps we wouldn’t be all that crazy. Perhaps we’d just be visionaries, seeing a future that each of us has the ability to create. Moshe became the man he did through a long chain of proper choices. If we simply chose a bit better, what could we become?

Parshas Ki Savo 5784

Imagine walking into a yeshiva and casually dropping a quarter in the pushka located at the entrance. Suddenly, sirens blare and confetti canons explode. The menahel emerges from his office all smiles, pumping your hand vigorously. Classes are all suspended so the children can come out and thank you in person. 

And you sheepishly respond, “I’m awfully flattered. But it’s odd, really. You didn’t make nearly this big a fuss the last time I donated to the yeshiva. And that was the check that got my name on the outside of this building.”

The agricultural mitzvos of the Torah are extraordinarily demanding. Two percent of your entire yield goes to Kohanim in the form of terumah. A further ten percent thereafter is given to Leviim. Two years out of every seven years, a yet additional ten percent go to others in need. And then there’s shemittah. And orlah. And challah. And leket, shich’cha, and peiah.

The observant farmer dutifully gives up his hard-grown produce time and time again. And all without fanfare or accolades. 

But when it comes to the mitzvah of bikkurim—the presentation of but one early-ripening fruit as an expression of thanks for the entire species growing in the orchard—a veritable ticker-tape parade ensues. Though by far the most meager of any of the compulsory gifts of produce the Torah demands, the celebration—as described by Maseches Bikkurim—are completely over-the-top. Wagons pulled by animals whose horns are embossed with gold leaf. Children let out of school and employees being given leave from work to celebrate the arrival of the farmiers to Yerushalayim. It’s a national holiday with all the trimmings.

Why such a warm welcome for a small basket of fruit, but not the mounds of produce also delivered in the name of the other agricultural mitzvos? Why is the hooplah reserved for the quarter in the pushkah, but not the building dedication?

I once heard a beautiful explanation from Rabbi Jacob J. Schacter. He suggests that the key to solving this puzzle is in considering not what the farmer is giving up, but what he keeps for himself. Yes, terumah, followed by maaser rishon, followed by maaser ani, and all the other obligations amount to an impressive sum. But what the farmer keeps in his own pocket is a far greater sum. He is parting with roughly 20% of his produce at a time when the other 80% is already piled high in the silo.

Not so for bikkurim. Bikkurim are the first fruits, selected for donation by wrapping a small ribbon around the fruit when it first begins to develop, and before any of the others have yet emerged. With the mitzvah of bikkurim, the farmer dedicates the little he has, without holding anything else in reserve.

Which explains the hooplah. The bringer of the bikkurim is demonstrating greater faith in Hashem. Despite leaving nothing behind for himself, he is willing to part with the little bit he’s received as an expression of gratitude and thanksgiving. 

But I believe there’s something more. Not only an act of faith, but a critical reframing of the value of giving when resources are scarce. It’s not only that the farmer overcomes his own selfishness and anxieties, he is also learning to value the modest contribution, rather than defaulting to “Why bother? What difference will it make?” And that is something to be celebrated.

Most of life is spent in a position of scarcity. We don’t have enough money, enough time, enough bandwidth, to do all the things we want to do and feel we must do to live by the values we hold dear. We should learn more, should give more tzedakah, and should spend more time with our families. We should cook more meals, make more phone calls, and invite more guests. We should make more minyanim, do more bedtimes, and have more dates with our spouses. And we just can’t. Because resources are scarce. We are so busy juggling—and paying for—all of life’s responsibilities that eeking out time or money for anything more is just not in the cards.

How do we respond when we come to the honest realization that we just can’t be the regular minyan goer, can’t keep the daily chavrusa, can’t maintain the weekly datenight? Bikkurim reminds us not to drop the enterprise entirely. Don’t convince yourself that it’s all or nothing. Don’t adopt the mentality that if you can’t do it in full, then don’t bother with any part of it. 

You don’t have a wheelbarrow full of figs? How about just one? That’s something, too. Something great. Give that. And when you do, we’ll celebrate it. 

The one-off minyan, the one-off shiur, the one-off date night. These have immense value. They are making the statement that we have our priorities straight, we know what’s important, and we will live by those values to the greatest extent possible. 

Moreover, the one-off, the single fig, becomes a placeholder. Giving that lone fruit develops the muscle-memory that begins to blaze a trail that can be widened as we enter a new season of life. Right now I can only give a dollar, can only send that family some cookies rather than a whole meal, can only cover a few lines of Gemara a day before my eyes close. But one day I’ll have more time and money and energy, and when that day comes I’ll have developed good habits. Habits that can be expanded to fit the expansion of resources that may well come our way.

James Clear, the author the excellent book, Atomic Habits, is an avid weightlifter. He was once asked what happens on days that he can’t get in his normal workout routine and responded that he will always opt for frequency over quantity. If the full 45-minute workout can’t happen, he’ll hit the gym for just ten or fifteen minutes, but do everything he can to not miss the day. When we devalue the quantity of what we can offer, we run the risk of abandoning the habit altogether. And that can prove extraordinarily difficult to recover from.

Why celebrate bikkurim more than maaser? Because recognizing the small contribution as a signifcant step forward in character is an achievement definitely worth celebrating. How do you act when you have only one fig? Don’t say it’s not worth giving, you’ll wait until you have more. The ability to give more—to do more, to learn more, to daven more—later on, may well be a function of what you do with that lone fig.