Author: Rivki

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’

What Place?

Context
In the course of his journey from Be’er Sheva to Charan, Yaakov arrives at a location where he is forced to bed down for the night. There he dreams his famous dream of a ladder stretching from the earth heavenward.

The phrase used in the Torah to describe Yaakov’s initial encounter with the location of his dream is: vayifga ba’makom, “and he encountered the place.”

Questions

The text seems to be referencing a specific location of importance, already known to us. And yet the site of Yaakov’s dream is later identified in the text as the town of Luz, a location that has not been mentioned previously in the Torah and which is of no inherent significance prior to Yaakov’s dream.

Why then does the text read ba’makom, “the place” as opposed to b’makom, “a place”?

Approaches

A

Two distinct and very different approaches are offered by the rabbis in answer to this question.

1. The Midrashic approach:

The location of Yaakov’s dream was actually Mount Moriah, later to become the Temple Mount in Jerusalem.

Two generations earlier, when Avraham arrives at Mount Moriah, the site of Akeidat Yitzchak, the Torah states: Va’ya’ar es hamakom mei’rachok, “and he saw the place from afar.”

By referring to both Mount Moriah and the location of Yaakov’s dream as “the place,” the Torah connects the two sites and indicates that they are one and the same.

The Midrashic approach encounters a serious geographical difficulty. At the time of his dream, Yaakov is actually at a location which he will identify as Beit E-l (literally “The House of God”) far to the north of Jerusalem.

The Talmud addresses this difficulty by suggesting, based on textual hints, that Yaakov actually completes his entire journey and reaches Charan. The patriarch, however, then suffers remorse at having passed by Mount Moriah, “the place where his fathers prayed,” without stopping for prayer. God miraculously transports Yaakov back to Mount Moriah where he dreams his dream.

Rashi, in his commentary on the Talmud, explains that, according to this interpretation, when the patriarch names the site of his dream “Beit E-l,” he is not referring to the location identified as Beit E-l today, but to Jerusalem, which he prophetically identifies as the “House of God.” In his commentary on Chumash, however, Rashi takes a different tack. He interprets the Talmudic position by maintaining that God performed the additional miracle of uprooting Mount Moriah and temporarily bringing it to Beit E-l.

The Midrash Rabba quotes Rebbe Elazar in the name of Rebbi Yossi Ben Zimri who suggests that the ladder of Yaakov’s dream was rooted in Be’er Sheva, stretched to Beit E-l and had its center at Jerusalem.

2. The approach of pashut pshat:

As night fell, Yaakov arrived at a location outside the town of Luz.

Some authorities suggest that this location was specifically set aside for wayfarers. While it was not a site of particular significance, the Torah nonetheless refers to it as hamakom, “the place,” because of the practical purpose that it served. Similar sites existed outside other towns at that time.

B

The debate concerning the site of Yaakov’s dream might, at first glance, seem to be of only passing interest. What exactly is driving this rabbinic discussion? What compels the Midrash to perform geographic calisthenics simply to allow the dream to occur on Mount Moriah? And is there any deeper meaning to the approach of pashut pshat and its claim that the dream occurred in a location of no special significance?

C

Yaakov’s reaction, upon abruptly awakening from this dream, lends significance in retrospect to the issue at hand. Suddenly the question of the dream’s location becomes very important, indeed, striking to the core of the concept of sanctity within Jewish thought.

Yaakov exclaims: “Behold the Lord is in this place and I did not know…. How awesome is this place! This is none other than the House of God and this is the gate to heaven!”

On the basis of this observation, Yaakov subsequently renames the location Beit E-l, “the House of God.”

The interpretation of Yaakov’s words is dependent upon which position one takes in the debate concerning the location of the patriarch’s dream.

Once again, two very different possibilities emerge:

1. According to the Midrashic approach Yaakov cries out: Oh my God, look at where I am! I am sleeping on Mount Moriah, the very gateway to heaven! How could I have been so blind to the inherent significance and sanctity of this location? How could I have failed to act with greater deference?

2. According to the approach of pashut pshat, on the other hand, Yaakov’s observation is very different: I had no idea… God is everywhere! If the Lord can appear to me in a vision of such grandeur at this unimportant spot, outside the city of Luz, then every place upon which I stand is potentially the house of God and any location on earth can be the gateway to heaven.

The power of this observation is multiplied a thousandfold when we recognize that, at this point, a patriarch is about to leave the land of Canaan for the first time in over a generation. Common religious belief in the patriarchal era dictated that specific gods were tied to specific lands. Yaakov could well have been concerned, therefore, at this frightening moment of his life, that his God might offer only limited or no protection outside the land of Canaan.

As we will note in the next study (see Vayeitzei 2, Approaches e–g) much of Yaakov’s dream is tailored to disabuse the patriarch of this notion and to remind him of the all-encompassing power of the One and only God.

D

Which of the two approaches is correct? Exactly where did Yaakov dream his dream? And what is the substance of the patriarch’s observation upon awakening?

As is always the case in such rabbinic disputes, both approaches are philosophically correct. Taken together, they create the balance that defines the idea of kedushat makom, “sanctity of place,” in Jewish tradition.

On the one hand, we certainly believe in the existence of locations of inherent, overarching sanctity. The Land of Israel, Jerusalem, the Temple Mount (Mount Moriah) – these are locations which draw us with singular power, sites where our connection to God is stronger than at any other. To the mind of the authors of the Midrash it had to be the holiest of these sites, Mount Moriah, upon which Yaakov experienced his lofty vision.

On the other hand, we believe that we are partners with God in the creation of holiness wherever we may be. God is everywhere, and our ability to reach Him is not limited to a specific time or place. Kedusha (sanctity) can surprise us, appearing when and where it is least expected – outside the town of Luz or anywhere else – in a kind word, a loving gesture, a heartfelt prayer.

Elements of these two types of kedusha (sanctity) are not mutually exclusive; in fact, they clearly overlap.

Locations of inherent holiness in Jewish tradition achieve their kedusha only through the efforts of man in partnership with God. The Land of Israel, for example, was first sanctified upon the entry of the Jewish nation, and that sanctity only became permanent, according to most authorities, centuries later, when our ancestors returned from Babylonian exile. Even the holy Temple became sacred through the participation of man.

On the other hand, while we are enjoined to create kedusha in partnership with God wherever we may be, there remains a fundamental distinction between sanctity created within and outside the Land of Israel. In the diaspora, we are enjoined to generate sanctity through our words and actions – through the way in which we live our lives – but we cannot bestow lasting kedusha upon a specific location. Outside the land, such sanctity remains temporal and fleeting; it dissipates once our efforts cease and our presence ends. Only in the Land of Israel does the possibility of permanent kedusha exist. Once sanctified properly, the Land of Israel retained its holiness even when our people were exiled beyond its borders. In this way, once established, our holiest sites remained a continuing beacon of inspiration to a far-flung people across a turbulent history.

A Personal Reminiscence

A number of years ago I traveled with members of my congregation to Eastern Europe prior to our annual mission to Israel. Among our experiences was a visit to the Theresienstadt concentration camp, a way station for countless of our brethren on the journey to their final destination.

At one particular location in the camp, our guide took us behind a bakery and down some steps to a hidden underground room. Suddenly we found ourselves, to our astonishment, in a small synagogue which had been built by a group of Danish Jews, secretly, under the very eyes of their Nazi tormentors. We were speechless, struck by the courage and devotion of these individuals who, at the risk of their lives, had continued to worship their Creator, even at a time when God’s very face was hidden from them.

As we walked around that small shul, we noticed that passages from the Torah and liturgy had been painted on the walls in a fashion common to European synagogues of that time. One such passage poignantly read, “And in spite of all, we have not forgotten, [Dear Lord] do not forget us.”

But, then, as I continued to read, I was suddenly struck completely dumb. For on the wall before me appeared the following passage, painted through who knows how many tears: “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the House of God and this is the gate to heaven!” I was astounded… Here in Theresienstadt, the “House of God”? In the depths of hell, the “gate to heaven”?

I gazed at the words spoken by the patriarch, Yaakov, in the darkness of the night outside the town of Luz, painstakingly painted centuries later on the walls of a secret synagogue in Theresienstadt…and I felt a fleeting sense of the sanctity which had existed in that room decades earlier. A sanctity created by a courageous group of nameless Jews who understood that even in the darkness of hell, even in the presence of their tormentors, even in the depths of pain and sorrow, holiness could somehow be achieved and God could somehow be found.

Their courage and devotion will remain with me forever.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

Context

In an episode strikingly similar to an earlier event in Avraham’s time, Yitzchak is approached by Avimelech, king of the Philistines, for the purpose of contracting a covenant of non-belligerence. After throwing a celebratory party, Yitzchak apparently agrees and the two camps part in peace.

Questions

How are we to explain Yitzchak’s strange behavior? Confronted with the request for a peace treaty with the Philistines, he abruptly ends the conversation and throws a party which lasts through the night.

Why are the rabbis openly critical of Avraham’s treaty with Avimelech (see Vayeira 4, Approaches c), yet strangely silent when it comes to Yitzchak’s agreement with the same king?

Is it possible that these two episodes, which seem so similar, actually differ in significant ways?

Approaches

A

As is often the case, a straightforward reading of the pashut pshat of the text before us is extremely revealing. Such a reading brings to light a subliminal dialogue between Yitzchak and Avimelech within this passage, a dialogue that explains the patriarch’s seemingly strange behavior and carries tremendous relevance for our own times.

B

As soon as Yitzchak sees Avimelech and his entourage approach, he raises the following objection: “Why have you come to me? [It is obvious that] you hate me, for you exiled me from among you.”

Avimelech responds by insisting that he has come to contract a covenant with the patriarch: “That you shall not do evil to us, just as we did not harm you, and as we did only good to you, for we sent you away in peace.”

It is important to note that there is no disagreement between Yitzchak and Avimelech about the facts. They both acknowledge that during their past interaction Yitzchak was exiled from the territory of the Philistines. What they disagree about is, in fact, a much deeper issue. They are arguing about the definition of “peace.”

To paraphrase the subliminal dialogue taking place between the patriarch and the king:

Yitzchak opens the conversation with the following objection: How can you possibly suggest that we enact a peace treaty? Your intentions until now have been anything but peaceful. Did you not revile me and exile me from your land?

Avimelech responds: How can you say that we hate you? If we hated you, we would have killed you. Our intentions were obviously peaceful because all we did was send you away.

The patriarch and the king are, in effect, living in two different worlds.

Avimelech defines “peace” as the absence of war and physical violence. As long as the two parties are not killing each other, in the king’s eyes, they are living in peace.

To Yitzchak, however, “peace” means much more. For true peace to exist there must be both an absence of hostility and an effort towards cooperation. Anything less might be defined as mutual coexistence but cannot be considered true peace.

C

At first glance what the patriarch does next seems abundantly strange. Instead of responding to Avimelech’s interpretation of past events, Yitzchak abruptly ends the conversation. Without another word, suddenly, Yitzchak “made for them a party, and they ate and they drank.”

Armed with our understanding of the verbal interchange until this point, however, we can begin to understand Yitzchak’s unfolding strategy in his continued dealings with Avimelech.

The patriarch recognizes that further conversation with Avimelech would be futile. You can negotiate with someone when you share the same reality and when the terms that you use are mutually understood. An unbridgeable chasm, however, separates Yitzchak from the Philistine king. When they each speak about “peace,” they are talking about two very different concepts. If you can’t agree upon the definition of peace, you certainly cannot contract a peace treaty.

Yitzchak, therefore, ends the conversation. As a smokescreen, he throws a celebratory party that lasts through the night.

Upon awakening the next morning, Yitzchak and Avimelech exchange promises with each other. The text, however, conspicuously fails to mention a brit, “covenant.” Unlike his father, Avraham, Yitzchak does not contract a full treaty with the Philistines. He recognizes that temporary agreements with Avimelech are possible, but a lasting covenant cannot be drawn.

D

Then, finally, Yitzchak executes the coup de grace. With brilliant irony, the text states: “He [Yitzchak] sent them away; and they went from him in peace.”

Yitzchak turns the tables on Avimelech. In effect he says: I will operate with you according to your definition of peace. Just as you sent me away “in peace,” I now send you away from me “in peace.”

The second patriarch learns from his father’s mistakes. Whereas Avraham was comfortable contracting a full covenant with Avimelech and continued to live in the territory of the Philistines “for many days,” Yitzchak understands the dangers of such an agreement and insists on physical separation. He recognizes that the Philistines can only be trusted in minimal fashion and, even then, only from afar. The rabbis are, therefore, silent concerning Yitzchak’s agreement with Avimelech although they had been critical of a similar agreement contracted by Avraham, a generation before (Vayeira 4, Approaches c). Their silence reflects acknowledgement of the lessons well learned by the second patriarch.

Points to Ponder

Once again, the Torah text speaks to us in eerily relevant fashion as we recognize that human experience has not changed much over the centuries. The definition of peace, which lay at the core of Yitzchak’s interchange with Avimelech, continues to be at issue today as the State of Israel struggles to live in harmony with its neighbors.

The failure of the “peace process” in the Middle East is directly traceable to the limited and hypocritical definition of “peace” in the Arab world. True peace cannot take root in countries where children are raised in hate and where the daily rhetoric lauds murderers and spews venom upon the Jewish nation.

Even those Arab countries that have treaties with Israel, such as Egypt and Jordan, fall frighteningly short in their definition of what those agreements should mean. Like Avimelech, they maintain that peace is defined by the current absence of war. Cooperation, support and mutual understanding remain far from their reality.

We pray for the day when the world will embrace Yitzchak’s vision of true peace.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

This study is presented as an overview. Some of the sections that we have already examined will now be briefly reviewed as part of a cohesive textual flow. For greater detail on these sections please reference Vayeira 4, Chayei Sara 1 and Chayei Sara 2.

Context

A series of five seemingly unconnected events towards the end of Avraham’s life actually establish a pattern designed to teach the patriarch the parameters and boundaries of his involvement with an outside world:

1. Avraham prays on behalf of the Philistine king, Avimelech. The king had been punished with illness after abducting Sara (see Lech Lecha 2 for a discussion of a similar event).

2. Yitzchak is born.

3. Avraham and Avimelech contract a covenant.

4. The Akeida takes place.

5. Avraham defines himself as a ger v’toshav in his negotiations with the Hittites for the Cave of Machpeila. The patriarch then sends Eliezer to Aram Naharaim to find a wife for Yitzchak.

Approaches

A careful look at events 1–4 reveals an alternating pattern between connecting “external” and “internal” events in the patriarch’s life. One step forward, one step back, these events create a tension that helps Avraham arrive at a critical moment of self-definition.

A

Event 1 – External: Avraham prays on behalf of Avimelech after Sara is released from the king’s palace.

B

Event 2 – Internal: Yitzchak is born.

Avrahams’ prayers on behalf of Avimelech, according to the rabbis, affect not only the foreign king’s destiny but the patriarch’s own. The Talmud perceives a fundamental link between Avraham’s supplications and the subsequent birth of Yitzchak: “The Torah records the birth of Yitzchak immediately after Avraham’s prayers on behalf of Avimelech to teach us that if one asks for mercy for his friend and is himself in similar need, he is answered first.”

Avraham thus learns that his prayers on behalf of another allow his own dreams to be fulfilled. The intertwining of the patriarch’s personal fate with his global mission to the world is underscored.

Avraham and his family cannot live in a vacuum. Their personal success depends on their active involvement in the lives of those around them.

C

Event 3 – External: At Avimelech’s request, Avraham and the king of the Philistines contract a covenant.

This covenant is viewed within rabbinic thought as a dangerous error on Avraham’s part (see Vayeira 4, Approaches C).

Emboldened, perhaps, by the positive results of his previous encounter with Avimelech, Avraham oversteps his bounds in his desire to interface with the outside world. He fails to recognize the dangers of unfettered involvement with those around him.

D

Event 4 – Internal: The Akeida takes place.
We have already noted the approach of the Rashbam who views the Akeida as God’s direct response to Avraham’s covenant with Avimelech (see Vayeira 4, Approaches C).

In effect, God delivers a wakeup call to the patriarch concerning the preciousness of Avraham’s own family and the balance that must be struck in his dealings with an outside world. He must pull back. Involvement is certainly essential, but it must have its boundaries.

E

Event 5 – The Result: Ger v’toshav.

Armed with the knowledge conveyed by the events outlined above, Avraham is able to define himself as a ger v’toshav, “a stranger and a citizen” in his negotiations with the Hittites. This self-definition not only succinctly outlines Avraham’s place within society but the place that his descendents will occupy in the world community across the ages (see Chayei Sara 1, Approaches E).
Bitter experience has taught the patriarch the delicate balance that must be struck in his dealings with an outside world.

Proper study of the Torah text requires that we back up enough to view the flow of events. Nothing is ever random in the Torah and seemingly unrelated episodes often combine to create significant patterns.

In this case, God teaches Avraham through a series of seesawing episodes that his involvement with the outside world will have to be marked by the tension captured in the patriarch’s own words: ger v’toshav, “a stranger and a citizen.”

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’ , co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

Context

God appears to Avraham and launches Jewish history with the commandment: Lech lecha mei’artzecha…, “Go for yourself from your land, from your birthplace and from the home of your father to the land that I will show you.”

Avraham responds by journeying to the land of Canaan; and the story of our nation begins.

Questions

God did not specify the destination of Avraham’s journey. The text, however, indicates that Avraham left his home “to go to the land of Canaan.”

How did Avraham know where to go?

Approaches

A

Some authorities, including the Ohr Hachaim, suggest that the question is simply not pertinent. From the outset, God increases Avraham’s challenge by deliberately omitting the journey’s intended destination. Once the patriarch responds and begins to travel to the unknown, however, “it is self-understood” that God then informs him that his ultimate objective is to be Canaan.

B

Other commentaries, such as the Sforno, claim that the land of Canaan was the natural choice for Avraham to make, on his own, in response to God’s instructions. Canaan was “well known to them (the people of Avraham’s time) as a land prepared for contemplation and the worship of God.” The Sforno goes on to say, however, that although Avraham left for Canaan on his own, he did not stop traveling until God appeared to him in the city of Elon Moreh (also identified as Shechem). That appearance fulfilled God’s promise: “The land that I will show you.”

C

The most intriguing of all possibilities, however, is actually suggested by the Torah text itself.

At the end of Parshat Noach, Avraham’s father, Terach, embarks upon a mysterious journey with his entire family. Without indicating why, the Torah simply states, “And they [Terach’s family, including Avraham and his family] left from Ur Casdim to travel to the land of Canaan.”

This journey was aborted, however, short of its destination, as the Torah indicates: “And they came to Charan and they settled there…. And Terach died in Charan.”

What was the catalyst for Terach’s journey towards Canaan and what was the purpose of the expedition? Why did it end in Charan?

The answers are shrouded in the mists of history. The Torah gives no indication as to why Terach begins this journey. Nor does the text tell us why the journey ended prematurely.

Perhaps the very fact of Terach’s travels is proof of the Sforno’s suggestion that the land of Canaan was well known for its holiness. Perhaps, as well, the Torah is suggesting that Terach, a man identified within Midrashic literature as a purveyor of idolatry, might have been searching for a greater truth. Could it be that Avraham’s father was not irredeemable, but actually showed a spark of the spirit that would eventually burn full force in his son’s heart?

We will never know for sure.

What we do know is that Avraham’s journey emerges from the text as a continuation of his father’s original quest. The difference between father and son, from this perspective, lies in their ability and in their willingness to stay the course, to complete the journey.

Terach may well have begun with high hopes, but his journey is tragically and prematurely aborted; he is sidetracked by whatever attracts him in Charan. There Terach remains, only to disappear into the mists of history. Avraham picks up where Terach leaves off, completes his father’s journey and changes history forever.

D

The Torah’s message is clear. Success in life depends not only on originality and inventiveness but also upon the often overlooked qualities of persistence and constancy. What separates Avraham from Terach, on one level, is that Avraham finishes the journey while Terach does not. How many individuals across the face of history have made a real difference simply because they have been willing and able to finish the task?

Points to Ponder

The Torah chooses to teach us the important lesson of “staying the course” within the context of Avraham’s journey to the land of Israel. This confluence of themes is hardly coincidental; the message created could not be more pertinent to our times.

Today’s diaspora Jewish community exists at a time when return to the land of Israel is possible. And yet, for a variety of reasons, some more compelling than others, our personal journeys to our homeland have been voluntary aborted. Like Terach we have decided to remain in Charan at a time when other choices exist.

At the very least, our decisions should create a fundamental tension that courses through our lives. There should be an ever-present dissonance created by the fact that we have decided to remain on the periphery of our nation’s history, while others, in its center, fight our battles for us.

Living with dissonance is not easy, and that might explain why one can currently observe, even within the affiliated Jewish community, a growing apathy to the miracle that is the State of Israel. We care about Israelis; we are concerned for their safety; but in our eyes the State of Israel has, to a great extent, lost its luster. Israel’s existence no longer moves us as it once did.

This growing apathy is reflected in the ambivalence of the “Yeshiva world” towards the state, in the declining spirit of the organized Religious Zionist community in America, and in our growing tendency to make our support of the State of Israel conditional upon its adherence to our political positions.

Perhaps we feel that if we can dismiss the importance of the State of Israel, we can’t be so wrong for living in the diaspora. If Israel isn’t a miracle, then we are not blind for ignoring her.

Time is precious, and we cannot afford the luxury of avoidance. Tension can be productive if it moves us towards positive action.
Perhaps some of us will find the dissonance of diaspora existence today so great that we will resolve it the only real way possible – by making Aliyah; or, at least, by encouraging our children to do so. Short of this dramatic step, however, other opportunities exist as we strive to play a role, however small, in the central Jewish drama of our time.

Political action, missions to Israel, making certain that the State of Israel remains a featured element of day school curricula and other steps must be taken to ensure that we do not sink into the elusive comfort that can be gained through avoidance. We must remember and our children must learn that we live in a time when the dreams of thousands of years are being realized.

Not all of us have the strength or the ability to be an Avraham, but, at least, we must avoid being a Terach. We cannot afford to be comfortable in the diaspora.

By recognizing that the journey is not yet over and that we are not yet home, we will play a role in ensuring that our people finish the journey.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers 

Questions

What force compels the rabbis to view Noach as mediocre and limited?

Why do they insist upon comparing Noach to Avraham, invariably to Noach’s detriment?

As a rule, each hero of the Torah is viewed in his own right and not in contrast with another.

The question is compounded by the fact that other passages in the text might have led us to a different conclusion. Noach, for example, is described as tamim, “complete,” while concerning Avraham God says, “Walk before me v’heyei tamim, and become complete.” Are we to assume that Noach had attained a degree of completeness towards which Avraham could only strive?

Finally, the contrast drawn by the rabbis between Avraham and Noach potentially acquires greater significance in light of the fact that these biblical figures ultimately become the progenitors of two very different populations. Avraham, of course, is the father of the Jewish people. The nations of the world, on the other hand, are referred to, in rabbinic literature, as B’nai Noach – the sons of Noach.

Are the rabbis simply comparing Noach to Avraham or are they conveying a message concerning the worldviews of their descendents?

Approaches

A

The most obvious behavioral contrast between Noach and Avraham lies in their vastly differing responses to the calamities that are about to visit their worlds. When God informs Noach concerning the impending flood, destined to destroy all of creation, Noach is tellingly silent. He does not plead for God’s mercy nor does he argue for justice. Accepting the impending destruction of the world as inevitable, Noach sets himself to the fulfillment of God’s instructions. Without a word, with no apparent thought given to the fate of those around him, he builds the ark to ensure the survival of his own family and the animals that he will bring onto that ark.

In stark contrast stands Avraham’s dramatic reaction to the news of the impending destruction of the cities of Sodom and Amora.

Although he is well aware of the evil perpetrated by the inhabitants of these cities, Avraham enters into dramatic debate with his Creator on their behalf. With strength and, one might argue, with a degree of chutzpa, he refuses to accept God’s judgment. He does not rest until God agrees that the inhabitants of the cities will be spared if ten righteous tzadikim are found among them.

Here then, one obvious reason for the rabbinic rejection of Noach in favor of Avraham. One simply cannot remain silent in the face of other people’s pain. Noach’s submissive acceptance of such pain dooms him to mediocrity. Avraham’s struggle, on the other hand, even on behalf of people he knows to be evil, marks him for greatness.

B

There is, however, an even broader behavioral contrast that can be drawn between Avraham and Noach as their stories emerge in the Torah. This contrast carries theological implications of profound proportions.

Noach excels at following orders. He listens to God’s commandments completely and responds submissively and to the letter. As the Torah states, and then repeats, “And Noach did all that God commanded him, so he did.”

God says, “Build an ark,” and Noach builds an ark. God says, “Enter theark,” and Noach enters the ark. Even after determining that the flood has ended, Noach will not exit the ark until God commands him to do so.

Avraham, on the other hand, is constantly struggling with his destiny even when it means that he must actively confront his Creator. This confrontation is not limited to the debate concerning Sodom and Amora but, instead, characterizes Avraham’s relationship with God at all times.

Examples abound. To name a few:

When famine strikes the land of Canaan shortly after Avraham’s arrival, Avraham saves his family by descending into Egypt. He does not wait for God to tell him what to do.

When Avraham hears that his nephew Lot has been taken captive in battle, he immediately responds. Without waiting for instructions, Avraham pursues the enemies and frees his nephew.

When God turns to Avraham and proclaims, “Your reward will be very great,” Avraham argues, “My Lord God, what can you give me as long as I remain childless?”
When God promises, “I am the Lord, Who took you out of Ur Casdim to give you this land to inherit,” Avraham responds, “My Lord God, how do I know that I will inherit this land?”

Clearly, Avraham is active while Noach is reactive. Noach accepts the world and God’s will as it is. Avraham, on the other hand, struggles, even when his struggle takes him to the very throne of God.

C

Our tradition’s choice of Avraham over Noach was not a foregone conclusion. One could argue that, theologically, the model represented by Noach is the preferable one. After all, isn’t it our task to follow God’s will, to respond to His wishes without question?

And yet, we choose Avraham.

While other faith traditions might preach a stoic acquiescence to divine will, Judaism mandates active engagement and struggle. Our relationship with God is one of partnership, a partnership that permeates every element of our existence. We have the right – no, the obligation – to pray, to plead, even to wrestle with our Creator. And while we will ultimately accept God’s will at the end of the struggle, who knows what the struggle itself will have achieved? Who knows whether or not, on some level, our efforts have resulted in the bending of God’s will in our direction? Who can assess how the process has fundamentally changed us, thereby transforming God’s verdict concerning our destiny?

The rabbis reject Noach and embrace Avraham. In doing so they remind us that God prefers active engagement over passive submission.

D

We can now understand the Torah’s reference to Noach as “complete” while God speaks of Avraham as “becoming complete.”

To Noach, life was a destination potentially reached. Completeness could be attained through the fulfillment of God’s desires, the straightforward adherence to God’s commandments.

To Avraham, on the other hand, life was a journey without end. Completeness could never be fully attained, for as long as there remained breath, there remained potential challenge and growth.

The greatest blessing, therefore, that God could give to Avraham was “Walk before me and become complete.”

Partner with me, God says to Avraham and to us. Never rest, never stop, meet the challenge of each day, and travel towards completeness.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’ Click here to buy the book (25% DISCOUNT- LIMITED TIME ONLY!)

Questions

What force compels the rabbis to view Noach as mediocre and limited?

Why do they insist upon comparing Noach to Avraham, invariably to Noach’s detriment?

As a rule, each hero of the Torah is viewed in his own right and not in contrast with another.

The question is compounded by the fact that other passages in the text might have led us to a different conclusion. Noach, for example, is described as tamim, “complete,” while concerning Avraham God says, “Walk before me v’heyei tamim, and become complete.” Are we to assume that Noach had attained a degree of completeness towards which Avraham could only strive?

Finally, the contrast drawn by the rabbis between Avraham and Noach potentially acquires greater significance in light of the fact that these biblical figures ultimately become the progenitors of two very different populations. Avraham, of course, is the father of the Jewish people. The nations of the world, on the other hand, are referred to, in rabbinic literature, as B’nai Noach – the sons of Noach.

Are the rabbis simply comparing Noach to Avraham or are they conveying a message concerning the worldviews of their descendents?

Approaches

A

The most obvious behavioral contrast between Noach and Avraham lies in their vastly differing responses to the calamities that are about to visit their worlds. When God informs Noach concerning the impending flood, destined to destroy all of creation, Noach is tellingly silent. He does not plead for God’s mercy nor does he argue for justice. Accepting the impending destruction of the world as inevitable, Noach sets himself to the fulfillment of God’s instructions. Without a word, with no apparent thought given to the fate of those around him, he builds the ark to ensure the survival of his own family and the animals that he will bring onto that ark.

In stark contrast stands Avraham’s dramatic reaction to the news of the impending destruction of the cities of Sodom and Amora.

Although he is well aware of the evil perpetrated by the inhabitants of these cities, Avraham enters into dramatic debate with his Creator on their behalf. With strength and, one might argue, with a degree of chutzpa, he refuses to accept God’s judgment. He does not rest until God agrees that the inhabitants of the cities will be spared if ten righteous tzadikim are found among them.

Here then, one obvious reason for the rabbinic rejection of Noach in favor of Avraham. One simply cannot remain silent in the face of other people’s pain. Noach’s submissive acceptance of such pain dooms him to mediocrity. Avraham’s struggle, on the other hand, even on behalf of people he knows to be evil, marks him for greatness.

B

There is, however, an even broader behavioral contrast that can be drawn between Avraham and Noach as their stories emerge in the Torah. This contrast carries theological implications of profound proportions.

Noach excels at following orders. He listens to God’s commandments completely and responds submissively and to the letter. As the Torah states, and then repeats, “And Noach did all that God commanded him, so he did.”

God says, “Build an ark,” and Noach builds an ark. God says, “Enter theark,” and Noach enters the ark. Even after determining that the flood has ended, Noach will not exit the ark until God commands him to do so.

Avraham, on the other hand, is constantly struggling with his destiny even when it means that he must actively confront his Creator. This confrontation is not limited to the debate concerning Sodom and Amora but, instead, characterizes Avraham’s relationship with God at all times.

Examples abound. To name a few:

When famine strikes the land of Canaan shortly after Avraham’s arrival, Avraham saves his family by descending into Egypt. He does not wait for God to tell him what to do.

When Avraham hears that his nephew Lot has been taken captive in battle, he immediately responds. Without waiting for instructions, Avraham pursues the enemies and frees his nephew.

When God turns to Avraham and proclaims, “Your reward will be very great,” Avraham argues, “My Lord God, what can you give me as long as I remain childless?”
When God promises, “I am the Lord, Who took you out of Ur Casdim to give you this land to inherit,” Avraham responds, “My Lord God, how do I know that I will inherit this land?”

Clearly, Avraham is active while Noach is reactive. Noach accepts the world and God’s will as it is. Avraham, on the other hand, struggles, even when his struggle takes him to the very throne of God.

C

Our tradition’s choice of Avraham over Noach was not a foregone conclusion. One could argue that, theologically, the model represented by Noach is the preferable one. After all, isn’t it our task to follow God’s will, to respond to His wishes without question?

And yet, we choose Avraham.

While other faith traditions might preach a stoic acquiescence to divine will, Judaism mandates active engagement and struggle. Our relationship with God is one of partnership, a partnership that permeates every element of our existence. We have the right – no, the obligation – to pray, to plead, even to wrestle with our Creator. And while we will ultimately accept God’s will at the end of the struggle, who knows what the struggle itself will have achieved? Who knows whether or not, on some level, our efforts have resulted in the bending of God’s will in our direction? Who can assess how the process has fundamentally changed us, thereby transforming God’s verdict concerning our destiny?

The rabbis reject Noach and embrace Avraham. In doing so they remind us that God prefers active engagement over passive submission.

D

We can now understand the Torah’s reference to Noach as “complete” while God speaks of Avraham as “becoming complete.”

To Noach, life was a destination potentially reached. Completeness could be attained through the fulfillment of God’s desires, the straightforward adherence to God’s commandments.

To Avraham, on the other hand, life was a journey without end. Completeness could never be fully attained, for as long as there remained breath, there remained potential challenge and growth.

The greatest blessing, therefore, that God could give to Avraham was “Walk before me and become complete.”

Partner with me, God says to Avraham and to us. Never rest, never stop, meet the challenge of each day, and travel towards completeness.

Excerpted from Dr. Mandell Ganchow Coming of Age: An Anthology of Divrei Torah for Bar and Bat Mitzvah Click here to buy the book

Sukkot

by: Rabbi Yosef Grossman

The legendary great ga’on, Rav Yitzchok Hutner, in his classic sefer, Pachad Yitzchak (Rosh Hashanah, ma’amar yud, p. 80), points out that Chag Ha-Sukkot is the culmination of two festival cycles. It is the last of the Shalosh Regalim, and it also closes the Yerach Ha-Eitanim that began with Rosh Hashanah and continued through Yom Kippur.

The joyous festival of Simchat Torah brings Sukkot to its conclusion. It is thus the special day each year that leads both festival cycles to their glorious climax.

I believe there is an important lesson to be learned from these special yamim tovim concerning our passion to perform mitzvot, a lesson I would like to share with you as you accept upon yourself the joyous duty of performing mitzvot. It is a lesson which I hope will stay with you for your entire long and productive life.

One of the piyyutim on Simchat Torah contains an enigmatic statement: “Let us rejoice and delight in this Torah, for she is strength and light for us.” What is the meaning of “be-zot ha-Torah —this Torah”? Should we not merely say “Let us rejoice and delight in the Torah”?

Perhaps the answer can be found in the pasuk we recite when the Torah is raised aloft at the conclusion of its reading. In clarion voice we call out, “ve-zot ha-Torah —And this is the Torah that Moshe set before the children of Israel” (Devarim 4:44). This pasuk immediately follows the parashah concerning the arei miklat, the cities to which one who killed by accident could flee. What is the connection?

The Ma’asei La-Melech, a commentary on the Chafetz Chayyim Al ha- Torah, explains as follows: The pasuk at the beginning of the parashah states that Moshe would assign three cities on the eastern side of the Jordan to be arei miklat. Moshe did this even though he knew that the status of these three cities would not go into effect until Yehoshua crossed over the Jordan and set aside another three cities in Eretz Yisrael proper. Moshe could have rationalized to himself, “Why bother? Let Yehoshua designate all six at one time.” Rather, Moshe Rabbenu said, “A mitzvah that I can accomplish, I will accomplish” (Rashi, Devarim 4:41). If the only part of the mitzvah that Moshe could fulfill was the mere designation of the three cities, he would accomplish even that portion of the mitzvah.

Therefore, the Ma’asei La-Melech tells us, after Moshe designates the three arei miklat, the pasuk declares “ve-zot ha-Torah.” This is the Torah that Moshe placed in front of them—a dedication to the performance of mitzvoth which encompasses the diligent pursuit of even a fragment of a mitzvah.

Perhaps we can add to the Ma’asei La-Melech’s beautiful thought. In Kohelet 5:9, Shlomo ha-Melech declares, “He that loves money will never be satisfied with money.” This pasuk, Chazal tell us, refers to Moshe Rabbenu. Money refers to mitzvot—he who loves mitzvot will never have enough mitzvot. Ve-zot ha-Torah teaches us that not only a pauper in mitzvot should pursue every mitzvah, no matter how “small,” but the billionaire in mitzvoth should do so as well.

Rebbe Simla’i (Sotah 14a) wonders: Why did Moshe have this burning desire to enter Eretz Yisrael? Did he need to eat the luscious fruit of Eretz Yisrael? Moshe understood that there are many mitzvot that can only be performed in Eretz Yisrael, and he wanted to perform these mitzvot, too. Although Moshe Rabbenu at the end of his life was a mitzvah billionaire, he still had an unsatiated desire to perform more mitzvot. This passion for mitzvah performance propelled Moshe to undertake a fragment of a mitzvah for which someone else would get the credit. This is the Torah which Moshe placed in front of the Bnei Yisrael—in front of us!

This lesson comes to mind during Sukkot and Simchat Torah. Sukkot is saturated with mitzvot. We have the mitzvah of dwelling in the sukkah; the Four Species—etrog, lulav, hadasim and aravot; the mitzvah of the aravah on Hoshanah Rabbah, which originated from the Prophets; and the mitzvah, “vesamachta be-chagecha,” to rejoice during the festival. During Temple times we had the additional mitzvah of nissuch ha-mayim—the drawing and libation of water on the altar—as well as the offering of the special holiday korbanot of chagigah and shalmei simchah.

We are so rich in mitzvot during Sukkot, and yet when Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah come we haven’t had enough. We don’t run home happy that our yoke of mitzvot has been completed. Rather we stay in Yerushalayim to celebrate with Hashem. He and us. He and me. The nations of the world are absent. This is the meaning of the aforementioned piyyut: “Let us rejoice and delight in this Torah”—the Torah of Moshe Rabbenu, the Torah of never being satisfied with mitzvah performance. With great passion and desire we look forward to doing more and more mitzvot. We look forward to performing even a fragment of a mitzvah for which we will not receive full credit.

My fervent blessing to you is that this passionate desire to perform Hashem’s mitzvot, the same passion you felt the first time you put on tefillin, remains with you for 120 years. Thereby, you will continue to be a great source of nachat to your dear parents, grandparents, to all of Klal Yisrael, and to Hashem.

Rabbi Grossman is Senior Rabbinic Coordinator at the OU and Director of its Kosher Education Department. He is the editor of the OU’s Daf HaKashrus and the author of Sefer Ohr HaOros and Mourning Over Churban.

Excerpted from Dr. Mandell Ganchow Coming of Age: An Anthology of Divrei Torah for Bar and Bat Mitzvah Click here to buy the book

Rosh Hashana

by Yisroel Epstein

It may seem like the easiest thing in the world—delivering a bar mitzvah speech on Rosh Hashanah. The obvious parallel to bar mitzvah—a new year, a new beginning—would seem to render any further discussion superfluous. But dig beneath the observable surface, and perhaps there is still much to analyze and discuss.

More than simply the first date on the Jewish calendar, Rosh Hashanah is the anniversary of the creation of Adam and Chavah in the Garden of Eden. It is the Day of Judgment, when not only Jews, but all people are measured and marked on their deeds of the past year. It is the start of the Ten Days of Repentance, which culminate on Yom Kippur, a period when Jews are called upon to be on their best behavior and reflect upon ways for self-improvement.

But often lost in the historical and reflective significance of the day is one notion that ties all these other themes together and serves as the key to understanding Rosh Hashanah. What is the fuel that ignites the engine of the Jewish new year? And how does that fuel similarly ignite a bar mitzvah?

The Talmud (Rosh Hashanah 16a) relates, “The Holy One Blessed is He says…On Rosh Hashanah, recite before me [verses of] kingship (malchiyut)… so that you will make me King over you.”

The Ponovizher mashgiach, Rav Chaim Friedlander, writes in his sefer, Siftei Chayyim, that the overarching theme of Rosh Hashanah is malchiyut— that is, our acknowledgement of God’s authority over the world, its events and its inhabitants. The sole purpose of the long service of Rosh Hashanah, beginning with the melodious exclamation, “Ha-Melech!—The King!” is to infuse within the worshipper the sense that God is in complete control of the world.

This simple notion—that God is in complete control of everything happening to and around us—while easy to grasp intellectually, is often difficult to experience. On an instinctual level we tend to impute authority to people who appear to exert some control over our lives: politicians, bosses, colleagues, teachers, parents, children, neighbors and friends. We don’t necessarily perceive, in all places and in all times, that God is the driving force behind everything. If I’m having trouble at work, it’s caused by my employer; if I’m having trouble at home, it’s my spouse, my kids, or my parents.

We have trouble feeling—even as we believe—that God is the ultimate source of any obstacles we face; and, moreover, that those obstacles are challenges to overcome, put there for our benefit, to help us grow and develop into better ovdei Hashem.

As a bar mitzvah you are just beginning to enter this realm. Your father recently pronounced the blessing, “Baruch she-petarani me-onsho shel zeh— Blessed is He who exempted me from the punishment of this [boy].” Your parents are no longer responsible for your actions. Like it or not, you are now an adult, responsible for what you do and for how you behave.

You must move forward with this understanding of malchiyut, “so that you will make me King over you.” You need to continually remind yourself that God reigns supreme over every aspect of your life. You must commit yourself to the understanding that everything in your life—good or bad—comes from Him. Your job is to respond appropriately, through the guidance of the Torah and your rebbeim.

This doesn’t mean that with perfect faith, everything will work out the way you want it to. Even as you take the correct, ethical, halachic path, the world around you will sometimes spin in directions that you cannot comprehend.

Additionally, no one’s perfect. You will make mistakes. But never forget that God is constantly by your side. He loves you more than you can imagine, and will never abandon you. This appreciation of God’s presence, his hashgachah peratit, will take years—perhaps a lifetime—to ingrain in yourself, but you must begin to do so now.

As you continue to focus your mind on God’s kingship, the distractions of daily living will fade, the noise that damages our senses will become muted. You will perceive more and more deeply God’s hand in every aspect of your life. As such, anger, frustration, annoyance all begin to melt away.

This Rosh Hashanah, the shofar blast is to you like a starting gun, signaling the beginning of your adult life, your life as an eved Hashem, your journey toward total dependence on God’s personal, intimate, and unconditional love for you.

Yisroel Epstein is editor of this volume, as well as of Sason VeSimcha, the first volume of the simchah trilogy.

Excerpted from Dr. Mandell Ganchow Coming of Age: An Anthology of Divrei Torah for Bar and Bat Mitzvah Click here to buy the book

Parshat Ki Tavo

by Elliott Ganchrow

My dear bar mitzvah boy, the parashah which you read so beautifully this morning, Ki Tavo, begins with a description of the mitzvah of bikkurim, the first fruits. Each landowner in Eretz Yisrael is commanded to set aside the first fruits of the year and bring them to the Beit Ha-Mikdash in Jerusalem. The fruits are to be presented to the kohen, at which time the farmer makes the declaration that begins “Arami oved avi” (which is now recited at the Passover seder).

The mishnayot in Massechet Bikkurim describe the pomp and circumstance which surrounded the bringing of the bikkurim by the farmers to Jerusalem. The procession involved a large group led by an ox whose horns were plated with gold. A flute was played at the head of the parade, announcing that the bikkurim procession was headed toward Jerusalem.

But why this mitzvah? Why did the Torah choose bikkurim to be presented in such a unique and public fashion? What differentiates bikkurim from, say, ma’aser sheni, which is also brought to Jerusalem?

Rav Mordechai Willig refers to the first section of Ki Tavo as the parashah of hakarat ha-tov, gratitude. Gratitude, he explains, is an essential middah that every ben Torah must internalize. The Ramban explains that bikkurim exemplify gratitude, because inherent in the act of bringing the fruits to Jerusalem is an acknowledgement and thanks to Hashem for keeping His promise to our forefathers by giving the Land of Israel to their descendants.

Elsewhere, the Torah emphasizes the lengths one must go to to demonstrate hakarat ha-tov. Prior to the commencement of the first of the ten plagues, Hashem commanded Aharon, rather than Moshe, to stretch his hand over the water in order to turn the water into blood. Why did Hashem ask Aharon and not Moshe to initiate this plague? Rashi explains that since the river had protected Moshe when he was a child, hidden in a small ark by his mother, Moshe could not be the one to strike it. This was a way for Moshe to express his gratitude to the water, an inanimate object, for the good that was done to him. For similar reasons Aharon, and not Moshe, initiated the plague of lice by striking the sand, since again, as Rashi explains, Moshe was “indebted” to the sand for concealing the body of the Egyptian whom Moshe killed prior to fleeing Egypt.

Expressions of gratitude are also mandated by Chazal as part of the daily life of an observant Jew. We thank Hashem each morning in the “Modeh Ani” prayer for returning our neshamah to us after a night’s sleep. We recite “Modim” in our Amidah three times a day, thanking Hashem for our lives and for the miracles that He does for us every day. It is clear that expressions of gratitude are considered vitally important by the Torah and by Chazal.

Yet a closer look at the parashah reveals an even greater lesson in gratitude. The section of bikkurim ends with the words, “You shall rejoice in all the good that Hashem, your God, has given to you and to your household.” This is similar to the mishnah in Pirkei Avot which states, “Ben Zoma says….Who is rich? He who is happy with his lot ” (4:1). The gratitude that the farmer must feel should not be limited to the gift of Eretz Yisrael or of the first fruits. He must recognize that Hashem has blessed him with “goodness,” and this should cause him to be happy and satisfied with his lot. The ultimate gratitude comes when a person recognizes that he has been blessed by Hashem with everything that he has in life.

My dear bar mitzvah boy, just as it is important to express gratitude to Hashem and just as it is important to express gratitude to inanimate objects, so too it is important to express gratitude to your fellow man who does good things for you. This includes not only your friends, but also your teachers, your family, and, of course, your parents who have devoted their lives toward your betterment. May you be blessed with goodness throughout your life and may you always acknowledge such goodness with the proper hakarat ha-tov.

Mr. Ganchrow is an attorney at Weil, Gotshal & Manges LLP.

Excerpted from Erica Brown’s Return: Daily Inspiration for the Days of Awe Click here to buy the book

Day Nine: Honesty

“For the sin we committed before You with verbal confession.”

We are always apologizing. New research contends that most of us apologize about four times a week. We say sorry all of the time. Reading the findings might lead us to believe that as people we are honest, generally contrite, humble, able to confront our mistakes and also take accountability for them – until you read further; we actually apologize 22 percent more to strangers than to romantic partners and family.

And, contrary to popular opinion, men will apologize just as often as women if they feel they’ve done something wrong. Therein lies the discrepancy. Women tend to believe that they’ve done something wrong more often than men. Women also tend to get offended more easily than men. This means that women both say they’re sorry and also need others to forgive them more often than men. In one study, 120 subjects imagined committing offenses, from being rude to a friend to inconveniencing another person they live with; researchers discovered that men apologized less frequently than women. The researchers concluded that men had a higher threshold for what they found offensive. “We don’t think that women are too sensitive or that men are insensitive,” says Karina Schumann, one of the study’s authors. “We just know that women are more sensitive.”

This new research on the act of saying sorry also deals with the content of apologies and what people need to hear in order to grant sincere forgiveness. A “comprehensive” apology is more likely to win forgiveness, researchers say. According to a study conducted by the University of Waterloo, comprehensive apologies consist of eight elements:

• Remorse

• Acceptance of responsibility

• Admission of wrongdoing

• Acknowledgment of harm

• Promise to behave better

• Request for forgiveness

• Offer of repair

• Explanation

If any piece of this process is absent, it could compromise the acceptance of an apology. Sorry alone is not enough. Sorry without regret or admission of wrongdoing will not change the future. We may think that most people who hear us apologize do not want an explanation. “Just say sorry. I don’t need to know why you did it.” But what we are learning is that sorry without an explanation can leave the recipient feeling empty and unsatisfied. Sometimes when people hurt us, even inadvertently, they become an enigma to us. It can be hard to understand how and why someone acts differently than we would, especially when it comes to shameful, hurtful, or offensive behavior.

For this reason, the act of confession forces us to be more honest with ourselves before we apologize. This season requires difficult self-confrontation. We read words that may or may not force us to revisit the darker sides of self in search of clarity or to rebuild a relationship. By externalizing the words in confession, we begin to hear them differently and get insight into how someone else might hear and receive our words of forgiveness.

The language of confession we use in our prayerbooks is excerpted in part from the book of Daniel. Daniel realized that his people were suffering and that he had failed to be as brutally honest as necessary in his leadership:

I turned my face to the Lord God, devoting myself to prayer and supplication, in fasting, in sackcloth and ashes. I prayed to the Lord my God, making confession thus: “O Lord, great and awesome God, who stays faithful to His covenant with those who love Him and keep His commandments! We have sinned; we have gone astray, we have acted wickedly; we have been rebellious and have deviated from Your commandments and Your rules, and have not obeyed Your servants the prophets who spoke in Your name to our kings, our officers, our fathers, and all the people of the land. (Daniel 9:3–6)

While the English may feel foreign, Daniel’s Hebrew is painfully familiar:

חטאנו ועוינו הרשענו ומרדנו; וסור ממצותך, וממשפטיך.

This is the language that jumps off the pages of the mahzor, our High Holiday prayerbook, and into our most vulnerable places. It is the language of confession, and it is thousands of years old. Maimonides writes that confession is an elemental aspect of repentance, and repentance cannot be complete without it. Why not?

Confession is another word for naming. Instead of a personal problem resting in the cloud of words not articulated, confession forces us to put a name on an issue. Often naming a problem creates a path out of the problem. Those struggling with addiction in one of its many forms often cannot confess to the problem. The minute they can finally name it, they can begin to solve it. Without a name, a problem will never be properly addressed. Without confession, there is no redemption. Rabbi Kook wrote that repentance actually begins the moment we commit a sin if we have an awareness of sin; the very recognition of an act of wrongdoing precipitates the beginning of teshuva, the road back to the self that is the emotionally and spiritually desired self.

Confession is a loaded English word that is not necessarily an accurate translation of the Hebrew word vidui. Naming, recognition, or acknowledgment may be more apt. In Deuteronomy, when Moses prepared the Israelites to enter the Promised Land, he told them that when they harvested their first fruits, they had to bring a basket of them to the Temple along with a verbal confession that begins with a brief history of our people. The history includes our most ancient ancestors, our servitude in Egypt, and the Exodus, and then finally our arrival in Israel and our new bounty. The food was to be left with God and then the person who brought it was to rejoice and “enjoy all the bounty that the Lord your God has bestowed upon you and your household” (26:11). This was a time of joy, not confession in its traditional, more oppressive sense. There is no confession of sin in this acknowledgment; merely a recognition, a naming, of all that has led up to this particular moment of gratitude. It is basket happiness – our joy is contained in something concrete that we are able to share with others.

The vidui bikurim, the name of this verbal offering, does review swaths of painful history. It mentions tribulations not worth repeating. And yet, each of those experiences must be mentioned because each went into the production and growth of every piece of fruit, as does every famine, rainfall, tragedy, and celebration. The pilgrimage would not have the same meaning, or the joy the same richness, if it all came easily. Confession helps us name all the parts of a process that lead up to a particular outcome.

Maimonides praised those who confessed in public, who had the courage to denounce personal wrongdoing to others. This was regarded as a higher level of commitment to teshuva precisely because exposing our weaknesses forces others to become witnesses to our transformation. But Maimonides also made a distinction between public confession of sins between human beings and sins between a person and God. In the latter category, he writes: “But sins between man and God should not be made public, and he is brazen-faced if he does so.” Public confession assumes a greater level of honesty unless it is about a public performance. No sincerity required. When confession acts as false piety it fails the lie detector test.

In his master work, On Repentance, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik pondered Maimonides’ distinction between God and fellow humans: “At times, a man may confess and declare his sins as a means of winning public approval, so that others will admire him and say, ‘what a righteous man he is!’…What the public thinks of him cannot matter when he stands ‘before God, blessed be He.’” If honesty is what we are ultimately seeking, then confession can be confession only if it provokes truth, not if it masks lies.

Facing the truth rather than masking a lie takes us to the bed of a virile King David, crippled by the news that the child born of his illicit relationship with Bathsheba was ill to the point of death. The chapter that relays the narrative begins with the ominous words: “But the Lord was displeased with what David had done” (ii Samuel 12:1). Nathan the prophet offered David a parable to help the king understand how wrong his affair with Bathsheba had been, a tale of sordid adultery, murder, and deception. Through the subtlety of Nathan’s parable, David was able to loosen his defenses and confess: “I stand guilty before the Lord” (12:13). David was able to hear Nathan because the prophet’s creative framework did not let David escape from confrontation with sin. Nathan added another dimension to his chastisement. He helped this confused king understand that he had overreached, that he had been blessed with so much that his greedy desire for this woman should have been curbed by his already overflowing bounty. Nathan expressed it as if from God’s very mouth:

It was I who anointed you king over Israel and it was I who rescued you from the hand of Saul. I gave you your master’s house and possession of your master’s wives; and I gave you the house of Israel and Judah and if that were not enough, I would give you twice as much. Why then have you flouted the command of the Lord and done what displeases Him? (12:7–9)

God gave David everything: power, prestige, and intelligence. Did David not have enough that he needed more, another man’s wife? Since David arranged for Uriah, Bathsheba’s husband, to be killed by the sword, he would suffer the sword’s ugliest wounds himself: “Therefore the sword shall never depart from your house…. I will make a calamity rise against you from within your own house” (12:10–11).

God’s words implied a military upheaval in the future, but God made no mention of the battlefield, the place of David’s many successes. David had approached Goliath with stones; his physical strength and military acumen were well-known by this point in his story. The battles David could not win were those that touched his own home life.

Nathan pronounced the punishment: “The child about to be born to you shall die” (12:14). After Nathan left the royal palace, the child became critically ill. David prayed and fasted. His servants tried to feed him, but he refused. A week after Nathan left, the child died, but David’s servants were too afraid to tell him. Since David had not listened to their adjurations to eat, they were certain he would not accept the bad news, that he would do something terrible. They were wrong. David saw the servants speaking in whispers to each other and then he understood what had happened. He forced them to be honest:

“Is the child dead?”

“Yes.”

We hear the anguish of the question and the anguish of the answer. There was no room for grey. Honesty stood starkly and painfully alone.

David washed and changed his clothes, went to pray, and then asked for a meal. The servants were again confused. How was it that their king rejected all food when this infant was sick but once the child died, he was able to eat? David responded with clarity. When the child was ill, perhaps there was still some small hope for compassion. But once the boy was dead, David knew that he had to face the brutal truth: “Now that the child is dead, why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall never come back to me” (12:23).

The truth hurts. It hurts more than any lie we could tell ourselves. But the truth is not going away.

King Solomon saw this stubborn tendency when he finished building the First Temple and contemplated whether or not God could ever be limited to any space. King Solomon understood the function that the building might one day have far into the future, describing life not in the land of Israel but in the Diaspora at the hand of enemies. The Temple would then have a different function; it would become a holy space, only aspirational in nature, precisely because the pattern of sin and forgiveness is predictable:

When they sin against You – for there is no man who does not sin – and You are angry with them and deliver them to the enemy, and their captors carry them off to an enemy land, near or far, and they take it to heart in the land to which they have been carried off, and they repent and make supplication to You in the land of their captors, saying: “We have sinned, we have acted perversely, we have acted wickedly,” and they turn back to You with all their heart and soul, in the land of the enemies who have carried them off, and they pray to You in the direction of their land which You gave to their fathers, of the city which You have chosen, and of the house which I have built to Your name – give heed in Your heavenly abode to their prayer and supplication, uphold their cause, and pardon Your people who have sinned against You for all the transgressions that they have committed against You. Grant them mercy. (I Kings 8:46–50)

We turn our hearts away. We sin. We suffer. We turn our hearts towards. God hears. God redeems. We turn our hearts away…. King Solomon offers an ancient theological equivalent of “lather, rinse, repeat.” It happened before. It will happen again. And again.

As a result, we often hear an apology and judge it as insincere or simply false. It does not sound like the truth. After all, we apologize for a lot of reasons that have nothing to do with the truth: to get out of trouble, because it is expected, to end an argument, out of politeness, to repair a relationship, to move on. These are all valid reasons but are not honest responses; when we apologize for any of these reasons, we are not necessarily engaging in a serious reckoning on a specific problem. Just watch the way people ask for forgiveness in Jewish settings about this time of the year. I distinctly remember in high school the day before Yom Kippur, we would walk down the halls asking anyone and everyone for mehila, for forgiveness, with spitfire speed but with hardly a moment for any authentic response. We never anticipated someone turning around and saying, “Actually, you really hurt me this past year.” We waited for the hasty “yes” and for the question to be reciprocated at a fast enough pace to allow us to move on to someone else. The apology is regarded as the formal pass that lets us continue or progress. It’s not about process; it’s about a shallow fulfillment of a legal requirement. It’s not about truth; it’s about peace.