Excerpted from In the Narrow Places: Daily Inspiration for the Three Weeks by Dr. Erica Brown, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

Consolations

According to Jewish law, there are four blessings that are made only once a year. One of them is made on Tisha B’Av and appears in the middle of the Amida prayer of the afternoon service. It is there that we acknowledge something unique about this fast day, above and beyond all others. Every day, three times daily, we pray for the rebuilding of Jerusalem and the ingathering of exiles. Every fast day, we insert special additional pleadings to intensify our supplications. But only on
this one day a year do we add a prayer for consolation.

At times of distress, we search for comfort, solace and empathy. When we feel low, we want companionship. We may not know – indeed, we rarely do – why this great anguish has come upon us. We cannot understand it. Consolation, when sincere, can help fill in the gaps of
incomprehension. When we have warmth, comfort and company, our failure to figure out life’s great mysteries somehow matters less. A tale is told among Hasidim about a young man who had suffered many great personal losses, and traveled far to see his rebbe, seeking clarity and renewed faith at a time that sorely tried him. He arrived at the rebbe’s court and blurted out his catalogue of misfortunes. The rebbe sat in silence and listened. Even when this disciple had finished, the rebbe sat in a prolonged and pregnant silence. The young man trembled. Finally, the rebbe got up and stood right next to his disciple and said in a hushed tone, “I cannot explain why any of these terrible things have befallen you. But I can stand beside you in anger.” That is consolation.

The special prayer of consolation we recite is a lengthy paragraph. Pay attention to its metaphors and the intricacies of its language:

Console, O Lord our God, the mourners of Zion and the mourners of Jerusalem, and the city that is in sorrow, laid waste, scorned and desolate; that grieves for the loss of its children, that is laid
waste of its dwellings, robbed of its glory, desolate without inhabitants. She sits with her head covered like a barren childless woman. Legions have devoured her; idolaters have taken possession of her; they have put Your people Israel to the sword and deliberately killed the devoted followers of the Most High. Therefore Zion weeps bitterly, and Jerusalem raises her voice. My heart, my heart grieves for those they killed; I am in anguish, I am in anguish for those they killed. For You, O Lord, consumed it with fire, and with fire You will rebuild it in the future, as is said, “And I Myself will be a wall of fire around it, says the Lord, and I will be its glory within” [Zechariah 2:9].

Blessed are You, Lord, who consoles Zion and rebuilds Jerusalem.

This is a curious blessing. What kind of blessing offers a review of the tragic events that require consolation? Is it not odd that the prayer actually makes us feel worse before it makes us feel better? Jerusalem as a barren woman – as one who not only had children and lost them to exile, but as one who never had any children at all – bent over and disgraced, offers us the image of the woman alone in her suffering. She cries out, but no one is there to listen. Her insides bewail the losses all around her. Her enemies have triumphed and carried a nation away from its spiritual center. Is this review meant to offer us comfort or make us grieve harder?

The prayer is bookended with the image of God as consoler. God is introduced at the beginning of the blessing as the one who consoles mourners, as if He were going to the shiva house of the entire Jewish people. At its closing, God is described not as a comforter but as a protector, a fire-wall. This image comes from Zechariah 2:9, from a chapter of consolation spoken by the prophet who led the Israelites out of Babylon and back to Zion. Immediately preceding the verse chosen for our liturgy is a celebratory passage that stands in sharp contrast to Jerusalem as an abandoned city: “Jerusalem shall be peopled as a city without walls, so many shall be the people and cattle it contains” (Zechariah 2:8). The walls that contained the fires of devastation will be bursting with inhabitants. They will be knocked down to accommodate the flooding of people. The language is exhilarating:

“Shout for joy, Zion! For Lo, I come, and I will dwell in your midst,” declares the Lord. In that day, many nations will attach themselves to the Lord and become His people, and He will dwell in your midst. (Zechariah 2:14–15)

This is more than the consolation of comfort. It offers a picture of the future, and communicates hope and optimism. Zechariah’s image makes us want to join in the momentum of redemption. He extends the appeal of Zion far beyond the nation alone. Everyone will want to be there. God will be a magnet to newcomers and will dwell in Zion. God’s presence will be securely felt.

The contrast between our prayer and Zechariah’s hopefulness raises the question of how to define consolation. Consolation is not meant to be a distraction. It is not about looking elsewhere, in the future, to the side, somewhere other than despair. Zechariah’s visions are prophetic and futuristic. Consolation is about looking exceedingly closely at a past from which it is all too easy to turn away and deriving meaning and comfort from it. It is the confrontation of grief in company.

Think about a visit to a mourner, a house of shiva. Many mourners during the shiva period try to focus all conversation on the person lost. We are there to be together with the mourner as he looks back. The consolation is in the details, in the reflection and contemplation of a life and the often sad and heart-wrenching last months and days. One can only really get to the other side of tragedy by immersing oneself in it and then emerging. Doctors often recommend that mourners not take medications that numb anxiety or ease pain because it is well known that this failure to grieve intensely will only prolong an inability to move on.

Who truly provides consolation – those at a shiva who ignore the pain and speak of unrelated issues, or those who are not afraid to ask “When did your mother get sick?” “What did she have?” “How did you handle it?”? These questions do not minimize the pain; they invite the mourner into a dialogue about what really happened, into a human encounter more profound for its harsh honesty.

God consoles us in this prayer not by avoiding the pain but by mourning the loss with us. That is true empathy. We feel solace not when someone explains away the reason for our suffering or distracts us with images of a redeemed future, but when God stands beside us in our anger and disbelief.

Kavana for the Day
Who in your life needs consolation right now? Think of someone who, in the past year, lost a spouse, a parent, or a sibling. We know that the intensity of loss changes over time, but is never gone. Over the year, the mourner’s experience is softened and cushioned. Most mourners are comforted by their respective communities during the shiva period, the initial seven days. Yet many people feel that the hardest point is when they get up from the shiva – when no one is in the house and suddenly the aloneness of the situation seems unbearable. Since the process of consolation takes time, call or get together with someone who has suffered a recent loss and ask them how they’re doing. Don’t just make it a quick question, show concentrated interest: how has life changed for you? How often do you think of the person you lost? What has brought you solace in these months? Some mourners may choose to be more private, but others may wish to be asked. Some may feel that people only really “cared” during the week of shiva. Mourning takes time. Consolation requires patience and extended compassion.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

The Life-giving Torah

After wandering the desert for forty years, the Jewish people were finally on their final approach to the promised land. Having had more than enough time to prepare for their arrival, their enemies set a massive ambush of devastating potential in the crevices and caves along Wadi Arnon. Little did they know, however, that the ark preceded the people and miraculously leveled the terrain to make it more easily traversable. This time, it brought the two sides of the riverbed together and crushed all the would-be murderers lying in wait. The Jewish people would have remained blissfully unaware of the threat and its neutralization if not for two people afflicted with the special skin condition tzara’at residing temporarily outside the camp, who noticed blood trickling out of the rock. When they reported their discovery to the camp, the entire people burst into a song of thanksgiving.

Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook unpacked this account recorded in the Talmud as a figure of things to come. The ark which was imbued with the power to bring down mountains and clear a path for the nation of Israel represents the Torah’s power and vitality, which serve as a source of strength and guidance for all time. Since the birth of our people, numerous enemies have attempted to eradicate us physically and spiritually, to prevent us from achieving our lofty aspirations. Sometimes they conceal dangerous ideas like mines, waiting for centuries to be tripped and cause mayhem. By virtue of our allegiance to the Torah, the Talmud tells us, our ultimate safety and success as a people are assured.

The jubilant song that followed the dispatching of the ambushers begins, “Rise, well” (Numbers 21:17). The Torah as water, well, or fount is common imagery in the Torah, since the Jewish people drink of its endless wellspring of knowledge and wisdom. The Jewish people expressed their thanks to the Torah, the water that kept them alive. This may explain why Moshe did not lead them in song as he did at the sea some forty years earlier. The bond between the people and their Torah, the way of life that will guide them when they enter and settle their land, is unmediated.

One of the most puzzling aspects of this episode is the role of the two metzora’im. Traditionally, tzara’at appears on one’s body to signify some spiritual imperfection. So why were such individuals privy to this information? Rav Kook explained that the metzora’im at the edge of the camp represent Jews on the fringes who have experienced the world and understand the dangers that lurk therein. Jews in the midst of the camp, even the most sheltered ones, can see a frontal attack coming. It is hard to miss the open hatred, whether shouted at anti-Semitic rallies, displayed in Nazi tattoos, or acted upon through physical violence. Sometimes, though, our enemies come at us from the flanks or from the modern-day equivalent of caves – tunnels below the ground. The God-fearing Jew may not have the capacity to think like the insidious enemy and imagine these invisible threats. It is precisely those on the margins who can comprehend the peril, appreciate the salvation, and disclose God’s greatness to the entire people.

It is difficult not to read between the lines of this piece and see Rav Kook recording his own thoughts about momentous events unfolding before his very eyes. With the modern mass return to the land, Rav Kook believed that it was vital for the Torah to serve as the foundation of the emergent Israeli society. The Jew’s return home would renew ties to the land, and the whole body of agricultural Halachah, for example, would need careful application to present realities. In addition, Rav Kook felt that the ingathering of the Jewish people demanded unconditional appreciation of every single Jew and his or her contribution to the blossoming of the people in their land.

Rav Kook weaved together this vision of Torah, people, and land united in a beautiful response to the national anthem, “Ha-Tikvah” (The Hope), which he did not find satisfying. He titled this hymn “Ha-Emunah” (The Faith):

Notably, Rav Kook used two words from the ancient song in Parashat Chukat to end the song: “a gift from the desert” (Numbers 21:18). While this is traditionally taken as a reference to the  Torah given in the wilderness of Sinai, the words can also be understood to refer to the Land of Israel. Indeed, coming home to our land was the ultimate gift for a people on its feet all those years. The destiny begun in our land by Avraham eons ago, and which can again be met by so many of our people, is to be a holy people, following the holy Torah, living in our Holy Land. Rav Kook’s wonderful vision has fittingly inspired many generations of Religious Zionists, and should serve as inspiration to us all.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

Second Chances

Generally speaking, when it comes to Halachah, or even the law more generally, second chances are not available. If one could not take the lulav on Sukkot, one cannot take it the week after and still fulfill the obligation. And yet, in Parashat Beha’alotecha, as a direct result of the people’s lament that they could not bring the korban pesach (paschal lamb) at the proper time, Pesach Sheni was born (Numbers 9:1-14).

According to Rabbi Akiva, those who petitioned for a second chance were Mishael and Eltzafan. How did he arrive at this identification? These are the only biblical personalities who we know would have been ritually impure at the time of the korban pesach from their handling of a corpse. Recall that Mishael and Eltzafan were the sons of Uzziel, “Aharon’s uncle” (dod Aharon), whom Moshe summoned to remove the bodies of Nadav and Avihu from the inside the sanctuary (Leviticus 10:4). Assuming the Mishkan was erected on the eighth of Nisan, they would not have been purified of corpse impurity by the fourteenth to bring the sacrifice, since the purification takes seven days.

There is perhaps a further basis for solidifying this identification. Why were Mishael and Eltzafan, of all their family members, told to remove the bodies of Aharon’s sons? The Netziv  suggested that their father Uzziel was particularly close to Aharon. The word used for “uncle” above, dod, can also indicate a close relationship. Aharon and Uzziel were very close, so that for Uzziel and his sons Mishael and Eltzafan the loss was felt acutely. The Netziv added that Aharon’s extended family was jealous of his position, such that other relatives would have relished Aharon being dealt a harsh blow. Uzziel’s family was happy for Aharon and his sons.

The Netziv also pointed out that Mishael, the older brother, was passed over for the position of nasi (chieftain) of Kehat in favor of his younger brother Eltzafan. Yet, nothing points to an expression of animosity towards his brother. This was a nuclear family that exhibited modesty and empathy, and so these two brothers specifically were fit for and chosen to tend to the bodies of their cousins.

The people who petitioned Moshe, said the Shinover Rebbe, Yechezkel Shraga Halberstam, had genuine humility. Moshe saw their broken heart and their genuine self-effacing character in the face of God’s command. On beholding their fallen countenances and hearing their impassioned plea, Moshe knew that God would appear to him in their merit. Moshe said, “You stand here (imdu) while I hear what the Lord commands lachem” (Numbers 9:8), and while the word lachem is usually understand to mean “for you,” the Shinover said it means “on your account,” in the merit of those seeking to fulfill God’s command. The imperative imdu, directly addressed to the people, reinforces this.

Anyone impure at the time of the bringing of the korban pesach would have been considered exempt. The Talmud records the concept of force majeure, that in a case of circumstances beyond one’s control God exempts a person from an obligation (annus Rachmana patreih). The petitioners were given a second chance because they were going the extra mile in asking for one.

All of this fits with what we know about Mishael and Eltzafan. They were impure at the time of the offering. They were exceedingly humble when it came to God’s assignment of greatness to others, and they only wanted to do what God required even when technically it was not required of them. One could even argue that Mishael and Eltzafan were doubly exempt, as the reason for their impurity was engaging in the sacred task of burying a person.

In Rabbi Akiva’s view, the two brothers exhibited a combination of sincerity, humility, and piety that resulted in a new Torah law being instituted for all generations. If we attempt to nurture the same character traits and genuinely desire to fulfill God’s mitzvot, we can hope that God will afford us second chances as well.

Excerpted from Megillat Ruth Mesorat HaRav, co-published by OU Press and Koren Publishers Jerusalem

Standing for The Ten Commandments

On the first day of the holiday of Shavuot, we read the Torah portion about the Revelation at Sinai and the Ten Commandments (Shulḥan Arukh, Oraḥ Ḥayyim 494:1). Maimonides (Teshuvot, Blau ed., 263) was asked if it is an appropriate custom to specifically stand during the reading of the Ten Commandments. The questioner felt that such a custom should not be allowed, just as the Rabbis themselves (Berakhot 12a) dissolved the practice of reading the Ten Commandments along with the Shema because of heretics who claimed that the Ten Commandments were more important than the rest of the Torah. The questioner felt that anything that places extra emphasis on the Ten Commandments over the rest of the Torah would share the same potential for heresy.

In his response, Maimonides passionately agrees with the questioner and maintains that indeed one should not stand specifically for the reading of the Ten Commandments. Rather, one should sit, as one does during the rest of the Torah reading. Maimonides suspects that standing for the Ten Commandments will possibly lead to a laxity in faith, for one will begin to think that certain sections of the Torah are more important than others. Therefore, Maimonides concludes that this practice should be avoided.

However, despite Maimonides’ opinion, the current commonplace custom is to stand during the reading of the Ten Commandments (see Shaarei Ephraim 7:37; Iggerot Moshe, Oraḥ Ḥayyim 4:22). The question is, why indeed is this our custom? Why do we not follow Maimonides’ compelling argument? Furthermore, why is standing for the reading of
the Ten Commandments any different from the custom that the Rabbis dissolved of reading the Ten Commandments with the Shema?

We can understand our custom of standing for the reading of the Ten Commandments based on the following. The Ten Commandments, unlike other sections of the Torah, have two sets of cantillations, known as “ta’am taḥton” and “ta’am elyon.” The difference between them is as follows: the ta’am taḥton divides the Ten Commandments by verses, in the same manner as the rest of the Torah. The ta’am elyon, however, divides the Ten Commandments not into units of verses but by commandment. For example, the fourth commandment contains four verses according
to ta’am taḥton (Ex. 20:7-10), but when using the ta’am elyon, it is read as one long verse, being that these four verses comprise just one of the Ten Commandments. Likewise, the fifth through eighth commandments, according to ta’am taḥton, are contained in one verse (Ex. 20:12), but when using ta’am elyon are read as four separate verses, one verse for each individual commandment.

With this in mind, we can understand the custom of standing for the Ten Commandments. The regular weekly reading of the Torah was instituted in order to fulfill our communal obligation of Torah study. It was specifically designed to fulfill this obligation through the reading of the Written Torah. Consequently, we fulfill this obligation by reading the pesukim of the Torah. The Talmud states that we cannot divide a verse in a way that Moses did not divide it (Megillah 24a). Therefore, when fulfilling our communal obligation of learning Torah, the Torah must be read in
the way that Moses divided it, to constitute reading pesukim.

When the Ten Commandments are read with the ta’am elyon, by contrast, our goal is not to fulfill our obligation of reading Torah. Rather we are reading the Ten Commandments as a  commemoration of what transpired at Mount Sinai, and therefore the reading is divided into commandments (as they were said at Sinai), not into verses.

In many congregations, on the weeks of Parashat Yitro and Va’etḥanan in which the Ten Commandments are read, they are read with the regular cantillation, ta’am taḥton (see Beiur Halakhah 494). This is because this reading is part of the regular weekly reading of the Torah in which we are fulfilling our communal obligation of learning Torah, and therefore it must be read with the regular cantillation (ta’am taḥton).

However, on Shavuot, everyone has the custom to read the Ten Commandments with the ta’am elyon. This is because the reading of the Ten Commandments on Shavuot is not meant to fulfill our communal obligation of learning Torah; rather, the reading is a commemoration of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, and thus we divide the Ten Commandments into the unit of commandments, not into verses (see Magen Avraham 494 in the name of Ḥizkuni).

It follows that our current custom to stand during the recitation of the Ten Commandments applies when they are being read with the ta’am elyon. This cantillation demonstrates that our reading is a commemoration of what took place at Mount Sinai, and therefore we stand just as the Jewish nation stood around Mount Sinai when receiving the Torah (see Ex. 19:17; Deut. 4:11). Likewise, it would seem that Maimonides’ disapproval of standing for the Ten Commandments is when they are being read with the ta’am taḥton, which indicates that they are being read as verses of the Torah. One cannot stand for the Ten Commandments when they are read as a particular segment of the Torah, because this would indeed indicate that one ascribes more significance to them than to the rest of the Torah.

When reading the Ten Commandments with ta’am elyon, however, we do not have to be concerned about the appearance of giving primacy to the Ten Commandments. We are not standing due to the content of the Torah reading but rather as a commemoration of what transpired at Mount Sinai. The Ten Commandments are no more sacred than the parashah which speaks of Timnah, the concubine of Elifaz (Gen. 36:12), but the Ten Commandments are read not only as a text which is being studied, but as a text which is being promulgated and proclaimed by God Himself.

Judaism developed a very peculiar philosophy of memory, indeed, an ethics of memory. Memory and forgetfulness are subject to ethical determination. Memory is not just the capacity of man to know events which lie in the past. Memory is experiential in nature; one does not simply recollect the past or just remember bygones, but reexperiences that which has been, and quickens events that are seemingly dead.

Many mitzvot are based upon this idea. The Passover seder is, of course, the prime example: “In each generation a person is required to see himself as if he had gone out of Egypt” (Haggadah). Likewise, the reading of the Ten Commandments is not only a didactic performance of limmud, study, but a restaging, a dramatic reenacting of mattan Torah. That is why people rise when it is read.

Excerpted from Megillat Ruth Mesorat HaRav, co-published by OU Press and Koren Publishers Jerusalem

The Jewish People’s Conversation at Sinai

Maimonides (Hil. Issurei Biah 13:1,4) writes:

Israel entered the covenant with three acts: circumcision, immersion, and offering a sacrifice…. Similarly, for [all] future generations, when a gentile desires to enter into the covenant, take shelter under the wings of the Divine Presence, and accept the yoke of the Torah, he must undergo circumcision, immersion, and the offering of a sacrifice.

Maimonides’ description is based on the Gemara (Keritot 9a) which derives the laws of conversion from the experience of the Jewish people at Sinai. The Vilna Gaon (Beiur HaGra, Oraḥ Ḥayyim 490:9) explains that this is the basis for our custom to read Megillat Rut on Shavuot – just as Megillat Rut describes one conversion, Shavuot commemorates the conversion of the nation.

However, the idea that mattan Torah was the Jewish people’s conversion seems to stand in contradiction to a statement of Nahmanides in his commentary on the Torah (Lev. 24:10). Nahmanides writes that “from the time that Abraham entered the covenant, they [i.e., his descendants through Isaac and Jacob] were Israelites and were ‘not reckoned among the nations.’” According to Nahmanides, following Abraham’s circumcision he and his descendants already achieved Jewish status. If so, what was the need for the conversion at Sinai? Ritva (Ketubot 11a) addresses this issue and states that, “The seed of Abraham had already been commanded regarding circumcision and were entered into his [Abraham’s] covenant from their youth, and this [i.e., the conversion at Sinai] was only the completion of conversion [gemar gerut].” How are we to understand this?

We can explain as follows. The concept of conversion is equivalent to accepting the yoke of Torah and mitzvot. Abraham was given one commandment – circumcision – and therefore, in his time only partial conversion was possible. In Egypt, the Jewish people received additional mitzvot (see Hil. Melakhim 9:1) but since they did not receive all the mitzvot, full conversion was still impossible. At Sinai when the people received all six hundred and thirteen mitzvot, they required a new act to complete their conversion and be imbued with the full sanctity of the
Jewish people. Since the sanctity of the Jewish people derives from Torah and mitzvot, the addition of new mitzvot required a new conversion; the completion of kedushat Yisrael could take place only with the revelation of all six hundred and thirteen mitzvot. This is the meaning of the gemar gerut that took place at Sinai.

Although we have described the conversion at Sinai as the paradigm of future conversions, it seems that there is one significant difference between the conversion at Sinai and subsequent conversions. In characterizing the offering brought as part of the people’s conversion, Maimonides (Hil. Issurei Biah 13:3) writes: “Sacrifiices [were offered then], as the verse (Ex. 24:5) states: ‘And he sent out the youth of the children of Israel and  they brought burnt offerings.’ They offered them as agents of the entire Jewish people [על ידי כל ישראל הקריבום].” The phrase על ידי כל ישראל הקריבום seems to indicate that these offerings were brought on behalf of the Jewish people as a nation, not as individuals, i.e., as korbenot tzibbur. If so, it follows that the conversion of the Jewish people was performed not as a group of individuals but as a single communal conversion. Likewise, the acceptance of the mitzvot (kabbalat mitzvot) was performed communally when the people said naaseh venishma – “we shall do and we shall heed” (Ex. 24:7) – “as one man, with one heart” (Rashi, Ex. 19:2). The conversion took effect on the nation as a whole at one time.

Based on this, we can resolve a question that arises from the Gemara (Shabbat 130a). Commenting on the verse “Moses heard the people weeping with their families” (Num. 11:10), the Gemara explains that Israel was weeping concerning family matters, for marriages within the family that became forbidden after they accepted the Torah. Yet there is a well-known rule that a convert to Judaism is akin to a newly born infant (Yevamot 22a) – meaning that the convert’s former family relationships are dissolved. If so, Maharal (Gur Aryeh, Gen. 46:10) notes that there should have been no prohibited marriages following mattan Torah, since all Israel underwent conversion at Sinai.

However, according to the above, we can explain that this rule did not apply to the conversion at Sinai because it was fundamentally distinct from the ordinary form of conversion. Ordinarily, conversion is an individual act, and in such cases the convert gains the status of a newborn. But the conversion at Sinai was not a separate conversion of each individual member of Israel, but a conversion of the entire nation in the aggregate.  Since the conversion at Sinai took effect on the whole nation as a single entity, their family relationships persisted.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

An Antidote for Recidivism

When the metzora, someone afflicted with the special skin condition of tzara’at, concludes their quarantine, the Torah requires them to offer sacrifices before reentering society: “The Kohen shall command, and he shall take for the one to be purified two living pure birds, cedar wood, red-dyed wool, and hyssop” (Leviticus 14:4). Why these items specifically?

Rashi explained their significance based on the Midrash. The tall and mighty cedar represents the offender’s arrogance. The red-dyed wool is called sheni tola‘at, the second word meaning “worm” in Hebrew, and the hyssop has a low-lying habit. “What is his rectification so that he can heal? He should abase himself from his arrogance like a worm and hyssop.”

The second Sochatchover Rebbe, the Shem mi-Shemu’el, found Rashi’s wording curious. Has the metzora not been cured already at this point? In the previous verse, the Torah says, “The Kohen shall go outside the camp, and the Kohen shall look, and behold the tzara’at affliction has healed” (Leviticus 14:3). Moreover, why does a metzora need to remove their arrogance through the sacrifice? Didn’t they need to repent already so that the affliction would heal? The Sages state, “The affliction effects his atonement; the offerings permit him to reenter the community.” Atonement has been made!

The Rebbe resolved this by sharing an explanation from his illustrious father, Rabbi Avraham Bornsztain, known as the Avnei Nezer, one of the greatest halachists of the nineteenth century. Not every act of humbling oneself is identical. One can be humbled by external circumstances, like the crushing blow of suffering or penury. These force a person into submission and make them all too aware of their vulnerability and even mortality. Ejected from the community and disgraced for his or her sins, the metzora is humbled. How can someone remain arrogant when they must broadcast that they are impure to all who approach them? The metzora therefore does teshuvah (repentance), and it is sufficient to cure the malady.

The metzora’s rehabilitation, however, is not yet complete. Now that he is cured, the oppressive circumstances are lifted, and with the pressure eased off he is liable to return to his arrogant attitude. “What is his rectification so that he can heal” refers to a complete, spiritual healing. As the metzora enters the Temple to offer his sacrifice, he has a newfound realization of the grandeur of God and the need to humbly submit to the divine will. The symbolic ingredients of the sacrifice contribute to this personal transformation that results in true humility that comes from within rather than from without. The arrogance is eradicated rather than repressed.

In a concluding remark, the Sochatchover Rebbe added another proof to his father’s teaching. As mentioned above, the cured metzora brings two birds, one to be slaughtered and the other to be set free. What is the purpose of this? The Midrash answers: “To tell you that just as it is impossible for a slaughtered bird to return, so it is impossible for the affliction to return.” With the bringing of the sacrifice, the metzora has thoroughly repented, and the rehabilitation is complete. There is no lingering threat of recidivism.

Through this commentary on the metzora’s sacrifices, we learn two ideas about teshuvah from the Shem mi-Shemu’el and the Avnei Nezer.

First, “the Merciful One desires the heart”(רַחְמָנאָ ליִבָּא בָּעֵי).  God truly wants emotional investment with a pure heart; without it, our service is much less desirable to Him. We are not supposed to go through the motions but to truly feel it.

The importance of this sincerity of the heart is beautifully captured in a classic Chassidic tale. Once Rebbe Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev held up the prayer service on Rosh Hashanah. This was the account he later gave as to why he did so:

There is a young lad in town who is a shepherd. He was orphaned at a young age, and never had the opportunity to learn how to read Hebrew. This morning, when he saw everyone streaming toward the synagogues, and upon inquiring was told that today was the solemn day of Rosh Hashanah, he felt very bad that he could not join others in prayer.

The young lad went out into the field and turned his eyes upward toward heaven. “Dear God,” he said. “I have never learned to pray like others have. All I know is the alef-bet. I will recite the letters for You, and You put them together to make proper words.” The lad began reciting alef, bet, gimel, dalet, etc.

The lad is now reciting the alef-bet, and God is busy putting the letters together to form proper words. We must delay our prayers until the lad is finished with his, at which time God can be attentive to us.

The formal prayer obligation was set aside for a few minutes to make way for prayer of the sincerest kind, a wordless outpouring of the song of the soul.

Secondly, teshuvah must not be forced by external circumstances, but by an internal movement of the heart. As we know from experience, too often the well-intentioned find themselves right back at it after having repented. Teshuvah requires sincere regret for having done wrong and a firm commitment never to repeat the wrongful act. But that is not enough, as Rabbi Dr. Abraham J. Twerski, the famed addiction specialist and Chassidic scion, observed:

One must think, “How is it that I came to do this wrongful act?” One must analyze oneself to discover the character defects that made such an act a possibility, and improve on these defects, developing oneself to a level of spirituality at which such an act could not recur.

In the time of the Temple, entering its holy precincts instilled the fear of God, and the bringing of the sacrifice would effectuate the final transformation. In the absence of these aids, we need to subject ourselves to deep soul-searching. The antidote to recidivism is to tear out our sins by the roots.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

Moshe’s Self-Erasure

If asked to identify what made Moshe outstanding, we might point to his intellect or prophetic ability. The common honorific Moshe Rabbeinu identifies him as our greatest teacher and the chief expositor of God’s Torah. Another good candidate is his humility, as the Torah testifies that he was “very humble, more than any other person on the face of the earth” (Numbers 12:3). The second Sochatchover Rebbe, the Shem mi-Shemu’el, focused on what may not be our first guess: selflessness.

In praise of Moshe, the Torah calls him ne’eman (Numbers 12:7), typically translated as “faithful” or “loyal.” The rebbe quoted his maternal grandfather, the Kotzker Rebbe, who understood it to mean “selflessly devoted.” Moshe was unconcerned with himself, only thought about others, and was willing to sacrifice himself for God and the Jewish people.

The Alter of Kelm championed the virtues of selflessness and genuine concern for others, and he also cited Moshe as an exemplar of them. Moshe not only identified with and responded to the general downtrodden condition of his people (Exodus 2:11), but he demonstrated concern for individual Jews too (Exodus 2:12). He even felt the suffering experienced by non-Jews and acted on their behalf, as his actions at the well in Midian demonstrate (Exodus 2:17). The Torah tells us all of this background to demonstrate that Moshe was worthy of leading the Jewish people, as he naturally shared the burden of his fellow, he was nose be-ol chavero.

We can add to this Moshe’s lack of regard for himself in devoting every ounce of energy, “from morning until night” (Exodus 18:14), to offering advice and counsel to his people. Yitro foresaw the disastrous consequences which this self-neglect would eventually yield and exclaimed, “you cannot do this alone” (Exodus 18:18), bringing Moshe to his senses. This episode shows how far Moshe was willing to go for everyone else.

Perhaps the most remarkable example of Moshe’s selflessness can be seen in what occurred after the sin of the golden calf. For his people, who often displayed ingratitude, Moshe was willing to erase himself from this world and risk losing the next. He threw his lot in with theirs despite that he himself had no part in the sin. This was the ultimate act of dedication and devotion.

Rabbi Mosheh Lichtenstein, a rosh yeshivah of Yeshivat Har Etzion, describes Moshe’s devotion to his people, this way:

Moshe’s very existence and being are dependent on the survival of the people, and he rejects any option that will part him from them and their fate. Like a mother who throws herself in the line of  fire to save her child from danger – for what would her life be without him? – so Moshe responds to the threat that hangs over his flock. He prefers to be wiped out with the Israelites rather than be alone in Paradise, although he is well aware, perhaps more than any other human being, of the doom and perdition entailed in being erased from the Book of Life, and of the price of not being inscribed in the eternal Torah. Nevertheless, he chooses to risk everything in his attempt to save his flock. It is not for naught that the Torah describesMoshe as “very humble,” that is, as one who sets no importance on his personal existence and value.

Where did Moshe learn this trait of self-effacement? Rebbe Ben-Zion Rabinowicz, the current and third Biala Rebbe, is convinced that he learned this from Pharaoh’s daughter. She risked her life to defy her own father’s evil decree and to save a Jewish child from certain death. Her disregard for her own wellbeing in saving an outsider from a different culture and religion modeled for him the ultimate self-sacrifice.

And it was appropriate that Moshe learned this lesson and implemented it in his life. Rabbi Chaim Vital wrote that Moshe was a gilgul (reincarnation) of Noach’s soul, forced to return to this world to correct a sin. Which sin? Noach did not care enough for others to pray for his generation. Moshe sacrificed himself for the sake of his people, thereby rectifying the mistake made by Noach’s soul. This is alluded to by Moshe’s statement “erase me” (מְחנֵיִ), which is an anagram of the Hebrew phrase “the waters of Noach” (מֵי נֹחַ)

Taking our cues from Moshe ultimately redounds to our own benefit. A well-known parable has it that in Gehinnom, people sit at a huge, sumptuous banquet and are given absurdly long cutlery with which they cannot eat, and so they starve. In the Garden of Eden, people sit down to the same feast, and each person feeds the person across the table with the oversized cutlery. Thus, everyone is sated. We might one day be the beneficiaries of our own kindnesses to others.

More than that, the Sochatchover Rebbe writes, emptying ourselves of selfishness benefits the entire world. We become diaphanous vessels for the abundance God sends down to the world. Moshe was the perfect treasurer for the Mishkan, because his absolute devotion to God and the Jewish people allowed the greatest blessing to flow into the building and its implements, unobstructed by any element of ego. The less space we take up, the more room there is for the divine.

Excerpted from Hasidus Meets America: The Life and Torah of the Monastryscher Rebbe zt”l (1860-1938) and an Anthology of his Teachings, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishers

Purim: Nahalat Yehoshua, pp. 126-128

Rabbi Yohanan began with this verse: “He recalled His kindness and His faith to the House of Israel; all the ends of the earth have seen the salvation of our God” (Ps. 98:3). When did all the ends of the earth see this? In the days of Mordechai and Esther. (Megillah 11a)

R. Yehoshua Heschel asks: How are we to understand the question itself? Was it only on Purim that the world saw God’s salvation?! After all, the redemption from Egypt was vastly more impressive, both the Exodus itself and the chain of visible, breathtaking miracles that led up to it. What, then, makes Purim a clearer sign of God’s power than the redemption from Egypt? After all, then, too, all the ends of the earth saw God’s salvation!

He prefaces his response by recalling some basic principles concerning the way God runs the world. Three orders must be distinguished: the natural; supernatural, revealed miracles; and hidden miracles, concealed in nature. Revealed miracles utterly defy the laws of nature; they emerge from the very depths of Divine being to enter this world, and thus they are humanly incomprehensible. While those who personally experience such miracles will believe they occurred, others, more distant from the experience may question, doubt, or even deny them. The Exodus itself attests to this reality. Even though “Nations heard – they were agitated; terror gripped the dwellers of Philistia; the chieftains of Edom were confounded, trembling gripped the powers of Moab, all the dwellers of Canaan dissolved” (Exod. 15:14–15) – nonetheless, Amalek, the absolute non-believer, refused to recognize any of the miracles that God had wrought for the Jewish people. Recklessly, “Amalek came and battled Israel” (Exod. 17:8). In the same way Balak King of Moav saw the Exodus as a natural event, and thus he brought in Bilaam to conquer Israel by force of his curses.

All this, of course, stands in sharp contrast to the inner workings of the third order: hidden miracles, concealed in nature. Ironically, on R. Yehoshua Heschel’s understanding, here alone, all the nations of the world have the capacity to recognize the hidden presence of Divine influence. He offers a series of biblical examples. Yitzhak sowed his field as farmers do; “and in that year he reaped a hundredfold” – clearly a heaven-sent blessing (Gen. 26:12). Yitzhak made wells, as shepherds do; unexplainably, wherever in that arid land his servants dug, they discovered flowing wellsprings. Hearing of his success, the shepherds of Avimelekh and Phicol approached Yitzhak, saying: “We have surely seen that God is with you” (Gen. 26:28). All this suggests that when abundant Divine blessing is bestowed through natural means, all of humanity recognizes the hand of God in it.

These thoughts lead R. Yehoshua Heschel to a radical conclusion:

In truth, it is the order of hidden miracles concealed in nature that testifies most cogently to God’s greatness. For God could of course supervise the world solely via miracles, in a continual, incomprehensible show of Divine omnipotence. Instead, though, God chose to constrict His infinite greatness, to confine His power in the guise of nature. This mighty act of tsimtsum (contraction) is far greater than any gesture of expansiveness (hitpashtut).

Finally, now we can understand what the Rabbis then taught some pages later (B. Megilah 16a): “[Haman] found Mordecai with the Sages sitting before him, and he was showing them the laws of kemitsah.” Those halakhot that Mordecai was teaching [on the simple level, they concern how a pinched handful of flour is to be taken from the meal-offering to be burned on the altar] – his intent was to grant the Sages more profound insight into the way God runs the world: God may choose to bring respite and salvation disguised in natural event; this most of all reveals His power. For the laws of kemitsah allude to the mystery of tsimtsum: miracles contained and concealed in nature. Thus, such phenomena actually enable us to recognize God’s glory.

To this point, R. Yehoshua Heschel has focused on the second part of the “prooftext” that would define the unique nature of Purim: “He recalled His kindness and His faith to the House of Israel; all the ends of the earth have seen the salvation of our God” (Ps. 98:3). But what of the first part? How are “God’s kindness and His faith (emunato)” related to the Purim experience in particular?

“Kindness” (hesed) symbolizes the infinite measure of beneficence that God gives the world as it is manifest in the supernatural order. Miracles disguised within nature, on the other hand, are entrusted to the Jewish people, a gesture of pure faith (emunah). God, as it were, believes in them: even if He conceals the traces of His surveillance of the world, the House of Israel will recognize and know that, here as well, God’s hand secretly guides all of history. Thus, in the days of Mordechai and Esther the miraculous was concealed in natural law, finally to emerge and, ultimately, to be acknowledged unto the ends of the earth.”

 

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

A Heart Bursting with Love

“You shall not covet your neighbor’s house . . . or whatever belongs to your neighbor” (Exodus 20:14). Of the Ten Commandments, this final one may be the hardest to fathom. How can God command man not to experience an emotion that overtakes us naturally, seemingly of its own accord?

The medieval commentator Ibn Ezra contended that we can in fact control it, because this emotion is grounded in logical perception. He offered the following parable. No peasant in his right mind ever thinks he will marry the princess. Since the commoner knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will never be admitted to the aristocracy, he does not even covet the princess. She is the very definition of out of his league. Ibn Ezra explained that this is the mindset mandated by the tenth commandment. Everything we acquire in life comes from God; whatever others might have has been apportioned to them by God and is not within the realm of possibility for us. One who has proper faith recognizes this and consequently is not beset by feelings of envy.

Rabbi Pinchas Eliyahu Horowitz approached this problem differently. He pointed out that we are enjoined to love God with “all of our heart” (Deuteronomy 6:5). The “all” here instructs us that to fulfill this mitzvah, the only thing we must have in our heart is love for God. And “if one’s heart is overflowing with love of God, then it is impossible to covet anything in this world . . . It is like a brimming cup to which not a drop can be added.”

This is not some theoretical construct. These words were lived by Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook. In his poetic, mystical reflections, we discover a man in whom love for God, for his fellow man, and for
the world, takes up so much space so as to leave not even a toehold for envy:

I love everything. I cannot but love every person, every nation. From the depths of my heart I desire the resplendence of everything, the rectification of everything . . . I have no need whatsoever to force this feeling of love – it wells directly from the holy depth of Wisdom of the divine soul.

We can overcome feelings of jealousy or begrudging others their good fortune by filling our hearts with boundless love. Then, we will naturally rejoice at their success without thoughts of comparison
intruding. Covetousness will find no spot in our hearts to take root and produce its fetid flowers.

The final utterance of the Decalogue communicates the divine conviction that man can transcend his selfishness and pettiness that all too often begets conflict. Rav Kook taught that with the Jewish people
in particular, this love can be more readily accessed. While the members of other nations share an external identity, the Jewish people share an internal, metaphysical identity, because every individual Jewish soul is a piece of one greater, universal soul. When we are mindful of this, we are more likely to desire only good and happiness for our fellow Jew.

Rav Kook’s love for fellow Jews, his ahavat Yisrael, was not confined to the private stirrings of his spirit recorded in his notebooks. His extraordinary love of other Jews was legendary. One of Rav Kook’s
closest colleagues and beloved friends was Rabbi Aryeh Levin, “the Tzaddik of Jerusalem.” Living in Jerusalem at the same time was a man who was vocally critical of Rav Kook and Rabbi Levin. One day this man became very ill and was brought to the local hospital. On hearing the news, Rabbi Levin rushed, as was his practice, to the hospital to visit the new patient. The patient was astonished to see the good rabbi at his bedside. “Rabbi Aryeh, you must know how I have attacked you and your rabbi over your deeds and practices. I cannot help but ask: From where do you draw the strength to visit this patient and be so forgiving?” The Tzaddik of Jerusalem responded, “From that very same rabbi whom you oppose and have attacked have I learned unconditional love.” He was referring of course, to Rav Kook.

The Chassidic master Rebbe Chanoch Henoch Levin of Aleksander once drew attention to the fact that in Ibn Ezra’s parable the poor villager stands for the Jew who is supposed to be satisfied with his lot and
accepting of his station. The Rebbe adamantly asked, “Why compare the Jew to the peasant; after all, is not every Jew a child of the King? We should envision ourselves as the princess!” To be part of the royalty requires regal comportment with dignity, grace, and generosity.

When our hearts overflow with warmth and affection for others, there is no room for small-mindedness or pettiness. What is more, we seek everyone’s good fortune, and even cheer them on in their achievements. Let us observe the tenth commandment by not only being satisfied with our own God-given lot, but by being happy about what those around us have as well.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

Living Memory

Remembering our past is a key feature of Jewish life. Yearly, our entire community gathers to remember Amalek’s dastardly attack on the fledgling Jewish nation as they left Egypt: “Remember (זכָוֹר) what Amalek did to you” (Deuteronomy 25:17). Weekly, we remind ourselves as we consecrate Shabbat during Friday night Kiddush that Shabbat is “a commemoration (זכִּרָוןֹ) of the creation of the world.” Daily, we recite the all-important Shema and in so doing discharge our obligation to recall the Exodus from Egypt in the third passage, an obligation codified by the Mishnah based on the verse, “that you shall remember (תִּזכְרֹּ) the day you left Egypt all the days of your life” (Deuteronomy 16:3). So many commandments and rituals center on the Exodus; an entire holiday commemorates the event. Why must we Jews constantly bear in mind the Exodus?

Our greatest Torah scholars have grappled with this question. One approach suggests that remembering the Exodus is a way of thanking God and cultivating gratitude each and every day. The Haggadah we read during the annual period devoted to commemorating the Exodus, Pesach, confirms this: “Had the Holy One not taken our forefathers out Egypt, we, our children, and our grandchildren would still be enslaved to Pharaoh in Egypt.” How can we not be grateful?

A second approach was taken by the second Gerrer Rebbe, the Sefat Emet. He said that we are not merely to recall the foundational event of the Exodus, but to internalize it. The birth pangs that heralded the imminent birth of our great nation in Egypt were meant to instill within the Jews of the time, and within all generations of Jews to come, absolute faith in God.

Many of us recall the association between the four cups of wine drunk at the Passover Seder and the arba leshonot ge’ulah, the four expressions of redemption – “I shall take you out . . . I shall rescue you . . . I shall redeem you . . . I shall take you to Me” (Exodus 6:6–7). The Sefat Emet shifts our focus from these stages of redemption to its culmination: “so that you shall know that I am the Lord your God” (Exodus 6:7).

The Exodus occurred in a specific time and place, but it also represents a state of mind. The word for “Egypt” (מִצְרַיִם) shares multiple letters with the word for “strait” (מֵצַר) and “pain” (צַעַר). The Sefat Emet writes, “Truthfully, at every moment every Jew has an Egypt (מִצְרַיִם).” As we encounter these “Mitzrayim moments” in our daily lives, we are supposed to recall how God acted in Egypt, so as to sear into our consciousness unfailing trust in God. Just as He answered the cry of our forefathers in Egypt, so will He answer us. Recalling the Exodus is not about remembering an earth-shattering event from the annals of Jewish history, but reliving the redemption by God’s hand.

In the Shabbat Kiddush, we recite the words: “the first calling to holiness (לְמִקְרָאֵי קוֹדֶשׁ) a commemoration of the Exodus from Egypt.” Rebbe Naftali Zvi Horowitz of Ropshitz remarked that the memory of the Exodus calls us to holiness, that is, it gives us encouragement in our darkest moments to transcend. Though the Jewish people had gotten trapped in the impure and immoral quicksand that was Egypt, God did not only lift them out of it, but He raised them to great spiritual heights to receive the Torah and live with God’s presence, the Shechinah, in their midst. As God did miracles for our forefathers, so can He do them for us.

The idea that God takes us out of our personal Egypt or performs miracles, albeit less conspicuous ones, for us today, rests on the fundamental Chassidic conception that God is accessible to every Jew, that His presence can be felt even as He is intangible. The Lubavitcher Rebbe once shared an anecdote at a farbrengen, a gathering of Lubavitch Chassidim, about how we can “taste” God:

When the teachings of Chassidut were first being heard throughout Russia and Latvia, the Alter Rebbe, Shneur Zalman of Liadi, once passed through the city of Shklov on his travels. Shklov was then famous for its antagonism to Chassidut and for the rigorous hold exerted by the mitnagedim (opponents of Chassidut) over the entire city.

The Alter Rebbe entered the city and directed his steps to the main synagogue. He went up to the bimah and in his singular melodious tune, translated a verse from Psalms (34:9) into Yiddish: “Taste and you will see that God is good.” These soothing words, having emanated from his pure, truthful heart, pierced the hearts of his listeners. Scores of young people ran after him. They began to learn the teachings of Chassidut; soon they became prominent personalities in the Chassidic community.

The Alter Rebbe expressed a profound idea in a simple and uncomplicated way: one can “taste,” intimately feel, God’s presence. The young people drawn to him and his teachings must have realized that this was what was missing from their lives, and desired to experience the joy and meaning that follows from the sensation of God’s presence. Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook, who was profoundly influenced by Chassidic thought, interpreted that verse from Psalms as follows. We “see” the miracles and divine providence that surround us, which are external indications of the divine presence, but we can also internalize, or “taste,” God’s presence. Every single one of us is in reality very close to God.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, it is told, felt this to be the case even with those who have lived a life of sin and feel as distant from God as possible:

One of the town’s assimilated Jews fell seriously ill, and thought he was about to die. He became very melancholy, and could not be comforted. Rebbe Nachman came to visit him. With tears in his
eyes, the old man confided, “Rebbe, at a time like this, I only wish that I could pray.” Rebbe Nachman asked him, “Why not? Why can’t you pray?”

The old man replied, “Rebbe, you know that I haven’t been a very observant Jew. Saturday was my best day of business. I enjoyed a good restaurant meal too much to even attempt to keep kosher. I really haven’t lived a religious life. How can I pray to God when I feel so far away from Him?”

Rebbe Nachman fixed his gaze on the dying man and spoke. “Have you ever walked out on a clear bright night?” he asked. “Have you ever viewed the heavens, and contemplated the great vastness
of space? Have you ever stared upward with fixed attention, as if you could penetrate the fathomless depths of space, as if you could probe the hearts of the stars and steal their secrets? Have you ever felt the words of the Psalmist, “The heavens declare the glory of God, the sky above tells that He made it?” The old man nodded his head. “Then,” continued Rebbe Nachman, “you are much closer to God than you could ever imagine. God searches out the tiniest ember of faith, and fans it into a brilliant light, to guide us throughout our lives.” The old man was comforted.

To remember the Exodus is to imbibe God’s immediate presence or immanence. If God is with us, we can transcend our faults and failings no matter where we are in life.