The Blog

Parshas Pekudei 5785

Shortly after we first moved into our house in Cherry Hill, my wife’s grandmother—may she live and be well—came by for a visit. She took a look around our new home and with a knowing smile noted, “In 25 years, it’ll be just the way you want it!”

She was trying to offer a little relief. And she did. You don’t need to fret over every last detail. Don’t become frustrated that your new home doesn’t fit the image you’ve carried around in your mind for years. A home is a marathon, not a sprint. It will take time, and that’s fine, it’s supposed to be that way.

But on another level, those words words of comfort actually struck me with a sense of deep foreboding. “Oh no,” I thought. “You mean there’s more of this to come? More decisions, more choices, more furnishing? For twenty five years? Can’t I just stop and catch my breath? Do we need to fill our minds with future projects right now? Can’t we just be satisfied with what we’ve already done?”

Don’t worry, Grammy, Moshe Rabbeinu seems to think like you.

Upon completing the Mishkan, the Torah records that Moshe Rabbeinu blessed the people (39:43). And while the text of that bracha is absent from the Chumash, the Tosefta (Menachos 7:3) provides the words Moshe recited. The Tosefta records that Moshe said, “Just as you worked towards building the Mishkan and Hashem rested His Presence upon your handiwork, may you likewise have the merit to build the Bais HaMikdash and may Hashem rest His Presence upon your handiwork once more.”

To be sure, the Mishkan is not the final destination for Hashem’s Presence. But it was a major undertaking, and the people have worked hard. Can they have a moment to pause and catch their breath without being reminded of the ideal home that would yet need to be built?

Though we may well take the word “Mishkan,” literally “habitat” or “residence”, for granted as a reference to the structure in which Hashem’s Presence would come to rest, Rashi (38:21) notes an additional layer of meaning latent in the word. He explains that “Mishkan” is also related to the word “mashkon,” meaning “collateral,” referring to Hashem’s ultimate seizure of both the first and second Bais Hamikdash in exchange for the destruction that should otherwise have come upon the people directly. The “debt,” as it were, would go uncollected; the Jewish People would survive, while the “Mishkan” would be taken as collateral.

Which, historically speaking, isn’t exactly so. The Mishkan itself was never destroyed. It emerged from the wilderness in which it was created wholly unscathed, coming to rest in different locations throughout Eretz Yisrael. It was the Bais Hamikdash that would be destroyed as “collateral” for the Jewish People themselves, not the Mishkan.

Rabbi Eliyahu Mishkovsky, author of Mishnas Eliyahu and former Rav of Kfar Chassidim in Eretz Yisrael, offered a novel interpretation. In truth, he explained, there is one primary distinction between the Mishkan and the Bais Hamikdash. Whereas the edifice that was the Mishkan was imbued with eternal sanctity, the same cannot be said of any location upon which it was erected. When the Mishkan was deconstructed and then reconstructed elsewhere, the place upon which it formally stood reverted back to its original status. 

But the same cannot be said of the Bais Hamikdash. The Bais HaMikdash invested the location upon which it was built with more than mere temporary sanctity. Even after the Bais HaMikdash was destroyed, Har HaBayis, the mountain where it once stood, retains its holiness, even until today. 

The Bais HaMikdash, then, is essentially comprised of two distinct components: Mishkan and Makom, or edifice and location. And in this regard, explained Rav Mishkovsky, it is only the edifice—the Mishkan within the Mikdash—that Hashem revoked as collateral for the Jewish People. The location, on the other hand, remains unchanged, forever saturated with the sanctity brought upon it by the building that was once there. 

Perhaps this understanding sheds new light on the bracha Moshe Rabbeinu gave the nation upon completing the Mishkan. Why was Moshe Rabbeinu already setting his sights on the greater project that would be the Bais HaMikdash when the Mishkan had barely yet been dedicated? Because the Mishkan and the Mikdash represent two very different sorts of influences one can have on his surroundings. And getting too comfortable in the paradigm of the Mishkan can come at the peril of ever advancing to the paradigm of the Mikdash.

The paradigm of the Mishkan is that of sanctity or influence while one is present. When the Mishkan stood in place, its location was sanctified. When it was deconstructed and moved elsewhere, the previous location reverted back to its previous status. It ultimately remained unchanged.

Not so the Bais HaMikdash. Even after its destruction, Har HaBayis remained sanctified. The influence of the Mikdash, unlike the Mishkan, outlasted its physical presence in the space it occupied. 

“Advance,” Moshe Rabbeinu urged the people. “Don’t become people who only influence those around them while they remain present. Become the kind of people who can create a culture, who can inculcate values, who can provide an influence that will endure, even when they are no longer present.”

Every one of us wants to be a Mikdash, not just a Mishkan. We want to do more than influence our children’s behavior while we stand over them with a stern gaze. We want to impact their very consciences so that they act in accordance with our values, even when we’re not present. We want to create an atmosphere in which employees and coworkers are motivated to work diligently whether we stand guard over them or not. We want our communities to be positively influenced by our behavior, in a way that fundamentally changes those around us, whether we are actually in the room or somewhere else entirely.

How do we get there? First and foremost by recognizing that there’s a difference. Which, I would suggest, is precisely what Moshe Rabbeinu was trying to get across. For his people to know that there’s a difference between being a Mishkan and a Mikdash. And to periodically ask oneself, which am I?

Am I influencing those around and under me by fear, or am I inspiring by my very example? Am I simply demanding compliance through force, or providing them with a role model for how one ought to act? Am I behaving in the sort of way that leaves people with a sigh of relief when I exit the room, or disappointed that they now have only the memory of my conduct rather than my physical presence?

Rav Chaim Volozhiner famously noted that when instructing the people to build the Mishkan, Hashem said, “ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם—Build for Me a Sanctuary, that I may reside within you.” Not within it, within the Sanctuary. But within you, within the Sanctuary that you forge yourself into so that Hashem’s presence may come to rest within your very soul. 

Every Jew has the ability to turn himself into a Sanctuary. Either a Mishkan or a Mikdash. Which will you be?

Parshas Vayakhel 5785

A number of years ago, the Jewish Action—the magazine published by the OU—ran a feature on out-of-town communities. One article featured a quote I’ll never forget, stated by Rabbi Ronald Schwarzberg, the director of the Rabbinic Placement Office of the RCA and RIETS. Commenting on the notion that a dynamic rabbi could single-handedly build a thriving community, he stated, “Show me a rabbi that built a community, and I’ll show you a rabbi who was in the right place at the right time.”

Community building is more about the efforts of community members than it is about the efforts of rabbis. Even the greatest rabbi of all time. 

Whereas it was always the responsibility of Moshe Rabbeinu to disseminate the Torah he’d received from Hashem to the Jewish People, the process of doing so was not always to gather the people as a whole, as one Kehilah in order to deliver instruction en masse. When the Torah records that Moshe did make a point of doing so, it should command our attention.

וַיַּקְהֵל מֹשֶׁה אֶת־כׇּל־עֲדַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה׳ לַעֲשֹׂת אֹתָם׃ שֵׁשֶׁת יָמִים תֵּעָשֶׂה מְלָאכָה וּבַיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי יִהְיֶה לָכֶם קֹדֶשׁ שַׁבַּת שַׁבָּתוֹן לה׳ כׇּל־הָעֹשֶׂה בוֹ מְלָאכָה יוּמָת׃ לֹא־תְבַעֲרוּ אֵשׁ בְּכֹל מֹשְׁבֹתֵיכֶם בְּיוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת׃

^{שמות לה:א–ג}

Moshe gathered the entire congregation of Israel and said to them, “These are the items that Hashem has commanded you to do them. For six days you shall do work but the seventh day shall be holy to you, a complete cessation from work unto Hashem. Anyone who does work upon it shall be put to death. You shall not ignite a fired in any of your dwellings on the Sabbath day.”

^{Shemos 35:1-3}

What was the critical information—more critical, it would appear, than other mitzvos of the Torah—that called for Moshe gathering the people as one to hear it? It would seem that it was Shabbos, that the call to observe this holy day needed to be presented to the people as a whole.

Yet there is something amiss with specific aspects of Shabbos outlined here. Whereas the preceding pasuk notes that Moshe was delivering a mitzvah that required “לעשות—to do or to make,” the elements of Shabbos discussed in the following pesukim detail those items which must not be done. We must refrain from work and must not ignite fires. Where is the active doing that Moshe spoke of?

The Chiddushei HaRim, the great Gerrer Rebbe, offered a novel solution. He suggested that the “doing” spoken of in the first pasuk does not refer to the keeping of Shabbos mentioned in the subsequent pesukim. Rather, the “doing” is the necessary instruction for fulfilling the very first word of the parsha: “ויקהל—And he gathered.” 

The notion of Kehilah, explained the Chiddushei HaRim, is far more than a group of people merely converging upon a shared piece of real estate. It is more than the happenstance meeting of individuals at a given time in a given place. Creating Kehilah demands “לעשות—it demands doing.”

This is Moshe Rabbeinu’s charge to his people. Moshe, Rabban Shel Yisrael, the greatest rabbi the Jewish People would ever know, could gather the people into one centralized location. But if they were to become a true Kehilah, then “לעשות,” they must be prepared to act themselves, to make their efforts and their own contributions.

Communities cannot be fallen into, they must be actively constructed. Simply occupying shared space may fill the room, may even qualify for a minyan, but it does not create the greater ideal of Kehilah. For that to occur, we need to stretch ourselves, we need to act, we need to do.

Consider the difference between a Kehilah built on activity, on doing, and one that passively comes into existence. It is the difference between a shul in which individuals receive a warm Shalom Aleichem and Good Shabbos even from those beyond their natural social clique. One in which minyanim and learning are strengthened by the dedicated participation of every member, even when not as convenient as other options. In which there is a constant questioning of how we can make those around us comfortable, even at the expense of some of our own comfort. 

A shul is just an edifice. It is through building a Kehilah—not a shul—that we achieve something truly great. But Kehilah is not achieved by accident, but through conscious effort and activity—through “לֹעשות”. A shul can be a place we come to draw from when we have needs. A Kehilah is established only when we’re prepared to flip that script. To consider not how we can gain, but how we can provide. To take stock not of our own needs, but of those around us.

Parshas Tetzaveh 5785

Alex Clare was an extraordinarily talented musician who just couldn’t get enough of a fan base. But that would surely change upon being signed by Island Records. Supported by a label with major industry muscle, his work would finally be promoted with the sort of gusto that would finally bring masses of ears to his extraordinary music. Which, in turn, would bring masses of dollars. 

Or so he thought.

Alex was learning about Judaism and becoming religious. So much so that by the time he was signed, he needed to insist upon a critical proviso: He wouldn’t work on Shabbos or Yom Tov. Initially nonplussed—record labels are quite accustomed to working with eccentric artists—Alex was signed nonetheless, and with great enthusiasm. But as one opportunity after another to promote his new album was balked at in favor of Friday night dinner, Island Records became increasingly annoyed. When Sukkos rolled around, they gave him an ultimatum. He’d work or be dropped. 

He was dropped. 

A short while later, something incredible happened. Microsoft came calling, asking to license his song, “Too Close” for a new commercial they were producing. Alex readily agreed, and suddenly his fanbase exploded. By the end of the Microsoft campaign, his album had sold six million copies and his music video had 45 million views on YouTube. He had his masses of ears and masses of dollars. 

Hashem had rewarded Alex for his sacrifice. Right here in this world. And the same can happen to you.

Maybe. 

From the time of Moshe’s birth, recorded in Parshas Shemos, through the very end of Torah, Moshe’s name appears in every single parsha. Except one. Parshas Tetzaveh contains no mention of Moshe’s name, despite his being the recipient of Hashem’s instructions to furnish the various elements of the Mishkan and the priestly clothing that the parsha contains. 

The Ba’al HaTurim famously explains that this is due to a statement Moshe himself makes. In next week’s parsha, Parshas Ki Sisa, Hashem muses over the idea of eradicating the Jewish People in response to the Chet HaEgel. Only Moshe would remain, and from him Hashem would reboot the nation. Moshe pleads with Hashem to reconsider, insisting should He do so, then, “מחני נא מספרך אשר כתבת—Erase me from Your book that You have written.” If the nation is to be lost, then Moshe intends to suffer the same fate.

Moshe prevails and Hashem spares the people. But, says the Baal HaTurim, one parsha remains effected by Moshe’s words. His name is indeed erased from the book. At least in Parshas Tetzaveh.

Moshe’s attempts at saving the people certainly appear gallant. He’s willing to fall on the sword for the Jewish People, and Hashem is swayed from killing them off? Why, then, is he punished? Why isn’t he rewarded for his nobility?

Perhaps he is. But there are battle scars just the same. 

When Yaakov wrestles all night with the angel, he wins the battle. But he does not emerge whole and unharmed. He will forever walk with a limp. The battle is a smashing success. It is there that Yaakov receives the name “Yisrael” that will forever come to identify the nation he fathers and the land he calls home. But he limps nonetheless.

This is the reality of sacrifice. Sticking out one’s neck for a cause he believes is right and just on its own merits, not because of the reward that follows. Indeed, the reward may never follow. At least not in this world. 

When one would see his animal placed upon the mizbeach in the Bais Hamikdash, a closeness was achieved between himself and His creator. Hence, “korban”, from the word “karov”, or “close.” The owner of the animal had indeed gained something. But he had also sacrificed. 

And that is a reality that comes to pass far more often than the one experienced by Alex Clare. What happened to Alex Clare is a store of hashgacha pratis, of Hashem watching over a Jew and rewarding him for the sacrifice he’d made, right here in this world. But those stories occur far less frequently than the others, the stories of people sacrificing and receiving—ostensibly—nothing in return. Only a limp. Or a name erased.

But it is a mistake not to relate those stories. Both for our children and ourselves, we need to be reminded that the usual reward for doing the right thing, for sacrificing in what we believe, is the sheer honor of doing so. Yes, we give up untold earnings when we keep Shabbos. Yes, we part with a great deal of money to provide our children with a yeshiva education. Yes, we sacrifice for the great cause that is Judaism and may not have anything tangible to show for it. But there is honor and nobility in doing so. The reward gained for sacrificing in what we believe is often nothing more than the sacrifice itself.

Parshas Terumah 5785

I don’t generally pay much attention to my retirement account. But as my wife and I were recently gathering together all the information our accountant needed for our tax returns, it was time to take a peek. And I noticed something on the graph prominently displayed on my Vanguard homepage: A huge dip. Dating back to nearly two years ago. But because I was unaware of it at the time, I didn’t panic. And looking at the graph today, there’s no cause for concern; everything rebounded, and then some. 

Over the past two hundred plus years, the stock market has risen and fallen many times over. Yet overall, it grows. So don’t pull out. Keep your money in the market.

As in building any edifice or institution, the first step in the construction of the Mishkan was not the construction at all, but the fundraising. Hashem instructs Moshe to announce to the people the launch of a major capital campaign, so that the necessary funds can be gathered. But interestingly, and despite the seeming willingness of the people to participate, those funds will not be given. They will be taken. 

דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה מֵאֵת כּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ תִּקְחוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִי׃

^{(שמות כה:ב)}

Speak to the Children of Israel and take a gift for Me, from every person who is moved to donate shall my gift be taken. 

^{(Shemos 25:2)}

If the donor pool is comprised of people moved to give, why not permit them to give of their own volition. Why is the campaign an act of taking, rather than giving?

Rav Dovid of Kotzk suggests that the term “ויקחו—take” in this context is not meant to describe the specific process by which the gifts change hands from the nation to Moshe on behalf of the Mishkan. Rather, it is a term that serves to color the enterprise of building a home for Hashem, which in turn represents the totality of our relationship with Him. 

In the Holy Tongue, business transactions are referred to as “מקח וממכר—buying and selling.” This, explains Rav Dovid of Kotzk, is what the word “ויקחו—take” in our parsha means to convey. That we view our relationship with Hashem, our endeavors in Torah and mitzvos, as being no less than the running of a successful business. 

On one level, this emphasizes the importance of applying metrics to monitor our spiritual growth in the same manner we track our financial growth. Has our spiritual portfolio expanded over the past number of years, or has it stagnated? Has our knowledge and comprehension of Shas, Chumash, and Halacha increased? Are our middos developing along a positive trajectory? In what dimensions of spiritual life do we receive the greatest return on investment, in which a mere few minutes spent on a given exercise or behavior yields oversized results? Where can we trim the fat and where can we double down?

Managing our spiritual business need not take a great deal of time. More than anything, it’s a matter of mere mental adjustment. From a mindset of getting by with a fulfillment of obligations to an expanded one of building something impressive, identifying areas of potential growth, and holding ourselves accountable should we slide into lethargy.

But Rav Dovid points out an additional dimension to business life that must be applied to spiritual life. Namely, to leave your money in the market. 

We understand that in business there will be ups and downs. The setbacks are frustrating, the mistakes sting, but we keep at it. We can’t afford—quite literally—to throw in the towel, because the natural pressure to earn a living forces us to engage in business. Which in turn forces us to assess—“Am I really caught in a dead end? Will things actually never turn around? Must I truly jettison this enterprise in favor of something else altogether, or do I just need to sit tight as I work through the fall so that I can soon enjoy the inevitable rise?”

That mindset is no less critical for managing our spiritual portfolio, but in that arena of life, we can trend more easily towards giving up entirely. The natural pressure of needing to put food on the table is absent in spiritual life, and we aren’t forced to assess things quite so reasonably. It’s far easier to throw our hands up in the air and insist that we’re just not cut out for talmud Torah, or proper tefilah, or improving our middos. 

But the spiritual market is, in truth, no less volatile—nor no less predictable—than the financial one. There’s a natural ebb and flow that we should come to expect. And just as the rise in the market will not last, nor will the lull, as frustrating as it may be in the moment to experience it. There will be times that we gain full clarity in a Rashi we’re studying, achieve a sense of transcendence in a Shmoneh Esrei, or remain utterly calm and collected in a moment of intense stress. It is foolish to believe that it will always be so, that we will not at some point falter and stumble. But it is equally foolish to believe that that micro-failure is representative of an overall trajectory. 

Our relationship with Hashem is one of מקח וממכר—it’s business. And to conduct business is to know that even as your company grows, your portfolio swells, your list of clients expands, there will be dips along the graph. 

Know that it will happen, and don’t overreact when it does. View with detachment the setbacks you experience, and don’t take them as an indication of less than sufficient ability to achieve exhilarating growth in your spiritual portfolio. Whatever you do, don’t pull out. Leave your money in the market. 

Parshas Mishpatim 5785

After six years of service, the eved ivri, or Jewish servant, is left to ponder the question, “Do I stay or do I go?” He may leave his master’s home in order to set up his own and live life on his own terms. Indeed, he is encouraged to do so. For if he doesn’t leave, if he chooses to stay on for another term of service, this one far lengthier than the first, he must submit to a ceremony whereby he is brought to a doorway to have his ear pierced. And as famously understood by Rashi, the piercing of the ear conveys an unspoken rebuke, that the ear that heard Hashem’s directive to submit to Him alone went rogue in seeking out a flesh and blood master apart from Hashem. 

There’s much to dissect here, every aspect of the ceremony suggestive of symbolism and deeper meaning. But one specific feature I find particularly intriguing is the location of it all. Why stand in the doorway?

The piercing of the servant’s ear, of course, is not the only mitzvah performed in the same space. A far more frequently observed mitzvah located within the doorframe is that of installing mezuzos upon the doorposts of our homes. It is here, in the presence of the mezuzah nailed to the wall, that the servant has his ear pierced when he wishes to remain in his master’s home rather than exiting. 

Why?

I once heard a beautiful interpretation for why the mitzvah of mezuzah calls us to affix a declaration of our faith in Hashem specifically in the doorway. And that is that a doorway is a point of transition from one space to another. Standing in a doorway, preparing to cross its threshold, means necessarily leaving one area behind and approaching another. 

And that is a very hard thing to do. Because the space we were in previously was known to us, familiar to us. We knew what to expect there, had developed a routine and a rhythm. Transitioning to a new place is scary. It is rife with unknowns, and whatever successes we’ve enjoyed in our previous location feel inadequate in preparing us for our new environs.

The Torah tells us to affix the Shema in such locations. Not because moving from my den to my kitchen represents a great leap of faith, but because those transitional points in my home represent the points of transition throughout life. And it is there that I must be reminded of the Shema. That the task that lay ahead is not your own to accomplish, that you need—and cannot—face that new challenge alone, but that Hashem is with you by your side and He has every ability in the world to bring you great success. 

Perhaps it is this very message that the Torah demands the eved Ivri be exposed to when he digs in his heels and opts to stay on with his master. “Why did you make this decision?” the Torah asks. Is it truly the case that it is here that you will achieve the most? Fulfill your potential to the best of your ability? Rise to the greatest heights? Or is there far more you could accomplish by setting out on your own and crawling out from under the thumb of your human master? Would you, perhaps, enjoy a fuller, more direct relationship with Hashem if you didn’t have to respond to the whims of a human overseer? What is it, really, that keeps you glued to this spot, in this home, to this master?

Perhaps only inertia. The comfort of remaining in the space you know so well as opposed to venturing out into one that bears no familiarity. 

And that is a great mistake. One that we likely make all too often. Human beings are creatures of habit, and the notion that we may need to change our ways or expose ourselves to something novel and different can frighten us into staying put, even when we see the potential blessings a new enterprise can yield. A new job may be more lucrative or fulfilling, but I’ll have to learn a new system and develop new skills. A new chavrusa may help me stick more diligently to my scheduled learning, but I don’t want to have to learn in a new location or at a different time. A new volunteer role could fill my life with meaning, but it will throw a monkey wrench in my current schedule and I won’t know any of the people there.

How often do we sell ourselves short and forfeit great new opportunities simply because they’re new? Simply because we already know our current lives so well that the possibility of having to make a transition to the unknown is foreboding?

We can end up signing on to a life of servitude, simply because of our fear of transitions.

And in truth, it’s not always because we’re afraid we’ll fail in the new environment. Deep down, the fear that we will succeed may be equally troubling. How will this new enterprise change me? Who will I become? What if I am more successful, more fulfilled, more accomplished—I won’t recognize myself. And that’s frightening.

The eved Ivri may be staying put not because he’s afraid of failure, but because, like us, he’s afraid of success. The message for him is the same in either instance: look at the mezuzah. Not only as a reminder to have faith that Hashem will assist him clear each new hurdle, but to remind him of his true identity. Not as someone who lives in this house and works for this person, but as someone who recites Shema Yisrael, who believes in Hashem, and who walks with Him from one room to another, from one station in life to the next. 

An honest recognition of the problem is the bulk of discovering the solution. If there are opportunities we won’t seek out in life, how much of that reticence is out of a calculated decision that we’re best off sticking with our current situation, and how much is out of fear? Be it fear of failure, or even fear of success. The mezuzah can be as important for us in those moments as to the eved Ivri. If can define ourselves more by the mezuzah on the doorframe than by the space we currently occupy, we may find the courage to cross the threshold. 

Parshas Yisro 5785

This past week I attended an event that has come to be institutionalized as a rite of passage for young Jewish children: The Siddur Play. As I sat watching the performance, I couldn’t help but feel how delightfully unusual such an event is against the backdrop of popular culture. That children gather together to extoll the virtues of Tefilah and literally sing its praise. The pomp and circumstance surrounding the moment a child first receives his or her very own siddur and is given the ability to now readily connect with Hashem in prayer.

It’s an event that I hope created memories that will last. Because the feelings certainly won’t.

One of the most iconic components of all of Matan Torah is only barely mentioned by the pesukim in Parshas Yisro that describe the event. The pasuk notes that “ויתיצבו בתחתית ההר—And the people stood beneath the mountain.” Simply understood, the pasuk means to say that the People stood at the bottom, or base of the mountain, as the awesome spectacle began to unfold on the summit. 

But the Gemara Shabbos 88a takes the Torah’s description much more literally:

אָמַר רַב אַבְדִּימִי בַּר חָמָא בַּר חַסָּא: מְלַמֵּד שֶׁכָּפָה הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא עֲלֵיהֶם אֶת הָהָר כְּגִיגִית, וְאָמַר לָהֶם: אִם אַתֶּם מְקַבְּלִים הַתּוֹרָה מוּטָב, וְאִם לָאו — שָׁם תְּהֵא קְבוּרַתְכֶם.

Rav Avdimi bar Chama bar Chasa said, “This teaches that The Holy One Blessed Be He overturned the mountain above them like a barrel and said, “If you receive the Torah, good. But if not, there shall be your graves.” 

When the people stood under the mountain, Rav Avdimi tells us, they actually stood under the mountain. Hashem suspended the mountain above the heads of the people and provided an ultimatum: Either receive the Torah, or be killed.

There is an observation that many make about the specific phraseology the Gemara uses. Hashem didn’t tell the nation that if they don’t accept the Torah, they’d be buried “here,” in this very spot. But rather, “There shall be your graves.” Suggesting some yet unknown location, on some distant future day. 

The Shem Mishmuel notes that this observation is absolutely correct. Hashem wasn’t telling the people that without acceptance of the Torah—without a binding commitment—that they’d immediately gasp for spiritual oxygen and would be left without any connection to G-d that would serve as their very lifeline. No, considering the thunder and lightning, the parting of the Heavens, and the blossoming of the mountain in the middle of the desert—all following the miraculous redemption of the Jewish People from Egyptian slavery—inspiration was running so high, that the People would hold on to a divine connection even without the formal acceptance of the Torah and its mitzvos. 

At least for now. 

The concern was not over the present moment, but over what would happen in the future. “There shall be your graves.” For now you’ll stay connected. But the connection will ebb, the inspiration will dissipate. It may not feel like that’s an eventuality considering where you presently stand and how you presently feel. But it will. And when it does, you’ll languish and die. 

A Siddur Play is a wonderful event, not because it encapsulates the fresh feelings that children have towards tefilah, but because it frames tefilah as a lifelong value, something of such significant importance that it demands that a ceremony be held, that parents take off work, that grandparents drive in, and that cake be served. The feelings of the moment are sweet and endearing, but they will not last.

And that’s not excessive, undue negativity, but a mere acknowledgment of reality. Feelings never last. And if we hang our behavior upon our feelings, our behavior will be highly inconsistent because our feelings always are. 

A Siddur Play is a statement of importance and value. We’re not trying to encourage our kids to always feel great about davening, but to always daven, irrespective of how they feel. Feelings will fluctuate; appropriate behavior shouldn’t. This is what lies at the heart of every commitment.

Which isn’t just kids’ stuff. And it poses a critical question to adults: Can we create Siddur Plays for ourselves? Inspiration rises and falls in fairly natural rhythm. What can be done in moments of inspiration to not just ride the wave and enjoy, but to spend time recognizing in that moment of clarity that there will come a time that the value of this practice or behavior will no longer be so clear? What commitment can I make to myself here at Har Sinai so that the “There” I ultimately arrive at is not only a location of premature spiritual death?

One component is the commitment, and formalizing it as best as possible. Whether sharing the practice with an accountability partner, writing a letter of intent to yourself, or even keeping a list of spiritual commitments on a note on your phone. The act of committing can go a long way in holding yourself accountable even when the enthusiasm has waned.

Another component is adopting the right mindset when we’re no longer inspired. And that’s a mindset of moderation. Not jumping to conclusions that our previous feelings were off base, and that our present ones make clear that our previous attempts at spiritual growth were foolish. We need to be patient and kind to ourselves, and remember that there’s a reason we made the commitment in the first place. That it’s only natural for inspiration to dissipate, but that that doesn’t need to affect our recognition that values we’d committed to right and good, even if we don’t now feel so viscerally. 

Hashem’s concern for the Jewish People was not how they’d act when they’re inspired, but how they’d act when they’re not. And that is a question that looms over our heads today as much as it did at Har Sinai. We know that our feelings will falter. What can we do to ensure that our behavior doesn’t?

Parshas Beshalach 5785

When we first started looking for a house in Cherry Hill, our realtor gave us a critical piece of advice: “Whatever you do, don’t look at Google Maps.” What she meant by that was that we should make no assumptions about how far any given house in the community was to our shul based on the actual roadways that Google would use to plot our walk. Because, as any Cherry Hiller knows, you can walk through the baseball field, use the Politz cut-through, the Yeshiva cut-through, or even through the driveway and backyard of what ultimately came to be our own home.

Seeking out a shortcut is sage advice. 

Sometimes.

The Jewish People are finally given leave from Mitzrayim and travel immediately. Really immediately. Like, in less than 18 minutes. So it could be understood if in the mad rush to suddenly move a mass of millions of men, women, and children, along with their animals and newly acquired wealth, they may have made a wrong turn. Ending up on a circuitous route, all by mistake.

Yet it was no mistake at all. The Torah notes that the roundabout path cut by the newly freed nation was completely intentional, at least so far as Hashem was concerned.

וַיְהִי בְּשַׁלַּח פַּרְעֹה אֶת־הָעָם וְלֹא־נָחָם אֱלֹקים דֶּרֶךְ אֶרֶץ פְּלִשְׁתִּים כִּי קָרוֹב הוּא כִּי  אָמַר אֱלֹקים פֶּן־יִנָּחֵם הָעָם בִּרְאֹתָם מִלְחָמָה וְשָׁבוּ מִצְרָיְמָה׃

^{שמות יג:יז}

And it was when Pharaoh sent the nation out that G-d did not lead them by way of the land of the Phillistines, for it was close. For G-d said, “Lest the nation reconsider when they see war and return to Egypt.”

^{Shemos 13:17}

Had it been up to the people, had they been calling the shots, they certainly would have blazed the shortest trail to the Promised Land. The circuitous route was no accident, no lack of planning. Actually, it was due to profound, Divine insight. Had the people taken the shortcut, they’d have been frightened by the sight of war and have foolishly decided to return to Egypt. By taking them along a winding route, no such retreat was possible. Hashem led the people along the less convenient road in order to save them from themselves.

How often do we find ourselves in that same situation? One in which the terrain is so challenging, nothing seems to be going our way, and all our careful planning goes awry? The promotion went to someone else, the shidduch fell through, the buyers backed out of the deal at the last minute. We find ourselves being led along a circuitous route in life and are mired in frustration. 

What if in those moments we pulled back and wondered, “Maybe there’s a reason for this. Maybe I’m being led down a different path because the shorter route wasn’t actually sweeter. Maybe Hashem is trying to save me from myself.” 

Maybe the promotion would have robbed me of any margin in life. Maybe the shidduch would have led to lifelong marital strife. Maybe sealing the deal would have gone to my head and been the source of arrogance and self-adulation.

Maybe Google Maps has it right. The longer, windier road is often better. 

But slow down. 

In this instance, the Torah describes outright how it was that the Jewish People came to travel down the path they did. It wasn’t their choice; it was Hashem’s. Hashem had made the calculation, had recognized the challenges and pitfalls the short cut would have presented, and determined to lead them along an alternate route.

But it isn’t always that way. Sometimes the snags we hit, the long and winding paths we take are a function of our own planning or lack thereof.

Faith in Hashem is the only answer when we’ve crossed every “t” and dotted every “i”, but it can be a copout when we haven’t. When the shidduch falls through, sometimes we need to turn our eyes to the heavens. But sometimes to the stained shirt we didn’t bother to change, to the insufficient sleep we got the night before so we now appear harried and exhausted, or to that bad habit we have of interrupting other people mid-sentence in order to turn the conversation back to ourselves. 

In cases such as those, it’s not Hashem Who directed us towards failure; it’s us. Working on our emunah is only distracting us from the cold hard truth that we need to strengthen our character, not our faith. 

It’s one thing to buy a house right next to a public easement leading directly to the shul, only to find that the township decided to close it a week before you moved in. It’s quite another make no attempt to find the shortcut and assume that whatever path you end up on will simply be “Min Hashamayim.”

The very first pasuk of the parsha provides subtle yet critical direction in determining how to respond to life’s twist and turns. “כי נחם אלקים—For Hashem had directed.” When we hit the snag in the road, that’s the question we must ask ourselves. Who guided me here? If it was Hashem, then I need not second guess. As much as I’d have preferred a shorter route, a sweeter route, an easier route, perhaps those roads would ultimately have led to a bad place. Perhaps Hashem had to step in to save me from myself. But perhaps I landed in this place not because of Hashem’s intervention, but because of my own actions and behaviors. Perhaps where I find myself now is not an indication that Hashem was saving me from myself, but should serve as encouragement that there’s much that I can do to save me from myself.

Parshas Bo 5785

As a prisoner in Auschwitz, Dr. Viktor Frankl spent an incredible amount of time analyzing his own thinking and motivations. Based largely on his own experience, Dr. Frankl insisted that a sense of purpose and meaning plays an oversized role in one’s happiness and wellbeing, and could permit a person to enjoy such states even when otherwise beset by torturous or catastrophic realities. This analysis ultimately coalesced into the concepts set forth in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, which has positively influenced millions of people worldwide.

Likely none of Viktor Frankl’s major life accomplishments would have been possible without his experience in Auschwitz, the crucible in which his breakthrough outlook on mental health was forged. Yet for all Dr. Frankl’s advice to his patients and readers, there’s one thing he never suggested. And that’s to spend time in Auschwitz.

The time had come to unleash the plague of locusts upon Egypt, and Moshe is sent to Pharaoh to deliver a warning before the country would be ravaged even further by the Divine hand. In doing so, Hashem gives Moshe an interesting directive: “Bo el Paroh.” Not to go to Pharaoh, but to come to him.

The Kotzker Rebbe noted the clear meaning of this choice of words. When instruction is given for someone to come to a place, the implication is that the speaker is himself already there and is asking for the other to join him. Hashem is not sending Moshe as His emissary to Egypt, to go perform a mission and then return and provide Him with a full report. No, Hashem is Himself already in Mitzrayim, as it were, and is beckoning for Moshe to come join Him there. 

The Kotzker explains that Hashem meant to convey to Moshe that He is accessible anywhere and everywhere. Although certain locations may indeed be endowed with a greater concentration of Hashem’s Presence, a Jew should never presume that a given location is wholly bereft of spirituality and the possibility for divine connection. Every place on earth—even one suffused with idolatry and immorality as Pharaoh’s palace was—can serve as an access point to G-d. 

But that doesn’t mean you should go there.

If you’ve ever had to spend a Shabbos in a hospital, daven mincha in the parking lot of a rest stop in the middle of nowhere, or reach deep into your reservoir of emunah to remember that Hashem was by your side in the midst of a challenging period of life, you know how powerful this idea is. To know that Hashem can be accessed from any place and from any situation, rescues us from the despair—or at least spiritual monotony—of those locations and experiences.

Should I bother singing the zemer and holding a proper Shabbos seudah? Yes, because Hashem is here with me. Should I bother closing my eyes and trying to squeeze out some kavannah while I pray? Yes because Hashem is here with me. Should I see the meaning in the experience and maintain the belief that somehow it’s all for the best? Yes, because Hashem is here with me.

But there is a dark side to this mentality. Because if Hashem is with me in every place and every situation, I can begin to lose the interest in striving for more. For experiences that are more naturally rich with kedusha, that provide an easier access point, and that prove less risky to my overall spiritual wellbeing, especially over the long haul.

If I could make that Shabbos in the hospital room, how critical is community? If I can daven in a parking lot, how important is shul? If Hashem is everywhere, I’ll find Him wherever I land. 

If He’s even in Mitzrayim, should I bother going elsewhere? 

Yes, you most certainly should. And not just for physical comfort, but for spiritual ascent. 

This period of the year is a time referred to as “Shovevim,” an acronym comprised of the first letter of each of the parshiyos between Shemos and Mishpatim. Shovevim is a time traditionally dedicated to developing greater sensitivity to issues of sexual morality and propriety. This practice stems from the content of the parshiyos we read, detailing the emergence of the Jewish People from Egypt, a land rife with licentiousness and immorality. We attempt to draw strength from this section of the Torah, and thrust ourselves towards a more ideal state of purity. 

Yes, Hashem is in Egypt. And yes, one can access spiritual greatness even in that place. But no, do not stay there a moment longer than you have to. 

The realities of our environment shape us, oftentimes in ways that are undetectable, at least at first. They influence our behavior and shape our values. And while as conscious human beings we have the ability to transcend our environments, the longer we remain in them, the more challenging that becomes.

“Bo el Paroh—Come to Pharaoh,” is a reality that halacha would classify as a bedieved, a regrettable situation in which we must nevertheless do the best we can. “I am here,” Hashem tells us. Don’t believe spiritual development is impossible and don’t let yourselves off the hook. But don’t stick around, either. There are far greater spiritual vistas beyond Mitzrayim. Beyond the Shabbos in the hospital room. Beyond the mincha in the parking lot. Beyond the period of pain and darkness. Don’t allow the bedieved to become the new norm. Work toward the lechatchilah, the ideal state of being, as quickly as you can. 

Viktor Frankl would likely not have developed the thinking that would positively influence the millions of people who would later read his work and benefit from his insight. And we must believe that that was by design. That Hashem deposited him into those hellish conditions—and stayed right by his side—so that he could accomplish what he ultimately did. 

When we find ourselves in trying situations, we should remember, “Bo el Paroh.” Hashem is here, I can access Him, I won’t let the moment go without reaching out to Him, without fulfilling whatever purpose He intended for me in this place. But I won’t remain here and I won’t remain in this mentality. Hashem may be here, but I’ll have a far easier time accessing Him around my own Shabbos table, and davening from my proper makom in my own shul. He may be here in the darkness, but I’m going to move towards the light. 

Following the UN vote in favor of the Partition Plan on November 29, 1947, jubilant Israelis erupted in spontaneous song and dance throughout the streets of Jerusalem. But one man of particular note could not bring himself to dance. Instead, David Ben-Gurion sat brooding, musing to himself that if only the people outside would stop and fully appreciate the impending war that the UN vote would soon trigger, they, too, would not act with such reckless, frivolous abandon.

I don’t think he was right. 

One Sunday morning following the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s weekly regimen of handing out dollar bills to the throngs who came for a brief audience with him, one of his chassidim asked the Rebbe how he could tolerate the ordeal.

“Rebbe,” the man started, “This one comes with news of a child born after so many years of waiting, while this one comes with the news that a child was just diagnosed with an unspeakable illness. How can the Rebbe stand in the midst of such an emotional tempest without being pulled apart?”

The Rebbe answered simply with a line from the Zohar, “חדוה תקיעא בלבאי מסטרא דא, ובכיה תקיעא בלבאי מסטרא דא—Joy is planted on this side of my heart, while sorrow is planted on this side of my heart.” 

Being a Jew means submitting to a connection with the entire gamut of the Jewish People across the full expanse of history. Retreating from that connection is simply untenable and would be depriving ourselves of the experience of Kehillah and of nationhood that is part of the bedrock of the Jewish experience. What, remains, then is living with the ability to vacillate between emotions, even those that lie on polar opposites of the emotional spectrum. It means fully empathizing with the pain and suffering of a fellow Jew in one instant, and joining in the blissful delight of another in the next.

I shared this story of the interaction between the Rebbe and his chassid on Shemini Atzeres 5784, when news of the calamity that had befallen our people had just begun to reach our ears, all on the eve of Simchas Torah, a time of profound happiness and celebration. I shared it again on the first anniversary of the horrific attack against our People on sacred land, as we once again stood on the precipice of exultant dancing even as the tragedy of October 7th cast a sorrowful pale over the day.

And I come back to the same story today. Because I find it to be the only adequate response to all that’s taken place over the course of the past week. Particularly for those of us living outside of Israel.

This past week, three Jewish women held in captivity for nearly 500 days finally returned home. I watched the videos of them wrapped in the embrace of family members who didn’t know if they’d ever see them again. I didn’t bother holding back the tears as I experienced the sheer ecstasy of the moment alongside them, even from thousands of miles away.

And I also watched similar videos from the other side of the aisle. Terrorists, murderers, and rapists being given a hero’s welcome in their communities and homes after being released from prison by the Israeli government. And it made my blood boil. To think that those who murdered innocent Jews in cold blood would not spend the rest of their lives in prison. That they would be permitted to live lives of freedom. That they would have the opportunity to plot the next atrocity. That it was a similar prisoner exchange that served as the prologue to the eventual attack of October 7. 

I don’t know if the deal should have been struck or not. Living outside of Israel, I don’t believe it’s for me to say or to even an opinion. Without living in Israel and making the sacrifices that that life entails, I’m not in position to weigh in on the injustice of hundreds of soldiers and ordinary citizens having lost their lives on October 7th and in the ensuing war, only for our enemies to be rearmed with the sort of human resources that can, G-d forbid, bring another such attack to fruition. Nor can I fully appreciate the profound need to begin bringing soldiers back home and to see the return of at least some of Jewish souls held in captivity for far too long. 

It is not my prerogative to have an opinion. But it is my responsibility to feel. To feel both elation and indignation, euphoria and resentment. To have joy planted on one side of my heart and sorrow planted on the other side. To vacillate between the two. Not the two opinions, but the two emotions. To be a feeling, caring, conscious member of the Jewish People.

I think Ben-Gurion was wrong in his assessment of the exultant crowds that took to the streets the night of the UN vote. I don’t believe they were blind to the reality of the war that would follow and the series of tragedies it would unleash upon the Jewish People in its wake. I think they were acting as Jews do, ecstatic in times of joy, with the full knowledge that mourning lurked just around the corner. 

The experience of one does not negate the other, even when the two emotions occur precisely at the same time.

The frustration and indignation I feel over the release of a pack of monsters with Jewish blood on their hands will not prevent me from identifying with the bliss of the hostages returning home and their families who get to hold them. Nor will the joy I feel over the latter prevent the bitter discontent I feel over the former. 

Opinions are to be formulated by those who personally have more at stake, not for those of us sitting on the relative sidelines. It is our role simply to empathize, to understand, to feel. Radically different emotions. All at the same time. 

Parshas Vayechi 5785

Approximately 125 miles beneath the earth’s surface, something astounding takes place. That depth provides an extreme environment—1600°C and pressure about 50,000 times of that found at sea level. When volcanic eruption force the material created there to an area far closer to the surface, we are able to harvest that material, also known as diamonds. 

Though diamonds are among the strongest materials on earth, it would be wrong to say that that tough composition allowed them to survive under the most extreme conditions our planet has to offer. It is only by being led through a process of such intense pressure and heat that carbon atoms can fuse in a way that produces such a spectacular result. Those conditions were not merely something they had to endure, but the very crucible in which they were forged.

As Yaakov Avinu stood in Pharaoh’s throne room in last week’s parsha, the Torah records an unusual interaction between the two. Pharaoh asks Yaakov, “כַּמָּה יְמֵי שְׁנֵי חַיֶּיךָ

—How many years have you lived?” An odd inquiry, but not nearly as perplexing as Yaakov’s response. 

Yaakov tells Pharaoh, “יְמֵי שְׁנֵי מְגוּרַי שְׁלֹשִׁים וּמְאַת שָׁנָה מְעַט וְרָעִים הָיוּ יְמֵי שְׁנֵי חַיַּי וְלֹא הִשִּׂיגוּאֶת־יְמֵי שְׁנֵי חַיֵּי אֲבֹתַי בִּימֵי מְגוּרֵיהֶם—The years of my life are 130. Few and poor have been the years of my life, and I have not achieved the length that my fathers have lived.” One would have expected a more optimistic view coming from Yaakov, perhaps a response highlighting the silver lining despite of all the trouble Yaakov had been subjected to. 

The Midrash notes that Hashem considered Yaakov’s response to indeed be disappointing. So much so, that he was punished with an intriguing formula. For every word the Torah used to convey Yaakov’s response to Pharaoh, Yaakov would fall one year short of achieving the number of years his father had lived. The Torah uses 33 words to describe the interaction between Yaakov and Pharaoh, hence, Yaakov lives for only 147 years, 33 years shy of Yitzchak’s 180 years.

Rav Chaim Shmulevitz makes an observation obvious to anyone willing to perform a simple audit of the Midrash. Yaakov’s response to Pharaoh is not 33 words long. That number is only arrived at when including the previous pasuk, the one detailing Pharaoh’s initial question, asking Yaakov Avinu how old he was.

Rav Shmulevitz offers a fascinating reconciliation, suggesting that Yaakov was held accountable not only for his response, in characterizing his life as being short and harsh, but even for Pharaoh’s very question. What prompted Pharaoh to inquire as to Yaakov’s age was his appearance. He looked old, like the weight of the world had taken an enormous toll on him. And this is a responsibility that Yaakov had to bear. 

Had he perceived of his entire life—both the good and the bad—as being guided and directed by Hashem’s hand, his outward appearance would have been more youthful and vibrant. Every crease of Yaakov’s face bespoke the pain he’d lived through. But with the acute awareness that Hashem was the ultimate author of that pain, there would have been far more bounce in his step, and less age worn on his face. Yaakov is held accountable not only for his negative assessment of his own life, but for the manner in which that perspective changed his very appearance. 

Turning to Parshas Vayechi, Rav Matisyahu Solomon notes something interesting about Yaakov’s blessing to his grandchildren, Ephraim and Menashe. In invoking Hashem’s name, Yaakov refers to Him as “הָרֹעֶה אֹתִי מֵעוֹדִי עַד־הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה—He Who shepherded me from my birth until this very day.” Sefer Bereishis is replete with references to shepherding, yet this is the first recorded instance of someone using that parable in reference to his own relationship with Hashem.

Rav Matisyahu suggests that Yaakov, at the end of his life, and reflecting over how it was lived, is actually performing teshuva for the manner in which he’d responded to Pharaoh years earlier, and the underlying perspective of his own life that that response suggested. It is no coincidence that Yaakov spoke of his days as “Ra—poor” and now sees Hashem as “Ro’eh—his shepherd,” using a word etymologically related to the one he’d first used. Yaakov is pivoting from seeing things as “Ra,” as negative, painful, tragic even, to “Ro’eh,” that nothing is coincidental and it was the Divine hand that brought these events bear and shepherded Yaakov throughout the twists and turns of his life. 

Yes, life had been painful. But it had also been meaningful and valuable. And even in those moments of abject pain were opportunities for growth in character and faith that a softer, cushier life simply could not have produced. Were those moments “Ra” or were they the design of the “Ro’eh”, the One shepherding Yaakov throughout his life, giving him the life that would be the most impactful, if not always the most comfortable?

Considering its origin story, it’s somewhat striking that a diamond is the gift of choice when a woman agrees to marry the man presenting it. What, exactly, is the message here? That life will be full of immense pressure, that their relationship will demand that they survive intense heat, that extreme conditions are what lay in store for them?

Unlikely that that’s the intention. But maybe it should be. A meaningful life is no cakewalk. There certainly will be pressure and the couple will have to see if they can stand the heat. But they’d be wise to remind themselves—every time they look down at her ring finger—that the pressures and the heat are not arbitrary “Ra”. They are not difficulties to suffer or annoyances to tolerate that have no purpose. Rather, there’s a “Ro’eh”, Someone shepherding them through the process, providing them with precisely the right conditions to make their lives sparkle and shine. 

Diamonds need not be conscious of what they go through in order for the finished product to be beautiful. But people do. The pressure, the stress, the harsh conditions will all be provided in some measure or another. Those who see “Ro’eh” rather than “Ra” will see those conditions as hand-selected to give them the opportunities they need to grow and develop. Those who don’t will endure the same difficulties, but will shine no more than an lump of coal.