| Everyday Jewish Living

Posted on January 29, 2014 February 25, 2020

Parshat Teruma— Interpreting God’s Blueprint

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

Context

As previously indicated, God initiates the creation of the Mishkan (the portable Sanctuary in the desert) with the seemingly straightforward directive, “And they shall create for me a mikdash (a holy place), and I will dwell within them.”

Questions

Two linguistic issues emerge upon careful review of the commandment concerning the Mishkan.

Why does God state, “and I will dwell within them”? Parallel structure would have mandated that the sentence read: “And they shall make for Me a holy place, and I will dwell within it.”

Why does the Torah use the generic term mikdash (holy place) in this commandment? This is the only occasion in the text where the portable desert Sanctuary is not referred to by its specific name: Mishkan.

Approaches

In light of our previous discussion concerning the Mishkan, the apparent non-parallel structure of this commandment makes abundant sense. The Torah does not state “and I will dwell within it,” because God does not dwell in the Mishkan nor will He dwell later in the Beit Hamikdash.

Centuries later, in his historic address on the occasion of the First Temple’s dedication in Jerusalem, Shlomo Hamelech (King Solomon) makes this point clear:

Will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, the heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot contain You; how much less this house that I have built? Turn, therefore, to the prayer of Your servant and to his supplication… that Your eyes will be open towards this house night and day…. And You will listen to the supplication of Your servant and of Your nation Israel that they shall pray towards this place…

Shlomo’s sentiments are thus foreshadowed in the Torah text with the very first introduction of the Mishkan, the precursor of both Temples. The Torah states, “and I will dwell within them,” to stress that the purpose of the Sanctuary is to bring God into the lives of the people. Whether a sign of God’s reconciliation with the nation after the sin of the golden calf or a corrective for that sin or an originally mandated symbol of continued divine presence, the Sanctuary serves to represent God’s constant accessibility to man.

Some commentaries, including the Malbim, go a step further in their interpretation of the phrase “and I will dwell within them.” The Israelites are commanded, they say, to build not only a physical sanctuary in the midst of the camp, but an internal spiritual sanctuary within each of their souls. They are thus instructed to create a place for God to “dwell within them” – in the hearts of the individual Israelites and their descendents.

Concerning the text’s use of the generic term mikdash, in place of the more specific Mishkan, a number of scholars maintain that the chosen terminology reflects the continuing character of the obligation. The nation is commanded from the outset to erect a mikdash (a holy place), not only at this point in their history, but also when they successfully establish a presence in their homeland.

The Rambam codifies this eternal mitzva as follows: “It is a positive commandment to build a ‘House for the Lord’…as it states, ‘And they shall make for Me a holy place…’ ”

The Ohr Hachaim derives a beautiful additional lesson from the text’s use of the word mikdash.

The sequence within the sentence “And they shall make for Me a holy place, and I will dwell within them,” he claims, is counterintuitive. One would expect the Sanctuary to become “holy” only after the investiture of God’s presence. By referring to the Sanctuary immediately as a mikdash, a holy place, the Torah conveys that the Temple is holy from the moment that the Israelites create it – even before God fulfills His commitment to “dwell” within the nation.

The commandment to build the Temple thus reconfirms the fundamental truth repeated over and over again, in different ways, during the critical period of our nation’s birth: Sanctity is created in this world when man acts in accordance with God’s will. Man, as God’s partner, invests the Sanctuary with holiness.

Points to Ponder

Two points for consideration concerning the term mikdash:

1. If the commandment to build the mikdash is ongoing, are we not obligated to construct the Third Temple in Israel in our day? While numerous positions concerning this issue are staked out by the halachists, the approach presented by the Sefer Hachinuch is particularly intriguing.

The Ba’al Hachinuch explains that the parameters of the obligation to build a “holy place” shift dramatically with the building of the first permanent Temple in Jerusalem (tenth century bce). From that time on, the commandment is effective only when the majority of the Jewish nation is living in the Land of Israel.

An immediate challenge to the Ba’al Hachinuch’s position, however, emerges from a clear historical reality. The Second Temple was erected at the end of the Babylonian exile, when the vast majority of “exiles” tragically opted to forgo a return to Zion and remain in Babylon. Why, then, was the Second Temple built by the minority who did return?

Rabbi Yehoshua of Kotno defends the Ba’al Hachinuch with a bold contention: the Jews of Babylon remained in “exile” of their own choice. They therefore effectively ceded their rights to the Temple and could no longer, through their absence, prevent its rebuilding.

The Ba’al Hachinuch’s basic contention and Rabbi Yehoshua’s further observation highlight the historic opportunities and challenges of our day. As the balance of Jewish life inexorably shifts from the diaspora to the State of Israel, we are rapidly approaching the point when the majority of Jews will be living in their homeland. Will we be biblically obligated at that point, political exigencies aside, to commence rebuilding the Temple?

Even further, an argument might be made that the “tipping point” concerning the Temple has already been reached. The majority of diaspora Jews today, like the Babylonian Jews of the Second Temple period, live in an “exile of choice” with the opportunity of return to the Land of Israel fully available. Have those of us in the diaspora lost our “rights” to the Temple? If so, should the Beit Hamikdash be built today, even in our absence?

The question remains academic given the political realities as well as other philosophical/halachic concerns. The issues raised, however, certainly should give us pause as we consider the momentous times in which we live. For the first time in nearly two thousand years we approach the point when, after centuries of wandering, a majority of the Jewish nation will be “home.” What halachic, philosophical and psychological changes should occur within our nation’s psyche as a result of this new reality? How are we meant to mark our momentous transformation from a “people of exile” to a “people of return”?

And what of those of us who choose not to participate fully in this new historic national adventure – we, who, yet today, live our lives outside of the Land of Israel?

We are quick to criticize, in retrospect, the Babylonian exiles who failed to return to Zion. How, we must honestly wonder, will history judge us?

Our excuses are many – some, perhaps, more valid then others. But the question must be asked: what “rights” do we lose when we voluntarily choose not to return home?

2. A refrain often sounded in today’s Jewish community bemoans the lack of “spirituality” in traditional practice and worship. Pulpit rabbis regularly hear, “Rabbi, I fail to be ‘moved’ by the tefilla (prayer service)… The daily ritual leaves me empty.”

Responding to the challenge, numerous religious schools, synagogues and communal institutions have instituted studies and programs designed towards making age-old ritual personally relevant to their constituents. Federations have commissioned studies with an eye towards “reinventing the synagogue”; synagogues, themselves, have initiated programs, from prayer services featuring the poignant tunes of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach to innovative adult education classes; schools regularly design and implement new curricula for the teaching of prayer and ritual.

On an individual level, frustrated by the perceived lack of meaning in “ordinary” Jewish practice, many Jews find their search leading to more esoteric areas of their tradition. Kabbalists and mystics – some of them authentic and some less so – become frequent visitors to “modern Orthodox communities,” with claims of easy access to sacred realms. Sophisticated members of the Jewish community treasure questionable symbols – such as the “red bendlach” (red threads worn on the wrist purportedly to ward off the “evil eye,” often received from beggars at the Western Wall) – with greater intensity than they do normative Jewish rituals.

While communal creativity (within halachic boundaries) is certainly laudable, and authentic spiritual search is essential to Jewish tradition, Judaism offers no shortcuts to religious meaning. Spiritual “quick fixes” are alien to our tradition. In a world marked by instant gratification, Judaism preaches that spirituality is ultimately found only as a result of hard, continuing work.

An individual, for example, who expects to be spontaneously and passively “moved” by weekly synagogue prayer, without the investment of true effort into that prayer, is doomed to disappointment. Tefilla is neither theater nor spectator sport. Prayer becomes meaningful only as a result of study of text, honest personal introspection, wrenching self-assessment and a continuing evaluation of our relationship with God.

As the Mishna proclaims: “One should not stand to pray without full and serious intent. The righteous of old would deliberate a full hour before beginning to pray, in order to direct their hearts towards the Almighty.”

Consider, in contrast, the hurried, preoccupied nature of so much of our tefilla today.

Like tefilla, all the daily rites and rituals of Judaism are filled with significance readily available to those motivated, committed and industrious enough to explore the familiar. Within and through this regular ongoing observance, we are meant to find true religious meaning in our lives.

Centuries ago, God launched the central symbol of Jewish worship with the commandment “And they shall make for Me a holy place…” Only we, as God’s partners, generate holiness in this world. Only we, through conscientious effort, can create sanctity and attain spirituality in our lives.

Posted on January 23, 2014 February 26, 2017

Parshat Mishpatim: Enlightened Self-Interest

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

Historians tell us that when they find a law in a document, they assume that the mode of conduct which this law prohibits is the one that generally prevailed before the law was passed.

With this in mind, let us turn to a Talmudic law enunciated as a commentary on one of the verses in this morning’s sidra. We read, as part of the Torah’s civil legislation, “If you lend money to any of My people, to the poor with you…” (Exodus 22:24). It is this verse which, in addition to the prohibition of usury, is the source of the commandment that we must lend our money to those in need. The Rabbis (Bava Metzia 71a), troubled by the odd construction of the verse – “My people, to the poor, with you” deduced the following order of priority as to who shall be the beneficiary of our generosity in lending money:

– If two people solicit your loan, and one is a fellow Jew and one a gentile, then, all other things being equal, if you have sufficient funds to lend to only one of them, the Jew takes precedence over the non-Jew.

– If the two people appearing before you are otherwise equal, but one is a poor man and one a rich man, the poor man comes first.

– If you are approached for a loan by a poor man who is a relative and a poor man who is a neighbor, the relative is to be preferred over the neighbor.

– If one of them is a poor man who lives in your town, and the second is a poor man who lives in another town, the poor man who is your neighbor takes precedence over the poor man from afar.

Note well that the Talmud does not bid us neglect the gentile, the non-relative, or the stranger. It does give us a list of priorities. What the Talmud is telling us is that a totally altruistic ethic, which does not recognize intimate human bonds and affiliations, is unnatural, unrealistic, and impractical – and hence, ultimately morally valueless. An ethic that does consider and that affirms such human associations as nation, people, family, neighborhoods, is realistic and hence morally invaluable.

That would seem to be an acceptable and self-evident principle. Yet the need the Talmud saw for legislating this rule indicates, according to the historian’s device we mentioned earlier, that this principle was often violated. There were, and are, apparently, many people who would rather assist the stranger than the acquaintance, would rather benefit the non-relative than the relative.

Indeed, I would diagnose this phenomenon as an American Jewish disease! Western Jews, since the Emancipation, have grown up on the myth of “Universal Man,” a universalism which negates ethnic identity and national-religious uniqueness. It is the kind of myth which, for many years, fed anti-Zionist classical Reform and the American Council for Judaism, which, thank Heaven, we hear less and less from as time goes on.

I recall a passage in the notorious “Symposium of Intellectuals,” which appeared several years ago in Commentary magazine. One writer, who apparently came from a warm, ethnic Jewish home against which he had been leading a decades-long adolescent rebellion, complained that in his family people would, upon reading in the newspapers the casualty list of some airplane disaster, scan the names for those which were Jewish-sounding and express their horror at finding such names. I confess that for many years thereafter I was embarrassed when I found myself doing the same thing. The embarrassment, however, was shortlived, because I soon noticed that this nefarious tribalistic habit was not unique to Jews. When an airplane disaster occurred overseas, the American press would list the names only of the American passengers. And in the listing of Vietnam War casualties, the New York newspapers would list only New York names, the Chicago newspapers only Chicago names, etc. It dawned upon me, as it never dawned upon the pretentious intellectual of Commentary who had liberated himself from his parents’ Jewish provincialism, that it is quite rational and natural for people to give emotional and practical priority to those who are closest to them, either in flesh or faith or geography. I realized that one can feel greater attachment to his fellow Jews in reading of such unfortunate events, without in the least detracting from his fundamental human compassion for all his fellow men. To give priority to Jews does not imply disdain for gentiles. To give precedence to the poor of your city does not compel you to an attitude of cruelty to those who live afar. To love your family does not imply that you hate your friends.

The New Left, whether here or in Israel and Europe, seems to be guilty of that same perversion of the human spirit. The Jewish members of the New Left apparently believe that every people has the right to its own national expression, but that only Jews must be “universal.” When Jews assert their national or ethnic individuality, then that same attractive spirit of nationalism undergoes a traumatic change from glorious self-determination to an ethnocentric jingoism that is beneath contempt. The same nationalistic consciousness which, when practiced by Castro or El Fatah, is described as a healthy, struggling, emerging liberation movement, is referred to by the New Left, when the nationalism appears as Zionism, as an “oppressive, neo-colonialist imperialism.” They have reversed the Talmudic formulation and believe that between your people and a stranger, the stranger comes first; and the poor of another city come before the poor of your city.

But of course, the parents of the New Left – if not biologically then ideologically – were not much different. The immediate predecessors of today’s interreligious dialogues were the little lamented
“interfaith” meetings, which assimilated and semi-assimilated American Jews approached with so much solemnity, and which were really so empty and vacuous. A famous anecdote about such events expressed a great deal of truth in its wit: After one such meeting, a Jew who attended was asked by another Jew how many people were present, and he replied “There were two goyim and ten ‘interfaiths.’”

The time has long passed for us to get away from the pretense of supposedly non-sectarian bodies with all-Jewish membership. We should by now have sufficient dignity to do away with that colossal make-believe that when defending Jewish interests we are doing so only because they are primarily universal interests. That is nonsense! There is nothing wrong with defending your own interests and those of those closest to you. Show me a parent who does not love his or her own children, and I will show you a parent whose love for other children I do not trust. If there is a person who has no feeling for his own people, his feeling for other people is meaningless. There is no reason to be embarrassed by asserting clearly and unequivocally the principle of “the poor of your city come first.” There is no need to excuse American Jewish support of Israel by the old UJA slogan “Israel is the only bastion of democracy in the Middle East.” It is true that it is the only fortress of democracy in the Middle East. But what if Lebanon were similarly democratic, would that call for the UJA to divide its funds equally between Israel and Lebanon?

There is nothing undemocratic, non-humanitarian, or unenlightened about Jewish solidarity. It is natural, proper, and understandable. On the contrary, for Jews to pretend and dissimulate and apologize is unnatural, degrading, undignified, and humiliating.

For too long have we allowed the apostles of extravagant universalism to lay exclusive claim to the prophetic tradition, as if the prophets of Israel demanded that the Children of Israel abandon all claims to their self-interest and think first and foremost, if not altogether, only about the welfare of the Egyptians and Babylonians and Hittites. That of course, is nonsensical. The prophets’ universalism grew out of their nationalism, and was not at all in conflict with it. Remember the famous words of Isaiah (58:7) which roll down at us with the force of a thunderclap every Yom Kippur afternoon when we read them as part of the haftara, “Is it not to give your bread to the hungry, and so that you bring the poor that are cast out to your house? When you see he who is naked, that you cover him, and that you do not hide yourself from your own flesh?” The prophet tells us that the true fast must result in a genuine moral transformation of man, so that he will break his bread and share it with the hungry, and bring into his own home the abandoned poor, and offer clothing to cover the nakedness of those who can afford no garments. But the climax comes in the last three words, “umebisarkha lo titalam,” “do not hide yourself from your own flesh!” Do not imagine that charity to all means neglect of those closest to you! Of course you must break bread with all the hungry and offer shelter to all the poor and give clothing to all the naked, but without this last reminder not to ignore your own flesh and blood, what came before it is simply universalistic preachment that makes good copy for a liberal press but is otherwise ineffective and meaningless; with it, you have true prophecy, the kind that can be actualized as a real ethic of life. The prophets did not preach love of Man, but the love of men, beginning with your own. Only if “the poor of your city take precedence,” will you learn to care as well “for the poor of another city.”

It is in this sense that I take an especially dim view of the opposition by the majority of American Jewish organizations to the Speno- Lerner bill currently being debated in Albany. According to this bill, the government will subsidize by a certain amount the secular education of those children who attend private religious schools. I am not at this time referring to any particulars of the bill, but rather to the principle that informs the American Jewish opposition. I do not by any means suspect their motives, but I question their rightness and their relevance in their almost intuitive, Pavlovian reaction to any suggestion of Federal or State aid to parochial schools.

Let us be honest. For a long time, and even now, such opposition to government aid for religious schools came from an unadmitted fear of control of education in New York by the Catholic Church. But this is an unworthy element. First, if the law results in an unjust and onerous burden of double taxation on parents of children whose consciences cause them to choose a private religious school, then it is unfair to deny them government aid for the secular portion of their studies. Furthermore, from a practical point of view, there is no danger today of the Church taking control of the government or the educational system of New York; the Church today is not even in control of the Church! Such elements therefore are completely irrelevant to the issue at hand.

But most important, even if we should assume that such government aid would not accord with the strictest and most rigorous application of the principle of separation of Church and State – and I seriously doubt whether there was any time in the history of this country that this principle was maintained in its pristine purity – and even if such federal aid were to be considered in the minus column of the equation that determines the welfare of the public school systems, do not the American Jewish organizations have any obligation to Jewish parents whose children attend day schools, the only real guarantee of survival of Jewish life in this country? Must these organizations persist in their knee-jerk reactions without ever reconsidering their policies on the basis of an enlightened self-interest? Are not “Jewish Jews” also a part of their constituencies?

All of life, all of law, all of politics revolves around the question of conflicting interests and competing claims. There is little in these areas that is all black or all white. It is true that we must not always prefer our own individual interests over the overriding interests of the general welfare. But must the American Jewish Congress and the Federation of Jewish Philanthropies make it a rule that “the poor of the other city come first?” Have we not pushed the universalistic myth to the point of self-denigration and self-harm?

I have spoken in day schools around the country, and have met with parents and principals and lay leaders of these schools. Our day schools are in trouble. No matter how much tuition they charge the parents, the schools are tottering on bankruptcy. And parents are groaning under the burden. I am not referring primarily to parents of the upper middle class or even the lower middle class, although they find the task very difficult and for young parents it is often staggering, but especially to parents of the lower economic class, who have to deny themselves not only luxuries that others enjoy, but the basic needs of life, in order to give their children a Jewish education. Why do these claims find no resonance in the lofty, liberal, and universalistic proclamations and exhortations of many of the organizations of our establishment? “Do not hide yourself from your own flesh!”

Yet, having said all this, I would not want us to lose our sense of balance. I would not want to see our communities slip into the opposite kind of one-sidedness – an extravagant ethnic retrenchment that throws off responsibility to the poor of another city, to the poor of the non-Jew. It is true that we can no longer afford to indulge in this polite and unhealthy collective masochism that gives precedence to all other causes over the Jewish interests. But neither is it desirable for us to encourage a wave of reaction whereby we neglect other needs and general humanitarian causes, whether civil rights or ecology, whether politics or world peace or economic justice.

The Talmud (Chulin 63a) asks why in the Bible the stork is called “chasida,” a word derived from the root “chesed,” which means love or charity or kindness. The Talmud says it is called “chasida” because the stork performs acts of chesed, benevolence, with its friends and children. Whereupon the Hasidim ask: if so, why does the Bible consider the stork an unclean bird, non-kosher and unfit for human consumption? And they answer: because it is only kind to its own young and not to the young of other species of birds!

If we are to be sane, natural Jews, we must care for our own first. But if we are to be kosher Jews, we must not neglect the others.

We must therefore strike a balance between ethnic introversion and exclusiveness on the one hand, and universalistic masochism and self-denigration on the other. With Maimonides, we must choose the middle way in this as in all else, between the unhealthy consequences of the universalistic myth and the commandment “Do not hide yourself from your own flesh!”

The trouble with some people is that for them charity begins at home and ends at home. The trouble with others is that their charity excludes their own home, and therefore ends up as a solemn and vacuous joke. The right way is for charity to begin at home, and then to extend in ever-widening and concentric circles outward, to encompass all people. Perhaps all this was best summed up by that immortal aphorism of Hillel the Elder: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am for myself alone, what – or who – am I?” (Avot 1:13).

Jewish moods are notoriously volatile, often oscillating from one extreme to the other without going through the transitions. It is best that we always remember and practice both principles:

“If I am not for myself ” – the priority of our own needs; and “If I am for myself alone, what am I?” – to proceed therefrom to service all other human beings.

Both together are the Golden Mean – that of enlightened self-interest. Now, above all, is the time to reassert this authentically Jewish doctrine, for “if not now, when?”

February 20, 1971

Posted on January 15, 2014 January 31, 2024

Parshat Yitro: A Healthy Distance

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

A Healthy Distance

Context

The physical posture of the Israelites during the Revelation at Sinai is clearly delineated in advance when, preparatory to Matan Torah, God instructs Moshe: “Set a boundary for the people roundabout saying, ‘Beware of ascending the mountain or touching its edge; whoever touches the mountain shall certainly die…”

This commandment of hagbala (setting a boundary), however, will not be divinely enforced. Instead, God commands the Israelites to execute anyone who crosses the mandated perimeter.

Questions

Even the most familiar scenes of our history warrant critical assessment.

Why is the moment of closest contact between man and God marked by divinely mandated distance, on pain of death? Why must the Israelites remain at the foot of Mount Sinai during Revelation?

Furthermore, in a setting marked by monumental supernatural miracles, why does God leave the enforcement of the boundary around Mount Sinai to man? God can certainly protect the perimeter surrounding the mountain through any number of divinely ordained means.

What are the lessons to be learned from this God-orchestrated scene at Sinai?

Approaches

A fascinating rationale for the phenomenon of hagbala is offered by Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch. The physical setting at Sinai, says Hirsch, is designed to prove that the word of God came “to the people” rather than “out of the people.” By insisting that the Israelites remain at the foot of Sinai to receive divine law, God clearly demonstrates for all to see that the people themselves are not the authors of that law.

The foundations of Jewish law are objective, eternal and not subject to changes wrought by time and circumstance. The Torah is not the product of a nation contemporary with the time of Revelation, but a divinely ordained document speaking to all times and places.

Moving beyond Hirsch’s suggestion, the decree of hagbala also reflects a fundamental dialectic lying at the core of man’s connection to God. At the moment of Revelation, as God launches His eternal relationship with His chosen people, He uses the scene at Sinai to define the very parameters of that relationship.

The God-man relationship will be forged out of a tension between distance and familiarity.

On the one hand, God is certainly remote, existing in a realm beyond our comprehension and often acting in ways we simply do not understand. On the other hand, as the psalmist maintains: “God is near to all who call Him, to all who call Him in earnest.” We are meant to see God as accessible, interested and involved in our daily lives, near enough to be “found” if we only seek Him out.

This balance between distance and familiarity in our relationship to God is reflected in many ways within our tradition. Three of them follow.

1. Each day, at climactic moments of our prayer service, we recite the Kedusha, a proclamation of God’s holiness. Central to this proclamation is the vision of the prophet Yeshayahu, who witnesses the heavenly hosts exclaiming, “Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of Hosts; the whole world is filled with His glory.”

To be holy within Jewish thought means to be separate, removed. Three times, in the prophet’s vision, the heavenly beings declare God’s separateness. In Jewish law, the repetition of an event or phenomenon three times creates a reality. God’s absolute remoteness is thus mirrored in the threefold proclamation of the angels.

In the very next breath, however, these very same celestial beings declare, “The whole world is filled with His glory.” God, the angels say, is apparent and easily reached in every aspect of our physical surroundings. We need only look around us to find Him.

The Kedusha thus reflects the dichotomy created by a God who is beyond our ken and who, at the same time, fills the world with His splendor.

2. Two seemingly conflicting elements are essential to the formation of a personal relationship with God: yira and ahava (fear and love): “And now, Israel, what does the Lord your God ask of you but to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all His paths, and to love Him, and to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul.”

You can only love and fear the same being when you embrace the complexity inherent in the bond between you.

This truth is perhaps best demonstrated by focusing on the human associations which, in their own small way, most closely mirror our relationship with God. Consider, for example, the contradictory currents that course through a healthy parent-child relationship or a strong teacher-student bond. These relationships are not one-dimensional. A parent who tries to become his child’s friend (a phenomenon which is unfortunately much too common in our own day) will simply not be an effective parent. A rabbi or teacher who forgoes the respect and authority due his position loses some of his ability to successfully educate. Yet, while maintaining the space demanded by the relationship, both the parent and the teacher must still remain – each to different degrees – accessible, warm and caring.

The complexity of the parent-child bond is, in fact, codified in halacha through two distinct sets of laws that are designed to mold and govern the attitude of a child to his parent.

The laws of kavod (honor) speak to the personal care that must be shown to parents during times of need, such as infirmity and old age.

The laws of yira outline the respect that must be shown to parents at all times. Included are the prohibitions of calling a parent by his first name, sitting in a parent’s seat, contradicting a parent in public, etc.

Through the laws of kavod and yira, the halacha reflects the balance meant to be struck between the warmth a child should feel towards his parent and the awe in which that parent must be held.

In a different realm but somewhat parallel fashion, our relationship with God must be forged out of a similar tension.

God, therefore, mandates distance at the moment of His closest contact with man, striking the balance upon which their eternal shared relationship will be built.

3. The Kohanim (priests) are fixtures within the Temple service, representing the nation through the performance of sanctified rites and rituals before God. Even the Kohen Gadol (High Priest), however, is prohibited from entering the Kodesh Kadashim (Holy of Holies), the centerpiece of the Temple, except on the most sacred day of the year, Yom Kippur.

Why shouldn’t the highest Temple functionary be allowed free access to every part of the Temple at all times? Why limit his entry to the holiest site in the world?

Once again, the answer would seem to lie in the balance at the core of our relationship with God. Even the Kohen Gadol might become too familiar in his attitude towards the Holy of Holies and fail to treat this site with the reverence it so richly deserves. By severely limiting the High Priest’s entry into the Kodesh Kadashim, the Torah ensures that he, and by definition the entire nation, will never lose sight of the Temple’s sanctity.

Through these sources and others, our tradition reminds us that we must continually struggle to maintain the balance – rooted at Sinai – between distance and familiarity, so critical to our relationship with God.

If we lose the sense of awe meant to be present in our approach to the divine, our worship becomes pedestrian, rote and uninspired. If, on the other hand, we view God as unreachable and inaccessible, we will never succeed in truly experiencing His personal presence in our lives.

Finally, the commandment of hagbala at Sinai reiterates a message conveyed by God to Moshe earlier on this very same spot. During the vision of the burning bush, God ushered Moshe into leadership with the charge: “Do not come nearer to here. Take off your shoes from your feet, for the place upon which you stand is holy ground.” Do not look for Me, Moshe, in esoteric visions of a burning bush. Stand where you are, rooted to the ground. There, sanctity will be created, wherever you stand, as you work My will within your world.

By commanding the Israelites to remain at the foot of Mount Sinai during the onset of Revelation, God now transmits the same message on a national scale: As our shared journey begins, understand full well where and how My Divine Presence will be found. Do not search for Me in the mist-enveloped summits of Sinai. Do not seek Me in lofty, mysterious realms removed from the reality of your lives.

Stay at the base of the mountain, rooted with your neighbors in your world, and there receive My Torah. Remember always that I will enter your lives as you obey the Torah’s laws and pursue its goals. Partner with Me in the creation of sanctity in your world, and through that partnership you will discover and discern My Divine Presence.

We can now also understand why God hands the enforcement of the edict of hagbala to the Israelites, rather than maintaining the designated perimeter Himself, through divine intervention.

The partnership established at Sinai invests the Israelites with immediate personal and societal responsibilities.

As God transmits the law during Revelation, He also launches the process of legal jurisprudence. Included will be the people’s obligation to judge and to punish transgressors, to the best of their ability, as mandated by divine decree.

This responsibility begins immediately. God, therefore, does not enforce His own ruling of hagbala. He instead relegates that task to His new partners, the people themselves.

Posted on January 8, 2014 January 14, 2019

Parshat Beshalach: Miriam’s Song

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

Context

After recording the triumphant song offered by “Moshe and the children of Israel” on the banks of the Sea of Reeds, the Torah states: “And Miriam the Prophetess, the sister of Aharon, took the drum in her hand; and all the women went out after her with drums and with dances. And Miriam sang unto them: ‘Sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted; the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.’ ”

Questions

Although Miriam has appeared in the text before, this marks the first time that she is mentioned by name. She must, therefore, be clearly identified.

Why, however, is she referred to specifically as “the prophetess, the sister of Aharon”? According to rabbinic tradition, Sara was also a prophetess; yet, the text never identifies her as such. Also, why isn’t Miriam described as the sister of Moshe as well as the sister of Aharon?

What is the nature of the song offered by Miriam and by the women on the banks of the Reed Sea? Is this a separate paean, different from the one chanted by “Moshe and the children of Israel”? If not, why does the Torah mention it?

If Miriam’s song is unique, what is its message?

Approaches

Concerning the designation of Miriam as “the prophetess, the sister of Aharon,” a number of explanations are offered by the commentaries.

Rashi, quoting the Talmud, maintains that Miriam’s prophetic ability was evidenced before Moshe was born, when she was only “Aharon’s sister.” At that time, she predicted, “My mother is destined to give birth to a son who will be the redeemer of Israel.”

Alternatively, continues Rashi, Miriam is identified as Aharon’s sister because Aharon is destined, at a later time, to struggle on her behalf. When Miriam is punished with leprosy for speaking ill of Moshe, Aharon pleads with Moshe to intercede for her welfare.

The Rashbam, as is his wont, adopts the path of pshat and maintains that Miriam is referred to as the sister of Aharon simply because Aharon is the firstborn.

The Ramban entertains the same approach as the Rashbam but prefers a different explanation: the text wants to ensure that all three siblings – Aharon, Miriam and Moshe – are mentioned in conjunction with the song at the Reed Sea. Miriam is therefore specifically referred to as the sister of Aharon, who would otherwise not be cited.

Finally, Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch argues that Miriam occupied the same position among the women that Aharon occupied among the men. They both acted as Moshe’s emissaries, carrying his messages to the people. Miriam is, therefore, referred to as the sister of her counterpart, Aharon.

While the above commentators discuss why Miriam is referred to as Aharon’s sister, they fail to explain why she is specifically identified as a “prophetess” in this context.

Rabbi Zalman Sorotzkin suggests that Miriam’s prophetic vision centered on the redemption of the Israelites from Egypt. The Torah therefore refers to Miriam’s prophetic ability only now, after that redemption is complete.

Perhaps the key to Miriam’s identification as a prophetess lies in the nature and significance of her “song.”

Does Miriam’s song add a new, prophetic dimension to the events at the Sea of Reeds?

A review of the traditional sources would seem to indicate that the answer is no. Most scholars do not envision a substantial difference between the song of Moshe and the song of Miriam.

Some commentaries, for example, such as the Chizkuni, reflect an earlier Midrashic tradition that Miriam led the women in a repetition of the entire text of Moshe’s song after the men had finished.

Other scholars, including the Ramban, maintain that Miriam and the women did not sing a separate song, at all. Miriam instructed the women to echo the words as they were chanted by Moshe and the men.

A careful reading of the following hints in the text, however, reveals another possible approach.

1. Only one sentence is recorded in the Torah as the text of Miriam’s song; it is a subtle variation on the first sentence of Moshe’s song:

Moshe: “I will sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted; the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.”

Miriam: “Sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted; the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.”

2. As soon as Miriam concludes her song, the text states, Vayasa Moshe et Yisrael mi’Yam Suf, “And Moshe caused Israel to journey from the Sea of Reeds.”

As a rule, when the Torah speaks of the nation’s journeys in the desert, the text simply states, Vayisu B’nai Yisrael, “And the children of Israel journeyed.” Why does the Torah specifically state at this point that Moshe “caused Israel to journey”?

Perhaps Miriam “the prophetess,” the individual who, according to rabbinic tradition, was instrumental in convincing her father to move forward in the face of Pharaoh’s decrees, now plays a pivotal role in urging the Israelites to move forward from the site of their full redemption from Egypt?

Miriam’s admonition could be imagined as follows: “Sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted; the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.” Moshe, you and the men sing eloquently of future dreams:

I will sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted…; Peoples heard and they were agitated, terror gripped the dwellers of Philistia. Then the chieftains of Edom were astounded, trembling gripped the powers of Moav, all the inhabitants of Canaan melted away. May fear and terror fall upon them…until Your people passes through, Lord, until this people that You have acquired passes through. Bring them and plant them on the Mount of Your Sanctuary, the foundation of Your holy place that You, Lord, have made – the holy place, Lord, that Your hands established. The Lord shall reign for all eternity!

These dreams will only be realized, however, if we stop singing and move on. After all, all that has happened so far is, “the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.”

Have we achieved our heritage? Has God given us the Torah? Have we entered our land? All of these challenges yet lie before us; and they will only be met if we move forward from the banks of this Sea.

So sing, yes, but with open eyes: “the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.” Then, let the song end and let us move on.

In response to Miriam’s song, the text relates: “And Moshe caused Israel to journey from the Sea of Reeds.” Understanding and acknowledging his sister’s message, Moshe forces a reluctant nation to end their celebration and move forward from the sea.

Had it not been for Miriam and her song, perhaps we would still be dancing and singing at the banks of the Sea of Reeds.

Points to Ponder

As the initial phases of our nation’s journey continue to unfold, eternal lessons are transmitted with each step.

The ability to move on, to celebrate but not be paralyzed by achievement, will prove to be a critical skill, essential to our success across the ages.

For example, in our time, the creation of the State of Israel, after centuries of diaspora existence and in the shadow of the Holocaust, was nothing less than a monumental, miraculous achievement. Acknowledgement and celebration are certainly warranted. Sometimes, however, you can celebrate too long…

A number of years ago, however, during a discussion on Israel-diaspora relations, an official of the Israeli government complained to me: “Too many American Jews think that we are still dancing the hora and draining the swamps. They are blind to the changes taking place within the Zionist enterprise and to the complex internal and external challenges that we currently face.”

No matter how great the achievement, celebration must invariably yield to challenge. If we “celebrate” too long, if we remain rooted in the glow of past accomplishments, we endanger those very accomplishments.

Only by moving forward, only by discerning and meeting new challenges that develop by the day, can we preserve the past even as we secure the future.

Posted on January 1, 2014 January 28, 2020

Parshat Bo: Unnecessary Roughness?

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

Context

As the intensity of the afflictions increases over the course of the plagues, Pharaoh offers three compromise positions to Moshe and the Israelites: worship your God in Egypt, depart Egypt temporarily with some of the people while others remain, depart Egypt temporarily with the entire nation but leave your cattle behind.

Moshe emphatically rejects each compromise in turn.

The second of these potential compromises appears towards the beginning of Parshat Bo, in the following puzzling conversation between Moshe and Pharaoh:

Pharaoh: “Go and worship your Lord! Who are they that shall go?”

Moshe: “With our young and with our old we will go! With our sons and with our daughters! With our sheep and with our cattle! For it is a festival of the Lord for us!”

Questions

How can Pharaoh ask, after all that has taken place, “Who are they that shall go?” Hasn’t God made it abundantly clear that He demands the release of the entire people?

Why, in addition, does Moshe answer Pharaoh in such confrontational fashion? He could simply have said, We all must go. Why risk further antagonizing the king with the unnecessarily detailed proclamation “With our young and with our old we will go…”?

Approaches

Much more is taking place in this conversation than initially meets the eye. The negotiation between Moshe and Pharaoh overlays a monumental confrontation between two towering civilizations, as Pharaoh and his court begin to face, with growing understanding, the true nature of the new culture destined to cause Egypt’s downfall.

Pharaoh is, in reality, being neither deliberately obtuse nor intentionally confrontational when he raises the question “Who are they that shall go?” His response to Moshe is, in fact, abundantly reasonable in light of Moshe’s original request of the king.

As we have already noted, God did not instruct Moshe to demand complete freedom for the Israelites. From the very outset, the appeal to the king was, instead, to be, “Let us go for a three-day journey into the wilderness that we may bring offerings to the Lord our God.”

In response to that request Pharaoh now argues: All right, I give in! You have my permission to take a three-day holiday for the purpose of worshipping your Lord. Let us, however, speak honestly. Moshe, you and I both know that religious worship in any community remains the responsibility and the right of a select few. Priests, elders, sorcerers – they are the ones in whose hands the ritual responsibility of the whole people are placed. Therefore I ask you, “Who are they that shall go?” Who from among you will represent the people in the performance of this desert ritual? Let me know, provide me with the list and they will have my permission to leave.

Moshe’s emphatic response is now understandable, as well: You still don’t get it, Pharaoh. There is a new world a-borning and we will no longer be bound by the old rules. No longer will religious worship remain the purview of a few chosen elect. A nation is coming into existence that will teach the world that religious participation is open to all.

“With our young and with our old we will go, with our sons and with our daughters….” No one and nothing is to be left behind; our “festival of the Lord” will only be complete if all are present and involved.

Moshe’s ringing proclamation reminds us that the Exodus narrative chronicles not only a people’s bid for freedom, but the beginning of a new chapter in the relationship between God and man. Step by step, a nation is forged that will be based upon personal observance, study and spiritual quest – a nation that will teach the world of every human being’s right and responsibility to actively relate to his Creator.

With the Exodus and the subsequent Revelation at Sinai, the rules will change forever. The birth of Judaism will open religious worship and practice to all.

Posted on December 25, 2013 January 29, 2017

Parshat Va’eira: Belated Introductions

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

Context

When Moshe’s birth was chronicled in Parshat Shmot, the text deliberately omitted any description of his lineage, choosing instead to preface his birth with the mysterious sentence “And a man went from the House of Levi and he took a daughter of Levi.”

This omission of Moshe’s bona fides is now addressed in Parshat Va’eira.

God commands Moshe to return to Pharaoh and again demand the release of the Israelite slaves. When Moshe objects, citing his speech impediment, God repeats the directive, this time to both Moshe and Aharon.

The Torah then abruptly digresses to present a genealogical table listing the descendents of Yaakov’s oldest sons, Reuven, Shimon and Levi. The listing concludes with a detailed description of the lineage of Moshe and Aharon’s family within the tribe of Levi.

Upon completion of this genealogical record, the Torah returns to the narrative of the Exodus with the words “This was Aharon and Moshe…. They were the ones who spoke to Pharaoh…. This was Moshe and Aharon.”

Questions

Once again we are confronted with a strange and abrupt digression within the Torah text.

Why does the Torah specifically choose this dramatic moment to detail the lineage of Moshe and Aharon? Why interrupt the historical narrative midstream? This genealogical table would clearly have been more appropriate at the beginning of the story, when Moshe is first introduced.

Amram and Yocheved, the parents of Aharon and Moshe, are mentioned here for the first time by name. Given the reasons for the omission of their identities when Moshe is born, why does the Torah see fit to reveal those identities now?

Approaches

-A-

Most of the classical commentaries are strangely silent concerning the most perplexing aspects of this passage, choosing to comment only briefly.

Rashi, for example, states that because the Torah mentions Aharon and Moshe at this time, the text feels compelled to tell us more fully of their birth and lineage. He fails to explain, however, why this information was not given in conjunction with the earlier appearances of Moshe and Aharon in the text.

The Sforno and Abravanel both maintain that the genealogical table is presented to show that the choice of Aharon and Moshe was not arbitrary. God begins His search for worthy leadership with the descendents of Yaakov’s first- and second-born, Reuven and Shimon. Only when He proceeds to Levi, the third tribe, does God find the quality He is searching for in Moshe and Aharon.

Once again, however, neither of these scholars explains why this information must be shared with us abruptly, at this point in the text.

The Malbim, in contrast, does offer a solution concerning the placement of the genealogical record. He explains that the passage in Va’eira marks the first time that Moshe and Aharon are clearly appointed by God as full partners concerning all aspects of the Exodus. Only once this partnership of brothers is firmly established does the Torah digress to chronicle their familial credentials.

Rashi finally notes that, as the Torah closes the genealogical table and returns to the historical narrative, the text identifies Moshe and Aharon twice and reverses the order of their names: “This was Aharon and Moshe…. They were the ones who spoke to Pharaoh…. This was Moshe and Aharon.”

Quoting the Mechilta, Rashi explains that, throughout the text, the Torah will variably list each brother first in order to demonstrate that Aharon and Moshe were equivalent to each other in greatness.

The premier halachic authority of the nineteenth century, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein (known throughout the Jewish world simply as Reb Moshe), objects, however, to the Mechilta’s explanation: “Moshe was the greatest of the prophets, the teacher of the world, and the Torah was given by his hand. How can it be claimed that Aharon was his equal?”

Reb Moshe answers that at this juncture in the text, even as the public leadership of Moshe and Aharon is firmly established, the Torah conveys an essential truth concerning the worth of every human life. Moshe and Aharon each fulfilled his personal role to the greatest extent possible. They are, therefore, in the eyes of God, considered equal. God judges each of us against ourselves and not against anyone else. Someone of lesser ability, who reaches his full life potential, towers over someone of greater talent who does not – even if, on an objective scale, the latter’s accomplishments seem grander.

How telling that one of the most brilliant, accomplished leaders in recent Jewish memory views this text as conveying the value inherent in each individual – skilled or unskilled, public or private!

-B-

The most extensive treatment of the genealogical passage at the beginning of Parshat Va’eira, however, is offered by Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch. Hirsch insists that the placement of this section specifically conveys a critical lesson concerning the nature of leadership throughout the Torah.

At this moment in the text, says Hirsch, we confront a major turning point in the careers of Moshe and Aharon. Until now, their efforts have been marked by frustration and failure. From this point onward, however, their triumphal mission – marked by powerful miracles and supernatural events – begins. The Torah, therefore, feels compelled at this juncture to make one fact abundantly clear for all time. Moshe and Aharon are of “absolutely human origin and the absolute ordinary human nature of their beings should be firmly established.” So important is this message that the Torah abruptly interrupts the historical narrative midstream to clearly delineate the ancestry of Moshe and Aharon.

As we have noted before, whereas pagans deified their heroes, and Christians returned to such deification, Judaism insists upon seeing its heroes as human beings. When your heroes are gods you can worship them, but you cannot emulate them. As long as we see the characters of our Torah as human beings, their greatness may be beyond our reach, but we can, nonetheless, aspire to that greatness.

On the other hand, Hirsch continues, a critical balance is struck in the passage before us. While the genealogical record clearly establishes the mortal origins of Moshe and Aharon, it also serves to counter the notion that every human being is suitable to prophecy. God’s choices are far from arbitrary. Aharon and Moshe were men, but they were “picked, chosen men.” God could have chosen from any tribe and any family. His specific selection of Aharon and Moshe serves to underscore that one who serves in a divinely ordained leadership role merits the appointment because of his own innate character.

The text thus captures the exquisite tension between the mortal origins of our biblical heroes and their overarching character and accomplishments.

-C-

Finally, the passage before us, with its extensive genealogical information, clearly serves as a contrasting companion piece to the earlier section in Parshat Shmot which chronicled the birth of Moshe. There, as noted in an earlier study, the narrative is singular in its lack of information. Even the names of Moshe’s parents are deliberately omitted.

This omission is now apparently addressed and rectified in Parshat Va’eira.

Why, however, when all is said and done, are these two sections necessary? If the Torah eventually reveals the genealogy of Aharon and Moshe, why not do so immediately as soon as Moshe is first introduced in the text?

An approach can be suggested if we view these two passages as delineating a balance that shapes the life of every human being.

On the one hand, the glaring omission of Moshe’s ancestry in Parshat Shmot serves to remind us that the most important aspects of our lives are self-determined. While God decides to whom we are born, when and where we are born, our genetic makeup, etc., we determine, through our own free will, who we will become.

Moshe ascends to leadership because of the choices he makes. The Torah, therefore, omits his parentage at the moment of his birth. Yichus (pedigree) does not determine the quality of Moshe’s life.

On the other hand, while pedigree is neither the sole nor the most important determinant of a person’s character, an individual’s family background certainly contributes to the formation of that character. Our ancestry creates the backdrop against which we weave the tapestry of our lives. Moshe’s story would have been incomplete if his family had not been mentioned. The genealogical table presented at the beginning of Parshat Va’eira is provided to fill in the gaps.

The omission of the names of Moshe’s parents and relatives on the occasion of his birth reminds us that Moshe achieves greatness on his own. The inclusion of those names in Parshat Va’eira reminds us of the role his family background plays in enabling him to succeed in his quest.

Posted on December 19, 2013 February 12, 2014

Letters to President Clinton: Biblical Lessons on Faith and Leadership – Exodus, Pharaoh’s Irony

Excerpted from Rabbi Menachem Genack’s Letters to President Clinton: Biblical Lessons on Faith and Leadership Click here to buy the book

Exodus

Menachem Genack, April 15, 1997

Historic greatness often emerges from seemingly insignificant acts of hope.

The story in Exodus of the redemption from Egypt begins with the inconspicuous verse “And there went a man of the house of Levi, and took to wife a daughter of Levi” (Exod. 2:1). Generally the Bible, when introducing major figures, delineates their genealogy, yet here the parents of Moses are introduced anonymously. According to classical Jewish tradition (Talmud, Sotah 12a), Amram had separated himself from his wife, Jochebed. “Why bring children into the oppressive bondage?” he asked. Yet his daughter Miriam prophesied that the redemption would come, and she cajoled her father to remarry her mother — and from that union was born the redeemer, Moses. Miriam… never gave up hope, and communicated that hope to her parents. The Bible wants to emphasize that one couple rebuilding their family — what at the time seemed so insignificant and with such little prospect of success — sowed the seeds for the ultimate redemption. Courage and faith can infuse unnoticed events with historical significance. There are never impossible hurdles, only man’s limited dreams; for behind the veil of history is God’s hidden, loving hand, shaping and driving the human chronicle.

April 23, 1997

Dear Rabbi Genack:

Your letter to me was wonderful and its message inspired. I will try to take the lessons of Exodus to heart and will continue with courage and faith to do the job the American people sent me here to do.

Thank you for your prayers, your counsel, and your friendship. I cherish them all.

Sincerely,

Bill Clinton

Pharaoh’s Irony

Menachem Genack, April 7, 1998

God’s plans always account for – sometimes in ironic ways – efforts to thwart His plans.

The ancient Jewish Midrashic tradition teaches that Pharaoh’s astrologers glimpse the future and predict that Pharaoh’s ultimate nemesis will be subdued by water. Indeed, Moses, who will redeem the Jews from the bondage in Egypt and bring Pharaoh and his empire crashing down, will be punished by God: He is not allowed to enter the Promised Land, because he hit, rather than spoke to, a rock while trying to get water out of it.

Pharaoh, hoping to sabotage his future antagonist in a way that also fulfills the vision of his astrologers, brutally orders that all male children be drowned in the waters of the Nile (Exod. 1:22).

Moses’ parents save their new infant by hiding him in a basket among the reeds at the edge of the Nile, where he is watched over by his sister. Pharaoh’s daughter, while bathing in the Nile, finds this baby and adopts him and raises him as her own (Exod. 2:2–10).

The extraordinary irony is that Pharaoh, in his cruel attempt to destroy a future threat, brings that threat even closer to himself. As a result of Pharaoh’s terrible decree, Moses is placed in the basket, to be found by Pharaoh’s daughter and raised in the royal court. There he learns, as a prince of Egypt, safely ensconced in Pharaoh’s house, the skills of leadership needed to ultimately challenge Pharaoh and save his people, the Israelites.

Pharaoh arrogantly tries to force God’s hand, but as events unfold, he is entrapped by his own evil devices.

There are many devices in a man’s heart; nevertheless the counsel of the Lord, that shall stand. (Prov. 19:21)

Posted on December 10, 2013 December 24, 2015

Coming of Age: An Anthology of Divrei Torah for Bar and Bat Mitzvah – Parshat Vayechi

Excerpted from Dr. Mandell Ganchow Coming of Age: An Anthology of Divrei Torah for Bar and Bat Mitzvah, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishers

Parashat Vayechi

By: Rabbi Elozor M. Preil, AWMA

Can there be a better parashah to celebrate becoming bar mitzvah than Parashat Vayechi? It is a parashah filled with blessings—from father to sons and from grandfather to grandsons. Let us analyze these blessings and try to discover what they say to us.

Yaakov Avinu blesses his grandsons Ephraim and Menasheh before he blesses his own children. Perhaps this is indicative of the special bond that exists between grandparents and grandchildren, a very different relationship than that which exists between parents and their own children.

When it is time for Yaakov to bless the two young men, Yosef arranges them in front of his father so that Yaakov’s dominant hand, his right hand, will rest upon Menasheh, the eldest, and his left hand upon the head of Ephraim, the younger son. Yaakov, however, crosses his hands so that his right hand is upon the head of Ephraim and his left hand upon Menasheh, as the pasuk states, “He directed his hands, for Menasheh was the firstborn” (Bereishit 48:14).

This verse presents us with a conundrum—it says that Yaakov crossed his hands and placed his left hand upon Menasheh specifically because Menasheh was the firstborn. Was being firstborn a reason to denigrate Menasheh?

Rav Zalman Sorotzkin in his commentary Oznayim la-Torah suggests that Ephraim received the more prestigious blessing precisely because Menasheh was the bechor. After all, it was an old family tradition! Yaakov’s father Yitzchak was chosen over his older brother Yishmael, Yaakov himself claimed the birthright from Esav, and Yaakov had just transferred the birthright of Bnei Yisrael from Reuven to Yosef, one of his youngest sons. The lesson is that being first-born is no guarantee of success or greatness. It is a challenge to be met, and one that many firstborns in the Torah failed to fulfill.

My dear bar mitzvah, this message of Yaakov Avinu speaks to you today. It does not matter where in the family line-up you happened to have been born. Whether you are the oldest, the youngest, or anywhere in between, your destiny is in your own hands. You can achieve your goals to the degree that you are willing to dedicate yourself to achieving those goals. It is all is up to you.

But why of all of Yaakov’s grandchildren were only Yosef’s sons chosen to receive a special blessing from their grandfather? The answer is that of all of Yaakov’s grandchildren, Ephraim and Menasheh were the only ones to be born and live their entire lives outside of Eretz Yisrael—and worse, under the degenerate and immoral influence of Egypt. Therefore, they needed a special blessing from Yaakov, who lived for over two decades in the home of the wicked Lavan. Yaakov prayed that the angel who protected him from all the evil influences of Lavan should extend the same protection to these young men in Egypt.

This, too, speaks directly to you growing up in America. True, the United States is a malchut shel chesed, a government and a society that treats Jews far better than we have ever been treated in galut. Yet therein lies our great challenge. For even as we are accepted into the broad mainstream of American life, it is critical that that we build a solid foundation of Torah and yir’at shamayim to be able to differentiate between what is proper and what is not, what is Jewish and what is not. In addition, we need to develop the moral and spiritual courage to be able to act upon that knowledge and make the right choices.

Another lesson is gleaned from the far more extensive section of the parashah which describes Yaakov’s detailed blessings to his sons. Yaakov blesses each of his sons individually; no two blessings are alike. Each son, each tribe, is an indispensable part of the mosaic of Israel, not in spite of their differences but because of them. Each tribe is blessed by Yaakov to succeed at what it does best. Each tribe has its own unique gifts to contribute to the success of the nation of Israel. Just as we rely upon the kings and leaders from Yehudah and the talmidei chachamim from Yissachar, we are equally dependent upon the business acumen of Zevulun, the armed might of Gad, and the agricultural bounty of Asher. Yaakov Avinu is teaching his sons, and us, that we are not identical—nor should we be. We all have different strengths and interests, and we all have our individual and unique contributions to make to the Jewish people.

And so, my dear bar mitzvah, you too have your unique role to play on the stage of Jewish life. You may already know what interests you and what you would like to do as your life’s work. More likely, you are still trying to figure it out. Whatever your eventual decision, as long as you focus upon making your unique contribution to Torah and Am Yisrael, you will be blessed.

Rabbi Preil has been in chinuch for over thirty years and is currently an Adjunct Professor of Bible at Stern College for Women. He is also Managing Director at Wealth Advisory Group, LLC.

Posted on December 4, 2013 December 20, 2023

Parshat Vayigash: The First Ghetto

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

Context

After the descent of Yaakov’s family to Egypt, Yosef prepares a delegation of his brothers for an interview with the Egyptian king.

He counsels them to specify that they are shepherds so that Pharaoh will settle them separately in the region of Goshen, “since all shepherds are abhorrent to the Egyptians.”

Questions

Why does Yosef specifically counsel his brothers to identify themselves with a profession that the Egyptians find repulsive?

Approaches

Some commentaries believe that Yosef is simply trying to ensure that his brothers will be able to continue practicing a beneficial profession.

The Abravanel, for example, maintains that Yosef could well have appointed his brothers to positions of authority and power. He desires, however, that they eschew such leadership in favor of a simple, humble, “sacred” livelihood.

According to Rabbeinu Bachya, shepherding was an intrinsically advantageous profession with clear physical and spiritual benefits. Producing a number of profitable materials (meat, milk and wool) for relatively little physical effort, shepherding also provided the opportunity for periodic isolation from civilization and its influence. Through seclusion the shepherd found time for self-examination and spiritual growth. Not coincidentally, continues Rabbeinu Bachya, many great figures of Jewish history, including Moshe, Shmuel, Shaul and David, were shepherds at some point in their lives.

Numerous other commentaries, however, see Yosef’s efforts in a totally different light.

Yosef, they claim, deliberately instructs his brothers to identify with a profession that will distance them from Egyptian society. Forced to live separately, the members of Yosef’s family and their progeny will have a greater chance of maintaining their own identity.

In the words of the Netziv: “Yosef’s intent was to ensure that his family would dwell apart from the Egyptians. Although [Yosef’s plan] would cause his father and brothers to be degraded in Pharaoh’s eyes, nonetheless, all was worth sacrificing to guarantee the preservation of Israel’s sanctity.”

Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch adds: “The disgust of the Egyptians for their [the brothers’] profession…was the first means of preservation of that race which was destined for an isolated path through the ages…. That is why Joseph acted with the express purpose of obtaining a separate province within which his family would settle.”

Yosef, the cosmopolitan Hebrew, the paradigm of success in an alien culture, becomes the architect of our people’s first ghetto.

Why is Yosef, viceroy of all of Egypt, accomplished beyond measure in a foreign world, so determined that the members of his family not follow his winning path?

What motivates him to personally construct a plan for their isolation?

Perhaps he is driven by the recognition of the price that he has had to pay for his own success. The years in Egypt have taken their toll. By the time he meets his brothers after their long separation, the Torah states: “Yosef recognized his brothers but they did not recognize him.” Yosef is no longer recognizable as a Hebrew, even to his family. Moved by this knowledge, and apprehending the devastation that would be caused if generation after generation of Hebrews paid this same price, Yosef acts to preserve his family’s identity.

Or, perhaps, Yosef is motivated by the pain of his personal isolation in the face of his rise to power (see Vayechi 2, Approaches b) and tries to spare his family from similar disappointment and loneliness.

Or, finally, perhaps this cosmopolitan Hebrew simply understands that what he has accomplished as an individual cannot be duplicated by his family as a whole. Talents are not uniform. Yosef’s enormous success could only be paralleled by a select few. Fewer still would be able to maintain the spiritual balance that had sustained him throughout his turbulent personal odyssey.

One way or the other, as Yosef orchestrates the descent of his family to Egypt, he clearly does everything he can to ensure their separation from the Egyptians. As will be the case throughout Jewish history, the delicate balance struck during Avraham’s lifetime (see Chayei Sara 1) is front and center, decades later, in the thoughts and planning of his great-grandson. Yosef realizes that for the members of his family to retain their status as “strangers and citizens” over generations and in the face of an overwhelming Egyptian culture, they will have to live in our people’s first ghetto.

Yosef’s careful plans are ultimately put to the test.

While the sojourn in Egypt should have been viewed by Yaakov’s family as temporary, the Torah testifies that: “Israel settled in the land of Egypt, in the region of Goshen, and they secured a permanent foothold and they were fruitful and multiplied greatly.”

And, although the Jews were meant to remain in Goshen, the text continues: “And the children of Israel were fruitful, multiplied, increased, and became strong…and the land became filled with them.”

Building upon an earlier Midrashic tradition, the Netziv comments: “They filled not only the land of Goshen which had been especially assigned to them, but the whole land of Egypt…. Wherever they could purchase a dwelling, there the Israelites went…. They wished to be like the Egyptians.”

Given the opportunity, in spite of Yosef’s careful planning, the Israelites begin to assimilate into Egyptian culture and society. A tragic pattern, however, emerges – a pattern that is destined to be repeated over and over again across our long national journey. The harder the Israelites try to fit in, the more assiduously they try to be like those around them, the more they incur the enmity of their neighbors and set the stage for their own persecution. They are soon enslaved and pushed back into Goshen.

Yosef’s implicit urgings are ignored by later generations. His efforts, however, may well have saved his people from oblivion. First by choice, than by force, the Israelites remain a population separate within Egypt. Within the “ghetto” of Goshen they remain identifiable and, therefore, redeemable when the moment of the Exodus arrives.

Posted on November 27, 2013 December 26, 2016

Hanukkah – The Progressive Candles: A Commentary on Jewish Life, by Rabbi Norman Lamm

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s ‘The Megillah: Majesty & Mystery’

Perhaps the most significant aspect of the most important feature of Hanukkah — the Hanukkah candles — is the increase in the number of candles from day to day. The lighting of the candles is progressive; that is, we proceed from least to most. The first night we light one candle, the second night two candles, the third night three candles, and so until the eighth night, when the candelabrum is ablaze with all eight candles. What we have is growth and increase and progress. It was the House of Hillel which gave this order its legal form when it said that mosif ve-holekh, the number of candles is to be increased each night, because ma’alin be-kodesh, because one must rise, increase, or progress in holiness.

In a sense, this idea of increase, of addition, of the progressive candles, is a very deep and incisive commentary on Jewish life and what it should be. The Hanukkah candles represent more than merely the military victory of the Jewish Maccabeans over the Greek Antiochus. They symbolize as well the clash of cultures, the war of world-views. There was the Greek world, steeped in its oriental idolatry, pitted against a Jewish minority stubbornly proud of its pure belief in one God.

One should not dismiss the Greek world lightly. The world’s greatest philosophers were nursed in the cradle of Greek culture. But the great difference between Hellenism, as the Greek culture is known, and Judaism, lies in this: The Greek world glorified contemplation, the Jewish world glorified behavior, mitzvot. The Greeks stressed creed, while we insisted upon deed. The Greeks were inclined to inactivity — the perfection of form, while the Jew insisted upon activity. The Greeks had many philosophers but few saints; many thinkers but few doers. With the Jews this was reversed. Our world was not one of cold thought, but one of warm action. And this Jewish attitude is best represented by the progressive candles — increase, growth, action, progress. I have no doubt that if the Greeks had won the war, and decided to celebrate it by the lighting of candles, they would have constructed one gigantic, beautiful candle in front of the statue of Zeus, or a thousand smaller ones all around him — but it would have remained that way. With us Jews, however, Hanukkah is celebrated by progressive candles. Ma’alin be-kodesh.

In human terms, we could call the Greeks sitters or standers; that is, in their cold inactivity they confined themselves, insofar as ethics and good deeds are concerned, to one place and there stagnated. They were sitters or standers who rarely chose to help a fellow man. And if the Greeks were sitters and standers, we Jews were walkers and goers. And when one of us decided to “sit it out,” and not participate actively in the good life, then our Rabbis were merciless in their criticism.

The Torah tells us, “Va-yeshev Ya’akov ba-aretz megurei aviv,” which is usually translated as, “and Jacob dwelt in the land of his father’s residence,” but which literally means, “and Jacob sat in the land of his father’s residence” (Genesis 37:1). Even Jacob — who was all his life a great and dynamic “doer” and “goer” — was at times a “sitter.” And listen to the Rabbis’ biting remark: “Wherever man sits, Satan jumps; wherever man becomes inactive, Satan raises his ugly head and becomes active” (Bereishit Rabbah, Va-Yeshev 84). Here was Jacob, an old man who was tired and weary of a life of wandering and running away. He felt that his energies were spent in wrestling with angels, in warding off Laban, and in protecting himself from Esau. He now had twelve children and he was ready to retire. “Enough done in one lifetime,” he thought. “Now is the time to get a little nahat, the time to sit back and relax.”

And so Jacob sat back and relaxed where his father had once lived. And what happens? Satan becomes active. Once a Jacob sits, jealousy invades his home, and his sons begin a struggle with each other over a mere colored shirt. Once a Jacob sits, then one son speaks evil of another. Once a Jacob sits, then he finds that his son Joseph, as the Rabbis relate, spends more time combing his hair in front of a mirror than in poring over his schoolbooks, and he soon begins to dream high-handed dreams of conquest and royalty. Indeed, once a Jacob sits, then his family is torn apart and some sons sell other sons down the river and into slavery.

And sitting, in this sense of inactivity, leads not only to family dissension, but also to downright immorality. Here was Israel, a “holy nation and a kingdom of priests” (Exodus 19:6), wandering in the desert, and suddenly “Israel sat in the plains of Moab” (Exodus 22:1). What happens when a nation sits? The children of Israel entered into immoral relationships with the daughters of Moab. So sitting leads to immorality as well. Indeed, once stagnation sets in, once there is only sitting or standing but no going or progress, then Satan jumps and becomes ferociously hyperactive.

What is the Jewish way? Certainly not sitting or standing, but going and walking. In the great vision that Abraham beheld, God’s command was clear and to the point: “Walk before me and be perfect” (Genesis 17:1). When a man walks, not sits, then he has a chance of becoming perfect. When Joshua the high priest stands before Almighty God, and Satan is at his right hand, God promises Joshua the ultimate redemption of Israel and tells him, “If you will walk in my ways, then I will give you places to walk among those that stand” (Zechariah 3:7). Yes, the world is full of sitters and standers, those who in their inactivity and stagnation invite the company of Satan. But the Abrahams and the Joshuas are committed to a policy of walking and going, of constant activity and positive, helpful deeds. For such is the active policy of Jews in all ages, an activation symbolized by the progressive candles of the Hanukkah menorah. Ma’alin be-kodesh.

How unfortunate, therefore, that so many of our modern Jews, while lighting the candles, forget their meaning. How often a rabbi hears the following remarks: “You see, Rabbi, it’s true I am not an Orthodox Jew, I don’t put on tefillin, I don’t observe Shabbat, I don’t observe the dietary laws; but, Rabbi, let me tell you that I have a good heart; it’s all in here.” And this is followed by a thumping of his chest.

Of course, that is precisely what Rabbis are afraid of — that it’s all in here, that the good heart is something which lies buried between the ribs and behind the diaphragm, and whose warm heartbeats cannot be heard without the aid of artificial instruments. The “good heart” is the excuse of the sitter or the stander. The “good heart” excuse is in the tradition of Greece, and not Israel. I am very wary, indeed, when all a person has to offer is a good heart; whose good intentions cannot be reflected in good limbs and good pockets and good deeds. Imagine what would happen if we would translate that “good heart” idea into actual medical terms. If all the blood were to be drained from your body, from the fingertips to the tips of your toes, and concentrated in your heart, it would certainly be a good heart because it would contain all the blood in your body. But such a situation can only lead to death, because a good heart is not enough; we must have a heart which can circulate this goodness all over the body.

Good intentions without good deeds and good actions are characteristic of the Greeks and not of the Jews. I feel sure, for example, that our synagogues were not built by good intentions or good hearts alone, but by good deeds and good actions. The UJA and Yeshiva University were not built by good hearts alone. They required sturdy hands and sharp heads and noble actions.

With this in mind, we can understand part of the special Al ha-Nissim prayer. In the course of that prayer we praise God and thank Him for assuring us of victory over the Greeks, who, we say, wanted to cause us to forget the Torah and to transgress God’s commandments. This statement is, seemingly, not true from a historical point of view. We know that Antiochus promulgated only three harsh laws against the Jews: He forbade the observance of Shabbat, the festival of Rosh Hodesh, and the rite of circumcision. But nowhere do we find that this mad emperor prohibited the study of Torah.

The answer, however, lies in the idea we have been trying to convey; that is, if the Jew is forbidden to observe the practical commandments, the hukkei retzonekha, if the study of the Torah cannot lead to resolute action, then it is the same as if he were prohibited from even thinking about the Torah — and it must lead to forgetting the Torah. Of what use is Torah if it does not lead to concrete action and noble deeds? If Antiochus did not allow the Jews to observe their commandments, then he stands accused in the eyes of history of destroying their study of the Torah. For the Jew, study without implementation is of slight value. Creed must give birth to deed; contemplation must result in behavior; thought must end in action. Ma’alin be-kodesh.

The light of the progressive candles is, therefore, for us, an enlightening commentary on what Jewish life should be. They inspire us to better behavior, challenge us to greater deeds, and urge us on to new and broader horizons, with that ever-valid commandment, “Rise in holiness.”