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Parshas Vayechi 5786

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Vayigash 5786

“You’re such a chassid!”

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

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

“You’re such a tzaddik!”

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

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

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

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

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

Shkoyach, Tzaddik.

But, there’s a problem. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chanukah 5786

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

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

Bwahaha. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? I’m not too sure. 

Exactly. 

Chanukah Brunch it is. 

Parshas Vayeitzei

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

So what took them so long?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parshas Toldos 5786

In May 2012, an 18 year old took the stage at Benedictine University’s “Youth Government Day.” A prominent political activist by the name of Bill Montgomery was in the room and he later noted that while the other speakers at the event had bored the audience of a few hundred high-school kids, they began to pay rapt attention when this new speaker took the mic. Montgomery approached the young man and encouraged him to pursue political activism full-time. The speaker’s name was Charlie Kirk. A month after that first meeting, he and Bill Montgomery co-founded Turning Point USA.

Which isn’t the least bit surprising. It’s exactly what anyone would have imagined as the first foray into a lifetime of advocacy and activism: taking the mic, leading the conversation, sharing one’s personal thoughts with the crowd. Someone who had never demonstrated those skills would never have become Charlie Kirk. 

But he may have become Yitzchak Avinu. 

The Gemara in Shabbos 89b describes a conversation Hashem had with the three Avos, one after the other. Disappointed with the behavior of the Jewish People, Hashem shares His plan to destroy them. He turns first to Avraham, then to Yaakov, both of whom can only concur with the Divine intention to obliterate the Jewish People. 

But then Hashem turns to Yitzchak and shares His accusation. “Your children have sinned.” Yitzchak responds with indignation. “My children? When they accepted the Torah, placing ‘na’aseh’ (we will perform) before ‘nishma’ (we will hear), did they not become Your children as well?”

Yitzchak is successful and the execution is stayed. Yitzchak, as it turns out, succeeds in advocacy where both his father and son walk right past the podium and never even pick up the mic. 

If we look to the Chumash to uncover clues—hints to Yitzchak’s future success in impassioned advocacy—we come up empty. It is Avraham and Yaakov who live lives dotted with dynamic escapades, telling off their adversaries, boldly engaging new horizons of spiritual activity. 

Yitzchak is not the one at the podium. He is not the leader, he is the follower. It is his father who takes the lead as they march off to the Akeidah. When famine strikes Eretz Yisrael, Yitzchak first attempts to descend to Egypt—just as his father had done—before receiving Divine instruction not to. Yitzchak goes to Grar and poses as Rivka’s brother, rather than her husband, mimicking the behavior of his father when he and Sarah arrived in the same land. Of the remarkably little the Torah tells us about Yitzchak, one of the few episodes featured prominently is Yitzchak’s efforts in re-digging his father’s old wells, and calling them by the same names that his father did. 

Yitzchak is not portrayed as the dynamic innovator, but as the dutiful follower. Avraham enjoyed a long career of taking the mic; Yitzchak did not. But when it came to advocating for the Jewish People, it is Yitzchak who strides defiantly to the podium. How did this come to pass?

Perhaps Yitzchak’s advocacy does not come in spite of his long resume of following in his father’s footsteps, but specifically as a result of it. One can only imagine Avraham’s response to the news that the Jewish People had sinned. “How can that be? Proper belief has been handed to them on a silver platter. I already wrote the playbook for them, all they needed to do was follow. If I had sinned, I could have claimed theological confusion; if they’ve sinned, what excuse could possibly be offered?”

But Yitzchak would have an entirely different opinion. One born out of a life of following. No new horizons, no stepping out into the unknown. A life dedicated to simply emulating those who came before you, following in their footsteps, abiding by the script they’d already written. 

Looking at the relatively little that the Torah chose to teach us about the life of Yitzchak, it is hard to see it as anything other than monotonous, particularly in comparison to the lives of Avraham and Yaakov.

But monotonous doesn’t mean easy. It means maintaining fidelity to principles that you never authored, forfeiting the natural satisfaction born of living your own life and fulfilling your own ideals. Yes, much of the heavy lifting has already been done for Yitzchak, but in a certain sense, that only makes his life more difficult. How do you generate passion for something that doesn’t feel entirely personal? 

When the Gemara paints the picture of Yitzchak going to bat for the Jewish People, it is simultaneously validating the struggle and shaking us by the lapels. On the one hand, it is giving credence to the difficulty we experience in finding many aspects of our avodah monotonous and impersonal. I daven words that aren’t mine, I abide by zmanim I didn’t select, I wear tefilin without customizing the shape, color, or parshios that are tucked inside. That is hard to do. Yitzchak Avinu knows it, and defends our lapses during that struggle.

But it’s also a wakeup call. To not equate the stimulating with the valuable. To not look to a mitzvah’s resonance on a personal level as a barometer for whether or not we’re cut out for that mitzvah. One may feel a certain satisfaction in managing his startup, completing his pet project, or engaging with a hobby he’s personally selected and developed in a way he does not when living by principles and laws imposed upon him from the outside. There is real mesirus nefesh—real sacrifice—there. But we sacrifice for things that are important. And importance and resonance are not one and the same.

Yitzchak Avinu looks to us and says, “I get it. It doesn’t feel like your own. And that’s hard. Believe me, I know.” It is our job to look back to Yitzchak Avinu and say, “Yet we’re still supposed to perform, aren’t we? After all, you can only create a dynasty by following what came before you.” 

Parshas Chayei Sarah 5786

Clearly nervous and fidgety, Rav Yisrael Salanter asked the innkeeper if everything was alright.

“No, actually,” he responded. “The shochet we use is sick and I’m afraid we’ll run out of meat.  We’re expecting a large crowd of guests in the coming days.”

“Not to worry,” Rav Yisrael assured him. “I know how to perform shechitah. I’d be happy to help.” 

A sense of relief visibly washed over the innkeeper and he thanked Rav Yisrael profusely. The next morning, the Rav made his way to the innkeeper’s desk.

“Sorry to ask. But I need a loan. Might you be willing to lend me 50,000 kopeks?” 

The innkeeper was completely taken aback. So was Rav Yisrael Salanter.

With the passing of Sarah, Avraham turns his attention to finding a wife for his son, Yitzchak, tasking his trusted servant Eliezer with this critical mission. Eliezer takes an oath to seek out a wife for Yitzchak only in the region of Avraham’s homeland, and to steer clear of the local Canaanite population.

If Avraham will not undertake this mission, and if Yitzchak will not go find a wife for himself, then Eliezer is the likely man for the job. We already know Eliezer, know him to be Avraham’s servant, the one who looks after Avraham’s affairs.

Yet in relating Avraham’s selection of Eliezer for this task, the Torah acts as though we don’t know Eliezer at all, feeling it necessary to provide a description of who exactly Eliezer was. 

וַיֹּאמֶר אַבְרָהָם אֶל־עַבְדּוֹ זְקַן בֵּיתוֹ הַמֹּשֵׁל בְּכׇל־אֲשֶׁר־לוֹ שִׂים־נָא יָדְךָ תַּחַת יְרֵכִי׃

^{בראשית כד:ב}

And Avraham said to his servant, the elder of his household, who had charge of all that he owned, “Put your hand under my thigh”

^{Bereishis 24:2}

If the description of being in charge of Avraham’s household is necessary to identify this servant as Eliezer, rather than some junior member of Avraham’s staff, why not just refer to Eliezer by name? We are, after all, already acquainted with Eliezer and his position in Avraham’s household (see ּBereishis 15:2). 

The Be’er Mayim Chaim, Rav Chaim Tyrer, explains that the Torah is doing far more than merely identifying Eliezer; it is highlighting the priorities of Avraham Avinu. 

Eliezer had Avraham’s full vote of confidence in running his household, managing his assets, and generally overseeing all his earthly affairs. But finding a wife for his son—the next matriarch of the nation they would build—was no earthly affair. The Torah is emphasizing that for Avraham, the management of those matters that fell in the realm of the finite was one thing. Here, Eliezer’s virtue was unimpeachable. But for matters that pertained to the infinite, greater assurances were necessary.

For many, sadly, the exact opposite is true.

When Rav Yisrael Salanter asked for a loan, the innkeeper stammered. “I don’t know anything about you!” he exclaimed. How could the rabbi be so presumptuous as to request such a large sum of money without so much as offering any proof of his character or trustworthiness?

Rav Yisrael pressed on, “If you know so little about me as to be suspicious of my repaying a loan, how can you consider me reliable enough to trust my shechitah and feed it to all your guests?”

What makes Avraham Avinu special is not that he could answer correctly when asked if proper shechitah is more important than 50,000 kopeks. It’s that he acted on it. That the primacy of the spiritual over the material, of the infinite over the finite, was not only a philosophy that existed in his mind, but in his deeds. For Avraham, any care or concern extended to his material assets would not only be replicated in the spiritual realm, they would be magnified.

If posed that same question, we’d likely respond correctly as well. The efficacy and quality of shechitah impacts us eternally. A few thousand dollars does not. And we know it.

But a more important exercise is in considering the actions we take in protecting our various assets. Are the material and spiritual at least on par? Or is there a gap?

What do we do to protect our material assets? We have conversations with experts to identify how to receive the best returns. We follow their growth carefully to ensure that they’re performing the way we’d hope and expect. We create objectives to determine success and optimization.

The same can be done for spiritual assets. Seeking out advice from experts—those who know us well and who have achieved a measure of spiritual growth that we are envious of—who can help us manage our portfolio. Devising ways to track our growth in Torah study, in daily habits we wish to inculcate, in punctuality in tefilah. Adopting formal goals that ensure that our accounts aren’t flatlining, that we continue to surge towards new benchmarks in avodas Hashem. 

It is a wonderful thing to protect our wealth. But if we’ve learned how to do so, can we copy those skills, those insights, those abilities, and apply them elsewhere? If we know how to protect our kopeks, do we similarly protect our shechitah?

Parshas Lech Lecha 5786

A number of years ago I sat at a community Friday night seudah trying to crack the code of starting a great zemer. With participants spread out across a large room, how do you get them to stop shmoozing and start singing? I and a few others started pacing as we sang, hoping to draw others in as we walked. To no avail.

For the next round, we just sat. The few of us who were interested in singing would do so, and the rest of the room would ignore us. And wouldn’t you know it? As we sat together singing, more and more people walked over to join us. Soon nearly the whole room was singing, all without even trying to convince them. 

With the daunting task of journeying to a completely foreign land before him, Avraham is promised by Hashem that all will work out well. Hashem will bless Avraham, make him into a great nation, and will make his name great. All in all, Hashem vows, “It will be a blessing.” (Bereishis 12:2)

Rashi comments that this final commitment is to Avraham alone. It will be a bracha so personal, so tailor-made, it will not even be shared by his children. Referencing the first bracha of Shemoneh Esrei, Rashi explains that although each of the three Avos will be referred to at the beginning of the bracha, only Avraham’s name will be mentioned in its conclusion: “Magen Avraham—The Shield of Avraham.” 

Did Avraham suffer from anxiety over being outdone by his son or grandson? Was Hashem trying to put his mind at ease with the promise that his progeny would not suprass him? As the Gemara in Sanhedrin 105 notes, “בכל אדם מתקנא חוץ מבנו—A person is jealous of everyone, save his son.” Of what relief is it to Avraham that the bracha all Jews will one day recite will be sealed with his name alone? 

The Shearis Menachem notes an interesting trend that unfolds over the lives of the Avos: a pivot from turning outward to turning inward. Avraham and Sarah are all about outreach, teaching others about the existence of G-d and the impact that such a philosophy has on daily living. When Avraham journeys to Canaan, the Torah records that he made the trek along with the “souls he had made in Charan,” a reference to all those he and Sarah had taught and who ultimately accepted the truth of monotheism. 

We find no such following consolidating around Yitzchak and Yaakov. Neither is depicted by the Torah as getting up on the soapbox, and even the hachnassas orchim so characteristic of Avraham and Sarah are not mentioned regarding the next generations of Avos and Imahos. In a decided about-face from the practices of Avraham, Yaakov is characterized as the “יושב אהלים—The one who sits in tents,” a reference to his dedicated Torah-study, but a description as well of someone whose religious profile is insular and does not include the intentional outreach so typical of Avraham.

This, explains the Shearis Menachem, is Hashem’s intent in telling Avraham that he alone—not his children—will be a blessing. That in conclusion, at the end of days, it will be Avraham’s philosophy of turning outward, of saving the planet, that will prevail. Ultimately, our national mission is about more than just ourselves, but about the elevating the entire world. At the conclusion of history, the blessing of the Jewish People is as Avraham imagined it, with Judaism proving a gift given not only to the Jewish People, but to all of humanity. For through it, even the other nations would be uplifted and redeemed, benefiting from the paradigm of morality, decency, and spirituality that the Jewish People would serve as. 

Which begs the question, why only in the end of days? Why did we ever veer from Avraham’s worldview to begin with?

In truth, perhaps we never did. Perhaps we were just concentrating our voices so the song would be more compelling. 

Because that is exactly what happened on that Friday night. In bringing the “singers” together, the zemer was stronger and more beautiful than when we were scattered around the room. When the product was weak, our direct marketing campaign garnered little interest. Once we’d inadvertently created a great product, it sold itself, and even developed its own gravitational pull. 

Why did Yitzchak and Yaakov turn inward? Why no mention in the Torah of their hachnassas orchim, converts to monotheism, or diplomatic escapades? How did Judaism go from being housed in a tent open on four sides to one that closed off the openings in favor of creating more wall space for shelves of sefarim? By recognizing that to fully realize the vision of turning outward, it had to first turn decidedly inward. It had to focus its efforts on its own adherents, members of that initial familly-nation, before it could hope to influence others. It needed to turn itself into the strongest possible product—of scholarship, of middos, of faith—if it would be compelling enough to convince others of the value of its most basic principles. 

Yitzchak and Yaakov hadn’t abandoned Avraham’s worldview any more than Avraham himself had. Perhaps it is telling that the anecdote the Torah selects to share with us to demonstrate Avraham’s outreach is the one that ends in the foretelling that a son will be born. And that from that point on, we hear nothing more of their guests, converts, or students. Only of their intent to provide their son with the most ideal environment in which to grow and develop, even if the creation of said environment demanded banishing his half-brother from the home. Not exactly the behavior we’d expect from Avraham considering his resume until this point. 

Had Avraham had a change of heart? Had he ultimately realized the error in trying to convince the world of Hashem’s existence? Had he looked back on his career and ultimately considered it a life wasted? Certainly not. But with the emergence of a son, Avraham realized the best way to bring the world around would be to raise that son properly. And for him to do the same for his son. And so on and so forth throughout history. Until the Jewish People would become a product so compelling, it would essentially sell itself. 

This is the promise Hashem makes Avraham. In the end, in conclusion, the bracha is yours. Your view, your vision. One that imagines not only a nation redeemed, but a world redeemed. Yitzchak, Yaakov, and everyone that followed may have needed to turn inward, but ultimately their voice will be so powerful, so mesmerizing, they simply can’t be ignored. By turning inward, they’ll start singing a tune so sweet, that the rest of the world will surely join in. 

Parshas Noach 5786

The Gerrer Rebbe, Rav Avraham Mordechai Alter, also known as the “Imrei Emes” managed to escape Europe and emigrate to Eretz Yisrael in 1940. When the Holocaust finally ended, the Rebbe confirmed that but one of his grandchildren, Reb Noach Yaskovitz, had survived. When grandfather and grandson were finally reunited after the war in Yerushalayim, the Rebbe embraced him with great vigor, holding his grandson tight and repeating again and again, “Vayishaer ach Noach! Vayishaer ach Noach! “And only Noach was left….”(Bereishis, 7:23)

In the midst of their intense reunion, the loving Zeidy looked into his grandson’s eyes: “Why do you think Hashem saved Noach? Because he would rebuild the world. We, too, survived in order to rebuild!”

Throughout Parshas Noach, the great flood is referred to time and again as the Mabul. Yet in referencing the flood many generations later, the navi Yeshaya—in a section read as haftarah for Parshas Noach—refers to the event as “מי נח, The Waters of Noach.” (Yeshaya 54:9)

After leading a moral life in the face of a wayward society around him, building a massive ark by hand, and tending to the needs of the myriad animals protected inside, what did Noach do to deserve such an unfortunate byline, being forever linked by the navi with the tragic waters that inundated the world and washed out nearly all of humanity?

In the very first pasuk of the parsha, Noach’s name is mentioned no fewer than three times and the Rosh offers an intriguing explanation as to why. He suggests that the reference is to three people throughout history who saw their environs settled, destroyed, and then resettled. The first is, of course, Noach himself. The second is Daniel, who saw the Bais Hamikdash, saw it destroyed, and saw it rebuilt. The third is Iyov, who witnessed his own home go from a state of tranquility to utter ruination, and then reestablished once more. 

“Noach” is a symbol not only for a world ruined, but of a world rebuilt. 

Perhaps this is the distinction between the description of the Flood in the parsha itself and the description offered generations later by Yeshaya. The term “Mabul” connotes destruction, which is exactly the way the waters were experienced as the inundated the earth. 

Yet when the destruction had subsided, there was an opportunity to rebuild. For the only people left on earth to create a covenant with Hashem. To offer korbanos. To turn the ark outward, imbuing the new world with the kindness, care, and sensitivity previously shown to the animals. For Shem to launch a yeshivah that would train all who would enter its portals in the ways of monotheism and morality. 

It would take time—years, even millennia—for the opportunities offered by rebooting the world to become fully realized. But when they did, it could be traced back to Noach. Recognizing that all that was ultimately achieved was attributed to him and the new spirit he breathed into the world reborn around him. 

To call the waters Mei Noach is not to disparage Noach, to lay the blame of the destruction at this feet, but to credit him with the fulfillment of the promise contained within those very waters. Generations after the flood, they can be called by Noach’s name because of the hindsight that the intervening years provide that attribute to Noach all that had been accomplished since the world was destroyed. 

Were the waters that inundated the earth devastating, or were they constructive? The answer is “Yes”. 

It is always this way. A fire is sometimes precisely what is needed to give the forest a chance for new life and vitality. And it is often a crisis or even a tragedy of some variety or another that clears the landscape in a manner that permits growth far greater than what could have been achieved if life simply continued to bounce along without incident. 

No one would ever choose pain, let alone tragedy. Yet we don’t have to. They come upon us at times whether we’re ready or not, whether we want them or not. The question is only how we’ll react to them. Will we see only the devastating impact of a Mabul? Or identify the opportunity to rebuild and to flourish that characterized the Mei Noach?

It can help to put ourselves in the shoes of Yeshaya haNavi, someone viewing the events with the advantage of hindsight, already aware of how it all turned out. What story will I want to be told years from now? What recollections do I hope will be shared generations in the future? And what response do I need to choose today in order for that to be so? Do I want my great-grandchildren to tell stories of the Mabul that ruined me? Or the Mei Noach that became the opportunity I seized to become a builder?

The Imrei Emes would never have opted into the pain and suffering visited upon him by the Holocaust. But it was never his decision to make. What was his decision was how he would react to that tragedy, the Mabul that inundated his life and the world around him. And as he held his grandson, he insisted that they not waste their time wallowing in pain or self-pity, but that they commit themselves to rebuilding the world. Just as Noach had done before them. 

Parshas Nitzavim 5785

A few years ago, I stood in my front yard with a landscaper, sharing my tale of woe. There was a particular bed that, while producing beautiful flowers every spring, was also inundated with weeds and encroaching grass each year. Why was this happening? And what could I spray to kill off what I didn’t want while preserving what I did?

“Well, how’d you first lay the bed out?” he asked. “Did you dig deep enough to get rid of the grass roots? Did put down a weed barrier?”

“Uh…not exactly…”

“Well, in that case, you can keep spray all you like, but the weeds and grass will keep on coming back. If you want to do it right, you’re going to have to get back beneath the surface and kill it all off at the roots.”

Sage advice.

One of the most iconic pesukim describing the process of teshuva, one recited every day of Selichos and throughout the liturgy of the Yamim Noraim, comes from Megilas Eichah. Yirmiyahu implores his fellow Jews, “נַחְפְּשָׂה דְרָכֵינוּ וְנַחְקֹרָה וְנָשׁוּבָה עַד־ה׳—Let us search our ways and investigate, and we will return to Hashem.” (Eichah 3:40)

The process Yirmiyahu calls for demands two actions, “נַחְפְּשָׂה דְרָכֵינוּ—searching our ways,” and “וְנַחְקֹרָה—investigating”. The first term suggests a general surveying of our behavior. What are we doing and what are we not? Which mitzvos are we performing properly, which aveiros are we violating? We are attempting to achieve a baseline consciousness of our own deeds.

“וְנַחְקֹרָה—investigating” is something else. It is a derivative of the word “Chakirah,” a term that in classical yeshiva learning has a very specific connotation. A chakirah is an investigation of a particular mitzvah or halacha, with two or more slightly varied approaches offered to understand how it functions or operates. 

Is the Torah’s demand that we see tzitzis (וּרְאִיתֶם אֹתוֹ) a function of the garment, or of the person wearing the garment? Does the halacha require tzitzis only for clothing typically worn in the daytime, when the strings would usually be visible? If it is the former, then any daytime attire, made to be worn during a time of day when the clothing can easily be seen, would require tzitzis, even if one chose to wear such a garment at night. If the latter understanding is correct, the individual would be obligated in affixing tzitzis to any garment, so long as he wears it during the day, when he can see the tzitzis. 

Chakirah seeks to understand the underlying mechanics of the mitzvah, not only to classify or describe it at the surface level.

Applied to teshuva, chakirah demands that we not only make a reckoning of our activities or middos, but that we dig deep to discern why we do the things we do. Not only that we notice and identify sin, but that we analyze our own minds and hearts to understand the pathology of sin. What are the stressors that trigger this behavior? In what environment do I trend towards this behavior? Who are the people I am around when I act this way? Has this sin becoming a coping mechanism for some tension I feel in my life? 

Yirmiyahu HaNavi insists that teshuva is not just about acknowledgment, but discovery. “נַחְפְּשָׂה דְרָכֵינוּ” is identifying the sin. It is noticing the weeds once they have grown up high and cast an ugly shadow over the surrounding flowers. “וְנַחְקֹרָה” is getting to the bottom of the issue. It’s discovering the weeds at their root and taking measures to ensure that they can never develop in the first place.

In one of his final messages to the Jewish People, Parshas Nitzavim contains a stern warning that Moshe Rabbeinu issues the People, concerned as he is that they may veer towards idolatry upon entering Eretz Yisrael. He questions, “פֶּן־יֵשׁ בָּכֶם שֹׁרֶשׁ פֹּרֶה רֹאשׁ וְלַעֲנָה—Perhaps there is amongst you a root producing poison weed or wormwood”. (Devarim 29:17) 

The Tzror HaMor quotes a tradition that the first letters of the final four words of the pasuk above can be assembled to write the word “שופר”. The shofar, he writes, as the blaring reminder that we wake from our slumber and perform teshuva, has the ability to pry up those vile roots that Moshe Rabbeinu referenced. 

How does this occur? What sort of teshuva does more than just spraying a topical herbicide, allowing the root of the problem to remain firmly embedded within us, capable of producing unwanted behavioral weeds? What sort of teshuva attacks the sin at it’s very root? A teshuva of chakirah, of sincere self-analysis that does more than identify the problem, but asks earnestly, “Where is this coming from?”

Nachkorah—let us fully investigate. Let’s ask the right questions. Not to simply say what is so often said when we attempt to change behavior, that “I’ll try harder this time.” Let’s recognize that there’s only so much trying that can be done to suppress a weed whose root is firmly implanted. At some point, we must dig deeper, study the environment, the atmosphere, the very soil that permits the weeds to develop, and install a better system that will produce a more beautiful result. 

Parshas Ki Savo 5785

When I was a child, Thomas Jefferson was a hero, the founding father who had authored the Declaration of Independence and lent articulate voice to so many of the principles upon which the country was founded. Recently, that legacy has been called into question. Should we maintain such a generous view of someone who, on the one hand, wrote that “All men are created equal,” yet simultaneously owned slaves?

To some, this is just another frustrating example of cancel culture. To others, it is a refreshingly honest look back at a historical narrative we’ve been too quick to blindly accept. But either way, it underscores a point everyone can agree upon: Actions speak louder than words. Don’t just give lip-service to principles of morality; live by them.

Yet, what if the opposite had been true? If Jefferson had emancipated all his slaves, yet had never authored the words, “All men are created equal?” Would everyone now be content? 

I hope not. Because as much as actions speak louder than words, in truth, they are not loud enough. The words themselves are still incredibly important.

Just as the first fruit on the tree makes an appearance, the farmer immediately wraps a ribbon around it, consecrating it for Hashem. Months later, similar fruits collected from each of his trees are delicately placed in a basket the farmer and begins the trip up to Yerushalayim. It’s an arduous journey, carefully balancing the basket on the back of his donkey over the three day trek, but he’s delighted. Every rocky step, every bead of sweat, every calloused fingertip is another expression of gratitude to Hashem for the bounty of his family’s farm.

Arriving at the Bais Hamikdash, he hands the Kohen the basket and then makes a proclamation: five pesukim describing the long, winding road the Jewish People have taken from the treachery of Lavan, through the oppression of Mitzrayim, to the glory of the current moment: the blessing of Jewish-grown produce upon holy soil. 

The declaration is important. Not only as an additional expression of gratitude, the icing on the cake of months of activities already evincing his profound gratitude to Hashem, but because without it, apparently, this farmer would be cast as a total ingrate. When the pasuk (26:3) instructs the farmer “You shall say to [the Kohen],” prefacing the declaration that the farmer will make, Rashi explains “For you are not ungrateful.”

Really? If he keeps quiet, ungrateful? If he’s more of the reserved type, not one for declarations of a religious nature, his gratitude would be called into question? After dedicating the first fruits from their very inception, carefully monitoring their development, shlepping them up to Yerushalayim on rocky terrain under a blazing Israeli sun, all to present to Hashem in the Bais Hamikdash, an ingrate?

Apparently so. Because as much as actions speak louder than words, words must nevertheless be spoken. Of course you love your children. You work hard for them, clothe them, shelter them, shuttle them, bathe them, root for them at little league and display their artwork on the wall. Those actions bespeak the love you have for them in your heart. But they need to hear “I love you.” Your spouse needs to hear “I appreciate you.” Your friend needs to hear, “I’m in awe of you.” 

Express those words without any actions to back them up? The words will ring hollow. But display the actions without speaking the words? Something is sorely missing. You can labor for days and weeks and months to express your hakaras hatov to another person, but those actions must be framed and labeled by words. “Thank you. I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

Why is this so? There may simply the way our brains are wired that processes spoken words in a way that is even more profound than being doted on and given to. That we somehow just feel more loved, admired, or appreciated by hearing words that convey those sentiments than we would be if we are only the recipients of actions that intend to send the same message. That words are just magical.

But perhaps there is more, a consideration for the giver, not only the receiver. That when I act in a way that conveys gratitude or love, I am producing something that is an outward expression of my own creativity and talent. A basket of fruit, a dream vacation, a new treehouse. It is an object intended to acknowledge and highlight the recipient, but there is a whole lot of “me” in it. I built it, planned it, designed it. But with words, we surrender all that, and surrender more fully to the other person in turn. “Thank you,” states that I needed your assistance. “I love you,” states that my life would be incomplete without you. “I appreciate you,” means that I acknowledge something in you that I myself am lacking. All without reversing the spotlight: “And do you see these beautiful fruits I grew? And how I packed the basket? And how far I walked?” No me, just you.

While actions can speak louder than words—demonstrating that we’re willing to undertake the effort implied by the principles we profess—the words are still critical. They are an act of humility, of pure recognition of the contributions, merit, and value of the other, that even well-meaning actions simply cannot achieve on their own. Don’t just show Hashem you’re grateful, don’t just demonstrate your love for your family and friends. Be sure to say it out loud.