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Parshas Balak 5785

In Vienna 1923, at the First International Congress of Agudath Israel, Rav Meir Shaprio launched a program that changed the Jewish world. He proposed a regimen of Gemara learning whereby one page of the Babylonian Talmud would be studied each day, thus uniting world Jewry in a shared daily limud. With that audacious proposal, Rav Meir Shapiro founded Daf Yomi.

Sort of. 

In Midrash Rabbah 14:20, Chazal record a gripe shared by the collective nations of the world: The Jewish People decided to accept the Torah because they were led by the most extraordinary leader in history, Moshe Rabbeinu. Had another nation been gifted with such a luminary, it too would have pined for a connection with G-d and would have been eager to accept the Torah. Hadn’t G-d provided the Jews with an unfair advantage?

Parshas Balak, explain the Chachamim, serves as a retort to that claim. Enter Bilaam, whose prophetic abilities Chazal describe as being on par with those of Moshe’s, and in some ways, even surpassed them. With Bilaam at the helm, Moav could have become Israel, and the spiritual achievements achieved by the latter could at least have been shared by the former. And yet the opportunity was squandered. Even with Bilaam, the people of Moav remained far from spiritual nobility. Even under a great leader, Moav remained Moav.

Yet, was it really the same? Was Bilaam actually a reasonable stand-in for Moshe Rabbeinu? Bilaam was a conniving mercenary, willing to weaponize his remarkable prophetic powers and sell them to the highest bidder. Moshe was a transcendently righteous individual whose famed humility was unsurpassed. How could it have been lost on Chazal that apportioning Moshe to the Jews and Bilaam to Moav was far from even-steven?

Perhaps Chazal hold a different view of the interaction between the leader and the led. That much of the refinement of character and personal acumen possessed by the leader is actually facilitated by the people who will ultimately be in his charge. In other words, Moshe became the Moshe we know because of the people who surrounded him and the environment they provided. And so did Bilaam. 

Could Bilaam have become like Moshe Rabbeinu? Perhaps he actually could have. But it would have required the very best of all those around him. The sort of people who would hear that G-d wanted to impart His wisdom to them, to impose upon them a mode of living that would be spiritually uplifting on the one hand but immensely challenging on the other and would respond with, “Na’aseh v’nishma”. 

Perhaps it is not that the people of Moav failed because of the shortcomings of their leader, but that their leader failed because of the shortcomings of his people.

Which means that as much as the world needs its leaders, it needs its followers even more. The rank-and-file, going about their business, choosing right over wrong thousands of times throughout their daily lives, all in a manner that never makes the headlines. 

I remember sitting at MetLife Stadium during the last Siyum HaShas and watching the image of Rav Shmuel Kaminetzky appear on the screen. “How different,” I thought. Compared to the faces usually shown on those screens—athletes, singers, and the like—Rav Shmuel’s visage served in delightful contrast. But the most remarkable thing about that spectacle was not Rav Shmuel—neither his face nor his words. Rather, it was the 100,000 strong who showed up to hear him, to listen to the Gadol HaDor recite the Hadran in completion of all of Shas, to celebrate the learning accomplished by tens of thousands worldwide. 

And the same can be said of the movement that is Daf Yomi itself. Was the Jewish People fortunate to have the leadership of Rav Meir Shapiro? Undoubtedly. Is he responsible for the success of Daf Yomi as a movement? Sort of.

What would have become of Daf Yomi had Rav Meir Shapiro’s proposal fallen on deaf ears? If there hadn’t been the response of thousands worldwide—even in those earliest years—who were willing to be led? If there hadn’t been throngs of carpenters and accountants and physicians who heeded his call? And had such a Jewish world not existed, would Rav Meir Shaprio have even become Rav Meir Shapiro?

“Leadership” is all the buzz, whether at corporate outings, professional in-services, or teen summer programs. And yet if we focus on leadership alone we may well be failing to properly develop the one area that permits leaders to enjoy any measure of success. It is not enough that we step up and lead; we must be doubly prepared to step up and follow. 

Parshas Chukas 5785

Absent the number of a Christian theologian saved on my phone, the extent of my research was an AI-generated response on Google. Still, the assessment resonates, at least for this relative layman. The question: What is the difference between Catholic and Jewish guilt? 

The answer:

Catholic guilt is often associated with a pervasive sense of wrongdoing and sin, stemming from the concept of original sin and the need for atonement. Jewish guilt, in contrast, is often described as a feeling of not doing enough, or falling short of expectations, and is linked to the emphasis on personal responsibility and mitzvah (good deeds) in Jewish tradition.

Seems largely right to me. 

Or, to sum it up perhaps more succinctly, a comment I read to the same question posed on Reddit: 

Catholic guilt comes from your priest. Jewish guilt comes from your mother. 

In introducing us to the mitzvah of Parah Adumah, Parshas Chukas presents us with what is generally considered the most baffling of all mitzvos, the one that lies even further beyond the limits of human reasoning than any others. The pasuk even presents this mitzvah as “זאת חקת התורה—This is the chok of the Torah”, referencing the category of mitzvos that transcend human logic, and speaking of this law as the quintessential example thereof. 

Rashi, quoting the Gemara in Yoma 67, speaks of a conversation between us and the foreign nations surrounding this mitzvah, that never really gets off the ground. The Gemara tells of the nations antagonizing the Jews, demanding a reason for the Parah Adumah, effectively mocking our inability to explain it. So the Torah reminds us it’s not ours to explain. It lays in a realm beyond explanation. It’s a chok. Period.

And yet this very statement appears undermined by Rashi’s own comments on the very same pasuk. Quoting from the Midrash Tanchuma, Rashi actually provides a window into understanding this otherwise enigmatic mitzvah. The Midrash offers a mashal of a boy who sneaks into the king’s palace and makes a mess. Upon discovering the mischief, they summon the boy’s mother to clean up after him. It is only fair, after all, that she should be held responsible for the misdeed of her own son.

The Parah Adumah—an adult female cow—functions in a similar manner. A baby calf was front and center during perhaps the greatest sin ever committed, that of the Egel HaZahav. Hence, it is the mother cow that must now come and provide atonement for the sin of the child.

A beautiful bit of symbolism, and not nearly the sort of explanation that transcends all logic and rational thought. So why, when the other nations come knocking, do we not reach for this mashal, answering the question head-on with insight and reason?

Rav Yechiel Michel of Zlotschov explained that, in reality, it is precisely this mashal that the other nations have in mind when they come to antagonize us, needling us for an explanation of the mitzvah. Knowing that Parah Adumah is linked to the Egel HaZahav, it is their intention to accost us, demanding an interpretation of a mitzvah that they know will only dredge up our past foibles. It is to this that we are given the gift of the label “chok,” providing us with the opportunity to shut down the conversation, to deny that human logic can at all be applied to an understanding of Parah Adumah.

But why beat around the bush? Why not just reply head on? Perhaps because there is so fundamental a difference in our understanding of guilt—its origin and how it functions—that no satisfactory conclusion to the conversation with the other nations can ever be arrived at.

Our guilt—as the quip above so aptly puts it—comes from our mothers, not from our priests. Jewish guilt is not a theological axiom of human existence. A guilty conscience is not inherent. It emanates, rather, from a deep-seated understanding of just how much we’re capable of, of the gadlus ha’adam, the innate greatness of a human being. The sort of guilt that would come from a Jewish mother, because of boundless potential her children are endowed with. 

Which means we need not live forever beneath a dark cloud. We need only be better, inch ever closer to the fulfillment of the potential our mothers—or whomever—may recognize within us.

Or, to put it in other terms, the escape from Jewish guilt is teshuva, the process whereby we shed sins of the past in favor of a more virtuous future. But to do so, we must process those sins, not hide from them. If guilt, sin, or a stain on our soul is unavoidable—simply part of the human condition—we would certainly bury our heads in the sand. But if we can transcend all that, then there is no sense in cowering in fear of previous errors. We would far prefer to tackle them head on and to emerge better for it.

The nations ponder Parah Adumah, trying to bait us into a humiliating admission of sins past. Too late. We’re already doing it. 

I don’t actually know which of the foreign nations is being referenced in the conversation about the Parah Adumah that Chazal describe. Only that it is a decidedly foreign one. One that, because it so vastly differs from the Jewish understanding, makes a conversation about the subject of sin, guilt, and the possible emergence from both, a conversation that cannot possibly go anywhere. 

In Jewish thought, there is no fear in confronting sins of the past. Because they are rectifiable. And in rectifying our sins, we emerge not only unscathed, but even better than we were before. As the Gemara famously notes in Berachos 34b, “מָקוֹם שֶׁבַּעֲלֵי תְשׁוּבָה עוֹמְדִין — צַדִּיקִים גְּמוּרִים אֵינָם עוֹמְדִין—Where those who have repented stand, not even wholly righteous people stand.” 

The stain of sin is not inherent to the human being. Quite the opposite. Judaism sees man as being fully capable of transcending past errors and emerging holy and pure. Jews should talk about sin, strategize ways to overcome it, and laud the virtues of those who do. We just may need to have such conversations amongst ourselves. 

Parshas Korach 5785

The criticism levied at the government over the span of just a few days has been dizzying. Before bombing Iran, naysayers insisted America was teetering on the edge of entering what would surely be a protracted campaign, maybe even a World War. A couple days later? The bombing wasn’t extensive enough, unclear that it really did the job at all. Voices in one direction, and in the exact opposite direction—sometimes coming out of the very same mouth. 

So what should you do when you just can’t win? You do you. It’s what Moshe Rabbeinu would have done. 

“Moshe’s not the only one!” The criticism of Korach, citing the fact that, after all, “כל העדה כלם קדושים—The entire congregation is replete with holy people” does more than sting; it reverberates with a familiarity of other criticism we heard all too recently. Just a few short parshios ago, it was Miriam who had been critical of Moshe Rabbeinu using similar language, comparing his activities to those of the people surrounding him: “הרק אך במשה דבר ה׳—Was it only with Moshe that Hashem spoke?” 

Both Korach and Miriam take issue with Moshe’s behavior not in a vacuum, but as compared with his surroundings. For Korach, Moshe’s ascent to the throne, as it were, is inappropriate, considering that those around him are likewise qualified. For Miriam, there is something about Moshe’s behavior that is unsettling, not in of itself, but in comparison with other prophets that Hashem had likewise spoken with.

What are we to make of this parallel? Is the Torah suggesting that Korach and Miriam should somehow be spoken of in the same breath? Korach goes down as one of the great rabble-rousers of Tanach, while Miriam is remembered as one of the most righteous women of all time. 

We name our daughters Miriam. When was the last time you heard the name “Korach” proclaimed at a bris?

I would suggest that the inherent similarity between the critiques offered by Korach and Miriam exists not to teach us about either of them, but rather, to teach us a great deal about Moshe Rabbeinu.

First, something of a novel approach to Miriam’s critique offered at the end of Parshas Beha’aloscha, though one that maintains fidelity to the simple reading of the pesukim themselves. The actual concern Miriam has with Moshe’s actions is—at least as stated by the Torah—vague. We know only the broad topic of the conversation she has with Aharon about Moshe, namely, “על אודות האשה הכשית אשר לקח—Regarding the Cushite women that [Moshe] had taken.” The problem, it seems, is with Tzipporah, Moshe’s wife. And while the classical interpretation focuses on Moshe’s divorcing Tzipporah—a step necessary to be at the constant prophetic beck and call of Hashem—a strict reading of the pasuk suggests that Miriam may have been criticizing their union in the first place.

Consider that Miriam and Aharon were, as Miriam herself points out, prophets and leaders of the nation in their own right. And while Moshe had looked beyond the literal B’nei Yisrael for a spouse, his two siblings had looked within. Aharon was married to Elisheva, the sister of Nachshon ben Aminadav, and, according to Chazal, Miriam married Calev. Both Calev and Nachshon would serve as heads of the tribe of Yehudah—the shevet identified as the one that would ultimately produce the future kings of Israel. And Calev and Nachshon themselves would achieve great renown as one of only two spies to return from Israel with a positive report of the Land, and as the first to jump into the Yam Suf and serve as a catalyst for perhaps the greatest open miracle in all of history.

In Jewish terms, both Aharon and Miriam married into the aristocracy. Moshe, did not. Spectacularly so.

This is, perhaps, Miriam’s concern. “הרק אך במשה דבר ה׳—Was it only with Moshe that Hashem spoke?” The profile of a Navi, of a leader, is not the sole purview of Moshe to define. There are rules and assumptions and expectations. Royalty marries royalty. How can the effective King of the nation marry a simple woman not even of Jewish origin?

To this, the Torah includes a description of Moshe’s character immediately after recording Miriam’s critique. A description that, though serving as something of a non sequitur when viewed through the lens of other interpretations of the story, in light of this proposed understanding makes perfect sense. 

The Torah tells us, “וְהָאִישׁ מֹשֶׁה עָנָו מְאֹד מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל־פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה—The man, Moshe, was exceedingly humble, more than anyone else upon the face of the earth.” Why didn’t Moshe marry a woman from the upper echelons of Jewish society? Not to make a statement, but simply out of humility. The notion that he needed to marry someone from a particular group, class, or layer of the sociopolitical pyramid hadn’t occurred to him. He needed only marry a tzadeikes, a righteous woman who shared his worldview, his dedication to Hashem, and who would raise their children to do the same.

And herein lies an understanding of the comparison between Miriam’s critique and that of Korach’s. If Miriam’s claim was, in effect, Moshe was too humble, too aloof from the demands and expectations placed upon him as Rabban Shel Yisrael, then Korach’s claim was the exact opposite. Moshe has arrogant and power-hungry, inappropriately grabbing the reigns of leadership for himself. 

What did Miriam and Korach each bring to support their claims? Comparisons to those who surrounded Moshe. For Miriam, Moshe needed to compare himself to the other nevi’im and act with more gravitas and stature. For Korach, Moshe needed to compare himself to all the other holy members of the holy nation and stand down, so other equally competent leaders could be given a chance.

If you’re keeping score, it sounds like Moshe can’t win. 

And, I would argue, that that is precisely the Torah’s point. For all the value in keeping your antennae out, in being conscious and aware of the standards and norms that surround you, sculpting your behavior purely by examining yourself in the social mirror is not only self-destructive, it is ultimately impossible. There will always be a group on your right pushing you in one direction and a group on your left pushing you in another. Your behavior will always be too arrogant for some, too humble for others. There will always be voices calling for you to change, comply, and follow in a particular manner, while other voices calling for a move in precisely the opposite direction. 

How does Moshe react? He doesn’t. He does him. Stays the course. Maintaining the confidence that a call to change is not in of itself a sufficient justification to do so. After all, succumbing to that call will only make the other call—the one that will always be present, demanding that the exact opposite move be made—ever louder. 

Parshas Shelach 5785

I had a thought this past week. If a nuclear weaponized Iran posed a pronounced physical threat to all of Israel–and even beyond–then in one fateful decision, Binyamin Netanyahu saved the lives of millions of Jews. And I’m not certain that the sustained observance that is my entire life’s work can measure very favorably against that one achievement. For all my Shabbasos and tefillin and pages of Gemara, I think Bibi just leapfrogged me.

But I’m not depressed. I’m inspired. 

The spies return from Eretz Yisrael and issue their infamous report to the rest of the people, pulling no punches. Among other damning conditions, the Jews will be surrounded by enemy nations upon entering the land—Amalek to the south, the Chitim, Yevusim, and Emorim to the north, and flanked to the west and east by Canaanim. There will be nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The Jewish People will be sitting ducks. 

Calev and Yehoshua have a different perspective. And what is so fascinating is that it is just that—a different perspective. They do not argue the facts, insist that the other spies had been lying or even exaggerating. Only that they’re viewing things incorrectly. “עלה נעלה וירשנו אתה—We will do up and inherit the Land (13:30),” Calev insists. “Despite what you’ve said, despite the essentially factual report you’ve delivered, nevertheless, we will rise up, enter the Land, and conquer it.” 

What made Calev so sure? Why did he interpret the presence of strong, enemy nations as something eminently navigable, while everyone else was scared off?

There is a telling phrase the people use in responding to the spies’ report, as they begin to devise a plan to return to Egypt, rather than face certain death in Canaan. “נתנה ראש—Let us appoint a head (14:4),” they say, one who will be able to lead them back the way they came. Rashi brings Chazal’s interpretation of this term saying that the “head” they referred to was actually avodah zarah—a false deity. 

The Jews who entertained a return to Egypt did not see the situation in which they found themselves as fixed. There was no absolute destination at which they must arrive, and not even a definitive theology within which they must abide. Things were fluid; they were still shopping around. “If Canaan won’t work, we can find a different Land. If this G-d won’t permit it, we’ll find one who will.” 

The Mesilas Yesharim famously begins his work by noting that the first step in proper avodah is a clear definition of one’s responsibilities and obligations. And while he is addressing the subject of avodas hakodesh—of serving Hashem—the same can be said of any enterprise. It is not until we know clearly what we absolutely must do, must achieve, that we begin to construct a proper roadmap for getting us there. 

For Calev and Yehoshua, the objectives—and obligations—were clear. “Hashem told us we’re going to Canaan. It is the fulfillment of a promise that long predates our own generation, going back to the days of our ancestor, Avraham. There is no other way, no other Land, and no other G-d. So I guess this is just going to have to work out.” 

For all the warnings to Knesset, Congress, and on international media outlets, many doubted whether or not Binyamin Netanyahu had the courage to attack Iran. Apparently he did. Whatever you may believe about his leadership as a whole, whatever mistakes or blunders may pockmark his resume, when it came to Iran, Netanyahu pulled the trigger. And saved millions of Jewish lives. A claim that few others in history can truly make. 

How did he do it? By entering the same space that Calev did—believing that there simply was no other alternative. Iran could not be permitted to attain nuclear weapons. Period. A philosophy shared by many others in Israel—political leaders, Mossad agents, airforce pilots. And it’s this insistence that changes the landscape. That leads to brilliant strategies, daring missions, and military cunning. To the salvation of millions of Jewish lives. When you believe that there is simply no other way, a bottleneck is formed behind the objective, that squeezes every resource and effort towards that one and only goal.

So I am left inspired. By the prospect of what can be achieved once arriving at the conviction that there is simply no other way. That Hashem demands it, that our People need it, that this is how it has to be. How many of our goals are left unfulfilled not because we are truly lacking the time, energy, or resources, but simply because we equivocate over how important it really is? 

“Do I really need to finish that Masechta?” “Really need to save for retirement?” “Really need to lose twenty pounds?” There is a popular Jewish expression, based on a number of statements of Chazal, that “אין דבר העומד בפני הרצון—There is nothing that stands in the way of one’s will,” or, loosely, “When there’s a will there’s a way.” Indeed. But it is oftentimes the will that proves elusive. How do we get it? There will be a will when we insist there’s just no other way.

Parshas Beha’aloscha 5785

“Pledges,” or those eyeing entry into a college fraternity, are often willing to do nearly anything to do so. Which is why hazing has become so prevalent. Pledges will be expected to undergo treatment that can be uncomfortable, humiliating, or even dangerous in exchange for their entry into the frat. In fact, it wouldn’t be unheard of for a new pledge to be told that if he really wants in, he needs to shave off every last hair on his body.

Most colleges have adopted no-hazing policies on their campuses. Does Hashem allow it in His?

As part of their initiation into serving in the Mishkan, the Levi’im were instructed to shave. Not just a neat pre-Shabbos trim. Not only their faces and heads. Everything—eyebrows, armpits, you name it. Why, of all things, would this be a pre-requisite to service?

Among the various intentions to have upon immersing in a mikvah, Mekubalim suggest seeing the emergence from the mikvah as an act of rebirth. Inside the mikvah, fully imersed, one finds himself in the same position as a fetus in utero. Exiting the mikvah, then, resembles being reborn. To shed previous mistakes or behaviors and begin again as a new being living a new life.

It is a powerful meditation, largely because it is so sensory. The imagery of new birth is all so readily available—it is easier to see yourself as being reborn when your body is physically going through the motions of playing out that role, feeling enveloped in the waters of the mikvah and then rising up out of them. 

Perhaps it is a very similar experience that the Torah prescribes for that first generation of Levi’im. Removal of hair is a means of turning back the clock, of removing from your very body that which it needed time to produce. And while babies are born with varying amounts of hair atop their heads, hair is generally associated with maturity and development. Removing hair is a way of resetting, of starting over, of being reborn.

The Levi’im could simply be told to perform the avodah. To take care of all the tasks that must be fulfilled in the Mishkan, to maintain the edifice and to guard the objects within. Yet all the while they can be dogged by feelings of inadequacy and suffering from imposter syndrome. They can feel like they belong elsewhere, like their presence in the Mishkan is a mismatch. 

And so they’re given a gift. Shave off your hair. Reset. Recalibrate. See yourself as being born into this job, into this avodah. You are eminently prepared for this work. It is what you were born to do.

When you suffer from the nagging feeling that “I’m not cut out for this”—whatever the “this” may be—shaving off all you hair is not an easily replicable practice. For one thing, they’d  probably look at you funny around the office. But there are plenty of other ways that we can give ourselves the tangible sense that we are meant for the role we now find ourselves in.

As the old adage goes, “Clothes make the man.” Not only in the way that others perceive of him, but in the way he perceives of himself. Dressing the part of the person who in your mind’s eye most closely resembles the role you’re now filling can be a powerful tool in boosting your own confidence and self-worth.

It’s true when you get the corner office or launch a new business. Adopting the outer trappings of those you know have enjoyed success in those positions is an ever-present reminder that this is who you now are. This is your identity; be this person.

And it is equally true of aspirations in avodas Hashem. Who are the people I admire because of the way they daven or learn Torah? Or lead a Shabbos table? Or approach a new face in shul to give them a warm welcome? How do they dress and conduct themselves? Can I adopt some of their speech patterns or mannerisms? What can I do to subconsciously convince myself that I am as capable of fulfilling this role as they are?  

Do skin-deep tactics have their limits? No doubt. We, no less than the Levi’im, must ultimately become people of substance and depth and can’t simply fake our character or credentials. Ultimately, we can’t fool anyone. 

Initially, though, we certainly can. It is oftentimes that initial bit of self-messaging that can come through external trappings that gives us the confidence we need to first get the ball rolling. 

I can’t just buy a new suit, I actually need to be good at the job. But the new suit is the visceral reminder that I am very much cut out for the job. The jacket or shoes or gartel won’t daven my Shmoneh Esrei for me, but it puts me into the mental space of believing that I can daven a meaningful Shmoneh Esrei. This, after all, is exactly how good daveners dress.

External forces can be powerful ones. And while they won’t do the job for us, they put the key in the door. They give us confidence that we can have the uncomfortable conversation, be patient spouses or parents, and run successful businesses. We shouldn’t all shave our heads. But we should be mindful of how effective a practice it can be. 

Parshas Nasso 5785

The Jewish People may well be known as The People of The Book, but it is not the Chumash with which they have the most familiarity. That title must go to the Siddur. For the average observant Jew, it is the siddur that contains the most passages by far that can be readily recited by heart. An average shul-goer can rattle off most of a weekday Shacharis without ever needing to peer inside the siddur’s printed pages. 

In part, it is that very familiarity that can make prayer such a challenging enterprise. People naturally crave novelty, and that is largely absent in an exercise that calls for reciting the same words over and over and over again. 

So why do it? Why not permit prayer to be a largely freestyle experience? 

One of the most classical answers is that there’s simply too much on the line. The siddur was constructed to touch upon all the most crucial asks we must make of Hashem, and were we to veer towards the subjectively gripping rather than the objectively necessary, we may leave critical elements out of our Tefilah. 

Stick to the script, because we need to remember what to ask Hashem for.

But perhaps there’s more to it. Stick to the script, because we need to remember what to ask of ourselves.

Parshas Nasso contains the one miracle of the Bais Hamikdash explicitly mentioned in the Torah. Though we know of the supernatural fortune-telling properties of the Urim V’Tumim worn in the folds of the Kohen Gadol’s choshen, and of the fire that descended from Heaven to consume the korbanos, such miracles are not openly spoken of in the Torah. Sotah, on the other hand, is. 

The Ramban explains that the miracle of the Sotah waters is more critical than the rest. For it is through this process that shalom bayis may be reconstituted within the fraying marriage of the husband and wife now standing in the Bais Hamikdash. The supernatural destruction of an adulterous woman needs to be on the table in order to fully exonerate the innocent woman for whom nothing will happen when she drinks from the waters. And when that happens, husband and wife can hopefully reconcile, returning home with renewed commitment to one another. 

It is for this selfsame reason, explains the Ramban, that the offer of such miracles was ultimately rescinded. The Gemara in Sotah 47a notes that when the number of adulterers increased, Hashem halted the effect of the Sotah waters. The Ramban explains that whereas Hashem was willing to put supernatural phenomena into effect in order to save the Jewish marriage, He was no longer willing to with the preponderance of individuals who were disinterested in respecting marriage to begin with. Hashem would provide a miracle to restore a Jewish wife back to her Jewish husband and clear her name. But if that same Jewish husband was guilty of his own sinful escapades with other women, Hashem would have no part in the business. 

In effect, Hashem was not interested in perpetuating hypocrisy. 

Which perhaps is a further reason to insist upon using the same exact Shmoneh Esrei three times daily. That for all the potential monotony in reciting the same words again and again, it is critical not only that we be reminded of the most crucial items to ask from Hashem, but to demand of ourselves as well. That we have not just a prayer book, but a playbook.

Hashem has no interest in perpetuating hypocrisy. So when we ask Him for wisdom and insight—for ourselves, for our children, for the future son-in-law who should be a respectable talmid chacham—we need to demonstrate with our own behavior that this is indeed a value we hold dear. That Torah is not only something we seek out in prayer, but in our daily schedules.

When we ask for shalom—for Hashem to bless us all with peace and tranquility—we must help to shoulder that burden along with Him. To hold our tongues, to not be demanding, to be ready and willing to turn the other cheek, to be embracing of those who may not quite be our cup of tea. 

We cannot reasonably ask Hashem for parnassah without the willingness to work hard to earn it. We cannot genuinely ask Hashem for health while doing everything to undermine our own wellbeing. We cannot ask for pure, upright children if we’re not willing to roll up our sleeves and set them on the right path ourselves, right alongside Hashem.

The siddur is a register of all that we must ask Hashem for. But also must serve as a thrice-daily reminder that this is how we must live our own lives as well. Contained within these pages are the goals and aspirations we must have for ourselves. The values to which we dedicate ourselves. If the siddur doesn’t serve as a reminder to look inward, how can we sincerely use it to express our prayers upward?

The long list of requests we make of Hashem many times a day touches nearly on the miraculous. We are asking Hashem for charmed lives, for the natural order to be bent and shaped according to our interests and desires. But no matter. Hashem has displayed–through Sotah and beyond–His utter willingness to perform miracles for the Jewish People. So long as those requests and prayers are made in earnest. That we only ask Hashem for the hopes and dreams that we, too, are committed to seeing fulfilled.

Bamidbar / Shavuos 5785

If you’ve ever made the drive from Yerushalayim to Ein Gedi, you know how quickly the landscape changes. The dense urbanization of the city yields to nature, and a desert landscape soon spreads before you. But almost as quickly as it changes, it changes back. Not in the form of apartment and office buildings, but of agricultural development. Shortly after turning south onto Route 90, enormous date groves appear on the horizon. Tall, majestic date palms loom over the otherwise barren landscape, offering a glimpse of what is possible given Divine Blessings, hard work, and the ingenuity to supply the right resources.

Namely, water. Because, of course, water doesn’t naturally exist in the wilderness. It must be brought in from elsewhere. 

As it does every year, Parshas Bamidbar precedes the celebration of Shavuos, providing an important allusion of the physical backdrop against which the giving of the Torah occurred. As the first pasuk tells us, the events of the new sefer we begin to read occurred in Midbar Sinai—The Wilderness of Sinai—which, of course, is precisely where the Jewish People stood when they received the Torah. 

The location is far from incidental. According to the Midrash Rabbah, “Midbar—the wilderness” is one of three modalities, along with fire and water, through which the Torah was given. Apparently, there is something about the reality of the wilderness that speaks to the very essence of the what the Torah is and our relationship to it. 

In 1964, Israel completed construction on the National Water Carrier, the massive project that carries water from the Kineret to central and southern Israel over the course of 81 miles of pipes, canals, and tunnels. The National Water Carrier brought potable water to regions of the country that had none, making it far more feasible to populate those areas and to cultivate the land. It’s the water from the National Water Carrier that gave rise to the towering, expansive date groves between Yerushalayim and Ein Gedi. 

This is a critical feature of a Midbar. It’s not that things cannot grow in a wilderness, that the land per se will not permit cultivation and development. Only that in order to make it happen, resources have to be supplied from the outside. Water does not naturally occcur in the Midbar in quantities necessary to allow for crops to steadily grow. But nature is not the only course of action. If nature could only be circumvented, the desert will indeed bloom.

Which, perhaps, is exactly what the Midrash is highlighting. That we are to the Torah what the Midbar is to date groves. Had any farmer come along before 1964, dropped some date pits in the ground and hoped for the best, he would undoubtedly have been disappointed. It is far beyond the natural order of things for the Midbar to produce fruit. But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. He just needed to get creative and be willing to work.

Torah will not always feel a natural fit within us. Human beings pine for autonomy, long to fulfill their own interests and desires, and time and again the Torah insists that we hedge ourselves in in the interest of fulfilling its precepts. It is not in our nature to refrain from speaking lashon hara, or checking our phones on Shabbos, or passing by restaurant after restaurant offering delicious and cheap food, particularly when we’re hungry. Not in our nature, but also not beyond the realm of possibility. 

It is a mistake to assume that the Torah’s demands will fit like a glove. What happens when we do is that ease and comfort start to become the litmus test for fulfilling our very purpose in this world. When a mitzvah falls beyond the comfort zone, it is deemed out of bounds. We can begin to offer excuses like, “It’s not me.” “It doesn’t feel right.” “It doesn’t seem natural.” Which, of course, is all quite true. But also quite irrelevant. 

Torah need not take root within us any more naturally than date pits take root in a Midbar. But that doesn’t mean they can’t grow. The question needs to be less about what does or doesn’t feel right and more about what is necessary to make it work. 

Perhaps serious Torah study doesn’t fit your natural abilities. Perhaps chessed is not what you’re predisposed to. Perhaps tzedakah or Shabbos or Tefillah go against the grain. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. 

There is an ancient custom to stay up all night on Shavuos to learn Torah. On some level, maybe this is the exact instruction we’re attempting to give ourselves. Sleep is one of the most basic needs of the human body. And yet that natural need can be stretched and expanded to make room for Torah. We don’t sit to learn because we’re not tired, we sit to learn because it doesn’t matter. The Torah won’t always feel natural, but it can always be fulfilled. 

The Midbar is a beautiful place in of itself, but the sight of the date groves emerging from nowhere—dense green rising up in stark contrast from the barren, beige landscape—takes my breath away every time I see it. We owe ourselves the same. 

Parshas Behar 5785

Just over a week ago, Tze’ela Gez and her husband, Chananel, were on the way from their home in the Shomron to the hospital for Tze’ela to deliver their fourth baby. They would soon be blessed with a child, adding a new source of blessing, joy, and light to their family. But their hopes and dreams were shattered by an Arab sniper’s bullet. Tze’ela was murdered en route to the hospital, the baby narrowly having been saved. 

Responding to the tragedy, Chananel posted a few short reflections to social media. He said, “Of course I’m broken. It’s natural. But I also thank Hashem that I stayed alive and I will stay strong to continue being a light to the world. We will never let them break us.”

Chananel’s words are not only courageous; they are unmistakably Jewish.

Parshas Behar opens with a presentation of the laws of Shemittah—the manner in which Jews must refrain from any agricultural work once every seven years and leave the land fallow. Lest you think that somehow these laws are less important than any others, the Torah begins its treatment of the subject by noting that these mitzvos were indeed delivered “בהר סיני—On Har Sinai.” 

Why is the backdrop of Har Sinai more critical here than any other mitzvah? What is it about Shemittah that demands attention being called to its origin at Har Sinai? 

The Divrei Avraham, Rav Avraham Orenstein, notes suggests that that question is actually posed backwards. It is not so much that Har Sinai adds something to our understanding of Shemittah, but rather that Shemittah adds something to our understanding of Har Sinai.

The Midrash in Bereishis Rabbah states that Har Sinai was chosen as the location upon which to deliver the Torah because it was lower that many of the peaks that surrounded it. Hashem chose Sinai because it was humble, a better reflection of the very middos that the Torah would attempt to inculcate into the Jewish People who would stand at the foot of the mountain to receive it.

Yet if Har Sinai is chosen as the landing pad for the Torah in recognition of its humility, it would appear that humility is more than just “another” middah. It seems, rather, a defining quality. Something that characterizes the very essence of the Torah and what it means to receive it. 

This, explains Rav Orenstein, is why Har Sinai is associate with Shemittah in our parsha. Perhaps more than any other mitzvah, Shemittah calls for us retreat from our own personal interest and to bow our heads in deference to Hashem’s will. In the case of Shemittah, there is no obvious moral demand that prevents us from working the land—the farm is lawfully owned and the profits earned will be used to honorably sustain himself and his family. Yet Hashem throws a monkey wrench into those plans. He reminds the farmer that the land, in fact, is not really his own. It is G-d’s, and the farmer must accept. 

Humility is not only the manner in which we subdue our egos in the presence of others, being careful not to be too loud or boisterous, not to belittle others in the interest of making ourselves feel important. Humility must be on display even when no other people are effected. In the private space of my relationship with Hashem. Humility is my willingness to say, “What do I know? Hashem let’s have it Your way.” 

This is the attitude demanded—and cultivated—by Shemittah. And, in truth, is a prerequisite for the acceptance of the Torah as a whole. A relationship with G-d demands humility in accepting His authority and will. Anything less—an acceptance of mitzvos only when they resonate, only when they inspire, only when we’re in the mood—is a life dedicated to serving ourselves, not serving Hashem. 

Which is to say that Chananel Gez could not have responded more Jewishly to his wife’s murder. For there to be any interface between G-d and the Jewish People, humility must be on full display. We must be capable of staring down even the most unimaginable tragedies and recognizing that Hashem runs the world, has a plan, and doesn’t make mistakes. 

This coming Monday marks Yom Yerushalayim, the anniversary of the liberation of Yerushalayim from the hands of our enemies. The dramatic turnaround from Nasser’s threats to push the Jews into the sea to a sweeping victory capped off by the return to the Kosel and Har Habayis seemed not only miraculous, but messianic. I have heard from many who lived at the time that had it been announced on the radio that a saintly looking rabbi suddenly appeared on a white donkey in the gates of the city, nobody would have been surprised.

And yet it didn’t happen. Real life events somehow veered from the script so many had written in their minds. How to respond? With humility. To recognize Hashem’s involvement in producing a great miracle, and yet to accept that His timetable often differs from our own. 

Humility is a precondition for any meaningful relationship, but especially so in the one we enjoy with G-d. Without humility there can be no Torah, for there can be no acceptance of His will over ours. In mitzvos and in history, in miracles and in tragedies, we must let Hashem in by being like Har Sinai and laying low. 

Parshas Emor / Lag B’Omer 5785

A young entrepreneur has achieved enough success that he needs more hands on deck. No longer capable of managing the company alone, he needs a team around him to help manage and maintain what’s already been created, as well as to help scale the business and propel it forward. So he brings on a COO and begins to train the new recruit in all aspects of the business—production, inventory, clientele, revenue, overhead, and on and on.  

The new COO is adept enough—truly professional—and has the whole thing down. A couple weeks go by and he feels like he’s doing a fine job, but can’t shake the feeling that his boss seems unsatisfied. “Is something wrong?” he inquires, “Is there more you expect of me?” 

“I do have a bone to pick with you,” the boss admits. “Your work is fine. Superb, actually. Neat, high-quality, comprehensive. Your communication skills are great. You just…well…you just don’t seem to care…at least not the way I did when I was running things.” 

“Respectfully, sir, it’s your company, not mine.”

Among its presentation of the laws relating to the various Yamim Tovim throughout the year, Parshas Emor provides instructions for counting the days of Sefiras HaOmer. And it does so in an unusual manner. Rather than simply “וספרתם—You shall count,” the Torah demands “וספרתם לכם—You shall count for yourselves.”

That extra “לכם—for yourselves” is not completely anomalous in the realm of mitzvos. Indeed, just a few pesukim later in relating the laws of the Arba Minim, the Torah instructs, “ולקחתם לכם—You shall take for yourselves.” Chazal understood that the implication regarding Sukkos is that the Arba Minim must be your own and cannot be borrowed from another. Yet what is true for an esrog or lulav would not seem to be applicable to Sefiras HaOmer. If I must own the Arba Minim to fulfill the mitzvah, what is the Torah’s expectation when it comes to counting?

Rav Sholom Yosef Zevin explained that the import regarding Sefirah is actually the same; we need to own it. With every new day journeyed towards Har Sinai, we must feel ownership over the Torah we learn and the Torah we keep. Admirable tough it may be to simply bow our heads in deference to Hashem, to submit to His will, and to do it for Him, the Torah here is actually demanding more of us. Namely, that we personalize the experience of Torah and take ownership over it. 

That young entrepreneur would have been absolutely right to notice a difference between his own effort on behalf of his company and that of his new employee. And the new COO was spot on in his response, if perhaps a bit too honest should job security be something he’d like to maintain. There is simply no way to bring the same level of vigor and passion to the toil you are doing on behalf of someone else as you would to an enterprise that was your own. 

There must be pride of ownership when it comes to our observance of Torah. More than a sense of simply clocking in and clocking out and completing my hours. More than finishing the job and earning the paycheck so that I can afford to do what I really want to be doing. 

The demand of וספרתם לכם is the demand that we actually own it, that it be ours. That our counting—our growth and development in Torah—be what defines us even more than anything else we may call our own. 

Consider what we all do to furnish ourselves with our most cherished assets—houses, cars, and the like. We obsess over them, work hard to make the right payments, service every element that requires upkeep. Never is there the sense that the car will change its own oil, that the bank will let a few months’ mortgage go by without a fuss, or that the landscaping will grow in all its own. We are scheduled, meticulous, and concerned over the things we own. Business owners know full well that the buck stops with them and that if they are not scheduled, organized, and diligent, they simply will not achieve the success they’ve long dreamed of.

It is that sort of attitude that וספרתם לכם calls for. To think of our learning as our business. Do we manage it to the same degree? To think of our davening as our car. Do we just shrug our shoulders as it fall into disrepair? To think of our bitachon as our house? Do we obsess over improving it until it matches the image we’ve always held in our mind? Do we even have an image we hold in our mind?

As we shift to the second phase of Sefiras HaOmer, celebrating Lag B’Omer as the day upon which the plague that ravaged Rebbe Akiva’s students finally halted, it’s worth considering how Rebbe Akiva ever moved on. How did he pick up the pieces after every last one of his 24,000 students had perished and bring himself to start all over again? How did he muster the courage to bring together a small band of five talmidim and convey to them the Torah and mesorah he had already painstakingly transmitted—seemingly all for naught? 

I would argue that Rebbe Akiva fulfilled וספרתם לכם. He took ownership over his relationship with Torah. When you are simply doing someone else’s bidding, you make a reasonable effort, but no more. When life provides you with every reasonable excuse to say, “Well, I tried,” you take it and retire. It is only when you take ownership over your Torah, when you see your own life as inextricably bound with your toil on behalf of Hashem, that you can pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and go on to build another yeshiva, even as the ruins of the previous one are still smoldering.

It was, after all, Rebbe Akiva, who saw Torah as something personally acquired by those who toiled for it. Upon returning home to his wife after 24 years apart, years in which he transformed himself from an ignoramus to the Gadol HaDor, he gestured to his wife in the presence of his throngs of talmidim and declared, “שלי ושלכם שלה היא—All that is mine and all that is yours, is actually hers.” 

May we never have the need to rebuild the way that Rebbe Akiva did. But if we are to build anything impressive at all, the first step is to realize that it’s our own name on the deed.

Parshas Acharei Mos-Kedoshim 5785

As the facts on the ground (and, perhaps, in the ground) change not infrequently, I try to stay abreast of the latest recommendations on how to properly wash and check vegetables. For a while now, I’ve been cutting the crowns off the tops of bell peppers, following the CRC’s guidelines since discovering high levels of infestation. But I’ve scaled back a bit on my former regimen for checking cabbage, following the guidelines given by the same organization that simply removing the outer leaves and then thoroughly washing the remaining ones has been found sufficient to deal with possible bugs that may be lurking within.

I’ve been bummed about my peppers. But celebrated over my cabbage.

Because that’s how we are. Dedicated though we may be to doing what’s right, recognizing the  merit and meaning in fulfilling the Torah’s precepts and following halacha to a T, we prefer less work to more work. We welcome being let off the hook and bemoan being handed more responsibilities, even as we recognize those same responsibilities as providing our lives with purpose.

So when reading between the lines of Parshas Kedoshim we uncover a secret trove of regulations we are obligated to uphold, we’d be forgiven if we let out a sigh. But we shouldn’t. We should actually rejoice.

In its very first instruction, Parshas Kedoshim seems simply to double-down on what we’ve already been told. “Kedoshim tihyu,” the pasuk reads, “You shall be holy.” 

Why, of course. After all, in presenting its 613 mitzvos, the Torah has provided us with a roadmap to guide us precisely to the destination of holiness. Perform those mitzvos, and we’ll undoubtedly emerge holy. What, then, is the Torah driving at in reiterating this point? Why the added emphasis that we do exactly what we’ve already been told to do elsewhere? 

The Ramban famously explains that the Torah is making another point altogether. In reality, he asserts, one who simply performs all the other mitzvos incumbent on him may actually land far from the goal of holiness. He may become a “Naval b’rshus haTorah—A despicable person, albeit with the Torah’s permission.”

Such a person, explains the Ramban, may technically check off all the boxes. He may assiduously perform every mitzvah and deftly skirt every aveirah. And yet be a despicable person. Become someone with no class, no nobility, lacking every impulse for sensitivity and consideration the Torah attempts to inculcate within him by means of the commandments placed upon him, but that he’s managed to wholly avoid, even as those mitzvos go fulfilled. 

To this, the Torah makes a new demand, “Kedoshim tihyu—you shall be holy.” Not just compliant. Not just observant. Holy. Become a G-d conscious, morally driven, ethically anchored, holy person. See the mitzvos not only as an end point, but a beginning point. Yes, perform these mitzvos, but do more. Do the work necessary to become holy, even if that means taking new steps and adopting new measures within the realm of what is strictly speaking permissible to you.

It’s a beautiful vision, but one that begs an obvious question. If we are to become something even more than what the Torah directly transforms us into, why not demand those behaviors outright? Why not formally incorporate those items into the cannon of mitzvos? If Kedoshim tihyu casts a net far wider than 613 mitzvos, why not just make it 650 mitzvos, or 700 mitzvos, or more, with each behavior necessary for holiness delineated as clearly as the first 613?

The Chasam Sofer offers an insightful explanation. He suggests that the sorts of behaviors suggested by the Torah here aren’t included in the formal list of mitzvos simply because they can’t be. Mitzvos are one-size-fits-all demands items that are necessary for the religious portfolio of every single Jew. 

Kedusha, on the other hand, is a deeply personal enterprise, calling for us to first understand ourselves, what makes us tick, and then creating a tailor-made plan of action to bring us to a state of holiness. Everyone must arrive at kedusha, and while the 613 point us in that direction, they won’t get us over the finish line. What will is a regimen that is uniquely suited to our own personalities and predilections and that we must devise ourselves.

It is a lot to ask. And being faced with such an imposing task—to construct a system of moral guardrails and religious practices to hold ourselves to that only first pick up where the 613 leave off—is enough to make anyone groan. Because we far prefer to be told that we don’t need to agitate and scrub the cabbage than that we do need to lop off 25% of the fully usable pepper meat. We prefer being let off the hook than being told that the hook is far larger than previously assumed.

But that’s a mistake. Because in being instructed in Kedoshim tihyu we are being told that Torah is a deeply personal experience. That our attachment with Hashem isn’t cookie-cutter, it’s unique, as all meaningful relationships are. We are told that the vision Hashem has for us—that we be holy and elevated and ennobled—is something that interfaces with each of our distinctive profiles. 

It is an area that, to be sure, demands many additional responsibilities and obligations. But is also the greatest vote of confidence imaginable. Hashem is asking that you work harder than you thought necessary. But that you perform work that only you can accomplish.