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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.

Parshas Ki Seitzei 5784

The Novardhok yeshiva, one of the largest and most prestigious of pre-war Europe, was known for it’s serious and unrelenting approach to mussar. In addition to the rigorous study of mussar texts, the talmidim of the yeshiva would often concoct experiments in which they served as self-appointed lab rats, attempting to forge their own character in the crucible of uncomfortable experiences.

One such experience nearly scared Rav Yaakov Galinsky to death.

As a young student in Novardhok, Rav Galinksy was part of a group attempting to train themselves in courage and bravery. Some would crash communist meetings in order to proudly deliver divrei Torah. Rav Galinsky set a different test for himself: he was to go to the Jewish cemetery in the middle of the night, and dunk in the mikvah reserved for taharos—for the preparation of corpses for burial. Legend had it that the spirits of the deceased would themselves rise from their graves and use the mikvah each night.

Just as he was easing into the frigid water, he touched what he was certain was a human head. Surely the head of a spirit! He raced back to yeshiva, heart pounding, and later that night met up with a fellow student who looked equally shaken, as though he likewise had seen a ghost. 

“What happened to you?” Rav Galinsky asked his friend.

“I dunked in the mikvah in the cemetery tonight. I wanted to build courage, my bravery! But when I was in the water, I felt the hand of a spirit on my head!”

Rav Galinsky was engulfed by a feeling of utter foolishness. “Did I really think I was the only one to have this brilliant idea? That no one else would have been so bold and daring to have considered pulling the exact same stunt?”

In relating the episode to his students later in life, Rav Galinsky commented, “I planned to teach myself bravery, but ended up learning a lesson in humility.”

At the end of Parshas Ki Seitzei, the encounter with the dreaded Amalek is revisited. In one small skirmish, this nation shows itself to be the most despicable of any foe the Jewish People will ever know. And why? Because of one key description: “אשר קרך בדרך—Who happened upon you on the road (Devarim 25:18).” 

Amalek is unplanned, its movements are haphazard. Which is unconscionable. Life is a Divine gift, one that deserves to be respected with planning and consciousness. What am I seeking to accomplish? What are my goals? Amalek is bereft of such forethought and consideration. They are a people of קרי, of happenstance, of responding to impulse, who act on a whim. “Why should we attack these Jews? Why not? They’re here.”

Amalek and all they represent must be completely anathema to the Jewish People. Wipe them out without a trace, we are commanded in the very next pasuk. And yet our very parsha actually seems somewhat ambivalent on the issue of careful planning and strategizing in our religious undertakings.

Earlier in the parsha, we are instructed in the mitzvah of Shiluach Hakan, of sending away the mother bird in order to take the eggs from the nest. And we are given an interesting prerequisite: “כי יקרא קן צפור לפניך—When you happen upon a bird’s nest before you.” Rashi explains, “פרט למזומן—to the exclusion of one that is intentionally prepared.”

If I am a person of spiritual ambition, if I create a schedule and a plan for how I will spend my day and how it will revolve around mitzvos and serving Hashem, if I take seriously the lesson of destroying Amalek and all they stand for, if I commit to weeding haphazard whim-following from my life, and I therefore set up a nest right in the chicken coop in my yard so that I can perform the mitzvah during my lunch break, I’ve somehow botched it! There can be no mitzvah with careful planning, preparation, and forethought. The mitzvah is only a mitzvah if you chance upon the nest, not if it’s knowingly planted.

If Amalek and all its impulsivity is the great evil of the parsha, how can the very same parsha strip me of my ability to prepare?

The answer is that we must plan to work on courage, but accept that we may actually learn a lesson in humility. We must plan to dunk in the mikvah in the dead of night, but embrace the reality that Hashem may intend for us something very different than what we planned.

We cannot live life with the blasé attitude of Amalek. The notion that we act simply because we can, because there’s an opportunity, because we feel the impulse, is antithetical to the lifestyle of a Jew. Life—Hashem’s most precious gift to us—must be respected with forethought, cunning, and intention. We must consider how we’ll spend our days, what we wish to accomplish, how we intend to use the gift of life itself.

But the flip side that life is a gift from a Higher Power, is that that same Higher Power understands life and how it should be lived better than we do. We must be responsible enough to devise plans and strategies for success, but fully conscious of Hashem’s role in leading us elsewhere, to achieve goals we wouldn’t have thought to set for ourselves. 

The nest must be chanced upon because not everything can be planned. Latent in the eggs that lay in that nest is a reminder that not every opportunity for meaning and spiritual elevation can be devised and plotted in advance. We do our best, but recognize Hashem’s hand in bringing us to places we’d never think to go on our own, that don’t align with our plans. And that is a blessing. 

As the old expression goes, “Man plans, G-d laughs”. Not a maniacal laugh, but the knowing chuckle of a parent who gently guides their child in the direction they need to go. Amalek doesn’t plan; the Jew does. But even as he does, he keeps an ear out for G-d’s laugh, directing him elsewhere. 

We may plan for a frigid dunk in a spooky mikvah, and Hashem is preparing a completely different encounter. It is good to plan an exercise that will teach us bravery. But we should be receptive to Hashem’s resolution to teach us humility instead.

Parshas Shoftim 5784

The terms “offense” and “defense” apply to baseball just as they do to hockey or basketball, but are rarely used. You speak about a team as either “at bat” or “in the field,” not as “on offense” or “on defense” as in other sports. Why the distinction? I think because in baseball, it simply doesn’t need to be said. It’s so obvious that if you’re at bat you’re attempting to score runs and if you’re playing the field you’re attempting to prevent them, that no more explanation is required. But in basketball, you don’t change equipment or position, just direction. It’s more fluid, and you can lose track of who’s doing what. Sometimes the difference between offense and defense is so slight, it needs to be called out and discussed. 

Shoftim and Shotrim play such a sport. 

Judges and Officers are to be appointed, Moshe instructs the people, to serve at all the “gates” that the Jewish People will inhabit upon entering Eretz Yisrael. The “gates” are not only a means of referring to the cities punctuating the Israeli landscape, they are also the very location in which those appointed leaders are to be located within the cities. 

When the angels come to Sodom, the first person they encounter is Lot, who is sitting at the gates of the city. Why? Rashi explains that Lot had just been appointed a Shofet over Sodom and the gates of the city is where the judges were located. When Avraham and Ephron finalize the purchase of Ma’aras HaMachpelah, the deal is witnessed by “all those who came through the gates.” Based on this description, Rashi explains that Ephron had been appointed an officer, or Shoter of the city, and hence was present at the gates of the city.

Why are judges and officers located at the gates of the city? Perhaps so they could be easily found and accessed. So that if a crime was committed, if someone needed to be brought to justice, if a judgement needed to be adjudicated, there would be no confusion as to where one could find help.

The Sefer HaChinuch, though, offers a different explanation. He suggests that Shoftim and Shotrim needed to be at the entrance of the city, not so so that they could be called upon to act, but so that they could be easily seen. 

Yes, the Shoftim and Shotrim were supposed to lay down the law when something in society went awry. But prior to that, they were supposed to create a presence—right at the entrance to the city—that reminded the citizens and visitors therein of how life ought to be led: with fairness, justice, and nobility. 

It’s the difference between offense and defense, and it’s an important one. The Judges were not only to be called upon defensively, once the law was broken or an argument had already broken out. They were meant to play offense—to establish a culture of honesty and virtue—before anything went wrong. 

The Judges were role models, people who represented the values that the whole of society was supposed to abide by. And in the Torah’s conception of ideal living, they were not only supposed to be accessed defensively. After the fact. After the infraction. So that they could come in and clean up the mess. Rather, they should be in an offensive position, as sources of inspiration to live in a way that precluded the wrongdoing and brokenness in the first place. 

Who are the Judges and Officers in our lives? The friends, teachers, rebbeim, and mentors that embody the values we are trying to model our own lives after? And what position do they play? Do we keep them on defense—turning to them for guidance only once something has been broken and needs repair, only once life has veered off to the side and we’re desperate for course correction?

Or do we allow them to play offense? To be in position to help shape our lives and influence us before something breaks? To help change the oil before the car breaks down? Do we invest in those relationships even when all is calm? Not only so that we’ll be able to call upon them if things go sour, but as reminders of how to act to keep things sweet.

Busy people tend to manage by emergency. It’s difficult making the time for things that simply don’t feel urgent because no crisis has yet emerged. Yet we know the folly of such living, of the wonderful and enriching opportunities we miss out on, simply because it was hard to find the time and no crisis demanded we do so. 

We know the people we’d want in our corner if life started to unravel. Why wait for that to happen? If we could keep those Shoftim and Shotrim more closely in our orbit before the crisis struck, perhaps the crisis would never come to pass.

And the issue of the offensive versus defensive position of Shoftim doesn’t only pertain to the influence we receive, but of the influence we give. How often as parents do we find ourselves arriving after the fact, to referee a fight after it’s already broken out, or to pick up the pieces of a crisis a child may be going through? 

To be sure, no amount of “offense” will ever completely alleviate the need for “defense”. But do we maintain offense as a strategy in our parenting toolbox? What is the ratio between time spent breaking up fights from a defensive position, and actively going on the offensive, to  discuss harmony and Shalom Bayis and the means to achieve them? How often do we discuss our family values with our children at the Shabbos table? Or share stories with our children of personal victories from our own daily interactions that demonstrate the mentschlechkeit and proper middos we’d hope they’d exhibit in their own interactions with siblings, friends, or teachers? 

Whether the impact we stand to gain or stand to give, we can’t afford to default to defense alone. As difficult as it is to make the time to handle crises before they ever emerge, we stand to gain immeasurably from maintaining that foresight. Keeping positive role models and mentors close as a matter of course can help us avert disaster later on. And playing that role actively for those who rely on us for guidance, can help us ensure the same in their lives as well.

Bamidbar / Shavuos 5784

I own a fascinating book that attempts to solve the mystery of where exactly Har Sinai is. Is it indeed located in the Sinai Peninsula, or perhaps elsewhere, even as far east as Saudi Arabia? Tracing the path of the Exodus from Egypt to Sinai is challenging in part because the actual terrain is nondescript. Had Sinai been in the middle of a densely-populated ancient city, some remains of the even would no doubt have been left behind to be discovered later in history. But the Torah wasn’t given in the middle of a metropolis; it was given in the Midbar. And that is exactly the point. 

וַיְדַבֵּר ה’ אֶל משֶׁה בְּמִדְבַּר סִינַי. לָמָּה בְּמִדְבַּר סִינַי, מִכָּאן שָׁנוּ חֲכָמִים בִּשְׁלשָׁה דְבָרִים נִתְּנָה הַתּוֹרָה, בָּאֵשׁ, וּבַמַּיִם, וּבַמִּדְבָּר.

^{(מדרש במדבר רבה א)}

“And Hashem spoke to Moshe in the Wilderness of Sinai.” Why is it specifically referred to as the Wilderness of Sinai? The Sages taught that the Torah was given with three qualities: fire, water, and wilderness.

^{(Midrash Bamidbar Rabbah 1)}

It is no coincidence that Bamidbar is the parsha read immediately before Shavuos. As the above Midrash notes, the events of this next book of the Torah are reported as occuring not only in the wilderness, but the Wilderness of Sinai, emphasizing that the giving of the Torah was in fact given in the wilderness. Interestingly, this is not the only motif the Midrash speaks of in the context of the giving of the Torah, but mentions fire and water as well, citing scriptural allusions for these qualities afterward. 

What does each of these features represent, and why are they spoken of all in the same breath?

Fire and water are opposing forces. Depending on the given interaction, water may well extinguish fire, or fire will turn water into vaporized nothingness. This is likewise true in terms of the direction they travel in. Fire is a form of energy that surges upward, flames rising from the fuel that sustains them. Water, on the other hand, moves perpetually downward, snaking through any cracks and crevices it encounters to find the lowest possible place to reside in.

Torah can well take on either form, depending on the person or life circumstance. 

Torah can be fire, propelling us forward, motivating us to move beyond our present selves. Baalei Teshuva know well the feeling of spiritual jet fuel that Torah infused them with, setting on a course towards new levels of observance. Torah as fire is the form it takes on when we are motivated to ascend, to climb higher than where we presently find ourselves. 

Yet Torah can also be water, finding us in our lowest place and offering us comfort and solace in the depths of despair. Torah binds us to Hashem and reminds us that there is meaning in suffering and reason in tragedy, even if we can’t viscerally feel it. 

Whether in an instance of fire or water—whether Torah is spurring us towards new growth or offering comfort when we’re down—we possess a palpable sense of the Torah’s value and import in our lives. We understand acutely how lost we’d be without it, how critically we depend on its guidance and instruction.

But what happens when it’s neither? When—at least largely—life is set, predictable, and rather static? No great spiritual overhaul on the horizon, nor great catastrophe looming over us. What happens to our relationship with Torah during these times? When we need neither jet fuel nor solace?

To this, the Midrash reminds us of the Midbar, the wilderness. A bleak, unadorned landscape. The Midbar is plain. The Midbar is boring. The Midbar is Torah.

Our relationship with Hashem, in many respects, is a relationship like any other. There are times that it may feel novel, fresh, and exhilarating—when the relationship is on fire. And there are times when we’re so very grateful to have someone who will hold our hand through challenging times, providing comfort when we’ve arrived at a low point. 

But what happens when we feel neither? It is here that the Midrash makes the point that Torah is not only fire and water, but a Midbar as well. Like any human being we are close with, the majority of time spent in one another’s company is filled with the uneventful, pedestrian routines that comprise the vast majority of life. The Midrash reminds us that there is nothing wrong with us—or the relationship—for feeling that things are humdrum or commonplace. If every relationship ended when thing became bland, no marriage could successfully survive the sorts of basic chores and errands that are so critical to a properly productive life. 

It is in those moments that we demonstrate our greatest commitment to the other. The bulk of a marriage is marked by neither the fire of Sheva Brachos, nor the descending water of a crisis that makes companionship necessary. It is marked instead by laundry and finances and meal plans. And it is in those moments that a successful couple shows that they are dedicated to the relationship nonetheless. 

Were we to always feel exhilarated by each mitzvah or relieved by the stability that Judaism offers in difficult times, would our relationship with Hashem truly be a relationship at all? Or would it be little more than self-indulgence, responding to our own needs and impulses, rather than to the wants and needs of our Beloved? Most of life is a Midbar—marked by neither highs nor lows. It is precisely there that the Torah was given and precisely there where we must constantly renew our commitment.

Parshas Bechukosai 5784

A young MBA fresh out of business school embarks on a career of finance, and he’s scared stiff. Will he or won’t he succeed? Does he have what it takes? The right instincts? The tenacity? 

He sets up a meeting with an uncle 20 years his senior for some advice and perspective on the sort of goals he should set for himself. 

“Well,” his uncle tells him, “You want to have made your first million about 10 years in. If you clinch that, it will open you up to visibility at your firm, and you’ll have sufficient capital for your own private investing. Grow your portfolio. Diversify. You should be at about $5-7 million 20 years from now. That’s where I am.”

“Wow. So twenty years. Then I can finally relax?”

“Relax?!” replies his uncle incredulously. “I’m more anxious now than ever!”

Parshas Bechukosai describes the relationship the Jewish People are to enjoy with Hashem in language that conveys more closeness and intimacy than perhaps any other in the entire Torah:

וְנָתַתִּי מִשְׁכָּנִי בְּתוֹכְכֶם וְלֹא־תִגְעַל נַפְשִׁי אֶתְכֶם׃ וְהִתְהַלַּכְתִּי בְּתוֹכְכֶם וְהָיִיתִי לָכֶם לֵאלֹקים וְאַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ־לִי לְעָם׃

^{(ויקרא כו:יא–יב)}

I will establish My dwelling place amongst you and My soul shall not repel you. I shall walk amongst you and I shall be your G-d and you shall be for me a nation. 

^{(Vayikra 11-12)}

Rashi notes the unusual degree of closeness conveyed by the second pasuk, commenting that Hashem is speaking of Himself as walking among the people with such comfort and familiarity that they will not so much as tremble from being in His Presence. Which, Rashi explains, is precisely why Hashem then refers to Himself as “Elokim,” the name that connotes the attribute of judgment and fear. Lest you believe that the Jewish People may relate to Hashem only in fondness and affection, we are told that Hashem is “Elokim” nonetheless. Trembling, no. Fear, yes. 

What exactly does this mean? How are we to understand the transition away from fear of Hashem only to arrive at a place of fear once more?

The Nesivos Shalom explains based on a foundational concept propounded by his forebear, the first Slonimer Rebbe, the Yesod HaAvodah. With respect to interacting with Hashem out of yirah—fear—we tend to believe in a linear progression. One would initially observe the mitzvos out of fear of divine retribution, but the expectation is that he would advance from that position to one of genuine ahavah—love of Hashem and His Torah, and fulfill the mitzvos with that attitude instead.

But the Yesod HaAvodah explained that the relationship is actually cyclical, rather than linear. Fear begets love, but love begets fear. A different sort of fear, but fear nonetheless. Whereas the initial anxiety over punishment and damnation is hopefully replaced by love and affection, as that relationship continues to deepen, fear is supposed to come surging back. We are so taken with our Beloved, that we fear letting Him down. We fear distancing ourselves from Him. We fear being without Him. 

The seasoned veteran is gripped by a very different fear from the newly minted MBA. Whereas the latter is frightened of never making it, the former has tasted wealth, knows it well, and has a far more acute sense of what it would actually be like to live without it. He lives with more anxiety than ever because the luxury and accolades to which he has become accustomed he knows he cannot now live without.

When it comes to wealth, materialism, or status, one would be wise to enter the hamster wheel ever so cautiously, to avoid one’s very life and identity to become too firmly entwined with the successes enjoyed along the way. 

Relationships, on the other hand, are of a different character. Meaningful relationships—be they with G-d or man—should be thoroughly embraced. And doing so means allowing them, even directing them, to become characterized by the cycle of fear, love, and fear.

I may advance to a state of loving Hashem, but it is important to be mindful of the stage of fear that should come afterwards. I can appreciate all that Hashem has blessed me with and yet still slip into a state of complacency. I can be enamored with Hashem, reflect on His greatness, maintain gratitude to Him in my mind and heart, yet still slip away. It is important to fan the flames of love so that a bit of fear is re-introduced into the relationship. A degree of near-anxiety that I can still slip away. That for all my appreciation, the relationship can still fester if not actively maintained and cultivated.

And what is true of our relationship with Hashem is similarly true of our human relationships as well. In a good marriage, love grows and expands. Spouses come to know and understand one another better and better, and there is an ever increasing body of work to be grateful to one another for. And yet with all that love and appreciation, the relationship can still stagnate and backslide. Gestures of affection can grind to a halt, outward expressions of interest and gratitude can evaporate. We can even come to be dismissive of certain actions as the kind of things that newlyweds do, but that are beneath the established veterans of marriage. 

Which is a pity. As a loving relationship advances, it should be met with a certain anxiety. Not the anxiety of the newly married, nervous that they won’t get this marriage thing right. But the anxiety of someone fully confident in their ability, yet worried they’ll forget to properly use that ability. Anxious that they begin to take for granted, even as they love. Nervous that they not do all they can to impress, even as they admire. Worried that they not sufficiently convey affection with their actions, even as it looms large in their minds. 

Consider for a moment the people you love the most. Has the relationship halted there, or has it advanced to something even more special? How do we advance beyond love and arrive at the top of the cycle of fear?

Parshas Behar 5784

But little Har Sinai just stood there and sighed, 

“I know I’m not tall, I know I’m not wide 

The Torah can’t be given on me 

For I’m a plain mountain,” he said simply.

If you’re a parent of young children and haven’t heard these lyrics in a while, just wait. As the count towards Shavuos continues to march on, kids prepare for the upcoming holiday in school and Uncle Moishy’s “Little Har Sinai” seems to be a cornerstone of that education. The upshot of the song is that, as Chazal teach, Har Sinai is chosen as the mountain upon which the Torah is given specifically because of its humble nature, Sinai being relatively modest in size compared to other mountains surrounding it. 

Adults and children alike remember that Har Sinai was small. But we need to remember that it was also a mountain. 

Strict adherence to halacha has a remarkable impact on elevating our day to day lives. Tying one’s shoes goes from a completely banal activity to something infused with sprituality when we become conscious of which shoe goes on first, what order we tie them in, and how it all relates to the attributes of chesed and din. Fold in the duties of the heart—those ideals and philosophies of which we must always be conscious—and the totality of life is an ennobled experience, suffused with religious heft.

When a religious farmer goes to work, he is not only tilling the soil and earning a livelihood. He is mindful of which crops may be planted near one another and which may be kept apart. Which animals may be harnessed beneath the same plow and which not. How he treats his animals and whether they are being subjected to any undue pain or mistreatment. The market value of the produce he is cultivating and the mandate against price gouging. The family members for whom he is responsible and working hard to provide for them, much how Hashem provides for us all. Farming is physical and laborious, yet is spiritual and lofty when undertaken within the framework of Torah living.

And that poses a serious problem. Not only the problem of following through on the demands to spiritually enrich and uplift, to maintain fidelity to halacha and Torah values even while buckling beneath the stresses and pressures that are the hallmarks of this world. But the problem of realizing that there’s yet something more. That holy work itself is marked by peaks and valleys. That even as every nook and cranny of one’s life becomes a place marked by kedusha, there is yet a mountain left to climb. 

It is an interesting feature of Judaism that the most remarkable events and experiences occur on mountains. The location of the Bais Hamikdash. Akeidas Yitzchak, the greatest act of religious submission in history. And, of course, the giving of the Torah on Har Sinai. These serve as reminders that while we may live with a certain spiritual consciousness in all that we do, there moments in life that rise above the normal spiritual playing field, that demand more of us, that beckon us to climb the mountain.

In a certain sense, ruchniyus begets ruchniyus; when we engage with the holy, a pattern of behavior develops that motivates us to continue surging ahead. But it poses a challenge as well. When my work environment is a place of sanctity, when my home is a place of sanctity, when we see every interaction, phone call, and errand as ultimately serving Hashem, we can become so content with lower degrees of spirituality that we excuse ourselves from ascending upward. I can daven a sloppy mincha because I’ve gotten my does of kedusha elsewhere. I can skip out on my daily learning because I gave tzedakah or helped my child with her book report. These may well be holy endeavors, but they rest in the valley of Divine interaction, rather than at the peak.

Perhaps this is why Parshas Behar introduces the laws of Shemitah with the statement that these mitzvos were given at Har Sinai. Indeed, all mitzvos were given at Sinai, and yet special attention must be given to Shemitah in this regard. 

Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky notes that in next week’s parsha, two items are identified as the root cause of the curses that would one day befall the Jewish People and force them from the land. The first is a lack of Torah study, or, more precisely, a lack of effort and toil exerted in that enterprise. The second is that in ousting the Jewish People from Eretz Yisrael, the land will have an opportunity to recoup the Shemittah years that went unobserved and can now lay fallow. 

Rav Yaakov explains that there is no contradiction between the two issues presented. What is a farmer supposed to be busy with during the year that his fields lay fallow? Torah study. More than anything, it is to be treated as a year during which he can make up for lost time, spending his days in the Bais Medrash in a way that the demands of farming did not previously permit. A failure to observe Shemittah does not only mean that the land continues to be worked, but that the farmer himself does not pivot to intense Torah study during the time that halacha has now freed him from his labor.

Is that to say that the farmer had been wasting his time until now? Not at all. As previously cited, there is a long list of mitzvos that can only be fulfilled through working the land. But the landscape of holiness is marked by peaks and valleys. The farmer was performing his religious duties during six years of labor, but now it’s time to climb the mountain, to engage in serious Torah study, to have a direct interaction with Hashem and let His words seep deeply into his mind.

Of all the agricultural mitzvos—and they are many—it is Shemittah that is identified as being revealed, “Behar Sinai—upon Mount Sinai”, for the experience of Torah study is a more direct interaction with Hashem than many other mitzvos. It is an experience that resides at the top of the mountain.

Yes, Sinai was low and humble. But it was also a mountain. And as we become increasingly adept at seeing the holiness in our errands and in our earnings, in our companies and our conversations, we can lose sight of the importance of those experiences that reside at the top of the mountain. 

As impressive as the view may be from down below, we must remind ourselves to not be content. It’s truly spectacular at the top.