“If the only vision we have of ourselves comes from the social mirror—from the current social paradigm and the opinions, perceptions, and paradigms of the people around us—our view of ourselves is like the reflection in the crazy mirror room at the carnival.”
– Stephen Covey, “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People”
We need to be on guard against judging ourselves through the eyes of other people, lest we emerge with a distorted, unrealistic, and damaging view. But the reverse is likewise true. When we interpret the behavior of others through the lens of our own lives and experiences, we’re guilty of using that same funhouse mirror, rather than a clear pane of glass.
Any child knows the punishment the Torah holds in store for the sin of speaking lashon hara. Tzara’as. The metaphysical skin-disease that the Torah discusses in this week’s parsha is understood by Chazal as afflicting a person who has spoken disparagingly of his neighbor.
We know that lashon harah leads to tzara’as. What we spend less time considering is what tzara’as leads to in turn.
All the days that the affliction is upon him he is impure. He shall sit in isolation; outside the camp shall his residence be.
(Vayikra 13:46)
Tzara’as is not the ultimate consequence of speaking lashon hara, isolation is. Why is this so? Rashi comments that when someone speaks lashon hara, he is driving a wedge between that person and those around him. Those who hear the disparaging remarks think less of him and the close bonds they once shared are now frayed. The subject of the lashon hara has been isolated from those once close to him; the one who spoke those words now experiences the same.
We have undoubtedly witnessed such situations firsthand. A person disparaged by another suddenly doesn’t know who his friends are and aren’t. Who ignored the gossip and who believed it? Who’s still on my side and who isn’t? Perhaps giving the slanderer a taste of isolation—a sense of what the slandered is going through—could lead to corrected behavior in the future.
Yet there is a well known example of lashon hara—and consequent tzara’as—that doesn’t fit this bill. At the end of Parshas Beha’aloscha, Miriam is punished with tzara’as for having spoken lashon hara about Moshe, questioning his decision to leave his wife to be fully available for any incoming Divine message. Miriam pointed to her own marriage, as well as that of Aharon’s, as evidence that one can both serve as a prophet while still maintaining a proper marriage.
Miriam’s lashon hara wasn’t an attempt to marginalize Moshe. Her claim was that Moshe was unduly marginalizing himself. Why was the self-imposed rift necessary? Why couldn’t Moshe be more aligned with the behavior that she and Aharon demonstrated? Why couldn’t he be closer to his family, rather than choosing to isolate himself from them? If tzara’as and the isolation it brings is meant to simulate the experience of the person spoken about, how do we understand it as a consequence of Miriam’s lashon hara, speech that attempted to draw Moshe closer, rather than push him further to the fringes?
Perhaps, then, there is an additional message conveyed to the metzora by their imposed isolation. Namely, to avoid the temptation to compare oneself to others. Miriam’s error was in assuming that what held true of her held true of Moshe. That if she could serve as a nevi’ah and also a wife, then Moshe could be both a navi and a husband. Yet Miriam and Moshe were not alike. Moshe had to be at the constant beck and call of Hashem in a way that no other navi did and could therefore not be bound by the natural constraints of a normal life and marriage.
When we compare ourselves to others, it is natural that lashon hara will follow. Why do they act in a way that I never would? Why aren’t they as dedicated, sensitive, or charitable as I am? Why aren’t their priorities in order the way that mine are? Seeing the shortcomings of others as compared to our behavior—or, at least, the impression we have of our own behavior—opens the door to speaking unkindly of them.
It is turning the funhouse mirror not on ourselves, but on others. It is using a lens distorted by our own subjective personalities and experiences in an effort to see others clearly. And it doesn’t work.
Isolation, then, becomes a corrective measure in this regard as well. The metzora is removed from the rest of society as if to say, “See yourself as different and apart. See the great distance that divides you from everyone else. Make no assumptions about the struggles, challenges, and difficulties the other faces based on your own. Do not presume that the advantages and privileges that have led to your accomplishments are shared equally by others and that they should be held to the same standard. Don’t judge others as compared to yourself. See yourself in isolation from them, and them in isolation from you”
What if before we spoke about another person, before we sized up their behavior and their character, we attempted to think of them apart from us? Perhaps they struggle more than I do? Perhaps they didn’t have the role models I have? Perhaps they are more limited in their resources—emotional, financial, or social—than I am? If I think of them in isolation from me, does that change my perspective?
Attempting to see a person independent of ourselves can lead to a complete paradigm shift. We can go from being judgmental to being compassionate. From making unfair assumptions to attempting to understand the full picture. How much more clearly might we understand those around us if we learned to question the very lenses through which we view them?
I remember once visiting the Israel Museum in Yerushalayim and seeing a pair of ancient tefilin. There was much about the tefilin that were so similar to my own and I recall being struck by the sense that something I do each morning truly transcends time, connecting me with practices kept by Jews who lived thousands of years before. But, at least for a moment, another thought slipped into my head.
“Pfft. Mine are nicer.”
Parshas HaChodesh is the special maftir we read in advance of Rosh Chodesh Nissan each year and serves as a reminder of how things are actually supposed to get done. No checking a printed calendar, no browsing myzmanim.com. No, the dates of the Hebrew calendar are supposed to be determined in a more ad hoc capacity. You determine the first of each month only once the new moon appears and then continue to count from there, until the process is repeated anew the next month.
That the Jewish calendar is now pre-determined, that you can check right now when Pesach is scheduled to fall in the year 2050 is something to bemoan. Only because of the destruction of the Bais Hamikdash, the disbanding of the central Bais Din, and the loss of proper rabbinic ordination, do we find ourselves in this fix. The defaulting to a pre-calculated calendar is an unfortunate reality, not an achievement to be celebrated.
Which is at odds with the usual arc by which history unfolds. The difference between ancient tefilin and my tefilin is representative of the standard interaction between technological advancements and halachic practice. The modern era has graced us with heavy duty machinery, hydraulic presses, and other novelties that have made for a more beautiful set of tefilin.
Rabbis and laymen alike make no apologies for seizing upon new developments that will permit a more beautiful manner of fulfilling a mitzvah. We relish the fact that enhanced growing methods make for more beautiful esrogim, new materials permit more sound and waterproof sukkahs, and modern day candles, oil, and wicks make for enhanced Shabbos or Chanukah lights.
Yet when it comes to Kiddush HaChodesh, an apology is issued. Yes, the calendar is more precise now than ever, but it’s a shame. True, we’re relying upon sound mathematical calculations, but what a pity. No, the calendar cannot be thrown into confusion by an isolated foggy morning the way it once could, but how we miss those days of old.
Halacha generally welcomes the development of new technology and new methods. Why is the establishment of the dates of the Jewish calendar any different?
Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that the expression used by the Torah to introduce the process of sanctifying the new moon is precise. The Torah says, “החודש הזה לכם ראש חדשים—This month is for you the first of all months.” The first month is not only identified as such, but is branded by the words “to you,” as actually belonging to the Jewish People.
A holiday, Rav Hirsch explains, is a celebratory rendezvous between Hashem and His People. It is a time to be together, to enjoy one another’s company, and to remember fondly the experiences of the past that the holiday commemorates. In truth, this is not something that can be demanded of the People any more than a husband can demand that his wife celebrate their anniversary. If it must be demanded, there’s nothing to celebrate. If there isn’t an eager willingness to participate, then what’s the point?
Hashem says, “לכם—To you. You’re in the driver’s seat. You control the calendar. You determine when Pesach comes. Because if I must demand it of you, if I must impose it upon you, if I have to threaten that you’d better be at the Seder Table on such-and-such a day or else, then what’s the point of it all?”
The reality is that we are bound by the mitzvos. There are expectations and demands that we perform. And when that performance can be made better, more precise, or more beautiful by supplementing human frailties with modern advancements, we welcome those opportunities with open arms. But not for the calendar itself. The calendar must be beset by human limitation and be subject to human error. If it’s not, it’s not really “לכם—yours.” A calendar bereft of human weakness is also stripped of human emotion.
Where, then, does that leave us today? Pesach—the 15th of Nissan—will fall on a day already determined centuries ago. It is calculated and formulaic, rather than an expression of love and yearning. Perhaps, though, we can generate the emotion no longer latent in the establishment of the date itself by at least being conscious of the language we use and the tone we strike in making our preparations for the holiday.
Pesach places more demands upon us than any other holiday by far. The cooking, cleaning, shopping, and kashering necessary for Pesach has no peer anywhere else on the calendar. What mentality do we adopt in undertaking these tasks? What is the language we use in readying ourselves for Pesach prep? Do we speak of chores and errands? Do we gripe and groan?
What if the language we use and the energy we emit focused more on the excitement of being around the table with family and friends? The anticipation of nachas in hearing our children and grandchildren share divrei Torah? The appreciation of being freed from slavery and being uplifted by the purposeful living Hashem has blessed His chosen nation with?
The journey leading to Pesach is meant to be a decidedly human one. One that allows for human error, but also encourages human emotion. The current calendar has eradicated error, but let’s ensure that the journey is still rich with emotion. With love, with longing, and with anticipation of enjoying a night around Hashem’s table.
“Why wasn’t I invited to the wedding? I’ve davened one row behind them for years. Our kids have been in class together since nursery. We co-chaired the PTA event last spring. How could they be so cold and unfriendly? “
So you call an old friend and share your tale of woe. What a snub! Where’s their sense of community? Their basic middos?
And your friend reminds you, “Last month, I called you with almost the same issue. And remember what you told me? You don’t know anyone else’s finances, maybe they’re really on a budget, have limited invites. Maybe they’re just harried by all that has be done and just overlooked it.”
“That was different,” you say.
Was it really?
Parshas Pekudei provides a reckoning of all the money in and all the money out. After completing the construction of the Mishkan, the books are made public for all to see. Here’s what was donated, and here’s what was spent. Complete transparency. Well, almost.
As we begin moving down the list of precious metals collected for the capital campaign, we find an interesting distinction between the gold and silver that had been donated. A complete accounting is provided for the silver—both what was raised and also what it was used to construct. But there’s less transparency when it comes to the gold. We’re told how much was raised, but not what was then made from it.
Rav Yehonasan Eybeschitz explains that the distinction lies in where each asset came from. The campaign to raise the necessary silver was supported by the nation in its entirety; every single man donated a silver half-shekel to the cause. The gold on the other hand was sponsored only by the nedivei lev—the generous few who wanted to go above and beyond the call of duty.
Where the entire nation was concerned, surely there would be those who would demand a detailed account of how every last half-shekel would be spent. But among the most magnanimous, the self-selecting group of those who decided to donate gold out of their own generosity, there would be no such demand. The generosity of spirit that motivated them to donate in the first place would not permit the sort questioning and suspicion that would demand a public record of every penny spent.
Indeed, some people are more trusting, others more skeptical. But where were the skeptical folks when it came to the gold? Granted, they may not have donated to the cause personally, but why should that change the demand for transparency? If what’s at stake is fairness and honesty, why not insist on a full reckoning of all the gold spent with the same urgency as the silver, whether they had contributed or not?
Because much of what actually lies beneath the surface of alleged righteous indignation may actually be personal, vested interest. And that doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you a person. And people are complex. No individual, no matter how righteous, can provide testimony in a Bais Din for a case involving a family member is a litigant. No judge, no matter how holy, may adjudicate if he’s received special favor from one of the two litigants.
So what’s the path forward? Are we never permitted to call out unfairness or mistreatment simply because we may be personally involved? Are we necessarily wrong to make a demand that others behave with propriety if we would personally benefit from that changed behavior?
The story of the gold and silver donations to the Mishkan may help construct a worthwhile exercise to perform when we find ourselves in this situation. If I find myself insisting that the books be opened on the donations of silver for all to see, let me ask myself in all honesty: “Am I making the same demands for the gold donations? Why not?”
In other words, before I go off on the insensitivity of the baalei simcha for not inviting me, let me ask myself: Have I ever complained so adamantly before on behalf of someone else being snubbed? When my friend called me with the same complaint last month, was I as hot and bothered as I am now over the injustice of the whole thing, or did I see all the ways in which that behavior was actually excusable?
If a neighbor seems to invite everyone but me for a Shabbos meal, didn’t come to the shiur I hosted, or committed any other one of life’s regular offenses, how did I react relative to when something similar happened to someone else? Was I equally horrified by the affront they’d suffered, or was my response more measured when I wasn’t the one slighted?
When we find ourselves getting hot and bothered by others’ behavior, we can pause for a moment and consider what our response would have been if it happened to someone else instead. Would we be equally passionate and offended by the disrespect, dishonesty, or show of poor character? Or would we brush it off as being largely excusable and try to talk our offended friend off the ledge?
A moment of honest reflection can sometimes bring clarity and calm to a situation. “I’ve never made such a fuss over someone else’s gold. Why am I only doing so for my own silver?”
A child comes home from school, walks through the door and plops his knapsack down on the floor. A terse dialogue ensues that, no matter how many days in a row the same routine has been played out, leaves his parents’ jaws squarely on the floor.
“How was your day?”
“Good.”
“What’d you learn?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing? Nothing?! How is that even remotely possible? You haven’t seem the kid for hours, he was sent off to an institution of rigorous education, and spent the entire day in the company of those whose life mission it is to educate youngsters. Nothing?!
Well, adults, guess what? Far too many of us are guilty of the same crime.
Moshe presents Betzalel to the People as the chief artisan presiding over the construction of the Mishkan. But the press release is issued as though it is already old news; that somehow the people had already known that Betzalel was so chosen, despite having never been told.
Moshe said to the Children of Israel, “See that Hashem has called the name of Betzalel, son of Uri, son of Chur, of the Tribe of Judah.
Shemos 35:30
Rav Moshe Feinstein asks why Betzalel is introduced in this manner. Moshe references a “calling” that has already been made, but when did this happen and why would the people know about it?
Rav Moshe answers with a startling insight. He explains that the immensely talented Betzalel was never formally called. Rather, the talent he possessed was itself the calling. That everyone knew of Betzalel’s talents was one and the same as knowing that he had been called to perform the work, to dedicate his talents in the service of Hashem and the Jewish People.
Talent, explains Rav Moshe, is both an invitation and a demand. The abilities one possesses were not gifted to him arbitrarily, but by design, and with strings attached. There is an expectation that those abilities will be honed and will be utilized for the sake of holy work, of avodas hakodesh.
It’s an astounding statement. But also one that may not resonate with the average person. Because the average person is not an artist. There is no special talent or artistic flair that can be employed in the service of Hashem and the Jewish People. No ability to work with precious metals or weave thread in such a way as to construct a residence for Hashem’s Presence.
But talent knows many forms. And the mistake so many of us make is in overlooking the talents we do indeed possess. If not artistically talented, if not in possession of the sort of ability that allows them to paint a beautiful picture or play beautiful music, we define themselves as talentless.
“What are you good at?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing? Nothing?! How is that even remotely possible?
People spend their waking hours engaged in activities that call upon them to perform tasks and produce results. Oftentimes, they are even paid good money for such work. But we define those activities as being something less than the product of talent. It’s business. It’s life. It’s stuff. It’s not talent.
And that’s all wrong. Yes, the Mikdash needed an artisan. But communities and shuls need lots of skills. They need web designers and accountants and bookkeepers and organizers and copywriters. We default to thinking of art galleries and concert halls as the exclusive places in which talent is exhibited, but talent is on display just as much in our offices and homes, inside of our laptops and scrawled across the pages of our daily planners.
I recently met someone who was telling me about the work he does for couples going through divorces, trying to help mediate and ensure that a get is issued in a proper fashion. He didn’t share his whole story with me, but when I asked about how he got involved in this realm of communal work, he told me, “Hashem didn’t have me go through my own experience just to keep it all to myself and not help others.” This man’s experience yielded certain expertise, and he paid it forward in the form of assisting others going through similar challenges.
A prime example of this sort of work has been undertaken by “Living Smarter Jewish,” an organization dedicated to providing basic financial guidance for the frum community. This is a group of professionals who could easily have responded, “Nothing,” when asked what they’re talented at. “We’re CPA’s and financial planners. Not woodworkers and painters. We don’t have talent.” Oh yes they do. And they’re using that talent in a big way.
In our own community, a small group of remarkable women understood that identifying and utilizing talent could raise money for our brothers and sisters in Israel. How easy it would have been to respond with a shrug of the shoulders instead. “We don’t have any talent. Baking? Baking’s not a talent, it’s just what we do to get ready for Shabbos.” But baking is a talent. And cranking out flyers is a talent. And organizing the effort is a talent. In identifying those talents, “Baked B’Ahava” was born. And those talents have to date yielded over thirty thousand dollars in funds raised for important organizations in Israel.
There are countless similar examples, and yet far too few. There is immense talent and ability that resides in the individuals comprising our nation that could yet be leveraged in the interest of the Klal but doesn’t. And not because there aren’t enough hours in the day or because people are overcommitted, but simply because they don’t recognize the talents they have for what they truly are and don’t recognize the enormous impact they can have by sharing them.
If we had a need to put a resume together, we’d painstakingly comb through our daily grind in search of skills and abilities that underpin all that we do and accomplish. We’d compile the list and present it before a would-be employer to give them a sense of all we could bring to the company.
And there is no shame in that. The call to earn an honorable livelihood for ourselves and our families is one we must answer. But there is another call that must be answered as well, one that demands a very similar response. It is the call made by the talent itself. It demands that we first recognize the incredible array of skills and abilities that possess and to label them as such. And then to consider how such talent can be leveraged in direct service of Hashem and of His People.
Gold and wood may not be your talent. But something else undoubtedly is. That talent is a call. How will you answer it?
A Billy Bookcase is a fairly straightforward enterprise. But nonetheless, I’ve always been grateful for the instruction booklet the good folks at Ikea tuck inside. Without a picture to serve as your guide, you could easily do something wrong, like install a shelf backwards (in fact, I’ve found that even the inclusion of the instruction booklet won’t necessarily spare you from this fate if you’re not following carefully). The more complex the item, the more necessary it is to have a picture as your guide.
So how complex is a half-shekel?
Hashem calls upon Moshe to perform a census with not only words, but a picture. Hashem says, “זה יתנו—This they shall give (Shemos 30:13),” which Rashi explains to mean that Hashem was presenting an actual depiction of the coin itself. A half-shekel made of fire was actually conjured up to provide Moshe with a visual-aid.
The usage of the word “זה—This,” is similarly explained elsewhere. In Parshas ּBehaaloscha, Hashem describes the construction of the Menorah, saying, “וזה מעשה המנורה—And this is the construction of the Menorah (Bamidbar 8:4).” Here, too, Rashi explains that Hashem was pointing to an image, one he had conjured for Moshe so he could understand the full scope of the Menorah and have a hope to craft it out of gold.
Using a Billy Bookcase as a frame of reference, an image of the Menorah, with all its decorative embellishments, should most certainly come with a depiction of what the finished product should look like. But a half-shekel? Are words alone really insufficient to adequately describe something as simple as a coin?
The Chasam Sofer explains that the point was not the image itself, but what the image was made of. Hashem didn’t just show Moshe an image of a coin, but a coin of fire. Why? Because, as the old adage goes, “רחמנא ליבא בעי—Hashem wants our hearts.” A donation given begrudgingly is hardly the point. If the nation is to be elevated through the process of donating to the Mishkan, it must be performed with passion and interest. It’s not only the coin, but the fire that burns behind it.
This was surely a challenge for any pauper who had to scrounge around to come up with his half-shekel. For anyone who had to tighten his belt and his budget weeks and months in advance of the collection date, giving up the half-shekel with a fire and passion, with a desire and willingness, was surely no small feat.
But the Torah is clear that the demand of this mitzvah is placed not only upon the poor, but upon the wealthy. “העשיר לא ירבה והדל לא ימעיט—The wealthy may not increase, nor may the pauper decrease (Shemos 30:15).” It would be one thing if the wealthy Jew is expected to give according to his means. In that case, his inner struggle would be no less than that of the poor fellow called upon to donate a mere fraction of the billionaire’s pledge. But if the expectation is a mere half-shekel across the board, independent of net worth and financial means, what challenge does the wealthy person face? Why does he need to be implored to be dedicated, passionate, and aflame with religious ambition?
When you’re young, hungry, and inexperienced, the entry-level job feels perfectly appropriate. There are no expectations that one be handed the corner office and a plaque on the door. We don’t yet have the talent or know-how for such grandiose expectations.
But then we develop. We hone our talents and build our portfolios. And our expectations grow. Not only of the compensation and benefits we should receive, but of the position we ought to fill. We can’t bring ourselves to work in the copy room when we ought to be in the conference room.
Which is the great challenge in developing wealth. Not only monetary wealth, but a wealth of experience, talent, and ability. It is difficult to have achieved without feeling one has arrived. How can we bring ourselves to take baby steps when we’ve already covered so much ground?
A daily tip on raising children? I’ve been a parent for decades! A ten-minute limud during my lunch break? I learned three sedarim a day in yeshiva, for crying out loud! A book on improving my marriage? I just celebrated my thirtieth anniversary!
So what do we do instead? Nothing. The large steps are too daunting to face and the small steps are beneath us. So where do we remain? Stuck. Frozen in place in the shadow cast by our oversized bank accounts. All we’ve achieved isn’t leveraged as proof of our ability to succeed, it becomes the albatross around our neck that hampers the small steps needed to continue moving and growing. “You’re a billionaire, you can’t just give a half-shekel. So give nothing at all. Stay right where you are.”
To this, Hashem produces a half-shekel of fire. If we’re on fire, passionate about the cause of sculpting ourselves in the image of G-d, ablaze with the passion to become the best possible versions of ourselves, we’ll gladly take the baby-steps needed.
It’s the first half-shekel that trains the future philanthropist. The first ten minutes that begins to craft the future masmid. The first page of insights that begins to forge a more patient parent or attentive spouse. It’s hard to generate much fire around tiny advances, but we can be burn with the passion of becoming new people.
If we’re on fire, we’ll be unencumbered by the disparity between what we’ve already achieved and what we must now do to continue to grow. We’ll push ourselves towards a path of new growth and fresh success. One half-shekel at a time.
There is something unnerving about the notion of backroom politics. We’d like to believe that elected officials simply take the podium in front of their colleagues, speak their conscience about policies they’d like to see instituted on behalf of their constituents, and, after some debate and conversations, votes for or against are cast. But things are not so simple. There are negotiations—some above board, many undoubtedly not—that take place behind closed doors to curry favor, drum up support, and pledge to “scratch your back if you scratch mine”. It’s the backroom where the real action happens.
And it’s not just true in Washington. It’s true on Har HaBayis as well.
The Gemara in Yoma 44a makes an interesting comment about the ketores—the incense whose service is described in Parshas Tetzaveh—and the unique impact it has in the negotiating process with the Almighty. Whereas lashon hara can serve to unravel the entirety of our relationship with Hashem—indeed, the Chofetz Chaim notes that lashon hara is the specific sin referred to when the Rabbis identified baseless hatred as the reason for which the Bais Hamikdash was destroyed—it is the ketores that serves as the focal point of the backroom negotiation that restores the bond.
Why does the Ketores of all things possess this unusual ability? Precisely because it is a significant feature of the backroom. Or, as the Gemara puts it, “יבא דבר שבחשאי ויכפר על מעשה חשאי—Let that which is done in secrecy atone for that which is done in secrecy.” The ketores, burned in the interior of the Sanctuary, uproots the sin of gossip, slander, and other forms of improper speech which are also typically shared in secret whispers.
Why should this be so? Why is the private nature of the two acts any more meaningful than just a happenstance similarity? What is the significance of the secrecy the ketores and lashon hara share in common?
As opposed to the secretive conversations held by power brokers and policy makers, the goings on of the inner sanctum of the Bais Hamikdash is common knowledge. Hashem describes in the Torah exactly what will take place behind the closed doors of the Sanctuary. Despite the ketores being a service that only Kohanim may perform, everyone else is fully aware that it takes place, despite it being shielded from the public view.
Which is exactly the point. We are meant to be aware of the private enclaves of the Bais HaMikdash because we are meant to think of those areas are no less important as the public spaces. When it comes to holiness and sanctity, we do not consider less significant that which we do not see.
Do we hold ourselves and our own holiness to the same standard?
In public, we want to be seen as charitable and generous. We want others to see us as baalei chesed, as someone people can rely upon in times of need. Does that chesed extend to the private domain as well? What is the determination to refrain from lashon hara if not a commitment to act charitably with our words? To be generous in our assessment of others? To ensure that the sanctity and kindness that we radiate in public is equally present in private?
Can we condition ourselves to equate public and private in our own behavior no less than we do in the arena of the Bais Hamikdash? Not that “I’m really a generous person, but I’m ruthless in business”. Not that “I’m sensitive towards the needs of others, I just make outrageous demands of my employees”. Not that “I’m kind and sweet, but I scream at my kids when nobody’s watching”. And not that, “My heart is wide open for chessed, but only in public action, not in private speech.”
We daven three times a day for the restoration of the Bais Hamikdash. All of it, in its entirety. Inside and outside, private and public. When it comes to holy spaces we want things full and complete. If we want to be holy people, we must expect the same of ourselves.
If I was more polite, I’d just say “Thank you.” But sometimes I can’t help myself.
“Really? Inspiring? Tell me, what are you inspired to do?”
The Tanna D’Bei Eliyahu notes that the juxtaposition of this week’s parsha and last week’s is far from coincidental. At the end of Parshas Mishpatim, the Torah presents another version of the experience at Har Sinai, highlighting certain elements that weren’t present in the first telling of the story back in Parshas Yisro. It is there in Parshas Mishpatim that the famous response of the Jewish People to being offered the gift of the Torah is recorded: “נעשה ונשמע—We will do and we will listen.” Before ever knowing what the Torah actually contained, the Jewish People bought in. So convinced were they that Hashem had their best interest in mind, so electrified were they by being in His presence, that they were willing to accept whatever it was that Hashem had to offer.
It is precisely following this acceptance that we find the opening words of this week’s parsha, “ויקחו לי תרומה—Take for me a donation.” The Jewish People have committed themselves to the Torah, to a covenant with Hashem. They are bowled over by His kindness and by His providence and never want to let go or to be let go. And so, now comes the big question: Are they willing to pay for it?
“Na’aseh v’nishma” has become the anthem of the Har Sinai experience. There are moments when we feel ourselves back at that awesome gathering. We are inspired and uplifted. We are certain of Hashem’s Presence and our direct relationship with Him. We are convinced of the value and beauty of living rich spiritual lives. The shiur, the tisch, the shmoneh esrei, the sunset—something moved us to identify more deeply with Hashem and His mitzvos and we commit mentally to doing more.
What happens when we experience that direct contact with Hashem? When we’re inspired? Inspiration itself is worth very little unless we act upon it. Now, not later.
Hashem is with us in moments of inspiration. And whether we hear it or not, He turns to us at those times and whispers three words in our ear: “ויקחו לי תרומה—Make a donation.” Don’t just have these feelings, actualize them. Don’t just be moved, do something. Don’t just say “Na’aseh v’nishma.” Launch the campaign.
There are times when the call of giving terumah is quite literal. When we feel enriched by the Torah provided by our shul, when we gush with pride over the latest d’var Torah our child brought home from school, when we’re moved by the work of a remarkable chessed organization, what we feel can’t be the end of the story. We need to ensure the future of those institutions that do so much good, that bring us such fulfillment, that are helping redeem the world. We need to get out our wallets and give.
But it’s not only institutions that need to be built and supported; we as individuals are no different. Just as feelings of inspiration won’t secure the future for valuable institutions, such feelings are meaningless in securing our own future growth and development. Feelings dissipate frighteningly quickly and do little to change our trajectory.
Feelings are only as valuable as the new practices they spawn. An emotional high and a vague mental commitment—“na’aseh v’nishma”—demands something practical and tangible to be immediately converted into in order to have any staying power.
Inspired to learn more? Make the immediate deposit into your learning. Don’t go to bed until you’ve started that new sefer or scheduled the chavrusa. Inspired towards chesed? Sign up to volunteer. Right now. Because feelings of inspiration that are left un-actualized will soon vanish. If there’s no new habit that’s been installed in your routine, there will be nothing left of the time you spent at Sinai.
Rav Chaim Volozhiner noted that the call to build a Mikdash—a place of sanctity for Hashem’s Presence—is issued with the expression “ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם—And you shall build for Me a Sanctuary and I will dwell within you.” Hashem doesn’t describe that He will dwell “within it,” inside of the Mikdash edifice the people construct, but rather, “בתוכם—within you.” The construction of a Mikdash is an exercise that relates not only to a building, but to the development of the individual Jew, within whom Hashem will come to rest once that human being is transformed into a Mishkan.
The call to make a deposit into the collection plate is made immediately following the spiritual high of Har Sinai. When as individuals we enjoy moments that channel some of that same energy, the response must be the same. Make a deposit. Immediately. Channel the inspiration to change, to grow, to develop into something concrete. Something that will construct a new, better you where the old one once stood. Those feelings of inspiration will evaporate in an instant. How will we ensure that they’ll have a lasting impact?
One of the bright spots in the darkness of the COVID-19 pandemic was the food distribution program. Once a week, we’d drive to the distribution site and our van would be loaded with food boxes provided by the government to supplant the food that school-aged children were (at least theoretically) no longer receiving through their schools’ meal programs. On my way home one evening, I noticed that the light on my dashboard indicated that my trunk was open. I said a small tefilah and asked Hashem for the latch to hold nonetheless. The last thing I needed was eight gallons of milk spilling all over Cooper Landing Road.
That particularly year, I was teaching the first perek of Bava Kama, which discusses and explicates many of the laws found in Parshas Mishpatim, including those related to damages. I shared the vignette with my students and asked, “What would you say about this case? What if I had spilled my groceries and created a hazard for other other drivers or pedestrians to contend with?” They responded, “Oh! It’s a Bor birshus harabbim—a pit opened in a public place!”
Though a bit more complicated halachically speaking, it was just the reaction I was hoping for. As this week’s parsha teaches, one who digs a pit in the middle of a public road becomes responsible for the damage done to others’ property as a result. And the principle is applied more broadly than just pits, holes, or trenches. If my food packages had tumbled out of my van and had caused damage to someone else’s car, perhaps I would have been responsible to pay for those damages.
The impact we have on the world matters. Whether our intention is to cause damage or not, we become responsible for what we drop in the public thoroughfare and its adverse effect on others.
In the Laws of Idol Worship, the Rambam discusses the interactions we as Jews have with members of non-Jewish society at large. A question arises: If I can make a buck by selling an idol to an idolator, am I permitted to do so? The Rambam declares this prohibited, but far more intriguing than the ruling itself is the comparison to another law:
Just as we do not sell items to idolators that will encourage their performance of idolatry, so do we not sell them something that can cause harm to others, such as bears or lions or weapons or ropes or chains.
Rambam, Laws of Idolatry, 9:8
That both laws should be prohibited makes perfect sense. The prohibition against idolatry is one of the seven Noahide laws, prohibited for non-Jews as much Jews. We want neither to encourage a violation of this basic moral demand, nor be responsible—even indirectly—for the creation of a public hazard.
But are they at all comparable? Is the prohibition against facilitating idolatry in any way similar to the responsibility we have for keeping innocent people safe from the weapons that we may wish to provide others with?
If your milk or groceries spill out into the road, your knee jerk reaction is likely to clean it up. Why? Because someone can trip and fall. I can’t allow my actions to cause physical harm to an innocent person. Evidently, the Rambam sees no difference between physical harm and spiritual harm in this regard. Indeed, the two prohibitions are identical. “כשם—Just as,” one must withhold introducing objects into society that can cause physical harm to others, so too when it comes to that which causes spiritual harm. Encouraging idolatry is not only problematic for the individual I may sell idols to; it becomes a societal issue because of the culture I help to foster.
The idol is set up in the living room of but one individual. But that individual is emboldened in his practices, invites others to participate, and a wave of sinful behavior surges outward from the original transaction I engaged in. We cannot differentiate between the physical and spiritual wellbeing of those who my actions will ultimately impact.
Imagine walking through a crowd at kiddush and trying to balance a cup of soda and bowl of cholent while snaking your way towards a chair at the end of the room. En route, your body twists, your arm turns, and everything ends up on the floor. What do you do? You clean it up. Because no matter how hungry or thirsty you may be, no matter how antsy you are to just finish up and get back home, you’d never allow your actions to cause harm to others. If someone can slip or trip on your mess, you’ll clean it up.
We need to consider spiritual hazards in the same light. We make a grave error when we consider our talking in shul as being a personal decision, being reflective of nothing more than our own commitment to davening or our personal relationship with a Bais Haknesses. We need to think about who else we’re impacting, who may slip and fall on the mess we’re making, who will be enticed to step away from meaningful tefilah to engage in the conversation now taking place, or simply be interrupted and distracted from being able to pray properly.
Lashon Hara is not a personal consideration of how “frum” we may or may not be. Nor is dishonesty or anger or a flippant attitude towards serious matters. When displayed in the company of others, these become groceries that lie in the street, hazards for others to become accustomed to, influenced by, and trip over. Our minds may classify certain behaviors as personal decisions, but they can help to fuel a harmful culture that we become responsible for.
And let’s remember as well that the opposite is likewise true. When we’re assessing the value of any given mitzvah—those that are performed publicly in particular—it’s critical that we consider not only the mitzvah in of itself, but its impact on others and the culture it helps create. Coming to shul to daven or to learn, especially doing so punctually, is not only an expression of my personal relationship with Hashem. It helps encourage others to do the same and influences others for the better. When we speak properly, calmly, patiently, respectfully, we are not only becoming more refined, but creating a culture of refinement as well.
Gandhi once brilliantly stated, “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” How we act and speak is far more than a reflection of our own personalities or personal commitment to virtuous principles. It is a kernel of influence deposited in the public sphere that slowly radiates outward, affecting those around us. Our behavior changes the world one way or the other. When we enter the room, will others be inspired and uplifted, or will they trip and fall?
If you are partcularly familiar with something, you may comment that you know it “like the back of your hand.” But how well do you know the back of your hand, really? It’s worth taking a closer look, because hands can be a very valuable commodity. According to salary.com, the average salary for a hand model in New York City is well over $70,000.
But Yisro, for one, seems to hold hands in great disdain.
And Yisro said, “Blessed is G-d Who saved you from the hand of Egypt and from the hand of Pharaoh. Who saved the nation from beneath the hand of Egypt.
Shemos 18:10
Yisro arrives on the scene and immediately praises Hashem for all He’d done for the Jewish People, liberating them from Mitzrayim. And he is fixated on hands. Yisro remarks that we were saved from the hand of Egypt, the hand of Pharaoh, and again, the hand of Egypt. And whereas the reference to hands could be dismissed as the appropriate figure of speech were it stated once or twice, appearing three times in one verse creates conspicuous emphasis.
Rabbi Ephraim Twersky offers a beautiful explanation based on a comment of the Chasam Sofer. The Chasam Sofer suggests that the most truly caustic element of the Egyptian servitude was the Jewish People’s perceived loss of their own autonomy. It is no coincidence, he explains, that the first episode that the Torah shares of the Jewish enslavement was the forced construction of the cities of Pisom and Raamses. The Gemara in Sotah (11a) explains that the etymology of these cities’ names suggests shaky and unstable foundations. Try as they might, the Jewish People’s building efforts were an exercise in futility; the ground upon which they built could not support any structures they attempted to erect.
This was the entirety of the Egyptian servitude—a sense that the Jews’ actions didn’t matter or make a difference. That they could never move the needle forward, that what they did had no impact on the world around them. It was an attitude embedded within the very caste system of ancient Egypt itself—that there was no such thing as upward mobility, no way out of the lowest rungs of society. If you were born a slave, you remained a slave, and there was nothing you could do about it.
Rabbi Twersky suggests that this is precisely what the Jewish People were liberated from. On the one hand, Yetzias Mitzrayim was a recognition of G-d’s control and authority over the world and all that it contains. Yet on the other, it was a reaffirmation of man’s role in how that world functions and operates, that what we do doesn’t just sink into the ground like a building built on quicksand. That when we endeavor to construct, Hashem allows those creations to be upheld.
Yisro’s reappearance in the Jewish camp is marked by the words “וישמע יתרו—And Yisro heard.” What, exactly, did he hear that prompted his return? Rashi explains that it was the two events of Krias Yam Suf and the war with Amalek. Rabbi Twersky offers an incredible insight. In both situations, the Jewish salvation occurred through miraculous means. But in both situations, the hands of Moshe had to be lifted in order for the miracle to occur. The message is clear—Hashem is ultimately in control, but He demands the participation of human beings. The miracle is just an offer on the table; the people need to reach out their own hands in order to accept it.
This, then, is Yisro’s preoccupation with the salvation from the hands of the Egyptians. Being saved from the Egyptians’ hands, from Pharaoh’s hands, meant a restoration of the Jewish People’s own hands. The hands that Moshe Rabbeinu lifted over the sea to cause it to split and the hands he raised towards the heavens to bring about victory over our enemies. The hands that build, construct, create, with lasting impact. Not in defiance of Hashem’s plans, but in consonance with them.
Faith in Hashem is a critical middah we must strive to develop and expand, particularly when it comes to our own accomplishments. We can arrive at a place of untold arrogance when we view only ourselves as the authors of our achievements. It wasn’t just us who built the practice, got the promotion, made a wise investment. There were more forces than our own charm in winning over a future spouse, more than our own acumen in turning a profit, more than our own skills in passing a test.
But the relationship between Hashem’s control and our efforts cuts in the other direction as well. Hashem endows us with ability, invites our participation, and also demands our efforts. Emunah and bitachon can serve as an unfortunate escape from the responsibility we ourselves are meant to undertake in advancing towards our goals and designing the lives we want to live.
I was once speaking with a close friend who was seeking a new position. I checked in with him at some point, asking how the job hunt was coming along. “Not going much of anywhere,” he responded, “Just how Hashem wants it I guess.” It was a disheartening thing to hear considering how little effort I knew he’d put in. There was more networking to do, more fine-tuning of his resume, a wider net to cast into the job market.
“It’s what Hashem wants” is the constant recognition we all must have that our own efforts have no impact on their own. But it cannot become a motto that permits us to abandon the great gifts and abilities Hashem Himself provided us with. There’s proper emunah and there’s misplaced emunah. Proper emunah provides context for the efforts we make; misplaced emunah let’s us off the hook from making those efforts in the first place.
Yisro identified the salvation from Egypt’s hands as characterizing what the redemption was about at its core. To be saved from their hands is to be returned to our own. The hands that play a role in creating a better life and a better world. The hands that helped to split a sea and defeated our enemies. The Egyptians robbed us of those hands, let’s not rob ourselves of the same.
There are few images more chilling than that of an individual with numbers tattooed upon his arm. The notion of being reduced to no more than a number in the eyes of another human being is deeply disturbing. Emerging from the horrors of oppression, of slavery, one can imagine how great the desire to rediscover one’s unique identity must have been. To proclaim that one is not just one in a series, but an individual.
How interesting, then, that the very first mitzvah this former slave is to perform will force him to be subsumed within a group, rather than stand out as an individual.
Speak to the entire congregation of Israel saying, “On the tenth of this month each one shall take for themselves a lamb for his family, a lamb for his home.”
(Shemos 12:3)
The very first instruction that each Jew receives is not to find his own way, his own identity, to explore who or she is as an individual, but to fulfill an act on behalf of their families. Indeed, should one family be incapable of consuming an entire lamb, multiple families are to join together, diluting the individual experience even further.
Rabbi Shamshon Raphael Hirsch notes that this same notion is reflected in the placement of the blood on the doorframe of the home. The first entry that an individual Jew takes into mitzvah observance is not to consecrate his own private room or private bed, but the entire home that is a shared space for his entire family, and—as indicated by this very meal—even other families and friends as well.
How was a Jew legitimately supposed to make the transition from being no more than a number to being liberated, if liberation meant something less than coming into their own individual identity?
The answer to that question is contained just a few pesukim later, as Moshe relays the instructions he received from Hashem to the Jewish People and offers more detail as to what that first night of mitzvah observance is supposed to look like.
And it shall be that when your children say to you, “What is this service to you?” And you shall say to them, “It is a Pesach offering to Hashem, Who passed over the homes of the Children of Israel in Egypt, as He struck Egypt and saved our homes.” And the nation bowed and prostrated themselves.
(Shemos 12:26-27)
An individual can live the most extraordinary life, completely unfettered from any yoke or demand placed upon him by others. Yet even as he exercises every imaginable freedom, there is one prison he cannot escape: time. The Jew suddenly liberated from his Egyptian overlords could easily dive headlong into a life of personal fulfillment, but would only be shackled by the limitations of his own life and the sadly narrow space it occupies on the timeline of history. But by dedicating himself to his family, he escapes that constraint, and creates an influence and legacy that can live on forever.
The latter mitzvah helps to frame and explain the earlier one. Yes, Hashem demands that we dedicate our lives not to ourselves, but to others. But in so doing, He gives us the key to liberating ourselves not only from human oppressors but from the constraints of existence itself. Long into the future, his children and grandchildren will live lives that he shaped and influenced. Will abide by values he crafted at the Seder table. Will recall fondly the wisdom he imparted and the mesorah he conveyed.
It is precisely in this way that the Jewish People rebounded from the oppression of the tyrants who left numbers tattooed upon their arms. In the years 1946-1948, the birth rate in the DP camps of Europe was the highest in the world. And this despite the abysmal conditions those camps provided as the environment in which to raise children.
Why did the Jewish People respond this way? Because they had learned the message that Hashem conveyed to the slave nation on the eve of their liberation. To live for oneself is but to trade one sort of imprisonment for another. To be truly free is feasible—paradoxically—only by sacrificing some of one’s own freedom in the interest of providing for others.
In his introduction to Sefer Shemos, the Ramban notes the tradition of referring to the book as Sefer Geulah, or Book of Redemption. He explains that this theme occupies the entirety of the Sefer, concluding only with the construction of Mishkan, providing a resting place for Hashem’s Presence here on earth.
Here is another dimension to the communal nature of the Korban Pesach and to sanctifying with blood not a private space, but a shared one. No individual can build a Mishkan. It is, by its very nature, a public, national project. And yet it is only through its construction that true redemption is achieved. Which is to say that an individual is imprisoned not only by the time in which he lives, but by his own finite talents and abilities.
There is only so much that one person can achieve all on his own. But through partnering with others, dedicating oneself to a broader community rather than just oneself, we can transcend our own shortcomings. We become part of something so much bigger than just ourselves.
We can live for ourselves and become imprisoned by all the shortcomings inherent in that enterprise. Or we can live for others—our families, our communities—and become truly liberated.
