Insight of the Week

We read in Parashat Ahareh-Mot of the special service that the Kohen Gadol would perform in the Bet Ha’mikdash each year on Yom Kippur. This service included two goats which were sacrificed to atone for the nation’s sins. The Kohen Gadol would cast lots to determine the goats’ fates: one goat would be offered as a sacrifice in the Bet Ha’mikdash, its blood sprinkled in the Kodesh Ha’kodashim (the innermost chamber of the Bet Ha’mikdash), and the other would be sent to “Azazel” – the desert outside Jerusalem, where it was thrown off a cliff, symbolizing the banishment of Beneh Yisrael’s sins. Rav Moshe Alshich (Sefat, 1508-1593) raises the question of why the Torah requires the Kohen Gadol to draw lots. Why couldn’t the Kohen Gadol simply choose on his own which goat should be sacrificed in the Temple, and which should be sent into the wilderness? The Alshich answers this question based on the comments of the Midrash regarding the story told in the Book of Melachim I (chapter 18) about the prophet Eliyahu and the pagan prophets. Eliyahu assembled the nation at Mount Carmel, where he posed a challenge to the prophets of the pagan god Ba’al. He said that they would offer a sacrifice to their deity, after which he would offer a sacrifice to G-d, and the one whose sacrifice received a response would then be proven to be real. (In the end, G-d responded to Eliyahu’s sacrifice with a heavenly fire, proving to all the people that He was the true Creator who governs the universe.) Eliyahu invited the prophets of Ba’al to choose one of two bulls for their offering, and they selected one. The Midrash relates that the bull refused to go along with the pagan prophets, as it did not wish to be offered as a sacrifice to a false deity. Eliyahu then approached the bull and whispered in its ear, urging it to proceed. “You should know,” Eliyahu said to the bull, “that through you, too, the Name of heaven is being sanctified, when they see that no fire will come from the heavens for you, as it will for Hashem.” The bull then went along with the prophets of Ba’al. The Alshich explains that on Yom Kippur, too, if the Kohen Gadol would himself choose which of the two goats would be sent to the desert, this goat would be resentful, envying the other goat, which would have the privilege of being offered a sacrifice in the Bet Ha’mikdash. In order to avoid this resentment and jealousy, the Torah commanded that the Kohen Gadol should cast lots, such that the goat destined to be brought to the desert would not resent the Kohen Gadol for designating it for this purpose. The Alshich adds that for this reason, the Torah writes that after the lottery, the goat designated to be led into the wilderness “shall stand alive before G-d” (“Ya’omad Hai Lifneh Hashem” – 16:10), emphasizing that this goat, too, is special, having been chosen to be brought “before G-d” in order to atone for the people. Of course, the Alshich concludes, it seems very peculiar that the Torah would concern itself with the feelings of a goat. Clearly, the goat knows nothing about the difference between its fate and the fate chosen for the other goat. However, the Alshich explains, the Torah’s intent here is to warn us about the dangers of jealousy. The Torah requires a system that is designed to avoid the goat’s jealousy – even though the goat, quite obviously, would not feel jealous – to teach us that we must do what we can to avoid envy among people. Envy, as we all know, is a very powerful emotion, one which can destroy relationships and inflict great harm. The lots cast by the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur teach us about how far we must go to avoid causing people jealousy, so that we avoid the catastrophic consequences of jealousy. This is especially important when it comes to parenting. We need to look no further than the story of Yosef and his brothers to see how preferential treatment toward a child can destroy a family. Parents must be exceedingly careful not to arouse a child’s jealousy by showing special love or preference for their other children. Every effort must be taken to ensure that each and every child feels equally loved, cherished and respected, and never feels inferior to, or less important than, any other child.

Toward the beginning of the Pesach Seder, we break one of the Masot on the table, and then announce, “Ha Lahma Anya Di Achalu Abhatana Be’ar’a De’Misrayim” – “This is the bread of poverty which our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.” For what reason do we break the Masa into two pieces, and why do refer to Masa as “Lehem Oni” – “the bread of poverty”? An insightful explanation of the “Ha Lahma Anya” proclamation was offered by the Berach Moshe (Rav Moshe Teitelbaum of Satmar, 1914-2006). He writes that, as earlier commentators have noted, the Egyptian exile resulted from the sin of the sale of Yosef. Our ancestors first went to Egypt because the brothers turned against their brother and sold him into slavery. And it is this same ill – strife and in-fighting among our nation – that has kept us in exile for so many centuries. The Shela Ha’kadosh (Rav Yeshaya Horowitz, d. 1630) famously taught, “Mahloket Ahat Doha Me’a Parnasot” – a single fight can ruin one hundred opportunities for earning a livelihood. Many people mistakenly think that they benefit financially by “playing tough,” by insisting on fighting for every bit of money they feel they deserve. But our tradition teaches us that to the contrary, nothing is more destructive to the pursuit of a livelihood than fighting. One of the most important things we should be doing to ensure the success of our efforts to earn a respectable Parnasa (livelihood) is avoiding conflict, making sacrifices for the sake of peaceful relations with people, and trying to get along with those around us. On this basis, we can explain the meaning of Yahatz – the breaking of the middle Masa at the Seder. As we prepare to tell the story of our ancestors’ enslavement and eventual redemption, we break a single Masa into two pieces, symbolizing the breaking of unity, the split in Yaakob’s family which is what led to the Egyptian exile. The Berach Moshe explains that when we proclaim, “This is the bread of poverty which our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt,” we are actually saying that we continue to experience “the bread of poverty,” the hardships of exile, because we are guilty of the same ill of strife and disunity that plagued our ancestors. The reason why our “Masa” is “broken,” why we still face so many difficult challenges, is the sin of fighting and divisiveness. The Berach Moshe adds that this is why we immediately proceed to announce an invitation, welcoming anyone who needs a place to eat: “Whoever is hungry shall come and eat; whoever is in need shall come and observe the Pesach.” As we reflect upon the sin of in-fighting and disunity that has caused and prolonged or exile, we resolve to work toward correcting this wrong by extending an invitation to everyone in need. We do not invite only those people whom we like, only those people who are similar to us, who think like us, who act like us, and who observe Misvot the same way we do. We invite anyone in need, no matter who they are, because this is how we correct the sin of baseless hatred – by loving and cherishing all our fellow Jews, even if they are different from us. This paragraph concludes with the prayer, “Now we are here – next year, in the land of Israel; now we are slaves – next year, free people.” The Berach Moshe explains that we express our confident hope that in the merit of our efforts to increase unity among our people, to extend love and respect to all our fellow Jews, regardless of our differences, we will be worthy of our final redemption, may it arrive speedily and in our time, Amen.

Parashat Tazria discusses the laws regarding Sara’at – a type of skin infection that brings Tum’a (impurity) upon a person. The Rabbis explain that in ancient times, Sara’at would befall a person as a punishment for the particular sin of Lashon Ha’ra – gossip and talebearing, disseminating negative information about other people. The Torah begins its discussion of Sara’at (13:2) by establishing that it comes in different shades of white, referred to with the terms “Se’et,” “Sapahat” and “Baheret.” Upon closer examination, these three terms allude to us the root cause of the sin of Lashon Ha’ra, explaining the psychology behind the tendency that some people have to share unflattering information about their peers. The word “Se’et” denotes “carrying,” lifting something up in order to bring it somewhere. Often, people indulge in gossip for the purpose of “elevating” themselves, in order to feel superior. There are two ways in which a person can feel good about who he is: to lift himself higher, or knock others down. The first way requires the hard work and discipline to achieve, to attain greatness, to be an accomplished person. The second way is far easier – to look down on other people, to focus one’s attention on their faults and misdeeds, such that he can see himself as better than them. Very often, the person stricken with Sara’at, with the spiritual ill of habitual gossip, is driven by “Se’et,” by the desire to elevate himself in his own eyes by speaking negatively about other people. The word “Sapahat” stems from the root “S.P.H.,” which connotes a connection or attachment. Many people who indulge in gossip do so with the aim of gaining social acceptance, to improve their social standing. They feel that bringing “juicy” information about others will attract attention and impress the people around them. Finally, the term “Baheret,” a derivative of the word “Bahir” – “clear,” or “bright” – alludes to the natural desire to feel smart. The ability to share information about another person’s personal life, and especially about that person’s failings, makes one feel knowledgeable, as he is privy to information that most people are unaware of. These three terms thus teach us about the three primary reasons why so many people fall prey to the urge to speak Lashon Hara: 1) to feel good about themselves by focusing on other people’s faults; 2) the desire for social acceptance; 3) to feel and appear smart and knowledgeable. In this introductory verse, the Torah emphasizes that the Sara’at infection surfaces “Be’or Besaro” – literally, “upon the skin of his flesh.” This means that Sara’at affects only the outermost layer of the skin, the layer that is visible. Sara’at is, we might say, “skin-deep.” It appears on the outer surface of the skin, without impacting the inner layers at all. In light of what we have seen, we might suggest that the Torah here is teaching us about the superficiality of Lashon Ha’ra, how the benefits that people think they will enjoy from sharing gossip are, in truth, superficial; speaking Lashon Ha’ra appears to offer benefits, but in reality, it doesn’t. The first reason for speaking Lashon Ha’ra, as mentioned, is the desire to “elevate” oneself, to feel superior. But this feeling of superiority isn’t real, and it fades very quickly. The only way to truly feel good about ourselves is to work to achieve and accomplish. The sense of satisfaction experienced when sharing gossip is “skin-deep,” and does not actually give us a long-lasting feeling of pride and accomplishment. The same is true about the perceived social benefits of gossip. True, at the moment, the people are excited to hear what is being said. But will they really want to be the speaker’s friend? They certainly realize that if this person shared unflattering information about others, he would happily share information about them, too, when he can. Temporarily, the speaker is the center of attention – but this is no way to build long-lasting friendships. Finally, having the “inside scoop” on somebody, knowing about his faults and mistakes, does not make a person smart. It’s just the opposite – a smart person knows that he can’t judge people based on a small sample size, on the little piece of “juicy” information that he possesses. And, he understands that people are not defined by their faults, by their mistakes, or by their failures. After all, we all have our share of flaws. A person might feel smart because he knows something embarrassing about his fellow, but this is a superficial feeling. Real intelligence is the realization that people are complex creatures, and that it is impossible to cast judgment based on this story or that story. The lesson of Sara’at, then, is to focus our attention on striving for real greatness, for real accomplishments, rather than experiencing the fleeting, superficial feeling of pride that comes from speaking Lashon Ha’ra.

On the Shabbat preceding Rosh Hodesh Nissan, we read the section in the Torah (Shemot 12) which tells of Beneh Yisrael’s preparations for the night of Yesiat Misrayim (the Exodus from Egypt). This section begins with G-d commanding Moshe and Aharon, “Ha’hodesh Ha’zeh Lachem Rosh Hodashim” – “This month is for you the first of the months” (Shemot 12:2). We are to regard Nissan, the month in which Yesiat Misrayim took place, as the first of the twelve months. Rav Baruch of Medzhybizh (grandson of the Ba’al Shem Tob, Ukraine, 1753-1811) noted the fact that in this verse, the month of Nissan is referred to as “Ha’hodesh Ha’zeh” (“this month”). Later in this Parasha (13:5), the Torah commands, “Ve’abadeta Et Ha’aboda Ha’zot Ba’hodesh Ha’zeh” – literally, “You shall perform this service in this month.” The simple meaning of this verse is that Beneh Yisrael were to perform the same sacrifice which they performed on the night of the Exodus – the Korban Pesach – each year on Pesach. However, Rav Baruch offers a deeper interpretation of this verse, explaining that it speaks of two months – the month of “Zot” and the month of “Zeh.” The word “Zeh,” as mentioned, alludes to the month of Nissan. The word “Zot,” meanwhile, alludes to the month of Tishri, the month of repentance and atonement. The Torah in the Book of Vayikra (16:3) says about the special Yom Kippur service in the Bet Ha’mikdash, “Be’zot Yabo Aharon El Ha’kodesh” (“With this shall Aharon enter the Sanctuary”) – and thus the word “Zot” is associated with the service performed by the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur. Hence, Rav Baruch explains, the command “Ve’abadeta Et Ha’aboda Ha’zot Ba’hodesh Ha’zeh” means that we are to observe the service of “Zot” – the process of repentance that characterizes the month of Tishri – during “Ha’hodesh Ha’zeh,” in the month of Nissan. This month, like the month of Tishri, is to be a month of repentance, when we work to improve ourselves and draw closer to Hashem. Of course, these two months are very different from one another. Tishri is a time of solemn, fearful introspection, whereas Nissan is a time of festive celebration. In Tishri, we are to perform Teshuba Mi’yir’a – repentance driven by the fear of judgment, whereas in Nissan, we are to perform Teshuba Me’ahaba – repentance driven by love for Hashem, recognizing His abundant grace and kindness which He showers upon us. Developing this point further, Hashem freed our ancestors from Egyptian bondage without their having deserved redemption. Tradition teaches that Beneh Yisrael were submerged in the pagan culture in Egypt, and had fallen to the “forty-ninth level of impurity.” And yet, despite their low spiritual level, G-d mercifully performed miracles to redeem them. Nissan is a time of Hashem’s unlimited love and compassion, and we are thus to joyfully repent, recognizing His boundless mercy and affection. The Arizal (Rav Yishak Luria, Safed, 1534-1572) taught that the Name of Havaya, which expresses G-d’s attribute of compassion and kindness, can be configured in twelve different ways. This Name is comprised of four letters – “Yod,” “Heh,” “Vav” and “Heh” – and these four letters can be arranged in twelve different sequences. Each of these twelve arrangements, the Arizal established, corresponds to a different month. Tishri, the month of judgment, is associated with the reverse spelling of this Name (“Heh,” “Vav,” “Heh,” “Yod”). During this month, G-d’s quality of strict judgment – the opposite of His attribute of compassion – prevails, and thus this month is signified by the reversal of the Name of Havaya. Nissan, by contrast, corresponds to the straight spelling of this Name (“Yod,” “Heh,” “Vav,” “Heh”). This is the month when Hashem’s compassion and love are most clearly manifest, and so it is associated with the straightforward spelling of “Havaya.” Let us all ensure to take full advantage of the special Teshuba opportunity presented by this month, and commit ourselves during the coming weeks to work toward enhancing our relationship with Hashem, correcting our faults, and striving to be the best people we are capable of being.

Parashat Sav presents some of the laws relevant to the various categories of Korbanot (sacrifices). One of the sacrifices which were offered in the Bet Ha’mikdash was the Asham (guilt-offering). Unlike the Hatat (sin-offering), which was required after certain inadvertent violations, the Asham was brought after the intentional transgression of certain commands. The Torah says about the Asham, “Bi’mkom Asher Yish’hatu Et Ha’ola Yish’hatu Et Ha’asham” – it was slaughtered in the same area in the courtyard of the Bet Ha’mikdash as the voluntary Ola sacrifice (7:2). Rav Moshe Alshich (Safed, 1508-1593) explains the significance of this Halachic detail. He notes the earlier sources establishing that a person would bring a Korban Ola to atone for Hirhureh Abera (sinful thoughts), and for violations of a Misvat Aseh (affirmative command). When a person is guilty of sinful thoughts, Rav Moshe Alshich writes, he achieves atonement by doing just the opposite – by having thoughts of repentance and of love for Hashem. And with regard to violating a Misvat Aseh, the Rambam writes explicitly in Hilchot Teshuba that complete atonement is attained for such violations immediately upon repenting. These violations are less severe than the violation of a Misvat Lo Ta’aseh (Torah prohibitions), and thus the process of repentance is completed immediately once the violator repents. Clearly, then, if a person guilty of these wrongs goes even further, and offers a sacrifice, his atonement is perfect and complete. By commanding that the Asham be sacrificed in the same location as the Ola, the Torah conveys the powerful message that one who performs Teshuba for a grave, intentional transgression reaches the same “place” as someone who repents for minor transgressions. The Ola, which is offered in cases of relatively minor misdeeds which are easily atoned for, is slaughtered in the same location as the Asham, which is brought in cases of severe, willful violations – to teach us that repentance is equally effective in both instances. We mustn’t think that forgiveness and atonement are attainable only for sins of lesser severity, or for unintentional wrongs, but not for grave mistakes and serious breaches of Torah law. The Torah emphasizes that repentance brings a person bringing an Asham to the same place as a person who brings an Ola. As long as the sinner’s Teshuba is sincere and heartfelt, his repentance is lovingly accepted. In fact, the Sages famously teach that “the place where penitent sinners stand – even the perfectly righteous cannot stand there.” Nobody should ever feel forever trapped by the mistakes of his past. Teshuba works, and brings a person complete atonement, regardless of the severity of the sin which he committed. This must be our perspective on our own failings, as well as those of other people. We should never judge people because of things they said or did in the past. Even if someone had made grave mistakes, we are to follow G-d’s example of mercy, compassion and forgiveness, and recognize the power of Teshuba. If the person sincerely regrets his mistake and seeks to improve, he deserves our respect and admiration, and must not be forever defined by his past sins.

In the first chapter of Megilat Ester, we read that King Ahashverosh become inebriated during the lavish feast he hosted for the people of Shushan, and he invited his queen, Vashti, to appear before his guests. Ahashverosh was incensed, and he consulted with his team of legal advisors. One of these advisors was Memuchan, whom tradition identifies as Haman. Haman told the king that he, as the monarch, enjoyed dictatorial powers, and could respond to Vashti’s disobedience however he saw fit. Ahashverosh, of course, was quite pleased with Haman’s ruling. In essence, then, Haman was the one who empowered Ahashverosh, who granted him absolute, unconditional and unrestrained authority. His advice as a legal counsel paved the way for Ahashverosh to exercise unlimited power over his kingdom. Not surprisingly, sometime later, Ahashverosh promoted Haman to the position of vizier, second only to the king himself. This was the king’s reward to Haman for granting him absolute power. Ironically, this authority which Haman invested in Ahashverosh is what led to his own downfall. Later in the Megilla, Ester hosted a feast for Ahashverosh and Haman, during which she informed the king that her people were condemned to annihilation by Haman’s edict to kill the Jews. Ahashverosh was incensed, and, at the recommendation of one of his servants – Harbona – ordered that Haman be executed. In but an instant, Haman went from being Ahashverosh’s most trusted advisor to being hung on a tree by the king’s order. And what made this possible was the unlimited powers that Haman, as a legal advisor, granted to Ahashverosh. It was only because Haman had established the king’s unlimited authority that Ahashverosh was able to order somebody’s execution on a whim. In this way, Haman brought about his own downfall. This analysis underscores the theme of “Ve’nahafoch Hu” (“It was reversed” – Ester 9:1), which is among the prominent features of the Purim miracle. Not only was the Jews’ condemnation to destruction reversed to triumph and celebration, but the salvation itself unfolded in a manner of “reversal.” Like a boomerang, Haman’s efforts to win Ahashverosh’s favor came back to hurt him, leading to his downfall. Another example of this phenomenon is Pharaoh, who thought he could keep Beneh Yisrael enslaved by decreeing the murder of all newborn boys. The Sages explain that Pharaoh was informed by his astrologers that the person who would rescue Beneh Yisrael from slavery would soon be born. Pharaoh therefore set out to prevent the prospective savior from arising by ordering that all newborn boys be put to death. As we know, when Moshe was born, his mother decided to try to save him from the authorities by placing him in a basket in the Nile River, where he was discovered by Pharaoh’s daughter. The princess brought the infant and raised him as her son. It thus turned out that Pharaoh’s efforts to prevent Beneh Yisrael’s savior from emerging resulted in the savior being raised by Pharaoh himself! One of the more famous passages of the Haggadah text we read at the Seder is “Ve’hi She’ameda.” In this paragraph, we proclaim that in every generation, we have enemies who rise against the Jewish People and try to annihilate us, but “Ha’Kadosh Baruch Hu Masilenu Mi’yadam” – “The Almighty rescues us from their hand.” The term “Mi’yadam” (“from their hand”) could be understood to mean that Hashem saves us through the hand of our enemies. The salvation actually comes “from their hand” – as a result of their efforts to harm us, which then backfire and bring about their downfall. This is what happened to Pharaoh and Haman, and this is what happened to many of our enemies throughout the ages. We hope and pray that today’s enemies, too, will soon meet their downfall, and that their vicious attempts to destroy us will turn around on them and lead to their defeat, Amen.

The opening verses of Parashat Pekudeh present an accounting of the precious metals that Beneh Yisrael donated for the construction of the Mishkan. The Torah introduces this section by saying, “Eleh Fekudeh Mishkan, Mishkan Ha’edut” – “These are the calculations of the Mishkan, the Mishkan of testimony.” Rashi explains that the Mishkan is called “Mishkan Ha’edut” (“the Mishkan of testimony”) because it testifies to G-d’s having forgiven Beneh Yisrael for the grave sin of the golden calf. The fact that He agreed to reside among them in the Mishkan demonstrates that He granted them forgiveness. Rav Eliyahu Mizrahi (c. 1455- c. 1525), in his work on Rashi’s commentary, adds that the Mishkan showed that Beneh Yisrael were still beloved to G-d. Even after G-d rescinded His decree to annihilate them, and gave them the second Luhot (tablets) as a symbol of the covenant, it was not evident that He still loved and cherished them. This was confirmed by the Mishkan, by the fact that G-d commanded Beneh Yisrael to construct a special site when He would reside in their midst. Rashi also notes the seemingly repetitious phrase in this verse: “Mishkan, Mishkan Ha’edut” (“the Mishkan, the Mishkan of testimony”). Rather than refer to the Mishkan simply as “Mishkan Ha’edut,” the Torah repeats the word “Mishkan,” speaking of the structure as “Mishkan, Mishkan Ha’edut.” Rashi writes that the double expression alludes to the two permanent Bateh Mikdash which were later built and then destroyed. The Bet Ha’mikdash is called “Mishkan,” Rashi explains, because “Nitmashken” – it was taken from the people like an item is taken from a borrower as collateral (“Mashkon”). Just as a creditor can take the debtor’s possession as collateral if the debt is not paid, Hashem likewise twice took the Bet Ha’mikdash away from us due to our “debt” of guilt arising from our misdeeds. Rashi’s reading of the phrase “Mishkan, Mishkan Ha’edut” seems jarring in this context. This verse speaks joyously of the precious materials which the people generously donated for the construction of the Mishkan, and of how the Mishkan testifies to G-d’s continued desire to reside among them despite their wrongdoing. Why would the Torah allude to the destruction of the two Bateh Mikdash here, in speaking of the Mishkan’s testimony to G-d’s unbreakable bond with Beneh Yisrael? How is this an appropriate context for a subtle allusion to the Temples which were taken from us because of our nation’s failings? The answer given by some commentators is that the Torah specifically compares the Temples’ destruction to a “Mashkon,” an object taken as collateral, because collateral is, by definition, a temporary condition. A lender’s intent when seizing collateral from the borrower is not to keep it permanently, but rather to ensure the repayment of the loan, whereupon the collateral will be returned. Similarly, we are assured that the Bet Ha’mikdash was taken from us temporarily, and will eventually be restored, once we “repay” our “debt” in the form of repentance. This is why the Torah in this context alludes to G-d’s having taken the Bet Ha’mikdash from us as “collateral.” Just as the Mishkan testifies that G-d continues to love and cherish Am Yisrael despite our occasional failings, the temporary state of our exile proves that our bond with Hashem is unconditional and everlasting. We must never think that our mistakes and indiscretions permanently sever our relationship with G-d, that He has lost interest in us because of our wrongdoing. Any strain on our relationship with Hashem caused by our misdeeds is only temporary. No matter what mistakes we have made, we can look to the Mishkan and to G-d’s promise of redemption as proof that He loves us unconditionally and eagerly awaits and anticipates our Teshuba.

The Shabbat before Rosh Hodesh Adar is called “Shabbat Shekalim,” because on this Shabbat, after the normal Torah reading, we read the section from the Torah (Shemot 30:11-16) that introduces the Misva of “Mahasit Ha’shekel” – the annual half-shekel tax. Each year, starting on Rosh Hodesh Adar, the officials in charge of the Bet Ha’mikdash would begin collecting this tax from the people, because one month later, on Rosh Hodesh Nissan, the public sacrifices should be paid for from new funds. We commemorate the Misva of “Mahasit Ha’shekel” by reading this section from the Torah on the Shabbat preceding Rosh Hodesh Adar. We must ask, what is so significant about this Misva that we make a special commemoration in the synagogue? There are many Misvot which applied in the Bet Ha’mikdash which do not receive this kind of public commemoration. We might assume that if the Sages instituted a special Shabbat to remind us of the “Mahasit Ha’shekel,” there must be some aspect of this Misva which bears relevance to us even now, in the absence of the Bet Ha’mikdash. The explanation, perhaps, emerges from the comments of Rabbenu Bahya (Spain, 1255-1340), in his commentary to the verses presenting the Misva of “Mahasit Ha’shekel.” He addresses there the question discussed by many commentators as to why the Torah required paying only a half-shekel, rather than a whole shekel. Once the Torah was establishing a mandatory annual tax, why didn’t it require paying a whole unit of currency? Rabbenu Bahya offers several answers, one of which sees the “Mahasit Ha’shekel” as symbolic of one “half” of our lives. Our lives are divided into two areas – the physical and spiritual. We need to care for our physical and material needs, by working to support ourselves and our families, and by eating, sleeping, bathing, seeking medical attention when necessary, and doing everything else needed to maintain our health and strength. The other “half” of our lives is the spiritual dimension, the purpose for which we have been brought into this world – studying Torah and performing Misvot. Rabbenu Bahya writes that we must ensure to live a balanced life, responsibly caring for all our physical needs, but without overindulging such that we neglect our spiritual obligations. Moreover, Rabbenu Bahya adds, we need to carefully consider all our actions in the physical areas of life, so that they are all done appropriately and for the right reasons. Inside the synagogue or Bet Midrash, as we focus our attention on learning and prayer, it is relatively easy to stay on course, to do what we are supposed to do. But once we leave the synagogue or study hall, and we venture out into the world, we run the risk of being misled and lured. As we work to support ourselves, and as we enjoy food, drink and recreation, we need to tread very carefully, and ensure that we conduct ourselves appropriately, following the laws and values of the Torah, and with the intention of serving Hashem. Our mindset must be that we work to earn a living so we can raise happy, healthy children and provide them with a Torah education, and that we eat, and sleep and care for our health so that we have the ability to serve Hashem to the best of our ability. Rabbenu Bahya writes that the root of the word “Shekel” – “Sh.K.L.” – means “weigh,” or “consider.” The phrase “Shikul Ha’da’at,” for example, denotes the process of arriving at a well-informed, reasoned decision, carefully and sensibly considering the options and acting in a wise, calculated manner. The “Mahasit Ha’shekel” donation teaches us of the importance of “Shikul Ha’da’at” in the “half” of our lives spent on physical pursuits. We cannot feel free to do as we please once we leave the synagogue or Bet Midrash. To the contrary, outside these sacred halls we require extra care to ensure that we pursue a livelihood and tend to our physical needs in the appropriate way and with the proper mindset, for the purpose of serving the Almighty. Specifically in the mundane “half” of our lives, we require a heightened level of “Shikul Ha’da’at,” special care and attention to make the right decisions and conduct ourselves the right way. The Torah commands donating a half-shekel to the Bet Ha’mikdash, Rabbenu Bahya explains, to teach us that even the mundane “half” of our lives must be directed toward Kedusha (sanctity). Although we are allowed – and in fact required! – to work hard to earn a livelihood, and to responsibly care for our physical wellbeing, these activities must be done for the sake of Kedusha, for the purpose of serving Hashem, and in a manner which is consistent with the lofty goal of Kedusha. This perhaps explains why a special Shabbat is observed to commemorate the “Mahasit Ha’shekel.” The message underlying this Misva extends beyond the practical function of providing funds for the Bet Ha’mikdash. This is a concept that must inform our decisions each and every day of our lives, under all circumstances. We are to donate the mundane “half” of our lives to Hashem by carefully considering all our actions, ensuring to live in strict accordance with the Torah’s laws, and to serve Hashem through everything that we do throughout the day.

Following the sin of the golden calf, G-d decreed that Beneh Yisrael should be annihilated, but Moshe successfully interceded on their behalf, and Hashem repealed His decree. Moshe began his plea by asking, “Why should G-d be incensed at Your nation, whom You took out of the land of Egypt with great strength and a mighty hand?” (32:11). Rav Moshe Alshich (1508-1593) raises the question of how G-d could be described as bringing Beneh Yisrael out of Egypt “with great strength” – which implies that the Exodus entailed some degree of exertion on His part. It goes without saying that Hashem can do anything He wishes without any effort, without having to work hard. What, then, is the meaning of this verse, which speaks of Hashem rescuing Beneh Yisrael “with great strength”? Rav Moshe Alshich notes that this question arises also with regard to the Gemara’s teaching (Pesachim 118a) that a person’s livelihood is “difficult like the splitting of the sea.” Elsewhere (Sanhedrin 22a), the Gemara similarly comments that matching couples for marriage is “difficult like the splitting of the sea.” These sources, too, imply – at first glance – that Hashem needs to struggle to accomplish certain things, a conclusion which clearly cannot possibly be considered for even a fleeting moment. The Alshich explains that the “difficulty” implied is Hashem’s granting kindness to those who are not, strictly speaking, worthy of kindness. When Hashem seeks to bless a person with a comfortable livelihood, the Alshich writes, that person’s misdeeds stand like soldiers to block the blessing. Likewise, people may not always be deserving of a happy, fulfilling marriage, because they do not act as they should. But Hashem has the “strength” to overcome these obstacles, to bestow kindness upon people even when they do not deserve it. In His infinite mercy and compassion, Hashem hears our prayers and is prepared to grant us what we need despite our past mistakes. As long as we turn to Him in sincerity, and truly wish to serve Him, He is prepared to forgive us for our wrongdoing and grant us blessing and happiness. The Sages teach that as Beneh Yisrael stood trapped against the sea, the angels argued that they were not deserving of a miracle, because they, like the Egyptians, worshipped idols in Egypt. Nevertheless, G-d mercifully heard Beneh Yisrael’s prayers and split the sea to rescue them. This, the Alshich explains, was Moshe’s plea after the sin of the golden calf. He pointed to the fact that Hashem had brought Beneh Yisrael from Egypt with great “strength,” forgiving them for the grave sins they had committed. Therefore, Moshe argued, Hashem could forgive them now, too, after the grievous sin of the golden calf. We should never desist from praying because of our mistakes and failings. Even though we realize that we are not worthy of Hashem’s blessing, we are still able – and urged – to appeal to His unlimited mercy and compassion, and plead for all that we need. If we pray genuinely, with sincerity, then we are able to access His infinite kindness despite the unfortunate mistakes that we’ve made.

Many commentators noted that Parashat Tesaveh is unusual, in that Moshe Rabbenu’s name does not appear anywhere in this Parasha. It is one of the only Parashiyot since the account of Moshe’s birth (in Parashat Shemot) that omits his name. The explanation given is that after the sin of the golden calf, G-d decided to annihilate Beneh Yisrael and create a new nation from Moshe, but Moshe interceded on the nation’s behalf. He demanded that G-d forgive the people, adding, “…and if not, then erase me from Your book which You have written” (Shemot 32:32). A righteous person’s words are so powerful that they have an impact even when spoken on condition – and therefore, although G-d indeed forgave Beneh Yisrael, Moshe’s demand to be “erased” was fulfilled in some way, through the omission of his name from Parashat Tesaveh. The question naturally arises as to why Parashat Tesaveh was selected as the Parasha through which Moshe’s plea would be fulfilled. What is unique about Parashat Tesaveh that Moshe’s name was omitted specifically from this piece of text? One possibility is proposed by the Hida (Rav Haim Yosef David Azulai, 1724-1806), who noted that Moshe asked G-d to “erase” him from “Sifrecha” (“Your book”). This word could be read as a combination of the word “Sefer” and the letter “Chaf,” which in Gematria equals 20. Meaning, Moshe asked to be “erased from the 20 th “book” – and Parashat Tesaveh is the 20 th Parasha in the Torah. Therefore, his name is omitted from this Parasha. There may, however, be an additional explanation. Parashat Tesaveh begins with the command that pure olive oil be provided for the kindling of the Menorah in the Mishkan. The Gemara makes an enigmatic comment about olives and olive oil, teaching that eating olives has the effect of compromising one’s ability to retain his Torah knowledge, whereas consuming olive oil has the precise opposite effect, enhancing one’s ability to remember the Torah that he learns. The holy books explain the meaning behind this Talmudic teaching. An olive contains its oil within it, and thus represents the student of Torah who keeps his Torah knowledge for himself, without sharing it with others. Olive oil is what the olive has shared with the world, by allowing itself to be crushed. Hence, olive oil symbolizes the person who shares his Torah with other people. Scholars might be reluctant to teach because this takes precious time away from their own growth and development. The Gemara here instructs that to the contrary – it is specifically the “olive,” the person who keeps his Torah to himself, refusing to invest time and effort to teach, who is prone to forgetting what he has learned. But a person who resembles olive oil, who humbly takes the time to share his precious knowledge with other people, is guaranteed to be rewarded with the ability to retain the material he studies, despite the sacrifice he makes for the sake of teaching other people. The first time the olive is mentioned in the Torah is the story of Noah, who sent a dove to determine whether the waters had subsided after the flood. The dove returned with an olive branch, informing Noah that indeed, the world had again become habitable. In light of what we have seen, we could explain the significance of the olive in the story of Noah. The prophet Yeshayahu (54:9) refers to the flood as “Meh Noah” – “the waters of Noah,” and the Zohar explains that Noah is blamed for the flood because he did not pray to G-d to save the generation. The Arizal (Rav Yishak Luria, Safed, 1534-1572) taught that Noah’s soul was reincarnated in the person of Moshe Rabbenu so that this mistake could be rectified. Moshe achieved this rectification when he petitioned G-d on behalf of Beneh Yisrael following the sin of the golden calf. In direct contrast to Noah, who made no attempt to save his generation, Moshe appealed to G-d to save Beneh Yisrael, going so far as to declare that he was prepared to be “erased” together with them. Appropriately, then, Noah is presented with an olive branch, a symbol of his failure to concern himself with the needs of others, and focusing on his own wellbeing. Moshe, by contrast, embodied the message of olive oil, the notion of sharing one’s blessings, and looking out for others. Therefore, in Parashat Tesaveh, the Parasha which speaks of the olive oil used for the Menorah, Moshe’s name is omitted, expressing his selflessness and boundless concern for others, the way he was never concerned only with himself, but rather looked out for the needs of the people he led.

Anyone who has attended a fundraiser and browsed through the dinner journal knows that the largest donations are always featured first. The journal begins with the special full-page ads, and ends with the small quarter-page ads and smaller ads which cost much less. In Parashat Teruma, it seems, a different policy was used. The Parasha begins with Hashem listing the eleven materials that Beneh Yisrael needed to donate toward the construction of the Mishkan. As we would expect, this list begins with the precious metals – gold, silver and copper, in that order. But by the time we reach the end of the list, we find something surprising. The most expensive materials which were donated are mentioned last. These were the “Abneh Miluim” and “Abneh Shoham” – precious stones which were affixed to the special garments worn by the Kohen Gadol. These were far more expensive even than the gold, and yet, they appear last in this list of materials (25:7). This question was addressed by the Or Ha’haim (Rav Haim Ben-Attar, 1696-1743), who offered several different answers. One of his answers is based on the Midrash’s discussion of these precious stones which were donated for the garments of the Kohen Gadol. Later, in Parashat Vayakhel (35:27), the Torah tells that these stones were donated by the Nesi’im, the leaders of the tribes. The Midrash explains that the Nesi’im did not think that the people would donate everything needed for the Mishkan, and so they decided to wait and see what would still be missing after the people brought all their contributions. They would then bring whatever was still needed. As it turned out, the people donated so many materials that Moshe needed to tell them to stop donating (36:6). All that remained were the precious stones, and so this is what the Nesi’im donated. Upon reading this account, we would, at first glance, feel great respect and admiration for the Nesi’im. They essentially “underwrote” this project, promising to donate everything that was lacking after the rest of the nation brought their donations, and they ended up bringing the most expensive items – the precious stones. Surprisingly, though, the Midrash is critical of the Nesi’im for delaying their contribution, donating only at the very end, after everyone else brought their donations. The Midrash comments that because the Nesi’im delayed, and brought their donation only at the end, the word “Nesi’im” is written in this verse (35:27) without the letter “Yod,” indicating that their contribution was deficient. For the same reason, the Or Ha’haim writes, the Torah mentions this donation last in its list of materials needed for the Mishkan. Although these stones were the most valuable of all the materials, nevertheless, since this donation was tainted, they are placed at the end of the list. We must understand, what could possibly be wrong with the Nesi’im’s decision? They generously volunteered to donate whatever was needed, and brought the most precious materials. Why did the Sages find this improper? The Rabbis of the Mussar movement explained that the Nesi’im’s decision was, indeed, generally noble, but it was marred by a slight tinge of laziness. G-d determined that the Nesi’im’s plan was partially motivated by laziness, by the convenience of delaying their donation. There was nothing inherently wrong with the decision per se, but the motivation stemmed, if only somewhat, from a desire to comfortably wait, rather than rushing to come forward and donate. This insight, then, teaches us of the unique importance of Zerizut – alacrity – in the performance of Misvot, and the gravity of laziness. Even if we do something intrinsically noble – even generously underwriting a project and giving the largest donation! – the action is deficient if it is done with some degree of laziness, without passion and zeal. The Gemara (Berachot 47b) teaches that one should endeavor to be among the first ten people to arrive in the synagogue for the Shaharit prayer in the morning. No matter how many people arrive after the first ten, the Gemara states, each of the first ten receive rewards equal to them all. The work Ateret Zekenim mentions a custom practiced by some especially pious individuals to observe a fast on a day when they failed to be among the first ten in the synagogue. It is important not only to come to the synagogue and pray with concentration and feeling, but also to come with Zerizut, without delay, promptly, showing our enthusiasm and passion for the Misva. We all, thank G-d, are involved in “building” a “Mishkan” throughout our lives. We all perform many Misvot, and are involved in many wonderful projects, and we should take pride in the beautiful “sanctuaries” that we are privileged to build. The Or Ha’haim’s comments remind us, however, that we must approach every Misva we perform with alacrity and zeal, rushing immediately to seize every opportunity that comes our way, thus showing Hashem – and our children – how much we value and cherish the Misvot, such that we do not want to delay any Misva for even a single moment.

Parashat Mishpatim presents a lengthy series of civil laws governing a wide range of circumstances. These laws deal with situations such as theft, property damage, bodily harm, lending money, people entrusted with somebody’s object which was lost or ruined, and other cases. The Torah introduces this section by stating, “Ve’eleh Ha’mishpatim Asher Tasim Lifnehem” – “These are the statutes which you shall place before them.” The simple meaning of this verse is that G-d commanded Moshe to “place” – that is, to present, or teach – these laws to the people. Rav Moshe Alshich (Safed, 1508-1593), however, offers a deeper explanation of this introductory verse. He writes that people might wonder why we need the Torah to provide us with a system of civil law. After all, the goal of resolving civil disputes and maintaining peace in society can be achieved through man-made laws, devised by wise legal scholars. We readily understand that the way to serve G-d, our ritual obligations and restrictions, require divine commands, because only He can decide how He should be served. But why was it necessary for the Torah to introduce its own system of civil laws, if human beings are capable of formulating their own set of laws? Rav Moshe Alshich writes that this question is predicated on a fundamentally mistaken assumption – that the Mishpatim, the Torah’s interpersonal code, is aimed solely at maintaining peace and harmony in society. If this were the sole purpose of the Torah’s civil laws, then indeed, we would rightfully wonder why such a system is necessary. But this is not true at all. Rav Moshe Alshich writes that the Torah’s civil laws are Misvot, spiritually charged obligations, no less than the Misvot Ben Adam La’Makom (between man and G-d). Just as we perform a spiritually powerful act when we put on Tefillin, recite Kedusha, and fulfill other Misvot, we likewise perform a spiritually powerful act every time we pay a worker on time, lend without charging interest, compensate for damages we caused, and fulfill our other obligations to our fellow man. The Torah’s interpersonal code is inherently sacred, laden with spirituality, just like the ritual Misvot that we observe. And, Rav Moshe Alshich adds, just as we create an angel every time we perform one of the Misvot Ben Adam La’Makom, so do we create an angel every time we perform one of the Misvot Ben Adam La’habero (between man and his fellow). This, Rav Moshe Alshich writes, is the meaning of the verse, “Ve’eleh Ha’mishpatim Asher Tasim Lifnehem.” G-d was telling Moshe that observing these laws – just like observing the Torah’s other commands – has the effect of creating angels who remain with us and protect us for all time. Moshe was told to “place” these laws “before” us, meaning, to empower us by teaching us these laws, through which we have the ability to produce new angels. The Alshich here reminds us that we must never distinguish between the two basic categories of Torah law – our obligations to Hashem, and our obligations to one another. Both are integral components of Torah life. Treating other people with kindness, respect, courtesy and integrity is no less a Misva than prayer, Torah study, Tefillin or Mezuza. The Misvot we fulfill in our interpersonal relations are sacred, and bring us great merit and great rewards, just like any other Misva.

After the Torah told of Beneh Yisrael’s departure from Egypt, it spoke of their experiences in the desert. It described the great miracles performed for them, showing us how G-d cared for our ancestors and ensured their sustenance and protection. All these stories were leading to what we might call the “crescendo,” the purpose for which Beneh Yisrael left Egypt – their receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. We find, however, one section which seems out of place. Just prior to the story of Matan Torah, the Torah found it necessary to tell us about the arrival of Yitro, the father-in-law of Moshe Rabbenu. The Torah goes into great detail, informing us of the great honor with which Moshe and the other leaders welcomed Yitro, and of how Yitro assisted Moshe by advising him to establish a network of judges. Why is this narrative included as part of the Torah’s presentation of the events that led to Matan Torah? Why is this story significant enough to be mentioned just prior to the Revelation at Sinai? Rav Leibele Eiger (Poland, 1818-1888), in Torat Emet, explains that this story is told to teach us that nobody should ever despair. Yitro was a pagan priest, and the Sages tell that he explored and practiced every form of idolatry before finally arriving at the belief in the one, true G-d. His arrival, and his acceptance by Beneh Yisrael, teaches us that it is never too late for a person to embrace the Torah. Once Yitro made the decision to join Beneh Yisrael, his idolatrous past did not matter. He did not say to himself, “Why should I bother? They have been part of this religion since the days of Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob. It’s too late for me. I’m from a pagan background, and I’ve always been a pagan. I was even a priest! I can’t suddenly come now, at my age, and join them!” Yitro did not think this way. Because once he decided to embark on this new journey, he was warmly accepted and embraced. This is the critically important message that the Torah wished to convey to us before telling us about Matan Torah. It wanted to teach us that it is never too late to accept the Torah. No matter how old we are, and no matter what we’ve done in the past, we are still encouraged to “come to Sinai,” to commit ourselves to the Torah, and build a relationship with Hashem. There is also an additional lesson we learn from Yitro. The opening verse of Parashat Yitro describes Yitro as “Kohen Midyan,” which is commonly translated as “the priest of Midyan.” Indeed, Yitro was a pagan religious leader. However, Rashi, commenting to the first instance of the word “Kohen” in the Torah (“Admat Ha’kohanim” – Bereshit 47:22), writes that sometimes, this word denotes prominence and prestige, and not a position of leadership. Importantly, Rashi cites the verse in our Parasha – “Kohen Midyan” – as an example of where “Kohen” is used to mean distinction, as opposed to religious leadership. According to Rashi, then, the Torah here emphasizes that Yitro was a distinguished person, who enjoyed wealth and prestige. And, several verses later in our Parasha (18:5), the Torah states that Yitro came “El Ha’midbar” – “to the desert.” Rashi comments that the Torah speaks in praise of Yitro, who “sat in the glory of the world” – with wealth and honor, and gave it all up to join Beneh Yisrael in the barren desert. Yitro, the “Kohen,” enjoyed material comforts and prestige, but he decided to sacrifice it all to come to the desert. Yitro shows us that in order to accept the Torah and be part of G-d’s treasured nation, one needs to make sacrifices. One cannot expect to commit himself to Torah without giving up some comforts, conveniences and luxuries. Of course, we are not expected to live in a “desert,” with only our bare necessities, as our ancestors did for forty years. We are, however, expected to make sacrifices, just as Yitro did. Torah life is exceedingly rewarding, but we must be prepared to put in the work, to exert effort, and to make sacrifices. The story of Yitro is told before Matan Torah to remind us that in order to fully commit ourselves to Torah study and observance, we must be prepared to give up certain comforts and conveniences in exchange for the unparalleled joy and privilege of serving our Creator.

“Az Yashir,” the famous song of praise which Beneh Yisrael sang after the miracle of the splitting of the sea, begins, “Ashira L’Hashem Ki Ga’o Ga’a, Sus Ve’rochebo Rama Ba’yam” – “I shall sing to G-d for He has risen ever high; He cast into the sea the horse and its rider” (15:1). This opening segment of “Az Yashir” was sung also by Miriam as she led the women of Beneh Yisrael in song (15:20). Rav Eliezer Ashkenazi (1512-1585), in his work “Ma’aseh Hashem,” offered an insightful explanation of this verse. The Gemara (Sanhedrin 39b) famously teaches that after the miracle of the sea, the angels in heavens wanted to sing a song of praise to Hashem, but Hashem prevented them. He said, “My creatures are drowning at sea, and you will sing praise before Me?!” Although the Egyptians certainly deserved to perish because of what they did to Beneh Yisrael, nevertheless, they were human beings, and every human being is G-d’s handiwork. Therefore, it was inappropriate for the angels to sing to G-d for the great miracle while the Egyptians, G-d’s creatures, drowned. In this opening verse of “Az Yashir,” Beneh Yisrael explain why they nevertheless were singing Shira (song of praise) – “Ki Ga’o Ga’a.” The Ma’aseh Hashem writes that this phrase describes not Hashem, as is conventionally understood, but rather Pharaoh, the king of Egypt. Pharaoh made himself supreme, believing he was the most powerful being in the world, and under nobody’s control. He elevated himself to the highest pedestal of authority. This is why he stubbornly refused to allow Beneh Yisrael to leave until he was forced to let them. He brazenly defied G-d, and even denied His authority, telling Moshe, “Mi Hashem Asher Eshma Be’kolo” – “Who is G-d that I should heed His voice?” (Shemot 5:2). This, the Ma’aseh Hashem explains, is the meaning of the verse, “Ashira L’Hashem Ki Ga’o Ga’a.” While generally song after the demise of enemies would be inappropriate, in this instance, it was warranted, “Ki Ga’o Ga’a” – because the enemy that met his downfall had prided himself on being greater than G-d. Pharaoh’s demise was an occasion to be celebrated because it restored G-d’s honor. Beneh Yisrael sang not to celebrate the Egyptians’ death, but rather to give honor and glory to Hashem, whose singular greatness and authority had now been shown to the entire world. Of course, we read “Az Yashir” each day as part of our Pesukeh De’zimra service, with which we introduce the daily Shaharit prayer. Before we stand before G-d in prayer, we remind ourselves of His unlimited power and ability to help us. We take a few moments to reflect on the fact that no person and no situation is more powerful than G-d. No matter what kind of difficulty we face, no matter what kind of assistance we require, we can turn to Hashem for the help we need. Just as Pharaoh thought that he was more powerful than G-d, so might we on occasion make the mistake of thinking that a problem or crisis is “too difficult” for G-d to handle. We therefore preface our morning prayers with the song of “Az Yashir,” reassuring ourselves that Hashem is fully capable of resolving any problem we face, and giving us the help that we need.

Before the tenth and final plague, Makat Bechorot (plague of the firstborn), Moshe came before Pharaoh and warned him about the impending calamity that G-d would bring upon Egypt. Moshe then predicted that this plague would cause Pharaoh to finally relent and allow Beneh Yisrael to leave Egypt: “And all these servants of yours will come down to me and say: Leave, you and all the people under your charge! – and afterward, I will leave” (11:8). The question arises, why did Moshe need to say, “Ve’ahareh Chein Eseh” – “and afterward I will leave”? Beneh Yisrael had been waiting for centuries to leave Egypt. Moshe had spent a year repeatedly urging Pharaoh to let Beneh Yisrael go, and Pharaoh continually refused. Is it not obvious that they would leave Egypt after the plague of the firstborn, when Pharaoh told them to leave? The Seforno (Rav Ovadia Seforno, Italy, 1475-1549) explains that Moshe was telling Pharaoh, “We will leave later.” He was emphasizing that Beneh Yisrael would leave Egypt “Ahareh Chen,” at some later point, and not the moment when Pharaoh would order them to leave. Pharaoh commanded Beneh Yisrael to leave in the middle of the night, right after the plague of the firstborn struck, but Beneh Yisrael did not leave until morning. This, the Seforno explains, is the meaning of “Ve’ahareh Chein Eseh” – that Beneh Yisrael would not leave immediately, but only later. We must then ask, why was this case? Why, in fact, did Beneh Yisrael delay their departure from Egypt until morning? Wouldn’t we have expected them to leave immediately when they finally had the opportunity to do so? Rav Shalom Schwadron, the “Maggid of Jerusalem” (1912-1997), explained that this was done to demonstrate to Pharaoh G-d’s absolute, unlimited control. Pharaoh all throughout assumed that he enjoyed full control over Beneh Yisrael, and so he refused the demand that He allow them to leave. And even when he finally was forced to yield, Pharaoh thought he could still exert his control over Beneh Yisrael, and drive them by force out of the country. G-d wanted to show Pharaoh that he had no control whatsoever over Beneh Yisrael – neither to keep them in Egypt, nor to send them out of Egypt. And so even when Pharaoh finally relented, G-d did not allow Beneh Yisrael to leave when Pharaoh wanted them to leave, and their departure was delayed until the morning. They left on G-d’s terms, not on Pharaoh’s terms. Developing this point one step further, Rav Schwadron explained that Pharaoh’s enslavement of Beneh Yisrael was commissioned by G-d. Hashem had decreed that Beneh Yisrael should spend hundreds of years in bondage, in preparation for their receiving the Torah at Sinai. Pharaoh was nothing more than a pawn, the means through which G-d fulfilled His decree. It was therefore critically important for Beneh Yisrael to leave Egypt when G-d decided, and not when Pharaoh decided. G-d wanted to show Pharaoh that he never had control over Beneh Yisrael, that it was always G-d who orchestrated the events. Of course, this message is intended not only for Pharaoh, but also for us. We must remember at all times that G-d exercises full, unlimited control over the universe, and there is nobody in nothing in the world that acts independently of His power. Anything that happens has been decided by G-d. This awareness should bring us comfort and solace during times of hardship and distress, assuring us that G-d’s control over the world – and over our lives – is absolute, and He is always caring for us, even under the most trying circumstances.

Before beginning the story of the ten plagues which G-d brought upon Egypt, it presents the genealogy of the first three tribes of Israel – Reuben, Shimon and Levi. Rashi (6:14) explains that the Torah wanted to tell us about the family background of Moshe and Aharon, the ones who confronted Pharaoh and brought the plagues, and who descended from the tribe of Levi. It therefore began from the first tribe, Reuben, and continued until it reached Moshe and Aharon. The Torah concluded this section by stating, “This is Aharon and Moshe, to whom G-d said: Bring Beneh Yisrael out of the land of Egypt… They were the ones who spoke to Pharaoh, king of Egypt…this is Moshe and Aharon” (6:26-27). Rashi, explaining the need for the seemingly repetitious phrase, “this is Moshe and Aharon,” writes: “They kept to their mission and their piety from the beginning until the end.” The Torah goes out of its way to emphasize that Moshe and Aharon remained committed to the goal of bringing Beneh Yisrael out of Egypt, until the very end. They retained their devotion, and their righteousness, throughout the entire process. It is common for people to grow weary and give up. When we start something new, like a new project or new spiritual undertaking, we are filled with excitement and enthusiasm, which fuels us and keeps us going. Inevitably, however, this excitement wanes with time. It is all but impossible for the enthusiasm felt at the beginning a new endeavor to last. Whether it’s a new personal project, a new community project, a new business, or a new hobby – people so often give up in the middle, once the excitement that had kept them going wears off. This is one of the reasons why it is customary to make a festive Siyum celebration upon the completion of the study of a Masechet (tractate of Gemara), or of another significant portion of Torah. We celebrate not only the accomplishment itself, but also the person’s persistence, his long-term commitment to the goal. It is relatively easy to begin a Masechet, and to study the first several pages. But seeing the project through to completion is far more difficult. Rashi’s comments here teach us to follow the example set for us by Moshe and Aharon, to persist in pursuing our ambitious goals even after the initial excitement has waned. If we’ve taken on an important, meaningful project, let’s apply ourselves to see it through to completion, despite the challenges and proverbial “bumps in the road” that we will inevitably encounter. In order to achieve, we must be prepared to put in the work even when we feel like giving up. Like Moshe and Aharon, we must be committed to making it until the end, to achieving the goals that we’ve set out to achieve.

We read in Parashat Shemot of the successful attempt made by Yochebed, the mother of Moshe Rabbenu, to rescue her beloved infant. After Pharaoh decreed that all newborn boys among Beneh Yisrael should be killed, Yochebed delivered a baby, and hid him from the Egyptian authorities for three months. Then, seeing that she could no longer hide him, she placed the baby in a basket and put the basket in the river. It was discovered by Pharaoh’s daughter, who opened the basket and saw a child crying. She exclaimed, “This is from the children of the Hebrews!” (2:6). Pharaoh’s daughter took the baby, brought him home, and raised him as her child. She named him “Moshe.” The question arises as to how the princess realized that this infant was Jewish. Immediately upon seeing him, she declared that this was an Israelite child. Why? The commentators also address a different question, regarding the syntax of this verse. The Torah tells, “Va’tiftach Ta’tir’ehu Et Ha’yeled, Ve’hineh Na’ar Bocheh” – “She opened it and saw the child, and behold, there was a lad crying.” Moshe is first called “Ha’yeled” – “the child,” but then referred to as a “Na’ar” – “lad.” Clearly, as Moshe was but three months old, the term “Yeled” is far more appropriate for him than “Na’ar,” a term that usually denotes a grown child. Why does the Torah here speak of a “Na’ar” crying, if Moshe was a small baby? An innovative reading of this verse was suggested by the Ba’al Ha’turim (Rabbenu Yaakob Ben Asher, Germany-Spain, 1269-1340). He notes that the words “Na’ar Bocheh” in Gematria equal the phrase “Zeh Aharon Ha’kohen” – “This is Aharon the Kohen.” According to the Ba’al Ha’turim, it wasn’t Moshe who was crying. His older brother, Aharon, was standing along the riverbank to watch what would happen to Moshe, and he was crying out of fear and compassion for his baby brother. When Pharaoh’s daughter opened the basket, she saw an infant – and she also heard a “Na’ar,” the infant’s older brother, crying from a distance, worrying about what would happen to the baby. This perhaps explains why the princess immediately determined that the infant must belong to Am Yisrael – because this is a uniquely Jewish trait, crying for one another, caring about one other, feeling each other’s pain, and shouldering each other’s burden. In the Book of Yehezkel (34:31), the prophet turns to Beneh Yisrael and says, “Adam Atem” – “You are people.” The Gemara in Masechet Yebamot (61a) interprets this to mean that “Atem Keruyim Adam” – only the Jewish people are defined as “Adam,” whereas other nations are not. This classification of Jews as “Adam,” the Gemara explains, is relevant for a certain Halacha regarding the laws of impurity. But this enigmatic Talmudic teaching has, over the years, been used by anti-Semites as “evidence” of the Jews’ contempt for gentiles. They claimed that the Talmud teaches Jews to view other peoples as subhuman species – despite the fact that numerous other sources in Torah literature make it very clear that to the contrary, all human beings are created in the divine image and demand our respect and concern. The Rabbis struggled to explain the meaning of the Talmudic teaching that the term “Adam” is reserved for the Jewish People. Rav Meir Shapiro of Lublin (1887-1933) offered a compelling, and especially meaningful, interpretation. He asserted that the Gemara here distinguishes not between “Adam” and animals, but rather between “Adam” and the other Hebrew term used in reference to human beings – “Ish.” The difference between the words “Adam” and “Ish,” Rav Shapiro noted, is that the word “Ish” has a plural form – “Anashim,” whereas the word “Adam” has no plural form. The Gemara teaches that Jews are called “Adam” because we comprise a single entity. We are all parts of one organic whole. We are not “plural,” because we are members of a single nation. No other nation is bound together in mutual love, care and concern like the Jewish Nation. When one Jew is in pain, or is in trouble, Jews around the world cry. This is one of the unique aspects of the Jewish experience – being an “Adam,” part of an organic entity, where everybody is interconnected and unconditionally devoted to one another. This is how Pharaoh’s daughter knew that the infant she found belonged to Beneh Yisrael – because she saw somebody crying for him, worrying about him, concerned about him. When our Jewish brothers and sisters across the world are in crisis, we must all feel their pain. We shoulder their burden of sorrow with them, and we commit ourselves to doing everything we can to help them, to support them, to encourage them, and to ensure their safety and wellbeing.

Many parents observe the beautiful, time-honored practice to bless their children every week on Friday night. The blessing they give is, “Yesimcha Elokim Ke’Efrayim Ve’chi’Mnashe” – that Hashem should make them like Yosef’s two sons, Efrayim and Menashe. The source of this blessing is the story told in Parashat Vayehi of Yaakob Abinu’s emotional meeting with Yosef and his two sons before his passing. After blessing Efrayim and Menashe, Yaakob proclaimed that for all time, parents in Am Yisrael will bless their children that they should become like Efrayim and Menashe (48:20). The obvious question arises as to why parents wish for their children that they should grow to become specifically like Efrayim and Menashe. Undoubtedly, Efrayim and Menashe were exceptionally righteous men; after all, they were privileged to be the founders of two of the twelve tribes of Israel. However, our nation has been graced with countless outstanding spiritual giants, from the time of our saintly patriarchs until even our generation. What is unique about Efrayim and Menashe, such that parents wish for their children to become like them? The answer becomes clear when we review the relationships between brothers from the beginning of the Humash until our Parasha. The first siblings in human history were Kayin and Hebel, the two sons of Adam. As we know, they both brought offerings to G-d, who accepted Hebel’s sacrifice, but rejected Kayin’s. Consumed with jealousy, Kayin proceeded to kill his brother. Generations later, Abraham Abinu begot two sons – Yishmael and Yishak. The younger brother, Yishak, was chosen as heir to the special covenant that G-d made with Abraham. Yishmael refused to accept this decision, and taunted and even threatened Yishak. This is what prompted Sara to urge Abraham to drive Yishmael from the home. Yishak, too, had two sons – Yaakob and Esav. Yaakob, the younger twin, received their father’s blessings, which Esav resented. Esav planned to kill Yaakob, who fled from Eretz Yisrael to escape his brother’s wrath. This unfortunate pattern of fraternal strife continued in the next generation. Yosef’s brothers resented Yaakob’s special love for him, the special garment that Yaakob made for him, and Yosef’s dreams of leadership. They undertook the drastic measure of throwing him into a pit, intending to kill him, and then decided to lift him from the pit and sell him as a slave. When Yosef brought his two sons to see Yaakob, this pattern of hostility finally ended. The Torah relates that when Yaakob blessed Efrayim and Menashe, he purposely placed his right hand on the head of the younger son, Efrayim, and his left hand on Menashe’s head. He explained to Yosef that while both tribes will, in the future, attain greatness, the tribe of Efrayim will become more numerous and more powerful. Menashe, the older brother, did not respond. He did not resent being surpassed by his brother, and felt no envy. Finally, the ill of fraternal strife was cured. The greatest blessing that a parent could wish for his or her children is that they should follow this example of contentment, that they avoid petty competition and jealousy, that they feel satisfied with what they have in life even if others have more. All of us, without exception, are going to find on occasion that life isn’t fair, that the people around us are more fortunate and more blessed than we are in some way. This is inevitable. As hard as parents should – and, generally, do – try to treat all their children fairly and equally, some children are going to feel disadvantaged or shortchanged. And even if they don’t feel this way at home, they will feel this way in school, in their social circles, in their professional lives, or in some other framework. There is nobody for whom life is always and entirely fair. And this is why the blessing, “May G-d make you like Efrayim and Menashe” is so vital. In order to live happily and contentedly, we need to follow the example of Efrayim and Menashe. We need to transcend envy and competition, and feel happy with whatever we have. The Gemara (Shabbat 152b) teaches that if a person lives with envy, then after his death, even his bones decay. Jealousy is so toxic, and so destructive, that its effects upon a person’s being endure even after he leaves this world. Let us all strive to truly become like Efrayim and Menashe, to respect and admire our peers even if we see them enjoying success that we do not enjoy, so that we will all live together happily, harmoniously and lovingly, setting an inspiring example for the rest of Am Yisrael and for the rest of the world.

Parashat Vayigash features one of the most dramatic stories in the entire Torah – Yosef’s revelation to his brothers. Many years earlier, when Yosef was just seventeen-years-old, his brothers threw him into a pit, with the intention of killing him. They then decided to lift him from the pit and sell him as a slave to merchants, who brought him to Egypt. Miraculously, Yosef ended up becoming the vizier of Egypt, who was responsible for distributing grain during the years of famine. His brothers came from Eretz Yisrael to Egypt in order to purchase grain, and they stood before Yosef. They did not recognize him, but he recognized them – and he proceeded to accuse them of coming to Egypt as spies. He forced them to return home and then come back with their youngest brother, Binyamin, and thus prove their innocence. When they came back to Egypt with Binyamin, Yosef ordered his butler to plant his silver goblet in Binyamin’s bag. Then, as the brothers began making their way back home, Yosef sent his butler to chase after them. The goblet was found in Binyamin’s bag, and Yosef commanded that Binyamin must remain in Egypt as his slave. Yehuda, who had promised Yaakob to bring Binyamin home safely, pleaded with Yosef to allow him to remain in Binyamin’s place. After hearing Yehuda’s impassioned plea, Yosef told his brothers who he was. The commentators address the question of why Yosef revealed himself to his brothers only now, after hearing Yehuda’s petition. Why did he not tell the brothers who he was right when they first came down to Egypt? And why did he force them to bring Binyamin, and then try to keep Binyamin with him? For that matter, already when Yosef rose to the position of vizier, why did he not contact his family to tell them that he was alive and well? One commentary, called the Leb Melech, answers these questions by clarifying why the brothers decided to eliminate Yosef in the first place. He explains that the brothers wrongly suspected Yosef of thinking of himself as the only heir to Hashem’s covenant with Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob. Just as only one of Abraham’s sons – Yishak – inherited the blessings to Abraham, and then only one of the Yishak’s sons – Yaakob – inherited them, the brothers thought that Yosef planned to be the sole inheritor of G-d’s covenant. Knowing that this was wrong, that they were all included in the covenant, and would all take part in the formation of Am Yisrael, the brothers saw Yosef as a real danger to the family and to the future of the special nation that was now being established. The brothers concluded that Yosef needed to be expelled because he threatened the development of the Jewish Nation. Yosef knew this, and this is why he never contacted his family – or even revealed his identity to his brothers when they arrived. He had good reason to fear that if the brothers knew that he had risen to a position of power, and was no longer a lowly slave, they would do everything they could to kill him. And if just two of the brothers – Shimon and Levi – were able to destroy the entire city of Shechem, then all ten of them could find a way to assassinate him in Egypt. Yosef therefore devised a plan to help the brothers recognize their mistake. First, he had them imprisoned for three days – so they would feel the pain of captivity, which they had caused him to experience. Then, three days later, he took them out of prison, explaining, “I am G-d-fearing” (Bereshit 42:18). He told them that he had changed his mind, and instead of keeping them all in jail and sending one of them home to bring Binyamin, he would keep only one of them in jail and send the rest of them back. Yosef wanted to model for his brothers the humility to reconsider and rethink one’s assumptions. He hoped that this would inspire them to reflect, to reevaluate their decision to expel him from the family. Sure enough, the brothers immediately expressed their regret, realizing that they made a mistake by selling Yosef (42:21). Then, Yosef arranged that the brothers would have to put themselves on the line for Binyamin. When he wanted to keep Binyamin with him forever as a slave, the brothers realized what it meant to permanently lose a brother, and thus truly regretted what they had done to Yosef. At that point, Yosef revealed himself. After hearing Yehuda’s plea, Yosef felt confident that the brothers changed their mind about him, and that it was safe to tell them that he was Yosef. I once heard an addition to this insight, which highlights one particular part of Yosef’s plan. When the brothers came to Egypt, Yosef accused them of being spies. His intention was for them to feel what they had done to him – falsely accusing him of rejecting them, of planning to drive them out of the family. They now felt what it was like to be wrongly accused, to be unfairly maligned, to have people make assumptions about them that weren’t true. Many times, in our interactions with people, we fail to recognize the hard feelings that our words could cause. We talk on impulse, and with our emotions, without thinking carefully about how what we say is impacting the individual we’re speaking with. In all our interactions, we need to try to place ourselves in the other person’s position, to try to imagine how we would feel if people spoke to us the way we are speaking. This sensitivity will help us be humbler, more considerate and more refined people, and will help us build healthy, happy and meaningful relationships with the people around us.

Parashat Miketz begins with Pharaoh’s peculiar dreams and his desperate quest for a satisfactory interpretation. Pharaoh dreamt first of seven lean cows devouring seven large cows, and then of seven lean sheaves of grain devouring seven heathy sheaves. The royal advisors were unable to come up with a convincing interpretation, and so the king’s cupbearer, who had been in prison with Yosef, told Pharaoh of how Yosef correctly interpreted his and the baker’s dreams which they dreamt in jail. Yosef was brought before Pharaoh, and he explained to the king that these dreams foretold the imminent onset of seven years of surplus, which would be followed by seven years of harsh famine. Then, Yosef proceeded to advise Pharaoh to appoint an official responsible for overseeing the storage of grain during the seven years of plenty, in preparation for the famine that would follow. Pharaoh reacted enthusiastically to Yosef’s interpretation, exclaiming, “En Nabon Ve’hacham Kamocha” – “There is no one as intelligent or wise as you!” (41:39). He then named Yosef second-in-command, and assigned to him the mission of storing produce during the coming seven years. Yosef implemented a program of massive storage, which ended up saving not only Egypt, but also the surrounding countries, during the years of famine. Many commentators raised the question of why Yosef chose to not only interpret Pharaoh’s dream, but also offer unsolicited advice. Yosef had been in prison, falsely accused of a heinous crime, and he was released solely for the purpose of interpreting Pharaoh’s dream. Why did he assume for himself the right to also advise Pharaoh? Many answers have been given to this question, but perhaps the simplest, most straightforward answer is that solving the problem was part-and-parcel of the dream’s interpretation. Yosef intuitively understood that Pharaoh was shown this dream so that he could act ahead of time to prevent mass starvation during the seven drought years. This is why Pharaoh exclaimed, “En Nabon Ve’hacham Kamocha” – mentioning first “Nabon” and then “Hacham.” In terms of intellectual development, the level of “Hacham” precedes “Nabon.” A “Hacham” is somebody with knowledge, whereas a “Nabon” is somebody with the intuition, insight and creativity to apply the knowledge effectively. Normally, then, the description “Hacham” should be given before “Nabon.” In this case, however, Pharaoh wanted to emphasize to his advisors the difference between Yosef and them. The advisors felt content coming up with interpretations, without offering any practical guidance, without explaining what Pharaoh is meant to do about his dreams. Yosef, however, was not merely “Hacham,” but also “Nabon,” someone who knew how to use his knowledge. He understood that these dreams were shown to Pharaoh for a practical purpose, so that he could act for the benefit of his people. I once heard from Rav Chaim Brim (Jerusalem, 1922-2002) an insight into the lesson we can learn from Pharaoh’s dreams and Yosef’s interpretation. Just as there are years of “plenty” and years of “famine” with regard to material resources, there are also years of “plenty” and “famine” with regard to time and energy. When a person is young and healthy, he has the time and energy to accomplish, to achieve, to build, and to contribute. As people age, they have less time and less physical strength to achieve. Pharaoh’s dream is relevant to each and every person, teaching us that youth eventually gives way to old age, that our “years of plenty,” our opportunities for achievement, do not last forever. And just as Yosef understood the practical message of this vision, we, too, must take this lesson to heart. We must not waste our “years of plenty,” our youthful years, the opportunities we have to accomplish and make a difference. We must remember that our “years of plenty” do not last forever, and so we need to use these years wisely, and take full advantage of our time and energy while we have them. Rather than waste these years staring at screens and involving ourselves in vanity, let us instead use them productively, for Torah learning, for Misva observance, and for accomplishing all the great things which Hashem has given us the ability to accomplish.