Author: devora

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

A Retrospective: Was All This Really Necessary?

Context

Jewish history effectively begins twice. An introductory, pre-national era is launched when Avraham journeys to Canaan at God’s command. This period, the patriarchal era, comes to an end with Yaakov’s death.

Our story then begins again with the birth of the Jewish nation – as we journey from the cauldron of slavery, through the wrenching Exodus, to the dramatic Revelation at Sinai.

Questions

Why does the Torah include the stories of the patriarchal era? Why not begin, as the first Rashi on Bereishit suggests,1 with the national period of Jewish history?

At first glance, this question is clearly rhetorical. We have, in our studies, only scratched the surface of the monumental lessons to be learned from the lives of the patriarchs, matriarchs and their families. The Torah would be incomplete without these lessons, which remain as relevant today as the day the events occurred.

And yet, one can’t help but wonder if there isn’t, perhaps, something more – lessons to be learned not only from the specific stories of the patriarchal era but from the very existence of this introductory period itself. One can’t help but wonder why God would choose to begin Jewish history twice.

Approaches

At least three foundations essential to our national character are laid during the patriarchal era. These underpinnings serve as the best arguments of all for the inclusion of this seminal period in the chronicle of Jewish history.

A
The patriarchal era establishes the significance of the yachid (the individual).

The patriarchal era is a time when there is literally no one else, when the sum total of Jewish experience is defined by the lives and dreams of individuals: Avraham, Sara, Yitzchak, Rivka, Yaakov, Rachel and Leah. Their stories are recorded to remind us, even after the dawn of the national era, of the continuing, inestimable importance of each individual.

We are meant to feel, in every era and in every generation, that the survival of our people depends upon each of us alone, as certainly as our existence depended upon Avraham in his day. Each of us has something unique to offer. The loss, God forbid, of one person’s contribution leaves our entire people irreparably diminished.

The tzibur (community) could not be allowed to overwhelm the individual or stifle individuality. Our nation’s birth, therefore, had to wait until personal value was fully established.

B
The patriarchal era establishes the importance of the Jewish family and home.

In a very real sense, this introductory period of Jewish history can be seen as a journey towards one specific moment, the moment when Yaakov lies on his deathbed surrounded by his children. Unlike Avraham and Yitzchak, each of whom had progeny who were lost to Jewish history, Yaakov now knows that all of his children intend to follow his ways. After three generations of struggle with outside influences and internal turmoil, the Hebrew family is finally whole. The patriarchal era can now safely end.

The journey of the patriarchal households to that moment teaches us that before we could become a nation we had to be a family. The primacy of the home, so clearly established in the patriarchal era, is underscored centuries later, during the events which mark our nation’s birth.

On the very eve of the Exodus, God commands the Hebrew slaves to mark the impending birth of their nation in a very strange way. In place of participating in constitutional conventions, mass rallies or declarations of independence, each Israelite is instructed to return to his home. There, together with his extended family unit, he is to mark the dawning of freedom through the consumption of the Pesach sacrifice, essentially a family meal.

By insisting upon a retreat to the home as a prelude to our nation’s birth, God delivers a simple yet powerful message: As you begin your journey, remember that your survival will depend upon the health of the family unit. If the family is strong, if the home fulfills its educational role, your people will be strong and your nation will endure.

This message is underscored again at Sinai as God opens his instructions to Moshe preparatory to revelation: “Thus shall you say to the House of Yaakov and speak to the People of Yisrael…” Do not assume that, since you are now the “People of Yisrael,” you can, therefore, set the “House of Yaakov” aside. The family unit remains of primary importance.

The Jewish home is and always has been the single most important educational unit in the perpetuation of our people. What our children learn at home, through example and word, shapes both their knowledge of and their attitude towards Jewish tradition and practice. The home’s centrality finds its roots in the earliest moments of our people’s story, in the journey of the patriarchal families, centuries before our nation is created.

C
The patriarchal era establishes a preexisting national legacy.

The value of our possessions, whether material or spiritual, increases exponentially when those possessions are perceived as a legacy from previous generations. A beautiful pearl necklace is infinitely more precious if it is an heirloom which belonged to a beloved mother or grandmother.

Because of the patriarchal era, our nation is born with a preexisting legacy. By the time the Exodus and Revelation launch the national era, we already possess a history. Our dreams reflect the dreams of our forefathers and our goals represent the fulfillment of their hopes. The Land of Israel is not an unknown destination, but a cherished land of which we have already heard countless tales, a land promised to our ancestors centuries before. The Torah and its commandments are not foreign concepts but the expected realization of covenants already contracted between God and those who preceded us.

The phenomenon of a pre-existing legacy lends a richness and depth to the moment of our nation’s birth that could not have been created in any other way. Even more, however, this phenomenon sets the initial paradigm for the ongoing process of mesora, the transmission of tradition from one generation to the next (see Toldot 1, Approaches E). From the very beginning, our mission is personal, a mission shaped not only by God’s will but also by the memories of people and ages gone by. Those warm memories, together with countless others created across the years, form the ever-growing human dimension of our heritage, a dimension essential to the mesora process, a dimension originating in the patriarchal era.

Points to Ponder

As our examination of the patriarchal era draws to a close, we gain a real appreciation of the formative nature of this pre-national period. The foundations that are built during the lives of the patriarchs and matriarchs remain essential to our survival. Sadly, these foundations face serious challenge in our day as the one institution most critical to the cultivation of individual development and to the transmission of personal mesora falls short in the fulfillment of its obligations.

One can argue that the single greatest failing of today’s diaspora Jewish community is not assimilation. Assimilation is, after all, a symptom, not a cause. The single greatest failing of our community is the abdication by the family unit of its educational responsibility.

Countless young Jews are now raised in homes devoid of concrete observance of Jewish law or custom. These youngsters never have the opportunity to experience the beauty and depth of their people’s tradition. Judaism becomes for them, at best, a curiosity, and, at worst, an unwanted burden to be discarded at the first possible opportunity.

Even many affiliated families relegate, in large measure, the training of their children to the synagogue, school and Jewish community center. In the Conservative and Reform communities, after-school programs are frequently a child’s main exposure to Jewish tradition. No matter how successful these programs may be, they can never be a substitute for home Within much of today’s Orthodox community, as well, compromise often marks the level of personal family practice. The expectation is that children will learn the beauty of Torah study, the power of prayer, the centrality of ethics, somewhere else. If children never see their parents study, however, they will grow up believing that Torah study is important for children but not for adults. If they sit next to parents who talk in synagogue, rather than pray, they will never learn that prayer has any real importance. If they observe their parents cheating on income taxes or engaging in questionable business practices, they will learn to cut corners in the ethical realm. If the everyday behavior modeled by their elders is self-centered and aggressive, they will never learn true regard for the sensibilities of others. And if Shabbat in their home is observed in rote, unthinking fashion, they will never see Shabbat as a day of beauty.

Finally, many of our children today are denied the lessons traditionally taught through exposure to the extended family. The work of the Nazis continues to yield bitter fruit as countless youngsters grow up never knowing their grandparents. Other young people, fortunate enough to have living relatives, nonetheless experience limited exposure to them, due to our mobile, geographically fragmented society. So many of the experiential elements of our heritage, from Shabbat and the holidays to ethical behavior, can only be properly taught through the example set within the home. The home, and only the home, provides the environment essential for each generation’s personal introduction into religious tradition and observance.

From time immemorial, we have survived and thrived because of the life examples set by parents, grandparents and extended family. Those individuals, from Avraham and Sara onward, beckon us to set examples of our own.

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

On Being Consistent to a Fault

The drama of Joseph and his brothers, which draws to a climax in this sidra, is a source of endless fascination. One significant aspect of this strange narrative is that Joseph’s actions toward his brothers are incomprehensible, both to the brothers who do not recognize him and to us who already know who he is. To the very end, both they – the brothers – and the readers are perplexed: they, by the Egyptian prince who seems irrationally bent upon tormenting them, and we by the anomalous and mysterious motives of Joseph in continuing to conceal his identity from them and carrying out this elaborate spiel. Then, suddenly, all becomes clear. Joseph’s revelation of his identity is also the revelation of a master plan, conceived by a mastermind, a marvelous and beautifully consistent course of action. The purpose of this program is to help the brothers achieve teshuva, repentance or rehabilitation, to regain their sense of dignity, and to purge themselves of their shame. For this is the grand goal of Joseph, to which all his actions are inclined and aimed.

Their sin was that of hatred for their half-brother Joseph, the son of Rachel, a hatred which resulted in endangering his life. Now, Judah was willing to endanger his own life for the remaining half-brother, Benjamin, the other son of Rachel. The brothers thus fulfilled the requirements of teshuva. How beautifully everything falls into place and pattern! How symmetrical, how apropos! And how aptly does all this mesh with Joseph’s earlier plan, which came to the fore in the two great dreams about their sheaves bowing to his sheaves and about the sun and the moon and the stars bowing to him, Joseph. No wonder that Pharaoh was so impressed by this young Hebrew lad. He is indeed wise beyond words, the tzofnat paneiaĥ, the one who has all the answers and solves all the problems. Moreover, Joseph’s plan for his brothers’ teshuva is right, it is moral. That is why the rabbis were moved to declare that the expression, “merciful and gracious,” refers to Joseph the Righteous.

And yet, the sages found cracks and chips in this picture of Joseph. Joseph was wise, and his heart was in the right place; but something was amiss. Perhaps one might say that he was just a bit too clever, the plan was too smooth, the operation too consistent.

For instance, when testing his brothers, he gave Benjamin a far greater portion. Did he not take too much of a chance in arousing those old and latent jealousies? Did he not realize that the brothers are, after all, but human? And then when he arrested Simon before their very eyes – was that not too cruel, though perhaps necessary? And when he demanded of them that they surrender Benjamin to him as a slave because of the “theft” of the cup, he caused them so much grief that they tore their garments as a sign of anguish. It is true that this act on his part was one aspect of a consistent plan; but it was pitiless and harsh. He might have yielded to human emotions, and he might have somehow softened the blow. In fact, the rabbis tell us that Joseph was repaid generations later for this act of agony that he caused his brothers: his descendant Joshua, who had otherwise experienced an unbroken string of successes in leading Israel in the conquest of Canaan, had one difficult setback in the war against the city of Ai, and so grief-stricken was Joshua that – he tore his clothes in anguish!

Finally, and most important, Joseph heard, no less than ten times, his brothers referring to their father Jacob as “your servant our father.” Ten times he permitted them to refer to his own father as his servant! It is true that this was part of his consistent fulfillment of the dream whereby the sun too, symbolizing Jacob, will bow down to Joseph. But the rabbis (Sota 13a) were terribly upset with Joseph for allowing this piece of disrespect ten times over again. In punishment, they declare, Joseph lost ten years of his own life which he would have been permitted to live out had he not countenanced this discourtesy to his own father.

In a word, Joseph was consistent to a fault. He hewed too closely to his original plan. When a plan is overly consistent, when it leaves no room for contingencies, it becomes a machine – the kind of machine that grinds up human hearts and emotions, that leads brothers to grief, that makes servants of parents, and that ultimately diminishes the life of the mastermind himself. It is here that Joseph erred. He was too consistent and not sufficiently compassionate, too calculating and not sufficiently kindly.

Does this mean that we must make a virtue of inconsistency, that it is good to be illogical and self-contradictory? Of course not! One ought always to have a framework, a philosophy, some solid criteria by which to judge men and events and oneself. But never should the framework be so massive that you have to cut down the picture of life to fit it into the frame. Never should consistency be so rigid that you become callous to the cause of compassion. Never should a theory thwart the truth. In the general organization of one’s weltanschauung, one ought always to strive for consistency, for otherwise life is haphazard and even hazardous. But, an overall consistent philosophy of life does not necessitate a stifling and petty consistency in every small segment of experience. For then, consistency becomes nothing more than the excuse for a closed mind.

What is it that is wrong with over-consistency?

First, it makes one inhuman. If I believe in the plan above all else, then I will follow it to the bitter end even if I must steamroller over people and feelings. This was the error of Joseph who had a marvelous and even generous plan, but followed it to its logical conclusion without adequate compassion.

Second, it is simply unscientific. It involves too much trust in reason, and therefore out of concern for a consistent, rational pattern I may fail to respect newly discovered facts and new situations. A theory that ignores facts, that twists logic instead of revising itself, that wards off unpleasant challenges by ignoring them – is simply wrong.

It is interesting that in the history of talmudic methodology the protest against extravagant dialectics, called pilpul, was largely a reaction against over-consistency. The protest against pilpul, from fifteenth-century Prague to sixteenth-century Poland to eighteenth-century Lithuania, was a reaction against consistency so strong and theory so powerful that they would not be altered by mere facts.

Indeed, there is a similar movement in contemporary American philosophy, which expresses itself in contempt for ‘‘ideology.” The word “ideology” is taken as a synonym for the enthronement of the theory beyond any revision because of encounter with new facts.

An example of this disdain for facts in favor of a consistent theory is the matter of dialogues between Jews and Christians. One would have thought that after the Six Day War and the shameful betrayal of the Jewish community by those who had expressed such desires for dialogues with us, we would be done with the whole business. Indeed, some honorable and honest proponents of dialogue issued retractions soon after the Six Day War and announced that they were finished with these attempts. Yet, too many Jews have preferred to go their old way and have refused to abandon the dialogue movement and all it implies. It is a pity that only a week or two ago an official of the Conservative movement authoritatively declared that his movement is in favor of more dialogue, not less. Apparently, a “line” once taken, must be continued to infinity even it if leads to no place. How wise Ralph Waldo Emerson was when he declared that “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

Third, over-consistency is religiously sinful. It is a sign of a lack of humility before God. It assumes that humans have complete control over the future, that we can avoid surprise and novelty and contingency by exercising our own wisdom and shrewdness. It means that we have over-confidence in our own reason and ability, and therefore read God out of the world, that we substitute our plans for His, or, at best, we presume to know His plans to the last iota. Even religious folk, perhaps especially religious folk, ought never dare such presumptions. It is an act of arrogance against God: “There is no wisdom and no counsel and no understanding against the Lord” (Proverbs 21:30). The religious objection to over-consistency is in the form of a plea for humility, of an acknowledgment of our own limited visibility in the skies of history and our willingness to be guided by divine instructions.

But finally, perhaps the most serious objection to being consistent to a fault is that it is self-defeating and sometimes suicidal.

The best and most painful example of such over-consistency is the harsh and unwarranted criticism now being leveled against the forthcoming World Conference of Ashkenazi and Sephardi Synagogues in Jerusalem, which I hope to address later this week, and for which I leave tonight with rest of the Jewish Center delegation. This conference is to be the first international meeting of Orthodox synagogue leadership in our times, in order to consult with each other, to benefit from each other’s experiences and help the less developed Orthodox communities, as well as to demonstrate our interest in worldwide problems and perhaps provide for the first time an address for Orthodox Judaism in the world. That is what we have in mind. It is rather modest, perhaps too modest.

Yet we have sustained relentless criticism and a barrage of charges against us by the extreme right wing of Orthodoxy. I do not intend to analyze here all that is involved in the World Conference, nor will I go into all the details of the opposition. I do think that we ought to ponder what our critics say, and that it ought to be a concern of ours. In doing so, let it be said to their credit that they are consistent; and to their discredit and our dismay, that they are consistent to a fault – suicidally so!

The issue, to put it clearly, is: the reconstitution of the Sanhedrin. The late Rabbi Maimon, Israel’s first minister of religion, had long advocated the reconstitution of this supreme judicial body of Jewish law. Many other rabbis were opposed, fearing that this would be the opening for unwarranted reforms. In addition, they dislike the idea of Jewish legal decisions being proclaimed by a hierarchy, and preferred that such verdicts be issued by those recognized by the consensus of world Jewish opinion as qualified authorities. Furthermore, they had halakhic doubts as to whether a Sanhedrin could be legally reconvened in our day.

Now this is an issue about which men of good will can differ. Without any comments on the issue itself, let us for the sake of argument grant a point: it is wrong, for whatever reasons one may choose, to reconstitute the Sanhedrin today.

From this point on, however, reason is slowly abandoned, until nothing is left that makes much sense except in psychological terms of fear, retrenchment, and introversion.

After the movement for a Sanhedrin waned and was all but forgotten, the opposition to it kept on as a matter of general principle. When religious Zionists wanted to build a headquarters for the Chief Rabbinate in Israel, the “Heikhal helomo,” the same right wing groups suspected that it was a cloak for a Sanhedrin – and banned entrance to the building. To this day, the ban stands, though it is largely ignored. Are they consistent? Certainly!

Then, every time we spoke of Orthodox leadership of different countries and communities meeting together, immediately the threat was raised of a ban against the Sanhedrin directed against such a meeting. Consistent? By all means.

And now that we have scheduled this worldwide meeting of synagogues, mostly of laymen, not one of whom, laymen or rabbis, particularly intends to convoke a Sanhedrin sub rosa and become the first member, the same extreme group here and in Israel accuses us of doing just that, and in a series of newspaper ads declares that Orthodox Jews may not attend this conference. Consistent? No doubt; but consistent to a fault – an irrational, wrongheaded, misplaced, extravagant and dangerous consistency that is destructive of the interests of all Orthodox Jews – those on the right as well as those in the center and on the left.

We live in a time of disintegration: of the home and the family, of religions and nations, of man himself. Assimilation is eating away at the fringes of the Jewish communities of the entire world. This is a time to seek out unity, not to snuff it out before it begins; a time to consolidate, not condemn; a time to ban futile issues, not to issue futile bans; a time for realistic construction, not unrealistic consistency. As the Jewish Center delegation joins our fellow American Jews in meeting with fellow Orthodox Jews throughout the world, we do so in the knowledge and conviction that all of our intentions are for the sake of heaven. We are sad that others do not understand us and do not join us.

Our main prayer is that our modest goals be achieved and that they inspire us to yet greater goals; that those who are now suspicious be convinced of our integrity and join us, lending us their piety and their passion, their scholarship and their commitment, so that all together we may fulfill the great verse of the prophet Malachi, “Then will those who fear the Lord speak each man to his friend” (3:16). When will we prove the authenticity of our status as those who fear the Lord? When we will converse with each other, not condemn; when we will talk, not vituperate; in other words, when we will fear God and not the times in which we live; when we will revere heaven and not be frightened by lurking suspicions; and above all, when we will relate each of us to his fellow Jew as ish el rei’eihu, each man to his friend.

Excerpted from The Light That Unites by Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider

Making A Miracle Great

Nes gadol hayah sham, “A great miracle happened there.” These beloved words are symbolized by the four initials nun, gimmel, heh, shin, which appear on the dreidel, referring of course to the miracle of Chanukah.

Moses stands at the burning bush and observes a miracle. The bush is on fire and astonishingly the leaves and branches are not consumed. Moses witnesses his first miracle. In response he says, “I see a great sight” (Exodus 3:3).

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik asks: “Why did Moses not call it a nes, a miracle? Why did he simply say, ‘I see something great’?”

Although Moses was aware that he was witnessing a miracle, that is not what intrigued him. Rather, what riveted Moses was the message that he heard. It was a great sight for one reason: because Moses responded to the call of God.

Simply seeing something supernatural did not impress Moses. The burning bush was “great” in his mind and heart because in that extraordinary interaction, Moses took on a new challenge and charted a new course in his life. The moment was transformative. Moses accepted a new mission.

Rabbi Soloveitchik taught, “It is not always necessary for an event to be miraculous in order to be great, and not every miraculous event is a great event.” An event is great only if the following things occur: it fosters change, it impacts the person, it ushers in a new era, and it produces great things. Whether or not the event was miraculous or natural is not critical.

No matter how miraculous an event is, it is very “small” if it is wasted.

This teaching speaks directly to the great miracle of Chanukah. These events were great because they produced a transformation of the Jewish people. The Jews proved that not only could they defeat a fierce enemy on the battlefield, but they could also purify the spiritual defilement of a whole population, a nation that overwhelmingly had sunk deeply into the impurity of the soul and contamination of the spirit.

The events witnessed during the days of Chanukah inspired change. Life did not remain the same as before. During the days of Chanukah, the Jews took advantage of the new opportunity that was offered to them: a spiritual revival and a rededication to religious values and to a committed life – truly a great thing.

The Jewish people engaged in a national rededication to the Torah and tradition. “Rededication” is the very meaning of the word Chanukah.

The Sages waited a full year before they declared Chanukah a holiday. Why did they not establish the holiday immediately after the great miracles of the disproportionate battle and the eight-day burning of the one flask of pure oil in the Menorah?

The Sages waited to see whether the change was lasting. Had the Jewish people truly transformed their lives? Only then, when the Sages saw the life-changing impact, did they consider this story to be great, worthy of celebration for all time.

The Jewish people, in the days of Chanukah, acted heroically, not only on the battlefield, but also in renewing and strengthening their allegiance to God and to the Torah.

As we celebrate these events each year, we should also aspire to emulate this remarkable kind of heroism in our own lives.

~~~~~~~~

The Hebrew word for miracle, nes, can also be translated as “banner.” A nes, a banner raised high, calls out with a message. A banner is in public view and is meant to have impact and impart an important directive.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik taught that when we speak of the nes gadol that occurred in the days of Chanukah, we mean that there was “a great banner,” a great message that was heeded by the Jewish people. There was a spiritual awakening, and the Jewish nation was elevated to new heights.

Excerpted from The Light That Unites: A Chanukah Companion – Blessings, Teachings, and Tales by Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider

A Kabbalistic Perspective on the Thirty-Six Candles of Chanukah

Did you know that the thirty-six candles we light correspond to the thirty-six hours that Adam and Eve lived in the Garden of Eden?

So says Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech of Dinov (1783–1841) in his classic work Bnei Yissaschar. Drawing on Kabbalistic sources, the Rebbe makes the equation between the total of the thirty-six candles that are lit on Chanukah and the thirty-six hours of pure divine light that Adam and Eve experienced in the Garden of Eden, at the very beginning of time.

Jewish tradition teaches us that Adam and Eve were created on the last day of creation, on a Friday. The world they lived in consisted not only of the physical light but also a spiritual light that graced the universe. God’s first words, “Let there be light” (Genesis 1:3), did not refer to the light of the sun or the moon. Rather, the first light created by God was a spiritual light that filled the world with truth and clarity. This unique light was with Adam and Eve for thirty-six hours while they were in the Garden of Eden. When the original man and woman deviated from the path of goodness, that unique light ended. It was left behind in Paradise when they were ordered to leave the Garden, after Shabbat.

The Rebbe of Dinov teaches that the lights we kindle in our homes on Chanukah are reminiscent of the first light that God gave man. From our own small candles, we envision a spark of the divine light. This is a spiritual light that is meant to reveal both holiness in the world and the inner goodness found in all of creation.

It is no coincidence then that both the light of Chanukah and the pure light that was created at the beginning of time share the same number. The lights of Chanukah remind us that the spiritual light that once adorned mankind can be lit up again. We actually pray for this light each day in our daily morning prayers: Ohr chadash al Tzion ta’ir, “May You shine a new light on Zion.”

When Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach shared this teaching from the Dinover Rebbe, he would add the following:

When we stand in front of the holy candles we are reminded that our world can be perfected. We are awakened to dream of a world reminiscent of the Garden of Eden: a place of peace and serenity, a place of kindness and of love.

Do you know what the saddest thing in the world is? When we stop longing for a perfect world.

Chanukah teaches us not be satisfied with a little bit of light, a little bit of good, a little bit of peace…but to passionately desire the most perfect light. We can never allow ourselves to lose sight of a great and lofty vision of what this world could look like. The light of Chanukah reveals to us a light of pure goodness that once filled this world…a light that will surely be revealed again.

In the glow of the menorah we see a glimmer of the original light of creation. This light radiates the signs of the final victory over evil.

We live in a world of hidden light, and it is up to us to repair the world, by righting injustice, by treating everyone and everything with loving compassion, by discerning the divine light at the core of every dark shell.

~~~~~~

In the introduction to his biblical commentary, the Ramban (Nachmanides, 1194–1270) states that everything is to be found within the Torah, either in open or hidden fashion. As an example, he points out that Rabbi Akiva learned thousands of ideas even from the tagin, the crowns that adorn the tops of the letters in a Torah scroll (Talmud, Menachot 29b).

Bearing this in mind, the Bnei Yissaschar indicates that in the phrase “And God saw the light, that it was good” (Genesis 1:4), one finds a hint to the mitzvah of lighting the Chanukah candles. Carefully look at the word tov, “good,” and take note specifically of the tagin, the crown of the letter tet. Usually, this letter, the first letter of the word tov, contains only three tagin, but here it contains four.

 

The reason for this, he explains, is that the letter tet  has the gematria or numerical equivalent of nine. And nine times four equals thirty-six – alluding to the thirty-six lights that are kindled during Chanukah. This allusion appears in the verse that says that “God saw the light, that it was good,” which indicates God’s approval of the establishment of the lights of Chanukah and His love of our performance of the mitzvah of lighting the menorah for all time.

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

To Appease or Not to Appease

Context

Yaakov adopts a subservient attitude towards Esav both prior to and during their fateful reunion. The patriarch initiates communication with his brother, repeatedly refers to Esav as “my lord,” plies his brother with gifts, bows down to him again and again and, in general, diminishes himself before his older brother.

Questions

Was Yaakov right or wrong in assuming this subservient posture towards his brother? Should a potential enemy be met with conciliation or strength? Where does diplomacy end and self-debasement begin?

Approaches

Once again, rabbinic authorities stake out dramatically disparate positions as they consider Yaakov’s actions.

–A–
Numerous commentaries are strongly critical of Yaakov’s approach to his brother. One source in the Midrash, for example, contends that Yaakov’s plan was flawed from the very outset: “Rav Huna applied the following verse: ‘One who passes by and meddles in strife that is not his own can be compared to an individual who takes a dog by the ears’…. God said to Yaakov: ‘[Esav] was going on his way and you dispatch a delegation?’”

Rav Huna maintains that Yaakov was unnecessarily asking for trouble simply by initiating communication with Esav. The patriarch should have quietly slipped back into the Land of Israel without alerting his brother.

Building on Rav Huna’s observation, the Ramban claims that the destructive potential of Yaakov’s behavior becomes tragically evident centuries later in Jewish history. During the period of the Second Temple, the Hasmonean kings of Judea repeat the patriarch’s mistakes when they willingly initiate and enter into a covenant with the Roman Empire. This covenant, contends the Ramban, invites the Romans into our lives, opens the door to Roman domination of Judea and directly leads to the subsequent downfall of the Second Jewish Commonwealth and to our nation’s exile from the Land of Israel.

The Ramban’s remarks acquire even greater poignancy in light of the rabbinic tradition which identifies the Roman Empire as the spiritual heir to Esav. The Talmud, Midrash and numerous other sources, including the Ramban himself, often refer to Rome as “Edom,” the biblical nation descended from Esav.

Another Midrashic source goes even further in its condemnation of Yaakov’s behavior. Noting that, during the encounter, Yaakov refers to his brother Esav by the title “my lord” no less than eight times, the rabbis state: “At the moment when Yaakov referred to Esav by the title ‘my lord,’ God proclaimed: ‘You have debased yourself and called Esav “my lord” eight times. By your life! I will establish from his descendants eight kings who will rule over their nation before even one king reigns over your children.’ As the Torah states: ‘And these are the kings who ruled in the land of Edom before a king reigned over the Children of Israel.’”

Finally, the Midrash Hagadol connects Yaakov’s obsequious approach to his brother to a series of disastrous losses eventually experienced by the Jewish nation. “Yaakov bowed to Esav seven times, therefore seven [cherished
locations/institutions] were forcibly taken from [his children]: the Sanctuary, Gilgal, Shilo, Nov, Givon, the First Temple and the Second Temple.”

These sources and others not only condemn Yaakov’s behavior but see within that behavior seeds of disaster and tragedy that will affect his children across the ages. [Note: For a discussion concerning the effect of the actions of parents upon the lives of their children see Lech Lecha 4, Approaches A.]

–B–
At the opposite end of the spectrum are those rabbinic authorities who not only defend Yaakov’s conciliatory approach to Esav but believe that the patriarch sets a skillful example of diplomacy which we are meant to follow.

Looming large in this camp is the major historical figure Rabbi Yehuda Hanasi, editor of the Mishna (the first authoritative written compilation of Jewish Oral Law) and leader of the Jewish people in the Holy Land during the second century of the Common Era. Less than two centuries after the destruction of the Second Temple at the hands of the Romans, Rabbi Yehuda developed a friendship with the Roman emperor, Antoninus. The extensive Midrashic and Talmudic record concerning this fascinating relationship includes the following interchange between Rabbi Yehuda and his secretary, Rabbi Aphes:

Rabbi Yehuda Hanasi said to Rabbi Aphes: “Write a letter in my name to his Majesty the Emperor Antoninus.”

He [Rabbi Aphes] arose and wrote: “From Yehuda the Prince to his Majesty the Emperor Antoninus…”

Rabbi Yehuda took the letter and tore it up. He then instructed [Rabbi Aphes] to write: “From your servant, Yehuda, to his Majesty the Emperor Antoninus…”

He [Rabbi Aphes] objected: “Why are you debasing your honor?”

Rabbi Yehuda responded: “Am I any better than my elder, Yaakov? Did not Yaakov say [to Esav]: ‘Thus says your servant, Yaakov…’?”

Using Yaakov’s behavior towards Esav as a model, Rabbi Yehuda eschewed his own personal honor in his dealings with the Roman monarch. Through such diplomacy and discretion, Rabbi Yehuda maintained good relations with the Roman authorities and was able to protect the interests of the Jewish population under Roman rule.

Another Midrashic authority is even more direct in his suggestion that Yaakov’s approach to his older brother serve as the model of appropriate behavior towards authority: “Rabbi Yonatan said: Anyone who wishes to placate a king or ruler but is unfamiliar with his ways and tactics should place this chapter [the chapter chronicling the encounter between Yaakov and Esav] before him and learn from it the arts of conciliation and appeasement.”

For his part, the Sforno underscores approval of Yaakov’s behavior through a brief but telling reference to two Talmudic passages. He first cites the rabbinic observation concerning the curse pronounced by the prophet Ahiya the Shilonite: “The Lord will strike Israel as the reed is shaken in the water.” This curse is preferable, claim the Talmudic Sages, to the blessing of the evil sorcerer Bilam who prophesized that the Jews would be “as the cedars.” A reed survives by bending in the wind while a cedar stands firm and is uprooted. Yaakov’s example teaches us, says the Sforno, that we must be flexible enough to bend – to humble ourselves, in order to escape the sword of Esav’s descendents.

The Sforno goes on to quote the powerful claim of Rabbi Yochanan Ben Zakai, the architect of Jewish survival at the time of the destruction of the Second Temple: “Had it not been for what the zealots did (responding to the Romans with resistance rather than negotiation), Jerusalem would not have been destroyed.”

Finally, the Talmud itself frames the concept of diplomacy in halachic terms by simply stating: “It is permissible to offer false flattery to evildoers in this world.” Reish Lakish traces the source of this legal ruling directly to Yaakov’s behavior towards Esav.

–C–
Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch adds new depth to our understanding of Yaakov’s behavior towards Esav by contrasting this behavior with Yaakov’s earlier interactions with his father-in-law, Lavan.

Earlier, when Yaakov confronted Lavan’s deceit, the patriarch responded with strength rather than subservience. The contrasting conciliatory attitude that Yaakov now exhibits towards Esav, says Hirsch, stems from his own sense of guilt over his taking of the birthright and the blessing from his older brother: “Better to endure corruption and injustice for twenty years (as did Yaakov at the hands of Lavan) than stand one moment before an individual who we know has been injured by our hands and who is incapable of understanding the circumstances which…might mitigate our guilt.”

Yaakov can deal with the evil that Lavan represents. He has difficulty, however, confronting his own complex feelings of guilt as the reunion with Esav approaches. Even though he may have been justified in his actions towards Esav, Yaakov knows that his brother will never really understand.

Points to Ponder

Once again, an ancient rabbinic debate concerning an even more ancient Torah text speaks to our time with uncanny relevance. As the global confrontation with terror increases in intensity – as the nations of the world confront rogue regimes armed with nuclear capability; as the State of Israel, always on the front line of civilization’s struggles, wrestles with the next steps to be taken in the ongoing confrontation with implacable foes – the questions loom large.

What is the correct approach to be taken in the face of hostility? Will conciliation avoid further conflict or be interpreted as weakness on our part and lead to increased danger? How far can diplomacy go in ensuring our safety?

The rabbinic debate concerning Yaakov’s actions reminds us that no single approach to an enemy is always correct. Each situation calls for its own response and, even then, we can never be certain we are on the right path. Constant ongoing assessment of the circumstances facing us, careful application of both the principles of strength and diplomacy, and a willingness to change course midstream when necessary will all be required if we are to successfully meet the challenges of our day.

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

The Stone on the Well – Boulder or Pebble?*

In reading this sidra we are puzzled by some extraordinary incidents there recorded. Jacob, we read, had chanced upon a group of shepherds waiting to water their sheep from a nearby well. And on it there rested a stone – an even gedola, a stone big enough to cover the mouth or opening of the well (Genesis 29:2). When Jacob notices the shepherds lingering, he tells them, Why don’t you go ahead, remove the stone from the mouth of the well and water your sheep? It all seemed so terribly simple to the naïve Jacob. But they answered: “Lo nukhal,” we cannot, it is impossible, until all the herds gather and the other shepherds help us. Jacob was puzzled by their attitude, and he thought he might be able to remove the stone – and, in the Bible’s eloquent simplicity: “Vayigash Yaakov vayagel et ha’even me’al pi habe’er” – he went over and rolled the stone off the mouth of the well…just like that!

We can well imagine the attitude of the shepherds when Jacob walked over to the well. “Look,” they probably sneered, “look who’s going to play the big hero – Jacob, the batlan, the luftmentsch!” And we can also imagine their amazement – and their embarrassment – when this same Jacob walks up to the stone and effortlessly rolls it off. The stone appeared to Jacob, say the rabbis, “kemelo pi kevara ketana,” as big as the hole of a strainer. What to these mighty muscle men appeared to be a boulder, appeared to Jacob to be a mere pebble!

This narrative certainly is remarkable. Jacob’s feat of strength and the shepherds’ apparent weakness requires some explanation. Why could Jacob do it? And, even more important, why couldn’t the shepherds? What does all this mean, and what is it that the Torah is trying to teach us?

The be’er, the well, was interpreted in many different ways by our rabbis (Genesis Rabba 70:9). Some said that it refers to Zion – the love for the Jewish home. Others would have it mean the feeling for Jewish ethics, when they say that it refers to Mount Sinai. Still others say that it is the well that accompanied our forefathers – referring to the tradition of the Jew and his sense of continuity. In essence, what our rabbis are trying to tell us is that the be’er is the well of the Jewish personality, the source of the forces of opportunity and accomplishment which well up in the Jewish soul and beg to be released. It is a man’s talents and his innate abilities which seek expression. But we see so many people, you might say, who never amount to much despite the fact that they have a wealth of talent and ability. True – their talents are never released because there is a stone on the mouth of their well, there are difficulties – hard, cold, and rocky – which must be rolled away first. The stone represents the difficulties in the way of each and every person in his desire to set free the forces which lie in the great well of his personality and being. And it is his attitude to this stone, his approach to these difficulties, which determines whether he will be able to roll it away, like Jacob, or be forced to keep the well covered, like the shepherds.

Yes, it is the attitude which counts the most. It is the idea which gives birth to the fact. The reason the shepherds couldn’t roll the stone away was that they were convinced they couldn’t do it. Listen once again to the Bible’s words: “Lo nukhal,” they said, “We cannot. It’s impossible.” When a man thinks that a particular task is impossible, then for him it becomes impossible.

Jacob, however, had no such difficulty. He didn’t think that it was impossible. He thought that a man certainly could remove the stone from his well. He therefore went over and, without further ado, simply moved it out of the way. He thought it was possible, and so for him it became possible.

The same rule holds true for most of us. If we face the stone on our individual wells – the difficulties which keep us back from doing those constructive things which we want to do, and we imagine that stone to be a boulder – then that is what it is, and try as we might it cannot be budged. Our “lo nukhal” attitude makes of it an “even gedola.” Approach it, however, with the attitude that it is only “kemelo pi kevara ketana,” that the stone is only a pebble, and it can be rolled away as easily as a pebble. What you think is impossible becomes impossible. Think of it as possible, and the odds are that you can do it.

Here is a man who would like to get himself an education. He must continue at night school for two more years in order to get his degree. It is his opportunity to open up the well of his hidden abilities. But there is a stone which lies on that well and threatens to choke it. He must have time for his club, he must finish his office work, he must keep up his social contacts, he must have some rest. “Lo nukhal,” sorry, I can’t do it – it’s impossible. And so the stone becomes a boulder, and for him it is now a virtual impossibility to get a degree. The “lo nukhal” made a boulder of the stone, and he cannot surmount it.

On the other hand, take a man like the late President Roosevelt. In the prime of his life he was cut down by crippling polio. What a stone! What a rock! And yet we know, from the many biographies written of him, that his attitude was anything but that of resignation, anything but “lo nukhal.” He was going to beat it. It was for him only “kemelo pi kevara ketana” – and so the stone became not a boulder but a pebble, and he removed it, allowing all the world to benefit from the treasures stored up in the well of his personality.

The story is told of Marshal Ferdinand Foch, the famous World War i commander, who reported to his headquarters the following message: “My right flank is in retreat. My left flank is encircled. My center is caving. I am ready to attack.” Here was a man who could not say “lo nukhal,” and so the stones became as pebbles, and he won.

And what is true for individuals is true for communities, and for this community in particular. Of course there are stones on our well. This is not primarily a residential area, the interest in religion in general is waning, and so on and so forth. Look at it that way, and the stone is as formidable as a boulder, and we might as well give up before we start. Think of it, however, as of minor significance, remember that within walking distance of this synagogue there live a minimum of over four thousand adult Jews, and your stone becomes not a boulder but a pebble. As long as we don’t say “lo nukhal,” “we can’t, it can’t be done, it’s impossible,” the well can be tapped to good use.

And so, getting back to Jacob, his show of strength was of the mind and not of the muscles; it was a matter of attitude, not sheer brawn. And it was this very same attitude, this “never say die” attitude, which made him perform such miracles all his life. Thus the ivory-tower scholar, the“yoshev ohalim,” was able to turn shepherd for fourteen long years, to work for Rachel whom he loved. Thus the “ish tam,” the naïve student, was able to outsmart Laban in his own game of trickery and deceit. Thus was he able to envision a ladder rising into heaven. All this – because he never said “lo nukhal,” “impossible.”

The Vilna Gaon, according to a folk legend, was once asked how one becomes a Vilna Gaon. And he answered, “Vil nur, vest du zein a gaon,” “If you only will it, you can be a gaon.” Just don’t say “lo nukhal.”

And Jacob’s reward was ample. When he crossed the Yabok passage with his family and then went off by himself, an angel appeared out of heaven and began to grapple with him. The angel, who according to tradition represented “saro shel Esav,” the patron angel of Esau, wrestled with him on those bleak Mesopotamian plains until morning. It was the battle for spiritual supremacy – who will ultimately control the destiny of the human race: Jacob, with his religion and faith and decency, or Esau, with his treachery and faithlessness and sinister intrigues? Jacob, fleeing from Laban after having been tricked into fourteen years of hard labor, and fearful of an uncertain future, could easily have been the pessimist and conceded to saro shel Esav. But that was not for Jacob, who rolled the stone from the well and never said “lo nukhal.” And so, it is the angel who concedes to Jacob, and – and this is remarkable – in the very same expression of “yakhol.” The Bible relates: “Vayar ki lo yakhol lo,” the angel saw that he could not gain the best of him. Jacob would not surrender, Jacob had never learned the words “lo nukhal.” How significant and how complimentary, therefore, the encomium which God bestows upon Jacob when, changing his name, He says to him, “Ki sarita im elohim ve’im anashim, you fought with angels and with men, vatukhal, and you won, you prevailed.” There was no “lo nukhal” on your tongue; you did not regard any great and noble task as impossible – “vatukhal.”

The limits of a man’s ability are much greater than most men think they are. Tremendous forces churn incessantly in the well of human nature and particularly in the Jewish soul. The stone upon that well can either block it, or the stone can be cast away. What a man does with that stone depends on what he thinks of it. He can be a peasant and, in primitive fear, imagine it a boulder and choke off his life’s mission. Or he can be a Jacob and understand that the stone is only a pebble; cast it off, and eventually grapple even with angels – “vatukhal” – and win.

---

*November 29, 1952.

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

Finding Yitzchak

Context

Yitzchak, the second of the three patriarchs, emerges as the most enigmatic. In stark contrast to the dramatic lives of both his father, Avraham, and his son, Yaakov, Yitzchak’s life (aside from the Akeida) seems unremarkable. He is characterized in the text as a passive man, buffeted by events, who rarely seems to take the initiative.

Questions

Who was Yitzchak? What were his challenges? Above all, what were his contributions to the patriarchal era and to Jewish history in general?

Approaches

A
The Torah is not a history book, and therefore does not provide us with full biographies of the personalities who populate its pages. We are given only the information that God deems necessary for the fulfillment of the Torah’s basic mission: the transmission of a Divine moral and ethical code to the Jewish people and the world.

Nonetheless, we can piece together pictures of our ancestors, based upon the information contained in the text. Incomplete as these pictures may be, they are nonetheless instructive. A better understanding of our ancestor’s lives, times and trials provides us with critical lessons concerning our own challenges today.

Careful study of the terse narrative of Parshat Toldot reveals patterns and themes within Yitzchak’s life. By analyzing these patterns we can catch a glimpse of the enigmatic second patriarch.

B
The first phrase of Parshat Toldot reads as follows: “These are the generations of Yitzchak, the son of Avraham; Avraham gave birth to Yitzchak…”

At first glance, the text seems not only redundant but unnecessary. We already know that Yitzchak is Avraham’s son. Why then, does the Torah find it necessary to repeat this fact not only once, but twice, in this introductory passage? Clearly the text is underscoring the fundamental relationship between the two patriarchs.

Who was Yitzchak? In many ways, the answer is that he was his father’s son. This relationship defined Yitzchak’s life and behavior.

Over and over again, we find Yitzchak experiencing the same circumstances as his father and repeating his father’s actions. Avraham and Sara were childless until God miraculously interceded; Yitzchak and Rivka are childless until God miraculously intercedes. Avraham had two sons, only one of whom would carry on his legacy; Yitzchak has two sons, only one of whom will carry on his legacy. Avraham confronted famine; Yitzchak confronts famine. Avraham dug wells; Yitzchak uncovers his father’s wells and then digs his own. Avraham asked Sara to pretend that she was his sister upon entering the territory of the Philistines; Yitzchak asks Rivka to pretend that she is his sister upon entering the territory of the Philistines. Avraham contracted a covenant with Avimelech; Yitzchak comes to an agreement with Avimelech.

The parallels are nothing short of astounding. Avraham clearly casts a powerful shadow over the life of his son.

C
So strong is the influence of Avraham that Yitzchak’s very relationship with God seems to be dependent upon his father. This fact is clearly mirrored in God’s conversations with the second patriarch: “And the Lord appeared to him [Yitzchak] and said: ‘Do not go down to Egypt…. Dwell in this land, and I will be with you and I will bless you…. and I will uphold the promise that I gave to your father, Avraham. And I will multiply your children as the stars of the heaven…. Because your father, Avraham, listened to my voice and observed my traditions, commandments, statutes and laws.’”

Later God reprises the refrain: “And the Lord appeared to him that night and said: ‘I am the God of your father, Avraham. Do not fear for I am with you and I will bless you, and multiply your children for the sake of my servant Avraham.’”

God bases his promises to Yitzchak on the merit of Avraham, rather than upon Yitzchak’s own merit. Is it possible that God understands that Yitzchak is unable to relate to his Creator, unless it is through the medium of his father’s memory?

The rabbis poignantly describe the overwhelming influence of Avraham on Yitzchak’s life in the following Midrashic passage quoted in the Talmud:

“And Avraham was old, well on in years”: Until Avraham’s day old age did not exist. Because of this fact, people who came to meet with Avraham would (in error) meet with Yitzchak, while those who came to meet with Yitzchak would (in error) meet with Avraham. Avraham, therefore, requested mercy from God, and old age was instituted.

In typical Midrashic fashion, the rabbis identify a fundamental problem facing Avraham. So identical are father and son that the patriarch is compelled to request from God the one gift essential for Yitzchak’s development: the personal space needed to allow Yitzchak to define his own identity.

D
As powerful as Avraham’s influence on his son may be, there are clear textual indications that Yitzchak successfully struggles to emerge from behind his father’s shadow.

The Torah discusses in detail the wells of water that Yitzchak digs. Some scholars accept this narrative on the level of pashut pshat. The text, they say, is describing the difficult effort of developing actual sources of water in Canaan, an effort that remains critical in the land of Israel to this very day. Others suggest that the wells be understood in Midrashic fashion. Water, they say, is often used as a symbol of Jewish tradition. The wells dug both by Avraham and Yitzchak refer to aspects of that tradition.

Whatever approach we choose, it is significant that Yitzchak not only uncovers the wells that his father dug and “calls them by the names that his father called them,” but also creates new sources of water and struggles with the Philistines concerning their ownership. Yitzchak certainly respects and reveres his father’s accomplishments. When the second patriarch digs his own wells, however, he moves beyond his father’s actions as he struggles to define his own personal historical role.

Similarly, Yitzchak’s agreement with the Philistine king, Avimelech, differs in significant ways from the flawed covenant that had been contracted in Avraham’s time. Yitzchak apparently learns from his father’s mistakes and is much more cautious in his dealings with the Philistines. (See Toldot 2 for a full discussion of the contrast between the two agreements.)

In these and other instances we catch a glimpse of the second patriarch’s efforts to move out from under the towering shadow of his powerful father and define his own unique identity.

E
Yitzchak’s personal struggles for self-definition become even more significant when seen against the backdrop of his unique place in Jewish history.

Yitzchak is the first Hebrew child. He is, therefore, the first individual within our history to face the challenge of preserving the Mesora (Jewish tradition). This challenge begins with the two steps of receiving and transmitting.

Yitzchak, unlike Avraham, receives his divine instruction not only from God, but from his parents. He must respect and absorb what his parents teach, often a considerable challenge.

God, for example, tells Avraham to climb Mount Moriah on the occasion of the Akeida. Yitzchak, on the other hand, receives no such commandment directly from God. His instructions are received from his father, Avraham. Nonetheless, Yitzchak faithfully follows his father’s instructions even to the point of potentially sacrificing his own life.

Upon receiving the tradition from his parents, the second patriarch must also successfully transmit that tradition to the next generation. Much of Yitzchak’s story centers on this particular task as he makes the difficult journey, with the help of his wife Rivka, towards understanding the true nature of his two children, Yaakov and Esav, and the legacy appropriate for each (see Toldot 3, Approaches c).

We often make the mistake, however, of defining Mesora simply in terms of the receipt and transmission of tradition. There is a pivotal additional step that must take place. To fully participate in the process of Mesora, an individual must receive tradition, make it his or her own, and then pass it down to the next generation.

Our ritual heritage is not simply the sum total of the hard-and-fast laws of the Torah, nor only the result of rabbinic interpretation and emendation. There is a personal component that involves us all. Jewish belief and practice change in subtle but significant ways as they course through the life of each Jew in every generation. We all contribute, consciously and unconsciously, to the complexion of our tradition. As a result, the Mesora that we pass down is different from the one we received. We each leave a personal mark upon our heritage.

On a national level, this phenomenon can be seen in the changing face of Jewish tradition throughout the journeys of our people. The communities of Spain, Poland, Lithuania, Morocco, Russia and countless others have each left an indelible and individual mark on the nature of our heritage. Judaism is richer and more beautiful for all of those communal contributions.

On a personal level, many of our own memories can prove the point. Judaism is not only the laws of kashrut and Shabbat, but the experience of a family Pesach Seder, the aroma of a grandmother’s gefilte fish, the kiss of a parent after the blessings on Shabbat Eve and so much more. Yitzchak’s efforts to define his own identity acquire greater urgency when seen in light of his unique place at the head of the chain of Jewish tradition. If the process of Mesora is to fully take root, the second patriarch cannot simply be a carbon copy of his father. He must actively determine and make his own contribution to the unfolding saga of his people. In this way he sets the stage for generations of Jews to follow, each of whom will be challenged to receive a tradition from their parents, make it their own, and hand it down to their children.

F
No discussion of Yitzchak’s life would be complete without mention of the Akeida as a formative experience. Yitzchak’s existence is undoubtedly shaped by the traumatic events that take place on the summit of Mount Moriah.

The rabbis point to two significant consequences of that overwhelming episode:

1. Yitzchak’s blindness was caused by the tears of the angels, which fell into his eyes as he lay bound on the altar.
2. Yitzchak is the only patriarch never to leave the land of Canaan. As he prepares to travel to Egypt in the face of famine, God appears and prohibits the journey. The rabbis explain that Yitzchak was considered a pure sacrifice. No other land was worthy of him.

Each of these rabbinic observations may well connect to one specific aspect of Yitzchak’s life that develops as a result of the Akeida. The dramatic events on the summit of Mount Moriah transform Yitzchak into the first “survivor” in Jewish history.

In this role the second patriarch becomes the paradigm of Jewish martyrdom across the ages. The rabbis in the Midrash refer to Yitzchak as “the first of the bound,” while the Talmud quotes Chana (who witnessed the brutal murder of her seven sons at the hands of the tyrant Antiochus) as saying, “My sons, go tell your father, Avraham: ‘You erected one altar; I erected seven.’”

It is only natural for someone who was a powerless victim of a deeply traumatic event to gravitate to strength and power in others. This phenomenon is evidenced today in the powerful bond between survivors of the Holocaust and the State of Israel. These individuals understand better than others the price to be paid when a people stand alone and stateless in the face of danger; and they appreciate beyond measure the way that the State of Israel has changed the nature of Jewish experience throughout the world.

Is it possible that Yitzchak’s “blindness” to the true nature of his sons, Esav and Yaakov, can be traced to the effect of the Akeida on the patriarch’s psyche? Perhaps, as a survivor, Yitzchak gravitates so powerfully to the physical strength of his older son, Esav, that he fails to see the faults that accompany that strength. Yitzchak, the passive patriarch, sees in Esav all that he, himself, is not; while Yaakov, the quiet son, is too similar to his father to be fully appreciated.

Yitzchak, as a survivor, can also not be allowed to leave the land of Canaan, even with a promise of return.

Survivors cannot live on dreams and promises. Only the concrete allows them to persevere. This fact is, once again, reflected today in the lives and accomplishments of Holocaust survivors throughout the world. Their drive to succeed – to build families and careers – and their invaluable contributions to their own communities and to the State of Israel reflect an overwhelming desire to create a new concrete reality. Only such a reality allows them to endure in spite of the horrific memories of past trauma.

Yitzchak, who would always live with the memory of his father raising the knife above him as he lay bound on the altar, could not be asked to leave the Land of Canaan. Only the concrete reality of living on his land would enable him to succeed.

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

Down the Up Staircase*

For over a thousand years, the weekly Torah portions have been known by their present names with only minor changes. According to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, these titles are “Torah names,” headings to which the Torah gives special significance, for they somehow reveal the inner essence of the whole of the sidra.

This Torah portion is called Lekh Lekha, which means, “Get thee out,” be active and move. Literally, the idiom means, “Go to yourself,” return to your spiritual identity, climb up the ladder to spiritual heights, reach your own soul in your ascent. A Jew must never be static. He must be dynamic and progressive in his service of the Lord, in moving himself and history in the direction of God. This, then, is the essence of all that is related in this sidra. Thus, we read of how Abram goes to the land of Israel. He is not traveling as a sightseeing tourist with first-class accommodations. His journey is a symbolic conquest. As Nachmanides points out, Abram’s journeys in Canaan prefigured the Jewish possession of the land by actual possession when he staked out the territory. All of this is part of Abram’s “going,” his lekh lekha.

However, there are several important incidents which spell not progress but decline. The foremost failure or setback is the verse: “And there was famine in the land and Abram went down to Egypt” (Genesis 12:10). This is not merely an incidental decision to change residence. Psychologically, it was a major crisis for Abram. He had left Canaan with the divine promise, “I shall make you into a great nation and I shall bless you.” Some blessing! He had just come to Canaan, and instead of bringing with him prosperity, he had become the harbinger of hunger, and he was already fleeing the land.

What a disappointment – history’s first oleh had become history’s first yored.

Religiously, too, Abram’s descent to Egypt was frustrating, almost abortive of his whole mission. His journey to Canaan was meant to be a kiddush Hashem, an act of sanctifying the divine Name by making the one God available and accessible to humans. The Midrash compares the situation to an open box of incense. If it stands in a corner, no one can smell it and it is of no use. But if you take it and move it about in the middle of the room, then your motion causes the odor to be wafted and to benefit all who are present. So God said to Abram: “Move yourself from place to place in Canaan, and thus will your name be made great in the world” – and through your reputation will the divine Name be sanctified and the divine message be known. The journey to Canaan was to be the launching of Abram’s religious career. However, if Abram “went down” to Egypt, that canceled out his mission and vitiated his message.

Domestically, this descent to Egypt was the cause of many troubles for Abram. For in Egypt there took place the abduction of Sara – she was kidnapped and taken into the harem of Pharaoh. So our sidra relates troubles as well as triumphs.

And, spiritually and historically as well, we are faced with problems in this sidra. We know the principle that our rabbis laid down, “Ma’aseh avot siman levanim” – the deeds of the fathers are the symbol of the recurring patterns in the lives of their children. But some Jewish teachers, especially Hasidim, taught that this does not mean only that the lives of the patriarchs were symbolic of the historic patterns of their descendants, but that the patriarchs actually participated in the history that came after them, that their actions were the commencement of Jewish history. Therefore, “And Abram went down to Egypt” means not only that Abram’s descent to Egypt was a historic symbol of the later Egyptian exile, but that it was in some way itself the beginning of that terrible and bitter exile.

If that is the case, and such were the blows suffered by Abram and Sara, how can we account for the name Lekh Lekha, which indicates progress, growth, and advancement?

The answer provided for us by the Lubavitcher Rebbe is, in essence, this: Sometimes descent is for the purpose of ascent; often you must go down in order to go up to an even higher level than that at which you began. Some failures are merely temporary; they are the future successes in disguise. Sometimes the setback is instrumental to later success. Often you must retreat in order to move on, in which case the retreat is preparatory and part of progress and advance.

Therefore, “Vayered Avram Mitzrayma,” Abram’s going down to Egypt, led to and was part of “Vaya’al Avram miMitzrayim,” Abram’s going up again from Egypt. His going down was part and for the purpose of his later going up.

Even Sara’s abduction to the harem of Pharaoh served such a function. One of the great Hasidic teachers has taught us that Sara’s chaste conduct in the court of Pharaoh was so exemplary that it became the model for Jewish conduct through the centuries of exile in foreign lands. The descendants of Sara, inspired by her model, refused to assimilate. They did not permit the purity of their faith be defiled, they protected the honor of their emuna in God.

So “vayered” is part of “vaya’al,” the descent leading to the ascent is all part of lekh lekha, of general progress. Or, to use a metaphor more familiar to us from the popular literature of recent years, sometimes you go down, but it is only going “down the up staircase”; your decline is merely a part of the procedure of ultimate ascent. So it is with our national life. Joseph was sold by his brothers into slavery. At the time Joseph, and later all the brothers, thought that this event was an unmitigated disaster. But, as Joseph later told them when he revealed his identity to them, “The agony of my slavery was part of the divine plan to save the entire family now.” He went down – but it was on the up staircase, which led even higher.

The same is true with the State of Israel today. Often we are plunged into a gray mood when we consider our international and even internal situation. The constant attrition, the state of no-war-no-peace, the ever-impending threat of greater warfare involving the great powers, the increasing isolation of Israel from neutrals and friends – all this is not calculated to encourage great cheer on behalf of those who love Israel. Nevertheless, we must never permit ourselves to lose our sense of balance. We are only humans, and therefore our perspectives are limited. Even we, in our present situation, can begin to appreciate that quite possibly our present situation is the best of all, that the alternatives may be far worse, that what is happening at the present may be propaedeutic to something much greater, much nobler, much happier. Our present descent may well be part of an ultimate ascent. May God grant that!

And the same holds true for personal life. Life is full of crises. No human being can be spared trauma in his existence. If we lose heart and are discouraged and become crushed, then our pessimism is a self-fulfilling prophecy. We lose sight of opportunities, and we almost wish ourselves into a plunging descent. But if we look at our situation as descent for the sake of ascent, if we adopt a more sanguine attitude, then our optimism becomes self-fulfilling as it sensitizes us to the creative possibilities in descent. So let us leave the pessimistic views to the anti-Semites. Recall what Zeresh, wife of Haman, told him when his star began to dim: “If Mordecai, before whom you have begun to fall, is one of the children of the Jews, then you shall not prevail over him but you will fall completely” (Esther 6:13). There was a descent which was permanent. Jews must take a different attitude. For ourselves we must learn to endure the descent as integral to the ascent, as but a temporary setback, preparation for a greater rise.

How often has a middle-aged man, suffering a heart attack, been told by his physician: How lucky you are! This is a warning which may well save your life and prolong it. The same is true for business or professional or academic setbacks. It may be a warning, it may save us from more disastrous adventures, it may teach us something whereby we will better be able to attain our ultimate goal.

This message is not simplistic, unrealistic, or happy-go-lucky. On the contrary, I am pleading for a more sophisticated and higher realism: the confidence and rational understanding that, caught in crisis, man is often prone to depression because he takes an overly dim view, because he is limited emotionally and his vision is therefore curbed; the knowledge that life is never all up or all down, but a series of zigzags – and he never knows when he is zigging or zagging; the faith that while our own personal perspective is limited, that we can only begin to discern events and their true proportions in retrospect but never in prospect, that from the perspective of God what seems to us like descent is really for the purpose of ascent. Because we are so affected personally by our own situation, we tend to exaggerate, and we do not know that we are doing so or in what measure. In the depths, it is hard to realize that you have gone down in order to go up. But it is an act of faith – and intelligence as well.

So, Lekh Lekha, both by content and by name, leaves us with this encouraging message: If we suffer, whether it be illness, financial reverses, or any form of domestic misery or loneliness or frustration, remember “descent for the purpose of ascent.” I do not mean that things will always get better, but they often do, little as we expect it. Let us then not despair. Let each of us, in his or her own situation, bear this in mind – not as a palliative or peace-of-mind preachment, but as part of emuna, part of Jewish faith.

Then it will be true of us, as it was said of Abram in this sidra: “And he (Abram) believed in the Lord, and He accounted to him as tzedaka, as righteousness” (Genesis 15:6). By this is meant that God considered Abram’s faith as a special act of righteousness. But the word “tzedaka” derives from the word meaning “justice.” We might therefore translate the verse as: “And Abram believed in the Lord, and God accredited it to him and justified his faith.”

When we will have faith that the downturn is part of an up-going, that the descent is for the ascent, and that faith will prove tzedaka, our confidence will be vindicated and justified, and indeed aloh na’aleh. The call of Lekh Lekha, of climbing ever higher, will be ours to achieve.

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*October 30, 1971.

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman J. Lamm’s Festivals of Faith: Reflections on the Jewish Holidays

The Starry Night*

“Religion should change with the times.” I am sure that everyone in this congregation has, at one time or another, been accosted by this ubiquitous slogan. I know that I have had to contend with it ever since my first youthful venture outside my native Williamsburg.

“Religion should change with the times.” This is the kind of profound platitude that everyone who utters it thinks he has invented. Like so many other clichés, which at first sight seem to possess so much wisdom and upon reflection prove utterly vacuous, this popular motto is thoroughly banal. It offers simple bromides for enormously complex problems. It issues a fog of vague and imprecise but terribly up-to-date sentiments, where clarity and analysis are called for. It has as much to offer to religious philosophy as “twinkle, twinkle little star” has to contribute to the science of astronomy.

Does this mean that we are “against change”? Of course not. To be against  change is to be against life, because we are always moving, always changing, always either growing up or growing down, progressing or retrogressing. Change is the law of the universe. Life is always in flux. A great Greek philosopher once said that life is like a river, always changing and moving, and, because of its constant motion, you cannot step into the same river twice. Whereupon another Greek philosopher offered his opinion that so constant a state of flux is it in, that you cannot step into the river even once.

So we do not deny that life does change, and we do not even piously wish that it would not change. But we do maintain that intelligent human beings try to balance change and continuity, motion and stability. Just as complete immutability spells petrifaction and stagnation, so does constant changeability imply  fickleness, unreliability, and irresponsibility. Thus, for instance, all of us want our children to change: to study, to grow physically, to better their characters, to improve their personalities. We want them to be weaned from us protective parents, to have their own careers, to marry and build their own homes, and to make their own reputations in life. But we also want them to be stable, always to remain honorable, responsible, loyal, to keep a word and a commitment once made, and to maintain throughout life their love for parents, brothers, and sisters. Is anyone ready to abandon these qualities with the facile argument that honor should change with the times? Or love should change with the times? Or friendship, or character, or integrity?

Certainly there is change. But a man cannot spiritually or psychologically survive change that is so radical, so abrupt, so unceasing that there is no continuity or stability in his life. He must have something in life that is fixed, some reference point by which to measure new ideas, new promises, new demands, and new phenomena.

That fixed point is Torah. The psalmist sang, “Thy word is a lamp unto my foot and a light unto my path” (Ps. 119:105). Of course, we use our feet to tread on different paths in life. We live neither in a forcibly imposed East European ghetto, nor in the voluntarily self-isolated communities of Western Europe, but in the open and pluralistic and technological United States—and it is an exciting and adventurous life. Our feet stake out new paths constantly. But the lamp and the light for our feet and our paths are the same—Torah and mitzvot. Without them we stumble, we lose our way, and our adventure turns into a horror, and the excitement into unbearable anxiety.

The more a society is in a state of change, the more it needs some anchor of permanence to give it a sense of stability. When I don my tallit or tefillin, when I hold my lulav and etrog, I suddenly am aware of myself as standing in the grand tradition of my parents and my grandparents and their grandparents before them. I perceive myself as part of a great and noble historical continuum which emerges unshaken from the vicissitudes of the various ages. These observances are both symbol and essence of my roots. And, indeed, in the performance of the Jewish mitzvot, I am aware of my roots such that no matter what winds may buffet my branches, no matter what storms may swirl about me, I remain firm and stable. I feel like a tree, not like a mushroom which appears out of nowhere and disappears into nothing. Thus, the tallit and the tefillin, the lulav and the etrog, kashrut and Shabbat, are more important here and today than they were in Volozhin or Pressburg or Hamburg of a hundred years ago. Our life in these times is obsessed by veneer, by the appeal of the new and the fashionable, by the attraction of tomorrow’s style. Marshall McLuhan, for all his sensationalism, has enunciated a truth in his famous statement that “the medium is the message.” Considering the proliferation of the various new media in our times, our minds are bombarded by all kinds of novel and evanescent messages, so that the timeless verities are displaced from our consciousness. We have become the generation of the spiritually dispossessed, and our own permanent values have turned unstable and illusory. We are thus perpetual adolescents, internal transition. With all our scorn for the hippies, we must acknowledge in gratitude that they point to a problem that is ours: they, on the margins of society, are the psychopathic symptoms of our inner pathology, our inner emptiness, our inner sickness. We are so caught up in change, so enamored of motion, so mercurial in our spiritual orientation, so volatile in our ethical lives, so fickle in our culture, that we are left without identity, without self, without reality. And it is against this emptiness that the hippies attempt, so pathetically, to reassert the eternal and stable truths of love and beauty and simplicity. It is a pity that their “flower power” has no roots.

In a society of this kind, we need Torah more than ever before. We need a religion which does not change with the times, but which offers the permanence and stability we crave. Religion should not be a mirror that reflects the crazy whirl of life’s mad currents. It should be a rudder that keeps us afloat, that tells us where we are going and guides us there, that helps us attain perspective and prevents us from being overwhelmed by the empty foam of life. Were religion to change with the times, it would not be worth the effort to stay religious!

I believe that this idea is implicit in a remarkable statement of the Rabbis of the Midrash (Yalkut Shim‘oni, Psalms, 682). They taught that ein Melekh ha- Mashiah ba ella litten le-umot ha-olam . . . sukkah—the King-Messiah will come to the world only to teach the nations of the world about the sukkah. How strange! For over two thousand years, Jews have pined away for the Messiah. For the last eight hundred years or so, we have sung daily of our hearts’ deepest yearnings and proclaim courageously our ani ma’amin, our belief and our faith that the Messiah can come at any time, any day. And what for? To teach the gentiles how to build a sukkah! Did not the prophets conceive of the Messiah so much more nobly? Isaiah taught that the function of the Messiah would be to beat swords into plowshares and spears into pruning forks. Micah taught that the Messiah will establish the House of the Lord on the mountain in Jerusalem so that all nations will proclaim, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord” (Mic. 4:2). And the Rabbis of the Midrash? That the Messiah will come, gather up the nations in the UN, and teach them the prosaic laws of how to build a little sukkah!

What did they mean? I suggest it is this. The sukkah is a symbol of change. The Rabbis refer to it as dirat arai, a temporary abode. Its very flimsiness is an index of its temporariness. It is a symbol of the makeshift booths which our  ancestors used on their journey through the Sinai wilderness. It implies, therefore, transition, transience, impermanence. The very insignificance of its defannot, or walls, and the requirement that the covering, or sekhakh be impermanent are further indications of sukkah as a symbol of change and transition. Now, transition is a dangerous period. Consider adolescence and the early years of marriage, or historical transition from one age to another, or economic change and displacements. At a time of this sort, disaster dogs us at every footstep, calamity is just around every corner, and man is threatened by being swept up in change and losing his moorings. A world of this kind needs a Messiah; it needs his lesson of how to survive the sukkah! The Messiah will teach the world what the Jews always should have known; that we can and must find stability in the midst of change and movement. The Halakhah teaches us that in order for a sukkah to be valid, the covering, or sekhakh, must not be too tightly packed. Specifically, we must be able to see the stars through the sekhakh. Like the ancient mariner who without instruments was able to guide himself by the stars, or like the contemporary interplanetary satellite which moves unerringly through the vast and open reaches of empty space by latching on to a star, so man, caught up in an ever-moving and ever-changing sukkah of life, must be able to see the stars through the sekhakh. That star is—Torah, faith, God.

When the artist Van Gogh was asked about his famous expressionistic painting The Starry Night, he said, “I felt a need of—shall I say the word?—religion, and so I went out and painted the stars.” It is the very permanence of the stars and the solace they offer to an unstable society that makes them the symbol of religion. It is this fixity amidst flux that Torah offers and that the Messiah will teach.

The religion of Torah, therefore, does not change with the times. It is not subject to the whims of the public opinion poll. Its strength derives from its perennial reliability.

Nevertheless, we must also stress a corollary: that while Torah is changeless, it must always be relevant to a changing society. It must not be so changeless that it has nothing to do with man, who is always in a state of change. Judaism must address man in his changing conditions; it must speak to man of values and faith, of loyalty and honor and meaning, as they apply to his times and his society. But Judaism cannot do this if the teachers of Torah turn their backs on the rest of mankind. This is what we mean when we appeal for the relevance of Orthodox Judaism, and this is our argument with those in our own camp who would cut themselves off from modern society completely. The stars can guide man only when they are visible. If clouds of distrust and diffidence cover the stars, they are of precious little use to man. So the advocates of Torah must speak to modern man in his own idiom; they must respect his intelligence and feel with him in his misery.

When the Rabbis of old complained that Torah munnahat be-keren zavit, Torah lies neglected in a hidden corner (Kiddushin 66a), they did not mean for us to crawl into that corner with it and turn our backs on the world. Rather, they meant for us to take Torah out of that keren zavit and bring it into the center of the world scene, into the maelstrom of daily events, into the midst of the raging torrents of the times, and with it to offer man abiding faith and enduring stability.

Of course, by the same token, overemphasizing relevance can destroy the stable character of religion of which we speak. When you are too relevant, you turn religion into a newspaper; and nothing is as meaningless as yesterday’s news…Torah, therefore, must not be a sealed book written in an ancient and undecipherable language, nor must it be a running commentary of religious journalese. It must be the Sefer Hayyim, the Book of Life. That is a difficult task—to be permanent and yet relevant, changeless and yet germane. It means that while affirming the unchanging nature of Halakhah, we must be able to explain it in terms of a changing society; that while teaching the timeless truths of Torah, we must relate them to issues that are timely. Above all, we must not be afraid to say that we do not have all the answers, and yet we must never cease searching for them.

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*5728/1967

 

The full excerpt can be found in Rabbi Norman Lamm’s Festivals of Faith: Reflections on the Jewish Holidays