Category: Excerpts

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

Great Ideas are Dangerous*

Jewish mysticism teaches a great principle, which it derives from
the verse in Ecclesiastes (7:14) that God created the world “one opposite the other.” This means, according to the Kabbala, that every manifestation of holiness in the world had an underside of profanity and destructiveness. Hence, when God emanated the ten spheres of holiness there came into being, corresponding to them, the ten spheres of impurity. This underside of evil and impurity that always accompanies the phenomena of sanctity is referred to as the “sitra aĥra,” “the other side” – a term often applied in Yiddish to the devil or demons. This is not only a mystical idea, but a universal truth that applies at all times and places.

For instance, love is a great idea, but it can easily be distorted into something powerfully destructive, namely, lust. The same tender and warm feelings of love, when applied to the wrong person, can become illicit and immoral. No wonder that the word ĥessed (Leviticus 20:17), which is usually used to express the idea of affectionate generosity, is also used by the Torah to describe a particularly ugly form of incest.

Self-confidence is a great attribute. Every parent wants to inculcate this quality in his or her children. Yet by the slightest twist, this great idea reveals its “other side” of impurity, and it becomes arrogance, changing a confident person into an insufferably supercilious one.

Democracy is certainly a great idea, one which has inspired millions. Yet the same idea of power being invested in the people can, if one is not careful, turn into its “other side,” and become merely mob-rule. What is a lynch mob, if not democracy distorted?

All of these, and many more, are great ideas which are dangerous. I often use this as a test of an idea. If someone proposes an idea to me, I see if it can become dangerous if it is distorted. If it cannot, then probably the idea is trivial!

Of course, one can simply opt for safety and security by abandoning all great ideas – but that is a living death. Rather, it is incumbent upon us to search out greatness but to beware of going to the extremes, to be always suspicious of taking things to their “logical conclusion,” which usually means the “sitra aĥra,” the “other side.”

The same principle applies to the quality of zeal. Without it, commitment has little value and can hardly survive. Judaism cannot do without the passion that goes with zeal. Our sidra begins with the personality of Pinĥas, who is the symbol of zeal – kina in biblical Hebrew, kana’ut in Modern Hebrew. The Children of Israel had sinned with the Midianite women in the cult of the idol Baal Pe’or, and Zimri, one of the princes of the tribe of Simeon, had flaunted his immoral liaison with a Midianite princess before Moses and the Children of Israel. If this had gone unopposed and unpunished, only God knows how dreadful the consequences would have been for Israel then and for all posterity. The priest Pinĥas, in response to the actions of Zimri, took a sword and stabbed the two perpetrators to death. Our sidra tells us that because of this act of zeal, Pinĥas was awarded with the High Priesthood as a hereditary gift.

Unquestionably, kana’ut is a valuable sentiment. Without this zealousness, without this passion, commitment is at best superficial. Zeal involves self-sacrifice and earnestness.

Such kana’ut is not an easy achievement. There may be those who resort to zealousness as a substitute for thinking, but that is not always the case. The zealot is often a lonely man, willing to sacrifice popularity for the sake of his ideals. Consider the difference between the last sidra and this one. Read through what the pagan prophet Balaam had to say about our people – a veritable string of adulatory compliments! Every time you feel hesitant and uncertain as a Jew, go back to the prophecies of Balaam and you will emerge much more optimistic and self-confident. And yet, the Rabbis (see, for example, Avot 5:19) refer to him as Bilam harasha, the evil or wicked Balaam! Contrariwise, Pinĥas, according to many of our commentators, incurred the displeasure and animosity of large numbers of Israelites by his act of zealousness. And he is praised and offered the perpetual High Priesthood in recognition of his act!

Closer to our own time, the founding of the State of Israel in 1948 required a great deal of zealousness. Looking back at that era with the benefit of historical perspective and emotional detachment, many of us who at that time were opposed to the extremist groups now can recognize that the so-called “Stern Gang” and Irgun were indispensable for the success of our venture. And these groups proved far more civilized and moral and humane than the guerrillas of so many other nationalist movements. It is for this reason that we ought to offer our respect and undying gratitude to those two young men who were hanged by the British in 1947 and who this past week were re-interred on Mt. Herzl with honors by all of Israel.

And what is true for the State is true for Judaism. We have survived to this station because of the self-sacrifice of countless zealots, the historical successors of Pinĥas.

That is why I am not overly anxious for our camp, what we call “Modern Orthodoxy,” to cut off from the “right wing.” The “yeshiva world” and the “hasidic world” are reservoirs of passionate commitment, without which we are wishy-washy, wan, weak, and wavering. Of course I am unhappy with many of their policies. But our very survival may well depend on the degree to which we can become inspired by their zeal and learn to bring passion to our own commitments, no matter how much we may disagree with them on specific issues.

However, even in the Torah itself we find hints of apprehension that, like all great ideas, kana’ut has an “other side,” that of destructive fanaticism. The other side of a warm-blood is a hot-headed one. In our  sidra, Pinĥas is praised and rewarded and yet if we study the verses of today’s sidra carefully, we can find in them tell-tale signs of reservation and hesitation about zealousness. Our Rabbis (Yerushalmi Sanhedrin 9:7) were much more explicit when they said that Pinĥas acted “against the wishes of the Sages.”

Thus, one verse (Numbers 25:12) reads, “Therefore say (emor), ‘Behold I give him [Pinĥas] My covenant of peace.’” However this verse is a bit difficult. Should it not say, “Say unto him” or “Say unto the Children of Israel?” Instead we find the word “emor” all by itself. A number of years ago, a student of mine became proficient in Semitic languages and published an article on one verse in the beginning of the Torah, which describes the actions of Cain towards Abel. When we read of the murder by Cain, the Torah says (Genesis 4:8), “And Cain said,” but it does not tell us what he said. This student discovered that in cognate languages, the root amar frequently means “to puff up” with anger. Thus it means that Cain became angry with Abel and therefore killed him.

I suggest that the same is true for this verse. It means: Therefore, Moses, become angry, show your displeasure, even at the same time that you are rewarding Pinĥas! And give him the covenant of peace, teaching him that zeal must never be sustained, that it is appropriate only for extraordinary moments in history, but that in ordinary life situations there must be only shalom, peace. The brit (covenant) is meant for the regular ongoing activities of life, and there only peace and not zeal must prevail.

And the next verse reads: “And it shall be for him and his descendants after him for an eternal covenant of the priesthood taĥat he was zealous for his God.” The word “taĥat” is usually translated as, “because he was zealous for his God.” I suggest that here the word “taĥat” has the meaning of “instead.” Thus, Pinĥas, who did something meritorious when he performed his act of zeal, must now learn to adopt a policy of peace and priesthood instead of zeal. Or perhaps “taĥat” means, in almost a physical sense, “underneath” – that even when one is zealous, underneath the zeal must always be love and peace. Not vengeance but love, not zeal but peace, are the attributes of hereditary priesthood.

So, in all aspects of contemporary life we must seek out kana’ut, but by keeping it confined and restrained and in the context of love and peace, we will avoid the “other side” of fanaticism.

As I have said, I admire the zeal of our right-wing. But emor – we must become upset and indignant when it is thoughtless, abusive, uncivilized. At that point, it can well become destructive and self-defeating.

Of course it is not easy to propose clear formulae on how to determine when zeal shades into fanaticism, when passion becomes poisonous.

But if we are conscious of this potential of danger, if we are aware of how destructive great ideas can become, then we will be able to latch on to greatness and avoid the snares and pitfalls of “the other side.”
If emor, if we are sensitive to the abuses of exalted ideas, then we will attain the brit shalom, the blessing and covenant of eternal peace.

---

*June 26, 1976

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

Peace is Bitter-sweet

It is rare for the Torah to present a narrative and follow it with a stated moral lesson. Parashat Korach, however, does exactly this. The Torah dramatically depicts the rebellion of Korach and Datan and Aviram, and then states: “one should not be like Korach and his company, as the Lord spoke about him through Moshe” (Numbers 17:5). The Talmud counts this directive as one of the 613 mitzvot of the Torah: “Rav said, Whoever maintains a dispute transgresses a negative command, as it says, ‘one should not be like Korach and his company.’” One may not prolong strife.

The Mishnah contrasts the type of controversy initiated by Korach with the halachic dissent between Hillel and Shammai:

Whatever dispute is for the sake of Heaven will endure; whatever is not for the sake of Heaven will not endure. What is an example of a dispute for the sake of Heaven? The dispute between Hillel and Shammai. What is an example of one not for the sake of Heaven? Korach and his ilk.

Halachic disagreement is permitted, even encouraged, to deepen our knowledge of Torah. Trying to degrade Jewish leaders, especially those appointed by God Himself, on flimsy pretexts and for frivolous reasons will end badly.

Nevertheless, we must tread carefully – perhaps even more than usual – when doing battle “for the sake of Heaven.” Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, founder of the Musar movement, was one of the most perceptive students of human psychology. He observed that when a party to a dispute views their argumentation or cause as being “for the sake of Heaven,” they can feel so self-righteous as to refuse to even hear out the other side. One could say that it cannot even be considered a “dispute,” as there is only one side. Better to be less sure that Heaven is on your side, so that the  controversy can die down.

It once happened that Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Hakohen Kook, the father of the famed Rav Kook and a great Torah scholar in his own right from the city of Griva (Grajewo, Poland), arrived at a shtetl in Lithuania right before the onset of Shabbat. The tension within the community was so proverbially thick that he sensed it immediately. Many community members pleaded with him to use his Shabbat sermon to restore peace to a community so riven by dispute. He obliged. Parashat Korach was being read that week, which says that after the rebellion of Korach, twelve staves were collected from the tribal leaders and placed in the Tent of Meeting. Aharon’s staff was the only one to miraculously produce almonds (Numbers 17:16–24). “Why almonds?” Rabbi Kook asked rhetorically. The Mishnah discusses some almonds that start bitter and become sweet, and others that start sweet and become bitter. He explained that a dispute can be compared to the almond that starts sweet and turns bitter. Some enjoy the sport in it – the competition between “teams,” the winners and losers. Others relish the dirt about people that surfaces, and the true face that emerges when you get under someone’s skin. But the sad truth is that as the almond reaches maturity, it unfailingly becomes unpalatable. Peace, on the other hand, has a bitter start. There is great difficulty in making concessions and compromises. In the end though, it is sweet, as everyone ultimately is happy.

This idea of Rabbi Kook was clearly inculcated in his son, Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook, who worked towards bringing peace and harmony to the individual, the community, the Jewish people, the world, and even the cosmos. The striving for peace was a defining feature of his life and worldview. He wrote sharply about the dangers of divisiveness:

There is no end to the physical and spiritual evils of dividing the nation into sectors. [ . . . ]
The imagined division undermines the foundation of all holiness.

Rav Kook’s use of the phrase “imagined division” reflects his conviction that the Jewish people are fundamentally indivisible. Nevertheless, we live on a plane of existence that Zoharic Kabbalah refers to as the alma de-peruda, the world of disunity. Our task is to bring out and strengthen the underlying unity and harmony.

Rebbe Avraham Mordechai Alter, the third Gerrer Rebbe known as the Imrei Emet, once shared a story of doting in-laws who would host dinner each week for their two beloved sons-in law and their families. Since one son-in-law was a vegetarian and the other loved meat, they cooked for each and the two families ate separately. For years they came, week in and week out. Eventually, the hosts suffered a reversal of fortunes and could not afford meat or dairy, so they served bread, onions, and potato scraps. Out of habit, the families continued to dine separately. The mother-law saw this and cried out, “Now that we are all eating pareve, why are we still sitting separately?”

The Imrei Emet said that this depicts the state of the Jewish people today. Our past is checkered by internal divisiveness, and perhaps some of the major splintering had good cause. But after millennia of suffering and loss we have been left tragically impoverished. Has the time not come to sit together at the same table?

With the restoration of the Jewish nation to its land, Rav Kook believed that unity was more critical than ever. As the Midrash says, “The moment that the Jewish people become unified, anticipate the redemption.” If we can just see it through, we will realize that the bitter pill we must swallow for peace will be completely forgotten as we all enjoy, together, the sweetest fruit it brings: the final redemption.

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

Second Chances

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excerpted from With Liberty and Justice: The Fifty-Day Journey from Egypt to Sinai by Senator Joe Lieberman with Rabbi Ari D. Kahn, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

Day 23: The Sixth Commandment: “Do Not Murder”

In the preface to his volume on laws regarding murder, Maimonides describes the importance of the Sixth Commandment:

Although there are other sins that are more serious than murder, they do not present as serious a danger to society as murder does. Even idol worship – and needless to say, sexual sins or the  violation of the Sabbath – are not considered as severe as murder, for these other sins involve man’s relationship with God, while murder also involves man’s relationship with his fellow man.

Whoever commits this sin is an utterly wicked person. All the mitzvot that he performs throughout his lifetime cannot outweigh this sin or save him from judgment. (Mishneh Torah,Hilkhot Rotze’aĥ UShemirat Nefesh 4:9)

Some biblical scholars suggest that the way in which the Ten Commandments are presented can help us better understand them. For example, as we saw earlier, the order of the commandments and the division into two groups of five teach us important lessons. Similarly, according to some rabbis, rather than reading each group of five from top to bottom, on each of the two tablets, the commandments should be read horizontally, across both tablets, and linked to each other this way. Thus, the First Commandment should be paired with the Sixth as below:

I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery / You shall not murder.

Murder is an egregious crime, as described by Maimonides, and self-evidently wrong, but what is the most significant reason why? When the First and Sixth Commandments are read as one sentence, the primary reason for the prohibition of murder is clear: “I am your God.” The reason human life is holy and murder is evil is because every human is created in the image of God.

This reading of the First and Sixth Commandments is supported by the verse in Genesis that first prohibits the spilling of blood, long before the injunction from Sinai: “Whoever sheds man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed; for in the image of God He made man” (Gen. 9:6).

Rabbi Soloveitchik brings a deeper perspective to the consequences of committing murder. He once suggested that the first line of the Shema be translated, “Hear O Israel, God (the Eternal) is our Lord, God is unique.” He felt that translating the word “eĥad” as “one,” as it is in most prayer books, misses the point. Of course, Judaism believes in one God. The declaration of the Shema, however, is intended to articulate the uniqueness of God. He is unlike anything in our experience. He is beyond our imagination.

According to this interpretation of Shema, we can say that just as God is unique, all human beings, created as they are in the divine image, reflect this uniqueness. To kill a human being is to deprive the world of that unique spark of the divine, the particular aspect of God embodied and expressed in that person. Every individual is irreplaceable, because each and every human is part of the mosaic of God’s image as it is revealed in this world. This must be what the sages meant when they taught that whoever kills one person destroys an entire world, and whoever saves one life saves an entire world.

This respect for every individual, which underlies the Ten Commandments, should be the foundation of any good legal system. And this sensitivity to the unique sanctity of every human being should inform the laws with which we strive to build just, humane, and moral societies.

Excerpted from Foundation of Faith: A Tapestry of Insights and Illumination on Pirkei Avot based on the Thought and Writings of Rabbi Norman Lamm, The Gibber Edition, edited by Rabbi Mark Dratch, co-published with Ktav Publishing

Chapter 2, Verse 1

R. [Yehuda HaNasi] says: Which is the straight path that a person should choose for himself? Whichever path is honorable for the person adopting it and brings honor from other people. Be as careful with an easy commandment as with a difficult one, for you do not know the rewards given for commandments. Also, weigh the loss [that may be sustained through the fulfillment] of a commandment against the reward [that may be obtained] for [fulfilling] it. And [weigh] the gain [that may be obtained through the committing] of a transgression against the loss [that may be sustained] by [committing] it. Consider three things and you will not come to sin: Know what is above you: A seeing eye, a hearing ear, and a detailed record of everything you do.

The Right Way and The Good Way

Two great Sages of Israel each ask a question and give an answer about a matter of transcendent importance to us. Both the questions and the answers are similar to each other; yet there are slight differences. These differences prove significant.

R. Yehuda HaNasi asks, “What is the right way that a man ought to choose for himself?” and the gist of his answer is “tiferet” – that which is dignified for the one who does it, and is seemly and becoming in the eyes of his fellow men.

Rabban Yoḥanan b. Zakkai, several generations earlier, said to his students, “tze’u ure’u eizohi derekh tovah sheyidbak bah ha’adam, go out and see: what is the good way to which a man ought to cling?” And his students brought him several answers. One said unbegrudging generosity. Another said being a good friend. A third answered neighborliness. A fourth replied foresight. But the answer that Rabban Yoḥanan b. Zakkai accepted because it includes all four qualities is that brought by the fifth student: lev tov – a good heart.

Both R. Yehuda HaNasi and Rabban Yoḥanan b. Zakkai asked how a man ought to live his life. Their answers are not worlds apart, but they are not the same. The differences are important. For the difference is that between an abstract and theoretical formulation on one hand, and an intensely personal, real question on the other.

Look at how they formulate the question. R. Yehuda asks “what is the right way;” Rabban Yoḥanan b. Zakkai asks “what is the good way.” One emphasizes rightness, and the other emphasizes goodness. The former question is almost a Socratic one in a Platonic dialogue. The “right way” is basically a philosophic conception. It requires a critical and objective evaluation; it is something which preoccupies the mind. The latter, however, is a subjective issue which engages the whole personality; it involves the heart and soul as well as the mind. It is an existential challenge on which we stake our whole life, where the risks are not measured in terms of academic sophistication, but in terms of eternity won or eternity lost, meaning in life found or meaning in life discarded. Eizohi derekh yesharah is a question about religion. Eizohi derekh tovah is the actual search of religion itself.

The verbs they use are also consistent with their lines of reasoning. R. Yehuda HaNasi asks for the right way which a man ought to choose. When you are looking for the way that is yesharah – impersonal, objective and abstract – then you use the word yavor: an intellectual decision, an academic choice, the result of a cool and calm mental process.

But when you look for the way in life that is tovah – personal, subjective, of flesh and blood reality – then you use the word yidbak: to cling, a spiritual cleaving which involves the whole personality and life of the individual. Yavor, to choose, means – even as the element of objectivity is referred to in our current language – to be “detached.” Yidbak, ‘“to cling,” however, means to be “attached.”

Their answers continue along the same line. R. Yehuda stresses tiferet – glory or dignity – while Rabban Yoḥanan b. Zakkai stressed lev tov – the good heart which includes the other qualities. Tiferet – dignity or majesty – is primarily an aesthetic quality, which is best expressed in decorous quiet and solemn silence. Lev tov, which includes the other attributes of goodness, is something which is tested and refined in the strenuous crucible of practical life when a man must grapple with real difficulties and emerge triumphant over them.

The question and answer of R. Yehuda HaNasi is similar to that of an ivory tower schoolman, pondering the lofty issues of ethics. The question and answer of Rabban Yoḥanan b. Zakkai are those of a great human being caught up in the rush of life’s activities and agonies, intensely searching in the debris of life’s convulsive failures for the good way so that fallen man may rise again.

Indeed, these two sainted Sages of Israel each, in his question and answer, reflects his own life and times. R. Yehuda HaNasi lived in “normal” times – if there ever were such. His was an era of peace and relative prosperity. The Talmud speaks of R. Yehuda HaNasi and his friendship with the Roman Emperor Antoninus, where only a generation or two earlier Jews had suffered horribly the persecutions of the Roman Hadrian. R. Yehuda HaNasi was a man who combined Torah and material  greatness. His was a time of calm and quiet. Rabban Yoḥanan b. Zakkai, however, lived through a time of ḥurban – the destruction of the Holy Temple. He himself was barely saved by a ruse from the flaming city and the crumbling temple. His was an era of national cataclysm, radical change, uncertain transition. He and his contemporaries were beset by unprecedented tensions. It was a time when life cries out demanding not calm, philosophic discourse, but answers that strike to the core of a man’s heart.

And the entire departure of one from the other can be summed up in two very small words that we slurred over in our original quotation. R. Yehuda HaNasi simply asks and answers; that is all. Rabban Yoḥanan b. Zakkai asks and answers – but he introduces his statements with these two words: tze’u ure’u – go out and see, go out and search, go out and look.

What he meant to tell his students and us is: in a time of national catastrophe, when the glorious past seems so distant, the present so oppressive, the future so grim, mere questions and answers are insufficient, and mere formulations of “the right way” are inadequate. In times of this sort there must be tze’u ure’u – a search not for philosophic propositions, but for flesh and blood living models of Jewish behavior. You must not only define the right way; you must see before your eyes a representative of the good way. One can choose the right way; but he can cling to the good way only if he “goes out and sees.” That is why our rabbis taught us “aseh lekha rav,” that a man should always seek a rabbi, a teacher. That is why they instructed us gadol shimushah yoter milimudah, that experiencing the personality of the teacher is greater in value than the information he imparts verbally. That is why the entire Jewish tradition has raised the rank of Torah shebe’al peh, the oral law, to that of Torah shebikhtav, the written law, or even higher. For Scripture is essentially a book; one can learn from it without the presence of a second personality. One can be inspired by it to the point where he “chooses” the “right” way. But the personal experience and depth is lacking. The oral law, in its original sense, cannot be transmitted by a book alone. It requires two personalities meeting each other in dialogue. The student must have a teacher who will transmit to him the great oral tradition of our faith. In that manner he learns not only the values that can be articulated, but those values that can only be experienced. He must see before his eyes a living representative of the cumulative tradition of Israel. He must be engaged not only by ideas, but by examples; not only by words, but by ways of life – so that he will not only choose the right way, but cling and cleave to the good way.

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

Eradicating the Amalek Within

At the very end of Parashat Beshalach, we meet the archnemesis of the Jewish people: Amalek. Historically, Amalek was a band of marauders who shrugged off reports of miraculous intervention, cocksure of their own prowess and ability to identify and prey upon weak stragglers. But Amalek has been understood by many Jewish thinkers to represent a tenacious threat, even after all nations have lost their identity by being dispersed by Sancheriv. Amalek is a dangerous mindset that poses
a psychological danger to our religious belief and observance. This “Amalek within” is a devious enemy and we must be vigilant to combat it.

What is the nature of this threat? The Frierdiker Rebbe, Rebbe Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, saw it embedded in Amalek’s very name. The gematriya or numerological value of the Hebrew letters that spell “Amalek” ( 240 = עמלק) is equivalent to that of the letters that spell “doubt” ( 240 = ספק ). Whatever is holy is certain and absolute; Amalek is baseless doubt and icy cynicism that chills the fervor of holiness until all passion has dissipated. It introduces rot into the core that spreads and grows.

Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook found profound meaning in two other words that appear in this episode. Following Amalek’s unprovoked surprise attack, Moshe deputizes Yehoshua to muster men and lead a counterattack. He then says, “Tomorrow ( מָחרָ ), I will stand atop the hill with God’s staff ( מַטהֶּ ) in my hand” (Exodus 17:9). Why “tomorrow,” and why with the “staff” in hand? Rav Kook explained that Amalek wanted to knock down the divine commands (מִצוְהָ) and obligations (חובָֹה) incumbent upon a Jew to the level of the optional (רשְׁותּ). “Things are not as important as you make them out to be,” says Amalek. “They can wait until tomorrow.” The very word for “tomorrow” (מָחרָ) is composed of a mem (מ׳) representing the commandments (מִצְוהָ); a chet (ח׳) standing for the obligations (חובָֹה); and a final resh (ר׳) for what is optional ( רְשׁותּ ). The order of the letters reflects how Amalek ultimately wanted to devalue everything.

How is Amalek’s onslaught countered? Moshe led the offensive by raising his hands and the “staff” (מַטהֶּ), which was to help direct (להְַטּותֹ) the hearts of the Jewish people to God and reverse this process. By placing God at the center of our lives, we assign our responsibilities the proper weight and treat them as we ought to. By feeling God’s presence during our waking moments, we can stoke a passion for Him that cannot be extinguished.

Rav Kook personified this. In the summer of 1913, he and a group of colleagues went on a trip to visit and inspire the new settlements in the fledgling Yishuv. One night, towards the end of the trip, Rabbi Yaakov Moshe Charlop, a confidant and disciple of Rav Kook, woke to find his teacher restlessly pacing their small, shared room. As he watched, he noticed that Rav Kook’s face was flushed with passion and excitement. Rav Kook realized that he was awake, and slowly put his hands on his disciple. “What is wrong, rebbe?” asked Rabbi Charlop. Rav Kook answered, “Nothing is wrong. I am consumed with a burning love of God.”

Every day we recite during the Shema, “You shall love Hashem your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your might” (Deuteronomy 6:5). Rav Kook did not only verbalize these words but actualized them, and it was his belief that everyone is capable of doing so. He showed us that the brighter our passion burns, the more it can resist the irrationality – or even cold rationality – of Amalek and stay the course.

Amalek attacked the recently freed Israelites “on the road” (Deuteronomy 25:17–18). But this was not just any road. The Jewish people were on a direct route to Mount Sinai to receive the Torah, and it is the Torah that shows us the optimal way to live our lives. Amalek, on the other hand, has no path. It follows no road to enlightenment. It knows only how to steer others off course and to relieve them of their hardwon spiritual possessions. By pursuing a life of faith and fervor we can overcome the pathological pathlessness of Amalek, but we would do well to pay attention to suspicious movement in our peripheral vision as we blaze paths to spiritual glory.

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

Taking Our Time

In one of the most dramatic scenes in the Torah, Moshe orders Pharaoh, “Let my people go” (Exodus 5:1). Pharaoh’s response is swift:

On that day, Pharaoh ordered those overseeing the people and his officers saying, “You shall not continue to give straw to the people to make bricks . . . let them go and gather straw for themselves” (Exodus 5:6–7).

The Israelite slaves are forced to maintain their quota of bricks without being provided the raw materials with which to make them. This looks like a typical kneejerk reaction, “I’ll show them who they’re dealing with.” Pharaoh appears to be demonstrating to the Jews that their leader’s efforts on their behalf will only make things worse.

Various commentators, however, suggest that Pharaoh’s response is part of a calculated plan. Previously the toil was backbreaking, now it is meant to be soul-crushing. The Midrash tells us that in addition to withholding the physical components of the bricks, Pharaoh also eliminated a key temporal and spiritual space from the slaves’ lives: Shabbat. One of our greatest kabbalists and ethicists, the Ramchal, wrote about Pharaoh’s plan:

His intention was not merely to deprive them of all leisure so that they would not come to oppose him or plot against him, but he strove to strip their hearts of all thought by means of the enduring, interminable nature of their labor.

By severely overburdening the slaves without even a weekly reprieve, Pharaoh made them unfree to contemplate anything beyond survival.

The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Chassidut, taught that alongside the physical exile of slavery in Egypt there was a spiritual exile of da’at, which we might translate as consciousness. Living on autopilot, the Israelites had no time to consider their lives, and collapsed in exhaustion at the end of each day of punishing labor.

Following Pharaoh’s new edict, the slaves complain to Moshe, who dutifully brings their complaint to God. When He commands Moshe to reassure them that the slavery will soon end and God will take them out of Egypt, the people do not listen due to “shortness of breath and hard labor” (Exodus 6:9). Overworked and oppressed, the slaves have never had a moment to catch their breath and see the larger picture. Pharaoh’s strategy worked.

Chassidut instructs that the Egyptian exile is a state of mind. Like Pharaoh, the evil inclination successfully uses this tactic against us on a daily basis, as further explained by the Ramchal:

This is one of the cleverer devices of the evil inclination – to mount pressure unrelentingly against the hearts of men so as to leave them no leisure to consider and observe the type of life they are leading. For it realizes that if they were to devote even a slight degree of attention to their ways, there is no question but that they would immediately begin to repent of their deeds and that regret would wax in them until they would leave off sinning altogether.

How are we to combat this? By practicing what the Ramchal terms zehirut, consciousness of and being attentive to our lives and our surroundings, which requires making time. In fact, the redemption of the slaves from Pharaoh’s iron fist, was, in a sense, set in motion by Moshe’s attentiveness and willingness to deviate from his set path, from his routine. “Moshe thought, ‘Let me turn aside now and see this great sight – why the bush does not burn up’” (Exodus 3:3). In a spare moment, he discovered God, and the rest is history.

We have the power to shape time, no matter how “pressed for time” we may be. The first commandment given to the Jewish people in Egypt was to sanctify the new moon. “God said to Moshe and Aharon in the land of Egypt, saying, ‘This month shall be before you the head of the months; it is the first of the months of the year for you’” (Exodus 12:1–2). With this, the Jewish people were given the power and responsibility to mark the passing months and create a calendar. Why does this mitzvah take precedence at this exact moment? God was conveying to the enslaved, whose daily regimen had been inflexibly set by demanding taskmasters, that they were now masters of their own time. Neither the sundial nor the clock rules the Jew.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov encouraged setting aside time every day to seclude oneself in order to think about life and meet God in a personal way. He referred to this as hitbodedut, self-seclusion. While Jewish observance breaks up the constant drone of everyday life that drowns out our thoughts, whether through daily prayer, Shabbat, or the Festivals, Rebbe  Nachman felt more is necessary for man caught in the daily grind of the modern world. During hitbodedut, one can express, naturally and uninhibitedly, personal prayers and requests in one’s mother tongue, which engenders a closeness to God that is much harder to achieve through the fixed, statutory prayers recited in Hebrew.

We are all enslaved in our private Egypts by work schedules often set by others, and vacations or leisure time completely filled with activities that we impose upon ourselves. Today, the mark of success is often how busy one is. This state of being “too busy” has been identified by contemporary philosophers, psychologists, and physicians as one of the greatest maladies of our age. It impacts negatively on all of our relationships – with ourselves, with others, with God. How do we extricate ourselves from this Egypt? When we make time to identify our aspirations and yearnings through daily moments of self-reflection, we enhance our self-awareness, foster growth and creativity, and nurture those relationships. In short, we liberate ourselves.

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

Holy and Whole

After a prolonged, arduous journey, Yaakov finally returns home to the land of Canaan (Genesis 33:18). Having escaped from the house of Lavan and survived the encounter with his adversarial brother Esav, he finally can settle into a new chapter of life. The Torah chooses a single word to encapsulate Yaakov’s current physical, emotional, and spiritual state: shalem.

Rashi noted that, on the whole, Yaakov emerged from all the scrapes and struggles shalem, in the sense of intact or unbroken. “He was shalem in body, for his limp had healed. He was shalem in money, for he lost nothing on account of the tribute. He was shalem in Torah, for he forgot none of his learning in the house of Lavan.” Despite the stream of never-ending problems – one thing after the next – every aspect of Yaakov’s existence in this world remained intact. In fact, he only came out stronger.

Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook expanded upon Rashi’s idea. Wholeness in body, finances, and spirit reflects Yaakov’s capacity to live a holistic life. He is now able to weave together the various threads of his life – the physical, financial, and intellectual-spiritual – so that they all share in the pursuit of the noble and the good. Yaakov reaches a stage in life in which he seamlessly integrates all aspects of his life into divine service. He is shalem in the sense of being made whole, of synthesizing the physical and the spiritual.

We learn from Yaakov that the physical and financial need not be in conflict with the spiritual. To the contrary, these elements are thevery foundations of a well-rounded, complete life, a life that is shalem. Yaakov embodies the notion that to live religiously is to let the spiritual into every area of our lives.

There is nothing neutral in life; every aspect can be directed to God. From this perspective, the seemingly mundane – eating, sleeping, conducting business – is no less part of God’s service than the ritual observances of prayer, Torah study, and giving charity.

The Torah commands the entire Jewish people, “You shall be tamim with the Lord your God” (Deuteronomy 18:13). Contextually, this is understood to mean that one must have faith in God alone and not engage in illicit practices, such as magic, divination, or communing with spirits. Targum Onkelos, however, translates tamim as shelim, the Aramaic  equivalent of shalem. According to this, tamim does not mean “pious” or “innocent,” but “well-rounded.” Perhaps the Torah foreshadows this unique aspect of Yaakov’s character when we are first introduced to him as an ish tam (Genesis 25:27).

Impressively, Yaakov was not satisfied with his own spiritual attainment and endeavored to teach it to others. The very same verse which calls him shalem tells us that he provided assistance to the city where he settled. The Sages instruct that “he encamped facing the city” ( ויַחִַּן אֶת פְּנֵי הָעִיר ) (Genesis 33:18) should be understood roughly as “he generously improved the face of the city.” What kindness did he do for the city of Shechem? He established a monetary system, set up a marketplace, or erected bathhouses. These contributions were not merely a reflection of his philanthropy. Yaakov was convinced that the underpinnings of ethical life begin with ennobling every sector of society. He implemented and modeled for others his conception of an integrated spiritual life.

What drove Yaakov to promote religious values and faith among non-Jews? Apparently, he felt responsible for the world as a whole.

Rav Kook writes that part of actualizing our national shelemut is the responsibility of disseminating our wisdom to the world:

The strength of the desire to be good to everyone in the world without limitation, both in the amount of good to those in need of it, and in the quality of the good – this is the inner seed of the soul of the Community of Israel. This is the inheritance and the legacy from our ancestors, and this is the secret of the longing for redemption that is in the nation. . . .”

The proposition that we can sanctify every aspect of our lives forms the bedrock of Jewish tradition. For example, financial success need not be a hindrance to spiritual growth. If used properly, money can be its catalyst. The heavy gauntlet Yaakov throws down is to infuse every aspect of our lives with holiness and nobility.

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

The First Jewish Burial

One of the most troubling aspects of Sarah’s death is Avraham’s absence from her bedside. Ibn Ezra understood this from the fact that the verse states, “Avraham came” (Genesis 23:2). The starting assumption of the Ramban’s analysis is that it is unthinkable that this was more than a short-lived separation. He accounted for it by saying that Avraham was on his way home from the Akedah at Mount Moriah, but he made a stop in Be’er Sheva to give public thanks to God for not having to sacrifice his son during the Akedah.

Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook developed an idea that Sarah’s worldview actually differed somewhat from Avraham’s. Avraham planted an eshel in Be’er Sheva (Genesis 21:33), which was the means by which he offered hospitality and spread monotheism to wayfarers. Although Sarah shared Avraham’s openness and warmth to others, she was ready and willing to draw lines when needed. She was not in Be’er Sheva with Avraham but in Chevron securing the Jewish future. At a crossroads in the matrimonial life of Avraham and Sarah, an excruciating decision had to be made, one that would impact the very destiny of the Jewish people. Sarah was convinced that Yishmael must leave the home. Avraham disagreed, but God told Avraham that he must abide by Sarah’s decision (Genesis 21:10–13). Our matriarch Sarah taught that only after we successfully develop and actualize our unique qualities as a nation will our true nature be apparent to all so that others can be inspired by our unique holiness.

Evidently, Avraham paid respect to her approach after her death. When he pursued the acquisition of a plot of land to bury his beloved wife, the sons of Chet offered him “the choicest of our burial places” (Genesis 23:6), yet he refused. This seems contrary to what Avraham stood for. Would it not have been best to bury Sarah in their midst and use the opportunity to develop good relations with them, eventually drawing them to monotheism? Avraham knew that this was not what the late Sarah would have wanted. Sometimes separation is necessary to maintain holiness and chosenness. Avraham was adamant that there be a separate burial place for her and for his family.

Perhaps this also explains why the Torah does not record the words of eulogy that Avraham delivered for Sarah. His first act after eulogizing and mourning her was to locate a fitting spot for her burial plot, away from the main cemeteries. This was the most beautiful tribute that Avraham could have possibly made in her memory, in order to carry on her spirit and her legacy.

Rav Kook was once asked if there is any benefit to a person who lived their life outside Israel being buried in the Land of Israel. He answered, “Go learn from the burial of Sarah, from whose burial developed the settlement of the entire land.” This seems to be why, adds Rabbi Mordechai Sabato, the verse states that “Sarah died in Kiryat Arba, which is Chevron in the Land of Canaan” (Genesis 23:2). Do we not already know the location of Chevron? The answer is that her burial led to the Jewish people ultimately taking possession of the land.

Sarah’s interment was the first Jewish burial in history. With it, we took possession of our first piece of property in the Land of Israel. Sarah being laid to rest in the soil of the land was undoubtedly an act of respect for the dead, but it was also much more. Her vision of a nation apart was concretized in the rocky soil of the land. The future of the Jewish nation in the Jewish land was staked on a small parcel of land in the rolling hills of Judea. Now, a singular nation chosen to disseminate the Torah was joined with a singular land that enjoys God’s special providence, described as His fixed gaze which does not depart from the Land (Deuteronomy 11:12).

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman 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 Lot of Lot

In this sidra, which records some of the greatest events in the history of mankind such as the Akeida, and through whose holy passages there move such spiritual giants as Abraham, Isaac, and Sara, we find one character more distinguished by the shadow in which he is hidden than by the light which is cast upon him. He flits through the previous two Torah portions in an incidental sort of way, a bit mysterious, never fully capturing our attention, seemingly a character accidentally and fortuitously rescued from total oblivion of history only because he had a great uncle. He is a man who intrudes upon sacred history, but never really becomes a part of it.

This man is Lot, the nephew of Abraham. And perhaps his very importance lies in the fact that he is not a major character, a chief actor in the historical drama, but rather a secondary, stagehand type. Why is that important? Because we can identify with him more easily than with Abraham. Most of us are not great, not giants, not Abrahams, but ordinary mortals with ordinary foibles and weaknesses, ordinary virtues and ordinary goals. Lot is the average man, and from him and his life, the average Jew can learn more in a negative way than perhaps even from Abraham in a positive way. In the life of this man we can see the pitfalls before all of us, the dangers in the life of every man, so that he can teach us how not to live and what not to do.

Lot cuts a tragic figure indeed. He was given a number of real advantages early in life. For one thing, he had a rich uncle – Abraham – who set him up in business. This same uncle provided him with a Jewish home, a decent life, and education. Lot proved loyal to Abraham even after he left him to settle in Sodom, the city of wealth and corruption. Even there he still keeps many of the things he learned from Abraham, such as hospitality. He leads an “underground” Jewish life. He is the nephew of Abraham inside, a judge of Sodom outside. He becomes a respected member of their society. He is one of their elders. He has seemingly made the best of both worlds – a Jew at home and adjusted to his society nonetheless. This is the balance struck by the average, wellmeaning, good-natured, but not overly idealistic man.

But listen to what happens at this point. The angels come to destroy Sodom because of its cruelty. And here three things happen which spell tragedy after tragedy for poor Lot. A merciful God spares him from death in the destruction of Sodom, but his life has been seriously impaired.

1. He finds, after a long stay in Sodom, that he has inverted values; he has lost his spiritual perspective. He still retains something of the teachings of Abraham, but not in the proper proportion. Thus, when the mob asks for the three strangers who are his guests to be victims of their degenerate passions, Lot offers to protect the strangers – a virtue of no mean order. But how? By committing a far more degenerate offense: he offers his daughters in their stead. He has values, but they are lopsided.
2. He finds himself alone in his own home. When the angels plead with him to leave, he turns to his sons in-law. The Torah calls them “ĥatanav, lok’ĥei venotav” – in other words, they are not really sons-in-law, they have no relation with him, they merely married his daughters. And what is their reaction? “Vayehi khimtzaĥek be’einei ĥatanav” – it was all a joke to them (Genesis 19:14). And his wife? She cannot resist a last look at the hotbed of corruption. It still lures her, and as she parts from her husband, she looks back and becomes calcified. Thus, Lot’s terrible loneliness: his own family no longer understands him or sympathizes with him. He is a stranger in his own home.
3. And his greatest tragedy: when he and his two daughters are left alone as survivors, they think that the whole world has been destroyed and they are the only survivors. They become enmeshed in a deadly gloom and think that the human race will die with them. And so, out of the depths of their despair, in order to realize their destiny as humans and practice their good intentions of settling God’s world, they commit the most serious of all immoralities – incest – while Lot is in a drunken stupor.

Quite a miserable end for a man who never had serious pretentions to great evil. Why is this? Why such terrible punishment? There is only one reason: because he left Abraham. All along, he was quite willing to follow his great uncle, willing to learn from him and lead his kind of life, but when it hit his pocketbook, when it came to money – “And there was strife between the herdsmen of Abram’s livestock and the herdsmen of Lot’s livestock” (Genesis 13:7) – then he leaves Abraham, and is willing to settle in Sodom, the byword of all that is evil. Now don’t think that Lot completely relished this idea; after all, he was a pupil of Abraham. But business required it, he told himself, financial necessity had forced him to leave both Abraham and his ways. And besides, corrupt though Sodom was, it was a beautiful city, as the Torah describes: “It was like the garden of God, like the land of Egypt, as you come to Zoar” (ibid., verse 10). Hence we read, “And Lot traveled from kedem, east” – upon which our rabbis, quoted by Rashi, comment in a play on words – “He caused himself to travel away from Kidmono shel olam, the Eternal One of the world.” Maybe Lot will carry over some small habits that he had learned in the house of Abraham. Maybe there will be some souvenirs or mementoes. But essentially he had torn himself away from Abraham, and along with that, from the God of Abraham.

And this is indeed the crucial event in the life of Lot, in the life of every average man: “And Lot traveled from kedem” – “from Kidmono shel olam.” His departure from Abraham and all that he stood for: this was the cause of his grief and the seedling of his tragedy. And if you analyze the whole episode of Lot carefully, you will see that he was rewarded measure for measure. The resulting tragedies follow the pattern of Lot’s sin.

1. Lot sinks to the most degenerate immorality because of inverted values. But did he not bring it upon himself? Was it not he himself who made the decision to leave Abraham because of “economic pressures”? Was it not he who first consciously inverted his own values?
2. He was lonely in his own home, and an alien to wife, children, and children-in-law. But he brought it on himself. By leaving Abraham, he isolated himself from Abraham’s God – and now found himself isolated by others.
3. He was led to his ultimate degradation, the depths of immorality and disruption of his family – the act of incest – because of the doom and pessimism which made him think that he and his daughters were the only survivors, that the world was destroyed. But did he not bring upon himself this feeling of no choice, of absolute necessity? Did he not begin this life of pessimism when he decided to settle in Sodom, to leave Abraham – because business required it, because otherwise he could never survive in the competitive market? He began by considering that there was only one way out – Sodom; and ended by having his daughters consider only one way out – his deepest and most lasting humiliation.

So then, in the one act of leaving Abraham, or as our rabbis said it, causing himself to travel away from God, Lot suffered a corresponding series of tragic consequences of inversion of values, loneliness, and a deadly and sickening pessimism. His is the story of a man who seems well established, successful, and at the peak of his career, but whose early, serious errors bring his life crashing into a conclusion of shame and disgrace.

It does not take too much to see why and how this story of Lot is a parable for Jews of all eras, especially for the “average Jew” of today. Just look at what has happened to so many of our fellow Jews:

1. We have suffered an inversion of values, just as Lot did. Thus, we place Ĥanukka, with all its colorfulness and festivity, on a much higher rung than the Sabbath. Many a person who would never dream of forgetting to celebrate Ĥanukka in the grand manner will not think twice of violating the sanctity of the Sabbath. Similarly, there are many other inversions of values. In many a home where kashrut has long been abandoned, the unveiling of a tombstone is regarded as one of the fundamentals of our faith. How horrified some people are when they hear their rabbi minimizing the importance of the unveiling. And how irritated they are when they hear that same rabbi emphasizing the significance of kashrut.
2. All modern man, and especially Jews, suffers from intense feelings of alienation, from both philosophical and emotional loneliness. We feel that we do not really belong in this world. We know that we are not completely accepted by our beloved country – not with the pact with Saudi Arabia, not with the constant emphasis of this being a Christian country, not with the plague of the Sunday Blue Laws which discriminate against Saturday Sabbath observance. Our relations with Israel are only philanthropic and sentimental, not sufficiently strong to diminish our sense of estrangement and loneliness. So much of what goes by the name of “American Judaism” has absolutely nothing to do with God, so that we are estranged from Him too. And in our loneliness, in our estrangement and solitude, we nervously look about for more and more entertainment, we obsessively seek our luxuries; even our laughter becomes anxious instead of relaxed. No wonder so many moderns find that they must, out of their solitude, turn to the couch of the psychiatrist to seek solace and a sense of being wanted.
3. Jews of certain kinds come to conclusions which are bleakly pessimistic. They become prophets of complete assimilation, prognosticators of doom. You recall the two prophets, one a professor and one a historian, who recently wrote in the B’nai Brith Monthly, that we Jews have no religious future in this country.

So that like Lot of old, the value-inversion, the loneliness, and the pessimism are our heritage.

And were we to trace these consequences to their original source, we would find this too identical with the source of Lot’s woes. The “original sin” of American Jewry is: “And Lot traveled from kedem.” We have used all kinds of excuses, especially that of financial necessity, as the reason and justification for leaving Kidmono shel olam, Almighty God. Like Lot, we do keep up certain practices that come from the house of Abraham in order to assuage our consciences: we hang Jewish paintings on the walls, we display a big Ĥanukka menora, our living rooms are amply stocked with Israeli ashtrays…but Judaism and Jewishness are otherwise not noticeable in our lives. Like Lot, we have begun to live an underground existence insofar as our Jewishness is concerned; for, like the nephew of Abraham, we have learned to adjust to every conceivable kind of Sodomite practice in the world around us. “He caused himself to travel away from Kidmono shel olam.”

By running out on the God of Abraham, we have brought on ourselves all these undesirable and unfortunate consequences.

But of course things need not necessarily be thus. We are not – yet – too far gone. There can still be a realignment in Jewish life in this country. But in order to accomplish that, the process has to be reversed: instead of going away from Abraham and all he stands for, we must go back. We must not leave kedem, but go back to kedem. “Return” is, indeed, the original meaning of teshuva. We must return to Kidmono shel olam. The only way to achieve the proper spiritual orientation and perspective, to keep our sense of values; the only way to achieve a sense of being wanted, warm, closest to God, a sense of rootedness; the only way to arrive at an optimistic, healthful, sanguine attitude to Jewish life, and life in general – is to return to Kidmono shel olam, to reverse the process of “And Lot traveled from kedem.”

And to facilitate that great return is one of the chief functions of our synagogue, and of any other genuine Orthodox synagogue. One of the three meanings of “kadima” is “back to kedem,” back to Kidmono shel olam, back to God.

If we are to escape the lot of Lot, we must heed the call of “kadima,” the return to God, to Torah, to tradition, to the origins of our life and the spiritual resources through which it can thrive and through which it will survive.