The Blog

Parshas Terumah 5782

Barry Bonds is not a Hall of Famer. This past week marked the former star’s final appearance on the ballot of the Baseball Writers Association of America, and he fell short of the 75% threshold necessary for induction. The debate surrounding Bonds—as well as other players known to have used performance enhancing drugs during their baseball careers—has raged for years. Should a player known to unequivocally be one of the greatest to ever have played be kept out of the Hall because drugs made him even better than he would otherwise have been? 

In an especially poignant take, Doug Glanville—former player turned analyst—weighed in with a sigh of relief. No, Glanville argues, Bonds is not a Hall of Famer. And what Glanville has brought to the conversation that heretofore has been missing is a face. 

While the argument against Bonds and other PED users has classically been one of defamation of the game and cheating the institution of baseball, Glanville offered a personal perspective that only someone who actually played in that era could: Cheaters altered the performance and the lives of anyone who didn’t cheat by making it impossible to keep up. How could a clean player stand a chance when competing against others who have unnaturally quicker reflexes, superhuman strength, more easily bounce back from injuries, and circumvent the body’s natural aging process? 

Glanville does not suggest that he’d have enjoyed an all-star career if not for the Barry Bondses of the game, nor that Bonds could not have put up Hall of Fame numbers without using PED’s. He argues only that this group of players did more than damage the game—that faceless institution. They damaged real people and real lives and sowed immense frustration and pain in the wake of their juiced-up play. And players like that do not deserve to be enshrined.

With the campaign to fund the construction of the Mishkan, the Torah is introducing the Jewish People to the concept of an institution. The Mishkan will serve as a communal hub and a center of national spiritual life. And all without a face. Which is the inherent problem with institutions, one that persists to the institutions we construct and maintain til today.

When we interact with public institutions, we can easily slide into the trap of “they.” That is, referring to the powers-that-be—those who run, operate, and lead those institutions—by a convenient, amorphous pronoun that blurs the presence of real human beings. But those human beings exist. They have given their time, they have sacrificed, they have skin in the game. They are Doug Glanville. And just as an assault on the game is an assault on him, an assault on an institution is an assault on those who manage it. 

Imagine someone entering the newly constructed Mishkan with korban in hand, ready to make his first sacrifice. He stands waiting his turn, in a long line of fellow Jews who have all arrived to do the same. And he grows impatient. “Why can’t they move this along more quickly? What’s taking them so long?” Those hurtful words are spoken within earshot of a certain Kohen, who feels like the rug has just been swept out from under him. He’s been working since dawn without letup, processing the korbanos of the people, moving as fast as he possibly can. He is tired and sweaty and is feet hurt. And he goes home crestfallen, distraught that for all his hard work, it wasn’t enough to please the people. 

The fellow who made those comments didn’t mean it that way. He didn’t mean for it to be directed toward that Kohen. He wasn’t speaking about him, he was speaking about “them”. But of course, there is no “them”. 

There’s also no “them” who run a shul, or a school, or a restaurant for that matter. There are only actual people who are the real-life recipients of the criticism launched at those institutions. Leaving a negative review on Yelp about a dining experience impacts the owners, managers, and waiters, who are real people. A post to facebook about where an organization is falling short is a public call-out of the individuals who serve at the helm. 

This issue looms particularly large on social media. Psychologists have coined the term “online disinhibition” to describe the phenomenon of people acting with far less restraint in online communication than they would in face-to-face interaction. This is a reality even when engaging with other individuals online, but is heightened significantly when it comes to institutions. In the online arena, the human faces are even less distinct, and there’s the false sense that comments made come without any casualty of human emotion.

This is not to say that there is no place for criticism and that every disappointment with our institutions should be met with a mere turning of the other cheek. But there is a degree of callousness present in our critique of institutions that I believe would not exist were we to be mindful of the faces behind the institutional facade. Remembering the actual people who absorb our criticism can help to temper some of the vitriol and invite direct conversation that would likely prove more productive—and certainly more polite—than public denouncements. 

It is interesting that the first institution the Jewish People ever construct—the Mishkan—is so done through funds that were collected from the full spectrum of the Jewish People. Perhaps here we find a key to helping change our perspective. Become directly involved and change the narrative from the institution being a “them” to being an “us”. When it’s your own, you know that the institution is not robotic; it’s human. You know that words about the institution land at the feet of real people who work hard to support it. And you hopefully can extrapolate and apply that knowledge to the full landscape of institutions with which you interact. 

Barry Bonds didn’t only trample on the institution that is Major League Baseball. He trampled on Doug Glanville. Perhaps he knew this full well and was simply too selfish to care, or perhaps he was encumbered by what we all are at some level: the difficulty in perceiving the real people that our actions and words effect, even when they’re standing right beside us on the baseball diamond. How important it is that we not lose the trees for the forest.

Parshas Yisro 5782

If you’ve ever had the need to catch a really early flight, you probably didn’t rely on an alarm clock alone. You may well have set the alarm clock on the other side of your bedroom, ensuring that you’d be forced to actually get out of bed when it would sound, rather than rolling over and hitting snooze half a dozen times. Little did you know it, but you’d actually implemented what economists refer to as a commitment device.

The need for commitment devices comes from recognizing that competing interests are constantly warring within us, each trying to best the other. Waking up on time is one example of decision making in which experts refer to the two vying personalities within as the present self and future self. The present self wants to make it to the airport with time to spare, avoiding anxiety and a need to rush. But the future self will be more tired than the present self, and will crave those extra few minutes of sleep in a way the present self can’t appreciate. The present self outsmarts the future self by making it impossible to hit snooze. 

But before jumping on the present self bandwagon, remember that it is not always so virtuous. Present self may also stay up late enjoying the party, leaving it to future self to cope with making it through the next day on too-few hours of sleep. Present self is enjoying himself; let future self deal with the fallout.

Every moment gives rise to a new self, each at war with the others. When the right one wins, we really ought to celebrate.

As Yisro makes his grand appearance at the beginning of the parsha, the Torah introduces him with a title that we’d think he’d long been itching to rid himself of:

וַיִּשְׁמַע יִתְרוֹ כֹהֵן מִדְיָן חֹתֵן מֹשֶׁה אֵת כָּל־אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה אֱלֹקים לְמֹשֶׁה וּלְיִשְׂרָאֵל עַמּוֹ כִּי־הוֹצִיא ה׳ אֶת־יִשְׂרָאֵל מִמִּצְרָיִם׃

^{שמות יח:א}

Yisro, Priest of Midian, the father-in-law of Moshe, heard all that G-d had done for Moshe and Israel His nation when Hashem took Israel out of Egypt.

^{Shemos 18:2}

As he looks to strengthen his ties with the Jewish People and their faith, why does the Torah emphasize his status as Kohen Midian, a priest of a foreign religion? Why mention Yisro’s sinful past at a time that he should be congratulated for his present repentance?

The Ohr Hachaim suggests that what the Torah offers is not a put-down at all, but a compliment. In describing who Yisro once was—a cleric of polytheism—it is proclaiming that his embracing of Judaism is even more remarkable than we might have given him credit for. Yisro is not only an unbiased observer who chooses to embark upon a path of monotheism. His previously held position actually gave him every reason to double down and shun Judaism, because to do otherwise would be admission of a life lived in error. For Yisro to choose otherwise is nothing short of heroic.

Overcoming oneself is a hugely challenging task, due in no small part to an unawareness of who and what the enemy is. We like to think of ourselves as consistent and integrated—people of conviction who operate, have operated, and will continue to operate by a consistent system of values.

If you’ve ever needed a commitment device, you know this isn’t quite true. And when we stand in the present and consider past behavior, we need to remind ourselves of how many times we needed to set the alarm clock on the other side of the room.

Owning up to past mistakes can feel like a terrible shot to our ego. But if we can maintain the view that our present selves and past selves are two very different beings, it becomes a lot easier. We love constructing an underdog narrative about ourselves—the circumstances we’ve overcome and the Goliaths that our David has slain. What if we applied that same narrative to our own internal selves?

If I viewed my past self as cleanly detached from my present self, I could more easily admit to yesterdays mistakes. I would revel in the opportunity to prove that my present self is the underdog who—against all odds—triumphed over who I once was. I wouldn’t need to justify my past behavior any more than needing to justify the behavior of different person altogether. “Yeah, that past version of myself made some colossal errors. But present self is developing into a much better person.”

Errors of the past can prove a wonderful gift when we process them, learn from them, and move past them. Yisro can proudly wear the mantle of Kohen Midian because the story of his past self only makes the triumph of his current self that much more astounding. We become heroes not only when we overcome external opponents, but internal ones as well. Yisro of today could walk free of Kohen Midian of yesterday, his present self untethered by his past self.

In Hilchos Teshuva, the Rambam quotes Chazal’s statement that changing one’s name can serve as a powerful pathway to repentance. The Rambam offers his own explanation as to why this is so:

וּמְשַׁנֶּה שְׁמוֹ כְּלוֹמַר אֲנִי אַחֵר וְאֵינִי אוֹתוֹ הָאִישׁ שֶׁעָשָׂה אוֹתָן הַמַּעֲשִׂים וּמְשַׁנֶּה מַעֲשָׂיו כֻּלָּן לְטוֹבָה וּלְדֶרֶךְ יְשָׁרָה

^{רמב׳׳ם הל׳ תשובה ב:ד}

And he should change his name, as if to say, “I am another person; I am not the same one who committed those acts.” And he should completely change his behavior for the better, towards the proper path.

^{Rambam, Laws of Teshuva 2:4}

A critical step towards success is a redefinition of self. If I am the same person who made all those poor decisions of the past, the urge to justify and double-down on those errors becomes great. But if I can see that past version of myself as someone else, I can admit to the flaws and grow past them. Mistakes of the past only make the success of the present that much more impressive.

Parshas Beshalach 5782

In his excellent book, “Essentialism,” author Greg McKeown notes that while big, splashy goals may be initially inspiring, we can soon drown in the sheer enormity of what we’ve set out to do. But rather than downsize the objective, he advocates to instead focus on what he calls “minimal viable progress.” In other words, to break down a bulky task or ambitious goal into a series of smaller ones. Creating a series of small wins invariably adds up to the larger goal, yet is psychologically more manageable. Don’t worry about erecting the building; just lay one brick at a time.

Just as the Plagues are about to be unleashed, Moshe Rabbeinu turns to the People and tells them that the redemption is at hand. Yet while they were initially willing to believe such promises when Moshe first returns to Egypt from Midian, they are now reluctant. At the beginning of Parshas Vaeira, the Torah records:

וַיְדַבֵּר מֹשֶׁה כֵּן אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְלֹא שָׁמְעוּ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה מִקֹּצֶר רוּחַ וּמֵעֲבֹדָה קָשָׁה׃

^{שמות ו:ט}

And so did Moshe speak to the Children of Israel, but they did not listen to Moshe out of shortness of spirit and difficult labor. 

^{Shemos 6:9} 

What is the nature of this “shortness of spirit” that precluded their ability to have faith in the redemption? The Meshech Chochma offers a fascinating interpretation, suggesting that the spirit of the Jews was “short” insofar as they could only wrap their heads around what lay immediately before them. When Moshe tells them that they’ll be leaving Egypt, they can process that sort of redemption easily enough. But when, at the beginning of Parshas Vaeira, he further shares that they’ll be transformed into a full-fledged nation and will even enter into and settle the Land of Israel, they are overwhelmed by the prospect. The scope of the project had just expanded to a degree that left them paralyzed by the enormity of what lay ahead.

When the Jewish People ultimately do leave Egypt in this week’s parsha, they sing the Shiras HaYam—the Song of the Sea, as they miraculously emerge from the Red Sea. This song is written differently from every other section in the Torah. In a style that is reminiscent of brickwork, each sentence fragment is divided from the next in a manner that makes each one appear “stacked” upon the two located on the line directly beneath it. The result is iconic and beautiful. But more importantly, it offers a fitting message.

In many ways, brickwork is a craft like any other. Individual steps must be taken to achieve a final goal.  And yet more than other crafts and modes of construction, there is a clear corollary between those individual steps and the finished product. Silversmiths and carpenters must also perform a series of smaller tasks to achieve the desired result, but those steps are seamlessly incorporated into the greater whole. 

Not so for brickwork, in which the structure created allows for every step of the process to be perceived, even after the project is completed. Whereas erecting an entire building may feel like a daunting task, when reduced to a series of small, manageable tasks, it is eminently doable. It is not an entire building, but one brick after the other after the other.

There is no need to shy away from ambitious goals, only to see the building for its constituent bricks.

Brickwork is not only an artistic style or a mode of craftsmanship, it is a mentality. Brickwork allows us to see that a finished product is simply the culmination of a long string of small tasks. It is the approach of “minimal viable progress” and can extricate a person from a state of paralysis as he looks to begin an overwhelming project. Building a nation and settling a land is nothing more than laying one brick after the other. There is no need to shy away from ambitious goals, only to see the building for its constituent bricks.

The celebrated novelist, Margaret Atwood, is, despite her professional achievements, also a self-proclaimed procrastinator. In an interview with Adam Grant, she made the insightful observation that people don’t procrastinate work, they procrastinate feelings. Even when pushing off that major project, we often don’t default to doing nothing, we simply get busy with other tasks—often real, bona fide work—that comes with less of a mental load and a more immediate sense of accomplishment. 

We know what we really need to be working on, but it feels overwhelming and scary. We’re afraid of staring at the blank paper or screen and the feelings of inadequacy that come along with it. Maybe it’s just too large an undertaking and we’re worried that we’ll flat out fail. Or there’s a lack of clarity as to how to see the project through and we desperately—if subconsciously—want to avoid the feeling of not being in control and having all the right answers at every step of the process.

So we push off, avoid, and procrastinate. Sometimes indefinitely. We stick to what’s comfortable and what we know. In other words, to those things that steer clear of real growth and development. 

How do we avoid falling into this abyss? By seeing the building for its individual bricks. An enterprise as a whole may well elicit feelings that we wish to avoid, but the smallest viable progress likely won’t. We don’t need to bite off a piece so large that we’re immediately engulfed by unpleasant feelings. Write one paragraph, not the whole report. Work for ten minutes, don’t block off the whole afternoon. Create an outline, not a finished product. As the smaller steps begin to mount, the feelings you’d been procrastinating may dissipate all on their own.

The Jewish People were also overwhelmed. They were afraid of entering into the unknown, to start a journey that would necessitate developing a new culture, adopting new laws, and building a new society. What the Jews did know was producing bricks and transforming those bricks into structures and cities. The arrangement of the text of the Shira is a powerful reminder that what felt so frighteningly foreign was actually wholly manageable, and, on the micro level, even remarkably familiar. We need not have precise clarity on what the final product will look like; only to determine where the next brick should be laid. 

Parshas Bo 5782

Abraham Lincoln once said, “Give me six hours to chop down a tree, and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.” 

Which is why staying inside is so important. The knee-jerk reaction to the launch of nationhood is to go out and do. To build institutions, public works, and get important communal projects up off the ground. Meetings should be held about the sort of infrastructure the new nation will need, fundraising efforts ought to be undertaken, and anyone who sees himself as a mover or shaker should assist in the crafting of a strategic plan for the future.

Yet the Torah has other ideas.

וּלְקַחְתֶּם אֲגֻדַּת אֵזוֹב וּטְבַלְתֶּם בַּדָּם אֲשֶׁר־בַּסַּף וְהִגַּעְתֶּם אֶל־הַמַּשְׁקוֹף וְאֶל־שְׁתֵּי הַמְּזוּזֹת מִן־הַדָּם אֲשֶׁר בַּסָּף וְאַתֶּם לֹא תֵצְאוּ אִישׁ מִפֶּתַח־בֵּיתוֹ עַד־בֹּקֶר׃

^{שמות יב:כב}

And you shall take a bundle of hyssop and dip it in the blood that is in the basin. And you shall apply some of the blood in the basin to the lintel and the two doorposts. And no one shall exit the portal of his home until the morning.

^{Shemos 12:22}

Don’t leave your house. ֵ Don’t look outward; look inward.  Despite all there is to do publicly as the nation is first launched, consider first your personal life, your family life. Be sure that you’re fundamentally sound as a person before you attempt to serve as a leader. Don’t go about chopping down trees with a dull axe.

Self-care has gotten a lot of attention in recent years, perhaps originating with Stephen Covey’s popularization of the idea in his seminal, “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.” In a riff on Abraham Lincoln’s words quoted above, Covey named the seventh habit, “Sharpening the Saw,” emphasizing the importance of self-renewal in four major areas of life: physical, mental, spiritual, and relationships. In Covey’s words, the purpose is “preserving and enhancing the greatest asset you have–you.”

Too often we find ourselves running on empty. We give and produce and provide until there’s nothing left in the tank. It’s important to remember that running ourselves ragged is rife with inefficiency, not valor. We don’t create the same results when we’re operating from a place of exhaustion and weakened spirit. If we make time for self-renewal, we can produce at a more optimal level. By caring for ourselves we can more adequately care for everyone else. 

So the Torah instructs the fledgling nation to, before all, charge the batteries. Spend time with your closest family members and friends. Eat a meal together. Count your blessings. Reflect on the Divine Providence you’ve already experienced and all that still lays ahead. Before you swing the axe at its first tree, spend the time necessary to properly sharpen it. 

Self-care can become confused with self-indulgence. They are not the same.

But be careful. Because the pendulum can also swing too far in the other direction. Sharpening the Saw as a habit of effectiveness has gotten so much traction that it’s even come to serve as a justification for grandiose allowances. Under the guise of self-care we can fall headlong into an abyss of self-interest, turning a blind eye to the needs of others all in the name of keeping ourselves sharp. We can justify hedonism as necessary for self-care. We can set goals that fall woefully short of what we can actually achieve because we’ve confused staying sharp with being pampered.

Self-care can become confused with self-indulgence. They are not the same.

Consider the content of what Hashem has us do as we spend that first night of nationhood huddled inside for a “staycation.” We connect with family members and connect with Hashem. We eat foods not only that are deeply symbolic and lead us to meditate over key values and experiences necessary for our spiritual development. How do we emerge in the morning? More refined and holy than when we first closed the door. 

The Torah’s recipe for successful self-care is about more than aged meat and fine wine, about bucket-lists and “YOLO” moments. The Torah instructs us to sharpen the axe so that we can go about chopping wood, not so that we can place it above the mantel and revel in its beauty. Self-care must bring us closer to the ability to properly and effectively achieve our goals. When self-care becomes the goal itself, it’s no longer self-care. It’s self-indulgence.

This means that we should enter into a round of self-care with a bit of forethought. Where is it that we feel depleted? What aspect of our lives could use a pick-me-up? What purpose is this getaway meant to serve? 

Dinner out with your spouse can be a boon to your marriage. Making a conscious effort to get more sleep may be a critical step in preserving your help and resting your mind. Taking a vacation can afford you the ability to step away from the daily grind and think more expansively about life and your priorities. Each of these efforts is a worthwhile exercise in self-care. But it’s critical that we keep in mind what they are meant to achieve, lest we confuse the process for the goal itself.

Swinging the axe until there’s nothing left but a dull knob of a handle is an act of foolishness, not heroism. If we push ourselves to the brink in the interest of “giving it our all” we’re likely giving far less than our all. Running on fumes is no way to give, provide, or produce. And yet we need to be mindful that self-care is a means, not an end. The Torah invites us to close the door to the outside world from time to time. But we should be careful to use that time effectively—to renew and recharge with purpose. When we open the door, we can and should be better people than when we first closed it. 

Parshas Va’eira 5782

They say you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you, but how careful do you need to be with the plate?

As the first three plagues unfold, Moshe makes a concerted effort to take a backseat. It is Aharon who wields the staff upon the Nile to induce the plagues of Blood and Frogs, and again upon the earth to solicit the Plague of Lice. 

This is not happenstance. As Rashi notes:

לְפִי שֶׁהֵגֵן הַיְאוֹר עַל מֹשֶׁה כְּשֶׁנִּשְׁלַךְ לְתוֹכוֹ, לְפִיכָךְ לֹא לָקָה עַל יָדוֹ לֹא בַדָּם וְלֹא בַצְפַרְדְּעִים, וְלָקָה עַל יְדֵי אַהֲרֹן 

^{שמות ז:יט}

Because the Nile protected Moshe when he was cast therein, it therefore would not be struck by his hand hand—neither for Blood nor for Frogs—but was struck by Aharon’s hand instead.

^{Shemos 7:19} 

This same pattern is repeated when the Egyptian earth would produce the Plague of Lice. It would be Aharon, not Moshe, to strike the ground, for Moshe was indebted to the earth for having concealed the body of the Egyptian that Moshe had killed in last week’s parsha.

Showing appreciation towards those who cared for you is a fine attribute indeed. When one provides safety and security, a display of hakaras hatov is only fitting. It is no accident that “Jews” are called by that name; stemming from the Hebrew “Yehudah”, we are meant to be a people of hoda’ah, of giving thanks and displaying gratitude. 

But are we to believe that such gestures should be extended to inanimate matter as well? Did the waters of the Nile actually extend themselves especially for Moshe? Was it a conscious decision on the part of the Egyptian soil that the body of the taskmaster Moshe had slayed be concealed within it? 

Surely not. And as such, Hashem’s insistence that Moshe not be the one to bring the first three plagues about cannot be understood as giving inanimate matter its due. It is, after all, not the plate that fed him, but the arm behind it. And yet Hashem is conveying that following a good meal, the one who acts callously towards the dishes will have a hard time mustering sufficient gratitude towards the chef.

Put in other words, character is not automatic, but something that must be developed. And opportunities to do so must be sought after and seized. It’s not about the Nile. It’s not about the earth. It’s about Moshe being on the lookout to develop himself as a person and leader. 

In the comic strip above (one of my faves), Calvin’s father conveniently cites character development as the reason for not purchasing a snowblower. A veiled excuse, perhaps, for the underlying disinterest in spending the money on such a steep purchase. And yet he makes an important point: Character is something that one builds, not something that is built on its own.

We can mistakenly use a far too passive framework for developing our character. Sure we can grow as people. Of course I’ll be a different person when I’m 50 than when I was 20. But life will take care of that for me. I’ll be forged by life’s experiences and develop my character along the way.

Calvin’s father believes otherwise. An opportunity to build character (and save a couple hundred bucks) should be actively pursued. We can design our life so as to avoid such opportunities or to actively create them. Hashem tells Moshe to actively create them.

Had Moshe struck the Nile or the ground of Egypt, they would have bore no grudge against him. This was not a natural opportunity to express gratitude; it’s one that had to be manufactured. Hashem compels Moshe to create the opportunity for growth even where life doesn’t naturally oblige.

It may well be that people are born into certain predispositions. Some may be naturally more focused and attentive, while others are natural-born space cadets. But Hashem’s directive to Moshe teaches that the story of one’s character need not end the way it begins, and that the narrative of how that change is produced can be one that we actively design. In crafting the people we wish to become—our sensitivities, middos, and temperament—we can play offense, not just defense.

Struggling with focus and attention? Don’t wait around for a task to come your way that’s so important you’ll be forced to give it your full-attention. Get on the offensive instead. Challenge yourself to periods of concentrated device-free work that can increase as you get better. 

Interested in developing more gratitude? You can hope that you’ll respond properly the next time someone does you a favor or that your natural predispositions will make you feel blessed. Or you can follow Moshe Rabbeinu’s example and actively design your sense of gratitude. Keep a gratitude journal. Commit to sending one text a day showing a bit of appreciation to someone in your life. 

We know full well that a slight frame can be transformed into a hulking one and that that transformation doesn’t take place through the normal course of daily activity that naturally comes a person’s way. With active determination, muscles can be developed to a point of complete metamorphosis. What is true of the body is similarly true of the spirit. A middah can be developed no differently from a muscle, so long as we create opportunities to do so, rather than waiting for them to happen. 

Shemos 5782

Moshe Rabbeinu is described as having grown up twice. As a small child, the Torah notes ויגדל הילד—the boy grew up and could no longer be weaned by his own mother, who was serving as his wet nurse after being drawn out of the water by the princess. Immediately following, in the very next pasuk, we are told again that ויגדל משה—Moshe grew up. 

Why the repetition? Rashi explains that the second term refers not to Moshe’s physical maturation, but his stature. Moshe was appointed to a position of authority within the Egyptian political hierarchy. This serves as a critical introduction to what the Torah next describes:

וַיְהִי בַּיָּמִים הָהֵם וַיִּגְדַּל מֹשֶׁה וַיֵּצֵא אֶל־אֶחָיו וַיַּרְא בְּסִבְלֹתָם וַיַּרְא אִישׁ מִצְרִי מַכֶּה אִישׁ־עִבְרִי מֵאֶחָיו׃ וַיִּפֶן כֹּה וָכֹה וַיַּרְא כִּי אֵין אִישׁ וַיַּךְ אֶת־הַמִּצְרִי וַיִּטְמְנֵהוּ בַּחוֹל׃

^{שמות ב:יא–יב}

And it was in those days that Moshe became great. And he went out to his brothers and saw their burden. And he saw an Egyptian man striking a Hebrew man from amongst his brothers. And he turned this way and that and he saw that there was no one else, and he struck the Egyptian and buried him in the sand. 

^{Shemos 2:11-12}

Moshe’s initial heroics on behalf of his people did not occur in a vacuum. Moshe first achieves a high degree of stature—comes into a position of leadership and authority—and then proceeds to act. In making this point, the Torah is both emphasizing that success is a worthy pursuit, and also that there is a proper way of relating to success once it comes.

Though pursuit of success may seem to be an obvious undertaking to many, others experience a genuine fear of success. This is a condition that can stem from many sources. But from a Jewish vantage point, there is one that is worthy of specific consideration: the belief that professional success is out of line with Jewish ideals. Status and power are the fuel of arrogance and there is little that classic Jewish self-development considers more abhorrent than that. The mental picture of the financial success story who has become overwhelmed by materialism, pride, and self-indulgence is enough to give serious pause to anyone who takes their own character seriously.

Still others may use examples of success gone awry more as mere rationalizations for not shooting higher. They may actually be beset by fear of failure, of not achieving the professional goals they set for themselves, but deflect those fears by pointing to those who have become corrupted by their own success. Outwardly it’s, “Aim higher? What, and become like him?!” While inwardly, it’s more, “I’m so glad he let me off the hook. I think I’d fall on my face if I tried.” 

For either group, Moshe’s resume is worth considering. That the Torah highlights the fact that his heroism came specifically after achieving new standing in Egyptian society is instructive. Achievement begets a sense of ability, raises self confidence, and creates a reserve of social capital to be spent. Moshe may feel capable of acting now specifically because he has the standing to do so. He can take risks now that perhaps he previously could not have.

This is a reality we must keep in mind as we develop—or perhaps shy away from developing—our ambition in the public or professional sphere. Not only is success in these areas not necessarily at odds with becoming the people that Judaism demands we be, but it may well facilitate some of our loftier spiritual goals. Greater earning power, professional achievements, and receiving accolades at work can translate into being more charitable, self-confidence to tackle new chessed or learning projects, and social clout that can create communal leadership opportunities.

Success is not bereft of merit and we should neither view it as inherently at odds with virtuous living, nor use that narrative as justification for small thinking and a lack of ambition.

There’s a “but”. 

Moshe’s communal conscientiousness is not only made possible by his public achievements, it also serves as a necessary approbation of them. It is not wrong to be concerned by the specter of what we may become should we taste success. And it is those very concerns that must inform our decisions and our behavior when it happens. “Moshe became great and went out towards his brothers.” If we become great and do not turn towards those in need, we haven’t become very great at all.

Professional ambition is not at odds with Torah living and ideals. But what fuels it may well be. The Torah places its imprimatur upon Moshe’s achievements in Egyptian society only through a description of the communal-mindedness that he then exhibits. If we are motivated to climb the corporate ladder because of the opportunities it will afford us in life’s most critical realms—providing for our family, caring for our community, dedicating ourselves to spiritual pursuits—then our success will be integrated into our system of values, rather than falling outside it.

Perhaps it was these thoughts that Hillel had in mind when he authored the famous words, “אם אין אני לי מי לי, וכשאני לעצמי מה אני?—If I’m not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I?” We should not presume that success will come our way as we sit in a corner passively awaiting it. Success takes ambition and cunning and determination. But we should not consider these traits to be at odds with proper middos, nor the success that they may generate to be an inappropriate state for the humble eved Hashem. And yet it is critical that success be sought for the right reasons and that it not become an end in of itself. The successful person must always remember, “If I am only for myself, what am I?”

Parshas Veychi 5782

The silence is deafening.

From the way the conversation ends, it would appear that Yaakov was ultimately swayed by the rectitude of Shimon and Levi’s attack on Shechem. In Parshas Vayeitzei, after receiving their father’s rebuke, the brothers respond that they effectively had no choice:

.וַיֹּאמְרוּ הַכְזוֹנָה יַעֲשֶׂה אֶת־אֲחוֹתֵנוּ

^{בראשית לד:לא}

But they said, “Should our sister be treated like a harlot?”

^{Bereishis 34:31}

To this, Yaakov is silent and the Torah moves on to a new episode. Shimon and Levi have the last word. The question they pose to Yaakov—how could they not defend their sister’s honor?—remains ringing in the ears of anyone reading the parsha. Yaakov is without a rejoinder; in the end, he must have agreed with their actions.

Or so it would seem. Fast forwarding to this week’s parsha, we find that the episode is still fresh in Yaakov’s mind, along with the conviction that his sons’ behavior was in error:

שִׁמְעוֹן וְלֵוִי אַחִים כְּלֵי חָמָס מְכֵרֹתֵיהֶם׃

^{בראשית מט:ה}

Shimon and Levi are brothers; their weapons are instruments of violence.

^{Bereishis 49:5}

Making oblique reference to their attack on Shechem, Yaakov goes on to further denounce the brothers’ activities and ultimately passes over them both before bestowing the kingship their younger brother, Yehudah. It would seem that Shechem is still quite fresh in Yaakov’s mind and that his feelings about the episode remain unchanged. The question is, what took so long to say so?

In holding his tongue, Yaakov is actually teaching us a powerful lesson about parenting and leadership in general: You can maintain authority in the long run, without needing to win the argument that lays immediately before you. The altercation with his sons does not escalate into a screaming match. Despite Yaakov’s conviction of their error, he maintains the right to respond to that error accordingly, without engaging in the futile exercise of convincing them of a truth that is beyond their understanding.

If this seems a small task, consider how frequently we do otherwise. The allure of winning the argument is great, and we’ll do what it takes to achieve it. We find ourselves in the ironic position of acting like children as we try to convince our children that we’re right and they’re wrong. In the interest of flexing our muscles of leadership and authority, we undermine those very things by descending into a power struggle with those who report to us. Yaakov shows us another way. If you know you are in control, are confident in your authority, you can simply act on it later. You need not bicker in the present.

This is not to say that we should simply shut the door to the opinions of others. Indeed, sage council can often come from even the youngest and most unlikely of sources (as I’ve written about here). Being receptive to input and constructive criticism is critical to ensuring that we develop as parents, leaders, and people in general and that we do not construct an ivory tower for ourselves that no outside insight can penetrate.

But not every conversation or opinion is as productive as all that. We can usually tell when an interaction is about to sour, when we’ve arrived at an impasse. Yet that visceral need to be right boils up inside us and the passion for our point to be heard and accepted overwhelms us. It is at those times that we best follow Yaakov’s lead. We don’t need to get the last word in, we can simply exercise our authority at a time when it will matter most. As Theodore Roosevelt famously said, “Speak softly and carry a big stick.” 

Because the desire to be proven right in the moment is so strong, acting the part of Yaakov is no simple feat. What can help us get there is by trying to remember why it is that we want to win the argument in the first place.

Ultimately, we want to be the authority, the one that is looked up to and whose opinion matters most. We want followers, acolytes, and children who revere us. Not only does winning every argument not get us there, it may well undermine those very goals. Bickering projects a sense of parity between the two arguing parties. If you feel the need to argue with me, then my opinion must be just as valid as yours. Are you really the authority after all?

Because of his silence, Yaakov comes across as a dignified statesmen and a calm and collected patriarch. As he lays on his deathbed in our parsha, Shimon and Levi are by his side. Would that have been the case had he berated them and forced them to accept his opinion over theirs? The bracha Yaakov pronounces at the end of his life is heard and accepted by all his children because none have been marginalized. Yaakov is recognized as the leader because he did not force that reality down anyone’s throat.

When our authority is disrespected, our natural reaction is to reassert it. Immediately. But Yaakov Avinu shows us another, more effective way. We don’t need to bicker over our kids’ allowance or bedtimes. We don’t need to squabble with direct reports about the necessity of a project that simply must get done. Students don’t need to be convinced of the value of tests and assessments. Those arguments can often erode the very authority that we’re so desperately arguing to maintain. We can learn to remain confident in our authority silently, and calmly assert it when it matters most.

Parshas Vayigash 5782

The world of personal productivity is abuzz with a term that’s gotten real traction in recent years: “work-life balance”. This is a thankful development, at least compared with an approach of completely overlooking the other critical areas of one’s life in the interest of professional success. Work-life balance reminds us that health, family, and other critical relationships won’t simply sit in suspended animation while we’re out and about climbing the corporate ladder or our scaling our business. And the reverse—turning a blind eye to professional development in the interest of going all-in on our personal life—is equally misguided. When the certain departments of one’s life are overlooked, they fail, often irrevocably. We’re reminded instead to keep work and the rest of life in balance—pay your dues in all of life’s various spheres so that each is properly serviced.

But there’s a problem here. The term “balance” is suggestive of a traditional scale in which work and life are kept on their respective plates, with the goal being that neither outweighs the other to too great a degree. I find this to sorely miss the point and undersell the potential of all that can be achieved when life is well managed. Don’t think “balance”; think “synthesis”. 

When Yosef reveals himself to his brothers, he immediately begins to develop plans for their relocation to Egypt. The family will not live in the thick of Egyptian society, but in Goshen, where their ability to live according to a different value system from the rest of society will be more feasible. They will be supported through the grains stores that Yosef had accumulated during the years of plenty through his strategic planning. And all of these plans are conveyed in a manner that puts his brothers at ease, despite their guilt for having sold him.

Yosef’s public life is not kept in a bubble. Thankfully for his family, it bleeds into his personal life. It is only through the power he wields in the public sphere, his knowledge of the Egyptian landscape, and his contacts with Pharaoh and the rest of the Egyptian elite that he can properly provide for his family. Moreover, in the time spent as viceroy, Yosef has learned to interact diplomatically, his interactions with his brothers now so much more functional than they’d been in his youth. 

But looking back at how Yosef arrived at this point, we find something even more striking. That work life can enhance personal life is something most of us readily acknowledge. Most people work as a means to an end, in order to provide for themselves and their family. But in Yosef we find that the reverse is true as well; his personal life influences and elevates his professional successes. 

Two weeks ago, we read of Yosef’s appointment as viceroy of Egypt after winning Pharaoh over when interpreting his dreams. The way that Yosef carries himself while in Pharaoh’s court is astonishing, as he seems content to forego a golden opportunity to establish his own unique value in the eyes of the powerful man in the land: 

וַיַּעַן יוֹסֵף אֶת־פַּרְעֹה לֵאמֹר בִּלְעָדָי אֱלֹקים יַעֲנֶה אֶת־שְׁלוֹם פַּרְעֹה׃

^{בראשית מא:טז}

And Yosef answered Pharaoh saying, “It is beyond me!” G-d will respond to Pharaoh’s welfare.

^{Bereishis 41:16}

Yosef is content to forfeit all the glory that will come from a proper presentation of Pharaoh’s dreams and give all the credit to G-d alone. This move is unthinkable for anyone who keeps work life cordoned off in its own sealed-off sphere. Yosef should be marketing himself as the wisest man who’s ever graced Pharaoh’s presence and someone who the king should view as utterly indispensable. But the barrier between Yosef’s personal and public lives is porous; each serving as a powerful influence over the other. Yosef’s values that he learned in his father’s home instruct his behavior even as he stands at the threshold of the greatest promotion anyone could ever hope for. Yosef achieves not only work-life balance, but work-life synthesis, and he is better off for it. Ultimately, Pharaoh respects the humility and integrated values of the man who stands before him and bestows upon him the promotion of a lifetime. 

The shift from work-life balance to work-life synthesis takes place in little more than our mentality and intention. But the gains in making this mental shift can nonetheless be immense. When we begin viewing the two halves of our lives as being in harmony, rather than conflict, we can enjoy new fulfillment in both arenas.

If we grumble about work, how much more palatable it can be if we remain mindful of what it allows us to afford in our personal life. Moreover, how much more rewarding work can be if we would recognized that skills honed in the work place—leadership, teamwork, critical thinking—can make us more valuable and effective in our personal lives as well.

Our home persona, too, ought to flow freely into our work persona. Love, dedication, compassion—to say nothing of our most basic value system—are aspects of our being that are crafted in the home but make us who we are in the workplace as well. These are qualities that are respected by colleagues and clients, by employers and employees. And if they’re not, we best begin to look elsewhere. We will be far more fulfilled living a life that allows for a full integration of who we are and what we do, than to view each half of life as being in conflict with the other. 

Work and life need not be at odds with one another. Finding the right mix of the two can be about more than merely avoiding having too many eggs in one basket. If we think of our experience as a synthesis between both work and life, each of the two can be more rewarding, and the overall whole can come to be greater than the sum of its parts. 

Chanukah 5782

With the benefit of hindsight, Chanukah certainly seems an odd celebration. The victory over a foreign nation would establish an era of peace that would prove to be short lived. Not only would the Bais Hamikdash ultimately be destroyed, but it would be only a couple of generations before even the Jewish establishment would become engulfed in corruption. 

But this assessment actually doesn’t demand hindsight at all. It is clear that even at the time, the foresight to perceive that the second Bais Hamikdash would not endure was already present. 

וּמִקְדָּשׁ שֵׁנִי ונְהִי דְּיָדְעִין לְהוֹן דְּיִחְרוּב מִי יוֹדְעִין לְאִימַּתִּי

נזיר דף לב

The second Temple, granted that they knew it would be destroyed. But did they know when it would be destroyed?

^{Nazir 32b}

The leaders of the generation knew full well that even as the Temple stood, even as a significant portion of the nation resided in Israel, the Jews nevertheless already found themselves in exile. That the Bais Hamikdash would be destroyed was a foregone conclusion. The prophecies detailing the Messianic era have always been known to refer not to the second Temple, but the third. Why, then, celebrate a spike in Jewish sovereignty that was known even at the time to be nothing more than a brief deviation from the general sweeping tide of exile? 

I believe the answer speaks to something that I refer to as the “paradox of productivity,” which runs as follows: productive people have a greater tendency to undervalue their achievements than do unproductive people. If you are productive, you are forever in pursuit of your next goal, which makes it difficult to pause and revel in the victory of having achieved the previous one. One’s ambitions are always so great that whatever has already been accomplished can become dwarfed by the magnitude of all that we still hope to—and feel that we must—do.

This mentality can create a culture in which those who accomplish most actually celebrate those accomplishments the least. And yet celebrating our wins can bear enormous results. Perhaps most importantly, celebrating wins can help curb burnout. When ambition is high but the sense of genuine accomplishment is low, it is only so long before we start to wonder why we bother pushing forward. 

The difference between ignoring our wins and recognizing them is the difference between feeling that we’re running on a hamster wheel versus climbing a spiral staircase. If we don’t recognize what we’ve accomplished, we’re forever in motion with nothing to show for it. If we do appreciate all we’ve gained, we can peer over the banister, see how far we’ve already climbed, and be inspired to continue to scale. 

When we celebrate our wins, we also make a profound statement of our values, declaring, “This is a a big deal. Other things? Less so.” This can be a huge step in influencing those around us—be they children, employees, or team members—as to what we regard as valuable, and what they should value in turn. We may hold a strong compass of good and bad, right and wrong, valuable and valueless in our own minds, but outward celebration is a powerful means of communicating to others in our orbit that this is what we define as important. 

Rebbe Tarfon best captured the Jewish ethos when he stated, “היום קצר והמלאכה מרובה—the day is short and the work is great (Avos, 2:15).” Judaism preaches productivity and insists that there is always more to do. And yet, Judaism also demands that we make time for celebrating our wins, even as each accomplishment leaves so much more yet to be done. 

A siyum is one such indication, beckoning us to pause and reflect on what’s been accomplished even as we recognize all that lays before us to yet learn and understand. It is of particular note in this regard that as we complete a masechta, we do so with the words “הדרן עלך—we will return to you.” And why must we return? Because not only are there yet more masechtos that lay ahead, but we cannot even profess to have adequately understood all the wisdom that this present one contains. Nevertheless, a siyum enjoys the status as a bona fide “seudas mitzvah”. The celebration is genuine, despite all that still lays ahead. 

It is in this light that Chanukah best be understood. With respect to longterm redemption, liberating and rededicating the second Bais Hamikdash would ultimately prove an exercise in futility. Yet what it provided in the moment was a chance to appreciate Hashem’s providence and the opportunity to serve Him properly in a re-consecrated sanctuary, even if that sanctuary would eventually be destroyed. Chanukah is celebrated not because it’s the final destination, or because there is no more for our brimming ambition to long for. But because there is much to be said for celebrating wins, milestones, and accomplishments, even as we fully intend on achieving more. 

Parshas Vayeishev 5782

If you run for office today, prepare to have every one of your skeletons dragged from the closet. It is the role of a campaign manager to not only make his own candidate look his very best, but for the opponent to look his very worst. Every error and blunder of the past will be drudged up and displayed for public consumption, making the statement, “Is this really who you want to serve as your leader?” 

In today’s environment, Yehudah could never be king. That the Torah believes otherwise demands our attention.

After the brothers sold Yosef, the Torah states, “וירד יהודה מאת אחיו—And Yehudah descended from amongst his brothers.” Rashi comments that the Torah is hinting to something larger than just a geographical relocation: 

שֶׁהוֹרִידוּהוּ אֶחָיו מִגְּדֻלָּתוֹ כְּשֶׁרָאוּ בְצָרַת אֲבִיהֶם, אָמְרוּ: אַתָּה אָמַרְתָּ לְמָכְרוֹ, אִלּוּ אָמַרְתָּ לַהֲשִׁיבוֹ הָיִינוּ שׁוֹמְעִים לְךָ:

^{רש׳׳י לח:ו} 

His brothers brought him down from his position of authority when they saw the distress of their father. They said, “You told us to sell [Yosef]. Had you told us to return him, we would have listened to you.

^{Rashi 38:6}

Yehudah’s career begins with a major failure. It was on his advice that Yosef was sold and the blame of Yaakov’s subsequent mourning is laid squarely at his feet by his brothers. Yehudah moves away from his family and begins a new life, apparently unable to reside in his brothers’ company following this early debacle. 

The next episode that the Torah records is the story of Tamar, who marries two of Yehudah’s sons in succession, both of whom die. Frightened by the prospect of a third son dying, Yehudah turns Tamar aside with the pretext that his next son is not yet old enough to marry her. Yehudah meets Tamar next while she is disguised as a harlot in an attempt to find her way back into Yehudah’s family. Not recognizing her, Yehudah and Tamar are intimate and she becomes pregnant, a scandal which initially results in her being sentenced to death.

Yehudah has committed another error in not doing more to protect his daughter-in-law and ensure her place in the family. But something incredible happens. Upon realizing that he was indeed the father, Yehudah recognizes his guilt and comes to her aid. Yehudah admits his mistake and sets about trying to change it.

Yehudah’s road to renewed leadership is not done. In next week’s parsha, we find Yaakov reluctant to allow Binyamin to descend down to Egypt, a demand made by the viceroy (actually Yosef) as a precondition for reentering the land to purchase more provisions during the famine. The family is growing hungry, but Yaakov remains unwilling to send his precious Binyamin, the last remaining son of his beloved wife, Rachel. Yehudah steps up again. 

Yehudah has been marinating for years in his failure to protect Yosef and the resulting heartbreak of his father. Now Yehudah sets about correcting that failure. Refusing to let his family starve, but insisting that his father not lose yet another son, Yehudah now promises his father that he will take personal responsibility for Binyamin and ensure that he be returned to his father unharmed. Later, when Yosef threatens to imprison Binyamin in Egypt, it is Yehudah once more who takes the lead, approaches Yosef, and demands Binyamin’s release.

It is unhealthy to become debilitated by errors of the past. Ultimately, we must move on and recognize all that can still be achieved. But simply putting the past behind us is also not the way forward. In Yehudah, the Torah presents a different approach. Yehudah is not perfect, but he strives for perfection and insists on correction. Yehudah admits his mistakes and takes ownership over them, doing his best to right the wrongs of the past.

Many generations later, one of the brightest stars to ever emerge from Yehudah’s descendants would ascend the throne of the Jewish People. David Hamelech was not perfect, and his missteps are recorded in Tanach. What makes David Hamelech such an extraordinary personality, though, is that he owns those errors, begs forgiveness, and tries to correct them. Every morning we begin the Viduy confession with the words “ויאמר דוד אל גד נפלה נא ביד ה׳ כי רבים רחמיו—And David sad to Gad, may we fall into the hand of G-d, for His mercy is great.” One of the many instances of David’s owning up to his own mistakes becomes the paradigm for each of us to properly process our sins. Teshuva is not a sweeping under the rug of past mistakes; it is tackling them head on, understanding where they came from, and developing into people who can be better.

A person can become completely hamstrung by mistakes of the past. An error or sin can become so overwhelming in one’s mind, that they are sent into a tailspin of self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy from which they never recover. This is not the Jewish way. But neither is the attitude of simply moving on without ever really addressing what went wrong. It is in analyzing our own mistakes that our most profound strides are made in improving our character. It is this approach that the Torah highlights as a necessary criterion for Jewish leadership.

It is unlikely that Yehudah would win an election today. And that’s a shame. Because the errors of the past that would be gleefully portrayed by his adversaries are errors that the Torah itself insists we should take note of, along with how Yehudah admitted to them, learned from them, and did his best to correct them. In the eyes of the Torah, past mistakes need not be hidden from others so long as we do not hide from them ourselves.