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Parshas Vayigash 5780

I will often encourage my students to think beyond tests. To not merely study well enough to fare well on an exam, but to truly develop skills in Torah learning: how to decipher a Gemara, a Rashi, a Tosfos. “This way you’ll be able to continue learning independently for the rest of your lives,” I tell them.

“But Rebbe, I don’t want to be a Rebbe.” 

Ugh. 

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Before his descent to Egypt with his family, Yaakov sent his son Yehudah to prepare the way:

(ואת יהודה שלח לפניו אל יוסף להורת לפניו גשנה (בראשית מו:כח

He sent Judah ahead of him to Joseph, to prepare ahead of him in Goshen (Bereishis 46:28)

Rashi cites the Midrash explaining the nature of this preparation:

לתקן לו בית תלמוד

To prepare a house of study

In commanding Yehudah to do so, perhaps Yaakov was mindful of a precedent that had already been set by one of his other sons, referenced earlier in this very parsha.

When Yosef sends his brothers back to Canaan to collect their families and father and return to Egypt, he makes a point of sending wagons that will transport them back down. Rashi (מה:כז ד׳׳ה את כל דברי יוסף) quotes the Midrash that the purpose of sending wagons, specifically, was meant as a word-play. “Wagon” in Hebrew is agalah, which is related to the word eglah, meaning “Calf”. With this, Yosef communicated to his father that he still hadn’t forgotten their last study session, when they pored over the details of the mitzvah of Eglah arufah—the ritual of breaking a calf’s neck when an unidentified corpse is found in the wilderness of Eretz Yisrael. 

Why is this Yosef’s message to his father? Why not a reference to some other shared memory between father and son related to tefilah or chessed or Shabbos that only Yosef was privy to and would have served as proper authentication that it was indeed Yosef sending for his father? Perhaps Yosef was interested in communicating not only that he was physically alive, but also how, precisely, he maintained his spiritual health. When it comes to creating a relationship with Hashem strong enough to survive exile, only Talmud Torah will suffice.

Shir Hashirim is dedicated to the idea that we view our relationship with Hashem as a marriage. Throughout the Sefer, Hashem and the Jewish People speak of one another as דודי, “my Beloved”. There is much to making a successful marriage work, but a vital dimension is truly knowing one’s spouse. Two people can support one another financially, cook meals for one another, do errands, and even raise children, but fall short of truly knowing one another. Something is desperately missing in this scenario and without the critical connection that comes through knowledge of one’s spouse’s likes and dislikes, their thoughts, dreams, aspirations, and values, the marriage is on the rocks. 

The same is true of our marriage with Hashem. We can, as it were, run errands for Hashem; dutifully perform each task written on the “Honey-Do” list—sit in the sukkah, eat the matzah, light the candles, put on the tefillin—without ever taking the time to get to know Him. The result is an underdeveloped marriage and a relationship that may well buckle under the strains and pressures that life will naturally place on it. 

It is no accident that from the very first Parsha of the Torah, the act of cohabitation is often referred to as “ידיעה”, or “knowing”. Knowledge and intimacy are inseparable. If we hope to come close to our Beloved, a knowledge of His beliefs, values, and perspectives on life are critical. It is a relationship with Hashem secured through Torah study and Torah knowledge that will stand the test of time and can secure the Jewish future even against the onslaught of an Egyptian exile. This was Yosef’s message to his father, and Yaakov’s message to the rest of his family in insisting that a yeshiva be founded before their descent to Egypt. 

A Rebbe or a Rabbi is a moreh derech—one who can help show the way. In keeping with the allegory of Shir HaShirim, a Rabbi is more of a marriage counselor than anything else. He can provide insights and instruction along the way, providing pointers and strategies for an effective relationship. But ultimately, it is the husband and wife who are responsible for their own marriage and it is they who must take the time to communicate and truly get to know and understand one another. 

This past week witnessed an event that could not serve as a more encouraging sign of Jews taking responsibility for effective communication with their Beloved. The Siyum HaShas was a spectacle of a Kiddush Hashem, as hundreds of thousands gathered to celebrate all those around the world who have committed to solidifying their relationship with Hashem through understanding and knowing Him, as best as they are able. 

Daf Yomi has emerged as a remarkable movement since its inception nearly one hundred years ago. Whether or not you get on board with the study of the daily daf, every one of us needs to passionately subscribe to the philosophy that stands behind the program: that Torah study is not only the purview of rabbis, but is something that must be committed to by every Jew interested in a sincere and meaningful relationship with our Beloved in Heaven.

The response to my students is a message that we all need to imbibe: Don’t learn Torah because you want to be a rabbi; learn Torah because you want to be a Jew.

Chanukah 5780

Our dishwasher broke. More precisely, a single button on our dishwasher broke. A few decades ago, the appropriate course of action would have been overwhelmingly clear: call a repairman, and have him fix it. But cheap, mass production of appliances compared with increasingly expensive physical labor makes a tough decision out of what would once have been an obvious choice, so that we’re now stymied. Do we repair, or do we replace?

This is a phenomenon that extends beyond my own dishwasher. We live in a disposable generation. Appliances, furniture, and clothing are more often worthy of replacement rather than repair. Media is produced rapidly and consumed in ever-shrinking nuggets, with the next song, clip, or highlight available immediately for near-mindless consumption. We produce, we consume, we discard, we move on. 

All of this aligns with a basic human tendency that we naturally possess: a desire for the new and novel. The allure of a sparkly new building exceeds even a finely renovated one. Beginning a new Sefer is more enticing than diving back into an old one from wherever it was that the bookmark was last placed. A new hobby, a new craft, a new pursuit animates our imagination in ways that turning to one previously engaged in ever could.

Yet we give something up when we engage in the new and jettison the old: depth. True depth of knowledge, genuine mastery of a subject or discipline can occur only when we take the time to reengage in that which we’ve already done. Hopping from one interest to the next provides stimulation that can only come through novelty, but leaves us bereft of truly comprehensive and enriching experiences. By skipping to the next Sefer we never make a siyum. By picking up the next hobby, we lose the chance to truly master the previous one. By jumping from friend to friend, we fall short of ever really getting to know a single one.

The Gemara in Chagigah (9b) stresses this point when it states, “אינו דומה שונה פרקו מאה פעמים לשונה פרקו מאה ואחד”, “One who reviews his chapter 100 times cannot be compared with one who does so 101 times.” Though the draw towards the novel is great, there is immense value in returning to the old for another round.

Chanukah is a holiday that demands that we stop. Chanukah commemorates not a rebuilding, but a refurbishment. How interesting that the anniversary of the building of neither the first nor second Bais Hamikdash—nor the original Mishkan—is commemorated with its own holiday, yet the mere refurbishment of the Bais Hamikdash is celebrated on Chanukah. The ability to refurbish—to breathe new life into that which has already been created—is a critical lesson that Judaism demands we learn. Old enterprises, limudim, and relationships can be returned to and made to shine once more.

Refurbishment and rededication is precisely the cause that the Maccabees had fought for from the onset of their revolt. In increasing numbers, the Jews of Israel turned from Judaism in the interest of hellenization. Greek culture was novel and enticing compared with the ancient practices of Judaism that many found stale. The answer to this impulse is not to insist upon Judaism by rote, no matter how unstimulating it may feel. But rather, to reengage with new enthusiasm and vigor. To become excited by the prospect of mastering that which we’ve already done so many times. To become expert in that which we’ve already studied, and to complete that which we’ve fallen short of finishing. 

Rosh Hashana tends to be a time of accepting new “kabbalos”—new enterprises and practices that we can add to the current repertoire. Adding something new in anticipation of a new year may well be appropriate. But as we celebrate Chanukah, let’s consider something more aligned with the message of this holiday. Don’t just add; refurbish. Go back to the masechta you never finished, recommit to a relationship that’s stalled, rejuvenate a positive practice that’s gone cold. Chanukah reminds us that we need not start over, we need only breathe new life into that which has already been started. 

Writing a blog is something I’ve been meaning to do for some time, and it comes with the thrill that all new enterprises do. But it also makes me consider all that I’ve laid out in the lines above. New ventures are new and exciting, but can also turn our lives into a reckless blur of novelty, as we abandon other important projects whose loose ends have never properly been tied off. Thank you for joining me in the new; I hope to take the time alongside you to reinvigorate the old.