Category: Excerpts

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

Of Fire and Water

The words “fire” and “water,” as we shall be using them, describe two supplementary modes of God’s relationship with the world, and our human reactions to Him. These two times, and the powerful ideas and emotions they connote, come from the writings of the illustrious Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, der alter Rebbe, founder of the intellectual or Habad school of Hasidism, and whose 150th yahrzeit world Jewry celebrates this year.

Rabbi Shneur Zalman makes his point of departure an important verse in this morning’s sidra. We read (Exodus 13:9), “lema’an tiheyeh Torat Hashem befikha ki beyad ĥazaka hotziakha Hashem miMitzrayim,” “in order that the Torah of the Lord be in thy mouth, for with a strong hand did the Lord take thee out of Egypt.” What, asks Rabbi Shneur Zalman, is the relationship between the two halves of this verse? Why should our study of Torah be the reaction to God’s taking us out of Egypt?

It is in response to this question that Rabbi Shneur Zalman develops the theme of the two kinds of love, that which is compared to fire and that likened to water.

There is one kind of love that we might term “normal.” Like the flow of water, it is regular and unceasing. Like water, it never falters or changes in intensity. The objects of this kind of love are equally and indiscriminately covered with the waters of affection, like pebbles in a brook. It is a love whose evenness and constancy are reassuring. This is the ahava that is compared to mayim, water.

But there is also a second kind of love, the ahava that is similar to eish, or fire. This fiery love lacks the consistency of the first kind. It is temperamental, flickering, shifty. Like a burning, uncertain flame, its intensity varies radically and erratically. It has the quality that mystics call “ratzo vashov,” that of alternation between love that one moment can be nothing but a dark ember, seemingly cold and lifeless, and in the next may burst out in uncontrolled passion and fiery yearning, breaking all bonds and threatening to engulf limitless horizons in its consuming fervor.

Now man’s religious feelings are a response to God’s feeling for man. The love that we feel for God is a reaction to the love God has for us – even as in our Shaĥarit and Ma’ariv services, we read first the Ahava Rabba (or Ahavat Olam), the declaration of divine love for us, and then we read the Shema, which is immediately followed by “ve’ahavta et Hashem Elohekha,” “thou shalt love thy God,” the love of man for God. God’s love for man evokes man’s love for God – there is a holy reciprocity between the Creator and His creatures.

When man considers God’s dealings with Israel, he finds they come in two categories. The fact that God gives us existence, that He gives us life and sustenance, that He provides for all our daily needs, both material and psychological – these are evident of God’s normal love for man. It is similar to a parent’s love for his children. It is the love that we have compared to water – regular and unerring, constant and consistent. From the moment of Creation, the world has not ceased to exist nor has it changed the rules whereby it flourishes. Here, indeed, is a token of God’s ahava similar to mayim. In response to this, the Jew must demonstrate his similar love for God. This love too must be constant and even, regular and ongoing. Like water, it must be pure and sparkling; it must flow evenly and regularly. We must be conscious of God in all our deeds and in every aspect of our lives. The performance of the mitzvot, which covers all of our lives, is an expression of our love for God, the love that is similar to water.

But there are times when God’s relations with the world are more than the normal, when they are extraordinary, far above the usual. There are times when but for God’s direct intervention and concern with man, the “normal” course of events would inexorably drive him to certain destruction. There are certain critical moments in history, such as Yetziat Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt, when all natural laws and historical processes seem to be suspended, as the Eternal pierces the present and the Timeless parts the curtains of time and steps onto the stage of history.  It is in these unique moments when we suddenly become aware of the fact that God’s love for us is more than the love of mayim, it is the love of eish; that in addition to the constant and consistent love of God for man, that which gives man his very existence and breath and being, there is a special, fiery, passionate, ineffable kind of love that is sacred, unquenchable, and inextinguishable and in which God envelopes man and Israel.

When we consider the Almighty as the God of Creation, He who formed heaven and earth, who initiated the laws of nature, then we speak of God’s love for man as the love of water. But when we speak of “I am the Lord thy God who took thee out of the land of Egypt,” the Lord of history, He in whose hand is the destiny of man and the fate of nations, then we speak of the Almighty who loves with the love of fire. As Creator, God’s love is like water; as Redeemer His love is like fire.

And when the Jew comes to this new understanding, the appreciation of the ahava of eish that God has for him, then his only response is, in turn, a fiery and passionate reaching out for God. Then all of existence seems to be transformed to a new level of transcendence, when suddenly, climactically and dramatically, a new vision ennobles man’s soul, a new understanding grips his mind, and a powerful love elevates his heart to unprecedented heights. Then man, too, offers us a love of fire for his beloved Redeemer. At this moment the soul of the Jew strives to wrench loose from its bodily bearings, and like a leaping flame of fire which strains to tear itself away from the wick, as if reaching for some mysterious, invisible lover, man’s soul ecstatically grasps upward, yearning for the world of the infinite, for the delights of pure spirit. It is a kind of love which is ratzo vashov, alternating in intensity and depression – one moment the Jew’s spirit lies exhausted, when he fears that all his love for God and Torah is based upon a phantom, when he suspects that his religious loyalties are the result of some kind of psychological aberration, that they are mere fantasies – and the next moment, the fire of the spirit breaks into life again, as he conquers his fears, and a new sense of certainty surges up and strengthens him and he soars upward once again in the holy love of God. Then the Jew is no longer satisfied with his regular, normal, ordinary observance of the mitzvot. For this higher kind of love, the love of eish, fire, that which beckons man on to unscaled heights, can be expressed not through the usual modes of Jewish religious behavior, but only through the study of Torah! It is here, in the seemingly dry fields of the intellect, that Jewish religious experience reaches its most fervent climax. For Torah is the word of God. The study of this Torah is, therefore, the most direct attachment to God Himself available to us. Torah is the place for contact between natural man and supernatural God.

So that, according to Rabbi Shneur Zalman, as we have interpreted him, man’s normal religious behavior is a reaction to God’s gift of normal life and existence – in both cases, the love compared to water. But when man is the recipient of God’s special effort, of His special intervention in his destiny, as in the case of Yetziat Mitzrayim, then his response, too, must be on the level of the love of fire – and that is the study of Torah. That is why the Torah says in this morning’s sidra, “lema’an tiheyeh Torat Hashem befikha, ki beyad ĥazaka hotziakha Hashem miMitzrayim,” “in order that the Torah of the Lord be in thy mouth, for with a strong hand did the Lord take thee out of Egypt” (Exodus 13:9). Man’s fiery love – the study of Torah – comes in return for God’s fiery love – the Exodus from Egypt.

Such considerations are relevant not only for those who are mystically inclined, who are endowed with vast inner regions of religious ecstasy and emotion. They are decidedly germane to our contemporary condition. Most of us in this synagogue today are, to a greater or lesser degree, observant Jews. We observe what we observe, we give charity and support Jewish institutions, we may even occasionally attend a lecture or shiur – even as we have last year and the year before that and the years before that. We may feel no special mystical stirrings deep within our hearts – but the very nature of our lives bespeaks a kind of love of God. It is the love compared to water: cool, even, unchanging, and with a decided purity of intentions. It is a kind of love that, like water, has found its level – the level we are at now is the one, most likely, that we have had for a long time before and expect to maintain for a long time in the future.

But the question is, is that enough for our times? The nature of our religious loyalties, after all, must be commensurate and equivalent with what we consider God’s relation to us. If we live in “normal” times, relatively speaking, then we could not demand more than a “normal” level of Jewish loyalty. But, my friends, we do not live in any so-called normal times. Our times are decidedly abnormal. Today God’s relationship with Israel is not like water but like fire, ratzo vashov, alternating from seemingly almost a complete divine indifference to our fate to a decisive intervention in our destiny; from the low point of terrible massacres to the high point of a regenerated and reconstituted Jewish nation.  A flame is flickering in the heart of the Almighty, and we dare not fail to respond to it properly. These are the most decisive days mankind has ever known – there may very well be no tomorrow for anyone. Jewishly speaking, we are today at the most fateful roads in our long story – on the one hand, assimilation can suddenly take over both here and in Israel and draw the curtain on the last act of Jewish history, or, on the other hand, a little initiative by us, a little fire, a little neshama, can tilt the scales in the other direction and we can create for ourselves a future of Torah, of Yiddishkeit, a future where the word of God will be found in the land once again and where man’s eyes and heart will not be blind to the vision of sanctity.

We cannot afford merely to be observant Jews as we were in the past. Not for us the love of water; from now on only the passionate love of fire. Water is water – it is there naturally and that is all there is to it. Fire is not just “there.” It requires a wick. It requires fuel. It requires someone to ignite it. And that is just what is demanded of us. Our prayer must no longer be cold and correct – it must be charged with life and warmth. Our philanthropy must have neshama in it, and not remain begrudging and measured. Our performance of mitzvot must contain an element of abandon, even ecstasy. But above all, we must rededicate ourselves to more extensive and deeper study of Torah. We must ignite our fellow men with the secret flame of God that burns in our heart. We must dedicate ourselves to the tasks of Judaism with new initiative, with greater depth and intensity. “Lema’an tiheyeh Torat Hashem befikha” – the Torah of the Lord must be in our mouth, it must enter into the very cavern of our bodies and grip our insides and transform our very being.

The times we live in are great and dangerous times. Both catastrophe and opportunity commingle on the horizon. Watery loyalties are no longer sufficient. The Orthodox Jew cannot afford to react with the same superficiality and placid serenity with which he conducted his religious life a generation or two ago. What is required of us is a new level of intensity, a new “leap of action,” a commitment of every fiber of our being to the great and holy enterprise of Jewish living, a new paean of praise to the Almighty in which there will participate every aspect of our being – intellectual, emotional, charitable, actional.

If once, as our Torah tells us this morning, we were commanded to study Torah because God took us out of Egypt, fire for fire, then today the order is reversed: We must first offer to God a fiery love and loyalty, expressed in terms of Torah, so that He, in turn, will bring us out of our present Egypt – the danger of world cataclysm, of Jewish ignorance, and human indifference.

Let us raise our torch of love to the Almighty, and may He respond with a combination of divine warmth and light which will illuminate our paths in the years that lie ahead.

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

Pharaoh’s Free Will

Context

At the core of Jewish theology lies a taut balance between three components which define the very parameters of our lives. While the details of this balance have been debated across the centuries, the majority approach can be summarized in the following three points.
1. Free will: The belief that man freely chooses his way and defines the quality of his life is central to Jewish thought. Without free will man cannot be an independent being, responsible before God for his actions.
2. Prescience: Almost all classical Jewish scholars maintain that God is aware of all future events, including man’s personal choices. God’s prior knowledge, however, does not affect man’s freely made choices.
3. Predestination: Judaism recognizes that elements of our lives are clearly predetermined. On an individual level, predetermined elements include our genetic makeup, when and where we are born, and to whom we are born. On a national level, our belief in Mashiach and a messianic era reflects our conviction that our history is moving towards a definite, predefined goal. In spite of these predetermined elements of life, however, the quality and details of both our personal and national journeys remain in our hands.

As long as the above components stay firmly within their boundaries, the philosophical balance between them remains understandable. Turmoil results, however, when the balance is upset.

Even before Moshe returns to Egypt, God predicts, “And I will harden [Pharaoh’s] heart and he will not let the people go.” On a number of occasions, as the Exodus narrative continues, the Torah states that God makes good on His promise and actually “hardens the heart” of the Egyptian king.

Questions

The Torah seems to indicate that God robs Pharaoh of his rightful free will. By “hardening Pharaoh’s heart” doesn’t God unfairly predetermine both Pharaoh’s choices and his (and his nation’s) resulting fate? Jewish tradition views tshuva (repentance or return) as an inalienable right granted by God to every individual. How can God deny that right to Pharaoh?

The textual record is inconsistent. After each of the first five plagues the Torah states that Pharaoh “hardens” his own heart, apparently of his own free will. Only in conjunction with the sixth through tenth plagues does God fulfill His prediction by “hardening the heart” of the Egyptian monarch.

What causes the change in Pharaoh’s mindset and in God’s response?

Approaches

The rabbis were well aware that the issues surrounding the apparent suspension of Pharaoh’s free will strike to the very core of Jewish belief.

Thus, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai is quoted in the Midrash Rabba as stating, “[The textual testimony concerning Pharaoh] provides an opening for heretics to say: ‘[Pharaoh] was not allowed to repent.’ ”

And, centuries later, both the Ramban and the Ibn Ezra wonder aloud, “If God hardened Pharaoh’s heart, then what was [Pharaoh’s] sin?”

Rising to the obvious challenges raised by these concerns, the authorities suggest a wide array of approaches.

A
At one end of the spectrum lie those, such as Shmuel David Luzzatto (Shadal), who find the problems so troubling that they feel compelled to claim that the questions are not questions at all:

Know that all acts can be ascribed to God, for all are caused by Him – some through absolute decree and others through man’s free choice which has been granted by Him…. It can therefore be said that [God], as the author of all acts, hardened Pharaoh’s heart.

Pharaoh’s choices are made totally of his own free will. These very choices, however, like all events in the world, ultimately trace back to God Who is the One Who grants Pharaoh and all mankind free will in the first place. The assertion that God “hardens Pharaoh’s heart” is simply the text’s way of indicating a fundamental connection between Pharaoh’s independent choices and the divine source of his free will.

This circular reasoning, however, raises an obvious question: How, then, can the Torah ever speak of actions independently performed by individuals? Why doesn’t the text attribute every decision made by each of its characters, as it does in the case of Pharaoh, to its ultimate source, God?

Luzzatto addresses this objection by maintaining that only actions that defy logic, such as Pharaoh’s obstinacy in the face of the plagues, are actually ascribed in the text to God.

B
Other scholars, unwilling to dismiss the overwhelming textual evidence that God actually “hardens Pharaoh’s heart,” attempt mightily to reconcile that fact with Judaism’s fundamental view on free will and repentance.

Two intriguing alternatives, for example, are offered by the Abravanel.

1. Different sins warrant different paths towards absolution.
Sincere contrition, prayer and remorse can effect full atonement for sins committed against God. Crimes against one’s fellow man, however, will not be forgiven as long as the ledgers remain open in the human sphere.

Atonement cannot, for example, be attained for the crime of thievery until the theft is returned or replaced and appropriate fines are paid. An individual guilty of murder must be punished in an earthly court before he can be cleared in the heavenly realm. Pharaoh and the Egyptians are guilty of horrendous crimes against the Israelites – crimes which, by definition, give rise to requisite physical punishment. By hardening Pharaoh’s heart, God ironically clears the way for the atonement of Pharaoh and his people. The punishment of the plagues is the first, necessary step along the Egyptians’ path of repentance.

2. The “hardening of Pharaoh’s heart” was directly caused by the methodology of the plagues.

Had God afflicted the Egyptians with one unending plague, Pharaoh would have eventually relented. In order to demonstrate His own power to the world, however, God specifically visits a series of plagues upon Egypt. As each calamity ends, the Egyptian king rationalizes that the event had occurred of natural causes. Clearly, he reasons, had the plague been divinely ordained, it would not have been lifted until the Israelites were freed.

The “hardening of Pharaoh’s heart” is not an independent phenomenon but an inevitable outgrowth of the manner in which God orchestrates the plagues.

C
A number of commentaries, including the Sforno, insist that God’s actions vis-à-vis Pharaoh do not impede but actually enhance the king’s free will. Had God not “hardened the king’s heart,” they claim, Pharaoh would have been “forced” to choose a path for all the wrong reasons:

Had it not been for the “hardening of his heart,” Pharaoh would have certainly released the Israelites; not, however, because of a sincere desire to repent and submit to divine will, but because he could no longer bear the suffering caused by the plagues…. God, therefore, “hardened Pharaoh’s heart” and fortified his ability to endure the plagues, so that the king would not release the Israelites simply because of fear of the impending calamities.

According to these commentaries, God certainly seeks the repentance of Pharaoh and the Egyptians, but only if that repentance is sincere. God launches the plagues, therefore, hoping that the Egyptians will be moved by His power and His merciful insistence upon freedom for all. True repentance, however, cannot take place under duress. God, therefore, hardens Pharaoh against the physical and mental effects of the calamities. By doing so, He affords the king and his subjects the opportunity to repent of their own free will, not because of the pain of the plagues, but because of their message.

D
The most revolutionary approach to the issues before us, however, actually emerges from an early source. In contrast to the positions cited above, the Midrash cites an opinion which accepts the suspension of Pharaoh’s free will and right to repentance. The Talmudic scholar Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish  (Reish Lakish) maintains that if an individual fails to return to God after repeated warnings, God then closes that individual’s heart to repentance in order to “exact punishment for his sin.”

God, continues Reish Lakish, gives Pharaoh five chances to repent: the first five plagues. On each of these occasions, however, the Egyptian monarch hardens his own heart, refusing to bend to God’s will. At that point God intervenes, suspends Pharaoh’s free will and closes the door to his spiritual return.

This opinion acquires greater poignancy when we recognize that its author, Reish Lakish, was himself no stranger to the path of repentance. Living in the wilderness where he made his livelihood as a bandit, Reish Lakish was swayed to turn his life around through a chance encounter with the man destined to become his scholarly colleague and brother-inlaw, Rabbi Yochanan.

Perhaps Reish Lakish felt himself nearing the point of no return before fate played a hand and pulled him back from the brink.

E
Numerous commentaries are unwilling to accept the Midrash at face value, refusing to believe that God would deny even Pharaoh the right to repentance. The Rambam, however, clearly codifies Reish Lakish’s position in his laws of repentance:

It is possible that a man may commit a sin so grave, or so many sins…that repentance is denied to him and he is not given the opportunity to turn away from his evil…

Therefore the Torah states “and I [God] will harden the heart of Pharaoh.” Because Pharaoh initially sinned of his own volition, divine judgment was rendered that he be denied the possibility of repentance so that he would pay for his crimes.

The Rambam’s assertion brings our discussion full circle. In contrast to the attempts to explain away the apparent suspension of Pharaoh’s free will, Maimonides himself is willing to accept what at first seemed unthinkable. The ability to repent, itself a gift from God, is not an inalienable right under all circumstances. This gift will be denied to the perpetrators of the most heinous crimes, to ensure that they receive the justice they deserve.

Points to Ponder

Even our most basic assumptions must sometimes be reexamined.

This study opened with the contention that the whole fabric of Jewish tradition begins to unravel if free will and repentance are denied to any individual. That assumption, in the main, certainly remains correct. There are, however, according to some authorities, exceptions to the rule. Some crimes are so unforgivable that God will suspend the perpetrator’s basic rights in order to ensure that justice prevails.

How, however, does this assertion fare in the moral realm? If God denies even the most evil their rights, can these individuals ever be held culpable for their crimes? We can, perhaps, better address this question by moving the issue into more familiar territory.

If, God forbid, Adolf Hitler stood before us today and proclaimed true remorse for his crimes, would God grant him absolution? Should the opportunity for repair be available to all or should certain individuals, through the nature of their crimes, lose that very opportunity? Which of these possible approaches captures the moral high ground? Here, it would seem that, according to the Rambam, Jewish and Catholic traditions part company. For while fundamental Christian theology preaches that repentance remains available to all under all circumstances, the Rambam maintains that repentance is a right which can be lost. Actions speak louder than words. No amount of remorse, contrition, confession or prayer can truly erase the crimes of a Pharaoh, a Hitler or a Stalin. The mobster who confesses to his priest after scores of murders cannot, according to the Rambam, wipe the slate clean.

There comes a point when even a merciful God is unwilling to forgive.

This realization causes the concept of tshuva to become substantially more fragile within our own lives. While, please God, none of us will even come close to the point where the right of repentance is totally denied to us, who knows whether such denial might be applied piecemeal? Perhaps a particular failure can become so habitual, so embedded in our lives, that the opportunity to turn away from that failure is lost.

Who knows where the tipping point might be? The gifts of free will and tshuva should never be taken for granted; we never know the exact moment when those gifts might be taken away.

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

How to Raise a Moses

The birth of Moses, which is described in this morning’s scriptural reading, is mentioned by the Rabbis in a most interesting and extraordinary Talmudic passage (Song of Songs Rabba 1:3). They aver that Rabbi Judah the Prince, known as Rebbe, was “yosheiv vedoresh,” preaching to his congregation. And as he was so doing, he was faced with a most distressing problem that has presented itself to generations of public speakers, and especially rabbis and preachers: “nitnanem hatzibbur,” “his audience began to fall asleep.” To this day, that is a major problem that is rather difficult to solve. Even the very best speaker always has one or two people in his audience who prefer a cozy nap to challenging oratory, and who find more consolation in dozing than in thinking. It is sometimes fascinating to watch heads nod and eyes grow heavy, even before the speaker has opened his mouth. When, however, the entire congregation starts to doze off, that is a bad situation. And so, moved by the speaker’s instincts, Rebbe “bikeish le’oreran,” “he tried to wake them up.”

How do you wake up a sleeping congregation? Some speakers merely raise their voices. Trusting in volume more than in quality, they shout their listeners out of sleep. Other, and more modern brands of rabbis, turn sensational, and they change themes to the Kinsey-review type of talk. Perhaps that will keep them awake. It is a kind of sensationalism that works at times. But a Rebbe – a saint and a scholar – does not rely on such techniques. He relies on other kinds of methods. And so, he said: “yalda isha beMitzrayim shishim ribo bekeres aĥat,” “one Jewish woman in Egypt gave birth to 600,000 children at one time.” A rather sensational remark. And it is meticulously recorded by our Rabbis that at least one of his listeners was jolted by this piece of intelligence, and his name was Yishmael ben Rabbi Yose, and he asked Rebbe what he meant by that, and how it was possible. And Rebbe replied, “zu Yokheved sheyalda et Moshe sheshakul keneged shishim ribo shel Yisrael,” the woman was Yocheved, mother of Moses, who bore Moses, who was as worthy and weighty as the 600,000 Jews he led out of Egypt to freedom and Revelation.

It is, indeed, a sensational remark. It is sensational that a woman can be blessed with a son who can lead and spark and inspire and teach a whole nation. It is sensational for parents to be the lucky parents of a Moses. Not everyone has that good fortune. And yet, all parents ask themselves and ask others, what do we have to do to deserve great children – not just well-adjusted children who will follow the lead of everyone else, not just children who will be colorlessly “normal,” who will never rise higher than the pitifully low average and remain happy in their ignorance and commonness – but children who will serve and inspire and lead and achieve for a whole people and a whole world? How can parents deserve that kind of child? How can they become parents of Moseses? That is the question. And the only way to answer that question is to learn something about Amram, the father of Moses, and Yocheved – she who, according to Rebbe, gave birth to 600,000 at one time. Three qualities will become clear to us, three qualities possessed by the parents of Moses that can be emulated by modern adults who wish to be proud forebears of great progeny.

The first prerequisite for seeing greatness in your child is to have some of it yourself. Superiority and greatness are not spontaneously generated. A child must be able to observe, subconsciously, the personalities and conduct of his parents. Only then can he build on that foundation. Before a child can flower into greatness, he must receive a seed of it from his parents.

Thus, Amram is described in our Rabbinic literature (Midrash Sekhel Tov, Exodus, ch. 2), as “gedol Yisrael ugedol ha’aretz,” “a great Jew and a great man.” He was a leader of his people, and though he never attained a tenth of his son’s greatness and renown, nevertheless, his own superiority was something which Moses was able to develop further. Yocheved is known as “isha tzadkanit,” a most pious and righteous woman (Sota 11b). Only when a mother is devout can her son become a true saint, a Moses.

Basically, therefore, it is important for parents to remember that the way to raise great children is not to forsake their own development. By concentrating solely on their children’s development and completely neglecting their own, parents give children the impression that study and achievement and religion and the like are only for children. Why, then, should they continue to practice it when they come of age? For a child to be studious, he must see his father and mother reading and studying. For a child to be generous, he must see generosity in his parents. For a child to be sincere and hard-working, he must notice at least a trace of it in his elders. Prerequisite number one, then, for great children, is un-petty and un-small parents – adults who themselves aspire to self-development.

The second quality goes a step further. Not only must a father and mother each be superior in his and her own right, but they must be magnanimous towards each other. In other words, there must be a good, peaceful, happy, and loving home. An exemplary Jewish home is a splendid way of assuring eminent children. Our Rabbis said (Shabbat 23b) that “haragil beneir havyen lei banim talmidei ĥakhamim,” “a woman who faithfully observes the requirement to light the Sabbath candles will have children who will be scholars.” Why? Because, as we know, the neirot Shabbat are the symbol of shalom bayit, of domestic happiness and conjugal bliss. Where there is a good home, there will be good children.

Listen to the Bible’s description of the origins of Moses: “vayelekh ish mibeit Levi vayikaĥ et bat Levi,” a man from the tribe of Levi married a woman from the same tribe (Exodus 2:1). That is all. No fanfare, no deification of the parents, no ascension to heaven, no beatification or official sainthood for his father or his mother. And, as the Zohar points out, not even their names are given in this simple account! It is all betzina, all in modesty and humbleness and quietness. That is the true mark of a good Jewish home – tzina. It is a quiet and peaceful, unnoisy, and gentle home. It is a home of shalom bayit that can produce a Moses. It is a home where parents are devoted to each other, where Shabbos is Shabbos, and where great difficulties are solved by recourse to God. The historian Josephus records in his Antiquities (Book ii, ch. ix: 3) a beautiful prayer that Amram prayed before Moses was born, asking God to protect the Jewish people, and the appearance of God in a dream to Amram, telling him that his son, soon to be born, will be the one who will deliver Israel from its foes, and “his memory shall be famous while the world lasts.” When parents are devoted to each other, and remember God, their child has the chance to be like Moses, the memory of whom lasts forever.

The third quality is one demonstrated by Amram in a remarkable and striking story recorded by our Sages (Mekhilta DeRashbi, 2:19a). Remember that Pharaoh had ordained that every Jewish boy be drowned in the Nile. It was clearly the plan of Egypt to execute genocide against Israel and destroy them forever. And the plan was put into effect, and Jewish babies were being killed by the thousands. Imagine the bitterness of Jewish parents, especially mothers, who had labored and travailed and then had their babes torn out of their embracing arms to be cast into the river before their very eyes. What unimaginable anguish they must have experienced as year after year their children were taken from them and killed! When Amram, who, as previously stated, was a leader of the Israelites, saw what was occurring, he divorced his wife, and counseled all Jews to do the same, crying out “lama anu meyagim et atzmeinu leĥinam,” “why do we labor for naught?” What use is there in bearing children if they are to be killed? Why go on with life when no life is promised to us? Let us put an end to this tragic farce! Let us not produce targets for their trigger-practice. Let us not give the Egyptians the opportunity to impose their sadism upon our tots. Let every Jewish man leave his wife, and let no more Jewish children be born. Let us not fight against fate.

And so, for a long while, according to tradition, Amram separated from Yocheved, and the great majority of all Israelites did the same. But then his daughter, Miriam, urged him to reconsider. She told him this was no solution, since by doing this he was merely saving the Egyptian hordes the task of making Israel extinct. She spoke to him of hope and courage and determination and sacrifice. And Amram listened to his daughter. He began to understand that it is truly possible that some day the dark and heavy clouds will part to allow a ray of sunshine to brighten their lives. He began to foresee the possibility that God would not remain silent, that help would yet come, and that despair would not solve anything. And so he instructed his people to return to their wives and their homes and fling a challenge to the teeth of Fate. And how beautifully do the Sages describe the remarriage of Amram and Yocheved: Amram built an “apiryon” or ĥuppa for her, and their children, Aaron and Miriam, danced before them. The very angels of heaven sang for them with the words “eim habanim semeiĥa halleluya,” “the mother of children is happy, praise the Lord” (Psalms 113:9). And out of that remarriage was born Moses, the very person who would force the black clouds apart and bring the rays of freedom into the empty lives of his downtrodden people. “Vehiskima da’ato leda’at haMakom,” say our Rabbis – Amram’s decision was in accordance with God’s will.

That is what parents must be if their children are to be Moseses. They must have faith even when in the hard grip of doom and gloom. They must show courage even when it seems utterly ridiculous to do so. They must be able to challenge destiny and dare fate and stand firm in the face of overwhelming odds and almost certain defeat. That trust in the future, in God’s justice, is what gives parents the right to have a child like Moses.

Amram and Yocheved were able to foresee ultimate help. Moses was then the man to prophesize geula even during the thick of galut. Amram and Yocheved looked into the waters of the Nile and saw that God would save the indestructible babies cast therein. Moses was able to see a “seneh bo’er ba’esh,” the burning bush (Exodus 3:2), in the desert, the bush which burns but is never destroyed.

That is a mark of greatness – the ability to hope and hold out for the sun to shine again. Only that can awaken a slumbering, moribund, coma-bound people. Let no one ever question where the next generation of Jews will come from. They will come from big cities and small towns, wherever there is a Jewish school and wherever there are parents who have in them a touch of Amram and Yocheved, parents of Moses.

If there be amongst us a man and woman who can continue his and her own development and growth as true and great Jews and Jewesses, and who can live, husband with wife, so that the Jewish verities and virtues and tzina and shalom bayit are truly implanted in their home – a home of domestic happiness and Jewishness, and maximal Jewish education – and if these people can doggedly maintain the firm faith that greater times are yet to come for our people and that we must build and plan and labor for those great times when Jews will be great and learned and proud and unashamed and full-blooded Jews, then such parents deserve Moseses. It is they who will give birth to millions at one time, to men and women who will rise to the leadership of Israel and serve their people and their God in truth and faith.

It was not so long ago that every Jewish mother harbored the secret wish that her child become the Mashiaĥ, the savior of Israel. And no, it was not naïve or primitive. It was Jewish through and through. The wife of R. Maimon in Spain wanted – and got – a Maimonides for a child. The mother of the Vilna Gaon prayed for one like him, and deserved him, and therefore bore him. Who would not have laughed at the mothers of the leaders of modern Israel had they heard them silently praying that their children be leaders of their people?

It is this that can wake up a people when “nitnamnem hatzibur,” when they begin to succumb to another sleep. It is this which can shake them out of the lethargy and drowsiness which come from despair. Yes, a woman can give birth to 600,000. A parent can develop a child who will reflect the worth and value and strength of an entire people. It can be done. But it requires these three: self-development of the parents, a good Jewish home of happiness and peace and Torah, and the faith and courage and strength to hope and hold out for better and greater eras to come.

There is nothing more sensational than the knowledge that it is within the power of each and every one of us to raise a Moses.

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

A Retrospective: Was All This Really Necessary?

Context

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

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

Questions

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

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

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

Approaches

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C
The patriarchal era establishes a preexisting national legacy.

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

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

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

Points to Ponder

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Being Consistent to a Fault

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is it that is wrong with over-consistency?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excerpted from The Light That Unites by Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider

Making A Miracle Great

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

A Kabbalistic Perspective on the Thirty-Six Candles of Chanukah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~

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

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

 

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

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

To Appease or Not to Appease

Context

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

Questions

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

Approaches

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Points to Ponder

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

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

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

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

The Stone on the Well – Boulder or Pebble?*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

*November 29, 1952.

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

Finding Yitzchak

Context

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

Questions

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

Approaches

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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