Author: devora

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

פרשת משפטים

בגדרי דין בשר בחלב

לא תבשל גדי בחלב אמו (כג, יט)

עיין בספר ‘מפניני הרב’ (עמ’ קנב) שנשאל הגר”מ סולובייצ’יק זצ”ל, אם מותר לבשל בשר בחלב שלא לצורך אכילה, אלא על מנת לעשות עמו ניסוי מדעי. והשיב דמדברי הרמב”ם משמע דשרי, שכתב (הל’ מאכ”א פ”ט ה”ב): “לא שתק הכתוב מלאסור האכילה אלא מפני שאסר הבישול. כלומר, ואפילו בשולו אסור ואין צריך לומר אכילתו”. דלכאורה צ”ב, איזה ק”ו הוא זה, דמה ענין אכילה אצל בישול. ומזה משמע בפשיטות דאין איסור בבישול בשר בחלב אלא במקום שדעתו שמישהו יאכל את התבשיל. ואם אסרה התורה אפילו מעשה הבישול אשר הוא רק ההכנה לאכילת הבשר בחלב, כ”ש שאסרה התורה את האכילה עצמה. ומזה משמע דאין איסור בבישול בשר בחלב אלא במקום שאותו הבישול משמש כהכנה לאכילתו, ולפ”ז אין איסור במכוון לעשות עמו ניסוי מדעי.

וכעין זה כתב ג”כ הגאון מטשעבין, הג”ר דב בעריש וידנפלד זצ”ל, בשו”ת דובב מישרים (ח”א סי’ ל) דהיכן שכונתו בבישול היא לברר אם יש בו בב”ח לבל יכשלו, שפיר יש לצדד קצת להתיר, ע”פ מה שכתב הכסף משנה פ”א מהל’ טומאת מת ה”ב לא אסרה התורה לבשל בשר בחלב אלא כדי שלא יבוא לאכול. (ולדינא, עיין מש”כ בזה בביאורים שבספר בדי השלחן, יו”ד סי’ פז).

אכן נראה דדעת ספר החינוך (מצ’ צב) חלוקה בזה, שכתב, וז”ל: “משרשי המצוה, לפי הדומה שהוא כענין מה שכתבנו במצות מכשפה, כי יש בעולם דברים שנאסר לנו תערובתן בסיבת הענין שאמרנו שם. ואפשר שתערובת הבשר עם החלב במעשה הבישול יהיה סיבת איסורו מן היסוד ההוא. וקצת ראיה לזה לפי שבא האיסור לנו במעשה התערובת, אע”פ שלא נאכלנו, שנראה בזה שאין איסורו מחמת נזק אכילתו כלל, רק שלא נעשה פעולת אותו התערובת להרחקת אותו ענין שאמרנו. והזהירנו ג”כ במקום אחר שאם אולי נעשה התערובת לבל נאכלהו ולא נהנה בו, להרחק הענין, ואפילו אכלו מבלי שנהנה ממנו כלל לוקה, מה שאין כן בשאר כל איסורי המאכלות. וכל זה מורה שיסוד טעמו הוא מחמת התערובת, וכענין שאמרנו בכשוף”, עכ”ל. וממה דדימה החינוך איסור בישול לאיסור כישוף מבואר שעצם עשיית התערובת אסורה אף בלא שום שייכות לאיסור אכילה, וכמש”כ החינוך: “לפי שבא האיסור לנו במעשה התערובת, אע”פ שלא נאכלנו, שנראה בזה שאין איסורו מחמת נזק אכילתו כלל, רק שלא נעשה פעולת אותו התערובת”. ולפ”ז יש לומר דאף אם בישל בשר בחלב בכדי לבצע ניסוי מדעי, אסור.

והנה עיין בתרגום אונקלוס שתירגם “לא תבשל” בכל ג’ הפעמים – “לא תיכלון”, דהיינו המדובר בפסוק על איסור האכילה. וצ”ע, שהרי פעם אחת בודאי מדובר על איסור הבישול. ועכ”פ מבואר לפי אונקלוס דאיסור בישול שייך לאיסור אכילה, ואינם איסורים נפרדים דלא תליין אהדדי. ואפשר שמדברי התרגום אונקלוס יש סעד לדברי הגר”מ סולובייצ’יק זצ”ל, שאיסור בישול הוא הכנה לאיסור אכילה, ואם אין כונתו ע”י הבישול שיאכלנו, אינו אסור בבישול.

[ואפשר דיש נ”מ בזה לגבי בישול אחר בישול בבשר בחלב. ועיין מש”כ בזה בס’ גן שושנים ח”א (סי’ טז).]

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman J. Lamm’s Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Exodus, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

The Thrill of a Lifetime*

Our sidra this morning tells us of the reunion of Moses with his father-in-law, Jethro, and with Moses’ wife Tzipporah and his children who had remained behind in Midian while Moses was experiencing the adventure of the Exodus of Israel from Egypt. After Moses tells Jethro of all that had happened to the Jewish people, we read, “vayiĥad Yitro,” “Jethro rejoiced for all the goodness which the Lord had done to Israel” (Exodus 18:9). Now, the word “vayiĥad” means more than “rejoice.” I would translate it “and Jethro was thrilled.” Both words, “vayiĥad” and “thrilled” mean “joy to the point where you feel your skin being pierced with sharp pleasure.” The Hebrew “vayiĥad” comes from the word “ĥad,” to feel a sharp sensation, and the word “thrill” comes from the Middle English “thrillen,” which also means to be pierced or “drilled” with joy. So Jethro experienced great, almost ecstatic joy.

Why was he so happy? What was so thrilling about his experience? A reading of Rashi leaves us with the feeling that Jethro’s joy was not unqualified. A non-Jew himself, he could not gloat over Pharaoh’s downfall. Why, then, “vayiĥad”? I believe that we may find the answer to this question by a psychological analysis which yields morally instructive results. In order to appreciate it, we must pick up, as it were, stray hints that the Torah leaves for us in order to build from them a perspective on the attitudes and lives of the protagonists in this great story.

In the beginning, Moses takes his family from Midian to Egypt, a trip that Jethro does not find to his liking (see Abarbanel on Exodus 4:18). Later, Moses sends his wife Tzipporah and his two children back to Midian to stay with his father-in-law Jethro, while he, Moses, continues with his work. We who read the Bible know the real reason for their separation. Moses was now involved in perhaps the greatest single enterprise in all of history. He was the father of all prophets of all the ages and, as such, experienced constant and uninterrupted gilui Shekhina, divine revelation. In order to be at all times prepared for the revelation of God, he could not live in the normal manner of most human beings. His mind and heart and soul had to be free from all private entanglements. He was the public figure par excellence, and therefore, in order to do justice both to his mission and to his wife and children, he was forced to send them back to his father-in-law Jethro for the duration of this great historical operation of the Exodus from Egypt.

But Jethro did not know this. One must put oneself in Jethro’s position and imagine how he felt. Here was this young man, Moses, who had come fleeing from the Egyptian police and had found a home with Jethro, the high priest of Midian. Jethro gave the young fugitive a home, gave him one of his daughters for a wife, put him into business tending his sheep. And then young Moses goes back to Egypt, for he has an itching ambition to succeed. And now that he has succeeded, he seems to have shirked all his familial duties, and abandoned his obligations. How bitter must have been the heart of old Jethro. Thus does our sidra open with “vayishma Yitro”: “Now Jethro, the priest of Midian, the father-in-law of Moses, heard all that God had done for Moses and for Israel His people, how the Lord had brought Israel out of Egypt.” Moses has reached the climax of his ambition, yet his family has not heard a word from him. He has apparently forgotten than he has left a wife and two little children behind. And Jethro thinks to himself: This Moses has probably developed the psychology of a conqueror. He probably thinks he has outgrown me, my daughter, and his children. Now that he has beaten Pharaoh, he has no doubt adopted the attitude of Pharaoh, who was able to say with such bloated arrogance (Exodus Rabba, Va’era 8:1), “li Yeori ve’ani asitani,” the Nile is mine and I am a self-made man – no one can tell me to do anything. Perhaps Jethro attributed to Moses the kind of arrogance that comes naturally to conquerors that we know existed later in the Roman Empire, when the Romans’ most solemn celebration was the festival of Triumph, with its manic excitement, its bloodthirstiness, its corruption.

No wonder the Torah tells us, just before the reunion, that when Jethro brought along Tzipporah and the two children, that the children’s names were Eliezer and Gershom. The Torah explains why Moses gave them these names (Exodus 18:3-4). The older one was called Gershom, “ki ger hayiti be’eretz nokhriya,” “I was a stranger in a foreign land.” The younger one he called Eliezer because “Elohei avi be’ezri,” “the God of my father helped me.” Why this information at this late date? It is an insight into Jethro’s feelings, a clue to his innermost thoughts. Jethro remembers that Moses was once a humble, human personality, who tasted the bitterness of loneliness, of being an unknown and unwanted alien. He once knew that he has not only a God, but a father. Now, the same individual, Jethro thinks to himself, is sitting on top of the world – no longer remembering that he himself was a “Gershom,” an alien, and probably forgetting both father and father-in-law.

And so, the old man Jethro, broken in spirit and heavy in heart, takes his hat in hand and proceeds to the confrontation with proud, ungrateful, successful M oses. Jethro is ready to accept humiliation, to crawl before his triumphant and haughty son-in-law and plead with him to take back his wife and children. This is the pathetic message that Jethro send to Moses, “ani ĥotenkha Yitro ba elekha, ve’ishtekha ushenei vanekha imah,” “Moses, I, your old father-in-law Jethro, am coming back to you, and I am bringing along your wife and your two young children.” Remember us, Moses? Remember the voices from your past? We are here again, pleading with Your Excellency to take us back.

But then – a remarkable thing happens. When Moses receives the message, he surprisingly does not act like a triumphant, supercilious, egomaniac conqueror. Rather, he runs towards Jethro, bows low before him, kisses him, greets him, and brings him to his own tent. And there, he tells him the story of all that had happened since they last met, “And Moses related to his father-in-law all that God had done to Pharaoh and to Egypt” (Exodus 18:8). How shocked Jethro must have been – Moses does not gloat over what he had done to Pharaoh as a result of his superior mind and military skill and shrewdness and wisdom. He tells him, rather, what God had done to Pharaoh and Egypt, “al odot Yisrael,” “for the sake of Israel!” Moses does not say, “God has done this because of me,” but because of Israel.

What a jolt this must have given to Jethro’s preconceptions. For when he came, it was because “vayishma Yitro,” Jethro heard all that God had done “leMoshe uleYisrael,” for Moses and Israel. The reports that had come to him were not only concerning Israel, but primarily concerning the great successes and triumphs of their leader Moses. And now that Moses himself tells the story – there is no mention of Moses’ name! It is only “al odot Yisrael,” “for the sake of Israel” (see Malbim ad. loc.).

And so Jethro realized how terribly wrong he was, how dreadfully mistaken – this man is not only not arrogant, but he is a genuine human being, a profound anav; not only is he not coldly sub-human, but he has such marvelous qualities, almost superhuman! This is a man who possesses greatness, warmth, a golden character. How lucky I am to be his father-in-law, he now thought. And Jethro was so overcome with emotion, so deliriously happy at discovering his mistake, that “vayiĥad Yitro,” Jethro was thrilled – goose-pimples began to form in his flesh and a shiver ran down his spine, because he now found himself face to face with the greatest individual he has ever met in all his life. This is a thrill – the thrill of a lifetime. It is the high point of Jethro’s life – the discovery that there was such superb greatness in a man who was close to him and in whom he had never detected it to such an extent.

What a remarkable character this Moses was. He had a total lack of self-consciousness. He did not even act “modestly,” telling Jethro “it wasn’t really my doing.” Rather, he simply “forgot” himself and the role he played. Only one possessed of this kind of character, this utter lack of self-consciousness, could by himself write out the words spoken by the Lord, “veha’ish Moshe anav me’od,” “The man Moses was very meek” (Numbers 12:3), and not even be aware of the fact that these words are describing him. For anivut, meekness, the quality of Moses, is much greater and more difficult to achieve than shiflut, lowliness or humility. The shafel may be virtuous in that he is always painfully aware of his inadequacies and limitations – but he is still concerned with himself, whether positively or negatively. Whereas the anav, the man who is unselfconscious, is not even aware of a self that is inferior. His ego has been subdued to the point of forgetfulness. What a thrilling experience to meet an individual of this kind!

If we now turn back to the sidra we have a new understanding of the first words Jethro uttered after his thrilling experience. Jethro said, “Blessed is the Lord who has saved you from the hand of Pharaoh and from the hand of Egypt, and who has saved the people from under the hand of Egypt.” Why the redundancy? There are two things Jethro thanks God for. The last half of this verse refers to the political and military deliverance of the people of Israel, their physical redemption – “who has saved the people from the hand of Egypt.” But the first half refers to a yet greater miracle – “Blessed is the Lord who has saved you from the hand of Pharaoh and from the hand of Egypt,” who has delivered the people of Israel from the plague of leaders like Pharaoh, from the tragedy and misfortune of being led by people who are obsessed with their own importance, who become intoxicated with their own egos and their own power, and who rapidly degenerate in character and personality to the point where they become inconsiderate, ungrateful, and insensitive megalomaniacs. The Jews were saved not only from the Egyptians – they were also spared the excruciating burden of a Pharaoh-type leader.

This, then, is the thrill of a lifetime. Not everyone, of course, can attain such sustained heights of character as Moses did. Assuredly not. But the fact remains that some of it is not only desirable but indispensable for civilized living. We cannot be human unless we experience moments of self-forgetfulness, of utter selflessness and altruism. When we meet such character in other people, we too experience the “vayiĥad,” the thrill. Therefore, we must try to develop such traits in ourselves. If a man is always out for himself, he becomes coarse to the point of inner vulgarity. We must make special effort to develop, at least on occasion, the quality of Moses’ lack of self-consciousness.

How is that done? How can such heights be attained, even temporarily? The best way to forget yourself is to keep someone else in mind. That means to do things for others in a completely selfless manner. In Hebrew we call this gemilat ĥasadim, the doing of favors. I do not mean merely the objective act of ĥesed, of generosity. Rather, I refer to gemilat ĥesed, the subjective act of losing yourself in an act of helpfulness for someone else. This does not mean that is wrong to give charity for personal popularity and wide acclaim – if not for these factors, Jewish philanthropy in America would probably collapse. But there ought to be special moments when we ignore our egos and immerse ourselves only in the act of ĥesed. Perhaps this is the real meaning of gemilat ĥesed – the word gemilat comes from the same root as the word “vayigamel,” “and he was weaned.” The selfless act of kindness is one that is weaned from ubiquitous egotism, it is a mature act of ĥesed, the kind given wholeheartedly, without expectation or desire for thanks or a favor in return.

Try that sometime. Secretly make somebody happy – without intruding with your own personality. Perhaps do it anonymously. Make it possible for someone to experience that change of view that Jethro did, growing from a feeling of frustration, bitterness, and disappointment – having lost faith in his fellow men – and moving that person to the point where he will be thrilled by your helpfulness without egotism. No greater joy exists than that.

This, then, was the thrill of Jethro – to learn that it is possible for a man to have every excuse for being arrogant, and yet to find that he is incredibly selfless and compassionate.

With man as with God, “kol makom she’ata motzei anvetanuto ata motzei gedulato,” “wherever you find his meekness, you find his greatness” (Pesikta Zutrata, Devarim, Eikev 15a). The greatness of man  consists in transcending his own petty involvements with his self. This is true greatness – for it is a paradox, yet true: the more you think of yourself, the less there is to think of. The more  you forget yourself, the more you will find the real and enduring value of yourself – for the way to find yourself is first to lose yourself in something worthy. And it is by losing yourself in a noble mission – in loyalty to Israel, in prayer to God, in extended mature kindness to your fellow human beings – that each of us can experience the thrill of a lifetime.

---

*February 16, 1963

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

פרשת יתרו

בדיבור אחד

וידבר אלוקים את כל הדברים האלה לאמר (כ, א)

וברש”י ד”ה (וידבר אלקים) פירש, וז”ל: “מלמד שאמר הקב”ה עשרת הדברות בדבור אחד מה שאי אפשר לאדם לומר כן, אם כן מה תלמוד לומר עוד אנכי ולא יהיה לך שחזר ופירש על כל דבר ודבר בפני עצמו”. עכ”ל. ולכאורה תמוה, אם אי אפשר לאדם לומר ולקלוט כל עשרת הדברות שנאמרו בדבור אחד, מה איפוא תועלת יש בזה.

והנה עיין ברש”י על הפסוק וכל העם רואים את הקולות (כ, טו) שהביא מהמכילתא, וז”ל: “רואים את הקולות. רואים את הנשמע שאי אפשר לראות במקום אחר”, עכ”ל. והנה חלוקה ראיה משמיעה, שבראיה אדם מסתכל על תמונה ורואה את הכל בבת אחת, אבל בשמיעה עליו לשמוע כל קול ותיבה בפני עצמו. ובזה היתה שונה קליטת הקולות בסיני, שראו את הקולות, ועל ידי כך נקלט הכל ביחד בבת אחת. ואשר על כן הדברות אנכי ולא תחמוד שייכים אהדדי וקשורים אחד לשני, וכן כל עשרת הדברות וכן כל התורה הכלולה תחת עשרת הדברות, מאוחדים כדבר אחד.

ואשר נראה לבאר בזה, שמעמד מתן עשרת הדברות בסיני היה האופן הכי גבוה של הבנה והשכלה על ידי גילוי שכינה, והקב”ה כשדיבר לעם הראה שכל עשרת הדברות מאוחדות, ואי אפשר להפריד דברה או ענין אחד מהשני, שכולן בנויות וקשורות זו לזו. ולכן כששמעו דבר ה’ והיה נחרט על לבם קלטו אותו באופן סגולי עד היכן שדעת האדם יכולה להבין ולתפוס את העניינים.

 

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

פרשת בשלח

אז ישיר…

א. שמעתי פעם ממו”ר הג”ר אהרן סולובייצ’יק זצ”ל שדין צורת כתיבת השירה אריח על גבי לבינה, דהיינו חצי לבינה של כתב כנגד לבינה שלימה חלק, הוא משום דיסוד ענין שירה הוא לא מה שנאמר ונכתב אלא מה שלא נאמר ושאי אפשר לבטא, ולכן החלק הפנוי מן הכתב כפול מחלק הכתב, דשירה היא למעלה ממה שנתבטא ושנאמר במפורש אלא שנשאר בתעלומות.

ונראה דזהו יסוד קדושת שיר השירים שעליו אמר ר”ע (משנה ידים פ”ג מ”ה) ש”כל כתובים קודש ושיר השירים קודש קדשים”. שהנה שמעתי ממו”ר מרן הגרי”ד סולובייצ’יק זצ”ל שהקדושה המיוחדת של שיר השירים היא בזה, שבכל הכתובים יש לפרש הקרא בפשוטו של מקרא, ומעל רובד הפשט על ידי הדרש, אבל שיר השירים מופקע הוא מפשוטו של מקרא, ואין לפרשו ולהבינו אלא על ידי הרמז והסוד. [ויעוין בזה בהקדמת הרב המלבי”ם לפירושו על שה”ש דגם המשל קודש.]

ועל פי קו זה יש לומר בענין השירה שבשיר השירים שגם הוא נובע מזה שמופקע הוא מפשוטו של מקרא, וקדושת הדברים שאינם גלויים ומפורשים עדיפה מדברים הברורים והנאמרים להדיא, וזוהי קדושת השירה הנובעת ממקום מסתורין, וכקדושת לפני ולפנים.

ב. יש לתמוה איך זה שלא אמרו ישראל שירה ביציאתם ממצרים, אחר שראו כל הנסים ונפלאות שהביא הקב”ה במצרים ואת כל המכות שהיו שם. [יעויין בספר לימודי ניסן מה שכתב בזה.]

ועיין במדרש רבה (שמות פר’ כב סי’ א): “ולמה צריך להזכיר קריעת ים סוף באמת ויציב לפי שכיון שקרע להם את הים האמינו בו שנאמר ויאמינו בה’ ובמשה עבדו, ובזכות האמונה שהאמינו זכו לומר שירה ושרתה עליהם שכינה, שכן כתיב אחריו אז ישיר, לכך צריך אדם לסמוך גאולה לתפילה כשם שהם הסמיכו שירה אחר האמונה והקריעה”.

ואשר נל”פ דברי המדרש, ע”פ דברי הגמ’ במגילה (דף יד, א) דאין אומרים הלל בפורים, ואף שבפסח אומרים הלל, ומאי שנא, הרי בפסח היה מעבדות לחירות כל שכן בפורים שהיה ממיתה לחיים צריכים לומר הלל, ורבא תירץ: “בשלמא התם הללו עבדי ה’ אלא הכא הללו עבדי ה’ ולא עבדי אחשורוש? אכתי עבדי אחשורוש אנן”. והיינו, עבד אינו יכול לומר שירה ורק בן חורין יכול לומר שירה. ונראה שכשיצאו ישראל ממצרים, אף על פי שבאופן רשמי כבר לא היו עוד עבדי פרעה ולא היו משועבדים בגופם, אך עד קריעת ים סוף היו עדיין נתונים ברוחם תחת שעבוד מצרים, וכשהאמינו בה’ ובמשה עבדו ניתרו כבלי העבדות ונעשו בני חורין בגופם ובנפשם, כי האמונה בה’ משחררת את האדם. וזוהי כונת המדרש שבזכות האמונה שהאמינו זכו לומר שירה. שאין לך בן חורין אלא מי שעוסק בתורה, ואפילו אם הוא עשיר ובעל מעמד רם, אם אינו בעל אמונה הרי הוא כעבד שבכל עת יכול מצבו להשתנות, אבל אם יהודי הוא בעל אמונה, אפילו אם מצבו גרוע, והוא עני ואביון, הרי בעצם הוא בן חורין.

וזה מה שאומרים בהגדה של פסח: “השתא עבדי לשנה הבאה בני חורין”. שכיון שיש לו בטחון בה’ לגאולה וישועה, הרי הוא כבר עתה בן חורין ויכול לומר את ההגדה וההלל.

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

The Source of Darkness*

From the very beginning of time, when Adam complained to God of his loneliness, man has regarded his solitude as a painful experience, even a curse. Modern man is especially bothered by loneliness. Despite, or maybe because of, his large cities and giant metropolises, he finds himself terribly alone in the world. He finds the silence of the universe and its indifference to his problems unbearable. He is alone and does not like it.

It is perhaps this feeling of loneliness that was the essence of the ninth plague that God brought upon the Egyptians and of which we read in this morning’s sidra. The ĥoshekh, or darkness, imposed a rigid and horrifying isolation upon the Egyptians. The effect of the plague is described by the Torah (Exodus 10:23) as “lo ra’u ish et aĥiv,” “they did not see one another.” All communication between a man and his friends ceased. He had no family, no friends, no society; he was completely and utterly blacked out of any contact with any other human. How lonely! What a plague!

It is all the more surprising, therefore, to read the opinion of Rabbi Yehuda, recorded in the Midrash on the ninth plague (Exodus Rabba, Bo 14:2). Our Sages asked: “meihekhan hayah haĥoshekh hahu,” “What was the source of that darkness”? Where did it come from? What is the nature and origin of loneliness? Rabbi Neĥemiah gave a credible answer, “meiĥoshekh shel gehenom” – the darkness that descended upon Egypt came from the darkness of Gehenom, from the netherworld. Loneliness is a curse, hence its origin is the place of punishment. But Rabbi Yehuda’s answer is astonishing, “meiĥoshekh shel ma’ala, shene’emar ‘yashet ĥoshekh sitro’” – the source of that darkness was from Heaven, for it is written (Psalms 18:12) that “God dwells in secret darkness!” What an unexpected origin for a plague – God’s dwelling place! Darkness comes from Heaven!

Astonishing, yes, but in that answer by Rabbi Yehuda we have a new insight into the problem of loneliness and hence into the condition of man as a whole. Darkness, or solitude, can become the curse of loneliness, as it did when it plagued the Egyptians and separated every man from his brother, a loneliness that prevented one from feeling with the other, from sharing his grief and joy, his dreams and his fears. Darkness indeed can be a plague. But the same darkness can be a blessing – it can be worthy of the close presence of God Himself. For solitude means privacy, it means that precious opportunity when a man escapes from the loud brawl of life and the constant claims of society, and in the intimate seclusion of his own heart and soul he gets to know himself and realize that he is made in the image of God. Loneliness can be painful – but it can also be precious. The same ĥoshekh that can spell plague for a man if it seals him off from others by making him blind to the needs of his fellows, this same ĥoshekh becomes Godly when it enables a man to become more than just a social animal, more than just a member of a group, but a full, mature, unique individual in his own right. “Yosheiv beseter Elyon” (Psalms 91:1) – God dwells in the highest kind of secrecy or mystery which cannot be penetrated by man. So must every person have an inner life, an internal seter, a chamber of blessed ĥoshekh, which, in its privacy, assures him of his uniqueness as a different, individual man. As Longfellow once wrote, “Not in the clamor of the  crowded street / Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng / But in ourselves are triumph and defeat.” In ourselves, that is where we can develop that brilliant darkness which has its source in God.

An American scholar recently wrote an article called “The Invasion of Privacy” in which he says that the perfect symbol of the confusion of our times is the “picture window” so typical of our newer houses. The “picture window,” he says, is more a means of letting others look in than for having the owner look out. Modern life, with its perpetual telephone calls and never-ending blare of television, with its round of constant appointments and business and social duties, represents an intrusion upon the privacy of each of us, a deliberate attack upon the citadel of one’s personal privacy. And modern man succumbs to this attack – he opens the blinds on the picture window of his heart, seeking to reveal his deepest secrets either to an ever-widening circle of friends or to his analyst or to his priest. We are often afraid of the solitude of privacy. We often fail to realize that ĥoshekh is not only a maka but also an aspect of Godliness. Educators and parents sometimes go to extremes and are appalled by a child who prefers to play by himself or think independently, and rush to impose “group games” and “doing things together” upon the delicious solitude in which a child seeks to discover himself. For a child realizes that, as with the young prophet Samuel, it is within himself that a man can hear the voice of God. Society may be the stage where the command of God is executed, but the inner solitude of man is the audience-chamber where we hear the command. How can a man be a truly good father, as God requires of him, if he does not have a few moments a day to contemplate in utter loneliness the wonder of children? How can a man be a good husband if he only acts out his role without ever thinking through his relationships in the stillness of his heart? How can someone be a good son or daughter if they never are alone long enough to realize the enormous debt we owe the parents for life and love? “Woe to him who is never alone and cannot bear to be alone.”

Don Isaac Abarbanel, that great fifteenth-century Jew who was the treasurer to the King of Portugal until the exile in 1492, put it in sharper fashion in his comment on the first passage in Avot. We read, “Moshe kibel Torah miSinai,” “Moses received the Torah from Mount Sinai.” But, notes Abarbanel, it was not from Sinai that Moses received the Law, it was from God at Sinai. It should have been stated, “Moshe kibel Torah beSinai,” or “min Hashem.” The reason for “miSinai,” he answers, is that the Torah was revealed to Moses only because of his inimitable capacity for creative solitude, only because at Sinai he isolated himself from man and was only with God for forty days and forty nights – because Sinai was the place that “nigash el ha’arafel” (Exodus 20:17), that he in his aloneness approached the darkness wherein God dwelt. “Moshe kibel Torah miSinai” – Moses received the Torah by virtue of Sinai, because he learned the secret of Godly solitude. So solitude gave birth to Torah. So does it give birth to ideas and to thoughts and to art and to beauty and to the essence of mankind and to all that is noble in life.

I have never known a really creative person who did not precede the creative act with at least a moment of profound, thoughtful solitude. No really great speech or beautiful musical composition is rolled off extemporaneously. It is forged in the silence of the mind when the outside world is shut out by a Godly darkness. No brilliant idea, whether in the sciences or art or business, is born out of the brawl of life – it is hatched out of the stillness of a creative personality. What is inspiration? It is nothing but the product of positive and constructive silence in the innermost, inviolable chambers of a man’s heart. The source of light is in this kind of darkness or solitude. And the source of this darkness is in God. It is the “ĥoshekh shel ma’ala.”

It is therefore of the greatest importance to all of us that even as we seek to banish the plague of loneliness we do not drive away the blessing of privacy. We ought to regard it as sacred and protect our moments of solitude with zeal. If in the conditions of contemporary life it becomes difficult to escape these intrusions upon our privacy to enjoy the “yashet ĥoshekh sitro,” it becomes all the more important to guard it zealously. We ought to seek opportunities for this solitude of contemplation wherever and whenever we can: whether during our vacation periods when we can afford more of this precious and delicious time, or at the beginning of the day in synagogue at minyan when we can wrest from our busy schedule for the sweet silence of solitude. There is a great deal of ĥoshekh-solitude in the world. The Egyptian makes of it a plague of isolation – “lo ra’u ish et aĥiv” – an inability to see his fellow men, a picture window through which others can look at but he is blind to them. The God-like, however, will make of this solitude an atmosphere of holiness, “yashet ĥoshekh sitro,” a creative opportunity to discover themselves and the voice of God that speaks to them, a window which does not allow others to peer within, but enables them to see others and be with them. This kind of ĥoshekh is not the plague of darkness, it comes from the Most High Source of All Existence. May we learn to make use of that darkness and thus bring great light into the lives of all of us.

 

---

*January 17, 1959

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

פרשת בא

בדין קרבן פסח כקרבן ציבור

ושחטו אותו כל קהל עדת ישראל בין הערבים (יב, ו)

א. כתב רש”י (ד”ה קהל עדת ישראל): “קהל ועדה וישראל, מכאן אמרו פסחי צבור נשחטין בשלשה כתות זו אחר זו, נכנסת כת ראשונה ננעלו דלתות העזרה וכו’, כדאיתא בפסחים (סד, א)”.

והנה בהך דינא דהפסח נשחט בג’ כיתות דוקא ואין פוחתין משלושים בני אדם בכל כת, נראה לפרש, שהוא משום שקרבן פסח בא בכנופיא, וכדי ליצור שם צבור בהקרבת הקרבן צריך להביא בצירוף כתות אלו של קהל, עדה, וישראל. שהרי ‘קהל’ ‘עדה’ ו’ישראל’ הם שמות נרדפים לתואר הצבור של ישראל.

ועיין בשו”ת זרע אברהם (להגר”א לופטביר, סי’ ו) שכתב לבאר את המכילתא פר’ בא: “מנין אתה אומר שאם אין להם לישראל אלא פסח אחד שכולן יוצאין בו ידי חובתן ת”ל ושחטו אותו”, והביא מס’ ‘בירורי המדות’ שפי’ שכמו דמצוה על הצבור להקריב את התמיד כך מצוה עליהם להקריב את הפסח. ודינו אמנם ככל קרבן ציבור, אלא דכיון דבפסח נוספה גם כן מצות אכילה, לפיכך כל אדם מחויב להקריב קרבן פסח בנפרד כדי שיוכל לקיים גם את מצות אכילה. אבל אם אין להם לישראל אלא פסח אחד, אזי מצוה על הצבור להקריב, עיי”ש. [ועיין במקראי קדש לפסח סי’ ב.]

ונראה שפשר הענין שחל דין צבור בהקרבת הפסח, הוא שקרבן פסח הוא קרבן הגאולה, וכיון שהיחיד בעצמו אינו מובטח שיגאל, שהרי ההבטחה הזאת שייכת רק לכלל ישראל כולו שסופו להגאל, אם כן גאולת כל יחיד ויחיד תלויה בכך שהוא מצטרף לצבור, ואם הוא אכן חלק מן הצבור זוכה אף הוא ורואה בישועתו וגאולתו.

ב. והנה קרבן פסח טעון ביקור ד’ ימים כמו קרבן התמיד [עיין במנ”ח (מצוה ה) שתמה על הרמב”ם שהשמיט מה דפסח צריך ביקור ורק הביא דין ביקור תמיד דפ”א מתמידין]. ונראה בביאור הדברים, שמה שקרבן פסח צריך ביקור, הוא משום הדין צבור שיש בפסח, ולכן פסח שני שאינו בא בכנופיא – דרק יחידים נדחין לפסח שני – ואין לו דין צבור הכרוך בהקרבת הפסח, לא בעי ביקור כמבואר בגמ’ (פסחים צו, א).

ג. ועיין בספורנו על הפסוק “והיה כי יאמרו אליכם בניכם מה עבודה הזאת לכם” (יב, כו) שכתב: “מה העבודה הזאת לכם – שאינה ביום מקרא קדש כשאר הקרבנות ולא תוך זמן שאר הקרבנות שהוא מתמיד של שחר עד תמיד של בין הערבים, ולמה לא יספיק קרבן אחד לכל ישראל כמו בשאר קרבנות צבור”. ועיין בדבריו בפסוק כז שכתב: “זבח פסח הוא – זה הזבח נעשה בשביל הפסיחה שהיתה עתידה להעשות בחצי הלילה של אחריו, ומפני שאין זבח בלילה הוצרך לעשותו בזה הזמן הנמשך אחר הלילה של אחריו בענין הקרבנות, והוצרך כל אחד להקריב כי הנס נעשה לכל יחיד בפני עצמו ולא בציבור בכלל”.

ומבואר מדברי הספורנו שכונת שאלת ‘מה העבודה הזאת לכם’ היא, למה כל אחד מקריב לעצמו, מדוע לא יספיק קרבן אחד עבור כל הצבור. ומשמעות דבריו כדברי הזרע אברהם, שמדין קרבן צבור בפסח יתכן שיוקרב רק קרבן אחד עבור כל הצבור. אלא שעדיין צ”ע בכוונתו של הספורנו בתירוצו: “כי הנס נעשה לכל יחיד בפ”ע ולא בציבור בכלל”. ואפשר שעל ידי נתינת דם על כל בית ובית בנפרד, נחשב לנס שנעשה לכל יחיד ויחיד, וצ”ע. אבל עכ”פ נראה שסבר שיש שני ענינים בקרבן פסח: קרבן הציבור, ושישתתפו בו יחידים, ולכן אין מביאים רק קרבן אחד, אלא כל חבורה מביאה קרבן לעצמה לקיים גם את דין היחיד.

ד. ונראה עוד, דמה דקרבן פסח נאכל בחבורה מה שלא מצאנו בשאר קרבנות, הוא כדי לצרף אחרים איתו בקיום דין קרבן הפסח משום דיש בו דין צבור ולכן אין ראוי שיעשה כקרבן של יחיד בלבד. [והרמב”ם (קרבן פסח פ”ב ה”ב) סובר דאף לר’ יוסי דשוחטין על היחיד, מ”מ לכתחילה אין לשחוט על היחיד שנאמר: “יעשו אותו”, ועיי”ש בכסף משנה.]

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

Glimpses of God

Context

Parshat Shmot closes with Moshe standing in frustration before God, complaining that his return to Egypt has only resulted in increased misery for the Israelites. God responds with assurances that the Exodus is about to unfold.

As the conversation continues in Parshat Va’eira, God proclaims: “I am A-do-nai. And I appeared to Avraham, to Yitzchak and to Yaakov as E-l Shad-dai but through My name A-do-nai I did not make Myself known to them. And also, I established My covenant with them to give to them the land of Canaan, the land of their sojourning, in which they sojourned.”

God then informs Moshe that He has heard the cries of the Israelites and that He has remembered His covenant. He instructs Moshe to tell the Israelites that they will soon be fully redeemed.

Questions

Why does God suddenly digress, in the midst of His reassurances to Moshe, to discuss the quality of divine revelation to the patriarchs? Why would this information be of significance to Moshe at this critical moment?

What does God mean when He says that He was revealed to the patriarchs as E-l Shad-dai but not as A-do-nai?

Even on a factual level, God’s claim is problematic. The text repeatedly refers to God by the name A-do-nai during the narrative of the patriarchal era. On two occasions God directly says to the patriarchs “I am A-do-nai.”

How, then, could God assert that He was not known to the patriarchs by that name?

Approaches

The rabbis maintain that, by contrasting the names E-l Shad-dai and A-donai, God references a qualitative distinction between two different aspects of His own being. Until now, God appeared to man only as E-l Shad-dai. The name A-do-nai was known to the patriarchs but the divine aspect which that name represents was not realized in their time. With the birth of the Jewish nation, however, all is about to change as E-l Shad-dai becomes A-do-nai.

The scholars, however, are not uniform in their understanding of the different aspects of God represented by these two titles.

A
An early Midrashic tradition maintains that the name E-l Shad-dai refers to God in His role as a “promise maker,” while the name A-do-nai refers to God in his role as a “promise keeper.”

God’s message to Moshe at this critical moment, says the Midrash, is far from benign: “Woe concerning those who are lost and are no longer to be found!” Where is your faith, Moshe? You fare poorly when compared to the patriarchs. How many promises did I make to them which remained unfulfilled? I commanded Avraham to walk the length and breadth of the land of Canaan for it would eventually be his. Upon Sara’s death, however, he was forced to buy a plot of land for her burial. I instructed Yitzchak to dwell in the land that would be his and his children’s. Yet he was forced to strive with those around him for water. I pledged to Yaakov that the land upon which he lay would be given to him and his children. Yet, he, too, did not own the land until he purchased a section from the sons of Chamor, the king of Shechem.

In spite of all these disappointments, the patriarchs never questioned My ways nor asked Me My name (inquired into the nature of My being). You, on the other hand, immediately asked Me My name at the burning bush and, now, with the first setback you experience, you doubt your mission. Your faith pales in comparison to the faith of those who came before you.

B
While accepting the Midrashic contention that the titles E-l Shad-dai and A-do-nai respectively refer to God in the roles of “promise maker” and “promise keeper,” Rashi maintains that the midrashically suggested rebuke of Moshe does not fit the flow of the text.

The Rashbam, Rashi’s grandson, following his grandfather’s lead, explains God’s message to Moshe as follows: Moshe, you are about to experience momentous events. I made numerous promises to the patriarchs which, nevertheless, remained unfulfilled in their time. Now you and the Israelites will experience the fulfillment of those very promises.

C
Other scholars offer alternative explanations for the distinction between the titles E-l Shad-dai and A-do-nai.

Both the Ibn Ezra and the Ramban maintain that these titles are used by God to reflect a change that is about to occur in the quality of His interface with the physical world. Throughout the patriarchal era, God, as E-l Shad-dai, worked His will within the laws of nature. Now, however, as A-do-nai, God will transcend the boundaries of natural law.

The Sforno carries this thought one step further by asserting that the name E-l Shad-dai refers to God as Creator of the universe, while the name A-do-nai refers to God as Sustainer of that creation.

God tells Moshe: Because I have not changed the course of creation until now, I have only been perceived as E-l Shad-dai, the Creator. Now, however, as I work the miracles of the Exodus and Revelation, all will know that I am A-do-nai, that I continuously sustain the world and can change the course of nature, at will. (See Bereishit: Bereishit 1, Approaches A for a fuller discussion
of this distinction.)

D
While the specific distinction between the titles E-l Shad-dai and A-do-nai is the subject of dispute, almost all major commentaries agree that the differing names for God reflect a phenomenon of partial revelation. Through the use of these titles, God reveals, in limited fashion, specific aspects of His being to man. This phenomenon of partial revelation is not unique, however, to the conversation between God and Moshe at the beginning of Parshat Va’eira. According to rabbinic tradition, various titles used for God throughout the Torah reflect different dimensions of His character.

The Midrash explicitly lists four biblical titles for God and explains the meaning conveyed by each:

The Holy One Blessed Be He said to Moshe: “You wish to know My name? I am called according to My acts…. When I judge My creations, I am called E-lo-him. When I wage war upon the wicked, I am called Tze-va-ot. When I examine the sins of man, I am called E-l Shad-dai. And when I show mercy upon My world; I am called A-do-nai.”

Other titles are used in our tradition, as well. We have already noted, for example, that the title HaMakom represents God when He is hidden and distant from man (see Bereishit: Bereishit 3, Approaches F).

E
The fundamental question, however, remains: Why are these partial revelations necessary in the first place? Why can’t the Torah consistently use one title to portray all aspects of God’s being in a unified fashion?

The most familiar example of this phenomenon of partial revelation can provide the clearest answer. As indicated by the Midrash, the title Ado- nai is used in the text to represent God’s attribute of mercy, while the title E-lo-him is used to convey God’s attribute of justice.

In our world, justice and mercy are, in their purest forms, mutually exclusive. One simply cannot be all-just and all-merciful at the same time. If you show mercy, you are, by definition, bending justice. If you are totally just, mercy has no place. For these concepts to coexist, each must sacrifice a bit of its purity.

This mutual exclusivity of mercy and justice in the human realm is codified, on a practical basis, in Jewish law. Commenting on the Torah’s statement “You shall not favor the poor and you shall not honor the great,” the rabbis proclaim that the application of law should be swayed neither by pity for the destitute nor by concern for the reputation of the wealthy. Elsewhere, the Mishna records the emphatic pronouncement of Rabbi Akiva: “We are not merciful in deciding the law!”

The rules are different, however, in the heavenly realm. Although we cannot comprehend how, God is all-just and all-merciful at the same time. These concepts coexist in the dominion of the divine without either losing any of its strength.

To convey the undiluted purity of the Godly attributes of justice and mercy, the Torah singles out one quality at a time, dependent upon circumstances. Only through this singularity can the Torah express the full force of each particular characteristic. To us, it appears as if God is acting solely through the attribute being mentioned.

In similar fashion, other divine attributes are singled out in the Torah through the use of God’s various names, each title allowing us to focus on one specific aspect of God’s being.

We are then challenged, however, to put the pieces together and gain a view, albeit distant, of the whole of God’s essence, to recognize that in the realm of the divine, conflicting forces combine without a weakening effect.

By using God’s names to reveal pieces of His essence in partial fashion, the Torah ironically underscores the complexity of the whole. In the final analysis, the glimpses of God provided to us by the Torah text only serve to heighten His mystery.

Points to Ponder

Two final points from two disparate realms:
A. Tantalizingly, the physical world at its most basic level may well mirror the mysterious nature of the divine.

In very rudimentary terms, the current scientific theory of quantum mechanics maintains that, at the subatomic level, classically accepted laws of the universe begin to erode because of the following phenomena:

1. Electrons, protons and neutrons act, in contradictory modes, as both particles and waves.
2. Particles must be viewed as existing in numerous locations at once because the accurate position and momentum of a moving particle cannot be simultaneously fully predicted.
3. External measurement of a particle suddenly causes that particle to act in predictable, one-dimensional fashion.

In this subatomic world which serves as the foundation for our own, we find coexisting contradictory forces, infinite potential, and a shift to predictable behavior upon external measurement. The very building blocks of creation, like God Himself, defy our rules yet become consonant with those rules when they enter our realm.

Is it possible that aspects of God’s mystery are built into the most elemental level of His creation?

Who knows what other divine secrets are woven into the fabric of the universe?

B. Through the phenomenon of partial revelation, God may be transmitting an ethical lesson as well.

Just as we are only able to glimpse pieces of God’s essence at any one time, so, too, we perceive much of human life piecemeal. Man, created in the image of God, is a complex and contradictory being, replete with deep currents coursing beneath the surface. We must be careful, therefore, not to make judgments and decisions about ourselves or others based on the partial information that we perceive.

In the personal sphere, life should be seen as a continual journey towards self-definition. Our true capabilities inevitably lie hidden from view, beyond the limitations that we often place upon ourselves. “This is who I am,” we defensively proclaim upon being challenged, when we really mean, I have no desire to test my limits or challenge the life compromises that I have made. Yet, only when we push past those limits can we truly approach our God-given potential.

Concerning others, our tradition urges us to be sparing and cautious in judgment, sensitive to the vast array of life variables that simply lie beyond our ken. Who knows what pressures may cause our neighbor to act in a specific way on any given occasion? When the rabbis emphatically state, “Do not judge your fellow until you have reached his place,” they are effectively prohibiting us from judging those around us at all. We can never truly “reach the place” of others. We should, therefore, never rush to judge them.

What we perceive concerning both God and man is not whole. Our actions and attitudes should reflect that fact.

 

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

פרשת וארא

והבאתי אתכם אל הארץ

והבאתי אתכם אל הארץ אשר נשאתי את ידי לתת אתה לאברהם ליצחק וליעקב ונתתי אותה לכם מורשה אני ה’ (ו, ח)

הנה בפסוקים הקודמים נכללו כל ארבע הלשונות של גאולה – “והוצאתי והצלתי וגאלתי ולקחתי”, שכנגדם תיקנו חכמים לשתות ארבע כוסות בליל הסדר. ובתורה תמימה כתב, וז”ל: “דמה דלא תקנו [כנגד] והבאתי אתכם אל הארץ מפני שבהיותנו עתה בגלות והארץ מסורה בידי זרים אי אפשר לישא כוס יין על זה”. אלא שלפי דבריו קשה למה בבית שני שאז היינו על אדמתנו לא תקנו כוס חמישי. ויעוין בשמות רבה פרשת וארא (פר’ ו): “והוצאתי אתכם מתחת סבלות מצרים, ד’ גאולות יש כאן, והוצאתי, והצלתי, וגאלתי, ולקחתי, כנגד ד’ גזירות שגזר עליהן פרעה, וכנגדן תקנו חכמים ד’ כוסות בליל הפסח, לקיים מה שנא’ (תהלים קטז) כוס ישועות אשא ובשם ה’ אקרא”.

והנה ממו”ר הגרי”ד זצ”ל שמעתי שהבטחת “והבאתי אתכם אל הארץ” מכוונת גם על הגאולה העתידה, ולכן עדיין לא תקנו כוס לזה. ולכן יש מנהג להביא כוס חמישי הנקרא ‘כוס של אליהו’ שמורה על הגאולה העתידה, שהרי אליהו הוא המבשר על הגאולה. ועיין בתורה תמימה שכתב שלכן תיקנו כוס מיוחד לשמו של אליהו, לזכרון ורמז שאנו מקווים לביאתו ולתחיית האומה והארץ.

ונראה שאכן לשון “מורשה” מורה על זה שהארץ נחלתנו לעולם ושתהיה ירושה לנו לעולם (עיין בהעמק דבר), וע”כ שפיר י”ל שפסוק זה מורה על הגאולה העתידה. והנה מקודם כשדיבר ה’ עם משה (ג, יז) אמר: “אעלה אתכם מעני מצרים אל ארץ הכנעני והחתי והאמרי והפריזי והחוי והיבוסי אל ארץ זבת חלב ודבש”, אבל כאן לא הזכיר את העמים כלל, ולאור הדברים האמורים עד כה יש ליישב שמדובר כאן על הגאולה העתידה ואז אין הארץ נחשבת כארץ העמים אלא כארץ ישראל שאליה שבים בניה הגולים.

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

פרשת שמות

ויאמר: הנני שלחני

וירא ה’ כי סר לראות, ויקרא אליו אלקים מתוך הסנה ויאמר משה משה ויאמר הנני: משה משה … הוא משה עד שלא נדבר עמו הוא משה משנדבר עמו. מבנין אב כיצד זה הסוד המלמד על כל מה שאחריו ואימתי נקרא יסוד משיראו הוא תחילה. א”ר יצחק על כל דבור ודבור היה קורא משה משה והוא אומר הנני בנין אב לכולן ויקרא אליו אלקים וגו’ לפי שהוא תחלה (ילקוט שמעוני [ק”ע]).

ובס’ זית רענן ביאר: “משנדבר עמו, פירוש ולא זחה דעתו עליו”, עכ”ל.

וביאור הדברים נראה, שהנה התורה מעידה על כך שמשה רבנו היה העניו מכל אדם. וטעם הדבר הוא, כי כל טבעה של מדת הגאוה שמפסיק בין המשלח לשליח, כיון שה’אנכי’ של השליח נכנס באמצע בין שניהם, וכיון שמשה היה שליח ה’ לתת את התורה, היה מתבקש שיהיה העניו מכל האדם כדי שתתקיים שליחותו בשלימות.

ולאור האמור, זהו מה שאמר המדרש שכשמינה ה’ את משה והופיע אליו בפעם הראשונה, אמר: “משה משה”. משה לא התגאה בזה שדיבר אתו ה’, ונשאר אותו משה אחרי הדיבור כפי שהיה מקודם – “עניו מכל האדם”. וכשמשה ענה “הנני”, פירוש דבריו אלה הוא: מוכן אני לקבל השליחות. וכמו שמצינו באברהם בנסיון העקידה שאמר “הנני” כמענה לקריאתו של המלאך, וכן יוסף כששלחו יעקב אל אחיו, ענה “הנני”. וכן על כל דיבור ודיבור היה עונה משה “הנני”, ובכך הראה שמקבל הוא את שליחות ה’. וכמאמר הפסוק בישעיה (ו, ח): “ואשמע את קול ה’ אומר את מי אשלח ומי ילך לנו ואומר הנני שלחני”.

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Exodus, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

The Rod of God and the Crutch of Man*

After Moses is persuaded by the Almighty to undertake the historic mission of leading the Children of Israel out of Egypt, he is commanded “ve’et hamateh hazeh tikaĥ beyadekha asher ta’aseh bo et ha’otot,” “and thou shalt take in thy hand this rod wherewith thou shalt do the miracles” (Exodus 4:17). Moses then proceeds to take leave of his father-in-law and leaves Midian for the perilous and fateful journey to Egypt. In obedience to the divine command, we read, “vayikaĥ Moshe et mateh haElohim beyado,” “and Moses took the rod of God in his hand” (Exodus 4:20). At that moment, God turns to Moses and says, when you go back to Egypt, see that you do before Pharaoh all the miracles “asher samti beyadekha,” “which I have put in thy hand” (Exodus 4:21).

Why, asks Abarbanel, the famed Spanish-Jewish commentator, does God not mention the rod, the “mateh,” as the agent with which the miracles are to be effected? Had He not commanded Moses to take the rod with him? It seems as if God is purposely avoiding mention of the rod. Why so?

Abarbanel himself provides an answer which is, in its psychological insight, of timeless significance. Moses, he tells us, had a natural fear of returning to Egypt. He was regarded by Pharaoh as a wanted man, a traitor, and a public enemy. His fellow Israelites thought none too kindly of him. His father-in-law Jethro no doubt reminded him of the fact that if he were to visit Egypt he would jeopardize his life and that of his family. So Moses must have been delighted when God commanded him to take the “mateh Elohim,” “the rod of God.” This rod became for him the assurance of his own safety, the guarantee of his security, as he embarked on this highly dangerous enterprise. And so, Moses took along the rod, and held it tight in his hand, feeling with every fiber of his being that herein lay the safety of himself, his family, and his mission. At that moment, God intervened. Moses, He told him, the rod is only a tool, an implement. It itself is of no special value. “Re’eih kol hamoftim asher samti beyadekha,” “behold all the wonders I have placed in thy hand” – that is where the capacity for greatness and the safety of the mission and the reins of destiny lie: “beyadekha,” in your hand. Moses, do not allow the rod of God to become a crutch for man! The mateh is a divine instrument – it is I who asked that it be taken along. But the moment a man places his faith in a mateh, he denies faith in himself and weakens his faith in Me. When the rod becomes a crutch for man, it interrupts the dialogue of faith between God and man. Therefore, take the rod, but remember that its function is to serve as a link between the two of us: by grasping it, your hand is grasping Mine. For the moment you begin to rely on the rod as such, the moment you transform it into a crutch, you have broken contact between us.

Abarbanel’s interpretation of this dialogue between God and Moses is meaningful for all of us at all times. For all religious institutions can sometimes be mistakenly used as psychological crutches rather than as means for the confrontation between man and his Maker – as something to lean upon rather than something to make us worthy of being leaned upon. The young man or woman who hangs a mezuza around his or her neck as a kind of protective charm is converting a rod of God to a rather harmless but silly superstition – a crutch of man. The man or woman who rushes into the synagogue just in time to “catch” a Kaddish or Yizkor, and then conducts a hasty retreat before the end of the rest of the service – is placing his faith in a flimsy crutch, which, in the context of a full religious life, is truly a “mateh Elohim.” The “national Jews” who substitute Zionism for all of the rest of Torah have taken what in perspective is a lofty and divine rod, and made of it a mere crutch, so that when the State of Israel came into being they were left, spiritually, like cripples whose crutches suddenly crumbled under them. There is hardly a more pathetic phenomenon than the secular Zionist whose spiritual life is frustrated by premature fulfillment. Had this nationalization been part of a whole Torah outlook, had it been a genuine “mateh Elohim,” these same secular Jewish nationalists would not today be cast in the position of individuals and organizations “all dressed up with no place to go.”

And what is true of these people is equally true of those Jews whose Jewishness expresses itself only in a passion for civil liberties or only in organized philanthropy. Such ideas and institutions as human freedom and tzedaka are certainly noble parts of the Torah tradition and life – but when they are separated from the rest of our heritage, when they become excuses for avoiding a direct approach to God, when they are transformed in the mind and heart intro crutches, when tzedaka becomes a kind of “instant Judaism” and loyalty to the First Amendment replaces obedience to the First Commandment – then only frustration, unhappiness, and spiritual misery can result.

In the laws of prayer, the Shulĥan Arukh (Oraĥ Ĥayyim 94:8) teaches that during the recitation of the Amida, it is improper to lean upon the amud, the table or stand, or upon one’s neighbor. In our relations with God, we must approach Him directly. We must stand on our own two feet and take our spiritual destinies “beyadekha,” into our own hands. We must not rely upon the cantor or the rabbi or anyone else to pray on our behalf. Before God, it is every man or woman for himself or herself. To seek out a rabbi or scholar as a teacher of Torah, that is using the rod of God. But to look to him, as American Jews often do, as someone to lean upon and thus avoid your own intimate, personal, religious responsibilities, as a vicarious observer of your religious obligations – that is using a crutch of man. We must rely upon God, not His rod; upon the Creator, not His creatures.

Part of our problem in modern Judaism is that we are always looking for a “mateh Elohim,” when the secret to our success or failure lays only “beyadekha.” We spend our time in search of magic wands, when there is magic in our hands if they be but wedded to full hearts and open minds and clear eyes. We are Americans, and thus always in a rush, looking for shortcuts, and with a naïve faith in gimmicks. So the rod of God seems ideally suited for our purposes – and later we discover it’s only a weak crutch.

I hope I shall not be misunderstood when I say that even a day school education for our children can become this kind of false support, a disappointing crutch. There is no doubt that without it Judaism cannot survive in the modern world.

We Orthodox Jews pioneered this form of Jewish education. Other, non-Orthodox Jews, have begun to imitate us. Now even confirmed secular Jews are proclaiming the necessity for day school education lest we all disappear in easy, smooth assimilation. No more wonderful “mateh Elohim” is available to us. But like the rod that God extended to Moses, there is the danger of over-reliance upon a tool and avoidance of real issues and real responsibility. All too often, parents think that by sending a child to such a school, they have automatically guaranteed the child’s Jewish future. I send my son or daughter to a good Hebrew day school – does that not absolve me of any responsibility to teach that child personally? More than that – does that not relieve me of the necessity for introducing the teachings of the school into my home? Am I not free, therefore, from teaching by personal example?

That attitude is no longer a mateh – it is a substitute for education! All the courses in the world cannot make up for the normal course of home example. All the texts in existence are as nothing compared with the context of proper family atmosphere. No explanation of Judaism is as good as the experience of Jewish living.

So it is with our day schools, so it is with all Jewish education. If we rely upon them as magical substitutes for Jewish living, they are mere crutches. If we grab hold of them “beyadekha” and supplement them with enthusiastic, intensive, authentic Torah living, they become a marvelous, wondrous, miraculous rod of God.

The theme of our talk – that the various institutions of Judaism, the mitzvot, the many different components of Jewish life, must not displace the fullness of Jewish experience with its direct and unmediated faith in our Heavenly Father – is beautifully summarized in the last mishna of Tractate Sota. There, Rabbi Pinchas ben Yair is quoted as saying that “misheĥarav Beit HaMikdash,” “when the Temple was destroyed,” “boshu ĥaverim uvenei ĥorin, veĥafu rosham venedaldelu anshei ma’aseh,” “scholars and those of aristocratic descent were shamed, their prestige sunk low, and people of noble action became fewer and weaker.” He concludes, “al mi lanu lehisha’en, al Avinu shebashamayim,” “upon whom, then, can we rely? Only on our Father in Heaven.”

Is this a plaintive protest out of weakness, as if, after all else has failed us, only God remains?

It is not that at all. Rather, it is a courageous analysis of a national tragedy and an optimistic discovery of sources of national strength. What Rabbi Pinchas wants to show us is that all religious institutions are sacred – but they are merely, as with Moses, the rod of God, not the ultimate objects of reliance and faith. There were those who, in the days of the Temple, relied upon it exclusively – to the point where they escaped ultimate confrontation with the Almighty in their heart of hearts. If there is a Holy Temple, is there a need for holiness in home, office, and market-place? There were those who thought, we have scholars and thinkers, we have gedolim and meyuĥasim – that absolves us of studying Torah and developing aristocracy of character. There were those who said, we have anshei ma’aseh, people of great action, outstanding philanthropists, and dynamic community leaders – we may leave it to them to worry about and prepare for the perpetuation of Judaism and the Jewish people. What they did was to commit a spiritual crime – the transformation of an authentic rod of God into an artificial crutch for man. And so the Lord taught us a lesson. He removed the crutches. The Temple was destroyed. The scholars and aristocrats were exiled and banished. The leaders and men of action were scattered and lost. And now, what shall we do, now that our crutches have been cruelly kicked out from under us? The answer, says Rabbi Pinchas, is to walk by yourself to the most heroic and faithful encounter possible for a human being: that of standing face to face with the Creator of Heaven and Earth – and leaning, relying, and having faith in Him and Him alone. “Al mi lanu lehisha’en, al Avinu shebashamayim.” On whom shall we lean? Not on rods, not on crutches, not on anything or anyone else, but our Father in Heaven!

“Re’eih kol hamoftim asher samti beyadekha.” With that direct faith  we shall behold the miracle God has placed in our very hands – the ability to transform our lives from the drab to the exciting, from the senseless to the significant, from the profane to the sacred, from fear to confidence, from despair to ever-growing promise and hope.

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*January 19, 1963