Shelach 5772

And Moshe called Hoshea bin Nun, Yehoshua. (Bamidbar 13:16)

He prayed for him: Hashem (the added letter, “Yud”, hints to the Divine Name) should save you from the conspiracy of the spies. (Rashi)

This comment of Rashi is puzzling. Did Moshe realize in advance that the Meraglim would conspire to commit their sin? Why didn’t Moshe pray for them that they should resist temptation? Could Moshe have assumed that the Meraglim were beyond hope? But what about the righteous Kalev; why didn’t Moshe pray for him as well?

However, Kalev did pray for himself. On the verse (13:22), “And they rose up through the south and he came to Chevron,” Rashi notes the inconsistency in number (they/he) and explains that although all the Meraglim traveled through the south, only Kalev went to Chevron in order to pray at the graves of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov that he not be seduced to join the conspiracy of the Meraglim. (It is interesting to note that in Maseches Sotah (34b), the Gemara states that Kalev himself noticed that Moshe prayed for Yehoshua and not for him.)

Another interesting point: In Rashi’s explanations, there is a subtle difference between Moshe’s prayer for Yehoshua and Kalev’s prayer for himself. Moshe prayed that Yehoshua be saved from the Meraglim; Kalev prayed that he not be seduced by them. How do we account for this? (Again, it is worth noting that in the Gemarah Sotah this distinction is not made; it appears to be an original insight of Rashi.)

As the story unfolds, we see that there is a very interesting aspect to the nature of Kalev. When the Meraglim present their report that Eretz Yisrael is unconquerable, only Kalev stands in opposition. Rashi (13:30) implies that Kalev was only able to do so because until the very last moment the other Meraglim assumed that he would confirm their report. Later, Rashi is more explicit in his commentary. On the verse (14:24) which states that “Kalav had a different spirit,” Rashi comments that his initial words were different than his thoughts; to the Meraglim he said that he was with them but in his heart his intention was to undermine them.

The Noam Elimelech writes that Yehoshua was very different. He was transparent. Everyone knew where he stood, because he was the type of Tzaddik who felt he could not even mingle, let alone appear to join, the wicked. Kalev, on the other hand, could get along with everybody. Everyone therefore assumed that he was on their side. This made it possible for Kalev to protest the report of the Meraglim; Yehoshua would not have been able to speak at all. The Meraglim would have shouted him down.

It would therefore appear that Yehoshua and Kalev were in different types of danger. There was no danger that that the Meraglim would try to seduce Yehoshua; he was clearly antagonistic to everything they stood for. The danger was that the Meraglim might try to injure him or even kill him to advance their scheme unopposed. Thus Moshe prayed that he be saved from them. Kalev, on the other hand, was not in any physical danger – the Meraglim assumed that he was one of them! The risk was that, because of his relationship with them, he could be seduced to see things their way. Thus when Kalev prayed for himself his request was that he not be seduced.

Perhaps this can also account for the fact that Moshe prayed for Yehoshua but Kalev had to pray for himself. Whether one can pray for Divine assistance in making proper life choices is a difficult question. As a rule, we know that Hashem does not interfere with the free will of human beings and consequently, it may be inappropriate to ask Him to do so. (See Rambam Hilchos Teshuvah Chapter 6 for an extensive discussion of this subject.) Maharsha (Berachos 10a) makes a distinction between a person who prays for himself and a person who prays for others. When a person prays for himself, that is an exercise of his capacity to make free decisions, and therefore the prayer is legitimate; when a person prays for others, that is tantamount to asking Hashem to “brainwash” another person and therefore unacceptable.

Consequently, Moshe could pray for Yehoshua. He was in physical danger and to pray that he be spared is certainly proper. Kalev was at risk of making a bad decision. For that, he had to pray for himself. No other person could pray for him.

It is interesting to note that ultimately it was Yehushua, and not Kalev, who became the successor of Moshe. Undoubtedly, there were many considerations in this selection which, of course, was made by Hashem himself. But in light of the above discussion, we may suggest an additional one: It is an important quality in a Jewish leader to be clear as to where he stands. Equivocation, or even the public perception of equivocation, compromises the ability of the leader to truly lead. Because everyone could know where Yehosua – as opposed to Kalev – stood, he was the one who received the Divine endorsement.

Beha'alosecha 5772

Parshas Beha’alosecha is a turning point both in the Book of Bamidbar and in the history of our people. The triumphant march to the Land of Israel begins on the twentieth of Iyar – thirteen months after the exodus from Egypt – but within days there is a shift in the mood of the people. Grumbling and complaints bring Divine wrath and dire consequences and ultimately the unique status of Moshe is challenged by a member of his own family. Against this background of discontent and skepticism, the tragic episode of the spies’ mission takes place – as related in next week’s Parsha – and the Children of Israel are condemned to decades of wandering in the desert. These stories describe a slippery slope in which one catastrophe leads to the next; once the chain reaction begins, the disastrous consequences seem inevitable.

The first episode in this series (Bamidbar 11:1-3) is that of the Misonenim. The Hebrew word Onen connotes a person who has suffered a genuine loss; usually the term is applied to one who has suffered the loss of a close relative. A Misonen, however, is a person who has somehow turned himself into an Onen, perhaps by mentally inflating a slight inconvenience into a massive ordeal. In this instance, Rashi explains that they were complaining about the exertion of travel. Keeping in mind that the Jews had been encamped at Sinai for almost a year, we can perhaps sympathize with their finding travel difficult. But apparently they had gone too far and a Divine fire began to consume those at the edge of the camp; only the prayers of Moshe brought relief. In any case, this complaint – despite its being apparently illegitimate – was at least timely; the objection to travel came just as the travel from Sinai began.

In the second episode we have the Asafsuf, who are identified with the Erev Rav – the large number of Egyptian converts who joined the Jews at the exodus – complaining about the Manna. The timing of this complaint is baffling. The Jews had been eating the Manna daily for over a year. Why does the Asafsuf wake up just now? Furthermore, the fact that there is no separation between the two stories in the Sefer Torah seems to indicate a connection between them. Yet, at first glance, that connection is not apparent.

Who were the Misonenim? The simple meaning of the text implies that they were native-born Jews; the Erev Rav is only introduced in the subsequent episode. (Rashi cites two possibilities on this issue.) If this assumption is correct, we can offer a conjecture that will address the problems we raised.

In last week’s Parsha (Bamidbar 5:5-8), we read the law of Gezel HaGer, theft from a convert to Judaism, which raises the intriguing question of how to make restitution in the case where the convert died and left no heirs. (Every native-born Jew would have an heir; any descendent of Avraham Aveinu is distant cousin!) Sforno writes in his commentary that Gezel HaGer is fundamentally worse than theft from a native-born Jew as it disillusions the idealistic convert who has come to take refuge under the wings of the Divine Presence.

We intuitively sense that this observation is correct. Those who have a long association with Judaism and the Jewish community – and are conscious of their own shortcomings – tend to react to others’ offenses with pity and understanding; certainly they are not led to question the validity of the entire Torah system. For the convert this may be very different. If his initial attraction to Judaism is rooted in an overly romanticized view of the Jewish community in which everyone is virtuous and saintly, becoming the victim of a Jewish thief can be a devastating experience.

Whatever troubled the Erev Rav about the Manna should have been apparent months earlier, yet they did not protest for a year. Perhaps they felt that the advantages of joining the Jewish nation more then compensated for the dietary deficiencies. It was axiomatic that truly spiritual people would not be obsessed with their creature comforts and undoubtedly their Jewish role models would not complain about such things. When the Misonenim began to grumble, the Erev Rav’s idealism was shattered. If these native-born Jews don’t feel that being G-d’s chosen people justifies sacrifice, why should we?

The lesson for us is self-evident. On a daily basis we encounter people who could be encouraged to embrace Torah values and lifestyle. The impression we make on that person is of supreme importance. If we convey an impression of happiness and contentedness, he may consider making changes in his own life. Who doesn’t want to be happy and content? But if we convey an impression of being stressed and tormented in our religious lives, that our Torah study and Mitzvah observance give us no satisfaction, we would then be walking advertisements for the secular life.

Naso 5772

It is a well-known fact that Naso is the longest Parsha in the Torah with 176 verses.  (Interestingly, it is not the most difficult to prepare. As the reading contains twelve repetitions of the five-verse section which describes the offerings of the Princes, a substantial portion of the Parsha can be mastered in minutes!) .We also find this number as the number of pages in the longest tractate in Babylonian Talmud, Bava Basra.  Likewise, the longest psalm in Tehillim is Chapter 119 which has – you guessed it – 176 verses.

What is the significance of the number 176? 

It represents the combination of two key numbers since it is the product of 22 times 8.  The number 22 represents the letters of the entire Hebrew alphabet and as such signifies a body of material that is all encompassing in its length and breadth. 

Maharal explains that the number 6 represents the physical world as it corresponds to the six directions – up, down, right, left, forward and back – in which a person can travel from a point in physical space. The number 7 is symbolic of the spiritual core of the physical world which gives it coherence and meaning. Thus, we have the six weekdays devoted to physical labor and the seventh – Shabbos – which gives them their ultimate spiritual dimension.

The number 8, being one higher than seven, rises beyond the material world and symbolizes the supernatural.  Bris Milah, for example, is performed on the eighth day as it is the supernatural perfection of the body; Chanukah is celebrated for eight days as it commemorates a supernatural miracle of the oil lasting much longer than the laws of chemistry and physics would have allowed for.

This is also alluded to in Az Yashir, the song of Moshe and the Jewish people at the Red Sea. The Talmud (Sanhedrin 91b) comments that the use of the future tense (Yashir) alludes to the future resurrection when Moshe will rise from the dead and perform the song again. Of course, resurrection is the most supernatural event that can be imagined and it has a connection to the very word Az whose numerical value is 8.

So the formula of the number 22 – the vastness and completeness of torah – times the number 8 – the supernatural – comes together to create the infinite depth of the number 176.  On the Shabbos after Shavuos, having committed ourselves again to lives of Torah study and observance, we are given this particular portion of the Torah.  We know that Psalm 119 is Dovid HaMelech’s love song for the Torah in which he declares his total devotion to it. So too does this number find its way into the Oral Law. Although the pagination of the Talmud is a human creation, we know that nothing is by coincidence alone. The fact that the largest tractate has this same number of pages reflects upon the breadth and depth of the Talmud and the Oral Law generally.

Bamidbar 5772

As a rule, on the Shabbos before Shavuos we read Parshas Bamidbar. Presumably there is some connection between the two, but even a cursory examination of Bamidbar leads us to question this assumption. The seemingly mundane topics of the Parsha – the census, the array of the camp, the redemption of the first-born – hardly match the thunder and lightning of the Sinai revelation which Shavuos celebrates.

Yet, if we look beneath the surface, there actually is a very deep connection between Shavuos and this Parsha. The Ramban, in his introductory comment to Sefer Bamidbar, mentions that the encampment of the Jews around the Mishkan – described in this Parsha with a wealth of detail – is actually reminiscent of the enclosures that were erected to fence in Mt. Sinai before the revelation. This, of course, reminds us of an earlier comment of Ramban (Shemos 25:1) that the Mishkan itself was designed to be the resting place of the Shechina which had appeared on Mt. Sinai. In other words: The Mishkan with its surrounding encampments was the perpetuation of the experience of Sinai in sanctified space just as the holiday of Shavuos is the perpetuation of the Sinai experience in sanctified time. The connection is thus self-evident.

The centrality of the Mishkan in the design of the encampment is symbolic of the centrality of Torah in the life and thinking of the Jew. This idea can be understood on two levels:

First, within the realm of our religious lives, Torah is first and foremost. Rabbi Chaim of Volozhin in his commentary to Pirkei Avos, Ruach Chaim, explains that although the world is founded on three pillars – Torah, Divine Worship, and Acts of Kindness – these three are not co-equal. Ultimately it is the Torah which defines the other two. Whether a given ritual practice – such as animal sacrifice in the absence of the Bais Hamikdosh – is a meaningful and valid act of worship or not will depend on definitions and guidelines provided by the Torah. As well, whether an interaction of two people – such as lending money on interest below market rates – constitutes an act of kindness or an act of abuse will depend on legal standards spelled out in the Torah. (Both examples are, in fact, prohibited.) Thus, Torah is central as it defines all other areas of religious life.

But, more importantly, Torah must be central to the entirety of a Jew’s life.

Many people live with a misconception. They believe that there are many diverse components to life; religion being just one of them. Others would include career, social life, community involvement, cultural and artistic pursuits, and so on. Life is viewed as a pie and each component is a slice of the pie. In this conception, the defining characteristic of the “religious personality” is simply the size of the slice.

A genuine Torah perspective calls for a different metaphor. To the serious Jew, religion is the baking dish; all the other aspects of life – slices of the pie – must fit into that dish. As the Rambam writes (Shemoneh Perakim Chapter 5), the ideal of Judaism is “Know Him in all your ways.” Every aspect of life has value only to the extent that it facilitates and serves as a means to the ultimate end of coming to know G-d. If a person was to integrate this ideal into his way of life, everything would be different. His eating, sleeping, recreation, work habits, relationships, and even his thoughts would be focused on the imperative of living a life totally devoted to the will of Hashem.

The centrality of the Mishkan is meant to convey the idea that Torah is not merely an important part of life and not merely the most important part of life. It is the pivot and the core around which everything must revolve.

Behar-Bechukosai 5772

It has been taught: R. Simeon ben Eleazar says: Ezra made a regulation for Israel that they should read the curses in Vayikra before Shavuos and those in Devarim before Rosh Hashana. What is the reason?  Abaye , or you may also say Resh Lakish, said: So that the year may end along with its curses. I grant you that in regard to the curses in Devarim you can say, ‘so that the year should end along with its curses’. But as regards those In Vayikra, is Shavuos a New Year? —Yes; Shavuos is also a New Year, as we have learnt: ‘Shavuos is the New Year for [fruit of] the tree’. (Megillah 31b)

The question may be asked: Is there a specific correlation between the two versions of the Tochacha and the occasions before which they are read or could the readings just as well have been reversed?

It would seem that there is a very profound historical connection between the blessings and curses of Bechukosai and the giving of the Torah which Shavuos celebrates, but to understand this properly we must first examine the structure of the closing chapters of Sefer Vayikra and their place within the context of the entire book.

Vayikra opens with Hashem speaking to Moshe from within the Sanctuary. From the time the Sanctuary was built, this was the standard practice as the Divine Presence had already moved from Mount Sinai to the Sanctuary’s Kodesh HaKodoshim. However, the two concluding sections – Behar and Bechukosai – were clearly communicated to Moshe at Mount Sinai as the opening and closing verses explicitly state. So why are these sections set apart and not incorporated into the book of Shemos which contains the other teachings of Sinai?

Ramban (Vayikra 25:1) writes that these sections were taught to Moshe on Mt. Sinai, but not during the first forty days – rather during the last forty days at the end of which Moshe was given the replacement set of Luchos. This is why they are set apart from the other teachings which belong to the first forty days.

What did these teachings add to that which was taught during the first forty days?

Here the Ramban offers an astounding insight: After the initial revelation at Mt. Sinai, there was a covenant that was made between Hashem and the Jewish nation. The ceremony at which this covenant was made featured burnt offerings, sprinkling of blood, a reading of the Sefer Habris – all the Mitzvos that were given to date, and finally the formula of ratification, “Na’aseh V’nishma.” This covenant, however, was abrogated when the Jews committed the sin of worshipping the Golden Calf.

When Moshe went up for the final forty days he was given – in addition to the second Luchos – instructions for a new covenant. These instructions included an expansion of the Sefer Habris – the sections of Behar and Bechukosai – to be read at the ratification ceremony. Thus, the laws of Shemitta (Behar) which were in the original Sefer Habris in concise form are incorporated in expanded form. But more importantly, the Sefer Habris now includes blessings and curses (Bechukosai) for the first time.

Apparently, the Jews’ spiritual level had been diminished as a consequence of the terrible sin of the Golden Calf. Now they needed the inducements of blessings and curses to insure that they would comply with the Divine commands.

In the spirit of Ramban’s comments we can add one point: The blessings and curses of Bechukosai were actually the necessary corrective to the original covenant – the Shavuos covenant – that was violated by the Jewish people. We are no longer on the level of altruistic acceptance of Torah; the Golden Calf ended all that. Now we need that our acceptance of Torah be rooted in the self-interest that is consequent to blessings and curses. Accordingly our celebration of Shavuos is preceded specifically by the reading of the Bechukosai version of the Tochacha.

Emor 5772

The association of Shavuos with the giving of the Torah is well established; the wording of the Amida prayer and the Torah Reading reflect this. Yet, surprisingly, in Parshas Emor (Vayikra 23:17-22), Shavuos is ordained as Mikra Kodesh – a day of Holy Assembly – only in consideration of the fact that it is the day on which two loaves of newly grown wheat are offered as a sacrifice to Hashem. Thus, Shavuos is the culmination of an agricultural celebration which begins with the second day of Pesach (on which the Omer of the new barley is brought), continues through the seven weeks of Sefira, and concludes with the above-mentioned loaves, the Shtei HaLechem. What happened to the celebration of the Torah?

It is also noteworthy that Shavuos does not always fall on the anniversary of the revelation at Sinai. There is a dispute in the Talmud (Shabbos 86b) as to whether the revelation took place on the sixth or the seventh day of Sivan. Shavuos, on the other hand, really has no fixed calendar date. It is always the fiftieth day of the Sefira counting which begins on the second day of Pesach.

Originally, the length of months was not fixed as the declaration of Rosh Chodesh was based on the observation of the new moon. Thus, if the months of Iyar and Sivan were both “complete” months (that is, 30 days long), the fiftieth day would fall on the fifth of Sivan. If Iyar and Sivan were both “defective” (that is, 29 days long), the fiftieth day would fall on the seventh of Sivan. If one month is complete and the other is defective, then the fiftieth day falls on the sixth of Sivan. In any case, there was no guarantee that Shavuos would fall on the anniversary of revelation. (See Rosh Hashana 6b.)

(One would be tempted to make the following argument: Granted that the calendar dates do not match, but wasn’t the Torah given on the fiftieth day, which is exactly when Shavuos occurs? Unfortunately, this is not the case. The Talmud (Shabbos 86b) clearly states that the day of the Exodus was a Thursday and the day of Matan Torah was Shabbos. Do the calculation and you will discover that the Torah was on the fifty-first day!)

If Hashem really wanted to connect Shavuos to the giving of the Torah, it would seem that the fixing of dates should have been a bit more precise. How do we reconcile this imprecision with that which we know to be true, that Shavuos does celebrate the giving of the Torah?

I believe that we are compelled to come to a curious conclusion: From Hashem’s perspective, Shavuos has nothing to do with the giving of the Torah. It is simply a celebration of the harvest sacrifices, despite the fact that it falls (approximately) at the time the Torah was given. The Jewish people, however, transformed the nature of the day, connecting it to the Matan Torah, resulting in the Rabbinic ordinances of the Amida and Torah Reading reflecting this new association.

The explanation of this curiosity is both simple and profound.

The Torah makes many demands of the Jewish people, both as individuals and as a community. It regulates what we eat and what we wear; how we think and how we speak; our social lives and our professional lives; our relationships to parents, spouses, and children; how we earn our money and how we spend it; and much, much more. Hashem, from His perspective, understanding that, as humans, we may find these rules overly restrictive, would not demand that we celebrate their being given to us. He will demand that we comply and live by them, but he will not insist that we feast joyously at the prospect of being given such a burden.

Through our experiences, however, we come to the conclusion that the Torah is actually the greatest source of satisfaction in life. It gives our lives purpose and direction. It facilitates the most powerful and meaningful relationship that a human being could possibly have; a relationship with Hashem. The collective genius of the Jewish people sensed that at this time of year we should be celebrating the gift of Torah, and thus our Sages blended into the agricultural holiday an additional spiritual dimension which ultimately eclipsed – in our conventional thinking – the harvest aspect.

Thus the celebration of Matan Torah on Shavuos is not an obligation that was imposed on us. It is rather the expression of a voluntary sentiment that emerged from the grassroots of the Jewish people.

Acharei Mos-Kedoshim 5772

This week’s Parsha gives us an opportunity for a five-month head start on our preparations for next Yom Kippur; of course, Teshuvah, which is the essence of Yom Kippur, is always in-season.

Perhaps the most outstanding feature of the Yom Kippur ritual is its requirement that the Kohen Gadol enter the innermost chamber of the Bais Hamikdosh – the Kodesh HaKodoshim – four times. What is the significance of this fact? We may suggest two possibilities:

First, it symbolizes the esteem in which the genuinely penitent are held. Chazal (Berachos 34b) teach, “In the place where Ba’alei Teshuvah stand, the absolutely righteous cannot stand.” On Yom Kippur we present ourselves before Hashem as Ba’alei Teshuvah. Accordingly, our representative – the Kohen Gadol – can stand in a spot which is so holy and so close to the Divine Presence that it is off limits in any other circumstance.

Second, it symbolizes an important element in the process of Teshuvah. To understand this fully, we may use an analogy:

The law of the Nazir grants an individual the ability to make a vow of self-sanctification. In that state he must avoid drinking wine, cutting his hair, and defiling himself by contact with the dead. These laws express three different aspects of the Nazir’s holiness: total rationality (avoiding intoxicants), selflessness (inattention to personal grooming), and purity (non-defilement). Why would a person become a Nazir? In the Torah, the law of the Nazir is juxtaposed to the law of the Sotah, the suspected adulteress. Says the Talmud (Sotah 2a): “A person who sees the ruination of the Sotah should take the vow of the Nazir.” Presumably the downfall of the Sotah was rooted in a drunken loss of control; becoming a Nazir addresses the problem.

But is it necessary? If our only concern is maintaining rational control, why is it not sufficient to make a vow to forbid wine? Being a Nazir entails so much more!

Chazal may have something else in mind. The value of becoming a Nazir is not just the resulting avoidance of alcohol. Becoming a Nazir raises one to a new spiritual plane at which the temptations of the past are simply unimaginable. The Nazir has “outgrown” them much in the same way that a ten-year old outgrows the antics of a toddler. Making a vow to avoid wine would be perhaps a band-aid solution; becoming a Nazir is a genuine transformation.

(Interestingly, it would not be necessary to become a Nazir forever. An unspecified vow of Nazir lasts for only 30 days. But that may be enough. The impression left on the psyche of the Nazir lasts beyond the expiration of his vow.)

In doing Teshuvah, we are not looking for the band-aid solutions for sin-avoidance. We are seeking ways to raise our overall spirituality and elevate ourselves above and beyond temptation. Our Torah study, prayers, and spiritual experiences may never directly address the sins we have committed. Yet, they will be the building blocks of our Teshuvah. What we really are trying to do is to follow the Kohen Gadol into the Kodesh HaKodoshim. If we can go there, we will happily leave our old baggage behind.

Tazriah-Metzorah 5772

Regarding the requirement that a Nega Tzara’as must be seen by a Kohen, the Mishna (Negaim 2:5) states, “All Negaim one may see, except his own.” In our Aggadic literature, this Mishna is often cited in a figurative way: All faults one may see, except his own. This, of course, points to the fact that we see the shortcomings of others with great clarity; of our own we are oblivious. (See, for example, Ruach Chaim to Pirkei Avos 2:1 and Medrash Shmuel to Pirkei Avos 1:7.)

We may suggest that this is not simply a play on words; the Aggadic interpretation is actually the rationale for the legal ruling of this Mishna. Tzara’as is not simply a skin disease; it is a Divine sign of a sinful act or negative personality trait. (We are all familiar with the association of Tzara’as and Lashon Hara, but in fact Tzara’as can come as a consequence of other sins as well. See Erechin 16a.) If a person was to examine his own Tzara’as, he undoubtedly would give himself a favorable diagnosis as an unfavorable diagnosis would point to a flaw that he cannot bring himself to see.

To expand on this idea, we may observe that we often have a difficult time seeing ourselves even in a positive light. Why would this be? Certainly we have no problem noting our achievements and successes. Yet, we may have a problem noting our potentialities, especially when they have not been actualized. There is no greater flaw than unrealized potential. By denying this potential we spare ourselves of the pain of facing the fact that we squander it to our own detriment.

To overcome this blind spot, we may need the encouragement of others. The Mishna in this week’s Perek (Pirkei Avos 2:11) relates that Rabbi Yochanan ben Zackai would cite the praises of each of his main disciples. We should assume that this was not simple flattery. Rather, by pointing out their unique strengths, he was forcing them to face the reality of their own potential and rise to the challenge.

Conversely, we find that the 24,000 disciples of Rabbi Akiva died for the failure to honor one another (Yevamos 62b). The question has been asked: We know that one of the great teachings of Rabbi Akiva (Sifra, Parshas Kedoshim, Ch. 4 cited in Rashi Vayikra 19:18) is that the Mitzvah to love a fellow Jew is the most fundamental rule of the Torah. Undoubtedly, his disciples absorbed this teaching. If so, how is it possible that they mistreated one another?

The answer is that they did not mistreat one another. The certainly loved each other and would give the shirt off their backs to friends in need. But they did not honor one another. That is, they failed to acknowledge the unique characteristics of one another. (It is important to remember that we love those who are like ourselves; we honor those who are special in some way, possessing qualities that we ourselves lack.) Their sin was the failure to enable their colleagues to realize their own potential to the fullest by giving them the needed encouragement. For men who were destined to be the future teachers of Klal Yisrael, this was a fatal flaw.

Shemini 5772

The repsonse of Aharon to the tragic deaths of his sons, Nadav and Avihu, was silent acceptance of the Divine decree. For this, according to Chazal, he was rewarded. Rashi, relying on Midrashim, points to two components of this reward. First, Hashem personally taught Aharon the prohibition of wine-consumption for Kohanim performing the Temple service, rather than transmitting this rule through Moshe Rabbeinu (Rashi, Vayikra 10:3). Second, Aharon, along with his surviving sons Elazar and Isamar, was given the honor of teaching the laws of the kosher and non-kosher animals to the Jewish people (Rashi, Vayikra 11:2). Of course, Divine recognition is certainly a lofty reward. However, the question may still be asked: Why was this Divine recognition associated with these specific laws – the wine prohibition and the laws of Kosher animals?

When tragedy strikes there are really two different questions that the family and the friends of the victim can ask: 1. Why him? 2. Why me? In other words, when a person suffers a premature or painful death, those who were witnesses to that misfortune may question why that person “deserved” to die in such a terrible way. But that is only one half of the wonder. When a person is taken from this world, that person is actually not the only victim. His family, friends, community, and all who have any association with him also suffer from the loss. They may also question why they “deserved” to suffer.

In truth, the second question may be harder to answer than the first. In the instance where the death is a consequence of an identifiable sin, we know why the individual died; why his innocent loved ones experience the trauma remains a mystery. (By analogy, consider the case of an individual imprisoned for financial fraud. We may concede that he received his due, but how do we explain the pain that his wife and children experience?) Yet, the first question can still be troubling if the legitimacy or stringency of the law for which the victim was punished is not totally clear. (Again, by analogy, consider a person imprisoned for a technical violation of the tax laws of which the person himself may have been unaware.)

According to Chazal, Nadav and Avihu were guilty of drinking wine before engaging in their performance of the incense offering, and it was for this that they were so severely punished. One may have been tempted to ask whether such a seemingly minor infraction should call for such a harsh penalty. Aharon was not tempted. He accepted Hashem’s determination that this is in fact a capital offense and therefore he was given the honor of hearing the associated law from Hashem himself.

However, Aharon may still have questioned the Divine judgment. Granted that Nadav and Avihu committed a capital offence, but why should he suffer the loss of beloved sons? Why should Elazar and Isamar suffer the loss of beloved brothers? For that matter, why should the Jewish nation have suffered the loss of such lofty tzaddikim?

Of course, no one – other than the Ribbono Shel Olam – can fully answer this question, but we must be aware of an important factor: Consequences for our actions – the classical consideration of reward and punishment – are important considerations but not the only considerations in Hashem’s management of the world. Sometimes suffering is a test (nisayon). Sometimes suffering is the unavoidable side-effect of what must occur as part of the Divine plan for the world; those who suffer this seemingly “undeserved” pain will undoubtedly be compensated – either in this world or the next – in ways that will more than justify that pain.

This is analogous to the fact that the world has kosher and non-kosher animals. Certainly this is not because the ones are more deserving and the others less so. The Divine plan called for the existence of both types and the roles were assigned to the various species. The fairness cannot be questioned; Hashem, as the creator and master of all things, certainly has the prerogative to assign each to its appropriate station within His master plan.

The seemingly arbitrary distinction between those animals we may eat and those we may not could only be taught to the Jewish people by individuals who understand that the unfathomable is not arbitrary at all. Our inability to understand is not a critique of the Divine plan; there are simply some things that are beyond human grasp. The silent acceptance of the innocent, suffering survivors, Aharon, Elazar, and Isamar, qualifies them to be the teachers of these laws.

Tzav - Shabbos Hagadol 5772

In a non-leap year, Shabbos Hagadol – the Shabbos before Pesach – always coincides with Parshas Tzav. Is there a connection? The Abudraham (cited in Biur Halacha Siman 428) relates the pre-Pesach kashering of vessels to the topic – discussed in Parshas Tzav – of merika u’shetifa, the ritual cleansing of vessels in which the meat of a Korban Chatas was cooked. Perhaps, upon careful examination, we can find additional connections.

Matza, of course, is central to our observance of Pesach. The conventional wisdom is that it relates to the historical experience of the Jewish people both before and immediately after the exodus from Egypt. Matza is both the Lachma Anya, the Bread of Affliction that our forefathers ate as slaves, and the symbol of the haste of our liberation in that the dough we prepared for our departure had insufficient time to rise. Consequently, the matza we eat for the Seder has very specific Halachic requirements: It must be made in haste to prevent leavening and it must not be enriched with fruit juice or eggs.

Interestingly, these same rules apply to the flour-offerings brought in the Bais Hamikdosh throughout the year, as it states in the Torah (Vayikra 2:11), “For no leaven and no honey may be brought as a fire-offering to Hashem.” In our Parsha, the prohibition is extended from the portion of the offering burnt on the Mizbeach to the portion eaten by the Kohanim (Vayikra 6:10). It would appear that, aside from the historical symbolism which we emphasize on Pesach, there must be an additional aspect to the matza-rules which gives them relevance – at least in the Bais Hamikdosh – year round.

The Sefer HaChinuch (Mitzvah 117) suggests that leaven and honey symbolize two character flaws that the true servant of Hashem must overcome. Leavening requires an extended period of time during which the dough is allowed to “rest”; this corresponds to laziness and lethargy. Honey, being sweet, corresponds to the excessive desire for material pleasures. Both of these flaws are major obstacles in the pursuit of perfection in the service of Hashem. That they are to be banned from the Mizbeach is hardly surprising, but that the “off-duty” Kohen must adhere to this rule in eating the remainder of the offering points to an idea that we neglect at our peril: We are servants of Hashem 24/7 and not only when we are actively engaged in the sacrificial ritual. The same energy, enthusiasm, and selflessness that infuse the Temple service must carry over to our personal lives.

The freedom we celebrate on Pesach is not merely “negative liberty” – relief from the external constraints imposed by Pharoah and his regime. It is meant to be “positive liberty” – the opportunity to realize our highest aspirations and goals for life. The Matza that we eat does not only symbolize our historical release from the prison called Egypt. It also symbolizes freedom from our own personal variations of Mitzrayim, the personality defects that prevent us from living lives of true meaning and purpose. Parshas Tzav reveals to us this additional dimension of Matza, and thus is a fitting prelude to the observance of Z’man Cherusainu, the Season of our Freedom.

Vayikra 5772

Within the realm of symbolism it is often the case that less is more. Just as the power and effectiveness of a mashal is not a function of its own elegance but rather the extent to which its elements correspond to that of the nimshal, so the power of a symbolic object is not in its size, weight, or cost but rather in its ability to represent that for which it stands. Thus, a smaller, lighter, or even more inexpensive item may serve its purpose in a manner superior to its alternative. Let us keep this in mind as we explore just one of the many facets of the sacrificial laws, the central theme of this week’s portion.

The Korban Olah, entirely burnt on the altar, is generally a voluntary sacrifice, yet it serves as atonement. For what sins does it atone? Here we have an apparent contradiction in the words of Chazal. Toras Kohanim (cited in Rashi, Zevachim 5B) says that it atones for the failure to fulfill a positive command of the Torah. However the Talmud Yerushalmi (Yoma 8:7) contends that it atones for sinful thoughts. The Chasam Sofer suggests that it may depend on the particular animal used for the offering. The Olah of cattle (discussed at Vayikra 1:3-9) atones for the neglect of the positive command; the Olah of sheep (discussed at Vayikra 1:10-13) atones for the illicit thoughts. Now the Chasam Sofer does not explain the basis for this distinction. One would be tempted to say that failure to perform an act is worse than a mere thought and thus requires a “bigger” atonement; thus the distinction is rooted in the comparative size difference between a bull and a ram.

But there may be something deeper here. A point reiterated again and again in the commentaries to Vayikra is that a Korban is a symbolic self-sacrifice, where the animal represents the person who is bringing the offering. (See Sfas Emes, Vayikra 5643 for a fascinating comparison of a Korban to the Akeidas Yitzchak, where the ram replaced the human offering.) We may then ask: Is there a difference between the bull and the ram in their symbolism? Does a person choose one or the other merely on the basis of expense or convenience, or does the choice reflect different aspects of self-sacrifice?

Rav Hirsch in his commentary reveals a fundamental difference between cattle and sheep. A bull is a beast of burden; it bears its master’s yoke. A sheep is shepherded by its master; it is the object of nurturing and tender care. Says Rav Hirsch, when a person feels that he has been remiss in his responsibilities to G-d and wishes to make amends, he wills himself to serve as the bull bearing his master’s yoke. When a person sees himself as inappreciative of G-d’s kindnesses, he wills himself to be the sheep, cared for and pampered. Thus, the choice of animal is connected to the message the person wishes to communicate to G-d.

The words of the Chasam Sofer now take on a new poignancy. Does the bull enjoy its burdens? Perhaps yes, but probably it does not. Yet it does its duty in any case. The bull therefore does not atone for the illicit thought – the bull may have illicit thoughts of its own; it atones for a failure to perform one’s duty, specifically the neglect of a positive commandment. The sheep, however, as the object of his master’s care and devotion is undoubtedly wholehearted in reciprocating his master’s love; the slightest thought of rebellion or defiance would be a betrayal. Thus the person who wishes to make amends for such thoughts represents himself as the sheep.

Vayakhel-Pikudai 5772

As this week marks the conclusion of Sefer Shemos, it would be appropriate to reflect on the curious fact that the Torah is divided into separate books. It is hard to imagine that the division is merely for the sake of convenience. Without the appended commentaries, even all five books together still comprise an easily handled volume. Undoubtedly the rationale for the division is that each book encompasses a unique theme; with the conclusion of that theme’s treatment the book itself is concluded. What then, we may ask, is the theme of the book of Shemos?

Fortunately, the Ramban addresses this question in his introduction to the book where he explains that Shemos is the Book of Geulah/Redemption, telling the story of the Jew’s liberation from Egypt. However, points out Ramban, a serious objection can be raised to this definition: The story of the Exodus is completed in the first several chapters which make up the weekly portions of Shemos, Va’erah, Bo, and the first half of B’shalach. What do the remaining chapters have to do with the theme of redemption?

Here the Ramban offers a fascinating suggestion. The term “Geulah/Redemption” means much more than deliverance from servitude. It actually implies a total restoration to an original, ideal state. Explains the Ramban, our patriarchs, Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov lived on such a lofty spiritual level that it would not be an exaggeration to say the Shechina rested upon their tents. But when their descendants were exiled to Egypt, a long process of degeneration began, and this was no longer the case. (In many ways, according to Chazal, the Jews in Egypt were indistinguishable from their Egyptian neighbors.) Therefore, the Jews could not be considered truly redeemed until they were restored to their original state. With the revelation at Sinai, the receiving of the Torah, the building of the Mishkan, and the resting of the Shechina upon it, the restoration is complete. It is at that point that Geulah/Redemption is achieved and the Book of Geulah/Redemption is concluded.

A careful reading of the concluding verses seems to indicate that the “Cloud” came to rest on the Mishkan as soon as its construction was completed. Surprisingly, in the book of Vayikra (9:6-23) we read that a number of sacrifices were required before the “Glory of Hashem” was seen on the Mishkan. Is this “Glory of Hashem” identical with the “Cloud” of which our Parsha speaks? (See Seforno 30:1 where he clearly differentiates between them.)

When we speak of Shechina/Divine Presence, we may discern two aspects. The first is the idea that Hashem oversees, protects, and guides us. (See Maharal, Netzach Yisrael Chapter 10.) Second is the idea that Hashem enables us to feel a sense of intimacy and closeness when we pray and serve Him.

In the conclusion of Shemos, the emphasis is clearly on the first idea. For this reason the Torah conveys the fact that the “Cloud” guided the B’nai Yisrael throughout their travels in the Wilderness. We can suggest that this first aspect of Shechina was manifest as soon as the Mishkan was completed. But the second aspect – intimacy in Divine service – could only become manifest when we initiated that service. Thus it was contingent upon the offering of the special sacrifices described in Sefer Vayikra.

Purim 5772

One is obligated to become intoxicated on Purim to the extent that he can no longer differentiate between “Cursed is Haman” and “Blessed is Mordechai”. (Megillah 7b)

In discussing this well-known statement of Chazal, there is no need to point out the difficulties. Judaism places a premium on rationality and, consequently, on sobriety. Even conceding the topsy-turvy nature of the day, it is hard to understand that we should be commanded to lose our minds!

In addition, the metric that Chazal applied in defining the standard of intoxication requires understanding. How could the celebration of Purim necessitate that we confuse the hero and the villain? At that point, what would we be celebrating?

In various Halachic works (Eliyahu Rabbah and Chayei Adam cited in Biur Halacha Siman 695), we are told that the basis for drinking wine at the festive Purim Seudah is to commemorate the fact that many of the episodes in the Purim story took place in the setting of a drinking party at the royal residence. While this is certainly true, as an explanation, it seems inadequate. Drinking may have been the background of Purim, but that hardly justifies moving it to the foreground!

“On the seventh day, when the King’s heart was merry with wine…” Until now, the King’s heart was not merry? Said Rava, that “seventh day” was the Shabbos. When the Jews would eat and drink, they would begin speaking words of Torah and songs of Divine praise; when the idolaters would eat and drink, they would begin with words of foolishness. (Megillah 12b)

So, what is the answer to the original question? Until now the King’s heart was not merry? R. Tzadok HaKohen (Pri Tzadik, Purim 3) offers an insightful explanation based on the tradition that whenever the title King appears in the Megillah – without the name Achashverosh attached – it is a veiled reference to the Supreme King.

During the first six days of the party, Ribbon Shel Olam was not very happy. (In fact, the Jews’ participation in the feast of Achashverosh was one of the sins for which Hashem allowed Haman’s decree of annihilation to pass.) Only on that seventh day, which coincidentally was Shabbos, was the underlying virtue of the Jewish people revealed. On that day, the Supreme King’s heart was merry with the wine of the Jewish people.

Let us take this one step further. The events of that day actually laid the groundwork for the salvation of the Jewish people that was to come nine years later. The execution of Vashti created the opportunity for Esther to become queen and, of course, to be in the right place at the right time to foil the plot of Haman. This, as Chazal say, was the healing that was put into place long before the illness.

But Hashem does not play favorites. We know that when the Jews stood at the Yam Suf and G-d contemplated splitting the sea to save the Jews and drown the Egyptians, the angels raised an objection, “These are idolaters and these are idolaters.” If the Jews are no better than their enemies, they cannot be saved.

The justification for that initial Divinely-guided process which paved the way for the ultimate salvation was the revelation of Jewish merit in that to which their drinking of wine led – words of Torah and songs of praise – by contrast to the idolaters whose drinking leads to nonsense.

We may suggest that our drinking at the Purim Seudah is not simply a commemoration of the fact that the Purim story took place against a background of wine, Rather, our Purim Seudah, with the drinking that leads to words of Torah and joyous songs of praise, is a replication of the merit which allowed for the first step in the process of salvation to take place.

Taking this again one step further, our drinking wine reveals something very special about the fundamental nature of the Jew, as Chazal say (Sanhedrin 38a), “When the wine goes in, the secrets come out.” The essential Jew is not primarily focused on his own comfort and pleasure; he is focused on the Ribbono Shel Olam, His Torah, His commandments, and the sanctification of His name. And here is the key to the puzzle with which we began.

The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 7:4) says, “Just as the praise of Hakadosh Baruch Hu emerges from the righteous in Gan Eden, so it emerges from the wicked in Gehinnom.” In other words, just as the blessings which the righteous enjoy reinforce our resolve to live proper lives, so the punishments of the wicked have the same effect. Everyone contributes to the ultimate Kiddush Hashem. Our choice is only how we are going to make our contribution.

To the Jew who thinks of himself and his own well-being, his feelings toward Mordechai and Haman will be quite different. To Mordechai, our saviour, he will bestow blessings; to Haman, our mortal enemy, he will bestow curses. But to the Jew who has taken his wine on Purim and rises above personal score-keeping, the picture is not so clear at all. The Kiddush Hashem that took place on that Purim so many hundreds of years ago required the contributions of Mordechai and Haman. When we realize this we are not in such a rush to curse Haman. Yes, he certainly was a flawed person and his intentions were diabolical. But his “contribution” to the world, unintended as it was, was real.

Tetzaveh 5772

It is a well known fact that the name of Moshe Rabbeinu is not to be found in Parshas Tetzaveh. While there are many explanations for this, the simplest is that Tetzaveh is focused mainly upon Moshe’s brother Aharon. It is in this Parsha that the instructions are given for the Bigdei Kehuna (priestly vestments) and for the ceremonies through which Aharon is to be inducted into the priesthood. Accordingly, Moshe recedes into the background.

The significance of this “disappearance” may be rooted in the very concept of the Bigdei Kehuna. Ramban explains (Shemos 28:2) that these garments were regal in nature; undoubtedly their function was to present the priests to the nation as exemplars of the highest religious and ethical values and thus, as worthy role models. Strangely, Moshe Rabbeinu, who served as Kohen for the week of the Sanctuary dedication, did not wear the Bigdei Kehuna. The Talmud (Avodah Zara 34a) teaches that Moshe served instead wearing a plain, unadorned white robe. We may suggest that Moshe Rabbeinu could not serve as an effective role model; his spiritual level was light-years beyond the capacity of any other human being. So there was no point in “dressing him up”; nobody could follow his example. Aharon was closer to the people and his level was more accessible.

There may be an additional factor involved in Aharon’s unique ability to inspire others. The Mishna in Pirkei Avos (1:12) tells us, “Be a student of Aharon, a lover of peace, a pursuer of peace, one who loves people, and brings them close to Torah.” The Maharal observes in his commentary to Pirkei Avos, Derech Chaim, that there is no direct evidence from the Torah to the proposition that Aharon loved people. Yet, there is evidence that he did not have a specific personality flaw that often interferes with our ability to love other people – jealousy.

When Moshe Rabbeinu was commanded at the Burning Bush to liberate the Jewish people from Egypt, he asked Hashem to send Aharon instead. (See Rashi, Shemos 4:13.) According to the Midrash Rabbah, Moshe’s reluctance was rooted in concern for the possibility of hurting Aharon’s feelings. After all, Aharon was the older brother and he could have expected to be selected for the mission. At this request, however, Hashem was angered. He told Moshe (4:14), “Behold Aharon will come to meet you; he will see you and rejoice in his heart.” Aharon did not have a jealous bone in his body. Not only would he not be resentful, he would actually rejoice at the honor his brother was given.

(The Yalkut Shimoni commenting on the above verse, says that Aharon’s joy would be in his heart only but would not be expressed in words. The Magen Avraham in his notes to the Yalkut, Zeis Ra’anan, explains that Aharon’s joy would be so great that it could not be put into words!)

The ability to rejoice in the achievements of another is a unique, but unfortunately, rarely found character trait. (Even Moshe Rabbeinu could not imagine Aharon’s being such a person until Hashem told him!) But this quality makes one especially effective as a role model, mentor, and inspiration. Many would rise to great heights – intellectual and spiritual – if there was someone that loved them and who they loved who would take notice and revel in those achievements. What one is not motivated to do altruistically, he may do to give others satisfaction.

The Choshen breastplate, its twelve stones inscribed with the names of the B’nai Yisrael, was placed on Aharon’s heart. According to Chazal (cited in the above mentioned Rashi) this was a reward for having rejoiced in his heart. The deeper meaning is obvious. Aharon carried the names because, in everything he did as Kohen Gadol, he was an advocate for the Jewish people. There is no better qualified advocate than the one who truly cares, whose greatest satisfaction is the well-being and success of those he represents.

Terumah 5772

The opening verses of the Parsha discuss the various materials that were to be collected for the construction of the Mishkan. Certainly the true significance of these items is symbolic; in Chassidic works, based on Kabbalistic sources, gold is associated with fear of G-d and silver with love of G-d.

This association, however, leads to some difficulties. For example, the Torah relates that the structure of the Mishkan was comprised of vertical wooden boards covered with gold (Kerashim) supported from below by sockets of pure silver (Adonim). But is it conceivable that love of G-d should function as the base that upholds fear of G-d?

There appears to be a contrary presumption in our classic Torah literature – that fear is the foundation upon which the higher level of love is built. To cite one example, the Ramban (Shemos 20:8) writes that rationale for the well-known ruling that a Positive Commandment supersedes a Negative Commandment (Aseh Doche Lo Taaseh) is that performance of positive commandments is a function of love and thus a higher attainment than fear which underlies the observance of the negative commandments.

Yet, there is an intriguing statement in the Talmud (Sotah 31a) that may resolve the difficulty:

It has been taught: R. Meir says: It is said of Job that he feared G-d, and it is said of Abraham that he feared G-d.  Just as 'fearing G-d' regarding Abraham indicates (fear) from love, so 'fearing G-d' regarding Job indicates (fear) from love.

The Maharal (Nesivos Olam, Nesiv Yiras Hashem, Chapter 1) explains that the highest level of fear of G-d is rooted in love: A person can attain such a deep, profound love of G-d that he is overtaken by the fear of doing something that might damage that precious, intimate relationship. The Maharal further explains that there are certain extremely difficult tasks that one could theoretically refuse to do even for a loved one; yet the person will perform them for fear of losing the relationship. The illustration of this would be the Akeida, which according to the Talmud (Sanhedrin 105b) was a function of Avraham’s loving devotion to G-d, and yet in the Torah it is described as a demonstration of his fear of G-d (Bereishis 22:12).

Thus, the Adonim of silver, representing love, served as the foundation of the Kerashim of gold representing fear.

The above understanding may resolve an additional difficulty.

We know that the contributions for the construction of the Mishkan were voluntary and this is hardly surprising. The initiation of a relationship cannot be coerced. The Mishkan, which symbolizes the “home” that G-d and the Jewish people share, could only be built through the generosity of the nation. Yet there was an exception. The silver for the Adonim – the very foundation of the Mishkan – was raised by the half-shekel tax (See Shemos 30:16) which, of course, was mandatory. How can we account for this anomaly?

It may be that our assumption is mistaken.

The difference between the silver and the other materials is not that the one was coerced and the other was freely given. Undoubtedly, the Jews, who so enthusiastically contributed gold, copper, wood, and other materials, gave their mandatory half-shekel of silver willingly. The difference is that the gift of the other materials expresses individuality and the gift of silver expresses commonality.

The Sfas Emes (Parshas Shekalim 5649) explains that fear of G-d is a function of our intellectual understanding of G-d, His omnipotence, etc. To the extent that everyone’s level of understanding differs, everyone’s level of Yiras Shomayim is different. Love of G-d, however, is a function of the metaphysical reality that our souls are created by G-d, and that, by nature, all things yearn to be unified with their source. Thus, the root of Ahavas Hashem is common to all Jews.

As a consequence, the gift of silver, representing love of G-d, is fixed for all donors. The other gifts, especially those of gold, representing fear, are a function of intellectual understanding of the worthiness of the cause. Those gifts must be structured in a way that allows for individual differences.

Mishpatim 5772

When you lend money to My people, to the poor person with you, you shall not behave toward him as a lender; you shall not impose interest upon him. (Shemos 22:24)

The prohibition of charging interest only applies to loans between Jews; a Jewish lender may take interest from a Gentile borrower. This distinction lends itself to misunderstanding. One could mistakenly assume that the Torah only demands fairness and integrity in dealings with other Jews. Gentiles are fair game for deceit and abuse.

This error has become enshrined in the conventional reading of Shakespeare’s classic play, The Merchant of Venice. Shylock – the Jewish moneylender but not the Merchant of the title – has become a virtual archetype of interfaith treachery and ruthlessness. (Although in fairness, we must admit that this may not have been Shakespeare’s intention; in modern productions of the play, Shylock is often depicted in a sympathetic way.)

The correct understanding of this law is provided by Ramban (Devarim 23:20), who explains that a Jew is obligated to treat non-Jews in accordance with the principles of justice. Theft, deception, and fraud of any kind are prohibited. But there is nothing morally wrong with charging interest. It is simply the cost of money, and those who provide money should have the right to charge for it. Nevertheless, one would not charge a family member for a loan for this is a courtesy that relatives routinely extend one another. Jews are meant to regard one another as family and therefore they must lend money gratis.

This concept is perhaps best expressed by a famous Mishna in Pirkei Avos (3:14):

Beloved is man, for he was created in the Divine image; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to him that he was created in the Divine image…

Beloved are Israel, for they are called children of G-d; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to them that they are called children of G-d…

All human beings are meant to be treated with the dignity due to a being created in the Divine image. But Jews – all being children of G-d – are brothers and that special relationship is expressed in ways that transcend considerations of justice.

One added point: The prohibition of interest is not only a refection of group solidarity but it actually promotes group solidarity.

When capital for investment is provided through the traditional channels of usury (the practice of lending on interest), lenders become enriched at the expense of the true creators of wealth – entrepreneurs and laborers. These lenders have no genuine interest in the success of the enterprises to which they lend except to the extent that their loans are secured; their relationship to the enterprises can even be characterized as parasitic (This is one aspect of the Marxist critique of capitalism.)

A system that proscribes usury compels capitalists to become investors in an enterprise rather than lenders to an enterprise. As a result, they now have a vested interest in the ventures in which they invest. The resulting mutual concern strengthens the fiber of the group and ultimately, the entire nation.

Yisro 5772

The story of Yisro is comprised of two parts. The first tells of Yisro’s arrival at the encampment of B’nai Yisrael and his reception; the second tells of the advice that Yisro gave Moshe, his son-in-law, to appoint subordinate judges, thus sparing him the burden of dealing with the entire nation’s litigation. Whether Yisro’s arrival took place before or after the revelation at Mount Sinai is a matter of dispute (Avoda Zara 24a; Zevachim 116a), but the second part of the story, in which Yisro is prompted to make his suggestion by the sight of Moshe judging from morning to night, must have taken place after the Torah was given; otherwise, on what basis was Moshe doing the judging? (See Rashi Shemos 18:13.)

Yet, this part of the story is also written before the account of the Sinai revelation. Of course, the rule אין מוקדם ומאוחר בתורה – the Torah does not follow a strict timeline – can be applied here, but the rule must be properly understood. It cannot mean that the Torah is in disarray. It must rather mean that the Torah is not in chronological order but rather in thematic order. This leads us to the inescapable conclusion that the story of Yisro’s advice is in some way the thematic introduction to the story of the giving of the Torah. How is this to be understood?

The concept of מתן תורה – the giving of the Torah – is not simply G-d’s sharing His wisdom with us; it is actually the conveyance of a proprietary right. With the giving of the Torah, it became our possession. This can be well illustrated by a famous story recorded in the Gemara (Bava Metziah 59b):

On that day R. Eliezer brought forward every imaginable argument, but they did not accept them. Said he to them, “If the halachah agrees with me, let this carob-tree prove it!”  Thereupon the carob-tree was torn a hundred cubits out of its place — others affirm, four hundred cubits. “No proof can be brought from a carob-tree,” they retorted.

Again he said to them: “If the halachah agrees with me, let the stream of water prove it!” Whereupon the stream of water flowed backwards — “No proof can be brought from a stream of water,” they rejoined.

Again he urged: “If the halachah agrees with me, let the walls of the schoolhouse prove it,” whereupon the walls inclined to fall. But R. Joshua rebuked them, saying: “When scholars are engaged in a halachic dispute, what have ye to interfere?” Hence they did not fall, in honour of R. Joshua, nor did they resume the upright, in honour of R. Eliezer; and they are still standing thus inclined.

Again he said to them: “If the halachah agrees with me, let it be proved from Heaven!” Whereupon a Heavenly Voice cried out: “Why do ye dispute with R. Eliezer, seeing that in all matters the halachah agrees with him!” But R. Joshua arose and exclaimed: “It is not in heaven.” What did he mean by this? — Said R. Jeremiah: That the Torah had already been given at Mount Sinai; we pay no attention to a Heavenly Voice, because Thou hast long since written in the Torah at Mount Sinai, “After the majority must one incline.”

R. Nathan met Elijah and asked him: What did the Holy One, Blessed be He, do in that hour? — He laughed saying, “My sons have defeated Me, My sons have defeated Me.”

Upon refection we can understand that this Divine grant of ownership is an absolutely necessary element in the entire scheme of Judaism. As no human being could possibly fathom the inscrutable, impenetrable wisdom of G-d, how could he be expected to comply with the Divine Will? How could we ever have confidence in the correctness of our legal and moral judgments? There are only two possible answers to these questions: Either we would require ongoing access to Divine Revelation and thus be provided with the necessary corrections, or that the Divine Will would be defined by the interpretations of the mortal earthly authorities.

This is the issue which underlies the story of Moshe and Yisro. Moshe initially believed that he would have to be the sole judge of the people; as a prophet with whom G-d communicates, there would be assurances that his judgments are correct. No one could possibly replace him. (But what would happen when Moshe was no longer present?)

Yisro understood the concept which lies at the very basis of the giving of the Torah – it is no longer in heaven and that it was given to man. Thus, even in the lifetime of Moshe, legal issues could be adjudicated by subordinate judges whose rulings would be valid and authoritative. As this principle is the correct understanding of the “Giving of the Torah”, the story in which the concept is revealed is the most appropriate introduction possible to the account of the Sinai revelation.

Beshalach 5772

And Moshe said to Yehoshua, “Choose for us men and go out and battle Amalek…” (Shemos 17:9)

“Choose for us”: For me and for you; Moshe equated Yehoshua to himself. From here the Sages concluded that the honor of your student should be as precious as your own honor. (Rashi)

Needless to say, honoring students is extremely important. But why did the Torah choose to transmit this lesson through the story of the war against Amalek?

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 91b) teaches: If one withholds teaching from his student it is considered as if he robbed him of his ancestors’ legacy. In other words, the Torah that a Rebbe teaches to his student is not a gift which he bestows from his own assets. The Rebbe’s Torah may have been given to him specifically for the sake of the student he is destined to teach; he is merely holding it in trust until the appropriate time. Thus, the failure to transmit is tantamount to an act of theft. This is the rationale of the imperative to honor one’s students. If the Rebbe treats his students lightly for their lack of knowledge, he is making a mistake: His Torah is really theirs!

This has some practical consequences. When a Rebbe contemplates accepting a potential student, he must properly conceptualize the issue. The question is not whether the Rebbe should give Torah to the student as a gift. The question is, rather, are their grounds for denying and withholding this person’s entitlement. When put the first way, the answer may be an emphatic “No”; when put the second way, the answer may be an equally emphatic “Yes”.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 99b) tells an amazing story about the lineage of Amalek: Timna was a royal princess…Desiring to become a proselyte, she went to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, but they did not accept her. So she went and became a concubine to Eliphaz the son of Esav, saying, “I would rather be a servant to this people than a mistress of another nation.” From her Amalek who afflicted Israel came. Why so? They should not have rejected her.

This is nothing short of astounding. The hatred of Amalek was a consequence of a mistaken decision on the part of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov regarding the acceptance of a potential convert!

We certainly should not second-guess their decision, but undoubtedly it was a difficult one and perhaps the verdict to deny admission might have been rooted in a failure to see the Torah as the candidate’s entitlement rather than a gift that she was seeking to acquire.

When Moshe and Yehoshua discussed the plans for the war against Amalek, undoubtedly the discussion turned to the root cause of the conflict – the rejection of Timna. Moshe undoubtedly stressed the importance of not withholding Torah from students,the recognition that Torah knowledge is their entitlement, and, as explained above, that this is the very basis of the obligation to honor students. These ideas which Moshe put into action in his choice of words in instructing Yehoshua to muster the army against Amalek were thus especially relevant to that war.

Bo 5772

Those of us who grew up before the start of the era of modern Jewish music may remember the Hebrew School version of Avadim Hayinu. (Avadim Hayinu, Hayinu; Atta B’nei Chorin, Benai Chorin…) This, of course, is a corruption of the quote from the Haggadah – in turn based on Devarim 6:21 – and not an inconsequential corruption at that. By omitting the Divine Name, credit is not being given where credit is due.

But there is a second, much more subtle corruption – the omission of the reference to Pharaoh in Egypt having been our master. By presenting the Exodus as a transition from generic servitude to generic freedom, we lose sight of the true significance of those miraculous events. In actuality, Yetzias Mitzraim was not emancipation but rather a change of ownership; we were servants to Pharaoh and now we are servants of Hashem.

Yet, Pesach is called Zman Cherusaynu – the time of our freedom. But given that we are servants of Hashem, in what sense are we truly free?

The answer is simple but profound.

The essential difference between the eved and the ben chorin is not that the former is bound and the latter is free. Were this to be the case, every acceptance of responsibility – employment, marriage, parenthood – would be a reduction of our freedom. Yet, even the most ardent freedom lover does not advocate our abandonment of these commitments.

The actual difference is that everything the eved does is for the enrichment of his master; everything the ben chorin does – even within the context of a commitment to responsible action – is ultimately for his own enrichment. The servant of Hashem is the ultimate ben chorin. As Hashem has no personal needs, being omnipotent and self-sufficient, His Mitzvos are totally for the benefit of those He commands for, if we live in accordance with them, we enjoy lives of purpose and meaning in This World as well as lives of bliss and enlightenment in the World to Come. Thus, the eved of Hashem is in reality self-employed.

This discussion leads to a counter-intuitive conclusion: The more we are devoted to doing Hashem’s will, the more we are doing for ourselves. The challenge of life is to realize and accept this simple truth. Self-indulgent libertarianism only seems preferable to religious commitment; the libertarian is really digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole. But the illusion is both seductive and compelling.

As we contemplate the early history of our people, there is a question we might wish to consider: Why was it necessary that slavery be such an integral part of our formation? In light of the above discussion, we may suggest an answer: The grand strategy of the Ribbono Shel Olam was to create a set of circumstances wherein our making a total commitment to the service of Hashem would be preferable to the status quo. Thus, as servants of Pharoah, we were in the optimal position for the acceptance of the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven.

In the Hagaddah we recite, “If the Holy One Blessed be He would not have freed our forefathers from Egypt, we, our children, and our children’s children, would still be enslaved to Pharaoh in Egypt.” Understanding this may give us a new perspective on our religious lives. The choice we face is not responsibility vs. freedom. It is enslavement to Pharaoh vs. the service of Hashem. That choice should be – as the saying goes – a “no-brainer”.