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Parshas Zachor / Purim 5786

Many years ago, on one particularly rainy night in Queens, a close friend of mine lost a good number of sefarim. A leak in the roof sent water trickling down the wall of his bedroom, right down the back of his bookcase, soaking a number of sefarim situated there. As he assessed the damage, he came to a startling realization: there was a theme. The sefarim that had become the most soggy—to the point of ruination—were volumes containing commentary on Maseches Eruvin.

At the time, Daf Yomi was learning that very masechta and he wondered, “Is this a sign that I should be learning Daf Yomi?” He asked one of the senior rabbanim in the neighborhood, who turned to him and said, “Or maybe it means you shouldn’t be relying on the eruv to carry on Shabbos.”

“Or maybe,” he continued, “It means your family should patch the roof, and that you should take better care of your sefarim.” 

Mordechai paces endlessly outside the palace walls, hoping to hear some news of Esther’s welfare. And there’s something specific gnawing at him. Rashi explains that Mordechai’s preoccupation was of a grander scale than Esther’s health and wellbeing alone. That if an innocent Jewish woman could be pried from her home and sent off to the palace for a beauty pageant determining the future queen of the empire, surely something historic was afoot. Hashem was pulling some serious strings. Something big was about to happen.

Which belies what we read just one pasuk before. That Esther had concealed her true identity in deference to the instructions Mordechai had given her. And why all the secrecy? Rashi explains that Mordechai was concerned that had Esther let on as to her true identity, the authorities would have discovered that not only was she Jewish, but royalty, a direct descendent of Shaul HaMelech. This would only have added to her allure and make it less likely that she would be dismissed from the palace and permitted to return home.

Taken together, the two pesukim—back-to-back pesukim—are baffling. They tell a story of a Mordechai attuned to the obvious Divine intervention in drawing Esther into this position, yet simultaneously doing everything he can to torpedo that very opportunity. Did Mordechai consider himself equal to the task of overthrowing Hashem’s carefully laid plans?

Certainly not. But, as Rav Moshe Feinstein explains, it is ultimately halacha that governs our lives, not our perceptions of how Hashem is running the universe. Is Hashem up to something? It certainly seems that way. But propriety demands that Mordechai do everything he can to save Esther from the fate awaiting her inside the palace, not sit back bemused as Hashem runs the show. 

For Mordechai, the question of living life based on pre-determined principles or the reality of Hashem’s providence is not an “either-or” proposition, but a “yes-and.” Hashem is certainly in the driver’s seat and can easily steer around any roadblock his own personal efforts may erect. Yet he also accepted the responsibility to do what he knew to be right, irrespective of his accute sense that Hashem was driving things towards a very different outcome. 

Should you learn Daf Yomi? We know the questions to ask. Will I be overwhelmed by the pace? Will I be able to keep up with my other limudim? Will I finish Shas if I don’t? But a question critically not on the list is, “Did Hashem soak my Ritva on Maseches Eruvin?”

Responsible thinking provides us with the proper methods to assess a job offer. If it pays well, if the commute isn’t too long, if we feel the demands match our skill set, it should be considered. But the fact that a parking spot miraculously opened right in front of the building just minutes before the interview is of little consequence.

To not see Hashem in the parking spot is to live with an adequate awareness of hashgacha pratis. But to treat it as the central consideration in a life-altering decision making process is to presume too much of our ability to discern Hashem’s thinking and the direction He’s guiding us in.

To utter the words, “I see what Hashem is trying to do,” can smack either of humility or of arrogance. So we must be careful with those words. It is admirable to acknowledge the Force in ultimate control over the cosmos, history, and my life, and recognize the limited impact my own actions can truly have. But it is quite the opposite to state them with a definitive quality, as though our feeble minds can ever fully grasp Hashem’s intentions and to live our lives off those assertions alone.

In the special maftir of Zachor that we’ll read this Shabbos, Amalek is castigated as the nation “אשר קרך בדרך—who chanced upon you on the road”. Amalek’s behavior is synonymous with chance and randomness. The attack wasn’t premeditated, the Jews were chosen as a target simply because they were there. “Keri”, the root of the word describing Amalek’s actions, is a great evil in Judaism. We are enjoined to see purpose and meaning, scope and sequence, in all that happens. The universe as we know it is not the expression of a series of accidents and coincidences, but of Divine planning and order. 

The challenge of Purim—posed in the Megillah itself—is to see the order, recognize the meaning, in a series of occurrences that ostensibly appear wholly natural and arbitrary. Can we transcend keri and see the face of G-d peeking out from between the lines? Can we discern His guiding hand throughout the entire narrative? Can we be better than Amalek in recognizing that nothing is random, that Hashem is in control?

But this is only one test the Megillah puts us to. The other is whether, succeeding in the first test, we will overshoot the mark and arrive at an unfortunate conclusion. That having said, “I see what Hashem’s doing” with such certainty and confidence, we’ll abandon our better thinking, even our halachic thinking, and to permit our lives to be dictated by miraculous parking spots, the path of a leaky roof, and other such phenomena.

Esther’s abduction to the palace is surely part of a Divine plan. Yet moral thinking dictated that Mordechai try to save her. His actions remind us to say “Thank you, Hashem” for the parking spot, but to take the job only if it pays enough. 

Parshas Terumah 5786

I once heard Rav Benzion Twersky, the noted Rav and scion of the Milwaukee Twerski dynasty, reflect on a special trip he made in his youth to the Agudah Convention. He was a young yeshiva bachur learning in New York, and, with the convention being held in the area, attendance at the convention would mean a rare opportunity to spend Shabbos with his father, Rav Michel Twerski, who was slated to speak. 

Rav Benzion recalled standing in one of the convention rooms and receiving a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, looked up, and came face to face with Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky. “Young man,” asked Rav Yaakov, “Would you mind making me a cup of tea?” 

The young Rav Twersky was on cloud nine. The chance to make a tea for the Gadol Hador! That he was chosen out of everyone there! That it was his shoulder the Rosh Yeshiva decided to tap! He felt special, privileged, chosen. 

And so should we. 

In requesting donations from the Jewish People to amass the funds needed to construct the Mishkan, it seems Hashem was, surprisingly, looking for takers rather than givers. Issuing the order, the pasuk records, “וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה מֵאֵת כּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ תִּקְחוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִי

—And they shall take a donation for Me. From every individual whose heart is moved to donate shall you take My donation.”

Why are these funds taken rather than given? If the pasuk calls for the participation of those self-motivated donate, those spurred by a spirit of voluntary generosity, why adopt the posture of tax collectors needing to seize assets against the will of the public? The people are happy to give. Why the directive to take?

The Alshich answers with an unusual halacha applicable to the laws of Kiddushin, the first stage of halachic marriage. Though it is traditionally a ring that is given from husband to wife, in truth, any object of value may be presented. At its core, Kiddushin is a simple legal transaction, and in exchange for the object presented, a woman offers her husband an exclusive relationship with her.

It goes without saying, then, that halachic marriage has not been affected if the transaction was reversed. On a biblical level, a man may marry more than one wife. Kiddushin demands the wife offering exclusive rights to her husband, and the husband offering a gift to his wife. A gift from bride to groom is not halachically valid. 

With one exception: An “Adam chashuv,” a man of renown. If the bride is set to marry someone of particular prominence, even if she were to give him a gift, rather than the other way around, she is still married. The reason deals with the psychology behind why fans will sometimes bring gifts or bouquets of flowers to concerts to present their favorite singers. Surely the artist can just buy these items themselves if they really wanted them. But deep down there’s some measure of satisfaction the fan has in knowing that they’d been noticed by the celebrity. They fall asleep that night with a smile across their face, knowing that their bouquet of flowers adorns the coffee table of someone they idolize. 

In other words, the monetary gift is not the only item of value being presented. The satisfaction and sheer joy that the fan receives, actually transforms them from giver to recipient. So much so, that that joy is halachically significant in the context of Kiddushin. A woman who presents a trinket to the “Adam chashuv” groom, is actually receiving from him an amount of satisfaction and delight sufficiently quantifiable to affect the transaction that is Kiddushin. She offers her hand in marriage, he offers her the thrill of accepting the gift she offered. 

This was the sensation that Rav Twerski felt as he prepared a cup of tea for Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky. Sure, he was giving. Giving of his time and energy, all in the interest of providing for another. Yet what he received in return was far greater. That Rav Yaakov asked him for a tea! Was ready to accept his tea!

Later in life, Rav Twerski realized that the entire experience was a mere echo of something far greater. The tap he felt on his shoulder when Rav Yaakov needed a cup of tea was actually nothing new. Hadn’t he been tapped on the shoulder the moment he woke up that morning? 

“Young man, would you please say Modeh Ani?” “Young man, would you please put on tzitzis?” “Young man, would you please put on tefilin? Would you do that for Me?”

Why is a voluntary act of giving framed by the word “V’yikchu—And they shall take,” rather than “V’yitnu—And they shall give”? Because, explains the Alshich, sometimes when you give you actually take. A fan presenting some flowers to a megastar. A woman offering a small give to an “Adam chashuv.” Or someone who’s felt a heavenly tap on the shoulder, followed by the request, “Young man, would you please build Me a Mishkan?” 

Over the course of the average day, hundreds if not thousands of halachos demand our effort and attention. And it is no small sacrifice. But behind every one of those sacrifices, there is a tap on the shoulder. One that should leave us feeling flattered and fill us with immense pride. That out of all the people on earth, Hashem chose us. Chose us for His davening and His Torah, chose us to keep Shabbos and keep kosher, chose us to give tzadakah and to build His Mishkan. 

Yes, we are expected to sacrifice. But if done correctly, we’ll get far more than we give. 

Parshas Mishpatim 5786

Warning: I’m about to get meta. I’d like to write about why I write. 

To be sure, I see great value in a weekly blog. Considering that I’ve decided to dedicate my life to the careful articulation and communication of Torah thoughts and ideas, the written word is another critical tool in the rabbi’s toolbox to achieve that goal.

More than that, I enjoy it. Yes, there’s the very messy and often frustrating process of seizing upon a worthwhile idea, and struggling with the words needed to adequately and lucidly relate it. It’s hard work, but what emerges after the struggle is something I’m always proud of, and becomes another installment in an ever-growing catalogue of carefully constructed ideas to later peruse, and often reuse. 

Yet none of that is why I write these words. What brought me to the Bala Cynwyd public library, away from any other distractions, hidden away from talmidim and colleagues, to feverishly type away at my laptop is actually something else entirely. 

The very first bit of instruction laid out in Pirkei Avos—that great collection of ethical guidance from our greatest Chachamim—is to be deliberate in judgment. Bar Kappara, as told by the Gemara Sanhedrin 7b, wondered how the earlier Sages arrived at this notion, and realized it emerges from the beginning of our parsha. Specifically, the juxtaposition of the beginning of Parshas Mishpatim with the end of Parshas Yisro. 

Parshas Mishpatim opens with the declaration, “ואלה המשפטים—And these are the judgments,” words that, looking back to the end of last week’s parsha, come on the heels of the instruction to ascend the mizbe’ach in the Mishkan via a ramp, rather than stairs. Bar Kappara explained that just as the ramp forces the Kohen to ascend in a slower, more deliberate manner, so must judges act in rendering a judgment. 

Being careful and cautious is obviously good advice. When we are slow and deliberate, we expose ourselves to less risk of error, and moreover, the very act of moving slowly rather than rushing invites us to be in the moment, to appreciate the task at hand, to recognize the gravity of what we’re doing, rather than merely “getting it over with.” 

But then, why not a sign? What if we stuck with stairs, but simply posted a speed limit so that Kohanim were reminded to ascend and descend slowly? Short, shallow stairs, permitting the Kohanim to remain fully covered—as per the direct instruction of the pasuk itself to not ascend via stairs so as to not expose themselves—and proper signage to remind them not to take two or three steps at a time in their zeal to finish the avodah? Why reconfigure rather than just remind?

In his book, Atomic Habits, James Clear cautions against psyching yourself up to achieve your goals through sheer inspiration or motivation alone. “You do not rise to the level of your goals,” he cautions. “You fall to the level of your systems.” Exactly right. If you’ve ever tried to lose weight, you know all too well the folly of keeping junk food around the house, insisting you’ll just maintain the willpower needed to avoid it. A goal is great for providing general direction, for stretching the tape across the finish line, but it is the systems we employ that lay out the track that will guide us there. 

Why does the Torah call for removing the stairs leading up to the mizbeach? Because if we’re trying to remove haste, if we’re calling for slow, methodical steps, then we need a system that will permit nothing less. Don’t install a staircase and insist you’ll use it properly; install a ramp so you have no choice otherwise. 

What actually brought me to the library to write this article was not the pride I knew I’d feel in completing it, or even in the responsibility I feel to to the people who would read and gain from it. It’s something else entirely: a system. The article goes out with the shul’s weekly newsletter. The newsletter goes out Thursday night. So I need to write on Thursday afternoon. And in my heart of hearts, I know that absent that system, for all the value I find in writing, I just wouldn’t do it.

Which may well mean that Bar Kappara’s drasha offers an additional layer of guidance to the judges, or, more broadly, to anyone who ever finds himself in position to make any sort of judgment. Don’t just be deliberate. Institutionalize deliberation. Find those mechanisms that will force you to deliberate the way that you should. Make it habitual. Systematize it.

Are there those things in life that for all the value you see in them, for all the attempts you’ve made to pursue them, just seem to be chronically elusive? Perhaps there’s too heavy a tilt towards motivation alone. The belief that “It’s really important to me, so of course I’ll do it!” The value we place on a goal is almost never sufficient to achieving it. We need systems.

Sometimes those systems can be habits we’ve formally committed to. “I don’t go to sleep until I’ve done the dishes,” or, “I leave my phone in another room during dinner.” Or we may need other people involved to ratchet up the pressure, whether a deadline that others are conscious of, or a chavrusa who you know is waiting for you. And sometimes, we just have to remove the problematic device altogether, throwing out the junkfood, or buying an alarm clock with no snooze button.

“You do not rise to the level of your goals, you fall to the level of your systems.” If we find that time and again we’re moving too fast, we may not need more reminders, more commitments, or more motivation. We may just need to replace the stairs with a ramp.

Parshas Yisro 5786

If you’ve ever been involved in fundraising, you know how critical it is to maintain good relationships. For all the successes and impact of the organization in question, donors often give not out of alignment with the cause, but out of connection with the people who work there, particularly the one making the solicitation. 

And in a certain sense, it’s unfortunate. Because it means—or at least feels—like every interaction is mildly tainted. Why am I speaking with him? Why am I asking about his family? Is this just a pleasant exchange, or am I buttering him up? 

We need not feel so slimy. Yisro was also a man of impressive means, spiritual ones. And in determining where to spend those resources, he also needed convincing, from none other than Hashem Himself. So if He can, why can’t we?

Yisro reunites with Moshe Rabbeinu, appearing on the scene as the Torah proclaims, “וישמע יתרו—And Yisro heard,” begging the obvious question, what precisely did he hear? What was the specific report that crossed his desk that compelled him to come and join the Jewish People?

Rashi answers that it was two items, the splitting of the Yam Suf, and the war with Amalek. Two instances in which the Jewish People had their backs to the wall, fully exposed to the oncoming attacks of their enemies, only to be saved by Hashem in miraculous fashion.

All reasonable enough, except that it seems that Yisro was actually motivated by other interests entirely. Just a few pesukim later, the Torah emphasizes that it was the Midbar—the barren wilderness—that served as the rendezvous point for Yisro and his son-in-law, Moshe. Rashi comments that the Torah underscores this point in praise of Yisro, that he was willing to suffer the harsh physical conditions in order to come and hear words of Torah.

So which is it? Was Yisro a truth seeker, thirsty for the word of Hashem as revealed through the Torah? Or was he more calculating than that? Possessing a desire to be on the winning team, the nation for whom Hashem would perform miracles in the interest of sparing them from all harm?

The answer, of course, is yes.

Yisro certainly joined the Jewish People in order to learn Torah from Moshe, to hear and understand Hashem’s instruction, His guidance for how those closest to Him should live their daily lives. Yet the miracles were important in framing the nature of that instruction. That the Torah was not given as a means of subjugating a people according to the Divine will as nothing more than a power trip. It came from a place of love, concern, and protection. The same G-d that shielded His people from harm was the G-d Who would also tell them to abide by 613 commandments. 

Through the lens of Yisro’s experience, we might come to describe the miracles of Krias Yam Suf and Milchemes Amalek as—to use modern terminology—deposits in the emotional bank account. Hashem was displaying profound love and affection for His People before then turning around and making “withdrawals”, asking for their committed lifelong service to His Torah. 

What is the nature of those deposits and withdrawals? In genuine, caring relationships, the deposits are not there simply to offset the withdrawals. Simply to develop enough good will between you and the person you’re ultimately attempting to exploit so that they’ll be sufficiently beguiled into performing your bidding. The deposits permit the other person to understand that the withdrawal is also an act of love, also in their own best interest, albeit with more effort expected of them to fulfill what is being asked. 

If you care for the cause, if you truly believe that a sizable donation is not only in the best interest of the organization, but of the donor himself, then investing in the relationship is not a slimy act of buttering him up for the big ask, the relationship and the solicitation are all part of the same package, all acts of care and concern. The pleasantries we exchange and gifts we provide may well be done with the knowledge that we will one day solicit, but ultimately it is to help provide backdrop against which to accurately interpret that ask. It is out of care and kindness. 

When we ask our children to do their homework or clean their room, we have their own interests in mind. But they won’t necessarily feel that way, unless we’ve spent the time expressing our love and our affection many, many times before. And so it is with asking a spouse to run an errand so you can jointly keep the ship you call a family afloat, and with asking an employee to make a deadline or to work harder so they produce at the highest level and become the most competent version of themselves possible. The asks, the demands, the withdrawals may well be acts of love. But they are taken as such only when we’ve doted, gifted, and complimented many times over in advance. 

The contemporary terminology we use to describe the back and forth of relationships—deposits in the emotional bank account and withdrawals from that account—can make those acts sound and feel purely transactional. But we should not think of them that way. Miracles are not what Hashem provides so that He can demand obedience later. At least in the case of Yisro, it was those acts of supernatural care that simply proved what the Torah was really about. We can act similarly. Making deposits not so that we can one day make withdrawals. But so that the ones we care for understand that not much difference exists between the two in the first place. 

Parshas Beshalach 5786

The Jewish People embark on the great Exodus from Mitzrayim and are led along a circuitous route in doing so. The pesukim relate that Hashem specifically guided the people away from the realm of the Plishtim, understanding that, should they be confronted by that people in war, they may well have second thoughts about the whole enterprise of leaving Egypt in the first place. 

The Torah records Hashem’s concern as, “פֶּן־יִנָּחֵם הָעָם בִּרְאֹתָם מִלְחָמָה וְשָׁבוּ מִצְרָיְמָה—Lest the nation reconsider upon seeing war and return to Egypt”. (Shemos 13:17) A reasonable enough consideration, but, upon a closer look, one expressed in a puzzling manner. The term used, “ושבו מצרימה—V’shavu Mitzraimah”, doesn’t meant that the people will return to Egypt, in the future tense. Rather, it means that the people have returned to Egypt, in the past tense.

The Torah seems to be describing something akin to teleportation. That the moment the fear of battle and the misgivings of having left Mitzrayim took root, the Jewish People had already returned to their place of origin. That Hashem’s concern was not that they would return to Egypt, but that they would already have done so. How is that possible?

Rabbi Shmuel Gutman in Otzar Chaim offers an intriguing suggestion, explaining that, in truth, a person can find himself enslaved in one of two ways. He can either be acted upon by an outside force, shackling him against his will. Or he can accept those shackles all of his own accord. 

Hence, the Jewish People would indeed already have returned to Mitzrayim—have returned to slavery—the moment they regretted their exit from it. They would have adopted the limiting belief that freedom was too much for them, that their shoulders were not broad enough to accept the new yoke of liberation they suddenly found cast upon them. And in that moment of mental retreat from freedom back to slavery, in that moment of abandoning the opportunity and promise of liberty, they would already have returned to the slavery Mitzrayim. 

Henry Ford is purported to have said that, “Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right.” Ability is often nothing more than the manifestation of belief. Believe that a goal is achievable, and it is. Believe it is beyond reach, and it will remain so. Believe that you are capable of living a life free unbridled by your previous oppressor, and you will. Believe that that vision of freedom was a delusion of grandeur, and you have already re-enslaved yourself. 

In the end, the Jewish People avoided the land of the Plishtim, avoided the specter of war, and did not second-guess the decision to head out into the Midbar. But it is wholly unsettling to realize that as they emerged from Egypt, it was not only the Egyptians that the Jews would need to be saved from. There was yet another enemy who could just as easily have forced them back into slavery. Themselves.

For most of us, it is that second enemy that is far more prevalent and the one that needs far greater attention to overcome. Even when external oppressors have fallen by the wayside and have left clear a path of freedom and success, the nagging internal voice prodding us to reconsider if we’ve gotten in over our heads and are really not cut out for this remains an active threat. How do we vanquish it?

The precise stance of the Jewish People themselves in this moment is edifying. Hashem had predicted that if faced with war, they would have doubted the entire enterprise of Yetzias Mitzrayim and return to both a psychological and physical state of slavery. But why? To the objective bystander it’s perplexing. This is a People who have already been saved from far worse than the Plishtim; they had, after all, witnessed the disintegration of the mighty Egyptian empire before their very eyes. Why assume that they would suffer any less fortuitous a fate at the hand of the Plishtim? Why be scared off at all?

There is no great answer other than the reality of the human condition. Even when faced with challenges we have previously overcome in some similar iteration, fear and anxiety bubble up from within us, fill our heads with doubt, and leave us handcuffed in a state of psychological servitude.

The path to overcoming it all is to abide by the exact advice we would have given our ancestors had they actually come face to face with the menacing Plishtim. Namely, to draw from their past successes to construct a more likely narrative of what was to come in the future. Through Divine Providence and their own agency, the Jewish People had emerged safe from Mitzrayim. There was, in truth, no rational reason to believe that an encounter with the Plishtim would end any differently.

And so it is for us. While in the grip of limiting beliefs, in the shadow of overwhelm, in the clutches of imposter syndrome, to pause and to remember that in most instances, “I’ve been here before, and I’ve been successful. I’ve worked my way through a never-ending to-do list, I’ve buckled down and accomplished what I’ve needed to, I’ve pulled the all-nighter when necessary, I’ve exhibited empathy towards others even in the face of my own emotional needs. I can do this.”

When we face the battle-ready Plishtim, we recoil in a tizzy. “I knew I was in over my head.” But a deep breath and mental perusal of our very own resume can help construct a very different narrative. “This is just another step in my journey, and I’ve successfully taken similar steps before.” 

So much of life is defined by our attitude. And in that regard, we can either be our own greatest advocate or our own worst enemy. Permit the limiting belief to take root, and our freedom to succeed has already been suppressed, without any external enemy needed. “Shavu Mitzraimah—We will already have returned to Egyptian slavery.” But draw on past experiences to realistically predict future success, and we’ll have done ourselves the greatest service imaginable. We’ll have set ourselves free from the subjugation of our own small thinking. 

Parshas Shemos 5786

I understood the videographer’s plight, trying to ensure that he got the footage he needed to ultimately produce a truly compelling promo video. But it was annoying. Two bunks were facing off in a competitive game of kickball, and campers were being shuffled around and told to stand in completely unnatural spots, all in the hopes of manufacturing the perfect shot. It had been a long day of this, and the head counselor was irritated. 

The call for yet another take was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back and he screamed, “There are real kids in this camp!”

The director called off the videographer. The boys went back to playing actual kickball. Hopefully the video was good enough anyway. The camp is still in business.

Considering the enormous role he ultimately filled, the Torah is alarmingly stingy in its description of Moshe Rabbeinu. What, precisely, were the attributes he possessed that qualified him for leadership at the highest level? 

Though muted, the Torah does provide a bit of insight in the moments immediately prior to Moshe’s selection, framing a seemingly innocuous gesture as perhaps the very item that made Moshe worthy of serving as Rabban Shel Yisrael. 

The vehicle through which Hashem first communicates to Moshe is, of course the Burning Bush. The Torah describes that Moshe noticed the unusual sight: “וַיַּרְא וְהִנֵּה הַסְּנֶה בֹּעֵר בָּאֵשׁ וְהַסְּנֶה אֵינֶנּוּ אֻכָּל—And he saw that the bush was burning but that the bush would not be consumed.” (Shemos 3:2) This catches Moshe’s attention, and he goes to investigate. 

And yet that simple act—turning aside to investigate the bush—is given what seems to be undue emphases. The next pasuk proceeds, “וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה אָסֻרָה־נָּא וְאֶרְאֶה אֶת־הַמַּרְאֶה הַגָּדֹל הַזֶּה מַדּוּעַ לֹא־יִבְעַר הַסְּנֶה—And Moshe said ‘I will turn aside and see this great sight. Why does the bush not burn?’” (Shemos 3:3)

Undoubtedly that bit of inner monologue would surely exist. But it seems like an awfully odd thing for the Torah to harp on. Wouldn’t anyone have the same reaction? Wouldn’t anyone who saw something as bizarre as a burning bush turn aside to investigate? What is so remarkable about Moshe’s thoughts, and his decision that followed?

The answer lies in the context. In setting the scene, the Torah is careful to inform us of precisely what Moshe Rabbeinu was doing that day out in the wilderness. “וּמֹשֶׁה הָיָה רֹעֶה אֶת־צֹאן יִתְרוֹ חֹתְנוֹ—And Moshe was shepherding the flock of Yisro his father-in-law” (Shemos 3:1) Moshe wasn’t just strolling through an open meadow, taking in the landscape. He was at work, entrusted with caring for his father-in-law’s sheep. He had significant assets under management and was expected to provide returns. 

The pressures of work, of getting the job done can create a sort of tunnel vision. We construct a fortress around the task at hand and nothing else may vie for our attention. Yet Moshe Rabbeinu acts otherwise. He extends his antennae beyond the walls of the fortress. Yes, he’s busy with work, but not so busy as to not pivot when appropriate.

To be a leader—a role that everyone fills is some capacity or another—this is precisely what’s demanded. Productive and successful people—precisely the ones cut out for leadership in the first place—will always be burdened by their projects and their goals, their dreams and their ambitions. But if space isn’t made for those around us who need our attention and assistance, even while we’re in the thick of the madness, then what’s it all worth anyway?

We can become so swept up in the demands of getting the perfect promo video, that we forget that there are real kids in the camp. Not just avatars on a screen choreographed to give an impression of what it’s like to have fun, but actual, real life kids who just want to play some kickball, and to whom we owe that small indulgence. 

That’s not to say that any progress we’re making towards a goal is rightfully sidetracked by every one of our children who wants a cup of hot cocoa at two o’clock in the afternoon. But if we’re perpetually deaf to those requests, perpetually inattentive to every bid for our attention from those who need it and deserve it, it’s time to reconsider what the value of having those other goals is in the first place. 

Amid the vague portrait the Torah paints of Moshe Rabbeinu, there is one quality that is articulated with great clarity. His humility. Commenting on Moshe’s character in the wake of Miriam having spoken of him in a manner lacking the respect he was owed, the pasuk famously notes, “וְהָאִישׁ מֹשֶׁה עָנָו מְאֹד מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל־פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה—The man Moshe was exceedingly humble, more than anyone on the face of the earth.” (Bamidbar 12:3) 

The two, of course, are related. When we inflate ourselves, then the task we’re busy with becomes inflated in kind. This is my job, my goal, my ambition, and, if I stand at the center of my own universe, what could possibly be more important than that? It’s when we view ourselves with humility that our antennae are sensitive enough to hear the signal produced by others. And it is then that that signal is compelling enough to gain our attention. That the campers who want to have some fun are correctly seen as a burning bush, beckoning us to pause, turn aside, and give them the attention they need.

Parshas Vayechi 5786

In the fairy tale, Hansel and Gretel, Hansel famously drops breadcrumbs along the path leading into the forest so that he and his sister will find their way back out again, foiling the plans of their parents to abandon them in the woods. Each breadcrumb was a clue that, when taken in totality with the others, provided enough information so that a meaningful path could be found. 

In terms of chronology, the Torah’s woods can be no less dark and confusing. Who lived when? Was this other person still alive? How old was this person during that critical event? There’s no obvious path, only breadcrumbs. The Torah tells us, for instance, that Sarah was 127 years old when she died and that she was 90 when she had Yitzchak. If, as the Midrash teaches, Sarah died upon hearing the news of her son being taken for the Akeidah, then we know that Yitzchak was an adult—37 years old—at the time of the Akeidah. A timeline begins to emerge.

But then there are the gratuitious breadcrumbs. Like the one dropped in Parshas Vayechi. We are told that Yaakov was 147 years old when he died, yet seemingly for no purpose. We were already informed in last week’s parsha, after all, that he was 130 when he came to Mitzrayim, and are told at the beginning of our parsha that he lived in the land for 17 years. There are plenty of breadcrumbs already. Why has this random loaf of bread beed dropped on the forest floor? 

As Yaakov Avinu nears the end of his life, Yosef brings Menashe and Ephraim for a final bracha from their grandfather. In introducing that blessing, Yaakov invokes a powerful image of Hashem that we are familiar with from our own liturgy, but that until that point seems to have not been used. Yaakov speaks of Hashem as, “הָאֱלֹקים הָרֹעֶה אֹתִי מֵעוֹדִי עַד־הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה

—The G-d Who shepherded me from my birth to this day.” (Bereishis 48:15) Yaakov Avinu sees himself as having lived the life of a sheep, guided faithfully through life by the Shepherd above. 

Rav Matisyahu Solomon suggests that this was more than mere poetry. That in referring to Hashem as a Ro’eh, Yaakov was correcting an error he had made years before. When first meeting Pharaoh, and in response to his inquiring how old Yaakov was, Yaakov responded, “יְמֵי שְׁנֵי מְגוּרַי שְׁלֹשִׁים וּמְאַת שָׁנָה מְעַט וְרָעִים הָיוּ יְמֵי שְׁנֵי חַיַּי—The years of my sojourns are 130, few and bad have been the years of my life.” (Bereishis 47:9)

Yaakov frames his life as a bad life, a bitter life, using the term “רעים—ra’im” in his response to Pharaoh. And for good reason. Yaakov had been chased from his home by his brother, mistreated by his uncle, duped into marrying the wrong woman, and stripped of the company of his favorite son. 

But later in life, Yaakov turns those words over in his mind, and realizes they were uttered in error. A life lived with purpose—designed with purpose—cannot be bad, no matter the trials and tribulations experienced along the way. In his final days, Yaakov revisits the word “Ra—bad” and transforms it into “Ro’eh—shepherd.” A life that unfolds under the careful guidance of the Shepherd’s staff, cannot possibly be a bad one. Every difficulty, every setback, was intentionally constructed to provide a chance for development and growth throughout life.

Rav Matisyahu notes further, that perhaps it is for this reason that the word “Ro’eh—shepherd” is unusually spelled, without the presence of the letter “Vav.” Written thusly, the word contains a clear allusion to the word “Ra—bad.” Yaakov had reconsidered the “Ra” of his life, and realized that it had been anything but. In reality his life had been guided by a “Ro’eh” from beginning to end.

Rav Yaakov Neiman suggests that the Torah’s declaration of Yaakov’s age at the time of his death is no breadcrumb at all. Simple math tells us that Yaakov was 147 when he passed, and whatever other details are to be further extrapolated from that fact does not demand the Torah’s stating it in such prominent terms. Rather, the point being made is one that Rashi highlights at the beginning of Parshas Chayei Sarah, when the Torah informs us that Sarah was 127 years old at the time of her death and then reiterates, “these were the years of Sarah’s life.” (Bereishis 23:1) Rashi comments that those extra words indicate a homogeny amongst those years, namely, “כלן שוין לטובה—they were all equally good”. 

Perhaps, suggests Rav Neiman, this is precisely the same point the Torah is making here. That for all the challenges, for all the difficulties, at the end of his life, Yaakov Avinu saw each day, each moment as being equally good. Not equally easy, not equally pleasant, but equally good. When the Shepherd, the Ro’eh is leading the way, how could anything be Ra?

Anyone asked to consider the greatest moment of his life would unlikely think of the moment that was most challenging—the greatest setback, the greatest failure, or receiving the most ominous diagnosis. No, it would be the moment of that towering achievement, the point at which he’d realized that all his hard work had finally paid off. 

In reality, though, how much of the latter is rooted in the former? How much of what we learned about ourselves through those setbacks or what we were forced to improve about our character due to those failures served as the necessary prerequisite for the accomplishments we enjoyed afterwards? When we acknowledge that the struggles and difficulties are a critical component in transforming us into the people we ultimately become, one can only see the good in every year, every day, every experience that Hashem provides us. 

Parshas Vayigash 5786

“You’re such a chassid!”

Unless we’re speaking with someone from Williamsburg with long, curly peyos, and have taken it upon ourselves to help reinforce his identity, the words feel awkwardly out of place. 

Usually, we opt for “tzaddik”. And it happens all the time. Whenever someone goes out of their way to help, whenever we become the beneficiary of another’s kindness that rises above the call of duty. A child brings our slippers before a request is even made. A friend puts in a good word for you with their friend, your would-be employer. A coworker saves you the last splash of creamer in the breakroom fridge. 

“You’re such a tzaddik!”

But I suggest we start a new trend. Don’t call them a tzaddik. Call them a chassid. And if they start pulling their white socks up over their pant legs, so be it. 

In finally revealing himself to his brothers, Yosef calms their fears, insisting that not only does he bear no ill will against them, but that his descent to Mitzrayim was clearly an expression of the Divine Will. That Yosef was to be found in Egypt in advance of the oncoming famine, and through his fateful meeting with Pharaoh, he was able to prepare Egypt throughout the years of plenty, providing its citizens—indeed, the citizens of neighboring countries as well—with food when none was otherwise being produced. 

It is this feature that serves as the focal point for a comparison made by the Daas Zekeinim in Parshas Noach. Piggybacking on the Midrash that notes a parallel between Noach and Yosef in that both saw a world reborn, the Daas Zekeinim comments further that in the instance of these two individuals, there was specific responsibility undertaken to ensure the viability of that new world. Humanity emerged from the Flood and Mitzrayim was spared from famine not as Noach and Yosef stood idly by, but as a function of their specific efforts in ensuring that it would be so. 

Noach and Yosef share another commonality as well, the designation of “Tzaddik”. Noach is alone in the annals of the Chumash in being referred to by this title, as the Torah proclaims about him, “Noach ish tzaddik—Noach was a righteous man.” And, interestingly, it is only Yosef who, without explicit reference in the Chumash, is nonetheless referred to in our mesorah as Yosef HaTzaddik.  

And although neither Yosef nor Noach was known to have left the last splash of creamer for a coworker’s coffee, surely both were worthy of this great honorific. Each went above and beyond in protecting those around him. Noach slaved away at crafting a boat of gargantuan dimensions and cared for every living being within. Yosef undertook a massive project of stockpiling grain, saving Egypt and ultimately his family. 

Shkoyach, Tzaddik.

But, there’s a problem. 

The 13th chapter of Mesilas Yesharim marks a major turning point in the sefer. In the beginning of that perek, in which the Ramchal begins to unpack the trait of perishus—the withdrawal from physical pleasure—the author explains that up until that point the conversation focused on all that was necessary for one to live simply as a tzaddik. From the 13th chapter on, however, the traits discussed would, once inculcated, be the makings of a chassid.

The Ramchal reiterates this point elsewhere as well, that while it is the chassid who goes above and beyond the strict letter of the law, the tzaddik merely abides by it. The first 12 chapters of Mesilas Yesharim are not for the one who wishes to transcend the realm of the obligatory, but rather for the person who wishes only to properly fulfill those obligations. Difficult though they may be to assimilate into one’s behavior, the middos discussed in those first 12 chapters are for the common man. The average person. The person who is obligated, it would seem, to become a tzaddik. 

Indeed, the word itself suggests this very reality, even if in common parlance we tend to use it with a very different connotation. “Tzaddik” stems from the word “Tzedek,” or justice. When the Torah insists that “Tzedek tzedek tirdof—You shall greatly pursue justice,” it is not offering us an extra credit assignment. To do what is proper, upright, and just is the baseline duty of a moral person. This, then, is what it means to be a Tzaddik. 

Your child may have an obligation to fetch you your slippers when directly asked, but not before you ever make the request. When he does so anyway, he’s not a “Tzaddik,” but a “Chasid.” 

The fellow who by every right was entitled to the last bit of creamer but saved it for you anyway? Yup, he’s a Chassid, too. And even if you fully intend to continue calling him a Tzaddik, it’s important that we understand the difference. 

Particularly when it comes to Noach and Yosef. Noach Ish Tzaddik and Yosef HaTzaddik. Why are these names given to two individuals who went to such immense lengths to provide for those around them? Surely their herculean efforts swept them far from the territory of tzidkus and into the realm of chassidus?

Perhaps not. Perhaps having been in position to help others, to save the world in some regard, actually obligated them to do so. That as impressive as their actions were, to have done otherwise would not only have been a failure to achieve all they possibly could, but to have fallen down on their basic responsibilities.

When Hashem informs Moshe that Betzalel is to serve as the chief artisan over the construction of the Mishkan, the appointment is referrred to in past tense. “Re’u karah Hashem—See that Hashem has already called.” (Shemos 35:30) Rav Moshe Feinstein notes how odd this phrasing is, considering that at no earlier point in the Torah do we find that Betzalel had been previously identified for this role. In what way had Betzalel already been called?

Rav Moshe explains that Betzalel had been called simply by being endowed with his supernal talent. That Betzalel had the ability to craft the various elements of the Mishkan meant that by definition he had been Divinely called to do so. 

The ability to help, to do, to achieve, can itself create the obligation to do just that. That Yosef could spare the population from starvation meant that he was obligated to. That Noach could save his family and the earth’s animals from extinction meant that he was obligated to. Noach was not an Ish Chassid, he was an Ish Tzaddik. We remember him not as Yosef HaChassid, but as Yosef HaTzaddik.

Which is not to degrade either of these great men. Fulfilling one’s obligations is no small feat, particularly when those obligations are extraordinarily steep. But the difference between what amounts to obligation and what lays beyond is important when it comes to assessing our own obligations. 

How often do we find ourselves saying—whether in our own minds or even aloud—that a given act is beyond us, that it’s not for regular people, but for “tzaddikim”? We may in fact be correct on the last point. That act of hachnassas orchim, or making a meal for someone in need, or sitting with a friend in need of advice—these may indeed be the stuff of tzidkus. Which is to say that they’re not extra credit, but part of our basic responsibilities. Though they may not neatly align with the checklist of our typical daily obligations, the fact that we are situated to provide the assistance, perhaps better than others, a failure to seize the opportunity may actually amount to a failure of fulfilling our responsibility. 

Yosef assumed an awesome effort in saving the world from starvation. Yet the magnitude of that effort notwithstanding, he is not a chassid, but a tzaddik. A tzaddik is not the one who goes the extra mile, but who fulfills his mission faithfully, no matter how many miles it may take him. And the very ability to make the journey may actually be reason enough to demand it of ourselves. 

Chanukah 5786

In my family, I’m the self-appointed Grinch Who Stole Chanukah, the one who stands dutifully by to throw a monkey-wrench in the best attempts of others to gather the family for a Chanukah party. Why? Because it’s hard to make the timing work. To gather for an afternoon or evening affair means getting home late, and delaying the candle lighting. And, as I like to point out from time to time (with a fair amount of snark), having the kids eat latkes with their grandparents and cousins is not actually a mitzvah. Lighting Chanukah candles is. 

So Chanukah Brunch it is. Not quite the same. And everyone’s peeved. 

Bwahaha. 

Maybe I’m getting softer in my old age, but perhaps it’s time to reexamine the issue. What’s wrong with lighting a bit later, anyway?

In the beginning of Hilchos Chanukah (772:2), the Shulchan Aruch quotes the Gemara in Shabbos that provides the timeframe for lighting Chanukah neiros, citing as the endpoint, “ad shetichleh regel min hashuk—the time at which people are no longer populating the marketplaces.” At this point, one is no longer capable of broadcasting the message and import of the Chaunkah candles to the masses, the imperative of pirsumei nisa—of publicizing the miracle—is no longer achievable, and the opportunity for the mitzvah has lapsed. 

The Rema, though, quotes a dissenting opinion. He points out that today we light indoors, not outdoors. And as a result, the intended audience for the candles is those already gathered in our homes, not those still roaming the streets outside. If so, some argue, one can legitimately light later on in the evening, so long as there are still family members or friends gathered in one’s home to see the lit candles. 

It’s a compelling argument, but one that the Rema himself rejects. Ultimately, he says, it’s best to light at the originally established time, for the first half hour of the night, when people would traditionally have flooded the streets on their way home from work. 

What is confounding about the stance of the Rema is the lack of explanation. While a logical argument is offered to defend lighting later, none is given to support lighting at the original time. If we’re going to cancel the Chanukah parties, shouldn’t we at least have a reason?

The most sensible argument would actually appear to be, that there’s little argument to be offered. Logic and reason would indeed seem to point away from lighting precisely at the beginning of the night. If everyone will be awake and buzzing around for another few hours anyway, we sacrifice nothing in pirsumei nisa by lighting later. So why not do so?

Yet for all that logic, we’d be veering from tradition. The fact remains that in the original formulation of the mitzvah, the Chachamim instituted the beginning of nightfall as the proper time. It was then that the most people were around to see the candles being lit, and it was then that they established one should fulfill the mitzvah of lighting the neiros. 

Logic directs us towards lighting later; tradition compels us to light earlier. The Rema encourages that we follow tradition. 

Which is a calculus that could well be applied to any number of mitzvos. It is not uncommon that due to a cultural or technological change we encounter the opportunity to perform a mitzvah differently than it had been generations earlier. And, at least in a vacuum, there is much to be said for maintaining tradition. 

But what is true of halacha broadly captures special resonance on Chanukah. At the core of the great military struggle between the Jews and the Greeks lay a deep-seated cultural tension. The Greek worldview placed the human being on a pedestal. The perfected human specimen was cheered for his athleticism, vaunted for his beauty, and replicated in marble and bronze. Thinkers and philosophers whose wisdom stretched the limits of human comprehension were revered for the achievements of their minds. A deep concern with how the human eye processes space and beauty preoccupied the great architects and builders of Greece.

In a sense, these values could actually be found in the most traditional corners of Jewish society as well. But with one major difference: Judaism saw such expressions as a means to an end, tools employed to understand and draw close to an infinite G-d, by definition beyond the limits of human comprehension. The accomplishments of human beings were valued not in of themselves, but as means drawing more of G-d’s infinite perfection into our midst. 

In Greece, gods could be shrunk down to finitude, to the degree that they were eminently understandable to humans, their superpowers and god-sized egos notwithstanding. In Judaism, we concede that the realm of G-d is ultimately unknowable, beyond human reason or logic. G-d is infinite, we are finite, and a chasm will forever exist between us. 

Bowing our head in deference to halacha and tradition is ever present in Judaism. Yet on Chanukah, that simple act of humility takes on additional meaning. It is an act uniquely Chanukah-dik. Because when we submit to that which lies beyond our own understanding, when we admit to the shortcomings of our own logic, when we recognize the presumed wisdom in that which may not make sense to us, we are emphasizing the very message of Chanukah itself. 

A Chanukah dinner with all the branches of the family under one roof sounds delightful. Singing Maoz Tzur as a family while the kids play dreidel with their cousins and the aroma of frying latkes fills the room would be a real treat. But it would mean arriving back at home far later than when people in ancient times would have been on their nightly commute home, and lighting after the traditional time. And the Rema suggests that we’d be best served following the practice of old. 

Why? I’m not too sure. 

Exactly. 

Chanukah Brunch it is. 

Parshas Vayeitzei

I couldn’t help but wonder, “What took so long?” When I arrived at yeshiva that morning, a series of faces greeted me in the stairwell. There were still a few minutes to go before Shacharis began, and the students were still in “chill mode”—phones on, headphones out. I settled into my seat in the Bais Medrash, talis and tefillin on, and watched the steady trickle of students arrive for davening. But absent among them were the students I’d seen earlier upon my arrival. They’d made it to the building with time to spare, but didn’t make it to Shacharis until after Pesukei D’Zimrah was well under way.

So what took them so long?

But as I replayed the morning’s events, I actually found myself pondering another question altogether. 

“How did they make it in to davening so quickly?” 

If you follow the narrative contained in the pesukim, it would appear that when Yaakov leaves home he travels immediately to Charan, barring the one short night he spends under the stars, dreaming of angels and ladders. But in making the calculation, Chazal find that fourteen years go missing, unaccounted for in the chronicles of Yaakov’s escapades since he’d left his parents’ home. For these fourteen years, they explain, Yaakov hid himself away in Yeshivas Shem V’Ever, hitting the books for a deep dive in Talmud Torah before entering into the spiritually compromising atmosphere that would pervade his destination, the home of Lavan.

Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky wonders why this was necessary. Yaakov, after all, had already studied under the tutelage of Avraham and Yitzchak, his saintly grandfather and father. What more would be gained by studying in the Yeshiva of Shem v’Ever? Why not complete the mission he was instructed to complete by his parents without delay? 

Rav Yaakov explains that the Torah Yaakov learned from his father and grandfather was of a different variety than that which he would now study. Until now, Yaakov was enveloped in a spiritual cocoon—the home of Yitzchak and Rivkah. Heading to the house of Lavan, Yaakov was now about to face far more antagonism over his beliefs and way of life than he had ever previously experienced. And that demanded a different brand of Torah, of preparation, of education.

Shem lived during the Flood, a time when the world’s population was considered by Hashem so morally vacuous that they deserved to be wiped off the face of the earth. Ever lived during the Dor Haflagah—the generation responsible for building the Tower of Bavel, a direct challenge to Hashem’s sovereignty. The Torah that would be shared in the Bais Medrash they founded would be of a unique variety, one that would speak to the immense challenge of insulating oneself against a harsh environment of immoral influences. This was a Torah that Yaakov had not yet learned, so he took the time to do so. 

Different situations, different generations, call for education of different varieties and tones. The challenges of Yaakov’s youth are not the challenges of his adult life, and he needed to re-educate himself accordingly.

Which is the realization I had when I saw my students dragging their feet a bit. What did my morning routine look like when I was in high school? Didn’t we basically head straight for Shacharis as soon as we entered the building? Isn’t that just what you do?

And it occurred to me that they have something that I didn’t: A smartphone. An endless stream of entertainment at the ready, all in the palms of their hands. When I was in high school, how difficult was the transition from putting my things down in my locker to going to daven? Not nearly as challenging as prying myself away from a phone and surrendering it for the remainder of the school day upon arrival at Shacharis.

Which left me more impressed by their behavior than disappointed. How quickly they made that pivot. How quickly they transitioned from mindless entertainment to davening. 

The challenges our teenagers face today are not the challenges we faced when we were their age. And that should motivate us to periodically replace annoyance with admiration. No, perhaps we didn’t act like that, talk like that when we were kids, but these kids are up against a lot more, are influenced by a world at odds with our sensibilities and values in a way we thankfully never were. 

But it must also motivate us to do what Yaakov did. To realize that while the environment of growing up in Yitzchak and Rivkah’s home demanded one form of education, standing on the threshold of Lavan’s house, a new form was now needed.

If the only lesson we draw from the challenges of today’s world is how impressed we should be by the accomplishments of our children, we’re doing them a disservice. It’s critical that we recognize those difficulties and do everything we can (even while they kick and scream) to help alleviate those challenges.

If we found tefilah boring when we were younger, how much more lackluster must it feel for a teen today? After a bus ride spent watching YouTube and TikTok videos? How can we expect kids to successfully pivot from screens to sefarim in such close succession? What can we do to widen the gap between the two, to allow for some space for their minds to recalibrate, to ready itself for something more intellectual and contemplative?

Rare is the teenager who freely relinquishes the opportunity to own the latest technology, to have free access to whatever apps and content he or she so fancies. In a moment of honesty, they may well recognize the detrimental effect such liberties have on what they wish to accomplish in life, but teenagers cannot provide themselves with the education and precautions they need; that is for parents to do. 

We want our children to engage with Tefilah and Torah. In the best of circumstances, it’s an uphill battle. What’s made it uniquely more challenging in this generation is that so many are being asked to so engage against the backdrop of devices that do anything but prime their minds for these holy activities. 

Yaakov recognized that new times and new situations called for a new mode of education. And he was old enough to provide himself with it. Children are not so capable. If we’ve found that they are growing up in a different, more hostile world, if we recognize that they need guardrails not part of the educational package of a generation ago, it is up to us as parents to provide them.