Author: devora

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 Good Eye

“‘There has arisen no prophet in Israel like Moshe’ (Deuteronomy 34:10), but among the nations of the world there has arisen. Who is he? Bilam ben Be’or.” That is some high praise for a non-Jewish prophet, no matter how accomplished. Note, however, that the verse says “like Moshe” ( כמְשֶֹׁה ), and this is an instance where the kaf of comparison (-ְ כּ) remains in the realm of “not quite.” In fact, in one significant respect Bilam did not hold a candle to Jewish prophets of even non-Mosaic rank:

All the prophets [of the Jewish people] were motivated by the attribute of mercy toward both the Jewish people and the nations. [ . . . ] As for the prophets of the nations of the world, they were motivated by the attribute of cruelty, for [Bilam] arose to uproot an entire nation for no reason at all.

Perhaps Bilam was bitten by the nasty bug of anti-Judaism, as his actions bespeak a blind hatred of the Jewish people. When offered a princely sum by an entourage from Moav to curse the Jewish people, he had the audacity to think God might see things his way (Numbers 22:19). He then woke early to pronounce his curse and even saddled his own donkey (Numbers 22:21). Our Sages observe that he broke with routine and did not wait for his servants, since “hate prevents thinking straight.” Contrast this with Avraham’s saddling of his own donkey prior to the Akedah, the Binding of Yitzchak – “love prevents thinking straight.”

The Midrash tells us that Bilam exhibited the “attribute of cruelty,” so it was in character for him to attempt to harness God’s “attribute of judgment.” For one moment every day, for a mere 1/58,888th of an hour, God gets angry, and “no living being can determine precisely when this moment occurs except for the wicked Bilam.” Bilam’s intention was to curse the Jewish people at this precise moment, so that God Himself would be the one to destroy them.

It is difficult to comprehend what exactly it means for God to get angry, since He is perfectly benevolent and is not an entity that experiences passions. Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook viewed the notion of God getting angry as a way of teaching us about our own midot, our character and conduct. Every human character trait with which God has endowed us can be used positively. One should feel anger at injustice, corruption, cruelty, and other equally terrible human failings. Of the spectrum of emotions, though, anger should color our perception of the world only on the rare occasions it is truly warranted. This is what is meant by God’s anger lasting 1/58,888th of an hour. In modern parlance, this emotion should linger for a microsecond, long enough for it to register and be acted upon, and then dissipate.

The wicked, entrenched in immorality and iniquity, use the raw power of negative emotions to further their diabolical ends. Bilam used his unusual gifts to tap into divine “anger” and pipe it onto the Jewish people. The righteous, according to Rabbi Yaakov Moshe Charlop, know that God is only merciful, and so they seek to bring blessing into the world and annul divine decrees made in divine “anger.”

Our Sages contrast Avraham and Bilam in how they view the world:

Those who have a good eye, a humble spirit, and a modest soul are among the disciples of our forefather Avraham. Those who have an evil eye, an arrogant spirit, and an insatiable soul are of the disciples of the wicked Bilam.

The Mishnah does not focus on all the great character traits of Avraham, but on the essential attributes that were at the root of his generous spirit.

A person with a good eye wishes that others be blessed with good fortune. The Mishnah in Pirkei Avot asks: “Who is rich? Whoever is happy with their lot.” Rebbe Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter, the Sefat Emet, imparted to his Chassidim that the very rich are those who are happy when their friends experience good fortune. Furthermore, by cultivating this outlook, we become more like Avraham in seeking to extend our own good fortune to others. Rabbi Tzvi Yehudah Kook drew the following contrast: “Bilam was a professional hexer. Avraham was a source of blessing . . . ‘[all the families of the earth] shall be blessed through you’ (Genesis 12:3).”

Rav Kook the father explained that a good eye, arguably man’s most precious midah, does not come from working on a single character trait like compassion or generosity. It is an entire perspective on the world and on life. One recognizes God’s goodness and feels blessed to live in such a world. When a Jew awakens in the morning the first words uttered are modeh, an expression of thanks. Rav Kook explained that this prayer verbalizes a feeling of optimism and hope for oneself, one’s fellow Jew, and the entire world.

Rav Kook once advised: If you find yourself in a dark place, don’t waste your time cursing the darkness, just light a candle. This is the Jewish way. It is no coincidence that the titles of Rav Kook’s writings incorporate the Hebrew word for lights, orot. They strive to see world from a benevolent God’s-eye-view, as it were, in which everything is rising and fractures are healing. Divine anger is – at worst – fleeting. The kindness and compassion Rav Kook and his writings promote light up the world.

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

Moments of Moment

One cannot help but be captivated by the personality of Calev. Of the twelve leaders detailed to reconnoitering the land of Canaan, only he and Yehoshua returned with positive reports. Surprisingly, Calev turned out to be the hero in the drama that unfolded. He silenced the people and encouraged them, “We can surely go up and take it; we have the power to do it” (Numbers 13:30). In return, God honored him by calling him “My servant” (Numbers 14:24), an appellation used sparingly, and promised that his progeny will inherit the land. Indeed, when the Jewish people eventually conquered the land of Canaan, Calev was immediately given the city of Chevron as a gift ( Joshua 14:14).

When God praises Calev, He says, “he had a ru’ach acheret with him, and he followed after Me” (Numbers 14:24). The phrase ru’ach acheret is typically translated positively to mean that he had a different intention or plan that opposed the other spies. However, the Or ha-Chayim ha-Kadosh, Rabbi Chaim Ibn Attar, interpreted the term in light of kabbalistic terminology, where acher/et refers to the “other” side of the divine emanation, the side of darkness and evil. The scriptural phrase now means that Calev had “the other spirit,” the evil inclination, with him, “but he followed after Me” nonetheless. The pressure was strong to join the near consensus of the spies, who were good people, and Calev did battle with himself to maintain faith in the divine promise of a good
land. In the end, as God Himself attests, he prevailed.

This human take on Calev fits the Talmudic story, which has it that Calev left the company of the other spies to travel to Chevron and prostrate himself at the graves of our patriarchs and matriarchs. His purpose was to draw strength from the faith of his ancestors, so that he could resist joining the cabal of his companions.

Calev might have won the internal battle, but he would still need all the fight left in him to take on the other spies and the masses of receptive ears. After his colleagues delivered their depressing intelligence estimate, Calev acted swiftly: “Calev silenced the people toward Moshe and said, ‘We can surely go up and take it; we are able to do it’” (Numbers 13:30). The formulation here is curious: Why does it say Calev quieted them “toward Moshe”?

The Meshech Chochmah, Rabbi Meir Simcha of Dvinsk, posited that this is indicative of a larger concern. The people panicked out of concern that Moshe would not lead them into the land. Recall that according to the Sages, Eldad and Medad had prophesied that Moshe would die and Yehoshua would assume the mantle of leadership.3 How could the Jewish people defeat giants without a spiritual giant of their own? Calev’s counterargument was that they had it all backwards. Moshe’s greatness and ability to work miracles came from the people themselves, and not the other way around. So long as the people were worthy, God would help them fell giants.

The Piasetzner Rebbe, Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, focused on a different element of Calev’s response. The briefing of the spies seemed sound to its audience. It was predicated on facts, and the measures to take or not take seemed rooted in common sense. Was it not the sensible danger assessment they were tasked with drawing up at the outset? Calev provided no contradictory evidence, nor did he poke holes in their logic. Even worse, the spies mixed truth with lies when they said they had seen the offspring of giants (Numbers 13:28), because only Calev had seen the colossi upon entering Chevron. Why did he not call them out, then? How could he expect to sway the people without presenting a rival account and mounting a skillful defense? Why did he simply say the biblical version of “we can do it”?

The Piasetzner answered that the true test of faith is not when reason points the way to being rescued, but when there appears to be no way out:

The faith of the Jew needs to be         אֲבָל כָּךְ צְרִיכָה לִהְיוֹת אֱמוּנַת
such that he believes that God            אִישׁ הַיִּשְׂרְאֵלִי, לֹא בִּלְבַד בְּשָׁעָה
will save him not only when                שֶׁרוֹאֶה מָבוֹא וְדֶרֶךְ לִישׁוּעָתוֹ גַּם
he sees a logical or natural way           עַל פִּי שִׂכְלוֹ וְדֶרֶךְ הַטֶּבַע יַאֲמִין
of being saved, but even when,            בַּה׳ שֶׁיּוֹשִׁיעֵהוּ וְיִתְחַזֵּק, רַק בְּשָׁעָה
God forbid, he sees no logical or        שֶׁאֵינוֹ רוֹאֶה ח״ו שׁוּם מָבוֹא עַל פִּי
natural way of being saved, and         שֵׂכֶל וְדֶרֶךְ הַטֶּבַע לִישׁוּעָתוֹ יַאֲמִין
strengthens his faith and reliance      בַּה׳ שֶׁיּוֹשִׁיעֵהוּ וְיִתְחַזֵּק בֶּאֱמוּנָתוֹ
on God.                                                          ובִּטְחוֹנוֹ.

Calev did not expose the weaknesses of the spies’ account, despite the half-truths it included. To do so would have been beside the point. The Jewish people needed to have faith that insurmountable walls could be scaled and giants cut down to size, even when logic dictated otherwise.

Did Calev’s courageous words make any difference? The other spies did not miss a beat in flat-out contradicting him. They then went on at length about the difficulties presented by the land and its people. While it looks like Calev’s few words barely made a dent in the popular perception, the length and repetition indicate that Calev did score some points in the moment. Rabbi Moshe Feinstein declared this short-lived upswing a success nonetheless. He compared it to the halachic principle of violating the laws of Shabbat to save a life, which applies even when the life in question will only be prolonged for a few moments. Similarly, spiritual achievements are of great moment even if their duration is brief.

The power of a single word of encouragement or small constructive act is humanly immeasurable. Sometimes the seeds we plant bear fruit that we can see or even taste down the road; sometimes we are throwing a bottle into an endless ocean. On that fateful day in the wilderness, when the people cried out in fear, Calev’s soothing voice was heard and touched their hearts, even if only for a moment. Immortalized in the Torah, his words still resound, charged with optimism.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s Unlocking the Torah Text – Bamidbar, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

A Prophetic Postscript

Context
As Moshe’s prophetic spirit is shared with the elders selected to the first Sanhedrin, the Torah states: “Va’yitnabu [they prophesied], v’lo yasafu.”

A fascinating debate emerges among the early biblical commentaries regarding the biblical disclaimer v’lo yasafu. Reflected in this dispute are two diametrically opposed positions concerning the prophetic vision evidenced by the elders at this critical historical moment.

The Sifrei maintains that the term yasafu derives from the term l’hosif, to add or continue. The phrase v’lo yasafu, therefore, means “and did not continue.” The gift of prophecy experienced by the elders was a transient phenomenon, specific to the moment.

Targum Onkelos disagrees. Apparently maintaining that the term yasafu derives from the root sof (end), Onkelos interprets the phrase v’lo yasafu to mean “and did not end.” The prophetic vision granted to the elders, Onkelos argues, was permanent and did not cease with their ascension to leadership.

Questions
Why do these scholars stake out such widely varying positions concerning the nature of the elders’ prophetic vision? Is this dispute simply a linguistic argument, or does it mirror a deeper philosophical divide?

Approaches

A
A case can perhaps be made that the debate between the Sifrei and the Targum reflects a fundamental tension in our approach to the very process of halacha, a tension mirrored at the pivotal moment of the Sanhedrin’s creation.

B
Reflecting the normative approach to halachic jurisprudence, the Sifrei maintains: Lo ba’shamayim hi, the law is not in the heavens. Once transmitted to the Jewish nation at Sinai, Jewish law is to be decided by sages, not by prophets. The tools of the posek (halachic decisor) are the posek’s own scholarship, his intellectual acumen, his loyalty to the halachic process, his familiarity with the vast repository of earlier halachic discussions, and his understanding of his people and his times. Prophecy has no continuing place in this process, for at Sinai God hands the law over to man.

The Sifrei is therefore adamant. A transient prophetic event launches the inauguration of the Sanhedrin, granting that central legal body its divine approbation. After that moment, however, prophetic vision is no longer a component in the Sanhedrin’s continued functioning.

C
There is, however, another, spiritual dimension to the unfolding of Jewish law. For all its intellectual character, the law remains our most direct mode of communion with the mystery of God’s will. Sparks of ruach hakodesh, holy or divine spirit, are therefore seen by many as guiding the decisions of the rabbis across the ages.

How strongly one perceives the presence of this sanctified spirit in the workings of halacha depends on one’s background and philosophical outlook.

Those with an intellectual bent will, of course, minimize any sense of mystery in the halachic process. To their view, as indicated above, the beauty of the law is specifically reflected in its human character, in its definition as a divine law given to the hands of man. Others, however, approaching Jewish tradition from a more mystical perspective, will see the guiding hand of God clearly in the halacha’s unfolding. True, they maintain, the track of the law is determined by the sages; but the decisions of those sages mirror the will of God. Perhaps Onkelos roots his understanding of the events surrounding the birth of the Sanhedrin upon this latter approach to Jewish law. The gift of prophecy, he insists, remains with the elders throughout their lives, a precursor of the ruach hakodesh that will shape the decisions of their spiritual heirs in every generation.

D
A linguistic debate emerging from the moment of the Sanhedrin’s birth may be just that: a simple dispute over the translation of a biblical term. Or this debate may be much more: a foreshadowing of the tension that will characterize our approach to Jewish law across the ages.

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 Erev Shabbat Jew

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik famously wrote about the missing “erev Shabbat Jew” in America:

It is not for the Sabbath that my heart aches, it is for the forgotten eve of the Sabbath. There are Sabbath-observing Jews in America, but there are not “eve-of-the-Sabbath” Jews who go out to greet the Shabbat with beating hearts and pulsating souls.

Some have said he intended to convey that America has Shabbat, but in Europe of old they had Shabbat eve. They spent more time on Friday preparing for Shabbat, so much so that one could feel it in the air. There is no comparable feeling in the streets of the goldene medine. Let us not forget, however, the rest of his wistful reflection. How many American Jews welcome the earthly Shabbat “with beating hearts and pulsating souls”? Perhaps if we explore the true nature of Shabbat, we will merit doing so.

Two Shabbatot
The command to observe Shabbat appears throughout the Torah. Parashat Emor employs the doubling of shabbat shabbaton (Leviticus 23:3), and Parashat Kedoshim uses the plural shabbetotai (Leviticus 19:3). The Zohar interprets this duality or multiplicity to refer to a Shabbat on high, shabbata ela, and to our earthly Shabbat, shabbata tata. In order to understand the supernal Shabbat, let us begin with the more familiar one.

The Rav explained that Shabbat relieves us of the curses placed on humanity after Adam’s sin. Adam was sentenced to hard labor – “by the sweat of your brow shall you eat bread” (Genesis 3:19) – both back-breaking and endless. He was further cursed to suffer anguish (Genesis 3:17), described in the Rav’s inimitable prose as “the restlessness, fear, and suffering that characterize competitive society, or the conflict between human beings.” Finally, “for dust you are and to dust shall you return” (Genesis 3:19) initiated the cycle of life and death for humanity.

The “earthly Shabbat” releases us from the curses of toil and trouble. The monotony and rancor of trying to attain prosperity and maintain its security fade into the background. Work is dignified so long as we know how to leave it at the front door of our home. As the Rav observed, “endless work estranges people from their families.” Therefore, the Torah commands us to rest together on Shabbat as a family, and renew ties within parents, siblings, and children. The Shabbat atmosphere is one of serenity.

The “supernal Shabbat” is what suspends the curse of human mortality. In our prayers on Shabbat night, we ask God to spread His sukkat shalom, the shelter of peace, over us. This special insertion implies that we anticipate a time when evil will be no more and we will be free of suffering and death. This is not a reference to the earthly Shabbat but to the eternal, supernal Shabbat.

When God finished creation, the Torah concludes that He saw that everything He had made was “very good” (Genesis 1:31). The world was in a state of unity and perfection. However, when Adam and Chava disobeyed Him by sinning, they introduced disunity into the world. Shabbat is a time when the state attained on the sixth day of creation is relived, even if only for one day. The universe will revert to that state for eternity in the World to Come, which is why the Mishnah links the two: “‘A psalm, a song for Shabbat’ (Psalms 92:1) – a psalm, a song for the future, for the day which will be entirely Shabbat and rest for life everlasting.” In this sense, our weekly Shabbat offers us a taste of the peace and perfection of the messianic period, the age which will be entirely Shabbat.

The Shabbat to Come
Shabbat reminds us that we must plan ahead for the ultimate redemption. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan found this idea embedded in the way we prepare for Shabbat every week. Since we cannot cook on Shabbat, all of the food must be ready or partially cooked prior to Shabbat. In the wilderness, we are told that the Jewish people would prepare what they brought home of the double portion of manna (Exodus 16:5). Fifty-two times a year we ready ourselves for the earthly Shabbat, and as we do so we are reminded that our time on this earth will come to an end and that a supernal Shabbat is coming. And, as the Talmud says, “He who prepares on Friday, will eat on Shabbat.”

Every week we refer to Shabbat in prayer and Kiddush by its biblical designation as an ot olam (Exodus 31:17). The phrase is usually translated as an “eternal sign,” meaning, an enduring sign between the Jewish people and God. However, Rabbi Eliyahu de Vidas wrote in his Reshit Chochmah, a kabbalistic and ethical volume, that the phrase means a “sign of eternity.” Rabbi Kaplan expounded upon this idea:

On Shabbat, the door opens a crack, and we see a spark of the eternal. We feel a breeze blowing from the future world, when all is Shabbat. The Shabbat feeling is a sign of the future, when man and God will be in total harmony.”

The Rav saw references to this Shabbat to come in the Shabbat liturgy. Before the Amidah on Friday night, we say that God spreads the “canopy of peace” over the Jewish people and Yerushalayim, which alludes to the end of days. In the morning, we recite Psalm 92, which is about the everlasting Shabbat. In Mincha, the eschatological theme takes center stage. We begin the central section of the Amidah by saying “You are one and Your name is one,” echoing the time when God and His name will finally be unified. We then say that “Avraham will rejoice, Yitzchak will sing, and Yaakov and his progeny will rest on [Shabbat].” This somewhat mystifying line alludes to the end of days when the great figures will join us again. After the Amidah, we recite three verses that typically understood to be an acceptance of God’s judgment, perhaps because Moshe died on Shabbat afternoon. Yet again, the Mincha prayer of Shabbat is connected to the ultimate divine justice.

After Mincha, as Shabbat rapidly approaches its end, there is a widespread custom to recite Psalm 23, which expresses these lofty themes as well. The shepherd symbolizes the Almighty who remains close to His flock. His providence is manifest even in the valley of death, the long night of exile. We will eventually “dwell in the house of the Lord” with the rebuilding of the Temple.

Exploring the Rav’s Insight 
In the same way we are meant to greet Shabbat with yearning and joy, so should we prolong our visit with the Shabbat queen. In this connection, the Rav shared the following memory from his childhood:

In Warsaw we lived three houses away from a Modzhitzer shtiebel (a small, unassuming place of prayer). Generally, I would go to this Modzhitzer shtiebel for the se’udah shelishit (the third meal) of the Sabbath. They would sing all the zemirot (songs) for se’udah shelishit [ . . . ].

I knew these Jews well and I constantly spoke with them. [ . . . ] I once spoke with one of them who was frail and short. He constantly carried heavy metal pieces and I wondered where he got the physical strength to support this weight. His load was always tied around him with a thick cord. . . . On the Sabbath, I saw this very Jew and I did not recognize him. He came over to me in his tattered kapote. It was covered with endless patches, and even the patches had patches. Yet his face shone with the joy of the Sabbath. I recognized in a tangible fashion that a person’s Sabbath countenance is totally different than his weekday appearance.

So I asked him: “When will we daven Maariv [to conclude the Sabbath]?’

He answered: “What is with you? Are you already longing for the weekdays to begin? What do you mean when will we daven Maariv, are we lacking anything now?”

The Chassidim did not want to let Shabbat go and face the weekday. Their rapturous singing at the third meal brought them into contact with the spiritual plane of true bliss – the supernal Shabbat. If we resurrect the “erev Shabbat Jew” within us, perhaps we too will sense this higher reality, and be reluctant to take our leave of Shabbat the moment night falls.

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman J. Lamm’s Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Leviticus, co-published by OU Press, Maggid Books, and YU Press; edited by Stuart W. Halpern

Something Different for a Change*

The problem of tradition versus innovation is an ancient, complex, and yet ever relevant one. The issue has never been fully resolved, and especially in Jewish life we must face it again in every generation.

When does conformity with accepted custom shade off from cautious conservatism to a rigid reactionary stand? And when does the willingness to experiment move one from the ranks of the liberals to those of the radicals who are contemptuous of the inherited values of the past? When is submission to tradition an act of moral cowardice and an evasion of responsibility, a cop-out on independent thinking? And when is the desire for change a thoughtless lust for cheap sensationalism and trivial thrill? These are questions of the greatest importance, and honorable men and women have and do differ about them.

It would be foolish to attempt an exhaustive analysis of the point of view of Judaism on this question, but is instructive to look for some insights from within the heritage of Judaism.

A perusal of the first part of today’s sidra impresses us with the Torah’s powerful insistence upon observing every jot and title of the tradition. Thus, the Yom Kippur service of the High Priest in the Temple is set forth in the greatest detail, with constant and reiterated warnings that the slightest deviation from the prescribed ritual is a disaster, that any change is calamitous. Clearly, the Bible holds tradition and custom in the highest esteem.

And yet, here and there the Torah leaves us a hint which the Rabbis picked up and expanded, in order to complete the total picture by supplementing this valuation of tradition with another point of view. Thus, after describing the high point of Yom Kippur, when the High Priest has performed the service in the inner sanctum, we read, “And Aaron shall come to the Tent of Meeting and remove his linen garments which he wore when he came to the sanctuary, and he shall leave them there” (Leviticus 16:23). The Talmud (Pesaĥim 26a, and cited by Rashi) tells us that of the eight special garments that the High Priest wore for the Yom Kippur service, he was to remove four of them, those of white linen, and these required sequestering or burial. They could not be used again. He may not avail himself of these four garments on the following Yom Kippur.

Now, these priestly clothes were very costly linen garments. According to the mishna in Yoma (3:7), they were exceptionally expensive. Why, therefore, waste them? Why not put them aside for the following Yom Kippur? Why do not the Rabbis invoke the established halakhic principle (Yoma 39a) that, “The Torah is considerate of the material means of Israelites” and does not want to spend Jewish money unnecessarily?

An answer has been suggested by Rabbi Mordechai HaKohen. With all the concern of the Torah for the prescribed ritual and the unchanging tradition, the Torah very much wanted us to avoid the danger of routine. It considered boredom and rote as poison to the spirit and soul. Therefore, whereas we must follow every step of the ritual, the High Priest must have a change of garments every Yom Kippur, in the hope that the outward novelty will inspire and evoke from within the High Priest an inner freshness and enthusiasm, and that these four garments, which must always be different and always be new, will remain a symbol to all Israel that boredom is a slow death for the spirit, that only renewal can guarantee life. We need something different for a change!

What I think is the authentic Jewish view on our problem of tradition and change is this dual approach, insisting upon the unchanging framework of action, the fixed pattern of activity being transmitted from generation to generation without the slightest deviation, but demanding at the same time that inwardly we always bring a new spirit, a new insight, a new intuition into what we are doing. Objectively there is to be only tradition; subjectively there must always be something different, some change, something new. In outward practice custom prevails; in inner experience, only novelty and growth.

We find this emphasis on internal novelty in all the branches of the Jewish tradition. The Halakha itself, which is so insistent upon preserving outward form, cautions us against merely rote observance of mitzvot to which we habituate ourselves. It is very important for every man and woman to learn how to give religious expression to the various aspects of one’s life, but never must this be done thoughtlessly and mindlessly merely because it has become second nature for us. Every year we perform the same seder, but our tradition challenges us to pour new meaning into the old form. Every Jewish wife and mother lights the candles on Friday afternoon in the same way every week of her life. It is her great opportunity to offer her own personal, even wordless, prayer to her Creator. But every week there should be some novelty, some additional requests, some new insights and concern – perhaps for someone else’s family. When we offer the blessing on bread after a meal, we recite the same words, but perhaps sometimes we ought to vary the melody (if we do sing it) in order to challenge us to rethink our gratitude to the Almighty for being allowed to be included in that small percentage of humanity that suffers from overeating rather than under-eating. Every morning we recite the morning blessings. If we would really hear what we are saying, it is possible that our service would take three times as long! We bless God who is “poke’aĥ ivrim,” who makes the blind see. Only a short while ago we were sleeping, completely sightless. Then we wake up and look at the world around us. We ought to marvel, we ought to be amazed and stunned, at the great miracle of being able to see!

Ask those who cannot, whose eyesight is impaired, or whose vision is threatened, and you will appreciate once again what it is to wake up every morning and be able to see! We blessed Him that He is “matir asurim,” He straightens up those who are bent over. We thank God that we are able to get up in the morning, difficult as it is, and indeed, when we think upon it, we ought to be suffused with a special light of thankfulness that we are not confined to bed, that we have the wherewithal to arise and go about our daily activities. Every word of prayer that we say, every expression of gratitude, ought to be completely new every morning. And indeed, this is true for objective reasons as well. Although the world looks like an old one, although the objects of nature are ancient and its laws timeless, nonetheless we believe that God “renews in His goodness every day the work of Creation.” In that case, every morning we are indeed confronted with a brand new world – and therefore our reaction ought to be one of novelty and amazement and marveling.

The Kabbalistic tradition, as it came to us through Rabbi Isaac Luria, insisted that the same holds true for all of prayer. In prayer, perhaps above all else, we find the Jewish penchant for tradition and the acceptance of tried and tested formulae. Unlike most other peoples, especially in the Western world, our tefillot are the same every day, every Sabbath, every festival. And yet Rabbi Isaac Luria taught that each prayer must be unique in its essence, despite the identity of words. No two prayers are ever alike! Each prayer is offered up only once and cannot be truly repeated – provided that we pray in the right manner.

Hasidism made this the cornerstone of its whole theology. Thus, Rebbe Nachman Bratzlaver declared that, “If we shall be no better tomorrow than we are today, then why is tomorrow necessary at all?!” We may not use the same garments of this year for next Yom Kippur. There must always be something different, for a change in the life of the spirit is necessary to keep the mind and heart alive, healthy, and alert – to make each and every tomorrow unexpected, meaningful, exciting, and hence, necessary. There must be a change – and always in an upward direction.

Paradoxically, if we remain the same, we really are diminished. If we are stationery, then we are not stationery but we retrogress. In the life of Torah, the old rule (Sifre, Eikev 48) holds true – “If you abandon it for one day, it will abandon you for two days.” Why is this so? Because life moves on, turbulently and inexorably. Events are never static; we have to run to keep in place.

This is especially true with the mitzva of tzedaka, charity. I am often frustrated when I appeal for charitable contributions and I hear the answer to my appeal in the form of a question: “Well, what did I give last year?” In all other aspects of life, we accommodate ourselves to a precipitate change in the economy. Despite an ephemeral boycott or occasional whimper or complaint, we adjust soon enough to paying more for beef and onions, for haircuts and services. But when it comes to charity – rarely do we keep pace. “What did I give last year” becomes the introduction to and excuse for repeating the same pledge this year. This question and this pledge form a philanthropic litany which is destructive of our greatest communal institutions.

But this is not the way it should be. We may not use the same garments of this year for next Yom Kippur. Just as in matters of prayer or observance or religious experience, so in matters of charity we must grow Jewishly. Here too there must be something different for a change. Today must not be the same as yesterday, tomorrow not the same as today, this year not the same as last year.

Perhaps all that I have been saying is summed up in the last will and testament of one of the greatest Jewish translators of the Middle Ages, Rabbi Judah Ibn Tibbon, when he left the following advice to his son, Rabbi Samuel: “Of what good is life if my actions today are no different from what they were yesterday?” And conversely, how wonderful can life be if every day is new, if every day is different, if every day there is a change for the better.

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*April 28, 1973

Excerpted from Rabbi Menachem Genack’s Birkat Yitzchak Chidushim U-ve’urim al HaTorah

האם דיני טומאת בתים תלויים בקדושת הארץ

והבגד כי יהיה בו נגע צרעת (יג, מז)

כתב הרמב”ן: “זה איננו בטבע כלל ולא בהווה בעולם. וכן נגע הבתים, אבל בהיות ישראל שלימים לה’ יהיה רוח השם עליהם תמיד להעמיד גופם ובגדיהם ובתיהם במראה טוב, וכאשר יקרה באחד מהם חטא ועון יתהוה כיעור בבשרו או בבגדו או בביתו להראות כי השם סר מעליו, ולכך אמר הכתוב ונתתי נגע צרעת בבית ארץ אחוזתכם, כי היא מכת השם בבית ההוא. והנה איננו נוהג אלא בארץ שהיא נחלת ה’ כמו שאמר כי תבואו אל ארץ כנען אשר אני נותן לכם לאחוזה. ואין הדבר מפני היותו חובת קרקע, אבל מפני שלא יבוא הענין ההוא אלא בארץ הנבחרת אשר השם הנכבד שוכן בתוכה. ובתורת כהנים דרשו עוד שאין הבית מטמא אלא אחר כיבוש וחילוק, ושיהא כל אחד ואחד מכיר את שלו. והטעם, כי אז נתיישבה דעתם עליהם לדעת את ה’ ותשרה שכינה בתוכם. וכן אני חושב בנגע הבגדים שלא ינהגו אלא בארץ”.

והנה שמעתי ממו”ר מרן הגרי”ד זצ”ל, שישנם הרבה דינים התלויין בקדושת הארץ, כתרומות ומעשרות ושמיטה ויובל וכו’, וקדושה ראשונה להרמב”ם בטלה אבל קדושה שנייה קיימת לעולם, וזהו דוקא במקומות שהחזיקו עולי בבל, אבל מקומות שכבשו עולי מצרים ולא כבשו עולי בבל אינם קדושים, ואין נוהגים שם תרומות ומעשרות. אבל מלבד זה יש דינים שאינם תלויים בקדושת הארץ וחובת הקרקע אלא תלוים בשם ארץ ישראל כגון: עגלה ערופה, סמיכה וקידוש החודש, שנוהגים גם במקומות שכבשו עולי מצרים. וכן הוכיח הרב ז”ל מלשון הרמב”ם שלא תלה דינים אלו במקומות שהחזיקו עולי בבל אלא אף במקומות שכבש יהושע. וכן היה נוהג גם בשבעים שנה בין חורבן בית ראשון לבנין בית שני, שאף שקדושת הארץ נתבטלה אז, אבל השם ‘ארץ ישראל’ המורה על כך שהיא ארצו של העם הנבחר, לעולם לא נתבטל. [עיין אגרות הגרי”ד הל’ מלכים אות ב.]

והנה הרמב”ן כתב להדיא שגם דיני נגעי בתים שאינם נוהגים אלא בארץ ישראל אינם תלויים בקדושת הארץ אלא בשם ארץ ישראל, ולכן לכאורה היה נוהג גם בשבעים שנה בין בית ראשון לבית שני, וגם במקומות שכבשו עולי מצרים בלבד. ועיין במנ”ח (מצוה קעז) שכתב דאין דיני נגעי בתים נוהגים אלא במקומות דקדושת הארץ הוי דאורייתא, ואי קדושת הארץ בזה”ז הוי דרבנן וכשיטת ספר התרומות, א”כ אין דיני נגעי בתים נוהגים. אבל ברמב”ן מפורש לכאורה להיפך, דדיני נגעי בתים אינם תלויים בקדושת הארץ, שאינם חובת קרקע אלא תלויים בארץ הנבחרת.

ונראה שמטעם זה האריך הרמב”ן לבאר מדוע נגעי בתים לא היו נוהגים אלא אחר ז’ שכבשו וז’ שחלקו. ובתורת כהנים המקור הוא מגזה”כ ד”לאחוזה”, אבל הרמב”ן כתב שהוא משום שאחר שישבו נתיישבה דעתם עליהם לדעת את ה’. ולכאורה לא היה הרמב”ן צריך לטעם זה, שהרי גם תרומות ומעשרות לא נהגו עד אחר ירושה וישיבה דהיינו אחר ז’ שכבשו וז’ שחלקו, ושם לא היה צריך הרמב”ן להסביר טעמא דמילתא, דהוא דין התלוי בירושה וישיבה. אכן בנידון דידן נתקשה לרמב”ן, דכיון דנגעי בתים אינו תלוי בקדושת הארץ אלא בשם ארץ ישראל וכמו שכתב הרמב”ן להדיא, א”כ היה צריך נגעי בתים להיות נוהגים מיד בכניסתם לארץ, דלכאורה ז’ שכבשו וז’ שחלקו נוגע רק לענין קדושת הארץ ולא לשם ארץ ישראל, ולכן הצטרך הרמב”ן להסביר דדין אחוזה לגבי נגעי .בתים הוי דין מיוחד דאז נתיישבה דעתם עליהם וכו’

Excerpted from Hasidus Meets America: The Life and Torah of the Monastryshcher Rebbe zt”l (1860-1938) and an Anthology of His Teachings, by Ora Wiskind, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing

The Passover Haggadah
Todat Yehoshua

The Passover Haggadah recounts a process of transformation in which Jewish self-awareness is fundamentally altered.19 In his extensive commentary on the Haggadah, R. Yehoshua Heschel reads the state of exile, or galut, as the beginning point of a metamorphosis that will transform a seemingly random gathering of individuals into an enmeshed community. But for this to take place, there must be an awakening, the birth of a new dimension of awareness. This awakening is what made the Exodus possible; ultimately, it is what engendered the entity called God’s chosen people, a nation worthy of being redeemed. In the opening pages of his commentary on the Haggadah, he examines the inner workings of that transformation and summons core Hasidic concepts to bring it to light.

“The people picked up its dough before it could rise” (Exod. 12:34). A prelude to the dramatic events to follow, this verse, narrated so briefly, represents the commandment of biur hametz, the injunction to take action, that “no leaven be found in your homes” (Exod. 12:19).20 Following the Zohar, R. Yehoshua Heschel reads it allegorically. “Dough,” in a mystical sense, symbolizes the body, material existence. This verse, then, attests that in that final hour they struggled to elevate themselves, to “pick up their dough,” their physicality, just before it was too late. But haste was essential, before the “Other Side” of evil had time to distract them with anxiety about themselves. In a moment of greatness, they attained the ultimate state of bitul hayesh – annulment of their earthly, embodied, human existence. What made this moment possible is the metaphysical, eternal bond between the Jewish people and God. The connection is primary, organic, indestructible. And so the Exodus, for all time to come, planted within the Jewish people the power to shrug off concern for the body and its pleasures, to forget (if only for a moment) what they lack, the pain and suffering of earthly life, to put aside egotism and selfishness. On this reading, the attainment of what Hasidic teaching calls hitpashtut ha-gashmiyut (freeing oneself from corporeity) signifies a vital, founding stage in every spiritual journey toward freedom, from the historical Exodus to every private story of exile and hoped-for redemption.21

Thus, urgency to “remember the day you left Egypt all the days of your life,” far more than a memory of the historical past, reverberates into the present, into the psyche of every living Jew. R. Yehoshua Heschel describes the self-perception that the Haggadah seeks to cultivate. These lines from the first pages of his commentary resonate with contemporary relevance.

[Remembering] is what ensures our survival throughout our  wanderings, uprooted again and again, from one exile to the next. Wherever we go, we are persecuted and despised, scorned and demeaned by all. Yet we must not falter, must never believe that we are the lowest of nations. The day we left Egypt – this memory must imprint our consciousness, . . . the great lengths to which God went to redeem us from there, to make us His treasured, unique nation. This alone will guard us from being swallowed up by our surroundings, assimilated and lost in alien cultures; this alone empowers us to keep on hoping, never to despair that salvation is near.22

Paradoxically, R. Yehoshua Heschel says, centuries of Jewish existence amidst the nations “as a lamb among wolves” is the most cogent testimony of God’s power on the stage of history. The striking prooftext of all this that he offers is a theologically laden Talmudic passage. The ominous, terror-striking eventuality of Divine occlusion – “I will hide My face on that day” (Deut. 31:18) – is preempted by a second counter-narrative: “Rav Yosef said, His hand is outstretched, guarding over us, as it is written, ‘I have covered you in the shadow of My hand’ (Isa. 51:16).”23 The powerful images in the Haggadah of God’s “strong hand” and “outstretched arm” gesture to this complex reality. Although present-day “heretics” continue to avow that “ours is the nation whose Master turned His face from it,” in truth, hester panim means just the opposite: it attests not to abandonment but to concealed, eternal Divine presence. Thus, he concludes, “‘While they are in the land of their enemies, even so, I shall never reject them utterly’ (Lev. 27:44). God’s ‘outstretched arm’ bears witness to this promise, that the Face will not be hidden forever. His hand secretly shelters and protects us from annihilation in this exile; it buoys our hope that, in the end, God will return and comfort us.”24

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19. This section is based on my discussion in: “A Hasidic Commentary on the Passover Haggadah for the New World,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 31 (2023), 233–260.
20. His reading al derekh ha-hasidut is based on a passage from Zohar 2.40b, which he notes.
21. Todat Yehoshua, 15–16; 29. R. Yehoshua Heschel returns to this theme later in his commentary, pp. 96–99; see my discussion below. His understanding of “worship through corporeity” and the complex interrelationship between consciousness, materiality and spirituality are clearly influenced by Habad Hasidic thought.
22. Todat Yehoshua, 29–30; see Hebrew Sources, p. 157. He writes cogently of this in his memoirs as well. See my discussion in “Rabbi Yehoshua Heschel Rabinowitz of Monastryrishche: Contemplations of a Hasidic Leader on Judaism in Troubled Times” (Hebrew), Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 25 (2017), 197–202.
23. Hagigah 5b. On the striking statement in that Talmudic passage that “whoever has not experienced hester panim [the hiding of God’s face] is not one of them [the Jewish people],” see Todat Yehoshua, 37; see also his commentary on the Talmud, Yalkut Yehoshua, 95.
24. “Heretics” would avow that “ours is the nation whose Master turned His face from it” (alluding to Hagigah 5b). Todat Yehoshua, 29–30.

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 Matter of Time

The opening mitzvah in Parashat Tzav is terumat ha-deshen, the removal of the ash, a simple ritual that commenced the Temple service every day. It was performed exclusively by a Kohen, who would ascend the outer altar’s ramp, remove a small volume of ash from the pyres, and carefully place it in a designated spot in the Temple precinct. This served the practical purpose of keeping the altar tidy, which maintained the dignity of the Temple and allowed the fires to burn more cleanly.

In keeping with his focus on our oft-forgotten “duties of the heart,” the venerable medieval philosopher Rabbi Bachya Ibn Pakudah in his Chovot ha-Levavot stated that this act was also for the Kohen. The Kohen was privileged to stand before God in the holy Temple as the representative of the entire nation, and therefore could develop inappropriate feelings of superiority:

As Scripture says of Aharon, in spite of the high dignity of his office: “He shall remove the ashes” (Leviticus 6:3) – the Creator obligated him to remove the ashes daily to induce lowliness and remove arrogance from his heart.

The menial chore of taking out the altar garbage was meant to humble the Kohen into being a pure oved Hashem, a servant of God.

Rebbe Simcha Bunim of Peshischa similarly taught that the Kohen’s day began with the lifting of the ashes to put his heart in the right place, by reminding him of the simple, this-worldly needs of the people he represented even in such a holy place. In God’s house, he was to lift up – to elevate – the common man. Too often those who rise to lofty positions become aloof and fail to relate to the struggles and pains experienced by “the little people,” and to raise them up with them.

The nineteenth-century champion of Orthodox Judaism in Germany, Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, found another psychological insight in this mitzvah. The ash reminds us of all the offerings brought the previous day. Removing it signals that it is a new day and we must again do what was incumbent upon us to do the day prior. We cannot rely on what was done yesterday. This recalls Rashi’s comment on “the Lord your God commands you today to observe these laws . . .” (Deuteronomy 26:16): “Every day you shall regard [the commandments] as if they are brand new, as if, on that very day, you have been commanded them.” In order to do this, we must let go of yesterday, and focus on the day ahead.

A fascinating interpretation of terumat ha-deshen arises from the question of its placement. Why doesn’t it appear in Parashat Vayikra, where all the sacrifices are elucidated? The second Ishbitzer Rebbe, Yaakov Leiner, explained that some things can be readily understood,  while others need time to be processed. A new idea forces us to rewire our neural networks, an obscure one takes time to wrap our head around. At times, we do not fully comprehend something until we sleep on it, as the human mind needs a period of relative inactivity to accomplish the processing for us and make it a part of ourselves. The sacrificial rite introduced in Parashat Vayikra was difficult for the Jewish people to wrap their heads around, and this remains true for us today as well. However, with time, a devoted heart, and an openness to absorb these truths, one can surely assimilate them into one’s very being. This is represented by terumat ha-deshen. When the sacrifices of the previous day have finished burning, their process is complete and one removes their ashes, an act that can be performed all night. Why at night? Because it represents the time when the mystifying is on some deep level demystified and absorbed.

The verse says, “Taste and see that God is good” (Psalms 34:9). Sometimes this proves challenging, as various Torah laws and practices defy our rational faculties or moral sensibilities. The sacrificial rite with its myriad details is a good example. Nevertheless, the rebbe taught that when we allow them to find a place within us, they will subconsciously become as beloved as any of God’s more consciously assimilable teachings.

One of the most outstanding Chassidic masters, the Kotzker Rebbe, made this very point. He was once asked, why do we say in the Shema that God’s words should be “upon ( עַל ) your heart” (Deuteronomy 6:6) and not “in (- בִּ) your heart”? “Of course they should be in your heart,” the rebbe replied, “but that is not always possible. At the very least, you can put them on your heart. They may sit there for a long time. But someday your heart will open, and if they are already on top of your heart, they can slip right in.”

We cannot always readily digest the Torah we learn. In the same way reaching one’s mature height is the product of years of silent growth, spiritual and emotional development slowly and immeasurably occurs beneath the surface. The key is to place the mitzvot “on our hearts.” When we recognize the nobility of the Torah’s directives and feel honored to be their recipient, we desire to taste God’s goodness. At that point, it is merely a matter of time.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s Unlocking the Torah Text-Shmot: An In-Depth Journey into the Weekly Parsha, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

A Retrospective: Putting Sinai in Perspective

Context

One of the indelible images of the book of Shmot is of the free-willed acceptance by the Israelites of the Torah at Sinai, captured in the people’s proclamation “we will do and we will hear.” Yet a Midrashic tradition quoted in the Talmud shatters that image, painting a vastly different picture.

Rabbi Avdimi bar Chama bar Chasa maintains that the Torah passage “And [the Israelites] stood at the base of the mountain” implies that during Revelation, “God held the mountain over them like a barrel and proclaimed: ‘If you accept the Torah, fine – but if not, here will be your burial!’ ”

Rava agrees with Rabbi Avdimi but claims that, centuries later, at the time of the Purim story, the Jews finally freely accept what their ancestors had accepted at Sinai under duress. As proof he cites a passage at the end of Megillat Esther which closely parallels the commitment “we will do and we will hear” rooted at Sinai. The Megilla testifies that the Jews “fulfilled and accepted.” “They fulfilled,” says Rava, “that which they had already accepted.”

Questions

Why do the rabbis transform the scene at Sinai so completely? Why is Rabbi Avdimi so intent upon adding an element of coercion to the Revelation narrative that does not seem to exist in the straightforward reading of the text?

Furthermore, how does the Purim story, according to Rava, relate to the Revelation narrative? Purim, a story of survival from the Persian period of Jewish history, occurs centuries later and would seem to be completely unrelated to the events at Sinai. Is Rava simply playing a word game, arbitrarily connecting two totally different tales on the basis of a linguistic nuance?

Approaches

Through a figurative, rather than literal, interpretation of this well-known Midrash, a powerfully significant lesson can be derived.

A
The rabbis demonstrate tremendous historical integrity as they ask us to put ourselves in the place of the Israelites at Sinai: You have just witnessed the Ten Plagues, the Exodus, the parting of the Reed Sea, the battle with Amalek, the gift of the manna and more. And now, amidst the thunder, lightning and sounding of the shofar of Revelation, God turns to you and asks, “Will you accept my law?”

Could your answer possibly be anything other than a resounding “Yes”?

On a technical level, of course the Israelites retained their free will during Revelation. In reality, however, they were faced with coercion of circumstance. It was as if “God held the mountain over their heads.” Given the surrounding environment, they did not have the opportunity to freely choose.

B
In this light, Rava’s puzzling observation suddenly makes abundant sense, as well.

Yes, he says, it is true that at Sinai the Israelites did not have the benefit of choice. Surrounded by the miraculous events of the moment, they could not choose a different path.

The time comes, however, when God withdraws; when His hand in the  world is no longer open and He orchestrates events from behind a screen. Within the national era of Jewish history, that moment arrives at the time of the Purim tale. Purim marks the onset of the non-prophetic period of the national era. At no point does God speak directly to Esther or Mordechai, the heroes of the story. They must, instead, determine divine will during a time of God’s silence and in the face of extraordinarily trying circumstances.

And when the Jewish community of that day accepts the story of Purim as divinely orchestrated, when they see the hidden miracle in a series of events that could have been interpreted as coincidental – only then, for the first time, the nation accepts with total freedom what their ancestors were forced to accept at Sinai.

As we have noted before, both the patriarchal era and the national era of Jewish history open with clear, direct communication between God and man. A point is reached, however, in each of these eras, when prophecy is silenced and God pulls back to allow us to find our own way. Just as a parent must let go of the child’s hand if a child is to learn to walk on his own, so too God withdraws and challenges us to determine our path.

And when that moment arrives – during the patriarchal era at the time of the Yosef story, and during the national era at the time of Purim (see Bereishit: Vayeishev 1) – full free will is born and our challenge truly begins.

Points to Ponder

One of the common questions asked by children and adults alike as we consider the flow of Jewish history is, “Why did God limit the performance of miracles to ancient times?” With a sense of longing, we look back to a time when everything was open, when God’s existence was obvious and His connection to our lives clear.

The rabbis, however, would have us understand that, on some level, this sense of longing is misplaced.

To live in a time when God is “hidden” is to face a trial that transcends the test of Sinai. When the thunder, lightning and shofar of the book of Shmot fall silent; when we are forced to find and appreciate God’s existence in the quiet miracles that surround us each day, that is when the mature challenge truly begins.