Ohr Shalom

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OHR SHALOM
Rabbi Naftali Reich
on the Parashah and Moadim
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BEREISHIS 15
PARASHAS BEREISHIS 16
A Springtime of the Spirit 16
Let Us Make Man 18
Wholeness Is Within 20
PARASHAS NOACH 22
The Sign of the Olive 22
The Roots of Evil 24
Wine and Window Washers 26
Joint Efforts 28
PARASHAS LECH LECHA 30

The Ordeal of Departure 30
Cloudy Vision 32
The Kindness Factor 34
Of Threads and Shoelaces 36
PARASHAS VAYEIRA 38
Behind the Open Door 38
They Went Together 40
Scattered Apples 42
First Impressions 44
PARASHAS CHAYEI SARAH 46

The Completion of Life 46
The Gateway to Eden 48
A Match Made in Heaven 50
The Edges of the Postcard 52
PARASHAS TOLDOS 54
A Question of Honor 54
The Spur of the Moment 56
Digging for Water 58
Esau’s Tears 60
PARASHAS VAYEITZEI 62
Bread Is for Eating 62
Body and Soul 64
Fourteen Sleepless Years 66
Asleep on Hallowed Ground 68
PARASHAS VAYISHLACH 70
The Roots of Strength 70
Heart to Heart 72
Diminishing Returns 74
A Few Small Jugs 76
PARASHAS VAYEISHEV 78
The Telltale Sign 78
Freeing the Spirit 80
Of Grapes and Pastries 82
PARASHAS MIKEITZ 84
Who Is the Real Mother? 84
Behind the Gray Blur 86
A Change of Heart 88
PARASHAS VAYIGASH 90
An Escort for Life 90
Tears of Joy 92
Missing Persons 94
First Things First 96
PARASHAS VAYECHI 98
A Father’s Blessing 98
Stolen Crafts 100
A Glimpse of the Future 102
A Blessing in Disguise 104
SHEMOS 107
PARASHAS SHEMOS 108

Anatomy of a Fire 108
The Strife Factor 110
Leadership Qualities 112
PARASHAS VA’EIRA 114

Coming to Terms with Exile 114
Thanking the River 116
Don’t Flog the Frog 118
PARASHAS BO 120
A Matter of Time 120
Choose Light 122
The Stroke of Midnight 124
PARASHAS BESHALACH 126
The Gateway to Freedom 126
An Eloquent Silence 128
A Cry from the Heart 130
PARASHAS YISRO 132

To Capture a Feeling 132
Last But Not Least 134
Spontaneous Consensus 136
PARASHAS MISHPATIM 138

The Slavery Riddle 138
Old Memories 140
Gilded Bondage 142
PARASHAS TERUMAH 144

Asking the Impossible 144
Temples Without Walls 146
A Heart of Wood 148
PARASHAS TETZAVEH 150

Induced Holiness 150
Knock Before You Enter 152
PARASHAS KI SISA 154

Strength in Numbers 154
Flaming Desire 156
Dazzled by the Light 158
The Rewards of Sacrifice 160
PARASHAS VAYAKHEL 162

Don’t Roll Up Your Sleeves 162
Home Is Where the Soul Is 164
Covering the Deficit 166
PARASHAS PIKUDEI 168

A House of Hearts 168
A Time to Wait 170
VAYIKRA 173
PARASHAS VAYIKRA 174

The Salt Solution 174
A Man from Among Us 176
PARASHAS TZAV 178
Gratitude Unlimited 178
Grasp the Moment 180
Don’t Cut Corners 182
Humility Breeds Respect 184
PARASHAS SHEMINI 186

The Eloquence of Silence 186
Forbidden Waters 188
Genteel Ambiguity 190
PARASHAS TAZRIA 192

A Matter of Life and Death 192
Skin Deep 194
Surrounded by Mirrors 196
Big Black Holes 198
PARASHAS METZORA 200

Plants and Wheelchairs 200
PARASHAS ACHAREI MOS 202

Nothing Wasted 202
A Matter of Opinion 204
The Crossroads of Life 206
PARASHAS KEDOSHIM 208

A Critical Difference 208
The Secret of Clairvoyance 210
PARASHAS EMOR 212

Give Me Liberty 212
The Power of Connection 214
49 Days, 11 Hours 216
Over the Top 218
PARASHAS BEHAR 220

A Place of Refuge 220
Enough Is Never Enough 222
Small Coincidences 224
PARASHAS BECHUKOSAI 226

Familiarity Breeds Respect 226
Intrinsic Rewards 228
Remember the Land 230
BAMIDBAR 233
PARASHAS BAMIDBAR 234

Separate but Equal 234
The Wilderness Within 236
Chaos in the Desert 238
PARASHAS NASO 240

It’s all in the Delivery 240
A Drink of Wine 242
The Edge of the Abyss 244
Guaranteed Investments 246
The Measure of Our Worth 248
PARASHAS BEHA’ALOSCHA 250

Lemonade in the Desert 250
A Taste of Heaven 252
Nothing and Everything 254
The Repetitive Trap 256
Perpetual Illumination 258
PARASHAS SHELACH 260

Hard Choices 260
Gentle Reminders 262
The Grasshopper Syndrome 264
Heart Palpitations 266
Reverse Spin 268
PARASHAS KORACH 270

One-sided Arguments 270
The Purpose of Prayer 272
The Easy Way In 274
Behind the White Beard 276
Faint Perception 278
PARASHAS CHUKAS 280

The Inside Story 280
Leadership Qualities 282
Miriam’s Well 284
PARASHAS BALAK 286

Forever a Donkey 286
The Epitome of Righteousness 288
The Seesaw Principle 290
PARASHAS PINCHAS 292
Breaches in the Wall 292
No Little Things 294
Peace without Conjunctions 296
All Eyes on the Shepherd 298
PARASHAS MATTOS 300

Personal Tragedies 300
The Human Ingredient 302
We’re in the Same Boat 304
PARASHAS MATTOS-MASEI 306

The Accidental Murderer 306
DEVARIM 309
PARASHAS DEVARIM 310

Tooth and Nail 310
Payment in Full 312
PARASHAS VA’ESCHANAN 314

Heaven and Earth 314
Sight and Insight 316
What Is True Love? 318
With Your Own Ears 320
Opposites Are Equal 322
PARASHAS EIKEV 324

No Easy Matter 324
Everlasting Blessings 326
Scattered Apples 328
A Father’s Love 330
A Simple Thing 332
PARASHAS RE’EH 334

The Love Test 334
Give and Take 336
Constructive Destruction 338
Walk Behind Me 340
PARASHAS SHOFTIM 342

Critical Followers 342
Doctors and Pilots 344
Under the Hood 346
Life Is Not Cheap 348
PARASHAS KI SEITZEI 350
Tough Love 350
Perfect Bliss 352
Don’t Take the Millstones 354
Double Standards 356
PARASHAS KI SAVO 358

Gratitude, Jewish Style 358
The Power of One Word 360
The Little Voice 362
Open Your Eyes 364
PARASHAS NITZAVIM 366

Family Values 366
You’re Still Standing 368
Of Blandishments and Seductions 370
The Ends of Heaven 372
Only Skin Deep 374
PARASHAS VAYEILECH 376

The Secrets of Longevity 376
Actions and Words 378
PARASHAS HAAZINU 380

Open Door Policy 380
The Ultimate Contact 382
PARASHAS VEZOS HABERACHAH 384

Total Dedication 384
MOADIM 387
ROSH HASHANAH 388

The Mystical Tug of the Shofar 388
A Breath of Air 390
Wordless Prayers 392
SHABBOS SHUVAH 394

Reversing the Chain Reaction 394
YOM KIPPUR 396

Jonah’s Dilemma 396
SUKKOS 398
The Secret of Perfect Joy 398
Time Capsules 400
Jewish Citizenship 402
SHEMINI ATZERES 404

Praying for Rain 404
Hold On for Dear Life 406
CHANUKAH 408
Switching on the Lights 408
The Essence Within 410
PURIM 412
Behind the Purim Mask 412
Lots of Joy 414
A Fistful of Flour 416
PESACH 418
The Right Staff 418
A Pledge of Allegiance 420
SHEVII SHEL PESACH 422

A Time to Sing 422
SHABBOS HAGADOL 424

Greatness Lies Within 424
SHAVUOS 426
Payment in Full 426
Thunder and Lightning 428
A Kiss Is Not Enough 430
TISHAH B’AV 432

The Jewish Way of Crying 432
Creative Mourning 434
BEREISHIS
Ohr Shalom
PARASHAS BEREISHIS
A Springtime of the Spirit

As the warm glow of summer gives way to the chill autumn
winds, the world begins to withdraw into itself. People remain indoors,
their doors and windows shut tight. Trees shed their leaves, and
animals prepare food and shelter for the long cold winter. The cycle of
the year has reached its descending phase, at the opposite pole from
the flourishing days of spring.
Yet for the Jewish people, this is the time of year when we
experience a great surge of renewal. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom
Kippur, our neshamos were cleansed and our slates cleared, and we
realigned our priorities in life. But perhaps more than anything else,
Shabbos Bereishis gives us a true sense of a new beginning. As we
watch the Torah scroll rolled back to its very first parchment page, it is
as if we are witnessing the entire year being rolled back to give us a
fresh start. We open the pages of the Chumash and read about the
creation of the world with a sense of excitement that does not diminish
from year to year. If anything, it grows stronger. It is a springtime of the
spirit, a time when Jewish souls blossom and bloom.
The prelude to this wonderful time was Simchas Torah, when

we held hands in song and dance to honor the completion of the
annual reading of the Torah and its commencement once again. But
the question presents itself: Why do we choose this particular time for
this great outburst of rejoicing? Why now more than on Shavuos, the
anniversary of the actual Giving of the Torah to the Jewish people at
Mount Sinai, are we called upon to celebrate in such a festive manner?
The answer lies in the very first words of the Torah - “Bereishis,
in the beginning, Hashem created the heavens and the earth.” Our
Sages point out that in Scriptures the word reishis sometimes refers to
the Torah. Therefore, they explain, we are also being told “with the
Torah, Hashem created the heavens and the earth.” What, however, is
the connection between the Torah and creation?
Let us think for a moment about a suspension bridge. Many of

drive across such bridges on our daily trek to work, but how often do
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Bereishis: Bereishis
we take notice of this marvelous piece of architecture? And even if we
did take notice of this marvel of grace and solidity, would we have the
capacity to appreciate it fully? Surely not. Unless we were personally
involved in the actual building the bridge, we could not begin to
imagine the enormous amount of design, engineering and planning
that went into the bridge, not to mention the daunting complexity of the
actual construction.
The living world around us is, of course, infinitely more

marvelous and complex than the greatest human architectural feats
imaginable. It is a triumph of design that only Hashem could have
accomplished. But where is the blueprint for this world? Where are the
engineering plans? They are all in the Torah. “Histakel b’Oraisa uvarah
alma,” our Sages say. “He looked into the Torah and created the
world.” The laws, the concepts, the mystical secrets of the Torah are
the keys to the universe. The spiritual Torah and the physical world
exist in a state of perfect integration.
Simchas Torah is our crowning celebration of the Torah. On

Shavuos, we commemorated the spiritual gift of the Torah, its mitzvos
and teachings that represent our connection to eternity. On Simchas
Torah, however, we commemorate the Torah as the very foundation of
the physical world. We dance around it in a circle to signify that the
Torah is the focal point of creation, which controls and energizes
everything around it.
Our joy is complete. Not only is the Torah our passport to

eternity, it is also our key to the here and now. Torah is the basis of all
creation, and connecting with it allows us to live in perfect harmony
with our surroundings.
The nip of autumn may be in the air, but as we begin to read

Bereishis, it is springtime in our hearts.
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Ohr Shalom
Let Us Make Man

Why would the Creator need any help to complete the work of
creation? Surely, the One who formed the world out of nothingness,
who created all the hosts of the heavens and the teeming life of the
earth, was perfectly capable of creating anything He chose to create.
And yet, on the seventh day of creation, He said, “Naaseh adam. Let
us make man.” Whose help was He seeking? And why?
The Sages explain that Hashem was consulting with the

angels, inviting their participation in the process of creating mankind.
Although He obviously did not need their participation, Hashem was
teaching us to be sensitive to protocol and proper behavior. Before
undertaking a major project, consult with others.
The questions, however, continue to baffle. The angels were

created on the third day, yet Hashem did not consult with them until
the sixth day when He created mankind. Why didn’t he invite their input
when He was creating the mountains and the valleys, the tress and the
flowers, the animals and the fishes?
The commentators explain that the creation of mankind was

indeed the most appropriate setting for teaching the lessons of proper
etiquette. How do we measure the worth of a person? On the one
hand, every person is infinitely valuable, worthy of having the entire
universe created for his sake, as the Sages tell us. On the other hand,
there are people who are undoubtedly a disgrace to their purpose and
design.
How then do we evaluate a person? We see if he is attuned to

others or if he is totally egocentric. Only a person who recognizes that
there is much to be learned from the knowledge and experience of his
peers, who is sensitive to the feelings and sensibilities of others, truly
has the potential for growth and fulfillment as a sublime human being.
Therefore, it was in the context of the creation of man that

Hashem teaches us this important lesson. A tree is a tree and a flower
is a flower no matter what, but a human being who has no use for
other people’s advice is not much of a human being. He is not a
mensch.
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A young lady came to seek the advice of a great sage. “I am so

confused,” she said. “I have many suitors who have asked my hand in
marriage. They all have such fine qualities, and I simply cannot make
up my mind. What shall I do?”
“Tell me about their qualities,” said the sage.
“Well, they are all handsome and well-established. I enjoy their

company, they are so entertaining. Why, I can sit and listen to any of
them for hours and hours.”
The sage shook his head. “These are not the qualities you
should be seeking. It is all good and well if a man is handsome and
wealthy, but does he have a good character? Is he a fine person? As
for their being so entertaining, it is far more important that your
husband be a good listener than a good talker. Look for a fine man
who knows how to listen. He will bring you happiness.”
In our own lives, we must learn to differentiate between self-

confidence, which is an admirable quality, and egotism, which is not. It
is all good and well to believe in one’s own talents and abilities. The
truly wise person, however, knows that all people have limitations, and
there is always someone of value to be learned from other people. And
even in situations where other people do not have anything worthwhile
to contribute, the wise person will be sensitive to their feelings and
make them feel involved and helpful. If we can find it in ourselves to
overcome our egotistic tendencies and behave in the sublime manner
of which human beings are capable, we will reap not only spiritual
rewards but material and emotional rewards as well.
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Ohr Shalom
Wholeness Is Within
The Hebrew alphabet is a rather feisty collection of letters.
Every once in a while, we find these letters vying with each other for
prime position in one verse or another. In fact, the very first verse of
the Torah was the occasion for one such heated dispute.
The first word in the Torah is bereishis, which begins with the
letter bet, the second letter in the Hebrew alphabet. The Midrash
relates that the aleph, the first letter in the alphabet, immediately
protested to Hashem. “Shouldn’t I be the first letter in the Torah?” said
the aleph. “Wouldn’t it be more fitting for the Torah to begin with me?”
“I have decided to begin the Torah with the bet,” Hashem

replied, “but do not be distressed. I have chosen you to be the first
letter in the Ten Commandments.”
What is the point of this contentiousness? What difference

does it make if the first letter is an aleph, a bet, or even a gimmel?
The commentators point out that the Midrash is obviously

alluding to an underlying mystical issue implicit in the choice of letters.
Unlike the letters in other alphabets, the Hebrew letters are more than
arbitrary marks than indicate a particular vocal sound. Their shape and
numerical value hold deep divine secrets.
Let us now consider the numerical values of the aleph and the
bet. The numerical value of the aleph in its most basic form is one, and
thus it represents the concept of unity. The numerical value of the bet,
however, is two, representing ambivalence and duality.
By opening the creation story with the letter bet, the Torah is
telling us that there were actually two disparate creations, the creation
of the spiritual heavens in which the presence of the Almighty is
manifest and the creation of a material world in which His presence is
often obscured.
“But why must it be this way?” the aleph protested. Why can’t
every part of creation, the spiritual and the physical, reflect the
presence of the Almighty? Why couldn’t the Torah start with the aleph,
20
the symbol of ultimate unity in the world?
Not so, replied Hashem. Unity in this world can only derive from
faith. Only when people have faith can they rise above their
environment and see the presence of the almighty everywhere.
Therefore, the aleph would be the first letter in the First
Commandment, the article of faith.
A very successful businessman visited a great sage who lived

on a remote mountaintop.
“I want to come live here with you,” said the businessman. “I

am not satisfied with the life I have been leading.”
“Indeed?” said the sage. “And what do expect to find here with
me?”
“I feel my life is incomplete. I have built a large and successful

company. I have many properties, lots of money, power and honors. I
struggled for these things very hard, but now that I have achieved
them, I feel emptiness inside. I expect to find wholeness here.”
“Wholeness comes from within,” said the sage. “If you have
faith, you will find wholeness even in your place of business.”
In our own lives, we can realistically aspire to this wonderful

ideal. The Torah gives us the tools to reach high spiritual levels even
as we enjoy the material rewards of our businesses and professions.
During the Festival of Sukkoth, we lived in a small island of the divine.
We experienced an intense spiritual encounter with the Almighty, and
we came away with our spiritual batteries recharged. But now, as we
step out of our sukkah booths and back into the mundane world, we
cannot let those batteries run down. Those moments of transcendent
inspiration can easily fade away. But if we reinforce the strong faith
engendered in our hearts by the High Holidays and the Festival, we
can infuse our daily lives with spirituality and truly find the wholeness
we all seek.
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Ohr Shalom
PARASHAS NOACH
The Sign of the Olive

For forty days and forty nights, the Great Flood seethed over
the surface of the earth, sweeping it clean of the corruption that had
polluted it. Noah’s family and the selected animals huddled together in
the storm-tossed ark, a minuscule capsule extracted from the doomed
world, waiting to be injected into an unknown new world that would
emerge beyond the deluge.
Finally, the waters began to recede. Noah opened the windows

of the ark and sent out a dove to find a sign of dry land. “And the dove
returned to him at evening time, and behold, an olive leaf was grasped
in its mouth.” (Bereishis 8:11) One can well imagine the excitement
which greeted the arrival of the little leaf, this precious symbol of a new
world and a new future. But why did the Torah find it necessary to
specify that this particular leaf was an olive leaf? Would the symbolism
have been any different had it been a leaf from another tree?
The answer lies in the singular nature of the olive among all
other fruits. The primary purpose of the fruit of the olive tree is not for
use as a food. It is meant to be crushed and squeezed and pressed
until its golden drops of oil are extracted. This oil is then put into a
candle and ignited, issuing forth . . . light!
Granted that light is a physical phenomenon, that a flame is

merely a cloud of oxidizing gasses with rapid molecular activity. But in
its outward appearance, a flame seems to strive upward in defiance of
the laws of gravity. Quite properly, then, a flame is considered a
symbol of spirituality. Light is, of course, a symbol of wisdom.
In this context, the olive becomes a symbol of the bridge

between the physical world and spirituality. Just as it is possible to
squeeze a light-giving flame from the physical olive, so too is it
possible to extract golden drops of spirituality from this temporal
physical world. All of creation is a manifestation of the Divine, and if we
penetrate to its core, we will undoubtedly find the spirituality which
forms its very essence.
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Bereishis: Noach
When the bird brought back the olive leaf to Noah and his
family, the message conveyed was very sharp and profound. An entire
world had just been destroyed because it had become completely
physical, focused exclusively on promiscuity, greed and self-
gratification. Now, there would be a new start, a second chance. But
what was to prevent a recurrence of the old mistakes and the old
corruption?
The sign of the olive provided the answer. The new society
needed to encompass a totally different attitude, a totally different
perception of the physical world. People needed to understand that the
entire world was like an olive and that only by extracting its spirituality
could they keep it on an exalted level.
Our mission in life is to strip away the shells from our

experiences and our surroundings and focus on extracting the essence
of spirituality. We must seek the presence of our Creator wherever we
go and whatever we do. Not only will this prevent us from slipping into
sinfulness, it will enrich every precious moment of our lives and give
value and meaning to our very existence.
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Ohr Shalom
The Roots of Evil

What would it take for the entire world to be condemned to
destruction? What heinous sins would society have to commit for
Hashem to decide to wipe it out and start over again? We do not have
to look far for the answer. In this week’s Torah portion, the world is
inundated by the Great Flood, its cities, its institutions, its people, even
its animals, all swept away. Only the handpicked passengers on
Noah’s ark were allowed to survive. What brought this on?
The Torah gives a lurid account of the level of depravity to

which society had fallen, widespread idolatry, promiscuity and adultery
so pervasive that even the animal kingdom was perverted, the total
collapse of moral standards, the degeneracy and the shamelessness.
And yet, the Torah tells us, the final decree of annihilation was
triggered by pecuniary crimes - “vatimalei haaretz chamas,” and the
land was filled with robbery. Why was the crime of robbery considered
worse than all the other horrendous crimes of society? After all,
robbery is not a capital crime, while some of the others are indeed
punishable by death. Why then was robbery the fuse that ignited the
explosion called the Great Flood?
To further complicate matters, the Midrash that the robbery so

prevalent in society was of a quite peculiar nature. Legally, a robber is
not required to return stolen goods worth less than a small coin called
a prutah. Such small sums are considered unworthy of litigation, and
the victim undoubtedly writes it off. The people in antediluvian society
would, therefore, steal from each other numerous times but always no
more than the most minuscule sums. Over a long period of time,
however, they were able to secure the property of their victims in a
legal manner. But let us stop and think for a moment. This was no
brazen robbery, no flaunting of the established authorities! Why should
just this form of robbery be considered the worst possible offense,
sufficient cause for the total inundation of society? How did this
genteel, almost white-collar form of theft surpass idolatry and adultery
in pure evil?
The answer goes to the heart of the Torah perspective on the

relationship between sin and evil. Hashem does not consider people
as individuals or society as a whole to be evil simply because they
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Bereishis: Noach
committed a sin, even a very serious sin. Hashem recognizes that
people are but flesh and blood and that sometimes it is exceedingly
difficult to control the impulse to transgress, to step over the line.
Sinners are not necessarily evil and incorrigible.
The powerful attraction of sin does not, of course, exonerate

the sinner. It does not absolve him from having to take responsibility
for his actions and suffer the consequences. After all, he was given
free will, and it is his moral obligation to exercise it when faced with
temptation. But if he fails, if he is still not beyond hope. When the
momentary weakness passes and he faces the enormity of his
transgression, he can still feel shame and remorse. He can still find
room in his heart for repentance.
But what if the sinner contrives loopholes and stratagems to

give his sins a patina of legality? Such a person is truly evil and
incorrigible. He pats himself on the back for his strict adherence to the
law, even as he thrusts his hand into another man’s pocket. This
person acts not on impulse but with loathsome preparation and
premeditation. What chance is there that such a man will have a
change of heart, that he will repent? Not very likely. And therefore,
Hashem recognized the corruption of society as permanent and
irreversible. It was time to wash it away.
A ship was sinking, and land was just a faint line on the
horizon. The dust-encrusted life rafts were unfortunately all leaky, but
the passengers ran to grab them anyway.
One wise man ignored the rafts and prepared to plunge into the
water. “Don’t you want a raft?” asked the captain. “I can get you one.”
“No,” said the wise man. “If I know that I must swim with all my might I
have a chance of surviving. But if I mistakenly think I have a raft under
me, I am surely doomed.”
In our own lives, we may sometimes find ourselves rationalizing

our transgressions and shortcomings, maneuvering to find a path
through the minefields of our moral dilemmas. We must recognize
these tendencies as danger signals, as warnings that we are turning
down a path that leads to corruption. We should take advantage of
these moments to reevaluate ourselves, to transcend the frailties of the
human condition and choose goodness for its own sake. At these very
moments, when we stand on the brink of ruination, the right choice can
elevate and enrich us for the rest of our lives.
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Ohr Shalom
Wine and Window Washers

The world is devastated, every last vestige of civilization
washed away by the Great Flood. There are no people, no buildings,
no roads, no crops, no cultivated land, only a great wooden ark
perched incongruously on a mountaintop.
The door to the ark slowly swings open, and Noah steps out
onto dry land for the first time in forty days. He looks about him at the
endless expanse of ruination, and he realizes he must begin the work
of reconstruction immediately. What does he do? The Torah relates,
“And Noah, man of the earth, demeaned himself and planted a
vineyard; he drank of the wine and became drunk.” One thing led to
another. Noah’s son Ham took advantage of his father’s inebriated
condition and acted disgracefully toward him, thereby giving rise to the
curse of Ham and his son Canaan.
The point of this entire episode is clearly to give the historical

background for the depravity that would characterize Canaanite
society, the nemesis of the Jewish people, for thousands of years.
Why then wasn’t it sufficient to tell us simply that Noah became drunk?
Why does the Torah find it necessary to tell us that he obtained wine
for his cups by planting a vineyard? And what if he had had a barrel
stored away on the ark? Would the situation have been any different?
Furthermore, the Torah seems to imply that Noah debased

himself by the very act of planting a vineyard, even before he drank the
wine and became drunk. Why did planting a vineyard debase him?
The commentators explain that a person is a complex mass of

interests, biases and drives that often obscure the true nature of his
soul, very often even from himself. Going off in all directions, some
good and some not so good, pursuing this, that and the other, he
presents a confusing, multi-hued image. Which of those manifestations
represent the real identity that lies within? It is difficult to determine.
But there are some defining moments when he does not find it
necessary to posture for other people and he is able to focus
completely on his own interest. It is moments like these that the true
nature of his essence becomes manifest.
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Bereishis: Noach
Noah spent forty tempestuous days in the close confines of the
ark, and now for the first time, he once again sets foot on terra firma.
As he looks around at the vast wasteland, where is his head? What
thoughts and issues occupy his mind? What is the first thing he does?
He plants a vineyard. So that is his true nature! That is what lies
closest to his heart. And so by the very act of planting a vineyard Noah
had already debased himself, long before he actually became drunk.
And this debasement of his inner core, this lack of self-respect,
triggered the awful disrespect of his son Ham.
A young man once came to a great sage and asked to become

his disciple. “Please step into the synagogue for a moment,” said the
sage.
A few moments later, the young man returned.
“What did you see there?” asked the sage. “I saw a foul-
smelling window washer,” he replied. “I see,” said the sage. “I’m afraid
I cannot accept you.” “But why?” the young man protested. “Is it my
fault that the fellow hasn’t had a bath in a month?”
“My dear young friend,” said the sage, “a high-minded man

would have seen the beautiful ark, the holy books piled on the tables,
the flickering eternal flame. Only a mean-spirited person would focus
immediately on the foul smells emanating from the window washer.”
In our own lives, we are constantly dealing with the

complexities and ambiguities of contemporary society. Very little is
clearly black and white, and we often find ourselves making all sorts of
compromises and accommodations. But we should always ask
ourselves what we are deep inside. Where are our minds? Where are
our hearts? As long as we are essentially spiritual and altruistic, as
long as the values and ideals of the Torah are the focus of our lives,
we will always find ourselves uplifted and enriched, regardless of the
environment in which we find ourselves.
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Ohr Shalom
Joint Efforts
There is nothing miraculous about a rainbow. Its colorful beauty
derives from a simple natural phenomenon called refraction. Little
droplets of water suspended in the air near a waterfall or after a rainfall
capture and bend rays of sunlight in varying degrees. The result is a
colorful prism effect.
In this week’s Torah portion, however, we find the rainbow in a

rather unusual role. The entire civilization of the world becomes
corrupt, and Hashem decides to destroy it with a Great Flood. The
heavens above and the abyss below crack open and solid torrents of
water spew forth and inundate all the settlements of civilization. Only
Noah, his family and an arkful of animals and birds survive the deluge.
In the aftermath, Hashem vows never again to send a Flood to wipe
out civilization. And he gives a sign. The rainbow!
Why the rainbow? What is so remarkable about the rainbow

that it should become the symbol of the continuity of civilization?
If we look carefully at the chronicles of the generations before

the Flood and after, we notice a very sharp drop in human longevity.
Before the Flood, the average life span seems to have been well into
the hundreds of years, and the quality of life was excellent; good
health and prosperity were the norm. After the Flood, however, life
expectancy declined, and by Abraham’s time, it seems to have been
about one hundred years. Why?
The commentators explain that before the Flood the role of

humanity was to serve as the passive receptacle of divine
beneficence. People were not required to make any effort. All they had
to do was accept what was given to them. The result was a great flow
of spirituality and divine vitality which blessed humanity with
extraordinary longevity, health and prosperity. But at the same time, it
made for a static society. People did not have the need or the ability to
create or improvise or pursue new horizons and modes of thought.
Therefore, when society was corrupted and the flow of divine grace
was interrupted, humanity did not have the ability to renew itself and
thereby avoid destruction.
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Bereishis: Noach
After the Flood, however, a new dynamic took effect.
Henceforth, humanity had both the need and the ability to take an
active role in channeling divine grace from Above. The need to
participate reduced the flow of divine grace and resulted in a
diminished quality of life. But at the same time, people could be
creative and adapt, and therefore, there was always the potential for
self-renewal. Even if society should become corrupted, it would always
be able to find its way back to the Almighty.
The rainbow is the symbol of this active participation. The little

droplets of water accept the light rays that stream down from the sky,
and they focus and channel the light in such a way as to reveal the
plethora of brilliant colors intrinsic to every ray of sunlight. The rainbow
is the paradigm for the new role of humanity which would ensure the
continued existence of civilization.
A young man returned to visit the sage with whom he had

studied for many years. He had been one of the sage’s most brilliant
disciples yet he was failure in life. Another young disciple, who had not
been nearly as brilliant, however, had gone on to great triumphs and
successes.
“Why has he done better than I have?” the young man asked.
“After all, I was clearly more talented.”
“Indeed you were,” said the sage. “You absorbed every word I
spoke and understood it thoroughly. But you never developed the
ability to think on your own. Therefore, once you left me you were lost.
The other fellow, however, though not as brilliant as you, learned to
take what I taught and adapt it. That is a formula for success.”
In our own lives, we can transform our very existence if we

would only view ourselves as the active participants in directing the
flow of divine beneficence into the world. We are all endowed with
special qualities and strengths which can be used for the good, if only
we would acknowledge and develop them. In the end, we will surely
discover that the privilege of acting as a conduit for divine beneficence
is the most enriching grace of all.
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Ohr Shalom
PARASHAS LECH LECHA
The Ordeal of Departure

Before Abraham could be deemed worthy of becoming the
Patriarch of the Jewish people, Hashem put him through ten ordeals to
probe the depth of his devotion - all of which he passed brilliantly. The
last and most familiar is, of course, the Akeidah, when Hashem
commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son, only to stay his hand at the
very last moment. This week’s parashah describes one of the earlier
ordeals, Hashem’s command to Abraham to leave Mesopotamia and
settle in a different land.
The Midrash considers this ordeal comparable to the Akeidah

as a test of Abraham’s devotion. But how can these two situations be
compared? On the one hand, we have the tragic image of an old man
blessed with an only son at the age of one hundred and now being
asked to bind him hand and foot and place him on the altar as a
sacrificial lamb. Not only would he be left childless and devastated, but
for his remaining age-dimmed years, during his every waking moment,
he would think of nothing else but what he had done to his son. What a
shattering ordeal! An ordinary man could not possibly have withstood
it. On the other hand, we have the image of a man in vigorous middle
age being told to relocate to a different land. Granted, relocation is an
unpleasant experience. But tragic? Harrowing? Shattering?
Furthermore, let us take a closer look at the wording of the

command. “Go away from your land, from your birthplace and from
your father’s house to the land I will show you.” (Bereishis 12:1)
Logically, it would seem, an emigrant first leaves the house of his
father, then the city of his birth and, finally, his country. Yet here,
Hashem tells Abraham to make his exits in the reverse order. Why is
this so?
The answer lies in a deeper understanding of the command of

departure. Hashem was not merely telling Abraham to relocate
geographically a few hundred miles to the west. He was telling
Abraham to make a complete break with the culture in which he had
grown up and spent all of his life. Abraham had indeed recognized his
Creator at a very young age and was completely free of pagan
30
Bereishis: Lech Lecha
ideology, but he was still connected by cultural ties to the pagan
society in which he lived. The style of his home, the clothes he wore,
his modes of language, the cultural timber of his daily existence were
all Mesopotamian. As long as he remained thus connected to the
corrupt society of his ancestors, he would never be able to reach the
highest levels of prophecy and attachment to his Creator. The only
choice was to break away and move to a different land. In a strange
land, even a corrupt pagan one, he could remain totally detached from
his cultural surroundings. Standing alone in Canaan in his stalwart
purity and righteousness, he could penetrate to the highest spheres of
Heaven. But not in the land of his fathers.
Therefore, Hashem commanded him to sever all his cultural

umbilical cords in a logical progression. First, his attachment to the
country in general. Then his closer attachment to his birthplace.
Finally, his attachment to the very household in which he was born.
When this final detachment was accomplished, he could begin his
spiritual journey toward prophecy and the establishment of the Jewish
nation.
This departure, therefore, was a most difficult ordeal indeed.

Abraham was required to purge himself every cultural vestige of his
entire life, to penetrate every hidden crevice of his heart and soul,
search out every hidden crumb of Mesopotamian culture and sweep it
out. Perhaps this ordeal was not as frightening and tragic as the
Akeidah, but in pure difficulty, it may have surpassed it.
We all live in our own Mesopotamia, and no one can deny that
the sinister tendrils of the surrounding culture insinuate themselves
into the innermost crevices of our own hearts. We are not Abrahams,
of course, and we cannot be expected to extricate ourselves
completely from these entanglements. However, we can at least
recognize them for what they are and try to keep them at arm’s length
so that we can grow spiritually even as we live in such an environment.
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Ohr Shalom
Cloudy Vision
People who have experienced a miraculous rescue will usually
tell you that their lives are forever changed. Mundane matters that had
once loomed large and important, such as the pursuit of financial
success and status, are suddenly rather inconsequential, while
spiritual matters become the focal points of their lives. They begin to
think about mortality and eternity, about the rewards of kindness, of
tending primarily to the needs of the soul rather than the body. They
live with a new perspective, a new awareness.
In this week’s Torah portion, however, we find the exact

opposite happening. During the time of Abraham, the Babylonian
Empire was the dominant force in the Middle East, and the small
kingdoms of Canaan paid annual tribute to the imperial coffers, as did
every other principality that didn’t want to be invaded and crushed. But
the thought of paying tribute was irksome, and Sodom and four
neighboring cities formed an alliance and rebelled. A few months later,
the Babylonians arrived in force and easily defeated the rebels. They
took Abraham’s nephew Lot hostage and carried off the bulk of the
wealth of the vanquished cities.
When he heard the news, Abraham and his small retinue

pursued the imperial armies, miraculously routed them and freed Lot.
He also recovered all the captured wealth of the defeated cities and
returned it to the original owners, without taking even a shoelace for
himself.
What an astonishing spectacle the people of Sodom witnessed!

First, they saw the clear intervention of Heaven to affect Abraham’s
victory over the massive imperial armies. Second, they saw the most
phenomenal altruism on the part of Abraham, refusing the customary
victor’s share of the spoils. The rapid recovery of their former grandeur
and prosperity was undoubtedly the farthest thing from their minds,
and yet, in not much longer than the blink of an eye, it happened.
What effect should this miraculous turn of events have had on

the people of Sodom? Surely, they should have undergone a radical
change of perspective, a total shift of focus. But they did not. In next
week’s Torah portion, we read about the utter degeneracy of their
32
lifestyle and its destruction by a rain of fire and brimstone. Why were
they impervious to the miracles that took place in their behalf? Why did
they remain the as self-centered and greedy as ever?
The commentators explain that clear vision requires a certain

detachment, an ability to step outside oneself and do some critical self-
examination. Abraham in his youth was able to step back from his
aristocratic background and privileged social status and take a hard,
objective look at the world around him. This ability opened his eyes
and allowed him to recognize the existence of the Creator. The people
of Sodom, however, had become so entangled in their physical
existence that they were no longer able to view themselves with any
degree of detachment. They saw everything through a sensual fog,
and the most obvious miracles could no longer redirect their jaded
minds.
A drunk was sitting at the curbside, taking huge gulps from a

bottle of wine. His clothes were filthy and disheveled, and chunks of
grime lodged in his hair.
“I don’t understand you,” a disgusted passerby berated the

drunk. “You want to drown your life in a bottle? Fine. But why do you
have to be such a slob? Why can’t you at least shake the grime out of
your hair?”
“If I had the sense to shake the grime from my hair,” said the
drunk with a twinkle in his eye, “I’d have the sense to go home and
have a normal life.”
In our own lives, we often get caught up in the mad rush of

daily life. We become absorbed in our businesses and professions and
the myriad little tasks of maintaining a good standard of living. But we
must never forget to retain a healthy measure of detachment, to keep
everything in perspective, to know which things are truly essential and
which are just pleasant appurtenances. And every once in a while, we
should take the time to step back and examine our lives with as much
honesty as we can muster. At the very least, it will engender in us the
habit of seeking the truth, a habit that can only bring us benefit and
fulfillment.
33
Ohr Shalom
The Kindness Factor

Kindness is gentle. Faith is fierce. Kindness is soft. Faith is
inflexible. Kindness is accommodating. Faith is dogmatic. Does this
mean that a person cannot be kind and faithful at the same time? Of
course not. A person can certainly be kind-hearted to other people yet
rigidly faithful in his own beliefs. Nonetheless, these two characteristics
tap into distinctly different parts of the psyche.
And yet, in this week’s Torah portion we find a strange

paradox. Abraham, the first patriarch of the Jewish people, is
introduced as the paragon of faith. In a world seething with idolatry,
Abraham sees through the myth and the nonsense and recognizes the
one and only eternal omnipotent Creator. With extraordinary faith, he
follows Hashem’s commands enthusiastically and without question. He
becomes the ultimate man of faith, the perfect role model for all future
generations.
At the same time, Abraham emerges from the pages of the

Torah as a man of incredible kindness. Amazingly, he even begs leave
from a divine encounter to run after three ragged dusty travelers and
invite them into his home. There was no greater role model for
kindness and hospitality in all the history of the world than Abraham.
Is it merely a coincidence that the same person achieved the

ultimate levels of kindness and faith, these two widely disparate
virtues? Or is there indeed some connection between the two?
Let us reflect for a moment on a rather intriguing question. For

twenty generations before Abraham, idolatry had held the world in an
iron grip. No voice of reason declared the unity of the Master of the
Universe until Abraham. Why was this so? Were there no intelligent
people among the millions who passed through the world during this
time? Was there no one clever enough to discern the utter foolishness
of the idolatrous cults?
Quite likely, there were considerably more than a few people

capable of recognizing the Creator in the centuries before Abraham.
Why didn’t they? Because they preferred not to think about it.
34
Idolatry demanded a considerable amount of obeisance from
people, but it also allowed them unlimited license. The idolatrous cults
espoused no systems of morality. They did not encourage self-
improvement and the striving for transcendent spirituality. Instead, they
allowed, and even encouraged, the indulgence of every carnal
impulse. The people of those times were steeped in greed and all sorts
of gratification, and they had little interest in ideologies that would
restrict their pleasures.
Why then was Abraham able to escape this mold? Because his
innate kindness and compassion led him to rise above base egotism.
Because he was able to look beyond himself, he recognized the truth
of the universe. It was his kindness that led him to faith.
A young man from a religious family strayed and eventually

abandoned his religion altogether. His family persuaded him to discuss
his newly chosen way of life with a certain great sage.
“Tell me, young man,” said the sage. “Why did you abandon
the ways of your forefathers?”
“Because they didn’t make sense,” the young man replied, and
he went on to list numerous questions and arguments.
The sage listened gravely and nodded from time to time. “Very
interesting,” he said. “You know, of course, that it’s not the first time
we’ve heard these questions. When did you first think about them?”
“Well,” said the young man, fidgeting. “In the last year or two.”
“When you discovered the outside world?” asked the sage. “Yes,” the
young man replied, his voice barely audible. “You are an intelligent
young fellow,” said the sage. “Yet you didn’t have these question until
recently. You know why? Because you had no need for them. But now
that you see what kind of opportunities await you out there, you
needed these questions to set you free.”
In our own lives, contemporary society constantly presents us

with all sorts of distractions and temptations which can easily lead us
away from the pure path of Judaism. In these circumstances, it is easy
to rationalize, to tell ourselves that the Torah is being unnecessarily
stringent in certain things and that a little bit of this and just a wee bit of
that cannot really do any harm. But is it truly our rationalism speaking?
Or is it perhaps our wants and desires? Only when we rise above our
self-interest can we expect to recognize the true meaning of life.
35
Ohr Shalom
Of Threads and Shoelaces

To the victor belong the spoils, but sometimes he’s just not
interested. Abraham was cut from that cloth. He had just won a fierce
war against four powerful Mesopotamian kings who had invaded the
land of Canaan. After laying waste to the countryside, the
Mesopotamians had carried off the population and wealth of Sodom
and set off for home, but Abraham gave chase. He routed the invaders
and pursued them all the way to Damascus, and in the process, he
liberated the captives and recovered the stolen wealth.
The king of Sodom begged Abraham to keep the wealth, but

Abraham absolutely refused. “I will not even take a thread or a
shoelace nor anything else that is yours,” he declared, “so that you
should not be able to say, ‘I enriched Abraham.”
The Sages of the Talmud greatly admired Abraham’s refusal to

accept a reward from the king of Sodom. In fact, they point out,
because Abraham spurned the strings and shoelaces of Sodom, his
descendants were rewarded with the two commandments of the tzitzith
fringes and the tefillin straps.
The commentators, however, are puzzled by the connection.

They also wonder why Abraham chose to mention these trivial articles.
Why wasn’t it enough to say that he would take nothing at all? That
certainly would have been perfectly clear. Furthermore, why indeed did
he refuse to take them?
The answer, they explain, lies in Abraham’s attitude toward his

great wealth. He never thought he had been blessed with wealth so
that he would be able to indulge all his whims and desires. Rather, he
saw himself as a caretaker. He believed that the Almighty had
entrusted him with all that wealth so that he could spread sweetness
and light in the world and draw people closer to Him. He saw his
wealth as a sacred trust that extended even to the smallest part of it,
because even the most minute things can be used to bring honor to his
name.
Abraham, therefore, specifically mentioned threads and

shoelaces to show that everything must be seen as a gift from
36
Hashem. And he refused to accept these things from the king of
Sodom, because he was concerned that the king would claim the
credit for having given these gifts to Abraham, thereby bringing
dishonor to the Name of Hashem.
With profound insight, Abraham had discerned the

transcendent value of even the smallest things. The Torah, therefore,
rewarded his descendants with the tzitzith fringes and the tefillin
straps, seemingly insignificant items which play a very exalted role in
connecting people to the Creator and bringing them untold Heavenly
blessings.
A young man came to a great sage and asked to be accepted

as a disciple. The sage took the young man for a stroll through the
garden as they discussed various weighty philosophical and ethical
issues.
The young man was very astute and intelligent, and he
impressed the sage with his sharp questions and insightful
observations.
After an hour, they returned from the garden. The sage shook
the young man’s hand and said, “Farewell and good luck to you.”
The young man was stunned. “Do you mean that you will not
accept me as your disciple?”
“That is correct.”
“But why? Haven’t I passed the test? I thought I had made such
a good impression on you.”
“Young man,” said the sage, “when we were walking in the
garden you were pulling leaves off the bushes and tossing them on the
ground. Why?” “I don’t know,” the young man replied. “What does it
matter?” “That exactly is the problem with you. You think the leaves on
the bushes don’t matter. But they do. Everything has a purpose, and I
assure you that those leaves were not put there for you to destroy so
casually.”
In our own lives, we live in a society that pursues riches at

breakneck speed with barely a backward glance. Everything is
expendable and disposable as long as it gets us from one moment to
the next. Nonetheless, it is important that every once in a while we
pause and take stock. It is important that we see and appreciate the
value in all the little things Hashem has placed in the world as part of
His divine plan. And in the end, we may even find that focusing on
those little things may actually be the most enriching pursuit of all.
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Ohr Shalom
PARASHAS VAYEIRA
Behind the Open Door

Two vivid images of hospitable men emerge from the blistering pages of
this week’s parashah. In the first episode, the venerable Abraham, recuperating
from his recent circumcision, prepares a lavish welcome on a mercilessly hot day
for three dust-covered travelers who happen to pass by his home.
Later on, these same travelers - actually angels in disguise - continue on

to the Sodom, which they are about to incinerate in divine retribution for the
thorough degeneracy of its people. In Sodom, the travelers are welcomed by Lot,
Abraham’s nephew, who invites them into his home. The people of Sodom, who
are philosophically opposed to hospitality, are enraged, and Lot risks his life to
defend his guests.
Nevertheless, although Lot’s hospitality was apparently more important to

him than life itself, we are never told to look upon Lot as a shining example of a
kind and hospitable person. Abraham, who did not risk his life, is our role model,
our paragon of virtue, not Lot. Why is this so?
Let us take a closer look at this man Lot, a man so devoted to kindness
and hospitality that he is ready to defy all his neighbors in Sodom. But wait!
Sodom? How could a man of such high principles choose to live in a thoroughly
degenerate city like Sodom?
Here lies the key to Lot’s character. Lot had spent many years in the
household of his uncle Abraham. He had seen Abraham’s way of life, his
outstanding kindness, his legendary hospitality, his purity of character, and he had
seen how these qualities had earned Abraham enormous stature and prestige.
When he arranged his own way of life, Lot instinctively imitated the patterns of
Abraham’s life. Abraham had been kind, so he was kind. Abraham had been
hospitable, so he was hospitable. These became the pattern of his existence to
the point that he knew no other.
But it was all superficial. Lot’s kindness did not stem from deep conviction
or profound empathy with other people. All his acts of kindness were mechanical,
the products of habit. To have acted otherwise would have been disrupted the
equilibrium of his life. Underneath lay the true Lot, the greedy, self-centered man
intent on gratification and insensitive to the needs of others. When he had to
choose a place to live, this subterranean side of Lot’s character made sure he
would settle in a place suitable to his true character. That he chose Sodom, the
ultimate in greed and selfishness, reveals to us the nature of his true character.
Nevertheless, even in Sodom, the old habits persisted, and Lot continued
to go through the motions of hospitality - even at the risk of his life. It is a well-
38
Bereishis: Vayeira
known psychological phenomenon that people are often willing to risk death rather
than disrupt the familiar patterns of their existence. Lot was such a person. He
was a creature of habit, albeit good habits, not a man of principle.
The difference between Abraham and Lot manifested itself in their

descendants. Abraham was the essence of kindness, and therefore, this trait was
passed down to his descendants for all time, even to this very day. Lot’s kindness,
however, was only superficial, and his descendants, the ungrateful nations of
Ammon and Moab, manifested his true nature.
The Talmud (Taanis 5b) relates that Rabbi Nachman once asked Rabbi
Yitzchak for a blessing.
“Let me tell you a parable,” Rabbi Yitzchak replied. “A man was once
traveling through the desert. Hungry, tired and thirsty, he arrived at an oasis
where he found a fruit-laden tree and a stream of water beside it. He ate the fruit,
drank the water and rested in the shade of the tree. Refreshed, he rose to go. But
first, he wanted to bless this wonderful tree.
“‘Tree, tree, how can I bless you?’ he said. ‘I cannot bless you with sweet
fruit, for they are already sweet. I cannot bless you with ample shade, for you
already have it. I cannot bless you with a stream of water, for you already have
one. All I can say is, may it be the Will of Hashem that all shoots replanted from
you should be just like you.’
“So is it with you, Rabbi Nachman,’ he concluded. ‘You have Torah,
wealth and sons. All I can say is, may it be the Will of Hashem that your sons
should be just like you.”
The commentators wonder: Was Rabbi Nachman so totally blessed that

he had no room for additional blessings for himself? Was there nothing left to do
but bless his children?
The answer lies in Rabbi Nachman’s connection to Torah. The blessing

was that his connection to Torah and the nobility of character it engenders should
become so deep and powerful that Rabbi Nachman and the Torah would become
one and the same entity. In that case, his children would automatically follow in
his ways. The blessing, therefore, was to Rabbi Nachman himself, but it would
manifest itself in his children.
In our own lives, we must ask ourselves if our values and the patterns of
our lives are only mechanical habits, or if they are the products of our convictions
and genuine sensitivities. We must remember that the children of Lot did not
emulate what he did. They emulated what he was. If we want our children to
follow in our footsteps, we must be like Abraham - what we do and what we are
must be one and the same.
39
Ohr Shalom
They Went Together

What thoughts passed through Abraham’s mind as he walked
towards the mountaintop with his son Isaac? Childless until the age of
one hundred, Abraham and Sarah had finally been blessed with a son,
and now, Hashem had commanded Abraham to bind his beloved son
on the altar and sacrifice him. In this, the supreme test of his loyalty
and devotion, Abraham did not hesitate for a moment, and we his
descendants still reap the benefits to this very day.
But let us consider for a moment Abraham’s state of mind on

that fateful day. Was his heart gripped by the icy fingers of dread? Did
he cringe at the thought of touching the sharp blade to the tender skin
of his son’s throat? Did he despair at the thought of a lonely future with
no fitting heir to take his place?
Not at all. As Abraham and Isaac set out for the mountain, the
Torah tells us, “Vayeilchu shneihem yachdav. The two of them went
together.” What does this mean? Our Sages see this as a metaphor for
the feelings in their hearts, which beat together as one. Abraham fully
shared the joyous anticipation experienced by Isaac, who was as yet
oblivious to the true purpose of the journey. The enormity of what he
was about to do did not becloud Abraham’s mind and heart. On the
contrary, it exhilarated him.
Abraham had attained the highest levels of faith. He had so

completely subordinated his own desires to the divine will that nothing
existed for him but Hashem’s command. Therefore, in his
understanding, how could an action that fulfilled the will of Hashem
inspire anything but perfect joy?
And how about Isaac? What was the level of his faith? We
need look just a little further in the parashah to find the answer. As
they travel towards the mountaintop, Isaac questions his father about
the whereabouts of the sacrificial lamb. From Abraham’s response, it
becomes apparent that Isaac himself is to fill that role. And again, the
Torah tells us, “Vayeilchu shneihem yachdav. The two of them went
together.” Their hearts still beat together as one. Isaac not only
accepts his divinely ordained fate, he faces it with joy equal to that of
his father.
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Bereishis: Vayeira
But perhaps the most startling insight into the character of the
patriarchs comes at the very end of this astonishing episode. The
angel has stopped Abraham’s hand even as it already held the
slaughtering knife. Hashem has acknowledged Abraham’s supreme
faith and showered eternal blessings upon him and his offspring. We
can well imagine the transcendent ecstasy that gripped Abraham and
Isaac in the aftermath of this incredible spiritual experience. And yet,
when they return to the young attendants waiting with the donkeys in
the distance, the Torah again tells us, “Vayeilchu yachdav. They went
together.” Together in spirit as in body, the commentators observe.
Abraham and Isaac did not feel themselves suddenly vastly

superior because of the miracles they had witnessed and the promises
they received. They took no personal credit for their stellar
achievements and considered themselves no more or less precious
than any of the Hashem’s other creatures.
A man once visited a great sage. “I have finished the entire

Talmud,” he boasted. “Indeed?” said the sage. “Apparently, it has
taught you nothing.” “What do you mean?” the startled man
stammered. “When a man discovers the vast ocean of the Talmud,”
replied the sage, “when it dawns on him that in an entire lifetime he
can expect to do no more than scratch the surface, he is immediately
overwhelmed by the extent of his own ignorance. But you seem quite
pleased with yourself. Where is your humility? Where is your awe? I
don’t think you have the faintest idea of what the Talmud is all about!”
The outstanding spiritual achievements of the patriarchs and

their extreme humility present no paradox. Quite the contrary. As they
became more and more aware of the awesome and infinite Presence
of the Almighty, their own sense of self diminished proportionately, and
consequently, their humility was a direct result of their spiritual growth.
In our own lives, we can use our own humility as a measure of

our spiritual growth. As long we fell smug and self-satisfied by the
good deeds we accumulate and the advances in our level of learning,
we can be sure that our growth is essentially superficial. But when we
begin to feel dazzled and dwarfed by the spiritual vistas that open
before us, when our new understanding and experiences make us
shrink inside with a sudden sense of inadequacy, then and only then
do we know that we are on the path of true spiritual growth.
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Ohr Shalom
Scattered Apples
Some days the thought of facing the world is just too
overwhelming. You are under the weather. The car doesn’t start. The
furnace has broken down. A stack of unopened mail sits on your desk.
You have a thousand things to do, and you don’t even know where to
begin. So what do you do? Do you deal with it? Or do you write the
day off and try to get off to a better start tomorrow?
A quick look into this week’s Torah reading offers

enlightenment. As the portion begins, we find Abraham in a decidedly
uncomfortable situation. It is a brutally hot day, and not a soul dares
venture outdoors. Abraham, accustomed to a house full of guests, sits
alone. He is sick and in terrible pain, having circumcised himself just .a
few days earlier at the ripe old age of one hundred. Hashem Himself
pays him a sick call to inquire about his condition. As he sits in the
presence of Hashem, Abraham suddenly notices three dusty travelers
coming down the road. He quickly excuses himself and literally runs off
to greet the travelers and welcome them into his home.
Truly amazing! Granted that Abraham loved to be hospitable,

but there are limits, aren’t there? Considering his advanced aged and
the condition of his health, he surely could have excused himself from
his hospitable activities for one day. And why did he have to run?
Wouldn’t it have been more prudent to walk at a more moderate pace?
Furthermore, the Sages tell us that Abraham was taken to task for
sending his son Ishmael to fetch the bread rather than get it himself.
Was it really improper for him to share some of the burden, especially
under these circumstances?
Let us consider for a moment an inner conflict that each of us

encounters. On the one hand, we are energized to make use of every
moment, to perform, to create, to accomplish. On the other hand, we
are prone to a certain inertia, a lassitude that inclines us to relax, to
procrastinate, to take the easy way out.
Why do we experience this ambivalence? Because we are

ambivalent by our very nature, a peculiar hybrid of the material body
and the spiritual soul. The soul is like a soaring bird, adventurous,
exhilarated, tireless, always looking for new horizons. But the body to
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Bereishis: Vayeira
which it is attached is of an entirely different breed. It is like a piece of
clay which would lie inert were it not constantly stimulated by the soul.
This then is the anomaly of our existence. The soul wants us to
accumulate as much merit as possible to last us for all eternity. The
body wants to relax.
When Abraham was in the presence of the Creator, he was so

inspired and energized that his soul achieved total domination of his
body, and nothing was too difficult for him to do. No matter how much
physical pain he felt, nothing could keep him from responding to the
appearance of potential guests with the fullest vigor and verve to which
he was accustomed.
A young boy was sent by his father to sell apples in the

marketplace. He set up his table in the stall and spread out his apples
for all the prospective customers to see.
Suddenly, a carriage came careening around the corner. Its
wheel caught the edge of the boy’s table and sent it flying, scattering
apples all over the street. The boy watched in consternation as the
people in the street snatched up the apples.
Deeply dejected, he went home empty-handed and told his
father what had happened.
“So you didn’t get any money,” said the father. “I understand.
But how about the apples?”
“Bit I told you what happened,” the boy protested. “The apples
were scattered all over the street, and the people snatched them up.”
“True, true. But tell me, my dear son, why weren’t you there
together with them, snatching back as many of our apples as you
could.”
In our own lives, we always encounter numerous distractions,

and the way we respond usually depends on the level of our
spirituality. If we allow our material side to be predominant, we tend to
indulgence and inertia while we, of course, assure ourselves that we
need some time off to get it all together again. But if we are truly
spiritual, we will always be galvanized, undaunted by the obstacles
that appear in our way as we strive to invest every living moment with
value that will last us forever.
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Ohr Shalom
First Impressions
It is a blistering hot day. Abraham, that paragon of hospitality, is
sitting by the door anxiously looking for passersby that he can invite
into his home. Suddenly, he sees three dust-covered desert nomads
trudging down the road. Before he brings them into his house,
Abraham asks them to wash their feet, because he suspects they
might be pagans who worship the dust of their feet. Then he feeds
them lavishly.
Before they leave, the travelers, really angels in disguise,

inform Abraham that Sarah would give birth in a year. Sarah overhears
and bursts into laughter. After all, Abraham is one hundred years and
she herself is a sprightly ninety, not exactly the height of the
childbearing years.
The Almighty, however, does not consider the situation

humorous. He asks Abraham why Sarah found this a laughing matter,
and Abraham, in turn, rebukes Sarah for laughing.
Let us consider for a moment. What had Sarah done wrong?

After all, she did not know that the dusty wayfarers were really angels.
Why then should she have thought that their blessings were
efficacious? Can she be blamed for finding the fanciful good wishes of
these wayfarers laughable?
The commentators explain that Sarah might indeed not have

known that the wayfarers blessing her were angels, and this was
exactly the reason she deserved to be reprimanded. She saw before
her people, who dressed differently, spoke differently, thought
differently, and therefore, she looked down on them. She did not
consider the blessings of such people worthwhile.
But how could she judge who is worthy and who is not? How
could she know what lay within the hearts and souls of other people?
How could she determine their inner value?
This was the reason Sarah was reprimanded. She took one
look at these dusty wayfarers and instantly jumped to the conclusion
that they were worthless people whose blessings were equally
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Bereishis: Vayeira
worthless.
A young man approached the stately house and knocked on

the door. There was no response. He knocked again. Still no
response.
Suddenly, he heard a hoarse voice speak. “What are you doing
here, young fellow?”
He turned and saw an old man dressed in tramp’s rags sitting
on the ground, his back against the wall. He had not noticed him
before.
“I’ve come to see the great sage, old man,” the young man
replied. “I want to become his disciple and learn from his knowledge
and wisdom.”
“Hah!” said the tramp. “He doesn’t have so much knowledge,
and he has even less wisdom.”
“How dare you?” the young man replied in a flash of anger.
“What does a person like you know about knowledge and wisdom?”
He turned back to the door and resumed knocking. Still no response.
The following day, the young man returned. His knock was
answered by a servant who showed him into the presence of the sage.
Amazingly, the sage seemed to be the identical twin of the beggar.
“You recognize me, don’t you?” said the sage, “I was the man
sitting on the ground. I am afraid I can not accept you as my disciple.”
“But why?” the young man asked plaintively. “How was I to
know it was really you?”
“You saw a man,” said the sage, “and based on his outward
appearance you decided that he could now nothing about knowledge
or wisdom. You can never be a disciple of mine.”
In our own lives, we are called upon to make value judgments

about other people all the time. Whether it is in a business, social or
any other setting, we tend to jump to conclusions about new people.
We rely on first impressions. We look at their clothing, their
accessories, their bearing, their air of sophistication or lack of it, and
we make assumptions about their intelligence, character, talents and
social standing. First impressions are certainly important, and we
should always try to make a good first impression on others.
Nonetheless, it is unfair to pigeonhole and stereotype people on the
basis of external appearance. Appearances can be deceiving, and we
could be missing out on some very fine blessings.
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Ohr Somayach
PARASHAS CHAYEI SARAH
The Completion of Life

Sleek sports cars, trendy clothing, hip hairstyles. So many
middle-aged and even old people are pre-occupied with these things,
trying to make themselves look young and up-to-the-minute.
Why has old age come to be perceived in modern-day society

as a liability? Why are fifty-year-olds considered over-the-hill? Surely,
most middle-aged people, if given the choice, want to exchange places
with a teenager. The quality of their lives is usually far superior to that
of a teenager. It would seem obvious that these people are not really
seeking youth, only the appearance of youth. But again, why should
they want to delude themselves in this way?
Let us focus on the opening verse of this week’s parashah,

which is called Chayei Sarah, the Lifetime of Sarah. The Torah begins
by telling us that Sarah lived for one hundred and twenty-seven years
and follows immediately with an account of Sarah’s death. Why then is
the parashah called the “Lifetime” of Sarah?
The answer goes to the heart of the Torah’s perspective on

time. Unfortunately, many of us have been conditioned to view time as
an adversary. We look in the mirror and see a gray hair, and suddenly
we feel panic. We are getting old! As the birthdays pile up into the
higher numbers, they start to bring feelings of depression rather than
joy. Some of us even lie about our ages. Why? Because we feel we
are losing something, that our grip on this wonderful thing called life is
slipping away. And so we devise all sorts of clever schemes and
stratagems to escape the tick of the clock. But whether or not we
listen, the clock never ceases to tick.
In the view of the Torah, however, time is infinitely precious,

and each moment has enormous value for itself. Life is a long
progression of small units of time which are infused with value by the
experience of living itself - by the wisdom we gain, the people whose
lives we enrich, the spiritual growth we achieve. The Torah
encourages us to do the best we can with these precious moments of
our lives, to fashion them into jewels and ornaments to carry with us
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Bereishis: Chayei Sarah
forever. Death is not the destruction of life. It is the completion of life.
A beachcomber once went down to the shore at the break of

dawn, carrying an empty sack over his shoulder. For hours, he picked
through the flotsam and jetsam that had washed up onto the beach,
filling his sack with pretty seashells and anything else of value he could
find. The sun beat down on him mercilessly, but he continued to work.
By early afternoon, his sack was full. He was thoroughly exhausted but
satisfied. As he set off for home, he met a newly arrived beachcomber
carrying an empty sack. The newcomer looked at the first
beachcomber and sneered. “Look at you!” he said. “Your face is red.
Your hair is matted. Your clothes are soaked with sweat. You are bent
over like an old man. And look at me! I am fresh as a cucumber.
Wouldn’t you love to exchange places with me?” “Are you kidding?”
the first beachcomber replied. “Didn’t you notice the full sack on my
shoulder? If I changed places with you, I would have to start all over
again filling that empty sack of yours. How would I be better off?”
This is the Torah’s perspective. Life has a destination and

goals, things to be accomplished, growth to be achieved. Therefore,
age rather youth must be venerated. The Torah commands us, “You
must stand up before the elderly.” The elderly, regardless of
scholarship and piety, are laden with valuables, while the “sacks” of
the young are still empty. Each year of life yields wisdom and
experience that the most accomplished young person cannot possibly
attain. It is true that youth is bursting with strength and vigor, but a
person’s worth is not to be measured by physical endowments. The
body is but an accessory of the soul, and the spiritual growth of old
age enriches the soul.
Our matriarch Sarah lived with this perspective. Every moment

was molded with loving care into a precious jewel to be carried with
her - and to be enjoyed by her descendants - for all eternity. In this
light, her death marked the completion of her journey and the full
illumination of the “Lifetime of Sarah.”
If we integrate these ideas into our own lives, we will find that
we have much more happiness - and much more time. We must give
value and meaning to the years we spend on this earth, filling them
with honesty, integrity, love, kindness, study and spirituality. Let us
learn to appreciate the value of life. Let us be the beneficiaries of
Sarah’s legacy - to live a lifetime.
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Ohr Shalom
The Gateway to Eden

As we read the Book of Genesis, we are spellbound by a rapid
succession of sharp and vivid images that leave deep and lasting
impressions. The Creation, the Flood, Abraham’s departure from
home, the angels bearing tidings of the birth of Isaac, the destruction
of Sodom, Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Isaac, the conflict
between Jacob and Esau, the rivalry between Joseph and his brothers
and many others pass before us, each sketched in bold strokes in a
small number of verses and laden with endless moral and spiritual
significance.
In this week’s parashah, however, we find a relatively extensive

account of Abraham’s negotiations for the purchase of the Cave of the
Machpelah in Hebron as a burial ground following the death of Sarah.
Why did Abraham go to such great lengths to acquire this particular
piece of land? And what is so significant about the acquisition of the
Cave of the Machpelah that the Torah focuses upon it in such great
detail?
Furthermore, the Midrash tells us that Abraham eulogized

Sarah by using each verse of the Woman of Valor (Proverbs 31) to
describe another of her virtues. How did the phrase “she planned the
purchase of a field and acquired it” apply to Sarah? The Midrash
explains that this referred to her acquiring a permanent resting place in
the Cave of the Machpelah. But how can this be? The Cave was
acquired by Abraham, not by Sarah - and only after her death.
The Zohar writes that the Cave is “the very entranceway to the
Garden of Eden.” The Hebrew word machpelah means twofold. The
Cave is considered “twofold,” because it bridges the material and
spiritual worlds, linking them by serving as an entrance from one to the
other. The name of the city in which the Cave is situated, Hebron, also
bears the etymological roots of “connection.”
The Cave, as the point of fusion between Heaven and earth,

was the proper resting place for the Patriarchs and Matriarchs, whose
lives were the perfect bridges between the two worlds - involvement in
the mundane affairs of this world without ever losing sight of the
spiritual goals and aspirations that infused their lives with meaning and
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direction. This was how Sarah had “acquired” the Cave. She had lived
her life as the paragon of an intelligent and thoroughly spiritual woman
of the world, never compromising her purity, modesty or
righteousness. Such a woman deserved to find her final resting place
at the Gateway to Eden.
We are all “twofold” creatures. We have our spiritual sides and

our material sides, and we have to forge a beneficial union between
the two. We must give the full-deserved attention to those daily
activities that put bread on our tables and roofs over our heads. We
must take our children to the doctor, and we must fix the transmission
on the car. But we must also be intensely spiritual, treating our fellow
men with love, kindness and compassion and seeking closer ties with
the Creator. How do we reconcile these two worlds? How do we open
a gateway from one to the other?
The truth is, we don’t need to. The gateway already exists. It is
called the Torah. If we establish the Torah squarely in the center of our
lives, right between the two conflicting worlds we represent, we will find
a perfect harmony such as we never thought possible.
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Ohr Shalom
A Match Made in Heaven

Finding a life partner is always a difficult thing, but imagine how
much more difficult it must have been for Abraham to find a wife for his
son Isaac in ancient Canaan. The entire world was pagan except for
Abraham, his family and a small group of his followers. Where was he
to find a girl who would readily abandon her culture and embrace the
Jewish way of life?
As we read in this week’s portion, Abraham sends his retainer

Eliezer to Syria to seek out a wife among the other branches of his
family. Eliezer arrives at his destination bearing gifts for the
prospective bride and somewhat daunted by his mission. Standing
beside the well in the town square, he prays to Hashem that he be
allowed to find a proper mate for Isaac.
Eliezer seems prepared for a grueling search, but lo and

behold, no sooner does he finish praying than Rebecca instantly
appears. She meets all the criteria for character and background.
Couldn’t be better. The girl is perfect. So perfect, in fact, that we are a
little disconcerted. After all the build-up, we were expecting an arduous
search. We were expecting Eliezer to reject girl after girl until at long
last he finds the right one. We were expecting drama and suspense,
when everything unexpectedly falls perfectly into place. Why did
Hashem orchestrate the events in such a supernatural way?
Furthermore, our Sages tell us that Eliezer miraculously made

the seventeen-day journey to Syria in a single day. Why was such a
spectacular miracle needed? And if there was some important celestial
deadline that had to be met, why couldn’t he have begun the journey
sixteen days earlier?
The commentators explain that Hashem wanted the first

matrimonial match mentioned in the Torah to serve as a paradigm for
all future matches. It may appear to us that matches are the result of
happenstance. Two people meet or are introduced by a mutual friend.
They find they have much in common, and that they enjoy each other’s
company. One thing leads to another, and they get married and raise a
family.
50
How fortuitous it was, they might think, that they both just
happened to be in the same place at the same time or that they both
just happened to have a mutual friend or that they both enjoyed the
same things and had similar points of view. But of course, there was
nothing fortuitous about it. Our Sages tell us that well before birth a
child’s future life partner is already determined in Heaven. There is no
random factor in the process of finding a mate. Everything is
preordained.
Eliezer’s search for a wife for Isaac seems to evolve in a

natural manner, but at the same time, it is laden with elements of the
supernatural at every step of the way, the speed of the journey, the
immediate appearance of Rebecca. Seemingly, random fate, we are
being taught, is only a cloak for divine providence. Simple events are
often the most powerful conduits of divine providence.
A young man about to embark on the rather frightening

enterprise of finding a mate sought the advice of a great sage.
“What shall I do?” he asked. “I am very worried. This is such a
critical decision. It can determine the quality of the rest of my life. How
do I know I won’t make a ghastly mistake?”
“Tell me, young man,” said the sage. “Do you remember the
first time you went into the city as a little child?”
“Yes, I do.”
“All the noise and the sight of all the people and the vehicles
must have been overwhelming. Were you frightened?
“A little bit. But I held on tightly to my father’s hand, and
everything was fine.”
“Exactly,” said the sage. “The same thing will work here, too.
Hold on tightly to the hand of Your Father in Heaven, and everything
will be fine."
In our own lives, we often find ourselves on quite a bumpy ride,

with all sorts of detours and obstructions interposed between us and
the goals we seek to attain. But let think for a moment. Wasn’t there
ever a time when we felt lost and helpless and then everything fell into
place? In retrospect, can’t we detect the unseen hand of divine
providence guiding us through the minefields of life? Let us draw
comfort and inspiration from the thought that, no matter what happens,
our Father in Heaven is holding our hand and leading us towards our
destiny.
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Ohr Shalom
The Edges of the Postcard

If old people could live their lives over again, would they do
things any differently? Would they once again expend so much time
and energy on building castles and mansions in which to pass the
fleeting moments of their brief sojourn on this earth? Or would they
instead turn away from material pursuits and focus on the great
treasures of the spirit?
Most likely not.
When the Torah, in this week’s portion, sums up Sarah’s life,

we are told, “And the days of Sarah’s life were one hundred years and
twenty years and seven years, these were the years of Sarah’s life.”
What is the meaning of the repeated phrase “these were the years of
Sarah’s life”?
According to the Midrash, the Torah is telling us that all Sarah’s

years were equal in their goodness. She did not awaken to
righteousness in her ripe old age. She was good from the very
beginning, and remained good consistently throughout her whole life.
This is considered extraordinary praise for Sarah, a very

uncommon achievement. Most people, however, are not like that. They
spend their youth in an oblivious daze, often without even a passing
thought about their inevitable mortality. Why is this so? Why do people
behave as if they are going to live forever?
The commentators explain that it is a simple matter of denial.

Coming to terms with the reality of all our existence, that life is but a
poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is
heard no more, would require making some hard and difficult choices.
It would require a reduction in material indulgence and a heightened
awareness of the spiritual side of life. But our desire for physical
pleasure is too strong to be denied, and therefore, we refuse to think
about our ultimate responsibility and accountability. We refuse to
acknowledge the inevitable end of all journeys until it is staring us in
the face. But by then, we have missed the best opportunities of our
lives.
Sarah’s greatness lay in the clarity of vision that led her to
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cherish every year of her life as if it were her last.
A young man was living an aimless life in a sleepy seaside

town, whiling away the hours with all sorts of frivolous activities. It
happened once that a great sage arrived in the town for a short stay.
One day, the young man saw the sage walking with his disciples.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Can I ask you a quick question?”
The sage peered at him for a few moments, taking his measure. “Ask
your question, young man,” he said.
“Could you tell me the meaning of life?” asked the young man.
“Life, my young friend, is like a postcard,” the sage replied. “Did you
ever notice that the edges of the postcard are always crammed with
text while the beginning has a lot of space? At first, people do not
realize how limited they are in space, but when they get near the end
they suddenly try to cram everything in. Just as a postcard is limited in
space, life is limited in time. Unfortunately, young people like you have
a tendency to waste it.”
In our own lives, we often stop and ask ourselves where the
years have gone. We are so busy getting settled and established that
we do not have the time to really live. Worse yet, when we do have a
little spare time, we lack the emotional and spiritual stamina to spend it
in a way that will bear long-term rewards. Instead, we indulge
ourselves with physical pleasures that vanish by tomorrow, leaving
nothing of value behind. But let us stop and reflect for a moment. None
of us will live forever. So what will be the sum total of our lives when it
is time to go? The decisions we make now will determine the answer.
Material pleasures and indulgences will not appear on that bottom line,
only the accomplishments of the spirit.
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Ohr Somayach
PARASHAS TOLDOS
A Question of Honor
How different can two brothers be? As different as black and
white. The Torah describes how the twin brothers Jacob and Esau
were already veering off in different directions from the time they were
together in the womb. Eventually, Jacob developed into a man of
accomplishment totally absorbed in spiritual and intellectual pursuits,
while Esau became a lusty creature of the wilds, a predator indulging
his every whim and desire. Esau is portrayed as one of the blackest
figures in the Torah, known for all time as “Eisav Harasha,” Esau the
Wicked, the epitome of evil, the nemesis of the Jewish people.
And yet, there is an incongruous note in this portrayal. Esau

honored his father Isaac to such an extraordinary extent that a great
sage is quoted in the Midrash as saying, “I attended to my father all my
life, but never did I do even one percent of what Esau did for his
father.” How can someone who so thoroughly honored his father be so
thoroughly evil in all else?
The Talmud illustrates the extent of the mitzvah of honoring

parents with the following story.
During the time of the Second Temple, it happened that certain

gems of the breastplate of the High Priest needed to be replaced
immediately, but where could such rare gems be found on such short
notice? Someone suggested that a certain a gentile named Dama bar
Nesinah might have the required gems, and a delegation of the Sages
went to his home to investigate the matter.
“We are told you have these gems,” they said after explaining
their predicament. “Is this true?” “Oh yes, indeed, I have them,” said
Dama. “Come back tomorrow, and we will talk.”
“Tomorrow is much too late,” said the Sages. “We need them
immediately. We are prepared to pay handsomely. Six hundred
thousand shekels!” Dama gasped at the mention of the exorbitant
sum. Then he shook his head sadly.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said. “You see, the gems are in
my strong room, under lock and key. And the key is in my father’s
room, under his pillow. My father is sleeping now, and I cannot
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Bereishis: Toldos
possibly get the key from under the pillow without waking him. I am
sorry. There is nothing I can do.”
The following year, Dama was again visited by a delegation of
the Sages.
“We need a parah adumah, a perfect red heifer to use in our
purification ritual,” they said to Dama. “This is a very rare animal, and
we are prepared to pay a fortune for it. Six hundred thousand shekels!
We have heard that just such a red heifer was born in your herd. Is this
true?”
“Indeed, it is,” he replied. “Can you bring it to us without
waking your father?” “I certainly can.” “Then the money is yours.
Hashem has rewarded your righteousness.”
The commentaries take a closer look at this passage in the

Talmud and find a subtle and very profound message. The importance
of honoring parents is a fundamental value in every society and culture
that ever existed, because it is so logical. A person owes his
sustenance, his upbringing, his very existence to his parents. It is a
debt that can never be repaid, and therefore there is no limit to the
obligation to honor one’s parents. Dama, the worthy gentile,
understood this and went to great lengths to honor his father. But the
limits of his personal understanding were also the limits of his
righteousness. If he did not understand it, he would not do it.
The Sages, on the other hand, also went to great lengths in this
story. They paid an exorbitant sum for the mitzvah of parah adumah,
the ultimate example of a divine decree that defies human
understanding, a chok. They accepted the commands of Hashem that
they did not understand with the same enthusiasm and devotion they
accorded to the commands that they did understand.
Esau also honored his father simply because he considered it

logical to do so. There was no connection to Hashem in his
performance of this mitzvah, no elevation of the spirit, no transcendent
expansion of the soul. By honoring his father, Esau did not rise above
his ego, and he remained capable of indulging every one of his selfish
whims and desires.
The mitzvos of the Torah enable us to connect to Hashem and

rise to higher levels of spirituality. Although we cannot always
understand the mitzvos fully, we can always be secure in the
knowledge that they are meant for our own good.
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Ohr Shalom
The Spur of the Moment

What would you think if you saw a luxury car being offered for
sale for a ridiculously low price? You would undoubtedly wonder what
was wrong with it. The price a seller demands reflects his opinion of
the object he is selling. It would take a large sum to make him part with
a cherished possession. As for his children, who are more precious
than anything else in the world, he would not sell them for any sum at
all. But something he holds in low regard he would give away for a
pittance.
In this week’s Torah portion, we encounter the struggle over

the firstborn birthright of Israel between Esau and Jacob, Isaac’s two
sons. As it turns out, it is not much of a struggle. This firstborn
birthright signifies the privilege of becoming the chosen people of
Hashem, and Esau, being the older of the two sons, holds first claim to
it. It is Jacob, however, who yearns for this birthright with all his heart.
One day, Esau returns from his exertions in the field thoroughly
famished, and he agrees to sell the birthright to Jacob for a bowl of red
lentil soup. And so, the Torah concludes, Esau ate, drank, rose and
left, having disgraced the birthright.
Let us think for a moment. At which point did Esau disgrace the
birthright? When he actually ate the soup or when he agreed to sell the
birthright for a bowl of soup? It would seem that as soon as he agreed
to give it away for a pittance he had already shown his utter contempt
for the spiritual birthright of Israel. Why then does the Torah accuse
him of disgracing the birthright only after he ate, drank, rose and left?
Our Sages explain that Esau might have been so famished that
his behavior could be excused. It is quite possible that his discomfiture
caused him to lose his sense of proportion momentarily and agree to
sell his birthright for a bowl of soup. Perhaps he was not thinking
clearly at the time and agreed to do something on the spur of the
moment that went against his better judgment.
But if so, what happened later when his hunger was sated and
his thirst assuaged? Did he protest that his agreement had been made
under duress and that the transaction was null and void? Did he rant
and rage at what Jacob had done to him? Not at all. He just gulped
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Bereishis: Toldos
down the soup, stood up and stomped out. This was when he
demonstrated his disdain for the birthright. Had he shown any regret
he would have defined himself as an upright person, but he didn’t.
Therefore, the Torah records this moment for posterity as the act of
contempt for the birthright.
A rich man once visited the town’s poorest man late one night.
“Listen, my good fellow,” said the rich man. “You know I have
everything a person could possibly want. I have estates, carriages, and
the finest horses. But one thing I do not have is a child. Your situation
is the exact opposite of mine. You live in this little hovel and you
cannot even put a few crusts of bread on the table. But you do have
children. Ten of them.” The rich man paused.
The poor man looked at the rich man curiously. “So what is the
point?”
“I want to propose a deal,” said the rich man. “You give me one
of your ten children, and I will give you one tenth of everything I
possess. What do you say?”
The poor man was taken aback. He stood up and looked at the
faces of his sleeping family behind the partition. Which child could he
give away? This one? Surely not. That one? Impossible. And thus, he
looked at the faces of all his children and finally decided he could give
none of them away. He had no choice but to reject the rich man’s offer.
The next day, overcome with remorse for even having
considered the arrangement, he poured his heart out to his wife.
“Do not tear yourself down,” she told him. “It was the pressure
of our poverty to drive you to think about it. But when it came right
down to it, you couldn’t do it. You are a good man.”
In our own lives, we all know full well how we are driven by
impulse, by the spur of the beguiling moment. But what do we do when
the moment passes? Do we listen to that little voice of guilt that
Hashem has so kindly implanted deep in our brains, showing
ourselves to be essentially good people? Or do we plunge on ahead,
heedless and thoughtless, the helpless captives of our impulses? It is
this moment, when we have had the chance to pause and reflect, that
truly defines who we are and what we are worth.
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Ohr Shalom
Digging for Water

What do we really know about Isaac, the second of our three
patriarchs? The Torah presents vivid and detailed accounts of the lives of his
father Abraham and his son Jacob, but Isaac himself always remains an
obscure and mysterious figure. We see Abraham prepared to sacrifice him on
the mountaintop. We see Abraham seeking a bride for him. We see him bless
his sons when he feels death approaching. And in the between, we see him
embroiled in a dogged dispute with the Philistines. Isaac digs wells, and as
soon as he finds water, the Philistines fill them or claim ownership for
themselves.
What was so significant about the incident of the wells that the Torah
saw fit to record it for all time? What does it tell us about the person inside this
enigma named Isaac?
The commentators explain that the life work of each of the patriarchs
was to blaze a path along which the Jewish people would be able to draw
closer to the Creator. Abraham, the paragon of kindness, hospitality and
unbounded love, demonstrated that a relationship with the Creator could be
forged on the basis of a heart overflowing with compassion. But Isaac
perceived that more avenues were required, that it was far too limiting to
expect all future Jewish people to derive their spiritual and religious energies
from the emotional outpourings of the heart. What would happen if
circumstances deprived people of sufficient emotional resources? What if they
suffered burnout? Would they also lose their religious and spiritual bearings?
Isaac understood that his mission in life was to complement rather

than just duplicate his father’s achievements. He bore the awesome
responsibility of adding an important new dimension to his father’s
revolutionary work. Isaac therefore focused on introducing a solid foundation
of discipline and rigorous observance. This would provide religious stability,
so that emotional expansiveness and inspiration could then bring a person to
the most transcendent levels of spiritual experience.
These extraordinary qualities of determination, perseverance and

relentless self-discipline were amply illustrated by the incident of the wells.
Although the Philistines filled up his newly dug wells with rocks and soil, he
was not discouraged. He dug a second set, and once again found water.
When the Philistines deprived him of these wells too, he was nonetheless
undaunted. He dug a third set of wells, and finally the Philistines, realizing the
relentlessness of their opponent, acquiesced. Isaac applied this very same
determination to his conduct of his relationship with the Creator, providing his
offspring for all time with the paradigm of stable and steadfast devotion.
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The mystical teachers also discern a deeper symbolism here. They

see the entire affair of the disputed wells as a metaphor for the constant
struggle that characterizes the human condition. The water represents the
pure spirituality of the soul that lies buried deep underneath the suffocating
soil of physicality. A person’s life is an unceasing effort to penetrate that
physical shell and connect with the spirituality underneath. And unfortunately,
success carries no guarantee of permanence. New layers of soil can inundate
the liberated water and bury it once again. Then the process begins again. It
takes discipline, determination, and a tenacious refusal to concede defeat.
With every spade of dirt that was excavated in the search for water, Isaac was
sending a powerful message down the halls of time. Never give up. There is
water down there. If you refuse to abandon the search for water, you will
undoubtedly be rewarded.
The young man was very excited. He had been invited to a Passover
Seder for the first time in his life, and he couldn’t wait to experience this
celebrated feast of freedom.
As the Seder began, the young man waited eagerly as the Haggadah
was read and discussed. “When would the feast begin?” he wondered.
Soon, he became impatient, but he was determined to stay. Finally,
the meal seemed about to begin, but to his dismay, all the people were just
eating matza and bitter greens.
Disgruntled, he slipped away from the table and made a quiet exit.
The next day, his host met him in the street. “Why did you leave?” he
chided. “Had you stuck it out a few more minutes you would have been
served the most wonderful feast!”
In our own lives, we all aspire to bring out the beautiful spiritual and
esthetic qualities we harbor deep in our hearts. But just when we feel we have
brought them, the grind of daily existence buries them once again under a
veritable mountain of rubble. It is terribly discouraging, but it is the way of the
world. Life is an unending struggle, and as our patriarch Isaac showed us,
determination and perseverance are the keys to ultimate success. Failure is
only a temporary setback, and if we dig hard enough and long enough we will
reach the sparkling water.
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Ohr Shalom
Esau’s Tears
Disappointment can be utterly devastating. When a person has
high expectations, when he can practically taste the fulfillment of his
passionate desire, and then it is snatched away, the sense of loss can be
almost too much to bear.
In this week’s Torah portion, we read about the intense rivalry

between Jacob and Esau, Isaac’s two sons. In his advanced age, Isaac,
who is blind, decides that it is time to bestow his blessings on his elder
son Esau. Unbeknownst to him, however, Jacob had earlier purchased
the elder rights from Esau. In a dramatic turn of events, Jacob poses as
his elder brother and takes the blessings for himself.
When Esau discovers that his brother Jacob has surreptitiously

taken the blessings intended for him, he is beside himself. He pleads with
his father for another blessing, and he cries bitter tears. It is a sorry
spectacle.
Why does the Torah go to such detail in describing Esau’s utter

collapse when he discovers he has lost Isaac’s blessings? Why must we
be told that he wept like a frustrated child?
The Zohar, the fundamental Kabalistic work, addresses this

question and concludes that the Jewish people will never break free from
the power of Esau’s crying until they shed tears that outweigh his.
These words are an enigma. What do they mean?
The commentators explain that weeping is the most powerful

expression of the human soul. Words, no matter how eloquent, are no
more than descriptions of the emotional storms that rage within us. They
attempt to give intellectual form to the emotions. But emotions are not
intellectual by nature, and therefore, they cannot be expressed adequately
in intellectual terms. When a person burst into tears, however, he is giving
vent to his raw emotions. The pain, anguish and frustration all come
pouring out in this primal outcry that emanates from the deepest recesses
of the soul.
When Esau discovered that Jacob had taken Isaac’s material

blessings, which he recognized as an ironclad guarantee of great bounty,
he was shaken to his very core. Gone was the prospect of unrestricted
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Bereishis: Toldos
dominion over the physical world. Gone was the prospect of unbounded
pleasure and indulgence. His whole world shattered, and his profound
pain poured forth in the hot tears that coursed down his face.
Let us now shine the light of scrutiny upon ourselves. What brings
us to the brink of tears? What deep frustrations wrench at our souls? All
too often, our inability to achieve the material prizes for which we hunger
drives us to distraction. Even if they are small luxuries we crave, we are
frustrated when our aspirations are not fulfilled. But these are Esau’s
tears. They are not fitting for us.
When will we break free from Esau’s cry which constantly

insinuates itself into our lives? When we learn to weep over our spiritual
frustrations, explains the Zohar. If we can shed tears when exalted
spiritual goals elude our grasp, if we can rise above the petty diversions of
the material world, only then will be worthy of redemption.
A father went for a walk with his young son on a cold winter day.
“I’m very pleased with your progress, son,” he said, “and therefore, I have
decided to give you a reward.”
He drew a bright silver coin from his pocket and extended it to his
son. The boy’s eyes sparkled excitedly, and he reached for the coin.
Just then, his father slipped on a patch of ice. He fell to the
ground, clutching his twisted ankle. The silver coin fell from his hand. It
rolled away and fell into a drain.
The boy ran after the coin. He tried to retrieve it from the drain, but
to no avail. “It’s gone,” he called out in a distraught voice. “Father, can you
give me another coin?”
“No, I will not,” replied his father. “Here I am lying on the ground in
agony, and all you think about is the coin that rolled away. I see I was
wrong about you. You have a long way to go before you deserve a
reward.”
In our own lives, we live in a society that measures people’s worth

by the glittering baubles they accumulate. But are these things really so
essential? Does it really matter that much if the microwave oven goes on
the blink or the cruise control consistently fails to catch? The amenities
are nice, but are they really the air we breathe? Should the lack of these
things bring us to frustration? Are we guilty of shedding Esau’s tears?
Only if we set our priorities on spiritual achievements, if we strive to draw
closer to the Almighty, if we seek to deepen our relationships and
friendships, only then will we find true happiness and fulfillment.
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PARASHAS VAYEITZEI
Bread Is for Eating

Could there be any better guarantee for success than a promise
directly from Hashem? Undoubtedly not. If you are fortunate enough to get
such a promise, you can “take it straight to the bank” - and you don’t have
to wait for it to clear! But strangely enough, that is not what happens in
this week’s parashah.
After he leaves his father’s house, Jacob has his celebrated

dream in which he has a prophetic vision of a ladder reaching up to the
sky. Hashem appears to him and tells him, “Behold, I am with you, and I
shall protect you wherever you go, and I shall return you to this land.” The
promise is explicit. And yet, when Jacob awakes he asks Hashem to
provide him with “bread to eat and clothes to wear” and that he return to
his “father’s house in peace.”
Why did Jacob find it necessary to make these requests after

Hashem had just promised to protect him and return him in safety?
Doesn’t Hashem’s protection include the basic necessities of life, such as
food and clothing? Furthermore, what did Jacob mean by “bread to eat”
and “clothes to wear”? For what other purpose could the food and clothes
have been used?
To answer these questions, we must first consider the

overwhelming concerns that occupied Jacob’s mind at this critical time in
his life. Jacob was leaving his father’s house because his life was
threatened by Esau. At the same time, however, he was exposing himself
to a different kind of threat. His father’s house was a secluded island of
spirituality, far removed from the bustle and temptations of the secular
world. In this environment, Jacob had flourished and grown to be a worthy
successor to Abraham and Isaac.
But now he was going to the house of Laban, where he would

come into close contact with deceit, temptation and greed. How would he
be affected? Would he be able to maintain the high level of personal
excellence he had achieved in the cocoon of his father’s house? Would he
become caught up in the pursuit of riches? Would he exchange the
accumulation of wisdom for the accumulation of wealth?
This is what Jacob feared, and this was behind his request to
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Hashem. He prayed that in his encounter with materialism he should
never lose sight of the true purpose of the material world. Bread is for
eating, and clothes are for wearing. They are not to be valued for
themselves and accumulated and hoarded until they become the very
purpose of life. Jacob prayed that he would remain focused on the true
values of life. He prayed that he would return to his father’s house “at
peace” with himself, protected physically but also complete spiritually. He
prayed that the Jacob who returned would not be a different Jacob from
the one who had left.
A wealthy man from a distant land once came to visit a venerated

sage. The sage’s house was a simple, dilapidated hut. The interior was
even shoddier. The sage was sitting at a table made of rough-hewn logs.
None of the chairs matched each other, and the tablecloth was
threadbare.
The sage greeted him kindly and pointed to a chair. “Please sit
down.”
The wealthy visitor gingerly tested the chair and sat down. He
seemed surprised that it did not collapse under his weight.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “How can a great and famous person
like you have furniture like this? Why don’t you have real furniture?”
The sage smiled. “Tell me, my good friend, do you have good
furniture?”
“Of course, I do. It’s actually quite elegant - and solid like a rock.”
“I see. And where is this furniture? Do you have it with you?”
“With me? You must be joking! Don’t you know that I’m traveling?
You don’t take furniture along when you’re only passing through!”
“You certainly don’t,” said the sage. “Well, you see, I am also only
passing through. I’m going to be here in this world for a limited time only.
Just like you, I don’t need furniture when I’m passing through.”
We are all passing through this world, on our way to a far better
place. Like our forefather Jacob, we should not allow ourselves to be
taken in by the illusions of materialism. We should always remember that
“bread is for eating and clothes are for wearing,” If we are fortunate
enough to be blessed with affluence, we should not view the accumulation
of wealth as an end in itself. Rather, we should use the freedom and
expansiveness that wealth provides as a means to achieve continuous
personal growth. In this way, we can enjoy material satisfaction in this
world while we accumulate spiritual wealth for the continuation of our
journey toward eternal life.
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Ohr Shalom
Body and Soul

The dream was more vivid than real life could ever be. As Jacob
slept atop Mount Moriah, a fugitive from his own home, he saw a vast
ladder reaching into the very heavens and angels ascending and
descending upon it. As he watched, awestruck and transfixed, Jacob
heard the voice of Hashem promising that the land upon which he lay
would become an everlasting heritage for his descendants.
What was the purpose of this spectacular vision? Why did this
crucial prophecy have to be transmitted in this particular setting? What
timeless message was implicit in the symbolism of the dream?
Let us reflect for a moment on the nature of mankind. Our Sages

tell us that a human being is a hybrid creature, a miraculous fusion of two
polar opposites, the soul and the body, a living contradiction. The soul is a
soaring spark of pure immortal spirit ever striving for fusion with its divine
Source. The body is altogether mortal, self-indulgent, formed from the
dust of the earth, always seeking new forms of physical gratification,
always hungry, never fulfilled.
When the Creator formed man he breathed the soul into the body,
and miraculously, these two totally dissimilar entities were united into one
composite. Ever since, human beings have struggled with the inherent
conflict between these two antithetical aspects. The soul, trapped in a
material cage, unable to fly freely into the highest celestial spheres,
yearns to transcend its physical shackles, to elevate and spiritualize its
existence. The body resists fiercely, seeking instead to indulge its
corporeal impulses even when they result in the degradation of the soul.
How is a person to deal with this internal war? Should he choose a

life of rigid asceticism, mortifying his flesh and completely negating his
body? Should he withdraw from the mundane world and seek a state of
pure spirituality?
Not at all, say the commentators. Hashem wants a person to

function in the physical world, to find a harmonious balance between his
spiritual and material sides. The human spirit triumphs only when it
conquers the material, not when it flees from it.
This is the message for posterity implicit in the ladder of Jacob’s

dream. Our mission in life is to create a channel of communication
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between the dust of the earth and the highest heavens, an inner harmony
of body and soul. How can this be accomplished? Only step by step, like
climbing the rungs of a ladder, building new achievements on the
foundations of earlier ones.
The Talmud relates the following parable:
A king was leaving on a journey, and he did not want to entrust his
beautiful vineyard to his watchmen, fearing they would steal its succulent
grapes. After much thought, he decided to appoint two watchmen, one
lame and the other blind. The lame one would spy intruders and warn the
blind one to intercept them. They themselves, however, would be
incapable of climbing up and stealing the grapes.
As soon as the king left, the lame man called to his blind
companion, “Come to the sound of my voice. I will climb up onto your
shoulders and together we will feast on the king’s grapes.”
When the king returned and found a substantial number of grapes
missing, he called his watchmen to task.
“Your majesty,” said the lame man. “Look at me! I cannot even
walk one step. Do you think I climbed up to take the grapes?”
“Your majesty,” said the blind man. “Look at me! I cannot see a
thing. Do you think I climbed up to take the grapes?”
The king shook his head in disgust. He placed the lame man on
the shoulders of the blind man and judged them both together.
The soul and the body, the Talmud concludes, could conceivably
make similar arguments in their defense. “Look at me,” the soul could say
after death. “I am like a bird flying through the air, a creature of pure spirit
and light.” “Look at me,” the body could say, “lying there like an inert piece
of clay.” Therefore, Hashem brings the body and soul together and judges
them as one. In other words, we are a new entity, a composite of body
and soul, not one to the exclusion of the other. In this hybrid state, we are
completely responsible for our actions.
In our own lives, we must temper our search for spiritualism with a
healthy respect and appreciation for the material world. Instead of denying
the material side, we can seek to harness it for spiritual purposes, for
instance, by enjoying fine foods and wines in celebration of the Sabbath
and the festivals. If we acknowledge our material origins yet keep a clear
sight of our spiritual goals, we can climb Jacob’s ladder, rung by rung, and
achieve an internal harmony which will reward us with the deepest
satisfaction and fulfillment.
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Ohr Shalom
Fourteen Sleepless Years

Fourteen years are missing from the record. When last we saw
Jacob, he was fleeing from his home in Beersheba to escape his brother
Esau’s murderous wrath. “Go to Haran,” his father Isaac told him, “and
seek a wife from the daughters of Laban.” When next we see Jacob, he is
in Bethel on the road to Haran in Syria, but a quick calculation of the
chronology reveals that it is now fourteen years later!
How did this happen? Why did it take Jacob fully fourteen years to
travel from Beersheba to Bethel, a distance of less than one hundred
miles?
Our Sages tells us he spent those fourteen years studying Torah

in the yeshivah of Shem and Eber. Furthermore, they point out that the
verses in this week’s portion actually contain an allusion to this detour.
When Jacob spent the night in Bethel, he dreamed he saw a

ladder rising into the heavens, and he saw angels descending and
ascending. This spectacular prophetic vision, which revealed the pattern
of Jewish history for thousands of years, was Jacob’s initiation into his role
as our third and final patriarch. The Torah prefaces this dream by telling
us that Jacob “slept in that place.”
Why is this necessary? If he was dreaming, then surely he must

have been sleeping. Our Sages see in this an oblique reference to the
missing fourteen years. When Jacob “slept in that place,” it was the first
time in a very long while that he actually lay down to sleep. As long as he
had been in the yeshivah of Shem and Eber, however, he had studied
without interruption, dozing off in his chair only when fatigue overcame
him. For fourteen full years, he had studied so intensely that he had not
known the taste of sleep, and only now, when he resumed his travels, did
he presume to go to sleep.
The question immediately arises: Those fourteen years must have

had a tremendous impact on Jacob, molding and forming the man who
would bring the work of the patriarchs to completion. Why then doesn’t the
Torah tell us explicitly about those years as they occurred?
The commentators explain that it is quite possible for a person to

deprive himself of food, drink, sleep and all the comforts of life and gain
nothing from it. Asceticism is but a means of establishing contact with our
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inner self, the divine spark that resides in each and every one of us. It can
free a person from the shackles of materiality and allow him to connect
with the eternal truths of the universe, to see clearly, to think profoundly,
and to grow without limits. Asceticism removes the negative influence of
materiality, but choosing a positive path to greatness must come from
within.
The Torah, therefore, does not tell us about the years Jacob spent
in a life of asceticism. At the time, it would have been unclear if they were
leading to the ultimate goal of spiritual exaltation. But when we learn that
after these fourteen years Jacob attained a transcendent level of
prophecy, it becomes abundantly clear that those years were well spent
and worthy of mention.
A great sage once told his followers that anyone who refrains from
speaking for forty days and nights would earn the honor and privilege of
meeting the Prophet Elijah.
A simple man heard about this and decided to make the attempt.
For forty days, he spoke to no one, not his wife, not his children, not his
business associates. At the end of the forty days, the man eagerly awaited
his promised encounter. But nothing happened. A day passed. Then
another. And another. And still no sign of the Prophet Elijah.
Frustrated and upset, the man confronted the great sage with the
failure of his formula.
The sage smiled and shook his head. “Look out that window, my
friend,” he said, “What do you see?”
“A horse,” said the man.
“That horse has also not spoken for forty days, and he too has not
seen the prophet Elijah. It is not the silence that brings merit but the
spiritual elevation to which silence leads. Were you elevated by your
silence or merely muzzled?”
In our own lives, we can spend our entire day taking care of the
family, helping on a community project, studying Torah and all sorts of
other worthwhile activates, but what do we do when the day is over? If we
let loose and have a rollicking good time, we have obviously not gained
much on a personal level. But if at the end of the day we find within
ourselves a new awareness of Hashem’s presence, a heightened
sensitivity to others and a desire to express ourselves in acts of devotion
and kindness, we can be sure that our inner self has indeed been inspired
and transformed.
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Ohr Shalom
Asleep on Hallowed Ground

If the image of Jacob’s ladder was not the most spectacular
prophetic vision ever, it certainly comes close. In his dream, Jacob saw
a ladder planted firmly on the ground yet reaching all the way into the
heavens, and as he watched in utter fascination, he saw angels
ascending and descending the ladder.
Then he wakes up, and lo and behold, it was all a dream.

Jacob is shaken, and he reacts rather strangely. How can it be, he
laments, that I am in the presence of the Almighty and did not even
know it? No expressions of transcendent joy. No ecstatic expansion of
the mind as a result of his sublime prophecy. Just chagrin. Why?
Our Sages tell us that he was mortified that he had actually

slept in such a holy place. But even this does not fully answer the
question. After all, what is so terrible about sleeping on hallowed
ground? And if it was really such a terrible transgression, why did the
Almighty reward him with this prophetic dream?
The commentators explain that Jacob was disappointed

because he had missed an extraordinary opportunity. Had he known
that he stood on hallowed ground, had he known he was actually
standing in the presence of the Almighty, he would have concentrated
on having an even more intense prophetic encounter with Him. But he
had been completely oblivious to his surroundings. Indeed, he had
gone to sleep!
He could have risen to incredible spiritual levels. He could have

attained the most profound prophetic insights. He could have
penetrated the deepest secrets of the universe. But he went to sleep.
He did have a phenomenal prophetic vision in his dream, but that was
where it stopped. So much potential unfulfilled. Such a great
opportunity lost. It is little wonder that Jacob awoke disappointed.
A young man came to study in the academy of a great sage.

He listened to the sage expound his thoughts and was amazed at their
profound wisdom. He bent over the revered texts and pored over every
single word in awe. A feeling of humility swept through his soul.
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“Oh, what a nothing I am,” he muttered under his breath. “What
a miserable ignorant nothing.”
The sage overheard his words and called him closer. “Young
man,” he said, “why do you consider yourself a nothing?” “Because I
am weak, a salve to my physical needs and desires.”
“I see. And why did you come here?” “To learn from you.”
“If you wish to stay here and be successful,” said the sage,
“then you cannot consider yourself a nothing. After all, if you are truly
nothing, how can you possibly retain wisdom? No, my young friend.
Humility is a very good trait, but know your own worth. Know the
sublimity of your soul and give it what it deserves.”
In our own lives, we sometimes fall asleep on hallowed ground.

Driven down by the pressures of everyday life, we can easily fall into
the trap of deprecating our own worth. We consider our shortcomings
and our failures, and we tell ourselves we have no business setting our
sights very high. But this is a serious mistake. Never sell yourself
short. You are hallowed ground. You possess a holy soul that is a
spark of the divine. You are endowed with incredible spiritual treasures
and resources. You have a kind nature and a generous spirit. Most
important of all, you are a descendant of the patriarchs, a custodian of
the holy Torah here on this world. Your potential is incalculable. You
have it within your grasp to reach for the sublime. Don’t fall asleep on
the job. Don’t wake up disappointed after it is too late. Open your eyes
and experience the exhilaration of fulfillment.
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PARASHAS VAYISHLACH
The Roots of Strength

Yiddishe nachas - two words so full of Jewish meaning that
they defy translation into any other language. Yiddishe nachas is that
special blend of pride, joy and satisfaction that Jewish parents feel
when they look at their successful children and remember all the effort
that went into them. It is a sigh and a smile grafted together.
Child rearing is never easy, especially in Jewish families that

demand so much from their children. Even in the best of
circumstances, molding a child into a sensitive, responsible person is
not only a rewarding experience but also a harrowing ordeal that last
for some twenty years. And should problems arise - as they often do -
the ordeal can become next to unbearable.
Why is this so? We don’t find such extended periods of child

rearing among any other species in the world. The young are born,
they are kept under their mother’s figurative wing for a few hours,
days, or weeks and they’re off on their own. Humans, however, are
helpless for the first few years of life and heavily dependent on their
parents for many years afterwards. We find the same disparity in
childbirth itself. All species give birth quickly and easily - except for
humans. Why did Hashem see fit to bring the little bundles of joys into
the world by such a painful process? And why did he give them such a
long period of dependency?
Perhaps we can find the answers in this week’s parashah. As

Rachel feels her life ebbing away after a very difficult childbirth, she
looks at her newborn son and with her last gasping breaths she names
him Ben Oni, “the child of my affliction.” But Jacob does not accept this
name for his son. Instead, he names him Ben Yamin (Benjamin), “the
child of the right hand.” Why didn’t Jacob allow the child to carry the
name his mother had given him with her dying breath?
The Ramban explains that Jacob was not rejecting the name
Rachel had chosen. Rather, he was focusing on one specific aspect of
it. The word oni means both affliction and strength, and these two
concepts are very closely related. Strength is inevitably the result of
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affliction. Solid results of lasting value can only be achieved through
toil, sweat and tears. Therefore, Jacob chose to name his son Ben
Yamin, because the right hand symbolizes strength, which goes hand
in hand with affliction.
Human beings are infinitely higher than the creatures of the

animal kingdom. They cannot be formed with a snap of the fingers. It
takes years and decades of careful nurturing and education to produce
this wondrous creature known as a human being. And the more effort
invested the greater the reward.
A man once came to visit a principal of a large school. As he

waited in the office, he saw the principal in the hallway surrounded by
children clamoring for his attention. The principal responded to each of
the children with patience and a kind word. When they had all gone, he
came in to greet his visitor.
“I don’t know how you manage it,” the visitor commented. “I

would go out of my mind if I had to go through every day with dozens
of little kids screaming in my ears. You must be climbing the walls!”
“Not at all, my friend,” said the principal. “Each of these children

is an unpolished diamond. I spend years shaping, smoothing, polishing
and buffing these precious little diamonds in the rough, and by the time
they leave me, I can see them glittering from within. Which of these
little diamonds would you have me discard?”
We all have our own shares of troubles in life, but we should

view them as obstacles to overcome on the road to personal
fulfillment. Each obstacle is an opportunity for growth, depending on
how we respond to it. Like Rachel, we must recognize the afflictions
that are part of life, and like Jacob, we must see in them the roots of a
strength that will make it all worthwhile.
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Ohr Shalom
Heart to Heart
Hatred has a very long memory. More than twenty years had
passed since Jacob had taken the blessings Esau thought were coming to
him, and Jacob had fled into the night, a fugitive from his own home. And
now, Jacob was coming home, no longer a lonely fugitive but a wealthy
man with a large family, and it was inevitable that Esau’s smoldering
hatred would burst into flames. And indeed, as Jacob drew closer to
home, the electrifying news arrived. Esau was fast approaching with four
hundred men armed to the teeth. Deeply concerned that he was unworthy
of divine protection, Jacob prepared for the worst.
And then came the turnaround. It could not have been more
dramatic. As we read in this week’s Torah portion, Jacob “bowed down to
the ground seven times until he approached, until his brother Esau. And
Esau ran towards his younger brother, and embraced him and hugged
him and kissed him, and they wept.” The danger had passed, and
everyone could breathe a sigh of relief.
What had brought about this stunning turnaround? Had Jacob

completely misread Esau’s intentions? Were the four hundred armed men
simply an honor guard? Not very likely. Esau’s hatred had smoldered for
over twenty years, and he had undoubtedly come with violent intentions.
Could a simple bow have extinguished this fire of resentment?
Before we attempt to resolve this baffling mystery, let us first take

a closer look at a famous Talmudic vignette of the celebrated sage Hillel.
A gentile once approached the great sage.

“I want to convert to Judaism,” he said. “However, I have one
condition. I want you to teach me the Torah.”
“Very well,” said the sage.
“I understand that the Torah is vast,” continued the gentile, “and I
have no patience to spend so much time studying. I want you to teach me
the entire Torah in the amount of time I am able to stand on one leg.”
“No problem,” said the great sage. “I will do exactly as you say. Do
not do to others those things that are hateful to you. This is the essence of
the Torah. All the rest is explanation.”
This wonderful story is often repeated to underscore the

importance of bein adam lechaveiro, the Jewish emphasis on
interpersonal relationships encapsulated in the commandment of
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ve’ahavata l’reiacha kamocha, “love others as you love yourself.” But what
exactly did Hillel mean? The Torah is infinitely complex, full of concepts,
laws, and observances. Is loving others the overriding central theme of the
Torah, everything else being just explanation and elaboration? Was Hillel
giving the prospective convert a facetious answer? Or is there a real
connection between interpersonal relationships and all the rest of the
Torah?
The commentators explain that the greatest obstacle to having

perfect love for other people is the ego. People are so absorbed in their
own needs that they cannot be as sensitive to other people as they are to
themselves. Indeed, it is practically impossible for an ordinary person to
truly love others as he does himself. But this obstruction is rooted in the
material aspect of humanity. The pure essence of a person, the spiritual
soul, is free of complexes, egotism and ulterior motives. It is utterly
selfless. And therefore, as a person becomes more spiritual, as his soul
assumes an increasingly prominent the role in his life, he becomes ever
more capable of loving others as he loves himself.
This is what the Torah is all about. It is the means by which a

person rises above his material restrictions and grows spiritually. It is not a
simple process. It requires study, work, and observance, but it is the only
way to reach that level of pure spirituality at which a person can truly love
others with pure and absolute selflessness.
When Jacob prepared to face Esau, he sought to awaken in his

own heart the dormant sentiments of brotherly love. He “bowed down,”
symbolically subjugating his ego, and he let his mind dwell on his brother’s
positive traits until a feeling of true brotherly love awakened in his heart.
“Like a face reflected in water,” the Torah tells us, “so is the heart of one
person to another.” People are instinctively attuned to how they are
viewed by others; they feel the “vibes.” Esau felt the love in Jacob’s heart,
and his own heart immediately melted in response.
In our own lives, there is no question we would be happier and

more fulfilled if we were more sensitive to others and enjoyed better
relations with family and friends. But it is so difficult to step away from our
own needs and focus completely on the needs of others. The answer lies
in becoming more spiritual, in letting our souls rather than our bodies rule
our lives. Only if we imbue our lives with Torah, if we nourish the divine
spark of spirituality with ourselves, can we begin to approach to the level
at which we can love others as we love ourselves.
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Ohr Shalom
Diminishing Returns
It was the moment of truth. After thirty-four long years, the
dreaded confrontation between the brothers was about to take place.
Jacob had spent all these years in self-imposed exile to avoid Esau’s
murderous designs, and now he was coming home with his new family
and wealth, hoping that his brother’s anger had subsided. But
apparently, it had not. Esau had responded to the news of his brother’s
arrival by mobilizing his forces and marching to meet him with four
hundred armed thugs.
In desperation, Jacob cries out to Hashem to save him and his

family from his vengeful brother. “I am diminished by all the kindness
and truth You have done for Your servant.” He then goes on to
recounts his rise from the sad plight of a destitute fugitive to the great
prince he has become.
What does he mean by the expression “I am diminished by all

the kindness”? The commentators explain that all his good fortune has
depleted his store of credit with Hashem, and he has little merit left to
stand him in good stead.
But if so, the question immediately arises: Isn’t he defeating his

own purpose with this argument? On the one hand, he is calling out to
Hashem for deliverance, yet on the other, he is admitting that he has
no right to make such a request.
The commentators explain that when Jacob described himself

as “diminished” he was not referring only to his credit with Hashem but
also to himself as a person. Hashem’s kindness had “diminished” him,
making him feel humble and unworthy. The sudden rise in his fortunes
could easily have gone to his head. Here he had been a ragged
fugitive, and now he had a beautiful family, many children and
spectacular wealth. He could have assumed fine airs and become
arrogant and conceited, attributing his successes to his charisma and
his cleverness. But he did not. On the contrary, the more Hashem
gave him, the more humble he became.
This then is what he was saying to Hashem. In all these years,

I have only been humbled by all You have done for me. Now, too, if
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You come to my assistance and deliver me from my brother, I shall not
think for a moment that my battlefield prowess and fearsome
reputation have saved me. I will recognize that everything is a gift from
You, although I have done nothing to deserve it, and I shall become
more diminished than ever.
A king sent his armies into the battlefield against his enemies.
One by one, his armies were victorious. Led by able generals, the
soldiers fought valiantly and not only defeated the enemies but also
conquered their lands. Presently, the king realized he was amassing
quite an empire, and he turned his attention to organizing his imperial
government.
For grand vizier of the new empire, he decided to choose one
of his generals, but which one? The competition was fierce, and many
delegations appeared before the king to recommend their respective
candidates.
Finally, the king chose a solid but rather undistinguished
general. “But why didn’t you choose one of the others?” asked the
queen.
“Surely there are a number of generals who are far more
talented than he.”
“You are quite right,” said the king. “But you see, the grand
vizier will accumulate a lot of power over the years. The man I chose
will know that those powers came to him only because he was loyal to
me, and he will become even more loyal. But those talented generals,
as you call them, are already so full of themselves and their own
accomplishments, they will think all that power is coming to them. Next
thing you know, they’ll want my throne as well.”
In our own lives, Hashem constantly showers us with

innumerable blessings, the company of our loved ones, the roof over
our heads, the food we eat, the clothes we wear, the ground upon
which we walk, the very air we breathe. Every step we take, every
sound we hear, every fragrance we sniff, every beautiful sight we
behold, all these are gifts which we have not earned through any
special merit of our own, yet sometimes we tend to take them for
granted. In fact, some people may even be resentful that they have not
received more. Such an attitude will certainly not earn us divine good
will. Only by being humble and appreciative can we assure ourselves
of a steady flow of blessings from Heaven.
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Ohr Shalom
A Few Small Jugs

To go back or not to go back, that was Jacob’s question.
Whether ’tis better to risk the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
for the few small jugs he had left behind or whether it was simply not
worth it. If Jacob had asked any of us, we would surely have told him
to forget about the jugs. But Jacob followed his own counsel, and he
went back.
As we read in this week’s Torah portion, terror reigned in

Jacob’s encampment. The passage of thirty years had not cooled off
Esau’s blood, and now, he was advancing rapidly with an army of four
hundred fearsome warriors. In the middle of the night, Jacob spirited
his family across the Yabbok Creek, but then he mysteriously returned.
Why? The Sages tell us he came back for some small jugs that were
left behind. But was this wise? Should he have taken such a risk for
some small jugs?
The commentators explain that by this very act Jacob

demonstrated his relationship to the material world around him.
A material person views himself as the master of his

possessions. In his opinion, it is up to him to decide what is important
and what can be discarded. He follows one measure and one measure
only, his own needs. A material person’s needs are the focus of his
life. Therefore, the more an object caters to his needs, the higher its
value.
A spiritual person, however, has a completely different view of

the world. His life is directed towards serving Hashem, and he knows
that his own material needs are not significant in their own right. He
recognizes that his possessions were given to him by Hashem to
enable him to fulfill his purpose in life, but he does not presume to
know exactly how that will be accomplished. Therefore, he cannot put
a value on any material thing. All he knows is that if Hashem gave it to
him it is important, no matter how large, no matter how small. Jacob
saw his possessions as instruments entrusted to him by Hashem, and
thus, they were all of equal value and equal significance.
A general was sitting on the veranda overlooking a river and
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writing his reports. After a while, he grew tired. He put down his pen
and sat back to watch the flowing waters. Suddenly, his pen fell off the
table and rolled across the floor, over the edge and into the river.
A young lieutenant lunged for the rolling pen, but the general
stopped him.
“Don’t exert yourself, my young friend,” he said. “It’s not

important. It is not an expensive pen, and I have plenty more of them.”
The general extracted another pen from his pocket and began
to write. An hour later, he stopped to rest once again, and once again,
his pen rolled off the table. This time, however, the general jumped off
his seat and scrambled after the pen. He caught it just before it rolled
off the veranda into the river, and he breathed a long sigh of relief.
“I don’t understand, sir,” said the lieutenant. “This pen is exactly

like the one for which you told me not to exert myself. It is a very
unremarkable pen, and you have plenty of them. Why then did you
make such an effort to keep this pen?”
“You are quite right,” said the general. “But you see this
particular pen was given to me by the king, and therefore it is very
special to me. You cannot measure its value in the same way you
would measure the others.”
In our own lives, we may sometimes need to step back and

realign our value system, to reaffirm in our own minds that only
spiritual gifts have real and lasting value and that everything else is but
a tool and an instrument. We cannot allow ourselves to lose sight of
our transcendent goals and devote our lives to collecting instruments.
Think about it. What will we be left with in the end? A large collection of
instruments but nothing accomplished. Rather, we should view our
material possessions as instruments that give us the freedom and the
ability to pursue and achieve our lasting spiritual goals.
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Ohr Somayach
PARASHAS VAYEISHEV
The Telltale Sign

(or: A Portrait of Two Women)
Appearances can be deceiving. It is possible for two people to
behave in exactly the same fashion, yet one is a hero and the other a
scoundrel. What sets the two apart is motivation. The same act can be
performed for selfish reasons or for the highest altruistic ideals, and it is the
intent behind the act which determines its nature.
But how can we tell which is which? Very rarely will the selfish person
admit he is motivated exclusively by greed and gratification. More often than
not, he will pretend to be acting in the interest of others, for greatest good.
How then is it possible to determine who is a true friend and who is a foe in
disguise?
Furthermore, how do we evaluate our own impulses when motivated

to do acts of kindness? Are our intentions really as altruistic as we would like
to believe? Or is our supposed altruism a product of self-deception, a
subconscious rationalization camouflaging ulterior motives?
Perhaps we can find the answers in this week’s Torah reading. As the
saga of Jacob’s sons unfolds, we encounter two women, one portrayed as
righteous, and the other as an adulteress. And yet, on closer examination,
there is a striking resemblance between them.
Tamar, the childless widow of Judah’s son Er, marries her husband’s
brother Onan. But Onan also meets an untimely death, leaving his brother
Shailah as Judah’s sole surviving son. Twice widowed and still childless,
Tamar wants to marry Shailah, but Judah refuses. Determined to give birth to
a child from the bloodlines of Judah, Tamar disguises herself as a prostitute
and ingratiates herself to Judah himself.
Presently, Tamar’s pregnancy is discovered, and she is accused of

fornication. Judah sentences her to death, unaware that the child she is
carrying is his own. When she is about to be executed, Tamar sends Judah
some personal articles he had left in her possession, indicating that these
articles belonged to the man by whom she was pregnant. Judah
acknowledges her righteousness, Tamar’s life is spared, and her child
becomes the forefather of the Davidic dynasty.
Why was Tamar so determined to conceive a child by Judah? Our
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Bereishis: Vayeishev
Sages tell us that Tamar knew prophetically that the Davidic dynasty was to
descend from her. Therefore, when her father-in-law refused to let her marry
his last son, she resorted to desperate measures.
Meanwhile down in Egypt, the minister Potiphar’s wife tries to seduce

young Joseph, but he flees from her. She turns on Joseph and accuses him
of trying to seduce her. Joseph is sent to prison, where he languishes for
years until he is summoned to interpret Pharaoh’s dream.
Why did Potiphar’s wife try to seduce Joseph? Once again, our
Sages discern a desire to share in the ancestorhood of the Jewish people.
Potiphar’s wife knew great leaders of the Jewish people would be descended
from her and Joseph, and she wanted to fulfill that destiny. In actuality,
however, Joseph’s union was to be with her daughter, not her.
Apparently, then, both Tamar and Potiphar’s wife were striving to fulfill
their destinies as ancestresses of the Jewish people. Both also chose rather
unconventional methods to reach that destiny. Why then is Tamar admired as
a heroine and Potiphar’s wife remembered with contempt?
The commentators explain that the test of a person’s motivation is his

response to failure. A person of altruistic motives pursues his goal vigorously
and tenaciously, and if, despite all his efforts, he fails, he is disappointed. A
person motivated by greed and desire, however, reacts to failure with violence
and vindictiveness.
Tamar wanted to bear the future seed of the Davidic dynasty in order
to draw close to Hashem and reach exalted spiritual levels. This noble dream
inspired her. And when all her attempts failed and she faced death, she
bowed to the will of Hashem with humility and acceptance. She did not hurl
public accusations at Judah. Instead, she responded with tact and subtlety,
sending him his articles and relying on his own sense of decency and justice
to vindicate her. This was indeed a righteous woman.
Potiphar’s wife, on the other hand, responded to failure and rejection

like a true woman scorned. Seething with vengeance, she flew into a rage,
making false accusations. This woman was clearly not motivated by a desire
to cleave to the Creator. All she cared about was the glory of being an
ancestress of the Jewish people. Failure revealed her authentic colors.
In our own lives, when we examine our innermost thoughts and

motivations, we should ask ourselves how we would react to failure. If we
sense we would feel frustrated and angry, our motives are indeed suspect.
But if we are convinced we would feel only sadness and disappointment, we
can rest assured that our altruism is genuine.
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Ohr Shalom
Freeing the Spirit

Divine providence seems to work in strange ways, especially for
Joseph languishing in an Egyptian prison. Unjustly accused of making
advances to Potiphar’s wife, Joseph has been thrown into the dungeon
and left there to rot. But destiny requires that he be released and elevated
to high office in the royal palace, and to affect this important result, divine
providence contrives a very outlandish set of circumstances.
As we read in this week’s Torah portion, ten years after his

incarceration Joseph meets up with two discredited palace functionaries,
the royal cupbearer and the royal baker. One morning, he finds them
despondent. He questions them and discovers that they both had
disturbing dreams the previous night. He offers astute interpretations of
their dreams, and the sequence of events bears out his predictions. Two
years later, when Pharaoh has his own puzzling dreams, the cupbearer
remembers Joseph’s interpretive skills and recommends him to Pharaoh.
Joseph is brought to the palace, where his brilliant interpretations and
wisdom win him high office, and the rest is history.
This story certainly makes for high drama, but why were all these
farfetched developments necessary? Why didn’t divine providence
manifest itself in a simpler way? Couldn’t Joseph’s release and rise to
power have been affected through more commonplace events?
The commentators explain that Joseph’s release from prison is

meant to serve as a paradigm of the ultimate in human emancipation. The
vicissitudes of life can cause a person to experience confinement of many
sorts, not only physical incarceration but also psychological and emotional
bondage of the spirit, which can often be far more painful. How is a person
to extricate himself from these situations? How can he escape the
isolation sometimes imposed by his conditions?
The answer is to focus on the needs of others. As long as a

person is absorbed in his own miserable condition, he cannot help but
wallow in self-pity to some degree and to walk on the edge of despair.
Once he shifts his focus to others, however, his presence in confinement
is no longer purposeless and negative. On the contrary, his is a positive
presence bringing relief to others and fulfillment to himself. By freeing the
spirit, he will in effect have emancipated himself from the shackles of his
condition.
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Joseph personified this approach. Unjustly accused and
imprisoned, he did not withdraw into himself to bemoan his awful fate.
Instead, he immediately became the heart and soul of the prison, always
there to help a stricken inmate. In this sense, he effected his own
emancipation even as he still remained confined within the prison walls.
And to drive home the point, Hashem contrived that his actual physical
release should also be the result of the kindness he performed for others.
A prisoner was thrown into a cell with a large number of other

prisoners. The walls of the prison were thick and damp, and high up on
one side, far above the heads of even the tallest prisoners, was a tiny,
heavily barred window that looked out over a barren piece of land.
Every day, the new prisoner would drag his bed to the wall under
the window. Then he would climb onto the bed, stand on his tiptoes and,
stretching, was just able to rest his chin on the stone windowsill. The other
prisoners gathered in groups to talk or play games, but the new prisoner
never participated. He just stood there all day, staring out the window.
“What do you see out there?” a prisoner asked him. “Nothing,” he
replied.
“Then why do you stand there all day?”
“As long as I look out at the world outside,” the new prisoner
replied, “I still feel a little connection with it. I still have a little bit of my
freedom. But once I turn away from this window and look only at the cell
and my cellmates, all my freedom will be gone. Once I surrender to my
situation, I will truly be imprisoned.”
In our own lives, we are often pummeled by the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune. Assailed by financial difficulties, family and
childrearing problems, pressure in the workplace and all sorts of other
strains and stresses, we can easily find ourselves becoming gloomy and
depressed. So what can we do? How can we regain the equilibrium and
morale we need to deal with our problems constructively? By throwing
ourselves into helping families less fortunate than ourselves or an
important community project. For one thing, focusing on others
immediately relieves the distress of our own situations. But more
important, it elevates us spiritually and allows us to view our troubles in
the broader perspective of what has lasting value in the ultimate scheme
of things and what does not.
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Ohr Shalom
Of Grapes and Pastries

Joseph knew he might never have another chance to get out of
the dank Egyptian dungeon in which he had languished since being
wrongly accused of making advances toward Potiphar’s wife. Indeed,
he was fortunate to have escaped with his life. One year after his
incarceration, he was joined by two illustrious prisoners, the royal
baker and the royal cupbearer, both of whom had fallen from favor.
One night they both had dreams that called for interpretation. This was
Joseph’s opportunity, and he had to grasp it.
As we read in this week’s Torah portion, Joseph interpreted

their dreams correctly, one thing led to another, and he was released
from prison. The cupbearer dreamed he saw three bunches of
succulent grapes on the vine. He squeezed the grapes into Pharaoh’s
golden chalice and brought it to him. What did this mean? It meant,
explained Joseph, that in three days he would be released and
returned to his former position.
The baker had a very similar dream. He saw himself carrying

three baskets of bread on his head, and in the top basket, there were
also all sorts of fine pastries. Then he saw a bird swoop down and eat
the pastries. What did this mean? It meant, explained Joseph, that in
three days the baker would be hung from the gallows.
And indeed, both interpretations proved correct.
Why did Joseph present such radically different interpretations

of two dreams that were essentially identical?
The commentators point out a subtle difference between the

two dreams. The images with which the cupbearer’s dream opened
were of clusters of gleaming grapes hanging heavily from the vine and
fairly bursting with natural juices. The cupbearer reaches out, plucks
some of these exquisite grapes and squeezes them into Pharaoh’s
chalice. Then he offers the wine to the king.
The baker’s dream, however, did not open with images of

golden wheat stalks swaying in the gentle breeze on amber fields. Nor
did it open with sparkling waters coursing through a mountain stream.
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It opened with basketfuls of the finished product, manufactured by
human hands.
Where was an acknowledgment of the origin of all the

ingredients that went into those breads and pastries? The cupbearer
dreamed of the Almighty’s pristine grapes, but the baker dreamed of
his own craft, as if everything depended on him. Where was the
recognition of the handiwork of the Almighty? Clearly, the baker, unlike
the cupbearer, did not deserve a royal pardon.
A great sage was walking with a young disciple along the

seashore in a famous and wealthy resort town.
“What do you think of this place?” the sage asked. “I think it is

spectacularly beautiful.”
“Indeed? And what exactly do you find beautiful here?” “Why,

everything,” the disciple responded excitedly. “The gleaming white
yachts in the harbor. The magnificent villas and chateaux on the
hillsides. The elegant carriages with their liveried drivers and footmen.”
“Ah, my young friend,” said the sage, “you are like a blind man.
All this superficial beauty obscures the true beauty of this place for
people like you. Don’t you see the surging sea and the soaring
mountains? Don’t you see the green valleys, the meadows, the
flowers, the butterflies, the birds that sing in the trees? Those are the
work of the Creator. Let me see one of your villa builders do something
like that!”
In our own lives, living in a modern, technological society, we

are easily distracted from the magnificent world the Almighty created
for us. We look around and all we see are buildings, cars, telephones,
computers, asphalt, and concrete, with a little patch of green here and
there. In such an environment, it is easy to lose sight of the guiding
hand of Hashem and become deluded into believing that people
control their own destiny. But that is very superficial attitude. Better
that we open our eyes and take a good look at the world around us
and the heavens above. How can we not be dwarfed by the immensity
of what Hashem has wrought on our behalf? If we engender this
recognition in our hearts, we will, like the cupbearer, be worthy of
divine blessings and delivery from our oppressors.
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Ohr Somayach
PARASHAS MIKEITZ
Who Is the Real Mother?

It only happens three times every hundred years, and this year
is one of them. Chanukah almost invariably falls on Shabbos Mikeitz.
This year, as on two other occasions in the past century, it falls on
Shabbos Vayeishev alone. Consequently, this year, for only the third
time in the last hundred years, we read the haftorah of Mikeitz, not the
haftorah of Chanukah. Let us, therefore, take advantage of this rare
opportunity to focus on the fascinating story which appears in this
week’s haftorah.
As the story unfolds (I Kings 3), two women ask King Solomon
to settle a dispute between them.
“Your majesty,” the first woman begins tearfully, “this woman

and I live alone in the same house, and we both gave birth to little boys
at about the same time. One night, she rolled over onto her infant son
and suffocated him. When she discovered that her son was dead, she
took my son from my bed while I was sleeping and left me her dead
son in his place. And when I awoke in the morning, I found a dead
child in my bed - but he was not my son! This woman has stolen my
son!”
“Not so!” the second woman protests. “The living child is mine,
and the dead one is yours. I am the real mother. The exact opposite of
what you said is true!”
King Solomon mulls over this problem, then he calls for a
sword, which is quickly brought and placed before him.
“This is my ruling,” the king declares. “We will make a
compromise. I will have my guards take this sword and cut the child in
half. One part will be awarded to the first woman and the other part to
the second.”
“Oh, please, your majesty,” the first woman cries out. “Don’t let
them do this thing. Give her the child, but do not cut him in half.”
“No, it is only fair,” the second woman says, “that we share the
child, part to me and part to you. Cut him in half!”
“There is no need to cut the child in half,” says King Solomon.
“Give him to the first woman. She has shown herself to be the real
mother!”
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Bereishis: Mikeitz
King Solomon’s ruling in this case gained him a wide reputation

for being imbued with “the wisdom of the Lord.” The Jewish people
looked up to him with increased awe and respect, and people began to
come from the distant corners of the earth to hear his words of
wisdom.
But let us think for a moment about this celebrated ruling. Did
King Solomon really expect them to believe that he was actually going
to slice the child in half? Was it possible that this wise and just king
would take the life of an innocent baby? Where did the people see in
this “the wisdom of the Lord”?
Furthermore, why was the second woman willing to have the

child cut in half? She had exchanged her dead child for a live one
under cover of darkness. Why was she now willing to settle for half a
dead child?
The answer to these questions reveals King Solomon’s insight

into human nature. Of course, everyone knew that his decision to cut
the child in half was only a psychological ploy, that he would never do
such a thing. Therefore, the second woman challenged him. “Cut him
in half!” she said, knowing full well that he wouldn’t do it. In essence,
she was saying, Let us see where this psychological game you are
playing is going to lead us. She was preparing to match wits with the
king and prevent him from discovering her deception. But the first
woman did not have the heart for such games. She couldn’t bring
herself to utter the words, “Cut my child in half!” This was the real
mother!
Such extraordinary insight could only be “the wisdom of the

Lord”! All too often, we disregard our children’s feelings in moments of
anger and frustration. We fail to realize how damaging this may be to
their emotional health. In truth, however, a child is a precious gift from
Heaven entrusted to the parents for safekeeping; child rearing is a
sacred trust that takes precedence over just about everything else. In
the Torah view, the quintessential parents love their child so deeply
that they are incapable of uttering a word that could be harmful to the
child. Children brought up in this spirit and by these values will surely
have enough self-esteem to pursue the fulfillment of their full potential.
Such children will surely enrich the lives of their parents beyond
measure.
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Behind the Gray Blur

All eyes stare riveted at the dreidel as it spins round and round,
a cylindrical gray blur in the center of the table. Slowly, slowly, the
spinning eases. Four flat sides come into view, featuring the Hebrew
letters nun, gimmel, hay and shin. Finally, the dreidel comes to a stop
and falls on its side. The letter that is uppermost determines if the one
who spun it has won or lost.
This simple game of chance has become so closely identified

with the festival of Chanukah that it has practically attained the status
of ritual. Indeed, many great sages have been known to give the
dreidel a perfunctory spin or two as they sit beside the Chanukah
lights. Clearly, there is a deep symbolism to the dreidel that connects
to the broader themes of Chanukah. What exactly is this symbolism?
And what is the significance of the letters etched into the sides of the
dreidel?
Perhaps we can find some enlightenment in this week’s Torah

portion, which is always coincidental with Chanukah. As the curtain
lifts, we find Joseph languishing in a dark Egyptian dungeon, forgotten
by his family, seemingly bereft of hope. His life, whatever is left of it, is
a miserable shambles. Then suddenly, everything turns completely
around. Joseph is taken from his cell, washed and dressed and
brought to Pharaoh. He makes such a powerful impression that
Pharaoh appoints him viceroy of Egypt. The machinations of divine
providence begin to emerge from concealment. One dramatic episode
follows another. Joseph and his family are reunited. They settle in
Egypt, and the long exile that would mold and shape the Jewish
people begins.
During the Chanukah era, the Jewish people experienced a

similar turnaround. Alexander’s armies had swept away the old order
and imposed Greek culture on the conquered peoples. In the face of
the crushing power of the Greek empire and the allure of Hellenistic
materialism, it seemed that flickering light of Judaism would be
engulfed and extinguished. The dream of a special historical role for
the Jewish people seemed to be coming to a bitter end. But even in
the darkest hours, a few valiant men held fast to their belief in the
constancy of divine providence. No matter how hopeless the situation
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appeared, they were convinced that Hashem’s guiding hand was
controlling events. They rose in rebellion against overwhelming odds,
and Hashem rewarded them with a stunning victory, the victory of light
over darkness.
Here may lie the key to the symbolism of the dreidel. The
dreidel has four distinct sides, representing the four directions of the
compass and the four basic forms of matter - earth, water, air and fire,
in other words, solid, liquid, gas and energy. A turn from above sets
the dreidel spinning, and its features are obscured in one dizzying blur.
But even as the eye beholds confusion, underneath everything comes
together to one focal point, the vortex from which all power emanates,
the unifying power of the Creator of the Universe. And then, just when
it seems as if the spinning will go on forever, it begins to slow down
and the mysterious Hebrew letters come into view.
What do these letters stand for? Traditionally, they are an

acronym for nes gadol hayah sham, a great miracle happened there.
The mystical teachers also point out that the gematria, the numerical
value, of these four letters is equal to the gematria of Mashiach.
Ultimately, when the mad spinning will finally come to an end, when
the gray blur comes into focus and the true nature of creation is
revealed, the world will be suffused with transcendent illumination of
the Divine Presence, and we will enter the Messianic age.
In our own lives, we must all struggle with the trials and travails
of daily existence. Life is full of disappointments and disillusionment,
and sometimes, its seems beyond our ability to cope. Let us take
encouragement from the message of the Chanukah lights. We are not
helpless flotsam and jetsam cast helter skelter into the raging ocean of
life. At every moment, in darkness and in light, the loving hand of our
Father in Heaven is gently upon us guiding us to our destiny and our
fulfillment.
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A Change of Heart
There was no convincing the Egyptian viceroy. Jacob’s sons
kept protesting that they had come to Egypt in all innocence to buy
grain for their starving families, but the hostile viceroy would have none
of it. They were evil spies, he insisted, and he had them arrested and
thrown into the dungeon. Only one would be allowed to return home to
bring evidence of their innocence, while the others would languish in
prison.
Three days later, however, the viceroy apparently has a

change of heart. As we read in this week’s Torah portion, he has the
brothers brought before him, and he tells them that, because he fears
the Lord, he will modify his earlier decree. Instead of keeping them all
incarcerated until their innocence is established, he will keep only one
and allow the rest to return home with food for their hungry families.
After the viceroy makes his announcement, the Torah adds,

“And so they did.” But what was it that they did? The Torah does not
specify. Instead, the Torah goes on to record their words of self-
recrimination for having sold their brother Joseph into slavery. “We are
indeed guilty of mistreating our brother,” they say. “We saw his
extreme distress when he pleaded with us, but we did not listen to him.
That is why we are being subjected to this misfortune.” But the mystery
remains. What was it that they did as soon as the viceroy had spoken?
Let us consider for a moment. Twenty-two years have gone by

since that fateful day when the brothers sold Joseph into slavery. Why
do they finally acknowledge their guilt at this particular moment?
The commentators explain that the unexpected actions of the

viceroy prompted them to reevaluate their own deeds they did so many
years before. The viceroy ruled Egypt with the iron hand of an
autocratic despot. He answered to no one except for Pharaoh, who
gave him virtual carte blanche to do as he pleased. When he decrees
that all the brothers would be locked up until they proved their
innocence, it is inconceivable that he would suddenly have a change of
heart. Why should he? Clearly, their fate is sealed.
And yet, wonder of wonders, the viceroy does indeed have a
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change of heart. What could this mean?
The brothers see in this a clear message from Heaven. A person must
always keep an open mind and not feel locked into his original
positions. No matter what, he must always maintain an objective
perspective. If he thinks he may have made an error, he should correct
it, though his ego may suffer somewhat. If even the arrogant and
haughty viceroy had changed his mind of his own accord, surely
Jacob’s sons could do no less.
Originally, they had agreed among themselves that Joseph

deserved to die, or at least be sold into slavery, for his supposed
transgressions. Once they had arrived at this decision, they had been
immovable, and all Joseph’s pleas for mercy had fallen on deaf ears.
But now they took their example from the viceroy who had shown the
courage to reexamine his earlier decision. “And so they did.” They, too,
reexamined their earlier actions and found them wanting.
A married couple sought the help of a great sage. “My husband

is insufferable,” the wife complained. “I’m only reacting to her
nastiness,” he retorted. “Think carefully,” said the sage. “When did this
all begin?” “About a week ago,” said the wife, “I baked a very fancy
cake, and he forgot to take it out of the oven. All that work for nothing!”
“I didn’t forget,” protested her husband. “The message wasn’t clear.”
“Now wait a minute, young man,” said the sage. “She did leave
you a message, didn’t she? But you couldn’t admit that you made a
mistake, so you defended yourself with all your might.”
The husband nodded sheepishly.
“Well then,” said the sage, “I think we can resolve all your
problems. Just admit you were at fault and apologize. I’m sure she will
forgive you.”
In our own lives, we are constantly presented with situations

that demand of us that we take a stand one way or the other. And once
we have taken this stand, it sometimes takes on a life of its own. Once
we have invested our honor and credibility in a particular position, we
sometimes find ourselves going to great lengths to defend the
indefensible. However, if we keep an open mind, if we are honest with
ourselves and consider the possibility that we may have erred, we will
discover that the ultimate honor always lies in embracing the truth and
doing what is right.
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PARASHAS VAYIGASH
An Escort for Life

This week’s parashah opens with the dramatic confrontation
between Judah and the inflexible Egyptian viceroy. The tension builds
to a fever pitch, and reaches its stunning climax with the revelation that
the viceroy is none other than the long-lost Joseph. An emotional
reunion follows, but Joseph’s immediate concern is to send a personal
message to his father Jacob. This important message has to prove
that he, the Egyptian viceroy, is indeed Joseph. Concurrently, it must
also alleviate Jacob’s inevitable concerns about Joseph’s spiritual
condition after having lived apart from his family for so many years in
the Egyptian den of corruption and immorality. So what message did
Joseph choose to send?
He chose to remind his father that during their last meeting they
had discussed the Torah laws regarding the ritual of the eglah arufah,
which is performed when a wayfarer is found murdered on the open
road and the assailant is unknown. The Torah (Devarim 21)
commands that the elders of the city nearest to the scene of the crime
come out and declare, “Our hands did not spill this blood!”
Joseph’s knowledge of this private conversation was certainly

clear proof of Joseph’s identity, but how did it reassure Jacob that his
son had maintained his high spiritual levels?
Let us take a closer look at the remarkable statement the

elders when they visit the scene of the tragic crime. “Our hands did not
spill this blood!” Are the elders really suspects in this unsolved murder
case? Of course not, says the Talmud (Sotah 45b). The elders were
declaring that the wayfarer had not been turned away from their city
without being offered food and a proper sendoff on his journey.
But is the failure to offer a wayfarer food and a warm sendoff

such a terrible thing? Why does the Torah value extending hospitality
so highly that the failure to do so is considered “spilling blood”?
The commentaries explain that hospitality is not only meant to

satisfy a person’s physical needs. It also nourishes his very heart and
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soul. A wayfarer, separated from the support system of his home and
family, inevitably feels forlorn and demoralized. But when he is
welcomed into a home with warmth and affection, he once again feels
connected and secure. And when he is given a warm sendoff, he is
filled with renewed confidence and self-esteem. He holds his head a
little higher, his shoulders are squared back, and there is a buoyant
spring in his step. Such a person is an unlikely target for the predators
that roam the highways. It is the beaten-down traveler who feels
isolated and lost that is most vulnerable to attack. The restorative gifts
of hospitality can fortify and sustain a person for the long road ahead
to an immeasurable degree, and therefore, withholding these gifts is
tantamount to “spilling his blood.”
Joseph was addressing this concept between the lines of his

message to his father. Do not be concerned that I have lost my
spiritual bearings, that I have become an immoral Egyptian, he was
saying. The spiritual gifts I received in your house during the years of
my youth were my suit of armor all these years. They gave me the
strength and courage to resist the corruption of Egypt and kept me on
the exalted level of a future tribal patriarch of the Jewish people.
Remember our discussions about the eglah arufah. Just as the
wayfarer is fortified for his journey by a few hours of hospitality, I, too,
was fortified for my whole life by my youth in your home. You need not
worry. I am the same Joseph you once knew, only a little older.
This is a lesson of critical importance to all of us. We

sometimes do not appreciate how profoundly the things we do and say
can affect others. Certainly, our children deserve that we bring them up
with warmth, sensitivity and strong values. If we do, they will always
hold their heads a little higher, because we will have given them the
confidence and self-esteem that will nourish them for the rest of their
lives. But even in our myriad daily contacts with other people, we can
do so much with a helping hand, a kind word, a simple smile. The
smallest gesture of warmth and sincere compassion can sometimes
penetrate the heart of a lonely wayfarer on the road of life and give him
the restorative gifts that will enable him to reach his destination safely.
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Tears of Joy
It was a moment of the purest joy. After so many years of
estrangement and separation, Joseph and his brothers were finally
being reunited. Most poignant of all was the reunion between Joseph
and Benjamin, the only sons of Jacob’s wife Rachel. The Torah
describes this emotional reunion, how Joseph hugged his beloved
younger brother and burst into tears.
Why did Joseph weep on this occasion? The Talmud (Megillah

17) tells us that Joseph knew prophetically that the First and the
Second Temples would be built in the portion of Benjamin, and he
foresaw their eventual destruction. And as he embraced his brother
Benjamin, he wept for the terrible tragedy which would one day befall
the Jewish people.
Why does the Talmud find it necessary to give an explanation

for Joseph’s tears? Isn’t it only natural to shed tears of joy on
occasions of transcendent happiness? Furthermore, why was Joseph
moved on this particular occasion to weep for the destruction of the
Temple, a tragedy that would take place a thousand years later?
Let us reflect for a moment. Why indeed do people cry at the

weddings of their children and other times of supreme joy? Why do
tears course down their cheeks when their faces should be wreathed
in beaming smiles?
It is the realization of the transience of life that injects

undertones of sadness into these moments of joy. A person who
experiences moderate joy still aspires to greater joy, and he is not
inclined to reflect on its impermanence. But once he reaches a
pinnacle of transcendent joy, when his heart is full to bursting with
gladness, he is struck by the knowledge that this ecstasy cannot
continue forever, that nothing in life is permanent and this too will also
come to an end. This sobering thought, whether conscious or
subconscious, is what causes people to “cry for joy.”
We live in a material world, a world of temporal joys and

satisfactions, and all of life is but a fleeting shadow, a dream that
flashes by. Only joys and satisfactions of the divine soul have
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permanence because they are experienced in the spiritual dimension,
which is timeless and unlimited.
When Joseph embraced Benjamin, his joy knew no bounds.

Reunited at long last, his thoughts were thoroughly absorbed with his
beloved younger brother and everything he represented. Benjamin
was more than the man of flesh and blood standing before him. He
stood for a unique set of qualities, concepts and principles that
characterized his part of the future Jewish people. Benjamin’s
greatness had earned him the honor of privilege of having the Temple
situated on his land. Clearly, he was a man with a role and a destiny,
and all these Joseph perceived at this wonderful moment of reunion.
This was the precious gift that had been returned to him after all these
years of separation.
As Joseph’s heart filled with an overwhelming love and

appreciation for this outstanding young man who was his brother, he
realized that after all is said and done we live in a material world, that
even someone as outstanding and pure as Benjamin would suffer
tragedy and pain, that even the Holy Temple, the most spiritual point in
the world, also had its material side and would someday be destroyed.
And Joseph wept.
Two climbers exuberantly scaled a high mountain. As they sat

down to rest, one of them became sad and dejected.
“You should be thrilled by what we’ve accomplished,” remarked
his companion. “Why are you so sad?”
“Because tonight I will sleep in a bed like an ordinary person.” “But
didn’t you know that an hour ago?”
“An hour ago, my next step was up. Now, my next step is down.”
In our own lives, we all have moments of superlative joy,

precious times we yearn to capture and preserve forever. But all the
snapshots and film footage in the world cannot trap a fleeting moment
of joy. All they preserve are fading memories, the bittersweet echoes
of happy days gone by. There is no permanence in the material
dimension, not people not things, not experiences. We can only
preserve a precious moment by infusing it with spirituality, by linking it
to a continuous process of spiritual growth, of enriching our immortal
souls, of drawing closer to our Creator. Then, even when the material
aspects of that precious moment fade away, its glowing spiritual core
will endure forever.
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Missing Persons
For twenty-two years, Jacob had grieved inconsolably over the
loss of his beloved son Joseph. And now, his sons, returning from
Egypt, had burst in on him with the most amazing news. Joseph was
alive and well! Moreover, he had risen to the post of viceroy, becoming
for all intents and purposes the undisputed ruler of the fabled Egyptian
kingdom.
Surely, there can be no more dramatic instance of a dream

come true. So what was Jacob’s first response to these wonderful
tidings? Incredibly, he was incredulous. As we read in this week’s
portion, he simply refused to believe them. Only after they repeated to
him exactly what messages Joseph had sent to his father, and showed
him the wagons he sent to transport the whole family back to Egypt,
did Jacob finally accept their news. Only then was “his spirit revived.”
The question immediately arises: Why indeed did Jacob refuse

to believe them at first? Surely his sons, all great and upstanding men,
would not have conspired to play a cruel practical joke on their old
father. What could they possibly gain by dragging him down to Egypt
only to discover that Joseph was not awaiting him? Why then was
Jacob so incredulous?
The commentators explain that had spent the first seventeen

years of Joseph’s life molding him into a supremely spiritual man, a
man steeped in the most profound Torah concepts and attuned to the
deepest mysteries of the universe, a man of transcendent aspirations
and goals, a man intensely alive in the full spiritual sense of the word.
This was the living son he had lost so many years before, the spiritual
successor for whom he had never ceased to grieve.
Now, after twenty-two years, his sons had returned from Egypt
with the news that the selfsame Joseph who had studied Torah with
his father was now the autocratic ruler of Egypt. Jacob did not believe
it. He had no problem, of coursing, accepting the objective fact that the
flesh and blood Joseph was still alive and breathing. But was he the
same person who had grown up in his father’s sanctified home? How
could it be that he had risen so high in the Egyptian power structure
without compromising his values and ideals? And if so, this man’s
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identification with the lost Joseph was no more than a superficial,
physical one, and his return could not compensate Jacob for his
terrible loss.
But then the brothers relayed Joseph’s word and showed him
the wagons Joseph had sent. According to the Midrash, these
symbolized a Torah discussion they were having shortly before they
were separated. Clearly, Joseph was sending a message to his father
that he had not succumbed to his new environment, that he was still
the same Joseph with same abiding devotion to the Torah and
everything for which it stands. Only then did Jacob understand that his
lost son had survived not only physically but spiritually as well, and “his
spirit was revived.”
A young man studied for many years in the academy of a great

sage. One day, he decided to go out and seek his fortune. He took his
leave of his mentor who had taught him wisdom for such a long time
and left.
Many years later, a middle-aged man came to visit the sage.

He wore vulgar and flamboyant clothing, and gaudy jewelry adorned
his fingers. He took out a thick wad of money and handed it to the
sage.
“This is for your academy,” he said. “You may not remember
me, but I was your student years ago. I have made a large fortune in
the circus, and I have decided to give something to my alma mater.
Life is strange, isn’t it? Would you ever have believed that a student of
yours would one day manage a circus?”
The sage smiled sadly. “I would never have believed it, and I
still don’t believe it. My student has ceased to exist. The man who
owns the circus is an altogether different person.”
In our own lives, each of us developed a certain self-image

during the formative years and still feels connected to that special
person we once considered ourselves to be, even though the years
may have coerced us into making certain compromises. But are we
really? Only if our compromises did not involve sacrificing our basic
values and ideals can we still be considered the same people we once
were.
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First Things First

Pure euphoria is a transcendent feeling that passes, and then it is
time to get practical. When Jacob discovered, after twenty-two years of
ceaseless grieving, that his son Joseph was still alive, he was ecstatic.
The Torah tells us that “his spirit was revived.” He literally came back to
life. But now it was time to make plans for the reunion.
In the intervening years, Joseph had risen to the position of

viceroy in the ancient Kingdom of Egypt, the second most powerful
position in the most powerful state on earth at that time. Because of the
continuing famine throughout the region, Jacob and his entire family would
join Joseph in Egypt and settle in for the duration.
The migration of such a large clan, with numerous possessions

and livestock, must have been a major logistical undertaking, but Jacob’s
first thought was to send Judah ahead to Egypt to establish a house of
study in the land of Goshen.
Why was this necessary? Granted that a house of study is an

essential component of a vibrant Jewish community, but would it not have
been sufficient to give this matter first priority upon their arrival in Goshen?
Couldn’t the house of study been established while they were unpacking?
The commentators explain that Egypt was such a den of iniquity,

such a morass of promiscuity, corruption and outright evil, that Jacob was
reluctant to bring his family down for even a single day without a place of
refuge. He knew that it was possible for his family to survive and even
flourish in such an environment, but only if they had an impregnable
sanctuary to which they could always withdraw to reinvigorate themselves
spiritually.
Therefore, even if they gave the construction of a house of study

the highest priority, there would still be an interim, albeit brief, during
which the family would be exposed to the contamination of Egyptian
society without an available antidote.
This, too, was an unacceptable risk. Who can know what long
lasting damage can be caused by a brief exposure to immorality without
the proper fortification? Who can measure the insidious effects of a
momentary lapse of spiritual defenses?
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This is why Jacob decided it was critical to send Judah ahead to
prepare a house of study for his family. In this way, from the moment they
stepped off the wagons, his family would always have the opportunity to
withdraw into their own private island of purity and spirituality and thereby
be fortified against the influence of Egyptian society. They would always
have a place where they could reaffirm their own unique identities before
going out to take on the outside world.
The king of a large tropical nation, whose population was

concentrated along the seashore, was eager to open the jungle-covered
interior to exploration and development. He decided to clear a certain
large area deep in the jungle and build a modern city.
The project director assembled a huge convoy of construction
equipment and vehicles. On the day they were ready, thousands of people
came out to see them off.
When the convoy passed the royal palace, the king came out to
wish them farewell.
“Have you thought of everything?” the king asked the director.
“Indeed, I have, your majesty,” he replied. “We even brought along food to
last us two months.”
“Very good. And what will you drink?”
“That will be no problem. There are several rivers in the area.” “My
dear fellow,” said the king, “you are going into a jungle. Did it ever occur to
you that the water may be malarial? Before you bring all these workers
and equipment out there, make sure you send your engineers to dig wells
and set up a water purifying system. Otherwise, you will not survive even
a single day.”
In our own lives, we find ourselves in a society which is probably

not much less insidious than the Egypt of ancient times. The age-old evils
and immoralities clothe themselves anew in attractive garb and beckon to
us seductively from every direction. Media, books, Internet, billboards. All
these things can be forces for the good, but they undeniably send periodic
blasts of immorality at us and our children. How do we protect ourselves
and our families? By creating a small sanctuary in our private lives which
will act as a spiritual shield. By setting aside family time each day for
Torah study and introspection, we can fortify and reinvigorate ourselves
so that we can take on the world around us.
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PARASHAS VAYECHI
A Father’s Blessing
It is an intensely Jewish and awe-inspiring spectacle. The father
lifts his hands, and the child bows his head. The father places his hands
on the child’s head, closes his eyes and begins to whisper his blessing. It
matters not if the father is a great sage or a simple man; the blessing
draws its power from the sincerity of the father.
Come, let us move a little closer and listen to the words he is

saying. “May the Lord establish you like Ephraim and Menashe!” May
Hashem bless you and protect you . . .” These are the words our Sages,
based on Jacob’s instructions, have instituted as the formula for the
paternal blessing. But why Ephraim and Menashe? What was so special
about Joseph’s sons that they have become the paragons to which all
Jewish children aspire?
In this week’s parashah, we witness the emotional scene of Jacob

blessing his grandsons Ephraim and Menashe from his deathbed. As
Jacob reaches out to place his hands on their heads, he sees that Joseph
has positioned the older Menashe to receive his grandfather’s right hand,
which is considered predominant, and the younger Ephraim to receive the
left. But Jacob sees greater things in Ephraim’s future, and he “maneuvers
his hands,” crossing over with the right hand to place it on Ephraim’s head
and the left on Menashe’s.
We would not have been surprised had the elder Menashe

resented the preeminence accorded to his younger brother, but there is
not the slightest hint of such a reaction in the Torah. Nor do we find any
hint of Ephraim feeling suddenly superior. On the contrary, Menashe and
Ephraim were both perfectly content with the roles they had been
assigned to play in the destiny of the Jewish people. There was absolutely
no discord between these two brothers, only a desire to fulfill their own
individual destinies to the best of their abilities and a selfless dedication to
their common goal of doing what was best for the Jewish people as a
whole.
This, the commentators explain, is the perfect blessing a father

can give his son. The most blessed state a person can achieve is to reach
his own full potential while maintaining a sense of equilibrium - or in our
contemporary parlance, to be a “contented overachiever.” This is quite an
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accomplishment, but we can attain it if we rise above the pettiness of
coveting what Heaven has chosen to grant someone else. If we look
inward at what we ourselves can be, we can focus on our growth and, at
the same time, relate to other people in a positive, giving and
compassionate way. If, however, we look outward at what others have
been given, we will never find contentment and the growth that it fosters.
Ephraim and Menashe found that rare harmony of achievement and
contentment, and we bless our children that they should find it as well.
A weary traveler was returning home after a long journey. As he

trudged along the road, he tried not to think of the blisters on his feet.
Instead, he thought only about his younger brother’s wedding, which was
to take place the following day. One day’s march more, and he would be
home.
Suddenly, he heard the clatter of hooves, and he turned and saw
a beautiful coach. “My good man,” he called out to the coachman. “Can I
catch a ride with you for a ways? I’ll sit beside you on the bench, and I’ll
tell you where I have to get off.”
“Today’s your lucky day,” said the coachman. “No one’s using the
coach. You can ride inside.”
The traveler couldn’t believe his good fortune as he sank into the
plush upholstery. Within moments, he was fast asleep.
He slept for hours while the coach followed a bewildering course
of highways and roads. Finally, the coach pulled to a halt, and the traveler
awoke. The sun was sinking in the sky as he rubbed his eyes and looked
about him.
“Where are we?” he asked.
The coachman mentioned the name of a town.
“What!” the traveler cried out in anguish. “I’ll never get to my
destination in time. We’ve been riding in the opposite direction!”
“Well, look at the bright side,” said the coachman. “At least your
ride was comfortable.”
A comfortable ride is not much consolation when one is going in

the wrong direction. And if we devote too much of our energy to comfort
and status, we may very well lose sight of the true destination in our
journey through life. Especially in our own times, when there is such peer
pressure to focus on the accumulation of comforts, we would do better to
focus on the activities which help us reach our destination. And when we
sit down to define the goals of our lives, we will surely find that we care
more about who and what we are than about what we have accumulated.
Of one thing we can be sure - we have all been given the tools we need to
fulfill our personal destinies.
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Stolen Crafts
How terrible the disappointment must have been for Simon and
Levi! How crushing! They had come to their father’s bedside together
with all their brothers with the expectation that they would receive the
old patriarch’s blessing, but all they received was a sharp reprimand.
As we read in this week’s Torah portion, Jacob, sensing the

end of his life drawing near, summons his sons to his side and blesses
them. But this is far more than a father’s deathbed blessing to his
children. Jacob, the third and final of the Patriarchs, has completed the
work of laying the foundation for the Jewish nation, and now, his
twelve sons, patriarchs of the individual tribes, are poised to build the
rich, multi-hued edifice that would stand forever upon that solid
foundation. To help them achieve this transcendent goal, Jacob’s
blessings define the characters of each of the tribes, their strengths,
their obligations, their contributions to the overall tapestry of Jewish
peoplehood. His holy words empower them to fulfill their particular
roles in the greater scheme of Jewish destiny.
At this critical juncture, when Judah is assigned the crown of

royalty, Isachar the role of scholar, Zebulun the role of philanthropist
and so on, what does Jacob say to Simon and Levi? He reminds them
of the outburst of bloody rage in which they destroyed the city of
Shechem. “Their weaponry is a stolen craft,” he declares, behavior
unfit for the exalted family of Jacob, a page stolen from the book of
Esau.
And that is it!
Where is their blessing? Are they to be deprived for all eternity
of the patriarchal fortification that the other tribes received? How could
Jacob leave them standing their without a kind word, a compassionate
gesture of conciliation?
This is how the scene appears to us at first glance. The

commentators, however, have an entirely different perspective on it.
Jacob did not exclude Simon and Levi from his blessings, they explain.
On the contrary, Jacob gave them a very great and critical blessing, a
blessing that would facilitate their participation in the formation of the
Jewish people.
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During the Shechem incident, Simon and Levi had displayed a
dark and violent side to their natures. They had shown themselves
capable of underhanded conniving and a disregard for human life. With
such decidedly un-Jewish traits, how could Simon and Levi take part in
building a nation whose very existence is predicated on spirituality,
kindness, truth and the nobler traits of the human character, a nation to
which violence and deceit are abhorrent? Simon and Levi, fully aware
of how they had dishonored the Jewish ideal through their own
shortcomings, were heartbroken at the prospect of losing for all the
eternity the opportunity to take part in the building of the Jewish nation.
But Jacob was a loving father, and in his blessing to his two
headstrong sons, he gave them profound reassurance. Your self-
image is wrong, he told them. Do not think of yourselves as violent,
deceitful people. Violence and deceit are an aberration to you, a craft
stolen from Esau. Do not despair. You have it in your power to purge
yourselves of this contamination and resume your honored place
among the other tribes of Israel. It is an undoubtedly a difficult thing to
do, but I give you my blessing that your efforts should be blessed with
success.
Two boys were expelled from school for pulling a nasty prank
on one of their teachers. As time went by, one of them became a
notorious criminal, while the other became a great sage.
Years later, the principal had occasion to meet the sage. “Tell
me,” he said. “You both started from the same point. How come you
are a sage and your friend is a criminal?”
“It’s very simple,” the sage replied. “When we were expelled,
my friend’s father ranted and raved at him and punished him severely.
But my father was wiser. He said to me, ‘You are such a fine, good
boy. What got into you to do such a cruel thing? It’s so out of
character!’ You know what? I realized he was right, and I never did
such a thing again.”
In our own lives, we are often overcome with remorse and

mortification over some terrible misdeed we committed, whether in the
conduct of our relationship with Hashem or with friends and family.
Remorse can be a very positive reaction, but not if it drags us down
into despair and self-loathing. Let us take heart in Jacob’s reassurance
that as descendants of the holy patriarchs we are essentially good and
decent people, and that any misdeeds of which we may be guilty are
the product of stolen crafts, alien influences we can and will eradicate
from our hearts.
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A Glimpse of the Future

If we could look into the future and discover when the major
events in our lives will take place, would we do it? If we could ascertain
the exact dates on which we will marry, have children and pass away
from this world, would we want to know? Most people would rather live
with the uncertainty than face the possibility of an unpleasant certainty.
In this week’s portion, however, we seem to find an opposite

view. As the final minutes of his life draw near, the old patriarch Jacob
summons his sons to his bedside. With his great powers of divine
inspiration, he sees the long exile of the Jewish people stretching far
into the future, but as he continues to look, he also sees the arrival of
the End of Days when the exile will come to an end.
“Gather around,” he says to his family, “and I will tell you about
the End of Days.” But then he goes on to speak of other matters. What
happened? The Sages tell us that Jacob attempted to reveal the end
of history to his family. But the Divine Spirit departed from him, and his
vision faded away.
The questions immediately arise: Why did Jacob want to tell

them when the exile would come to an end? Especially in light of what
we now know, that it would take thousands of years, wouldn’t it only
have disheartened and discouraged them? Furthermore, if Jacob felt
there was a purpose in telling them, why indeed didn’t Hashem allow
him to do so?
The commentators explain that Jacob had no intention of

revealing the date of the End of Days to his children. There certainly
would have been no point in doing so. Rather, he wanted to give them
a glimpse of what awaits them in the End of Days. He wanted them to
see the idyllic future world suffused with the unrestricted emanations of
the Divine Presence, a world of perfect harmony and peace in which
all humankind will be blessed with unlimited knowledge and
transcendent insight. This was the image he wanted to impress on
their minds so that they would not succumb to despair during the
tribulations of the dark years of exile. But Hashem did not allow him to
do so. The kindness of a father’s heart had motivated Jacob to reveal
this image to his children, but as is often the case, this well-intentioned
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kindness would ultimately deprive them of immeasurable reward. If the
Jewish people had seen a clear prophetic image of the rewards in
store for them in the future, they would naturally be motivated to
persevere and struggle against all odds to fulfill the Torah and achieve
those rewards. In that case, though, they would be doing it for their
own benefit rather than out of love for Hashem. But as long as they
have no such images in their minds, their continued loyalty to the
Creator through the worst of times remains an expression of incredibly
powerful faith and love for Him, and their reward will be proportionately
bountiful.
A mother gave her two sons jigsaw puzzles and sent them off
to play.
A long while later, she went to check on the them. Both boys
had completed their puzzles.
One of them jumped up and ran to her. “Look, it’s all done,” he
said proudly. “Could you frame it and hang it on the wall?”
“Certainly,” she said. Then she turned to her other son and
asked, “Do you want me to frame yours as well?”
The boy shrugged and shook his head. “Nah. It was no big
deal. You don’t have to.”
The mother was perplexed. “But your brother wants his framed.
Why don’t you want the same for yours?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the boy. “He didn’t look at the picture
before he did the puzzle, so I guess it was a pretty big deal for him. But
I looked at the picture first, so it wasn’t such a big deal.”
In our own lives, we are all faced with periods of

discouragement and even hopelessness during which we would be
much relieved if we could steal a glimpse of Hashem’s hidden hand at
work. How much easier it would be to deal with the vicissitudes of
fortune if we understood how everything leads to the ultimate good.
But it is in this very darkness, when we stand on the verge of despair,
that we must discern Hashem’s closeness by our faith alone and feel
ourselves enveloped in His loving embrace.
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A Blessing in Disguise
It was the moment of final parting, a time charged with emotion
and transcendent historical significance. Jacob lay on his deathbed,
his twelve sons gathered beside him, and prophetically, he
pronounced the individual blessings to each of his sons that would
define their individual future roles in the broader context of the Jewish
nation. Every word spoken in this room would resonate down the halls
of history.
But let us listen for a moment to the final words Jacob

addresses to Simon and Levi. “Simon and Levi are brothers,” he
declares, “who keep stolen weapons in their arsenal. Let my soul not
come into their intrigues, nor my honor join in their conspiracies. For
they killed people in their anger, and uprooted oxen in their willfulness.
Cursed is their anger, for it is powerful, and their rage, for it is
unyielding. I will divide them in Jacob and scatter them in Israel.”
Harsh words of rebuke, and undoubtedly deserved. But there it

ends. Why didn’t Jacob continue with some kind words for them as
well? Why didn’t he offer Simon and Levi at least a few words of
blessing, as he did for the other brothers, to carry them forward into
the perilous expanses of the future?
The commentators explain that the fiery dispositions displayed

by Simon and Levi were like a pernicious cancer in their branches of
the family. They were liable to flare up and erupt at any time in some
untoward and destructive manner, posing an ever-growing danger that
at some point the damage would be irreversible.
Therefore, Jacob gave them the perfect blessing for their

situation. He cursed not them but their anger and rage, and he
decreed that they be dispersed among the other tribes so that their
anger and rage would have less opportunity to find expression. Slowly
but surely, their fierce nature would be subdued, until it no longer
posed a hindrance to their spiritual growth and development.
A bright young boy attending a prestigious boarding school was

having difficulty adjusting to the rigors and discipline of the program.
His work was consistently poor, and he became surly and withdrawn.
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Before long, he was hanging on by a thread.
One day, one of his teachers gave him an assignment not to

his liking by. Enraged, he tossed it to the ground and trampled on it.
The boy was called into the headmaster’s office, reprimanded

and suspended from the school.
The next day, the boy returned with his parents to the
headmaster’s office. The boy hung his head in shame and murmured
an abject apology.
“Would you like to come back to our school?” asked the

headmaster.
The boy nodded.
“Please wait outside, while I speak with your parents.” As soon

as the door closed behind the boy, his mother said, “We are both so
mortified by what happened. Such disrespect! We knew he was doing
poorly, but this is the very worst that could have happened.”
The headmaster smiled. “On the contrary, it is the very best

thing that could have happened. Until now, he was just slipping and
sliding, going nowhere slowly but steadily. He did not have the
discipline and resolve to measure up to our high standards and his
own superior potential. But this time he hit rock bottom, and it shocked
him. He had to look at himself in the mirror and decide how he wanted
to live his life. His desire to return tells us what his decision was. From
here on, I expect to see steady improvement.”
Both parents breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Look at it,” said the
headmaster, “as a blessing in disguise.”
In our own lives, we are all too often confronted with situations
that bring out the worst in us, and regrettably, we are not always
successful in overcoming our ignoble instincts. This is where we
should concentrate our greatest efforts. We all pray for a life full of
blessing, but if we think about it, the answer to these prayers is in our
very own hands. If we can vanquish the more disagreeable aspects of
our nature and achieve genuine personal refinement, we will indeed
enjoy a truly blessed life.
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PARASHAS SHEMOS
Anatomy of a Fire
The scene has always fascinated thinkers, artists and people
from every walk of life. Moses stands in the distance looking up in awe
at the mountaintop where a bush is burning vigorously - without being
consumed! Suddenly, the voice of Hashem speaks to him from amidst
this wondrous spectacle, commanding him to remove his shoes and
come nearer. This is the setting in which Moses is appointed as the
divine messenger to go down to Egypt and lead the Jewish people to
freedom.
But why did Hashem choose to communicate through such a

spectacular manifestation as an indestructible burning bush? Why
didn’t He address Moses directly as He would any other prophet? And
why did He command Moses to remove his shoes before coming
near?
The commentators explain that, although he had fled Egypt

many years before, Moses never forgot the plight of his unfortunate
Jewish brothers and sisters in Egyptian bondage. Even as he lived in
the relative serenity of Midian, he could find no peace. His mind was
filled with images of Jews struggling under heavy burdens of bricks
and cement, suffering the tonguelashes and whiplashes of their
Egyptian taskmasters. What would happen to the Jewish people? How
long would they have to suffer such terrible agonies? These questions
gave Moses no rest. He himself may have been in Midian, but his
heart was enslaved with his people amidst the bricks and mortar of
Egypt.
Hashem provided the answers to his questions in the most

vivid form through the metaphor of the burning bush. The bush sitting
alone atop a mountain in the wilderness symbolized the Jewish people
trapped in the desperate desolation of exile and enslavement, stripped
of their physical freedom and their spiritual greatness. The fire
symbolized the terrible suffering of the Jewish people. But fire is an
ambivalent thing. It is a destroyer, but it can also give warmth and light.
A fire is raging inside this bush, Hashem was telling Moses, but there
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is another aspect to this fire which you cannot see. The Divine
Presence resides within this very fire. The terrible ordeal which this fire
represents will not destroy the Jewish people. On the contrary, it is a
crucible which will forge them into a great people, and cement an
everlasting bond between Myself and them, My chosen people. It will
make them strong spiritually, and it will lead on the golden path of their
destiny to the Giving of the Torah.
But why was it so difficult for Moses to view the suffering and
afflictions of exile as an indispensable stage in Hashem’s master plan?
The answer to this question, the commentators explain, was

implicit in Hashem’s command that Moses remove his shoes. Shoes
empower and inhibit us at the same time. They help us walk on all
types of terrain, but in order to accomplish this, they prevent the toes
from exercising their sense of touch. The physical aspect of a person
has a similar effect on him. It allows his soul to function in the physical
world, but in doing so, it obscures his spiritual perception. The exile
might seem inexplicable to Moses because he was “wearing his
shoes,” so to speak, because he was viewing it through the eyes of a
mortal. “Remove your shoes!” Hashem commanded him. Transcend
your physical existence! Look with the spiritual eyes of the pure soul!
Behold, the burning bush is not consumed!
The promise symbolized by the burning bush - that the loving

hands of Hashem are always there under the raging currents of our
history - has been our consolation for thousands of years. Even in the
best of times, we are in need of that consolation. Even as we enjoy
prosperity and status in the Diaspora, our holy Temple, the glorious
crown jewel of our nation, still lies in ruins, and our people are
dispersed to the far corners of the earth. Even as we enjoy an uneasy
respite in this seemingly endless exile, we still suffer physical
persecution and spiritual deprivation. But if we look past our “shoes,”
we, too, will sense the Divine Presence among us. We, too, will
discern the light that shines even in the densest darkness.
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The Strife Factor

Moses did not grow up among the Jewish people, although he
bore them a passionate love. During the decrees of infanticide, an
Egyptian princess had discovered the infant Moses hidden among the
bulrushes of the Nile River and reared him as her own.
Although surrounded by luxury and opulence, the thought of his

people enslaved and oppressed gave Moses no rest. Finally, when he
was old enough, he set out to see firsthand the suffering of his people and
to find how he could help alleviate it. As he ventured forth, he encountered
a sadistic Egyptian taskmaster beating a Jewish laborer brutally.
Overcome with compassion, Moses struck down the Egyptian tormentor
and buried the corpse in the sand, unaware that he had been observed by
a pair of Jews named Dathan and Abiram.
The next day, Moses saw Dathan and Abiram fighting each other.
“Villain!” Moses cried. “Why do you strike your fellow Jew?” They turned to
Moses with disdain and said, “So what do you propose to do? Will you
murder us as you murdered the Egyptian?”
Moses was shocked. “Aha, the thing is known,” he cried out. On

the surface, it would seem that Moses was shocked at finding out his
killing of the Egyptian was no secret. But the Midrash reads a deeper
meaning into these words. Aha, Moses was saying, this is why the Jewish
people continue to suffer in exile. If they are capable of strife and
informing on each other, they are not deserving of redemption.
But let us reflect for a moment. Was this the worst of their sins?
The Jews had been thoroughly contaminated by Egyptian society. Their
behavior was barely distinguishable from that of the Egyptians; their lives
were characterized by idolatry and immorality. Nonetheless, in spite of all
this dreadful sinfulness, Moses had found the Jewish suffering
inexplicable. But now that he saw two Jews fighting, he finally understood
the cause of the Jewish exile. How can this be?
Furthermore, the Sages tell us the Second Temple was destroyed

because of unjustified hatred Jews harbored in their hearts against each
other. How are we to understand this? Many other sins incur punishments
far more severe that does unjustified hatred. Why then did this particular
sin bring on the destruction of the Temple and the removal of the Divine
Presence from among the Jewish people for thousands of years?
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The commentators point out that the revelation of the Divine

Presence in this world is really a paradox. How can the ultimate
manifestation of spirituality reside in a physical world? It can only be done,
they explain, by creating an oasis of spirituality to serve in the physical
world, an oasis composed not of physical elements such as bricks and
mortal, of soil and grass but of a community of people whose spiritual
essence is paramount in their existence. Collectively, these people form
an island of transcendent spirituality upon which the Divine Presence
descends.
But how do we measure if a community is genuinely spiritual? It is

in their relationships with others. Materialistic people see others as
adversaries and are always jealously protective of their own status and
domain. Spiritual people, in tune with eternity, are above these petty
concerns; strife and egotism have no place in their world. Therefore,
interpersonal relations are the barometer which tell us if the community is
worthy of having the Divine Presence in its midst. If the strife factor is low,
then the spirituality level is high, and Hashem comes among them. In
Egypt and at the end of the Second Temple era, however, the strife factor
was high, and the Divine Presence left the Jewish people.
Two boys were fighting in school, shouting and pummeling each

other until one of the teachers pulled them apart.
When tempers cooled, the teacher called the boys to the front of
the classroom.
“Do you understand what a terrible thing you did?” he asked. “But he
started up with me!” said one boy.
“Make two fists,” the teacher said to the boy.
The boy complied, and the teacher took the two fists in his hands
and pounded them against each other.
“Ouch!” the boy screamed. “It hurts!”
“Exactly,” said the teacher. “When your friend suffers pain, it
should also hurt you. When you hit him, it is as if you are hitting yourself!”
In our own lives, as we aspire to raise our level of our spirituality

through studying the Torah and living by its values and ideals, how can we
determine if we are truly connecting with the divine? We can do so by
measuring the strife factor in our daily existence. If we live in harmony with
other people, appreciating the goodness inherent in all of them, if our lives
are essentially free of strife and discord, then we have indeed attained a
high level of spirituality and forged an eternal bond with our Father in
Heaven.
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Leadership Qualities
Moses, the chosen messenger of the Master of the Universe,
came riding out of the desert into the fabled kingdom of Egypt. With
nothing more than the staff in his hand and his brother Aaron at his
side, he strode into the royal palace, confronted Pharaoh and
demanded, “Let my people go!”
Thus began the spectacular story of the Exodus. Time and

again, Moses confronted the belligerent Pharaoh, and after each
refusal, he visited a shattering new plague onto Egypt until it was
beaten into submission, and the enslaved Jewish people were finally
free. As for Moses, he has come down to us as the greatest leader of
all time, the man who single-handedly took on the might of the entire
Egyptian kingdom and prevailed.
But let us stop and think for a moment. Wherein exactly lay the
greatness of Moses in his mission to Egypt? Every step he took, every
word he spoke, every move he made was choreographed by Hashem.
Hashem told him exactly when and where to go, exactly what to say,
exactly what to do. All Moses had to do was follow his instructions
faithfully. He had no personal input into any aspect of his spectacular
performance. Why then is Moses considered such a towering figure in
the history of the Exodus?
The commentators explain that the one critical element that

would determine the success or failure of his mission was entirely in
Moses’s control. “I want you to know,” Hashem said to him, “that you
are going on the condition that you perform my wonders in front of
Pharaoh without fearing him.” Without fearing him. This was the key.
As Hashem’s chosen messenger, Moses enjoyed full divine

protection, and he knew full well that Pharaoh could not harm him. But
it is one thing to know this intellectually and quite another to feel it in
one’s heart. According to the Midrash, Pharaoh’s throne was
surrounded by snarling lions and fierce warriors, and Pharaoh himself
was an exceedingly intimidating tyrant. No matter how sure Moses was
that he would come to no harm, could he enter such a scenario without
a twinge of trepidation in his heart? And yet, if he had exhibited the
slightest tremor in his voice, the slightest flutter of his heart, the
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slightest blink of his eye, he would have compromised his entire
mission. Hashem had sent Moses to demonstrate His absolute
mastery over Pharaoh, to show that Pharaoh was utterly nothing, putty
in the hands of Heaven. Therefore, had Moses felt any fear, he would
have acknowledged Pharaoh as an adversary, albeit an infinitely
weaker one, and thereby doomed his mission to failure.
Here then lay the greatness of Moses. He saw clearly that

there is no power in the world other than Hashem, that Pharaoh in
contraposition to God was a total nonentity, unworthy of even the
slightest smidgen of fear. Therefore, when Moses walked fearlessly
into Pharaoh's palace, everyone, Egyptian and Jew alike, knew that
Hashem was in absolute control
A great general, who was in the process of mounting an

invasion of a neighboring country, called a meeting of his most trusted
advisors.
“Gentlemen, I have a problem,” the general began. “I had

hoped to win fame and glory for our armies during this campaign by
thoroughly trouncing the enemy. But wherever my armies appear, the
enemy flees. We have still had no opportunity to engage them in battle
and destroy them. How can we get the enemy to stand and fight?”
“We take hostages,” said one advisor. “That will force them to
fight.”
“We plan ambushes,” said another. We cut off their escape
routes.”
Other advisers suggested yet other ruses to force the enemy to
fight.
“You are all wrong,” said one old advisor. “If the enemy flees
whenever your armies appear, what greater glory can there be?”
In our own lives, we often face trials and challenges that strike
fear into our hearts. Whether the threat is to our health, financial
security, family life or anything else, the effect can be frightening and,
indeed, devastating. But if we can find the strength to look at the world
in the broader perspective, if we recognize that we are all messengers
of Heaven doing his bidding here on the face of the earth, we will
discover that there is nothing to fear but fear itself. As long as we
connect ourselves to the infinite reality of the Creator, all our worries
pale into insignificance.
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PARASHAS VA’EIRA
Coming to Terms with Exile

The story is told about a political prisoner in a dark dungeon who
always kept his eyes closed. Whenever he needed something, he would
grope for it without opening his eyes.
“Why don’t you open your eyes?” a fellow prisoner once asked
him. “If you keep them open for a while, they’ll get used to the darkness,
and you’ll be able to see a little.”
“That is exactly my reason,” he replied. “I don’t want to get used to

this place. I never want to forget that I am living in darkness.”
One of the gravest dangers in any adverse situation is that we

may resign ourselves to it. The first step towards redemption, therefore, is
the reversal of the mentality of the oppressed, the reawakening of hope
and aspiration for freedom.
In this week’s portion, when Hashem promises to take the Jewish

people out of Egypt, He uses the famed “four expressions of redemption.”
The first of these is (6:6), “And I will take you out from under the burdens
of Egypt.” Some commentators point out that the Hebrew word for
“burdens,” sivlos, can alternatively be translated as “forbearance.” The
verse would then read, “And I will take you out from bearing Egypt.” The
Jewish people had learned to tolerate and “bear” the exile. They had
come to terms with a life devoid of spiritual fulfillment and human dignity.
They lived for the existence of the moment, unable even to think about the
transcendent qualities of their former lives.
This was Hashem’s promise. First and foremost, He would take

them out of this soporific state and energize them with the spirit of
freedom so that they would no longer be able to tolerate the darkness.
They would chafe at their bonds and their estrangement from the spiritual
heritage of their forefathers. Their spirits would be revived, and they would
regain their former high aspirations. They would no longer be slaves, but
free people enchained. This had to be the first stage of their redemption,
for otherwise they would forever remain slaves without masters. The
second stage could now follow. Hashem would break those chains and
raise the Jewish people up to undreamed of heights.
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In our present exile, we are, thank Heaven, no longer physically
enslaved, but to a large extent, we lack the desire to break free. Our
spiritual senses have been dulled, and we have become immune to the
pain of exile. We are content not to “rock the boat.” As long as we enjoy
the comforts offered by contemporary society, we do not feel deprived of a
utopian Israel with a rebuilt Temple and all the Jewish people living
together in harmony and spiritual bliss. It is a deprivation to which we have
been immunized by the long exile, but a tremendous deprivation
nonetheless.
A great sage was staying at an inn far from his home. Late at
night, he sat down to say the Tikkun Chatzos, the lamentations over the
destruction of the Temple that pious people say after midnight. The sage
was so moved by the words of the lamentations that he burst into tears.
The innkeeper came running. “Rabbi, rabbi, what happened? Why
are you crying?”
“Because our holy Temple was destroyed,” said the rabbi. “Ah, if
only the Messiah would come already and take us all out of this exile!
Don’t you dream of such a day?”
The innkeeper fidgeted. “Well, what about my inn? What would
happen to it? And what about my goats and my chickens? Will I have to
leave them behind?”
“Your goats! Your chickens! Forget about them. Think about the
wonderful life that awaits us in Israel.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, rabbi. I’m doing fine right here. I’m not
sure I want to change things so much.”
“But don’t you ever have trouble from the local riffraff that call you
a zhid and steal your chickens in the night?” the rabbi asked, trying to find
a way to inspire the simple innkeeper to yearn for redemption.
“Yes, you are right,” said the innkeeper, his brow darkening for a
moment, but he immediately brightened. “I have an idea, rabbi! Let’s send
all the riffraff to Israel, then we can live here in peace. That would be a
fine redemption!”
We need to realize that, no matter how comfortable we are, the

world we live in is far from perfect. Strife and hatred, ignorance and
bigotry still plague our society. We need to look beyond what we have in
our own comfortable little niches and see what we are missing. Yes, we all
aspire to a utopian world, but we must first appreciate that there can be no
utopia without spirituality. Only in the context of this appreciation can we
truly yearn for the redemption. And only though genuine yearning can we
hope to achieve it.
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Thanking the River

From earliest childhood, we are taught to express our gratitude for
anything we receive. Think back. What were the first things your parents
taught you? “Say please” and “Say thank you.” Appreciation and gratitude
seem to be fundamental universal values. Why is this so? Is it only to give
our benefactors a good feeling? Or is there some deeper purpose? What
exactly do these words mean?
In this week's Torah portion, we find a rather strange form of

gratitude. As the story unfolds, Pharaoh defiantly refuses to release the
Jewish people from bondage. The Ten Plagues begin. First, the Nile River
turns to blood. Pharaoh persists in his stubborn refusal, and the river
spawns and disgorges myriad frogs that swarm over all of Egyptian.
Pharaoh still resists, and the very dust of the earth is transformed into lice.
But this, too, does not convince Pharaoh to release the Jewish people,
and as the plagues continue, Egypt is overrun with beasts of prey. And so
it continues until Pharaoh finally lets the Jewish people go.
If we look carefully, however, we notice an interesting distinction

between the first three plagues and all the rest. Moses was the divine
messenger to Pharaoh and the Egyptians, and he personally administered
the plagues. Nonetheless, Hashem chose his brother Aaron to administer
the first three plagues. Why was this so?
The Sages tell us that for Moses to strike the river and turn it into
blood or to generate a plague of frogs from its bowels would have been an
act of ingratitude. During the decree of infanticide, Moses had been
concealed among the bulrushes of the Nile, and in effect, the river had
saved his life. How could he now afflict it with plagues? Furthermore,
Moses had struck down an Egyptian taskmaster who had been tormenting
a Jewish laborer and buried the body in the soil. Therefore, it would have
been an act of ingratitude for him to transform the soil into lice.
But wait! What sort of gratitude was Hashem demanding from

Moses? What is the point of being grateful to inanimate entities such as
the river and the soil?
Clearly, the primary purpose of gratitude is for our own benefit.

People sometimes have a tendency to avoid expressing their gratitude,
because somehow doing so makes them feel diminished. Their egos do
not allow them to acknowledge that they are beholden to others. In order
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to counteract this tendency, the Torah repeatedly emphasizes the
importance of expressing thanks. Indeed, the Hebrew word for gratitude is
hakaras hatov, acknowledgment of the favor. Acknowledgment is the key,
regardless of whether the benefactor is another person or an inanimate
river.
The tendency to ingratitude, the commentators explain, is one of

the major obstacles to a close relationship with the Creator. A person
whose ego does not allow him to acknowledge his own limitations and
needs will not recognize the limitless presence of the Creator in the world.
Only by becoming conditioned to express gratitude at every appropriate
occasion, to acknowledge dependency on others, can a person break out
of the ego-driven illusions of self-sufficiency and gain a clear vision of the
world. This knowledge and humble acceptance is the first step towards
connecting with the Master of the Universe.
A great sage was having dinner with one of his young disciples in
a hotel dining room.
“The owner of this hotel is a fine person,” remarked the sage.
“Look at this dinner he prepared for us. And the service!”
“Well, what do you expect?” said the young disciple. “He is getting
paid very well for it.”
“Naturally, he has to get paid,” said the sage. “He has expenses,
you know. That’s the only reason he takes our money. But he is such a
considerate, wonderful host.”
“He takes more than to cover expenses,” the young man
persisted. “He makes quite a tidy profit here.”
“Of course, he makes a profit,” said the sage. “Otherwise, how is
he to support his family? Nonetheless, he is such a warm host. But you,
my young friend, have thought of every which way to avoid being grateful
to him. Do you why? Because you are afraid that acknowledging the good
in others may make you indebted to them and thereby diminished. But the
opposite is true. Recognizing the good in others makes you a better
person.”
In our own lives, we must never underestimate the importance of

expressing gratitude and appreciation to others. We must recognize every
good turn that is done for us, and we must declare our acknowledgement
in no uncertain terms. We owe it not only to our benefactors but to
ourselves even more. A person wise enough to thank the doorman for
opening the door is exalted enough to be in touch with eternity.
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Don’t Flog the Frog

Frogs. Everywhere the Egyptians looked, there were frogs. In
the streets, in their homes, on their beds, even in their ovens. Billions
of slimy frogs with bulging eyes, biting everything in sight and letting
loose a cacophony of raucous croaks at an ear-shattering, mind-
numbing decibel level. Egypt was prostrate and helpless.
Where did all these frogs come from? Did they descend on
Egypt in swarms, like the predators and the locusts of later plagues?
Our Sages tell us that they did not.
It all began with a single frog emerging from the river. The
Egyptians struck the repulsive creature in an attempt to kill it, but to
their shock, the frog split into two exact replicas of the first, like an
ameba undergoing binary fission. The Egyptians then struck these two
frogs, and they, too, executed an immediate two-for-one split. The
Egyptians flogged the frogs again and again, but all they accomplished
was a rapid geometric proliferation of slimy creatures that
metastasized into an all-encompassing plague that gripped Egypt in a
reptilian stranglehold.
Let us try and visualize this surreal scenario, Egyptians

desperately striking at the frogs again and again only to see them
multiply before their very eyes. We cannot help but marvel at the
utterly bizarre behavior of the Egyptians. Why in the world would they
continue to flog the frogs when each blow just exacerbated the
situation? Couldn’t they see that striking the frogs was
counterproductive, to say the least?
There can be only one explanation. They were not thinking

rationally. With the painful memory of the blood plague still fresh in
their minds, the Egyptians reacted to the onset of the promised second
plague with anger and frustration bordering on panic. For all practical
purposes, the stress caused them to take leave of their senses and
lash out in a totally irrational manner. As the frogs multiplied, the
demented frenzy of the Egyptians drove them to ever more violent
reactions, which caused even more frogs to appear. They were caught
in a downward spiral headed for disaster.
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But the question still remains: Why indeed did Hashem choose
to send the plague in this fashion? Why didn’t he simply unleash a
massive flood of frogs on Egypt as he would eventually do with the
predators and the locusts?
The commentators explain that Hashem knew the Egyptians

would react irrationally. In fact, this itself was one of the crucial
messages of this early plague. The message was simple and
straightforward. Just as it was futile and indeed irrational to flog the
frogs, so would it be futile and irrational to defy the will of Hashem.
Just as fear and revulsion could cause them to take leave of their
senses and flog the frogs, so could their inflated egos cause them to
scorn the divine retribution of the plagues and insist on keeping the
Jewish people enslaved. It would be the height of madness to disobey
the commands of Hashem.
Hashem had given the Egyptians a warning within a warning,

but they chose to disregard it.
A merchant came to seek the advice of a great sage. “My

business is failing,” he said. “I have tried everything, but the customers
have stopped coming to my store. I don’t know what to do.”
“Tell me what you have done thus far,” said the sage. “Well,
I’ve spent a fortune on advertising. I’ve run numerous sales.
I’ve renovated my store. The worse the situation became, the more
money I spent on advertising and renovations. But nothing helps.”
“I think I see the problem, my friend,” said the sage. “You’ve
been looking in the wrong direction. Drawing all the customers in the
world to your store won’t help if your product is inferior. Look inward.
Improve your product, and your customers will return.”
In our own lives, things sometimes do not go our way, no

matter how much or how often we try. Clearly, this is a message from
Heaven. Sometimes, however, we refuse to acknowledge it and
stubbornly continue to bang our heads against brick walls, inflicting
grievous damage on ourselves and our loved ones in the process.
Only when wisdom prevails and our minds take control of our impulses
can we recognize Hashem’s hand and look inward for the causes of
our misfortune. And when that happens, no matter how our problems
are resolved, we will be forever enriched by our newfound closeness to
Hashem.
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PARASHAS BO
A Matter of Time
Egypt reels under a barrage of plagues. Pharaoh’s stubborn
resistance is finally crumbling. The Jewish people sense the long awaited
end of their enslavement. Hashem is about to take them out of bondage
and forge them into His chosen people, the recipients of His holy Torah.
Indeed, even before the final plague is administered to the Egyptians,
Hashem already gives them their very first mitzvah as a nation.
So what is this first mitzvah that will cement the nascent

relationship between Hashem and our emancipated ancestors whom He
has chosen as His own special people? One might have expected an
exalted ideal, such as the mitzvah of emunah, faith in Hashem. Or
perhaps a mitzvah of personal refinement, such as loving other Jews as
oneself. But no. It was the very practical mitzvah of establishing a lunar
calendar to regulate the annual cycle of festivals and observances.
This is really quite baffling. Why this particular mitzvah? Would it

not have been more appropriate perhaps to initiate the Jewish people with
a mitzvah that represents transcendent spiritual concepts?
Let us reflect for a moment on one of the more notorious features

of our society - the mad rush that characterizes our daily existence. The
rhythm of our lives is driven by the ticktocking of the clock. Our jobs, our
schedules, our appointments, rush hour traffic, all the aspects of our
contemporary lifestyles are measured and regulated by the inexorable
clock. But this is not really a new phenomenon. The accelerated pace of
society has simply highlighted one of the fundamental truths of the world -
that the most precious commodity by far is time.
“Time is money!” we are told, but a wise man once turned this
adage on its ear and said, “Money is time!” Time, not money, is the
fundamental currency by which the value of all things is measured.
Coming out of bondage, the Jewish people were presented with a

sudden wealth of time. As slaves, their time had been stripped away from
them, but now they got it back. What would they do with this great
treasure that was about to fall into their laps?
This crucial question was answered by the mitzvah of establishing
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the calendar. When designating the new month, the Beth Din declares,
“Mekudash, mekudash! Sanctified, sanctified!” Hashem gave the Jewish
people the power to sanctify time by what they say and do, not only to
give it worth but to imbue it with holiness. Rosh Chodesh, the first day of
the new month, has the status of a minor festival, reminding us that we
can consecrate all the moments of our lives. By living in a way consistent
with Torah values and ideals, we consecrate our time and preserve it for
all eternity. This mitzvah, therefore, does indeed represent some of the
most transcendent spiritual concepts in the Torah. This mitzvah, delivered
with the gift of time, was indeed a most fitting beginning for the special
relationship between Hashem and the people He had chosen as His own.
The mitzvah of establishing the calendar also highlights another

aspect of time - its cyclical nature. Life, as we know all too well, is an
endless procession of ups and downs, with no guarantees as to the
outcome. But the eternal existence of the Jewish nation is unconditionally
guaranteed by our Creator. The symbol of this guarantee is the lunar cycle
which our calendar follows. The Jewish people are compared to the moon.
Just as the moon wanes to the point of oblivion but always returns to its
fullness, so will the Jewish people always return to their greatness, no
matter how far they are driven down by the pressures of exile.
Therefore, the mitzvah of the calendar was doubly appropriate for

the time it was given. The Jews were slaves deprived of spirituality and
even basic human dignity, a people on the verge of extinction, yet they
would once again glow with the brightness of the full moon. They had
been mired for centuries at the nadir of human existence, but now
Hashem had lifted them up and placed them on the pinnacle of Creation.
A man once visited a great sage.

“How is your life going?” asked the sage, “Spiritually? Materially?”
“Splendid!” said the man. “Everything is excellent. It’s been great for years
and years. Couldn’t be better.”
“Life without ups and downs? You are living in a dream world. If
you do not know you are down, how do you expect to get up?”
In our own lives, we can also take comfort in the metaphor of the
lunar cycle. The flow of time is a harbinger of hope, both for ourselves as
individuals and for all of us as a people. But even as we wait for the future,
it is within our power to sanctify the present, to give meaning and value to
our time by the manner in which we live. We can mold our time into a
bridge to an illuminated future.
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Choose Light
What is the worst calamity that can befall a person? What agonies
are the most difficult to endure? To find the answer, we need only look at
the plagues that afflicted the Egyptians when they refuse to let the Jewish
people out of bondage.
The Ten Plagues were designed to break down the stubborn

resistance of Pharaoh and the Egyptians. Each successive plague turned
up the pressure another notch or two higher, until Pharaoh, no longer bear
the pain, finally capitulated. The final and most crushing blow was the
death of the firstborn. The runner-up in sheer torture was the ninth plague,
which enveloped Egypt in such a dense, palpable darkness that all the
people were completely immobilized. The agony of a prisoner in solitary
confinement does not compare to the living death that gripped the
benighted Egyptians.
While all the Egyptians were trapped in the darkness, life for the
Jewish people continued as usual. As with all the other plagues, they were
completely impervious to the effects of the catastrophes to which Egypt
was being subjected. And yet, the Torah tells us that during the plague of
darkness “the Jewish people had light in all their dwelling places.” Why
was it necessary to tell us that the Jewish people were unaffected by the
darkness? Furthermore, what is the significance of their having light in
“their dwelling places”? Surely, they enjoyed light wherever they were.
Earlier in Genesis (28:10), we read that “Jacob departed from

Beersheba and went to Harran.” The Midrash observes that the Torah
finds it appropriate to mention his point of departure in addition to his
destination point. This teaches us that “when a righteous person is in a
city he represents its glory, light and beauty, and when he departs, its
glory, light and beauty are removed.” What is the significance of this
redundant language?
The commentators explain that all too often we do not appreciate

what we have until we lose it. When do people realize that the righteous
person is the glory of his city? When he departs and the glory is removed.
In Egypt as well, the Jewish people did not appreciate fully the
wonderful gift of light until the plague of darkness struck Egypt. Watching
the Egyptians immobilized by the darkness, they were suddenly extremely
grateful that they had light to illuminate their lives.
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On a more mystical level, the commentators see darkness and

light as metaphors for the Egyptian and Jewish cultures. Egyptian society,
steeped in superstition, magic and idolatry, was blind to the Presence of
the Creator in the world. It was a place of darkness. The plague of
darkness tapped into the Egyptian way of life and produced a physical
manifestation of the spiritual darkness. And the severity of the plague was
clear proof of the extent to which the spiritual light had been extinguished
in Egypt. The absence of spirituality immobilizes a person and prevents
him from moving forward.
When the Jewish people perceived the spiritual blight of the

Egyptians, they recognized the Presence of the Creator in every grain of
sand, every blade of grass, and this profound faith illuminated their world.
The purity of life in “the Jewish dwellings,” therefore, shone with a
transcendent light that reflected the inner spirituality of the Jewish people.
A young student was sitting in the back of the classroom and

daydreaming. At the front of the room, the teacher was explaining the
intricacies of a difficult subject, but the student paid no attention. He was
lost in the faraway world of his imagination.
Suddenly, he heard another student speaking loudly and
disrupting the class. The teacher asked the troublemaker to be quiet, but
to no avail.
The daydreamer’s interest was piqued. He ears perked up,
attuned to every word that transpired in the classroom. He listened to the
teacher trying to convey important ideas, and he listened with revulsion as
the troublemaker blotted out the teacher’s words with his disrespectful
noise.
How foolish I’ve been, thought the daydreamer. My teacher is
telling us such important things, and I wasn’t paying attention.
Unfortunately, it took the troublemaker’s antics to make me aware of what
I was missing.
In our own lives, we sometimes become so caught up in the hustle

and bustle of daily life that we lose sight of the deeper truths of life, of a
sense of which things that are important and which are not. But then when
we see the extreme degradation of the society in which we live, we are
snapped back to reality and regain our innate appreciation for Jewish
values and ideals. It is better, of course, never to lose sight in the first
place, not to wait for the darkness of others to inspire us to choose light.
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The Stroke of Midnight

Egypt was in ruins, utterly devastated by the first nine plagues.
The cities were reduced to piles of rubble, with dead and wounded
everywhere. Bloated carcasses of livestock littered fields denuded of
crops and vegetation. The rivers and irrigation ditches were polluted
and lifeless. Now it was time to administer the coup de grace. The
tenth and final plague, the death of all the firstborn, would sweep away
the last vestige of resistance in Egyptian hearts, and they would finally
release the Jewish people from bondage.
As the time of the Exodus draws near, Hashem instructs Moses

to warn Pharaoh about the impending death of all the Egyptian
firstborn “at the stroke of midnight.” Moses, however, made a small
revision in this statement when he transmitted it to Pharaoh. Instead of
saying “at the stroke of midnight,” he tells Pharaoh that the firstborn
will die “near midnight.”
Why did he do this? The Sages explain that Moses was

concerned the Egyptian astrologers might be somewhat less than
accurate in their time keeping. It was thus possible that the plague
would indeed commence precisely at the stroke of midnight but that
the astrologers would think it was a few minutes before or after
midnight. Pharaoh might then be encouraged to mock Hashem’s might
by accusing Him of being off in his timing and continue to resist.
Therefore, in order to defend the honor of Hashem, Moses told him the
plague would take place “near midnight.”
It is utterly amazing that even at this point Pharaoh would find it

in himself to continue to deny the power of Hashem and refuse to let
the Jewish people go. How could a mere few minutes on the clock lead
him to ignore the overwhelming evidence of his shattered country and
the ubiquitous corpses of the firstborn, just as Hashem had warned?
There can be only one explanation. The total irrationality of the

human ego under attack. Faced with total humiliation and defeat,
Pharaoh sought desperately for the merest straw to grasp, no matter
how insubstantial, no matter how irrational. As long as there was even
the slightest flaw in the execution of the plague, he could delude
himself into believing he could be ultimately victorious, if only he did
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not lose heart. Reason and good sense had absolutely nothing to do
with it. No matter how absurd continued resistance appeared to wiser
heads, he would refuse to capitulate.
While listening to the traffic report on the radio, an elderly

woman heard that a car had entered the wrong way on an exit ramp of
a major highway and was traveling against the flow of traffic. Suddenly,
the woman realized that her husband was driving on that very
highway.
In a panic, she called him on the car phone to warn him.
“There’s a crazy guy driving the wrong way on your highway,” she
asked. “Watch out for him.”
“One crazy guy?” he screamed back into the phone. “There are
hundreds of them, all coming towards me.”
In our own lives, we have the tendency of going to great

lengths in our own defense, like the man driving down the wrong side
of the highway and calling everyone else crazy. Rather than admit to
our own shortcomings and limitations, our natural inclination is to
justify our actions and positions, even at the cost of viciously attacking
opponents and detractors. If we were to stop and consider the wisdom
of such a reaction, we would have to admit that it is irrational to defend
an erroneous position rather than admit our error and go on. We would
also have to face the possibility of damaging relations with spouses,
families, friends or associates, or otherwise inflicting gratuitous
damage. But the ego is a harsh master, and only when we gain control
of it can we be said to be truly free.
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PARASHAS BESHALACH
The Gateway to Freedom

Freedom at last! As this week’s portion opens, the Jewish
people, three million strong, march out of Egypt in triumph. The mighty
hand of Hashem has smashed the chains that enslaved them, but they
are not quite rid of their former taskmasters. They are not yet “out of
the woods.” They flee through the desert, pursued by the fearsome
chariots of the Egyptians, their minds and hearts churning with fear,
hope, faith and the intoxication of their newfound freedom.
The Torah describes in great detail how, by Hashem’s

command, the Jewish people wheeled around to face their pursuers,
pitching their camp “before Pi Hachiros, between the tower and the
sea, in front of Baal Tzephon.” Pi Hachiros was actually an Egyptian
city to which they now gave this Hebrew name, meaning “the Gateway
to Freedom.” What was this place, and why did they consider it the
gateway to freedom? Rashi explains that the city they chose to rename
in commemoration of their emancipation was the border city of Pithom.
Pithom! As in “Pithom and Ramses”? How can it be? Earlier,

the Torah records that this very city, Pithom, had been built with the
backbreaking labor of the enslaved Jewish people. Its soil was soaked
with their blood, sweat and tears, its very air full to bursting with the
echoes of their groans and cries. If anything, this city was a monument
to slavery and oppression. How could the Jewish people view it as “the
Gateway to Freedom”?
The commentators explain that the spectacular display of

miracles that accompanied the Exodus caused the Jewish people to
reevaluate their experiences in Egypt. New thoughts began to
germinate in their minds. Surely, the God who was making a mockery
of natural law for their sake, the Creator of the heavens and the earth,
could not have “forgotten” them. Surely, the God who was now
displaying such boundless love for them would not have allowed them
to languish for centuries in the misery of Egypt for no purpose. Surely,
God’s unseen Presence had been beside them during all their pain
and suffering. Unknown to them, He had guided them through the “iron
crucible,” as our Sages characterized Egypt, refining them and
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cleansing them of their baser elements, purifying the core of the
people who would stand at Mount Sinai and receive His holy Torah.
Everything they had experienced suddenly had meaning and

purpose. In retrospect, the darkest moments of exile were illuminated
by their present knowledge. In retrospect, they saw everything as a
gateway to freedom. Even the city of Pithom, invested with so much
Jewish pain and suffering, became one of the greatest symbols of their
ultimate freedom. And thus, they renamed it Pi Hachiros, “the Gateway
to Freedom.”
A young orphan was invited to live with his uncle in a distant

city. The boy arrived on a stormy winter day, and an old servant asked
him to wait in a drafty parlor. Night fell, and his uncle had still not
appeared. The boy was given a few hard crusts of bread and some
water and shown to a bed which had been prepared for him in a
hayloft.
The next morning, he was awakened early and given a long list
of difficult chores to do, but by nightfall, the boy had still not seen his
uncle. For many weeks, the boy was forced to endure the cold, the
hunger and the aching muscles in his back.
One day, the uncle summoned the boy. With tears in his eyes,
he hugged his nephew and kissed him.
“You must be wondering why I have put you through all this,”
he said. “I will explain it to you. Tomorrow, I am leaving this place and
traveling to the Holy Land, and I am taking you with me. It is going to
be a very difficult journey. You may have to endure all sorts of
hardship, and you must be prepared. These last few weeks have
toughened you. They have given you the strength to complete the
journey that lies ahead of you.”
In the journeys of our own lives, we all have our difficult

stretches, times of pain, suffering and sorrow, our daily adversities and
challenges. Sometimes, we may find it takes all our energies just to
cope with what life throws at us, and we cannot even begin to think
about living inspired and seeking personal growth. But if we realize
God is with us always, that He never “forgets” us, we can look beyond
the frustrations of the moment. We can draw strength from the thought
that one day we will look back on these times with the wisdom of
hindsight and see them as the gateways to our freedom.
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An Eloquent Silence
If ever there was anyone caught between a rock and a hard place,
it was the Jewish people on the shores of the Sea of Reeds. With their
backs to the churning waters, they watched in wide-eyed horror as
thousands of Egyptian chariots thundered towards them, murderous steel
blades flashing in the sun. Desperately, the people plunged into the
depths of the sea, and wonder of wonders, Hashem parted the waters and
led them through to safety.
At this transcendent moment, their hearts filled with joy and

gratitude, they burst into a thrilling song of praise which the Torah records
verbatim. In one of the most passionate lines, they cry out, “Who is like
You among the lords, O Hashem?” The Sages perceive a deeper
dimension in this declaration. The Torah uses the Hebrew word eilim for
lords, and the Sages detect in this an allusion to the Hebrew word ilmim,
silent ones. Accordingly, the Jewish people were also saying, “Who is like
You among the silent ones, O Hashem?” This, the Sages explain, was a
prophetic reference to the destruction of the Second Temple and the
devastation of Jerusalem by the evil Roman general Titus, who
desecrated the sanctuary and spilled rivers of innocent Jewish blood while
Hashem remained silent.
The question immediately arises: Why choose the occasion of the

splitting of the sea to mention Hashem’s silence during the holocaust that
destroyed Jerusalem?
We all know that when we go through periods of anguish we are

inclined to feel alienation and anger towards Hashem - even if we
ordinarily strive for high levels of faith and observance. Enough is enough,
we scream silently. How can You let us suffer so much pain? And this
feeling of abandonment, irrational as it is, just makes the suffering that
much worse. Wouldn’t our suffering be more bearable if we could see
Hashem watching over us throughout our ordeal, if we realized that, even
in His silence, Hashem does not abandon a single person to random fate?
At the Sea of Reeds, this realization struck the Jewish people with
great clarity. For so many years, they had suffered the cruel agony of
Egyptian shackles, their backs bent in backbreaking labor, their hearts
and spirits shriveled inside their tortured bodies. It seemed as if the
Creator had forgotten them. But now, in the most stunning miraculous
display, He had split the sea to lead them to safety. Suddenly, they
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realized He had been watching over them all along, that His love for them
stretched back hundreds of years to the Patriarchs. The pain and suffering
had been an indispensable feature of the “iron crucible” of Egypt in which
the Jewish people were molded and formed. From the perspective of
hindsight, their suffering was not random, and the silence was very
eloquent indeed.
As this important revelation sunk into the Jewish consciousness

beside the sea, they realized how important it was to remember it for all
future trials and travails. There would undoubtedly be other times of divine
silence in the face of Jewish suffering and misfortune. But if the Jewish
people would have the wisdom to perceive the benevolent presence of the
silent Creator they would be able to accept their lot with courage and
hope, and their suffering would be mitigated. Even during times of such
profound darkness as the destruction of Jerusalem by the evil Titus, they
would not fall victim to despair.
A young boy was wheeled into the operating room for a serious
procedure. He was frightened but all alone. He yearned for the comforting
hand of his father, but his father had been barred from the sterile
operating room.
I want my father, the boy thought desperately. I want him here. But
his father did not come, and the boy was terribly upset and resentful. How
could his father abandon him at this time, the most trying of his entire life?
The operation was successful, and the boy was returned to his
room. There stood his father, tears streaming down his face. He hugged
and kissed his son with a greater outpouring of love than ever before.
“My son, my precious son,” he said. “How sad that you had to be
in that operating room all by yourself, but I was in constant touch with the
doctors. You did not leave my thoughts, not even for a moment.”
In our own lives, all of us go through difficult periods at one time or

another. Grief and suffering are part of the very fabric of life. But the way
we deal with them is up to us. If we recognize that our warm and loving
Father in Heaven pays meticulous attention to every minute detail of our
lives, that He is with us constantly even in our darkest moments, we can
find peace and serenity that are not vulnerable to the vicissitudes of life.
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A Cry from the Heart

Fear is not a rational thing. Even when the mind knows
perfectly well that there is absolutely no danger, sinister shadows
strike fear into the heart. As the Jewish people emerging from Egypt
saw Pharaoh and his army in pursuit, what should have been their
logical reaction?
They had seen the ten plagues demonstrate the utter

powerlessness of the Egyptians to withstand the will of Hashem. They
had been liberated from centuries of bondage without lifting a finger in
their own defense. What danger then did this pursuing army pose?
Clearly, there was none.
And yet, the Jewish people were terrified. As the fearsome

Egyptian chariots surged towards them, they may have understood
intellectually that Hashem would render their enemies harmless before
they could inflict any damage. But they could not stop themselves from
being overcome by a terrible fear. They cried out to Hashem in
desperation, and they maligned Moses for having taken them out of
Egypt to perish violently beside the sea.
Beleaguered, Moses tried to reassure the panicked people. “Do

not be afraid,” he called out to them. “Stand by and watch Hashem
save you. Never again shall you have to see these Egyptians.”
Just then, Hashem said the Moses, “Why do you cry out to me?
Tell the people to get under way.”
The question immediately arises: If Moses was trying to

reassure the terrified Jewish people that they were about to witness
the climax of the Egyptian downfall, why did he himself cry out to
Hashem? Hadn’t his reassurances come from a profound inner
conviction?
Moreover, observe the commentators, we only learn that

Moses cried out because Hashem reproved him for it. Why is there no
explicit mention in the Torah of Moses crying out to Hashem?
The commentators explain that Moses’s prayer was not the
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result of a conscious decision to plead with Hashem. He already knew
that the salvation of the Jewish people was assured. Rather, it was a
reflex reaction, a spontaneous outburst of supplication in response to
the very real distress of the people. Because of his intense love for the
Jewish people, Moses could not separate himself from their emotional
condition. As the quintessential leader, he felt the anguish of his
people, and he responded in kind.
For this reason, the Torah makes no mention of Moses

standing in prayer, since it was not something he had intended to do.
But he did it nonetheless, and Hashem chided him for praying when he
should be taking bold action.
A man once came to a doctor with a splinter deeply imbedded

in his hand. The doctor saw that the hand had become swollen and
infected.
“Now listen, my good fellow,” said the doctor. “This is going to
be quite painful, and I need you to sit perfectly still.”
The man nodded, squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and
began to tap compulsively on the floor with his feet.
The doctor laid out his instruments, swabbed the puncture
clean and began to dig for the splinter.
Suddenly, the doctor jumped back and screamed, “Ouch!” The
man’s eyes flew open, and his foot tapping came to an immediate halt.
“I’m so sorry, doctor,” he said. “What did I do? Did I step on your foot?
I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said the doctor. “You didn’t do anything
at all. When I pulled out the splinter, I knew how much pain it was
causing you, and I could stop myself from crying out.”
In our own lives, we very often see the anguish of others, be

they family, friends, acquaintances or even people in the news, and
our first tendency is to be judgmental. If these tortured souls were
responsible for their own anguish through negligence or foolishness,
we may sometimes shut them out of our minds and say, “They brought
it on themselves. They should have known better.” Indeed. But the
Torah expects a higher degree of sensitivity. The Torah expects us to
empathize with people in distress under all circumstances, to feel their
pain, to be inspired to help them out of their predicaments. For in
Hashem’s eyes, all people deserve to be helped.
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PARASHAS YISRO
To Capture a Feeling
What would have convinced George Washington to drop
everything and go study Torah in a synagogue in Rhode Island? Would
spectacular Jewish victories and miraculous deliverance from their
enemies have inspired him to walk away from the White House and his
palatial estates in Monticello?
In this week’s portion, we encounter one of the George

Washingtons of the ancient world - Jethro, prince and high priest of
Midian. While ancient Midian was no world power like Egypt or Babylon, it
was quite a prosperous nation, and Jethro was its master. Still, when
Jethro “heard all the Lord had done for Moses and his people Israel,” he
left the luxuries and comforts of Midian and joined the Jewish people in
the desert.
What prompted Jethro to give up his royal honors, his power, his
estates, his luxurious lifestyle, his wealth? What had he “heard” that so
transformed him? Our Sages tells us that he heard about the miraculous
splitting of the sea followed immediately by the war against Amalek. The
Ten Plagues and the Exodus had apparently not been sufficiently
impressive to make Jethro leave the comforts and privileges of Midian.
The commentators explain that the splitting of the sea was a most
phenomenal miracle. Our Sages tell us that the spectacles witnessed by a
maidservant at the sea were greater than the visions of the exalted
prophet Ezekiel. It is, thus, quite understandable that hearing of this
miracle would motivate Jethro to join the Jewish people. But what was so
inspiring about the war against Amalek? Was the victory in this war more
miraculous than the Ten Plagues and the Exodus?
In actuality, however, the stunning miracles of the Ten Plagues

and the Exodus had indeed engendered in Jethro’s heart a profound belief
in Hashem and recognition of His mastery of the world. But they did not
motivate him to uproot himself and seek an inspired life. Despite his
newfound understanding of divinity, he was content to live as a “righteous
gentile” in Midian for the rest of his life. But the unprovoked attack by
Amalek, coming as it did immediately after the splitting of the sea, shook
him to his very core.
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How could such a thing happen? How could the tremendous
miracles Hashem performed for the Jewish people have has so little effect
on Amalek? The prophet (Joshua 5:1) assures us that the surrounding
nations had heard about the splitting of the sea. Surely, Amalek had not
missed this major news event. And yet, for no logical reason but pure
malice, they chose to attack the Jewish people in the desert. Clearly, the
overwhelming evidence of miracles was not enough to transform people
and turn them away from evil. If there was a will to deny the miracles, a
way would always be found. Barbarism and immorality would continue to
exist despite the revelation of the awesome power of Hashem.
The war with Amalek had shown Jethro that the discovery of the
existence of the Creator could not be expected to have a lasting effect - if
any effect at all. Only by translating that discovery, and the accompanying
thrill of inspiration, into a concrete commitment could he transform his life.
Only breaking with the familiar patterns of his life and going into the desert
to join the Jewish people could guarantee a transformation. The forfeiture
of his royal privileges in Midian was but a small price to pay.
A king summoned the two finest painters in the realm. “I want a

portrait of my son,” he said. “This will be a contest. The winner receives
wealth beyond his wildest dreams, the other nothing.” The king then gave
a passionate description of the prince’s wonderful qualities. “Come back in
a week!” he concluded.
A week later, they returned with the portraits, and to the king’s
astonishment, one was far superior to the other. “How can this be,” he
asked the winner, “if the two of you are equally talented?”
“It is really quite simple, your majesty. The moment you finished
giving us that inspiring description, I ran to paint the portrait immediately.
My friend waited two days. By then, the inspiration was gone.”
In our own lives, we encounter moments of inspiration that lift us

above the mundane routine of our everyday lives, moments when we
experience a mystical joy that changes our entire perspective. But how do
we capture that momentary feeling? How can we make it a permanent
part of our lives? Only by concrete commitment. Only by taking a step
forward can we anchor these transcendent feelings in our hearts and
enrich our lives forever.
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Last But Not Least

The mountain smoldered and quaked. Thunder and lightning rent
the skies. The Jewish people in their great multitudes stood transfixed at
the foot of the mountain, awestruck by the spectacle of the revelation of
the Divine Presence on the mountaintop and the knowledge that they
were about to receive the divine Torah. But what did they actually receive
at Mount Sinai? In fact, it was only a small percentage of the entire Torah
- the Ten Commandments. These were the instructions Hashem chose to
pronounce on that unforgettable occasion. These were the instructions He
chose to inscribe on the Tablets that Moses carried down from the
mountaintop.
Clearly, these ten pronouncements are the most fundamental of

all the Torah’s commandments, the very bedrock of Judaism. They define
the relationship of the Jewish people to the Creator and to their fellow
man. Have faith in Hashem. Do not worship idols. Do not blaspheme.
Keep the Sabbath. Honor your father and mother. Do not commit murder.
Do not commit adultery. Do not rob. Do not bear false witness. Do not
covet another’s property or wife.
Do not covet? How did this commandment find its way into this
august group? Is coveting in the secrecy of one’s heart an abomination
against Hashem or society comparable to the other commandments?
The commentators explain that the tenth commandment is actually

the key to all the others. Let us reflect for a moment. How can we control a
feeling? How can a wretched person see his neighbor’s prosperity without
yearning for the same good fortune? Isn’t it only natural for him to be
overcome by a strong desire to enjoy those gifts of life that have been
denied to him? How then does the Torah command him not to covet?
What is he supposed to do?
The answer lies in our total acceptance of Hashem’s will and a

profound faith in His absolute and total goodness. The world is one vast
interconnected organism, and every single person, every tree, every blade
of grass has its designated role in the grand scheme of things. In guiding
this great caldron with pure benevolence, Hashem pays meticulous care
to even the minutest element so that all together the purpose of creation
will be fulfilled. He assigns each of us a specific role in life that will help
our purpose become a reality, a personalized mission for each of us to
accomplish. If we acknowledge these truths, if we realize there can be no
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greater fulfillment in life than accomplishing this divine mission, all else
becomes trivial. If a wretched person truly believes his mission in life is to
shine in his state of wretchedness, he will not covet another person’s good
fortune. The tenth commandment enjoins us to bow to the divine wisdom,
to accept His guidance in every aspect of our lives and not to covet that
which Hashem has chosen not to give us.
This then is the most fundamental of all the commandments, and

the extent to which we fulfill it colors and characterizes our fulfillment of all
the others. Why do we refrain from idolatry, murder and robbery? Why do
we honor our parents and observe the Sabbath? Is it mere obedience, the
grudging submission to the powerful Being who has commanded us to do
so? Or is it something that resonates in the very depths of our hearts? If
we have learned not to covet, if we are focused on our divinely ordained
mission in life, then we will undoubtedly view the fulfillment of all the
commandments as a joyous privilege that will help us reach the
transcendent goals towards which we strive.
A mother returned home with her son from a visit to the optician.
The boy wore a new pair of glasses with shiny, stylish gold frames, which
he proudly showed off to all his siblings. A short while later, the mother
found one her younger sons sulking in his room.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why are you so glum? Has
anyone done anything to hurt you?”
“Yes,” the boy declared. “You did! You bought him glasses, but
you didn’t buy any for me.”
The mother was taken aback for a moment, and then she
gathered her little boy in her arms. “Do you know why he got glasses?”
she said. “Because he doesn’t see well. Without those glasses, he can’t
see the blackboard. But you are so lucky. You have such sharp vision,
you can read the smallest letters from far away. Why would I get you
glasses?”
In our own lives, we are all too familiar with the pressures of living
in a materialistic society where the quality of life is often measured by the
possessions we accumulate. The tenth commandment offers us the
means by which to rise above this myopic vision. If we connect to the
universal will of the Creator and direct ourselves towards the
accomplishment of our mission in life, we will find a serenity and fulfillment
that will enrich us far more than the gratification of any of our covetous
desires.
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Spontaneous Consensus
The six hundred thousand people gathered around Mount Sinai
didn’t discuss it beforehand. They didn’t consult with each other and
decide on a consensus response. As we read in this week’s Torah portion,
Moses descended the mountain as Hashem’s messenger and offered the
Torah to the Jewish people. They asked no questions, held no
conferences. And yet, they responded in one spontaneous outcry, “We will
do it!”
How could such a thing happen? How could six hundred thousand
people spontaneously utter the identical response? Whoever heard of
even six Jewish people being of one mind, let alone six hundred
thousand?
Let us read a little further in the Torah. “And Moses referred the
words of the people back to Hashem.” Here again, we are puzzled. Why
would Moses have to convey the response of the Jewish people back to
Hashem? Didn’t Hashem know on His own what the Jewish people had
said?
The commentators explain that we are all a composite of body and

soul, material and spiritual. Our material side responds to our
environment, to our specific needs, to our situation. But our spiritual side
completely transcends the physical and temporal. The spirit in its purest
form is a divine spark, a blaze of eternal fire that responds only to the
ultimate truths of the universe and is entirely impervious to the petty
considerations of mundane existence.
Divisions and disagreements only arise when we are focused on

our material sides. Since innumerable factors affect our material
existence, no two people ever really experience the exact same
conditions. Therefore, it is almost inevitable that there will be some
differences in the way we react and respond to diverse situations.
But if we step back from our material existence, if we reach deep

within ourselves and connect with the divine spark that resides in all of us,
we can break free of all the pettiness of the mundane world and soar into
the exalted realm of the pure spirit. And in this world we are all one,
luminescent divine sparks united by our perfect connection to the Source
from which we are all derived. There are no divisions, no disagreements.
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Had the Jewish people related to the Torah as a set of instructions
to govern and improve their material lives, they would undoubtedly have
responded with a plethora of questions, opinions and suggestions. But
they understood that the Torah functions on a much more profound level,
that it is the channel which connects the divine spark within each of us to
the Master of the Universe, that it provides the wings on which our spirits
can soar to the highest spheres of Heaven. In this light, there were no
divisions among them, and they responded with a spontaneous
consensus.
This then is what the Torah is telling us. “And Moses referred the
words of the people,” he explained their universal agreement, “back to
Hashem,” by attributing it to their total focus on connecting with Hashem.
A king was once traveling through the outlying districts of his

realm. In one very remote village, the people gave him a wonderful
welcome, and the king was so moved that he promised them a gift.
After much reflection, he decided to give them an airplane, since
this would connect them to the rest of the country and improve their
economy and quality of life. The airplane was delivered, and the people
sent the king letters thanking him for the precious gift that had so enriched
their lives.
Several months later, the king visited the village again. The people
greeted him with great festivity and took him to see the airplane he had so
generously gifted to them. He was taken to a lush meadow beyond the
village, and there it stood in all its gleaming splendor.
All around the airplane, families were enjoying picnic lunches.
Teenagers sat on the wings, their legs dangling off the sides. Children
scampered excitedly through the fuselage and cockpit, sliding down the
emergency chutes and running back up for another turn. Everyone was
having a wonderful time. When the king appeared, they all applauded and
shouted their gratitude.
“My dear people!” the king cried out. “What are you doing? This
thing flies!”
In our own lives, we all appreciate the ideals and values of the
Torah. We know that the timeless wisdom of the Torah is as fresh and
relevant to contemporary life as it was three thousand years ago. We
know that it prescribes a way of life full of wonderful benefits and rewards.
But do we also realize that “this thing flies”? But indeed it does. If we
connect with the Torah on a spiritual level, we can transform ourselves
and enrich our lives in ways we never thought possible.
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PARASHAS MISHPATIM
The Slavery Riddle

The gavel bangs down, and the room falls silent. The defendant
approaches and stands before the three solemn judges. One of them
begins to speak. “Young man, you have completed your six-year term of
indenture and are free to return to a life of liberty. But you wish to remain a
Jewish slave in your Jewish master’s house and not take on the
responsibilities of liberty. You heard the Creator declare, ‘The Jewish
people are my slaves,’ and yet you choose to be the slave of a slave!
Therefore, we will drill your right ear. Then you may remain indentured
until the Jubilee year.”
This scene dramatizes the instructions with which this week’s

parashah opens. But how are we to understand them? When a person
violates any of the commandments he “heard,” the Torah does not require
that we physically drill a hole into his ear. Why then are we instructed to
use this drastic method to point out the folly of choosing slavery to
humans over slavery to Hashem?
Let us consider for a moment. A master has complete control over

his slave and demands absolute obedience. We consider this a negative
relationship to which we attach the pejorative term slavery. Parents and
kings also have complete control and demand absolute obedience. Yet we
consider these positive relationships. How do they differ from each other?
The answer is really quite simple. The slave master exercises

authority to serve his own interests. The parent and the king exercise
authority for the benefit of their children and subjects, and if they lose sight
of this purpose, their authority loses its legitimacy.
When Hashem took the Jewish people out of Egyptian bondage

on the condition of their absolute subordination and obedience, it was
clearly not to serve His own needs. What could we possibly give Him that
He does not already have? Hashem, by definition, is perfect and without
needs. Rather, our subordination was completely for our own benefit. By
loving Hashem unreservedly and submitting completely to His wisdom and
will, we would rise above our mundane physical existence and elevate
ourselves to the realm of the divine. By accepting the values and ideals of
the Torah, we would free ourselves from the tyranny of our corporeal
needs and pursuits, and experience the exhilaration of the transcendent
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expansion of our souls, minds and spirits. This was not slavery in the
negative sense. It was the priceless gift of absolute attachment to the
Creator of the Universe. It was an opportunity to bring ourselves to the
highest levels of existence and fulfillment.
The Jewish slave who chose to remain in bondage heard Hashem

speak of us as His “slaves” - but he did not really hear. To him, slavery to
Hashem and to a man was one and the same, and to suit his comfort and
convenience, he chose slavery to a man. Therefore, we drill his ear as a
symbolic penetration to his consciousness, to help him truly “hear” what
Hashem had said. As a “slave” of the Creator, he had been given the
opportunity to gain eternal life on the very highest level, and instead, he
chose the base existence of a bonded slave who lived only to fill his
master’s needs.
Two friends went to study in the school of a famous philosopher in

a distant city. The older one, a brilliant fellow, attended all the lectures of
the philosopher religiously. The younger one, however, also devoted
every waking moment to the philosopher, hanging onto his every word,
observing his every movement, running to fulfill his slightest wish.
Two years later, when their course of study was completed, both
friends did extremely well on their examinations. Nevertheless, only the
younger was invited to join the faculty.
“Why not me?” the older fellow wanted to know. “I did even better
than my friend. I got a perfect score on my examination, didn’t I?”
“Indeed, you did,” the philosopher replied. “You know all the
answers about philosophy, but it has never become part of you. You are
no philosopher. Your friend, however, subordinated himself to me
completely and became a philosopher.”
In our own lives, we sometimes need to take a step back and

evaluate the focus and direction of our lives. We struggle and strive in
order to live as we choose - to be free. But somehow, we never seem to
break free. Even when we achieve financial success, there are always
responsibilities, obligations and distractions that direct our lives. Although
we can never escape the entanglements of life, we can find freedom in
another direction. We can subordinate ourselves completely to the will of
our loving Creator. By welding ourselves to Him, our spirits can drink the
heady wine of true liberty even as we continue to grapple with the
demands of living in this world.
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Old Memories
Certain things in life are given, at least for people reared
according to Judaic values and ideals. Compassion for the weak and
downtrodden. Sympathy for those less fortunate than ourselves.
Kindness to the disadvantaged. Hospitality to strangers. Why then
does the Torah, in this week’s portion, find it necessary to tell us to be
kind to converts? Would it occur to anyone to act otherwise to a
newcomer?
Furthermore, why does the Torah go on to tell us to be kind to

converts because we too were “strangers in the land of Egypt”? Do we
really need this rationalization in order to be sensitive to the feelings of
a convert? And if we do a reason to be compassionate, will the
experiences of our ancestors in Egypt many centuries ago really
sensitize us to the feelings of newcomers whom we encounter today?
The commentators explain that the Torah certainly does not

expect people to be so callous as to offend newcomers to Judaism
deliberately. Clearly, these people are going through a very
challenging experience, turning away from the old familiar pattern of
their lives and setting out on uncharted waters. Many aspects of this
experience are undoubtedly very traumatic and disorienting, and we all
can be expected to be sympathetic and supportive. The problem lies
elsewhere. Do we really know what the convert is feeling? Do we truly
relate to the turmoil in his heart? Do we have any firsthand knowledge
of the emotional strain, insecurity and loneliness that a newcomer
experiences? Obviously not. How then can we be sensitive to them
even if we want to?
Therefore, the Torah reminds us that we ourselves were once

strangers in the land of Egypt, a persecuted minority struggling to
survive in a hostile environment. Our very nationhood was forged in an
alien setting, and the memory is deeply etched into our national
consciousness. We need to connect to that experience in our minds,
and in this way, we can revive within ourselves a hint of the experience
of being a stranger in an alien land. Only in this way can we sensitize
ourselves to the turmoil in the newcomer’s heart. Only in this way can
we treat him with true sympathy and friendship.
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A wise old rabbi was trudging though the snow-clogged streets
of a little village. Finally, he came to the house of one of the richest
men in the village. He knocked on the door and waited patiently.
A servant opened the door and, seeing the old rabbi,
immediately invited him in. But the rabbi just shook his head and asked
to see the master of the house.
In no time, the rich man came hurrying to the door. “Rabbi, why
are you standing outside?” he wanted to know. “It’s so cold out there.
Please come in where it is warmer.”
“Thank you so much,” said the rabbi, “but I prefer to stay out
here. Can we talk for a moment?”
“Why, certainly, certainly,” said the rich man. He shivered and
pulled his jacket closer about him.
“Well, you see, it’s like this,” the rabbi began. “There are a
number of poor families in this village who don’t have any money -”
“I’m sorry for interrupting, rabbi,” the rich man said. His teeth
were chattering. “You know I always contribute to the poor and hungry.
Why can’t we talk about this inside? Why do we have to stand out
here?”
“Because these people need firewood,” the rabbi explained. “I
am collecting for firewood for poor families.”
“So why can’t we talk inside?” asked the rich man.
“Because I want you to feel what they are feeling,” said the
rabbi, “even if only for a few minutes. Imagine how they must be
shivering in their drafty little houses with the ice-cold furnaces! The
more you give me, the more families will be spared this dreadful cold.”
In our own lives, we often relate to others - children, family

members, friends, associates - by the standards of our own point of
view. We see them through the prism of our own experience. But this
does not lend itself to true sympathy and effective communication.
Their attitudes and mindsets are colored by the nuances of their own
characters and experiences and are therefore vastly different from
ours. In order for us to be truly sensitive to them, we must try to put
ourselves in their place. Only then will we be able to listen with open
ears. Only then will we gain an inkling of what they are going through,
of what they really feel inside. Only then can we even begin to provide
the sympathy and support they deserve.
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Gilded Bondage
This is where it was all leading. The miraculous ten plagues. The
triumphant Exodus from Egypt. The incredible parting of the sea. The
spectacular revelation of the Divine Presence on Mount Sinai. The
declaration of the Ten Commandments. Everything was pointing toward
the acceptance of the Torah by the Jewish people. And now it had all
come to pass. It was time to get down to the business of learning what the
vast Torah was all about.
So what were the first laws Moses taught the Jewish people in the
desert encampments? Did they describe the observance of the Sabbath
day? The celebration of the festivals? The guidelines for kosher food?
Not at all. Moses begins by telling the people about a Jewish thief
who is sold into bondage in a Jewish home for six years so that his victim
can be repaid. What is so critical about these laws that they are given
such high priority?
Let us take a closer look at this Jewish bondsman. What if after six
years, when his term of bondage expires, he decides to stay on? After all,
the Torah instructs the Jewish master to share all the comforts of home
with his Jewish bondsman. What if the bondsman finds this situation
secure and pleasant and doesn’t want to leave? The Torah tells us he
must be brought to the doorpost. Then his ear, which heard Hashem say,
“The Jewish people are My servants,” not servants of servants, must be
drilled through with an awl.
Why does the Torah prescribe such a harsh punishment for this
bondsman who chooses to remain in his master’s house?
The commentators explain that the attitude of the bondsman who

chooses to remain in his master’s house is antithetical to the very essence
of the Exodus from Egypt. Clearly, he views the redemption from Egyptian
bondage in purely physical terms. In Egypt, the Jewish people suffered
material privation and dreadful working conditions, but now they could
enjoy the fruits of their own labor and live in relative comfort. If the Jewish
master’s house provided material comfort and security, then it was
perfectly acceptable to live in this sort of gilded bondage.
But that was not the primary purpose of the Exodus. Hashem had
not wrenched them free from the grasp of the Egyptians simply to give
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them the creature comforts of life. He brought them forth to spiritual
freedom, to a state of personal liberation in which each individual would
have unlimited opportunities to rise to the highest levels of spiritual
achievement. He brought the Jewish people forth from Egypt so that they
could connect with their Creator, so that the divine spark within each of
them would flare into a splendid spiritual flame.
A bondsman, under constant obligation to his master, cannot

undertake this spiritual journey. Therefore, if he chooses to remain, he is
choosing the material over the spiritual, completely missing the message
of the Exodus. In response, his ear is drilled, symbolizing the penetration
beyond the superficial to the essence within. The bondsman must learn
the deeper meaning of the Exodus and the role of “My servants.” Being
the servant of Hashem does not connote physical bondage but rather
spiritual freedom. This is the essence of the Exodus.
A successful businessman met an old schoolmate in a train

station. The man was gaunt and unshaven, and his clothing was
threadbare. The small satchel in his hand obviously held all his earthly
belongings.
“What happened to you, my friend?” asked the businessman. “We
all thought you were on the road to success.”
“I have successfully found freedom. I am a traveling preacher.”
“Freedom? You call this freedom?”
“Yes, I do,” said the preacher. “Tell me, are you free?” “Me?” said
the businessman. “Of course, I am free.” “You are mistaken,” said the
preacher. “You are a prisoner of your large house with its large mortgage,
your business, your employees, your customers, your bills, your
investments, everything. You cannot make a move without giving
accountings in every direction. I, on the other hand, am free to do
whatever my spirit moves me to do.”
In our own lives, we all value and cherish the opportunities

available to us in the democratic and affluent society in which we live. But
let us not confuse material success with freedom. If the price of our
material success is the stultification of our spirits than we have only
achieved a gilded bondage and cheated ourselves of the unlimited
rewards which only true spiritual freedom so richly provides.
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PARASHAS TERUMAH
Asking the Impossible

What is the point of asking someone to do the impossible?
What is to be gained by having a person make the attempt and fail? In
bringing up our children, we are always careful to demand of them only
what they can realistically accomplish. Otherwise, we would be setting
them up for failure. Yet in this week’s parashah, we find that Hashem
does exactly the opposite.
“And you shall make a menorah of pure gold, hammered,”

Hashem told Moses, “the menorah will be made.” The Midrash
observes that at first, Moses was commanded “to make a menorah,”
but much as he tried, he was unable to produce it according to the
Torah’s specifications. Finally, Hashem told him to throw the gold into
the fire and “the menorah will be made” by itself - miraculously.
We can safely assume that Moses, the greatest man who ever
lived, made the most valiant attempt to fulfill the commandment of
making a menorah, that he exerted himself to the full extent of his
considerable talents and abilities. And yet he failed. Surely, then, it
was not humanly possible to create such a menorah by any means
short of a miracle. If so, why did Hashem command Moses to produce
a menorah when He knew failure was guaranteed? Why didn’t
Hashem produce the menorah miraculously right from the beginning?
A similar question arises earlier in the parashah, where we find

an interesting paradox. The Torah commands that the Holy Ark be
carried by long wooden rods inserted through golden rings in its sides,
and that these rods never be removed; other Tabernacle furnishings
were also carried by similar means, but there is no prohibition against
removing the rods. Why was it so important that the rods of the Holy
Ark never be removed? After all, our Sages tell us that the Holy Ark
traveled under its own power and actually carried its bearers with it.
The act of carrying was only an illusion. In real terms, however, the
bearers of the Holy Ark contributed nothing to its transportation, and
yet, here in particular, special emphasis is placed on keeping the rods
of the bearers in place. Why is this so?
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The commentators explain that a profound lesson is being
taught here. Every person in the world is obligated to accomplish as
much good as he possibly can. He is obligated to provide for his
family, help those less fortunate than himself, and support institutions
of Torah and charity. This is called hishtadlus. Although a person
knows that in the final analysis Hashem controls the world and
everything that happens in it, he should not say, “Why should I bother
when it is all up to Hashem anyway?” Hashem wants all people to
exert themselves to the full extent of their abilities, as if it were all up to
them. Then - and only then - does Hashem reward their efforts.
True, the Holy Ark carried itself, and it is for this very reason
that the rods must never be removed. Don’t delude yourself, says the
Torah, into thinking you don’t need to lift up the rods because it won’t
make a difference anyway. The omnipresent rods are there to remind
you that you are always obligated to do your utmost - no matter what.
For this same reason, Hashem commanded Moses to make

the menorah, even though He knew it was impossible. Again, we are
being taught the same lesson. A person is required to try to the best of
his ability, regardless of whether he can assume that his efforts will be
crowned with success. Moses was rewarded for all his exertions in the
attempt to make the menorah, even though in the end it took a miracle
to produce it.
In our own lives, we too are sometimes overwhelmed by the

daunting tasks that face us, whether in our private lives, the workplace
or our obligations to the community. We sometimes cannot see how
we will ever achieve success, and therefore, we become discouraged
and lose heart. Let us draw on the lessons of the golden menorah and
the Holy Ark. Let us reflect on the deeper truths of existence, that
success and failure are never in our own power, that all we can do is
try. And let us pray to Hashem that He look kindly upon our sincere
efforts and bless them with success - even if it takes a miracle.
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Temples Without Walls

The Jewish people, traveling through the barren desert, were
comforted by the knowledge that their forefather Jacob had worried
about their situation. Hundreds of years earlier, he had known through
prophecy that his descendants would be liberated from bondage in
Egypt and journey through a trackless wasteland devoid of vegetation
and water. Therefore, with the devoted love of a grandfather, he made
provisions for them during his own lifetime. The Midrash tells us that
he planted young acacia saplings in Egypt that would grow into mature
trees by the time they were liberated. Before the exodus, they would
cut these trees down and hew them into huge planks. They would
transport these planks with them into the desert and use them in the
construction of the Mishkan, Hashem’s earthly Abode.
The questions immediately come to mind. If Jacob was so

worried about what his grandchildren would do in the barren desert,
why didn’t he prepare material necessities, such as food and drink, for
them? Obviously, he was certain Hashem would provide all their
material needs in the desert. He would send them food even where no
vegetation grew, and he would send them drink even where no rivers
flowed. But if so, it only stood to reason that He would also provide
them with lumber where no trees grew. Why then did Jacob have to
plant acacia trees in Egypt to take care of their future construction
needs?
The commentators explain that the Mishkan was far more than
a physical abode for the Divine Presence in this world. It was also
meant to symbolize the spiritual abode each Jew constructed in his
own heart and soul wherein Hashem would dwell. In the pagan world,
the gods supposedly lived in the temples, and the people lived in their
homes. The people would visit the temples to pay their respects to the
gods and then return home to their own private lives. But this was not
the Jewish concept at all. The Jewish people did not expect Hashem’s
presence to be restricted to the Tabernacle, a temple to be visited and
left behind. The construction of the physical Tabernacle was a
symbolic expression of the desire of the people to be forever bonded
with the Creator, to build an indestructible temple for Him in their own
hearts.
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In this light, we can understand why they had to bring their own
lumber. In order for the act of the construction of the Tabernacle to
retain its full transcendent value, it needed to come entirely from the
Jewish people, an unreserved invitation to Hashem to come among us.
Therefore, it would have been inappropriate to ask Hashem to provide
the lumber for the construction. He could send manna from heaven to
feed the Jewish people and cause water to flow from a rock to slake
their thirsts, but for Him to provide the lumber for the Tabernacle would
have diminished its symbolic significance. The preparation of the
lumber was in and of itself a declaration of the love of the people for
Hashem.
A man was betrothed to a woman who owned a flower shop.

The evening of the engagement party arrived, and the excited bride
awaited her groom with great anticipation. At last, he appeared,
dressed in a new suit and striding purposefully toward her. His face
was wreathed in abroad smile. His hands were empty.
“I don’t understand,” she stammered in bewilderment. “Where

are the roses you brought me?”
“But I didn’t bring you any roses,” he replied.
“You didn’t?” she cried as tears sprang to her eyes. “Why not?
Don’t I deserve flowers like any other bride?”
“But you are not like any other bride,” said the groom. “You own
your own flower shop. Giving you flowers would be like bringing coals
to Newcastle.”
“I see you have a lot to learn about women,” she replied. “Do
you think grooms bring flowers to their brides because they need
them? Flowers help grooms express their love for their brides. I too
want that expression of love, even though I’ve got plenty of flowers of
my own.”
In our own lives, we sometimes find ourselves slipping into a

mechanical and perfunctory observance of the Torah’s
commandments; we find ourselves acting more out of habit than out of
inspiration. At such times, we would do well to look into our inner
selves and inspect the temples in our hearts. Perhaps they have been
neglected. The roof may have sprung a leak, and the walls may be in
need of repair. But if we reaffirm our commitment to Hashem and our
desire to have Him dwell within us, we can build our spiritual temples
within our own hearts and recapture the joy and inspiration that are the
natural characteristics of living with Hashem.
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A Heart of Wood
It was breathtakingly beautiful, but ordinary human eyes never
feasted on it. Secluded in the Holy of Holies, the holy Ark of the Torah
was visited only once a year - by the High Priest on Yom Kippur, the
holiest day on the Jewish calendar. Nevertheless, the Arks glittering
beauty, transcendent holiness and aura of mystery loom large in
history and legend.
The Ark sits at the very core of Judaism. It is the eternal

depository of the Tablets that Moses received directly from Hashem on
Mount Sinai, and as such, it is the ultimate symbol of the power and
glory of the Torah. It is the crown jewel of the Temple, a spectacular
vision of pure gleaming gold adorned with two golden winged cherubs.
Not surprisingly, therefore, the Ark is popularly known as “the golden
Ark.”
But that is not how the Torah describes it. “And they shall make
an Ark of cedar wood,” the Torah declares. Then the Torah goes on to
describe how this Ark is to be constructed. A wooden ark is placed
inside a golden ark. Then a second golden ark is placed inside the
wooden ark. The rim is then covered with gold, effectively
encapsulating the wooden ark entirely in gold. The Talmud explains
that this is meant to signify that a true Torah scholar is equally pure
within and without.
A number of questions immediately come to mind. Why does

the Torah describe it as “an Ark of cedar wood” when, in fact, not a
speck of wood is visible? Why isn’t the popular “golden Ark” a more
appropriate description? Furthermore, if the ark is meant to symbolize
the absolute integrity of the Torah scholar, his total purity within and
without, why is a layer of wood interposed between the two layers of
gold? Wouldn’t total purity mandate that the Ark be solid gold through
and through rather than a gold veneer on a wooden base?
The commentators explain that gold and wood represent two

distinct aspects of the human personality. Gold represents the sublime
and ethereal aspect, spirituality in its purest form. The golden side of
the human personality soars above them mundane world and reaches
out for the divine. Wood, on the other hand, represents the human
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connectedness with the earth, the prosaic, the mundane. Just as a tree
is rooted in the soil, so is a person rooted in the physical world and the
society of other people.
The ideal Torah scholar is more than just a golden ethereal

spirit passing through the world in blissful oblivion of the realities of
human struggle. At his core, he must have a heart of wood, rooted in
this world and supremely sensitive to the physical needs of other
people. This then is the Jewish paragon, not a monastic recluse nor a
sensualist but a person imbued within and without with the true spirit of
Torah yet rooted in human society, reaching out with yearning to the
divine and with kindness and compassion to the mundane.
In this vein, perhaps we can detect a further symbolism in the

choice of wood for the essence of the Ark. Gold, for all its beauty, is
static; it does not grow. It is stuff of which angels are made. Wood,
however, is alive and always grows. The Torah clothes a person in
golden garments, and at his core, it imbues him with the vitality of
wood so that he can flourish and grow as a person for his entire life.
A young man went to bid his wise old grandfather farewell

before embarking n a long journey.
“And where are you going my child?” asked the old man. “I am
going to see a very great sage,” he replied, mentioning the name of a
famous luminary. “I always wanted to see what an angel looks like.”
The old man smiled. “Then you are making a mistake. The
sage you mentioned is not an angel. He is the ultimate of what a man
can be, and believe me, that is greater than an angel.”
In our own lives, we must retain our perspectives as we strive

to be more spiritual. The Torah does not want us to achieve spirituality
by withdrawing from the world and isolating ourselves from the society
around us. On the contrary, the Torah wants us to retain a powerful
connection with the hustling, bustling world around us and to imbue it
to the best of our abilities with the spirit and sanctity of the Torah. If we
can clothe ourselves within and without with the golden garments of
the Torah yet retain a deep-rooted vitality in our hearts, we can indeed
enjoy the best of both worlds.
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PARASHAS TETZAVEH
Induced Holiness
How is this week’s parashah different from all the other parshios in
the last four Books of the Torah? Parashas Tetzaveh is missing
something that appears in every parashah from Shemos and on - the
mention of the name of Moses. From the time he first appears in the
hallowed pages of the Torah as a baby in a basket floating among the
reeds of the Nile River, Moses’s name is mentioned thousands of times in
every context. But not this week. Not even once. Why?
The Talmud tells us that when Moses pleaded with Hashem to

forgive the Jewish people for the sin of the Golden Calf, he declared, “If
You do not forgive the people, erase me from Your Book.” And Hashem,
apparently not having forgiven the Jewish people completely,
accommodated him by removing the mention of his name from one part of
the Torah - this week’s parashah.
But Hashem certainly did not pick a parashah at random from

which to delete mention of Moses’s name. There must have been some
significance in the selection of Tetzaveh. What message is implied in this
omission?
The answer lies in our appreciation of Moses as the greatest

prophet who ever lived. How exactly did his level of prophecy differ from
that of other prophets? Maimonides explains that Moses had the gift of
spontaneous prophecy. Other prophets needed to induce a state of
ecstasy in themselves before they could attain to prophecy. In the Book of
Kings, we read about Elisha calling for a musician to help him achieve a
state of serenity and expanded consciousness. Moses, however, needed
no special preparations of this kind. He could naturally and easily
communicate with Hashem at all times. Through his tremendous devotion
and righteousness, he had risen to such a level of spiritual development
that he was permanently in a state of prophetic ecstasy. He no longer
needed external stimuli to induce the spirit of prophecy.
Tetzaveh, this week’s parashah, highlights the importance of a

particular kind of external stimulus to the spiritual condition of a person -
his garments. “Clothes make the man,” goes the saying. The priestly
garments described in this week’s parashah certainly made the Kohein.
When he donned these consecrated garments, he was infused with a
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state of priestly sanctification, without which he would not have been
qualified to perform the Temple service. According to the Talmud, a
Kohein who omitted even one of these special garments was considered a
zar, a non-Kohein, with regard to the service. The priestly garments, then,
are the epitome of external stimuli by which a state of holiness is induced.
In this light, we can understand why Hashem chose Tetzaveh for

the omission of the name of Moses. Not only did the laws of the garments
themselves not apply to Moses, the very concept of the garments was not
relevant to him. He had purified and sanctified himself to such a degree
that his state of prophetic holiness had become part of his very being, not
a temporarily induced condition.
A guest in a hotel heard that a certain sage famed as the

“guardian of his tongue” was in the dining room. The man, who had never
seen the famous sage, rushed to catch a glimpse of him. In the dining
room, he found two venerable sages deep in conversation. But which was
the famous one?
The man watched them for a few minutes. One was speaking
animatedly and at great length. The other was practically silent. “Aha!” he
thought. The silent one must be the “guardian of his tongue.”
With great awe and trepidation, he approached the silent sage and
greeted him.
“You are mistaken, my friend,” the silent sage replied. Noticing the
look of bafflement on the man’s face, he continued, “Let me explain.
Guarding his tongue had become such a natural characteristic of my
friend that he can allow himself to speak freely. But I, alas, must consider
my words carefully before I speak, and it is safer for me to remain silent.”
In our own lives, although we cannot expect to attain the spiritual

levels of Moses or one of our great sages, we can follow their lead within
the parameters of our own abilities. We can take the fine characteristics in
which we excel personally - whether it is kindness, charity, concern for the
sick, honesty or anything else - and integrate them so deeply into our
personalities that they become part of our very essence. To do so does
not require additional expenditures of time or exertion, only an investment
of spiritual and emotional energy. It is an investment guaranteed to pay
wonderful dividends.
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Knock Before You Enter

Few sights were more spectacular than the Kohen Gadol, the
High Priest, resplendent in full golden regalia, his vestments formed
from the finest fabrics, precious metals and rare jewels. It was a vision
of pure artistry and unimaginable beauty. And little wonder. What else
would one expect from an ensemble designed down to its smallest
detail by the Master of the Universe Himself? But the beauty of the
priestly vestments went beyond simple esthetics. They glowed with
inner spiritual incandescence, each intricate detail laden with secret
mystical significance, each element essential to the efficacy of the
Kohen Gadol as the perfect conduit between the Jewish people and
Hashem.
What was the purpose of all the individual features of the

vestments mentioned in this week’s portion? The Torah only spells out
the purpose of one of them. The Kohen Gadol wore a four-cornered
robe of blue wool whose hem was adorned with alternating golden
pomegranates and bells. Why bells? Because “its sound should be
heard when he enters the Sanctuary before Hashem.” Apparently, this
is a very important feature of the robe, because the Torah metes out a
severe punishment for the omission of the bells. Our Sages
understood that the bells are meant to teach us basic decency and
decorum, that we must not invade the privacy of others by injecting
ourselves into their presence without warning. Proper etiquette is to
knock on the door before entering. Just as the bells announced the
Kohen Gadol’s arrival in the Sanctuary so must we announce
ourselves wherever we go and not barge in unexpectedly.
Nonetheless, the questions remain. Surely, Hashem knows

perfectly well when the Kohen Gadol is approaching, regardless of
whether or not he is preceded by the tinkling of bells. Why then does
the Torah choose to teach us this lesson in this particular setting?
Wouldn’t it have been more appropriate to teach us this lesson in a
more mundane setting involving ordinary people who can be caught
unawares?
The commentators explain that the Torah is teaching us an

additional lesson here, a lesson of critical importance. We might think
that in the pursuit of high spiritual goals it is acceptable to bend the
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rules of simple decency a little bit. Not so, says the Torah. Even at the
supernal moment when the Kohen Gadol enters the Holy of Holiest,
the closest point of contact between a mortal and the Master of the
Universe, he must still remember the rules of basic decency. He must
wear bells upon the hem of his robe to announce his arrival.
A group of young scholars traveled to the distant academy of a

great sage. They studied diligently before embarking on the journey
and arrived with high hopes of being accepted as his disciples.
The sage welcomed each of them individually and spoke with

him at length on a wide variety of topics. On the last day, all the young
men were invited to join the sage at his table to share his bread and
listen to his words of wisdom.
The young men entered the sage’s house, hung up their coats
and washed their hands before coming to the table. For several hours,
they were transported to a world of transcendent wisdom and
mysticism, and their hearts were set afire with the yearning to become
part of this world.
The next day, the sage announced his decision. He accepted

all the applicants, except for one. The rejected young man, who was
quite a brilliant fellow, was devastated. With tears streaming down his
face, he came to the sage and begged for an explanation.
“It is really quite simple,” said the sage. “When you washed
your hands before coming to my table you looked around for a towel
but couldn’t find one. Instead, you wiped your hands on a coat that
belonged to one of your friends. Being in a hurry to hear words of
wisdom does not exempt you from the rules of simple decency. If you
were a true scholar, you would have understood this yourself. I’m very
sorry, young man, but you have no place in my academy.”
In our own lives, we often get caught up in our daily urgencies,

and sometimes, this leads us to overlook the rules of simple decency
and courtesy. If we are late for an appointment, we rationalize, then it
is all right to elbow our way through a crowd or drive a little more
aggressively than we normally would. Let us remember, therefore, that
nothing was more important than the Kohen Gadol entering the Holy of
Holies, and yet the rules of simple decency always took precedence.
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PARASHAS KI SISA
Strength in Numbers
When the census-taker made his rounds in ancient Israel, he
didn’t bring a calculator or an abacus on which to record the number of
persons in each household, nor did he distribute questionnaires for the
people to fill out and return. Instead, he collected a half-shekel from
every Jew in the land, and by counting the coins in his bag, he arrived
at the new population figure.
In this week’s Torah portion, we are told that this indirect

method of census-taking was employed because an actual head count
might cause harm to the people. But this leads us to ask: How could
harm arise from Hashem’s expression of endearment by counting His
people? What difference could there possibly be between counting
people directly or indirectly?
Furthermore, if a collection of coins was required to determine

the population figures, why did the Torah specify the half-shekel in
particular?
Let us consider for a moment. Contemporary Western society

places great emphasis on the overriding importance of the individual.
Collective society is only there to accommodate all its individuals, to
safeguard their individual rights and privileges. The responsibilities of
the individual to society are largely ignored. According to the
contemporary Western value system, the individual may not encroach
on his brother’s space, but he is not his brother’s keeper either. The
result is a society that endeavors to protect the life and liberty of each
individual but encourages him to live in egocentric spiritual isolation.
The Torah concept of the individual, on the other hand, is

tempered with a strong sense of community. Our Sages consider each
individual person a world unto himself, of such transcendent
importance that the entire universe could have been created for his
sake alone. And yet, the individual is not an island apart. He is part of
the broader community, to which he bears significant responsibilities
and from which he draws significant strength.
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An individual, no matter how brilliant and talented, is limited in
his scope, but the power and potential of a unified community are
virtually limitless. In this case, the whole is undoubtedly greater than
the sum of its parts. The individual who connects with the community
assumes an additional, higher identity as part of this greater whole.
Had the census process taken the form of a head count it

would have set each individual squarely on the stage by himself - if
only for a brief moment - and drawn Heavenly attention to his flaws
and virtues. Very few individuals are worthy and virtuous enough to
withstand such scrutiny and come away unharmed.
When the census taker counted the coins he had collected,

however, there was no longer an identifiable connection between the
coins and the people they represented. In effect, then, the collective
population was determined without ever highlighting the individual -
with all his faults and shortcomings. The half-shekel underscores this
symbolism. Each of us is only a “half,” and we only become a “whole”
by connecting with the broader community.
A rich, populous country amassed a fearsome mercenary army

and invaded one of its small, impoverished neighbors. The king of the
small country rallied his people, but the aggressors enjoyed such an
overwhelming military advantage that resistance seemed hopeless. All
international observers predicted defeat. But to the amazement of all,
the defenders snatched victory from the jaws of defeat and expelled
the invaders.
“It is really quite simple,” said the king at the victory celebration.
“I drew my soldiers from the same district and similar backgrounds.
They knew and cared for each other, and each knew what was on the
other’s mind almost before he said it. That army of ferocious
mercenaries was an assembly of individuals, but we were a group -
unified as one man with one goal in our hearts. It was no contest.”
In our own lives, we sometimes feel a sense of aimlessness

and loss of direction, a sense of isolation. Very often, these feelings
are signs of a loosening of our attachment to the community. No
matter how talented and successful we may be as individuals, we can
only achieve our full potential by connecting with the overall
community, by sharing its pain and its joy. Only in this way, can we
also draw on the collective strength and merit and bring true peace of
mind and fulfillment into our individual lives.
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Flaming Desire
Things don’t just happen by themselves. And yet, when the Jewish
people built a golden calf while Moses was away on the mountaintop
receiving the Torah from Hashem, something very strange happened. The
Midrash in this week’s Torah portion tells us that the people threw their
golden ornaments into the flames and a fully formed golden calf emerged.
Amazing! Why would such a thing happen? Surely, this must have been
an aberration. Surely, something like this could not happen again.
But wait. Let us peek into next week’s Torah portion. Lo and
behold, the same thing happens. The people are building the Tabernacle,
Hashem’s earthly Abode. The time arrives for the construction of the
golden candelabrum, the mystical symbol of wisdom that will illuminate in
the Inner Sanctum. The construction of this transcendent vessel is
exceedingly complicated, and to make matters even more difficult, the
entire candelabrum is to be made from a single ingot of gold. Although he
gives it his best effort, Moses cannot accomplish this baffling task. Finally,
Hashem tells Moses to throw the gold into the fire and the candelabrum
will emerge by itself. And this is exactly what happens. What is the
connection between these two strange phenomena? Is it coincidence that
they transpired one right after the other?
The commentators explain that these two incidents are actually

two sides of the same coin. They both reflect the tremendous power
inherent in the human will. When a person’s heart is set on a goal, when
he is consumed with a flaming desire to attain that goal, nothing can stand
in his way. Where there is a will there is way, says the old adage. The
implication, of course, is that human ingenuity can always discover a
solution to any problem. But it is far deeper than that. The will of a human
generates an almost mystical energy that can penetrate any barrier.
When Moses did not return from the mountaintop on schedule, the
people were confused and disoriented, and they instinctively turned to
their old idolatrous habits for reassurance. In their distress, they were
overcome with a burning desire for the illusory comforts of the idol worship
to which they were accustomed in Egypt. This desire was so strong, the
Torah tells us, that all they had to do was throw their golden ornaments
into the fire and the golden calf emerged.
But just as the will of a human penetrates all barriers to attain its
sinister goals, it can also be channeled to the good. If a person is inspired
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Shemos: Ki Sisa
to reach for the highest spiritual goals, his very desire will generate a
mystical energy that will carry him there, one way or another. This is what
Hashem was teaching Moses. Nothing stands in the way of the
indomitable human will, not even the near impossibility of forming the
intricate candelabrum from a single piece of gold. The fire of his
enthusiasm would create the candelabrum even if his hands could not.
This was the true reversal of the sin of the golden calf. The flaming
desire to sin had generated the abominable idol. But now Moses
channeled his flaming desire in the opposite direction, and by doing so, he
created the perfect vessel of wisdom and spiritual illumination.
A great emperor of ancient times ruled most of the civilized world

with an iron hand. After he was assassinated, civil war broke out among
his potential successors to the throne. Both pretenders to the throne were
powerful charismatic figures, and each was able to rally many local kings
and princes of the empire to his standard.
The war raged on for several years until one of the pretenders
finally emerged victorious and was acclaimed as the new emperor.
One of the kings who had fought valiantly on the side of the loser
feared for his life. He traveled to the imperial city and pleaded for an
audience with the new emperor. The audience was granted, and the
defeated king prostrated himself before the new emperor.
“What have you to say for yourself?” declared the emperor. “Your
majesty,” said the king, “do not look at whose friend I was but rather at
what sort of friend I was. You saw that I was a loyal and devoted friend to
your rival. If you honor me by accepting my friendship, you now know
what sort of friend I will be to you.”
The emperor smiled and nodded. “You have spoken well, my
friend. Your life is spared, and you will retain all your lands and honors.”
In our own lives, it is important to recognize the enormous power

we hold in our own hands. We are capable of attaining any goals we
pursue with true single-minded perseverance, but sometimes we would do
well to stop and consider where we are going. Only if we channel our
energies correctly and pursue goals of enduring value can we truly enrich
our lives and find true happiness and fulfillment.
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Dazzled by the Light

A strange thing happened after Moses brought down the
second set of tablets from Mount Sinai. The people took one glance at
him, and they had to turn away. His face had begun to glow with a
transcendent celestial light and with such intensity that the people
could not bear to look at him. It was like looking directly at the sun.
From that point on, Moses had to drape his face with a mask after he
came among the people, taking it off only when he entered the
Tabernacle to speak with the Almighty.
The Talmud explains that this incandescent radiance was a

manifestation of the Divine Presence with had transformed his very
essence. His spiritual side had become so dominant over his material
side that his soul, the divine spark within him, shone out unfiltered and
interrupted by any material barriers.
Some of the commentators find this development rather

puzzling. When Moses brought down the first set of tablets, we find no
mention of any increased luminescence of Moses’s face. Only after he
saw the corruption of the golden calf-idol and smashed the first tablets
do we find that his face took on this heightened illumination. Why was
this so?
The commentators explain that the illumination actually began

much earlier. Long before Moses returned with the second set of
tablets, he had already reached the exalted spiritual level reflected in
his resplendent countenance. Earlier, however, the people had no
problem looking at his face, because they themselves were on an
exalted spiritual level.
When a person who spends most of his time in a dark room

suddenly steps out into the sunlight, he has to cover his eyes
immediately, because he cannot tolerate the bright sunlight. But a
person who spends his time in a brilliantly lit room can step into the
sunlight with ease. Since he is accustomed to light, he can tolerate a
greater light.
Before the sin of the golden calf, the people were accustomed
to a very high level of spiritual light, and therefore, they were not
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blinded by the supernal light of Moses’s face. But after they sinned,
their spiritual light was greatly dimmed, and they became accustomed
to living in spiritual darkness. Therefore, when they beheld the
luminous face of Moses, they had no choice but to turn away.
Two young men went to see a famous sage who lived in a

distant town. They had heard a great deal about the sage, and they
were both eager to hear his words of wisdom and ask his blessing.
Finally, they arrived in the town where the sage lived. They
took a room in the hotel and immediately went to seek an audience
with the sage.
After a short wait, the two young men were shown into the
audience room of the sage. He was very old and feeble, but his eyes
were sharp and penetrating, and his face glowed with holiness and
purity.
He asked the two young men to sit down and began to speak
with them. One young man had gone pale when he saw the sage.
When the sage spoke to him, he couldn’t manage more than a
stammer, and his face grew beet-red. The other young man, however,
was his poised and comfortable self.
After they left, the first young man said to his friend, “I don’t
understand it. How come you were so comfortable with the sage, while
I was frightened out of my wits?”
One of the sage’s attendants standing nearby overheard the
question.
“It happens all the time, my good fellow,” he said. “People who
are not quite what they should be are always thunderstruck by the
appearance of the sage. They find his holiness too dazzling to behold.
If that’s how you reacted, I would suggest you straighten out your life
right away.”
In our own lives, we can measure our spiritual level by our

reaction to other people of great spirituality. If we feel at ease in their
company and are even drawn to them, our own innate spirituality is
probably at a high level as well. But if they make us feel even vaguely
uncomfortable, we should take it as a clear sign that we have become
a little too materialistic and that it is time to focus on raising the level of
our own spirituality.
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The Rewards of Sacrifice

It was a tough assignment for a mere bar-mitzvah boy. All eyes
were upon him. The nation was in deep trouble, and the only hope
rested in the talented hands of the thirteen-year-old boy. If he could
perform at the highest level, disaster would be averted. Otherwise, all
would be lost. The boy’s name was Bezalel, and his assignment was
to reestablish the connection between God and the Jewish people.
The trouble began when Moses went up on the mountain to

receive the Torah and lingered for forty days before he returned with
the Tablets of the Ten Commandments. By the last day, the people
gave up hope of ever again seeing him alive. A frenzied mob built the
Golden Calf as their new deity and danced around it in drunken
celebration. This scene greeted Moses when he descended from the
mountain. All the pain, all the work, all the struggle, everything had
been in vain. In one day of madness, the Jewish people had severed
their connection with God. Moses took the Tablets and smashed them
to smithereens.
But there was a ray of hope. Moses pleaded with God not to
destroy the Jewish people, to give them one more chance, and God
relented. He commanded them to build the Mishkan (Tabernacle) as a
dwelling for the Divine Presence amidst the people. This would
reestablish the severed connection. God also commanded them to
assign the entire project to a particular master artisan, a thirteen-
yearold boy named Bezalel, whom He had “filled with divine wisdom.”
What was so special about Bezalel? Why did God choose to

imbue him with the special divine wisdom needed for this critical
project?
The clue lies in the way God identifies him − Bezalel the son of
Uri the son of Hur. The Torah ordinarily identifies people only by the
patronymic, the father’s name. Yet here we are told his grandfather’s
name as well. The commentators conclude that God selected Bezalel
in the merit of Hur, his grandfather.
Hur, the son of Moses’ sister Miriam, was the only one who had
stood against the mob and tried to stop the madness, and they killed
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him. It seemed at the time that his death had been futile, a terrible
waste. But in retrospect, we see that he did not die in vain. Because of
his great act of heroism, because of his willingness to sacrifice his life
to preserve the connection between God and the Jewish people, his
grandson Bezalel was endowed with the transcendent spiritual intuition
necessary to build the Mishkan and reestablish the severed
connection.
A young man came to seek a sage’s advice.
“I feel that I am wasting my life,” he said. “I work so hard to

improve myself, to become a better person, but I do not feel that I am
any different from what I was before. I don’t think I have become any
wiser. I don’t think my character has improved. What is the use of
making all this effort if I have nothing to show for it?”
“How long have you been doing this?” asked the sage. “Six weeks.”
“I see,” said the sage, “Tell me, young man, when you were a
child, did your mother make markings on a wall chart to measure your
growth?”
“Yes, she did,” said the young man. “And how often did she measure
you?” “Once a year. On my birthday.”
“And what if you had measured yourself every day?” asked the
sage. “What would the results have been?”
“Probably not very noticeable,” the young man admitted.

“There, you see? The results of your efforts are not always evident
right away. Just continue to work on self-improvement, and I assure
you that in a year you will be a different man.”
In our own lives, we invest so much time, effort and energy into
our personal growth, our children, our families, our personal
relationships, our businesses and professions, and quite often, we do
not see any tangible results. It is easy to fall victim to despair when we
do not see our efforts bear fruit. But if our intentions are altruistic and
we aspire to a higher good, we can be assured that our hard work will
not be in vain.
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PARASHAS VAYAKHEL
Don’t Roll Up Your Sleeves

It was the day after Yom Kippur. Moses had come down from the
mountain for the second time, and he immediately summoned all the
people to a mass meeting. A surge of excitement swept through the
Jewish encampment in the desert. What was the purpose of this urgent
meeting? What divine message had Moses brought to the people? Had
Hashem truly forgiven them for the sin of the Golden Calf?
The answers were not long in coming. Moses was carrying a

message of reconciliation from Hashem. He had instructed the people to
build a Mishkan, a holy Tabernacle, in which the Shechinah, the Divine
Presence, would reside among the Jewish people. This would serve as
atonement for their transgression and bring a new closeness between the
Creator and His chosen people.
It is interesting to note, however, that this message came with a

preface - a stern warning that the Sabbath not be desecrated. What was
the purpose of introducing the building of the Mishkan with the prohibition
against desecrating the Sabbath? Rashi explains that it was meant to
teach that the building of the Mishkan had to be interrupted at sundown on
Friday. But the question still remains: Numerous laws apply to the building
of the Mishkan. Why then was this particular rule, the suspension of work
on the Sabbath, singled out for special mention?
The commentators explain that this stern warning was meant to

steer the people away from the dangerous path that had led to the Golden
Calf. The people had known full well that building an idol was forbidden,
but the fear that Moses would not return drove them into a panic. How
would they communicate with Hashem in the absence of Moses? In
desperation, they sought another medium. They took the liberty of
rationalizing that the pressing needs of the moment were paramount, and
if it took a Golden Calf to establish contact with Hashem, so be it. In
actuality, however, they should not have presumed to judge when to keep
the rules and when to break them.
This was the message of the prohibition against building the

Mishkan on the Sabbath. One might think that this project was of such
transcendent importance that nothing could stand in its way. But not so! I
am the judge of these things, said Hashem, not you. Our acceptance of
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the Divine Wisdom must be absolute, unquestioning, without
rationalizations, because we cannot possibly know all the factors which
enter into the divine decision-making process.
A king once appointed a new ambassador to a neighboring

country. “Promise me one thing,” said the king. “Never ever roll up your
sleeve in public!”
The ambassador was puzzled, but he promised.
At the end of his tour of duty, his host country threw a lavish
banquet in his honor.
“I heard,” the president announced in front of the assembled
dignitaries. “that all you people have black scars on your upper arms. Is
this true?”
“Of course not,” said the ambassador. “Then show me. Roll up your
sleeve.”
The ambassador was shaken by this unexpected request, but
remembering his promise, he politely refused.
The president called him aside. “Listen, my friend. You must roll
up your sleeve for me. I will make it worth your while. You can have a
chest full of precious stones - if only you don't embarrass me in public by
refusing.”
The ambassador was caught on the horns of a dilemma.
Suddenly, he was struck by a brilliant idea. He would accept the chest of
precious stones and present it to his king. In this way, he would satisfy the
king and not offend the president.
With a dramatic flourish, he rolled up his sleeve, and sure enough,
there was no black scar on his upper arm.
When he returned home, the king greeted him angrily. “But, your
majesty,” said the ambassador, “I brought you a chest full of gems!”
“Fool!” cried the king. “I had a secret wager with the president. He
said he could induce you to break your promise, and I said he couldn’t.
The loser of the wager agreed to pay the winner not one but ten chests full
of precious stones. You gained one chest for me, true, but you caused me
to lose ten. You should simply have kept your promise.”
In our own lives, we are sometimes faced with situations which

tempt us to compromise on the values and ideals of the Torah in order to
achieve some greater good. But it is not for us to make these kind of
cosmic calculations, which are better left to our Creator. The guidelines for
right and wrong are spelled out clearly in the Torah. Instead of
rationalizing and breaking the rules, it would be far wiser - and safer - to
keep our sleeves rolled down.
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Home Is Where the Soul Is

The great drama of the birth of the Jewish people unfolds in the
hallowed pages of the Torah in five acts, corresponding to the five
books of the Pentateuch. The Book of Exodus, the last portion of which
we will be reading this week, begins with the enslavement of the
Jewish people. It tells of their suffering, their heartbreak, their
anguished outcries that tore the heavens asunder. As we read on,
Moses, the messenger of Hashem, humbles and humiliates the
Egyptians with miracles and plagues. Then, in the spectacular climax
of the book, we see the Jewish people emerge from slavery to a
rendezvous with destiny at Mount Sinai, where they receive the Torah
directly from Hashem, forming a bond to last forever.
And then we come to the conclusion. What do the last chapters

tell us about? What exhilarating finale appears on the last pages of
Exodus? Surprisingly, it is a minutely detailed architectural description
of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle that served as the earthly Abode for
the Divine Presence until the construction of the Holy Temple. How do
these chapters serve as the conclusion to the Exodus story?
Let us reflect for a moment. What is the essence of the Exodus

story? It is the spiritual adventure of the Jewish people, rising from the
nadir of existence, from abject bondage in an alien land and to the
glorious heights of exalted nationhood in their own homeland. But what
constitutes a homeland? Is it simply the place where we work, eat and
sleep, the place where we own a little piece of the soil? It must be
something more. Millions of soldiers have perished in wars to protect
their homelands. Why were their homelands more precious to them
than life itself?
The answers go to the essence of our very identity. We are

more than flesh and bones, more than hearts and minds. We are
aggregates of our beliefs, our values, our attitudes, all the cultural
habits engendered and nurtured by our environment. We are a
reflection of the land and the culture in which we live, and our culture
is, in turn, a reflection of us. Our environment thus becomes an
extension of ourselves, the fountainhead of our identity, and without it
we are lost and incomplete. It makes sense, therefore, that people feel
so deeply threatened by an attack on their homeland that they are
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prepared lay down their lives to defend it.
When the Jewish people left Egypt for a homeland of their own,
they were not simply exchanging one terrain for another. They were
leaving behind a corrupt society steeped in idolatry, magic and
superstition and preparing to build a sanctified society predicated on a
special relationship with the Master of the Universe. This was the
overriding feature of the new Jewish society, the value that would
make the Holy Land a true home for the Jewish people.
Therefore, the construction of the Mishkan, giving the Divine

Presence a permanent Abode among the Jewish people, was the
ultimate realization of a Jewish homeland. In this sense, even when
they were in the Desert for forty years, moving from encampment to
encampment, they were always at home, because the Mishkan was in
their midst. The finale of the Exodus story is indeed the entry of the
Jewish people into their new homeland, but that entry occurred well
before they crossed the Jordan River. As soon as they built the
Mishkan, as described in this week’s Torah portion, the Jewish people
were finally at home.
A mother took her young son on a trip around the world.

Together, they traveled by airplane, ship, train, bus, automobile and
even camelback. They climbed the highest mountains, sailed the
bluest seas, and explored most remote corners of the earth.
After a year, they returned, exhausted but happy, to the warm

embrace of their family.
“Come here, young man,” said the youthful traveler’s

grandmother. “Tell me, where were you this past year?”
“Don’t you know, grandmother?” asked the boy. “I was with my

mother all the time!”
In our own lives, we almost invariably focus on the appearance

of our homes, because we see them as extensions and expressions of
ourselves. And rightfully so. But our homes reflect not only our tastes
in architecture, furniture and art. Our values, our ideals, our level of
spirituality are all more integral to the nature of our homes than
anything else. They truly make our homes shine with a spiritual light
that can enrich our families and all those who enjoy our hospitality.
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Covering the Deficit

Conjure up this scene in your imagination. The steering committee
of a prestigious charitable organization convenes a meeting of its main
benefactors. A new building is needed desperately, the chairman reports,
and the projected cost will run high into the millions. “Ladies and
gentlemen,” he declares, “your generous support has enabled us to serve
the community so effectively in the past, and only your continued support
will help us erect this building so that we can continue to serve the
community well for many years to come.”
The chairman begins to call on the assembled benefactors one by

one. The contributions flow. One hundred thousand dollars. Fifty
thousand. One hundred and eighty thousand. And so on.
Presently, the chairman calls the name of a famous philanthropist.

The room falls instantly silent as everyone strains to hear what he will say.
Slowly, he rises to his feet and clears his throat. “Mr. Chairman, I
will pass right now. But I will tell you this. Let everyone give what his heart
moves him to give. Total up what you have raised and calculate the
shortfall. I personally pledge to cover the deficit, no matter how large it is.
Before we walk out of here today, you will have your building.”
What do you think the reaction would be to such a magnanimous

offer? Most probably, a standing ovation. After all, what could be better
than a guarantee to cover the deficit? It is an executive director’s dream.
And yet, in this week’s Torah reading we find an altogether

opposite view. When the Tabernacle donation of the tribal princes is
mentioned, the Hebrew word for princes, nesiim, is spelled in a truncated
form, omitting the letter yod. Our Sages explain that this is an indication of
the Torah’s displeasure with the princes.
But what did they do wrong? Surely their offer, to cover the entire
deficit, was the most magnanimous of all. They actually guaranteed that
there would be no shortfall in the collection. What could be better?
The commentators explain that the error of the princes was in their
skewed perspective. Covering the deficit is a wonderful offer if one is
concerned about the recipient. But in the case of the Tabernacle, the
recipient was the Creator of the Universe. He did not need the assistance
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of the princes or anyone else. The commandment to donate to the
Tabernacle was a singular privilege granted to the Jewish people for their
own benefit. Their gifts were meant to accomplish their own spiritual
enrichment, not the Almighty’s material enrichment. Had the princes truly
appreciated the essence of this commandment, they would have rushed
to donate as much as they could rather than sit back and offer to cover the
shortfall.
In reproof, therefore, the Torah deleted the letter yod from the
word nesiim, princes. The mystical teachers explain that the letter yod
represents Hashem’s immanence in all of creation. Had the princes been
truly sensitive to Hashem pervasive presence, it would never have
crossed their minds that He needed them to cover His deficits.
Two neighbors came to a king with similar requests. The king

granted the request of the one but rejected the request of the other.
“Your majesty, if I may be so bold as to ask,” said the disappointed

supplicant, “why was my request rejected while my neighbor’s was not?
For your birthday, I gave your majesty a beautiful jewel-encrusted one of-
a-kind coach, while my neighbor only gave you a simple quilt?”
“I will explain it to you,” said the king. “When your neighbor

brought me his gift, I asked him, ‘Why do I need another quilt?’ And he
replied, ‘Your majesty needs nothing from me. It is I who need to give a
gift to your majesty.’ You, my friend, come to me as my benefactor. He
comes to me as my subject. My obligation is to him.”
In our own lives, we sometimes fall into the trap of thinking that
our religious observances are our gift to Hashem. We’ve spent so much
time in the synagogue, we might tell ourselves, we’ve prayed, we’ve
studied and we’ve performed so many different commandments. What
more can Hashem want from us? Haven’t we given Him enough? But the
truth is that Hashem doesn’t really need anything from us. After all, who
gained from all these things we’ve done, we or Hashem? It is we who are
enriched by living according top the Torah values and ideals. It is we who
are the recipients of the greatest gift of all.
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PARASHAS PIKUDEI
A House of Hearts
If we were to count up all the verses in the Torah that describe the
construction of the Mishkan in minute detail, beginning with Parashas
Terumah and culminating with this week’s Torah portion, the number
would reach into the hundreds. Why does the Torah pay such
extraordinary attention to the construction of a building that existed only in
Biblical times and was eventually replaced by the Temple, which was of
totally different dimensions? What message does this painstaking
description convey to us today?
In order to find the answers we must go back to last week’s

parashah. As their contribution to the construction of the Mishkan, the
Nesiim, the tribal princes, offered to wait until the end and provide
everything that still remained to be done, a most magnanimous gesture.
But was this indeed a good offer?
Let us try to find a parallel in a contemporary setting. A

philanthropist comes to a major charitable organization or institute of
Torah study and offers to cover the annual deficit for the next ten years.
No matter what the shortfall, he will foot the bill. What would the reaction
be? Wild celebration! Ecstasy! The philanthropist would be hoisted onto
the shoulders of the administrators and fund-raisers, and they would
dance through the streets. A grand dinner would be arranged in his honor,
and he would be presented with a beautiful plaque.
This was also the offer of the Nesiim, and it would seem that it,
too, should have been greeted with appreciation and gratitude. But it was
not. The Torah castigates them subtly by omitting a letter from their name
(35:27). Our Sages point out that, although their intentions were noble,
they should not have postponed their contribution until the very end. But
the question remains: Where exactly did they err? What was wrong with
offering to guarantee that there would be no deficit?
The commentators explain that the Nesiim’s error was in bringing

a businesslike attitude to the construction of the Mishkan. From a very
practical point of view, their offer was excellent. But Hashem did not ask
for contributions to the Mishkan because he needed help making ends
meet on the construction project. He wanted the people to contribute their
love, their passionate devotion, their enthusiasm, their excitement. He
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wanted the Mishkan to be constructed of the outpourings of Jewish hearts.
The gold and silver of the donations were simply the conduits by which
these sentiments were infused into the structure of the Mishkan. The
Nesiim, however, took a cool, pragmatic attitude, and for this lack of
passion and irrepressible fervor, the Torah takes them to task.
In this light, we can understand why the Torah meticulously

enumerates each minute detail of the construction. Each little nugget of
gold, each little piece of embroidery represented another piece of a
Jewish heart aflame with devotion to our Creator, and as such, it is
infinitely and eternally precious.
A very wealthy man once came to the director of a large charitable

institution. “Rabbi,” he said, “my father just passed away, and in his
memory, I would like to cover your entire budget for the coming year.”
The rabbi looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. “I will
accept a nice donation from you, but I cannot accept this offer.”
“But how can you refuse?” asked the wealthy man, completely
taken aback. “Don’t you have a responsibility to the poor families who
depend on you?”
“Let me explain. Every year, our fund-raisers travel to distant
towns and villages, collecting small contributions from hundreds, even
thousands of Jewish people. Hashem could undoubtedly provide for our
needs more easily, but He surely wants all these good people to share in
the mitzvah of giving charity. So you see, I have a responsibility to these
people, and I cannot deprive them of this mitzvah.”
In our own lives, we are often inspired to get involved with

important causes, but we might sometimes feel that what we can
contribute, either in time, talent or resources, is simply inadequate. How
will the big picture be affected, we ask ourselves, by the few dollars or
hours we can contribute? It seems to us like a drop in the ocean.
Unfortunately, such feelings may prevent us from participating to the full
extent of our capabilities. Let us remember the lesson of the Mishkan -
that Hashem does not seek our help, only our hearts. It is not how much
we do that is important, but how we do it. If we contribute with love, caring
and compassion, then even the smallest contribution assumes
tremendous proportions.
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A Time to Wait
What happens when a construction project is finished right on
time or even somewhat ahead of schedule? Is it immediately put into
use so that it can begin serving the needs of the owner or earning him
revenue? Or is it allowed to remain empty for a while? These
questions are really rhetorical. No one would dream of leaving a major
construction project idle for even the shortest time after completion. He
would want an immediate return on his heavy investment.
And yet, this is not what happened when the Jewish people
constructed the Mishkan. It was a magnificent edifice, agleam with
cedar wood, aglitter with gold and aglow with opulent hangings. The
fixtures and utensils were all made of gold and copper and exquisitely
designed. This structure, standing as a glittering crown jewel at the
center of the Jewish encampment, would be the dwelling place of the
Divine Presence, the royal abode of the King of Kings.
The work on the Mishkan began right after Yom Kippur, the day
Moses came down from the mountain for the second time. Three
months later, the elements were complete. The beams had been
carved and gilded, the hanging fully woven, the fixtures and utensils
crafted. All that remained to be done was to bring all the elements
together and erect the Mishkan. Yet for some reason, God did not
instruct Moses to erect the Mishkan until the month of Nissan, three
months after all the elements were completed. What was the reason
for this delay in making the Mishkan operational?
The commentators explain that the Mishkan was to serve as

atonement for the sin of the Jewish people in making the Golden Calf.
What led to this terrible sin? How could the Jewish people worship the
Golden Calf so soon after the spectacular revelation of the Divine
Presence on Mount Sinai?
It was impatience. After the Ten Commandments were

pronounced on Mount Sinai, Moses went up on the mountain for forty
days to receive the rest of the Torah. Because of a miscalculation, the
people awaited him expectantly one day earlier than he was supposed
to return. When he did not appear, they despaired of his ever
returning, and they built the Golden Calf. Couldn’t they wait just one
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more day, as Aaron begged them to do? What was the rush? It was
just impatience and impulsiveness. They got an idea into their heads
and had to act immediately.
The inauguration of the Mishkan was, therefore, used to

emphasize the importance of patience to the Jewish people. Just
because the elements were finished did not mean that the final
erection had to begin immediately. The work of construction was
finished. Now there would be a time of reflection, a time to review the
errors of impulse and insufficient faith that led to the Golden Calf and
correct them, a time to contemplate patiently the virtues of patience.
A sage was contemplating the ebb and flow of the surf in a

seaside resort when an acquaintance greeted him. The man seemed
to be in a rush.
“Where are you going in such a great hurry?” asked the sage. “I
have allowed myself only two weeks for this journey, and my itinerary
is crowded. I’ve already been to three castles, four islands and seven
towns. And there is still so much to see.”
“Ah, and what do you remember of these places?” asked the
sage. “What did you think of them?”
“I don’t remember so much, and I really did not think into them
so deeply. I just looked. But everything was nice.”
“You are cheating yourself, my friend,” said the sage. “If you
had the patience to stop and think, you might learn something and
enrich yourself.”
In our own lives, contemporary society has conditioned us to be

in a constant rush. The benefits of modern technology are great
indeed, but they have taught us to expect instant results and instant
responses. We have gone way beyond the fax machine. Today, it is
email, instant messaging, high bandwidth Internet access, real time
streaming media, and universal access to global communications. We
operate at such high speeds that we have no time to reflect on what
we are doing. We live in an impatient world, but we do not have to
become impatient people. If we step on the brakes every once in a
while and take stock of what we are doing and where we are going, we
can reap not only the benefits of technology but also the benefits of
patience, wisdom and a deeper enjoyment of life.
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Ohr Shalom
PARASHAS VAYIKRA
The Salt Solution

What do all the sacrificial offerings that comprised the Temple
service have in common? Each class of offering had its own specialized
set of detailed instructions, calling for a certain species and gender of
animal or bird, for various kinds of cakes, for libations, spices or
condiments of a particular sort, and so on. No two sacrifices were
identical, and no requirement was universal. Except for one. Every
sacrifice required salt. Furthermore, the requirement of salt was not simply
a minor instruction. There is a specific positive commandment in the
Torah mandating the addition of salt to all sacrifices, and to add emphasis
to emphasis, there is also a specific prohibition forbidding the omission of
salt from any sacrifice. Clearly, the addition of salt is critical. Why salt?
The Talmud sheds light on this puzzling question. At the time of

creation, the Talmud explains, the Creator parted the lower world from the
firmament, separating the waters of the heavens from the waters of the
seas. The seas were mortified. “Master of the Universe!” they cried out.
“We want to be close to Your heavenly throne. Why have You placed us
off in the distance?” In order to reassure the seas that they had not been
abandoned or rejected, the Creator granted them the privilege of providing
salt for all sacrifices brought in the Temple.
But the questions still remain. How could a minuscule drop of salt
added to a sacrifice appease the overwhelming desire of the sea to be
closer to Hashem? How was that adequate compensation for being
distant from Hashem?
The commentators explain that we are often all too dependent on

our environment for our level of spirituality. If only we could live in more
sheltered surroundings, we tell ourselves, we would be such spiritual
people. If only we could isolate ourselves from the hubbub of the
mundane world, we could draw closer to the Creator and the fulfillment of
the transcendent aspirations of our inner souls. In the meantime, however,
we resign ourselves to the reality of our existence and the futility of
aspiring to high levels of spirituality.
But this is not what Hashem expects of us. He does not want us to
make our spiritual growth dependent on what we consider ideal
conditions. In any setting, no matter how distant, no matter how difficult,
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He wants us to yearn to connect with Him. Moreover, it is this very
yearning which will bring us closer to Him and forge that powerful spiritual
connection. The aching desire in our hearts spans any chasms of time
and space and brings us right into Hashem’s enfolding embrace. In this
light, we can understand Hashem’s words of consolation to the waters of
the seas. True, they would have to remain in the lower world while the
waters of the heavens rose to the upper world. But this did not necessarily
mean that they would be estranged from Hashem. The solution was in the
salt.
Salt is the sublimation of all the elements dissolved in the water. It

is the very essence of the entire sea reduced to a tiny pinch. By providing
salt for the sacrifices, the sea would be reaching with all its being out
across the vast distances to the center of spirituality, and this reaching out
itself would bring it close to Hashem.
A king had two sons. One of them lived in the palace and served
as the chief minister of the kingdom. He met with his father daily and
conferred with him on a wide variety of state and other matters. The
second son served as the king’s ambassador to an important but very
distant kingdom. Every other year, he returned to the palace for a short
visit, but for all the rest of the time, he remained in the faraway land.
After a number of years, the king grew old and feeble, He decided
to address the question of the succession to the throne. He called in his
ministers and informed them that he had chosen a successor.
“The son who is closer to me,” he said, “shall sit on my throne.”
The ministers nodded sagely. It was as they expected. The chief minister
would make a good king.
“Send for my son right away,” the king continued. “He must travel
a great distance to come back here to the palace.”
The ministers were baffled. “But you just said that you had chosen
the closer son, your majesty!”
“Indeed I have,” said the king. “The chief minister is a good, loyal
son, but he is with me all the time. He is not excited when he comes to
see me. The ambassador, however, may live far away, but he yearns to
see me with all his heart. No distance can affect our closeness.”
In our own lives, we can all reach deep within ourselves for that
pinch of salt that represents our very being and identity. If we dedicate
that salt to our relationship with our creator, we can gain untold spiritual
riches no matter where we find ourselves.
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A Man from Among Us

It was certainly much easier to expiate a transgression two
thousand years ago than it is today. In ancient times, the transgressor
would bring a sacrificial offering to the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. He
would confess his sins, repent and offer up the sacrifice as a symbol of
his desire to rededicate himself to his Creator. The sanctity of the
place and the sublime spirituality of the process would cleanse his soul
and purify his spirit, and he would go home spiritually rejuvenated.
The Torah, while describing the process of the sacrificial

service at great length and in exhaustive detail, introduces the topic
with a curious statement. “When a man (adam) from among you brings
a sacrifice . . .” The Torah usually refers to a man with the Hebrew
word ish, yet here the Torah chooses the unusual word adam, which
brings to mind Adam, the first man. What is the point of being
reminded of Adam when we bring a sacrifice to atone for a sin?
Furthermore, why does the Torah speak of a man “from among

you” that brings a sacrifice? What is added by this seemingly
superfluous phrase? Isn’t every man “from among you”?
The commentators explain that the purpose of a sacrifice is not

only to express contrition for the sin but also to repair the damage that
sin caused in the world. A person does not live in a vacuum, an island
unto himself. Every sinful act creates a void of the Creator’s presence
in the spiritual ecosystem, causing the retraction, so to speak, of the
Divine Presence and the proliferation of negative energy. A sinful act
causes the spiritual level of the world to fall, just as a mitzvah causes it
to rise. Therefore, a person committing a sin affects not only himself
but also his surroundings, his family, his friends, and his community
and to a certain extent the entire world.
Adam was the first man in the world, and in his mind, his
decision to eat the forbidden fruit was a private decision. He thought it
affected no one but him. But he was wrong. His one sinful act had
tremendous ramifications for all future generations. It introduced death
to the human experience
This is the lesson we learn from Adam. There are no private
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decisions. Every act we commit has far-reaching implications for the
spiritual condition of our environment. This is what a person should
have in mind when he brings a sacrifice to the Holy Temple in
Jerusalem. He must realize that, like Adam, he mistakenly considered
his sinful act victimless, affecting only himself. But he was really “from
among you.” His sinful act affected others as well, and it is the purpose
of the sacrifice to repair the damage he has wrought.
A young man booked passage on a pleasure cruise ship. He

took a cabin on the lowest deck, because those were the least
expensive. After a few days, he locked himself in his room and ordered
his meals delivered to his door.
The waiter who brought the meal noticed that the passageway
was damp, and as he approached the young man’s door, he saw water
pulsing out from under his door. He bent down to smell it, and to his
horror, he discovered that it was seawater. In a panic, he banged on
the young man’s door, but there was no response.
He ran to get the captain, and in a few minutes, the captain

arrived with two crewmembers carrying axes. They broke down the
door and found the young man drilling holes in the side of the ship.
“What are you doing?” screamed the captain. “Do you want to
kill all of us? Do you want to sink this ship?”
“What are you talking about?” the young man retorted. “This is
my private cabin. I paid for it, and I have the right to do anything I want
in it.”
In our own lives, we are all living in cabins on the great cruise
ship of life. We may sometimes think we are independent individuals,
answering only to ourselves. But as the popular saying goes, we are
indeed all connected. The things we say or do, a harsh word, a
thoughtless act, a spiritual transgression can harm the people around
us. On the other hand, a warm smile, an act of kindness, a word of
encouragement can touch, move and inspire. Our acts may cause a
ripple effect whose extent cannot be measured. And even if we
manage to keep certain behaviors in total isolation, they still leave a
mark in the spiritual world. We may think we are “Adam,” but let us
always remember that we are really “from among us.”
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PARASHAS TZAV
Gratitude Unlimited
What do released prisoners, recovering patients, seafarers and
caravan travelers all have in common? These people have all been in
perilous situations, their very lives endangered, and having come through
safely, they are required to express their gratitude to Hashem by bringing
a thanksgiving sacrifice to the Temple in Jerusalem. The procedure for the
thanksgiving offering, the korban todah, is described in this week’s
portion.
The Midrash provides us with a rather surprising bit of information

about the thanksgiving offering. In the End of Days, when the Presence of
the Creator will fill the world with holiness and people will live in eternal
bliss and serenity, all sacrifices will be discontinued - except for the
thanksgiving sacrifice. This immediately leads us to ask: How can this be?
If, as the prophets repeatedly assure us, people will be safe and secure,
protected from all physical harm and danger, from sickness and
imprisonment, how will it be possible for a thanksgiving sacrifice to be
brought? The conditions that necessitate such an offering will simply not
exist!
Let us think for a moment about a phrase most polite people use
very often and very casually. What exactly do we mean when we say
“thank you” to someone who has done us a good turn? What have we
actually given him by thanking him? And why is he gratified? The answers
lie in a deeper understanding of gratitude and thanksgiving. In essence,
an expression of gratitude is an acknowledgment. By saying “thank you,”
we declare that we recognize what the other person has done for us, that
we value it and that we do not take him for granted. This is all he needs in
return for what he has done - recognition, no more, no less. But a sincere
expression of gratitude can only result from a genuine appreciation of the
value of what we have received. Without this appreciation, the words
”thank you” are but an empty, meaningless formality.
If this holds true in our relationships with other human beings, how
much more so in our relationship with our Creator. We are endlessly
beholden to Him for all the good He does for us, and as a result, we
should be endlessly grateful. Unfortunately, however, we live in a
benighted world of illusions and delusions, and we often fail to recognize
the innumerable gifts and bounty that flow to us from Hashem’s generous
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hand. And even when we pay lip service to it, how deeply do we actually
feel it? How real is it to us? The only things we face with stark reality are
life-threatening situations. In the face of danger, our affectations and
pretensions quickly dissipate, and we realize how dependent we are on
our Creator for our safety. As the old adage goes, “There are no atheists
in a foxhole.” It is only when we are ultimately delivered from danger that
we are capable of expressing genuine gratitude.
In the End of Days, however, the Presence of the Creator will

illuminate the entire world and dispel all the foolish delusions which so
becloud our vision and befuddle our minds. Then we will see Hashem’s
hand with perfect clarity, and our acknowledgments of His guidance and
benevolence will carry the ring of true conviction. At that point, we will no
longer have to face life-threatening situation to inspire genuine gratitude in
our hearts. We will thank Him endlessly for every minute detail of our lives
and bring thanksgiving sacrifices to give expression to the transcendent
feelings of gratitude that will permeate our souls.
A great sage once ordered a cup of coffee in an elegant

restaurant. When the bill came, he saw he had been charged an
exorbitant sum.
“So much for a cup of coffee?” he asked the waiter.
“Oh no, sir,” the waiter replied. “The coffee cost only a few cents.
But the paintings and tapestries on the walls, the crystal chandeliers, the
Persian carpets, the luxurious gardens, the marble fountain, these cost a
lot of money, and every patron must pay his share.”
“Aha!” said the sage. “You have taught me an important lesson.
When I recite a blessing over a glass of water, I must thank the Creator for
the ground on which I stand, the air I breathe, the blue sky over my head,
the beauty and scent of the flowers, the twittering of birds, the company of
other people. Thank you.”
In our own lives, we all too often take for granted all the blessings
we enjoy, and we forget to express our gratitude to our Creator, the
Source of all this bounty. Indeed, when we experience hardship, we are
inclined to confront Hashem, saying, "Oh, why do we deserve this?" But
when we experience good fortune, are we as inclined to thank Him?
Common courtesy, of course, requires that we acknowledge Hashem’s
bounty, but if we offer words of gratitude to Hashem in all situations, we
will also discover a deeper dimension to our appreciation and enjoyment
of the blessings of life.
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Grasp the Moment

Not everyone has the privilege of saying “thank you” to the
Creator by bringing a thanksgiving offering to the Holy Temple. The
Talmud tells us that only people who were recently delivered from
extreme danger - an ocean voyage, a desert journey, a serious illness,
a term of imprisonment - can bring this special sacrifice. Why is this
so? Why can’t we express our gratitude for other momentous
occasions in our lives by bringing this selfsame thanksgiving offering?
Furthermore, we find an anomaly in the laws of this sacrifice.

The thanksgiving offering falls into the general category of shelamim,
peace offerings. However, we read in this week’s Torah portion that
there is less time allowed for eating the meat of the sacrifice. The
peace offering can be eaten for two days, but the thanksgiving offering
for only one day. Why does the Torah reduce the eating time of this
sacrifice?
The answers to these questions are rooted in the fundamental

concepts of the sacrificial service. The purpose of the sacrifices is to
foster closeness between the Creator and ourselves. When we bring a
sacrifice to the altar, we are symbolically offering ourselves up to Him,
subsuming our hearts, our minds, our souls, our very lives in the
universal embrace of the Divine Presence. Eating the meat of the
sacrifice, the Talmud explains, is an extension of the sacrificial service.
Through the act of ingesting the sanctified meat, we connect to the
transcendent concepts and symbolism of the sacrifice not only through
our intellectual and emotional faculties but through our purely physical
ones as well. In this way, the experience becomes total and the
connection is absolute.
When we bring a thanksgiving offering, we take advantage of

moments of outstanding inspiration to forge a closer relationship with
our Creator. Life is full of little inspirations and numerous opportunities
to express our gratitude to Hashem. Most of these, however, do not
move us to our core, and therefore, they are not powerful enough to
warrant a sacrifice. But when a person is reprieved after staring death
in the face, he is totally energized and exhilarated, and the words of
thanksgiving and joy he directs heavenward emanate from the
essence of his being. This sort of inspiration can be brought to the
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Temple and presented to Hashem in the form of a thanksgiving
sacrifice. This sort of inspiration can be channeled to foster an
everlasting closeness.
But inspiration is an ephemeral thing. Like a flash of lightning, it

illuminates our surroundings in painfully sharp clarity and then is gone,
leaving only a memory that slowly fades away. During that moment,
we gain a totally different and highly vivid perspective of what is
important and what is trivial. During that moment, we have the ability to
find new direction and meaning for our daily existence. Later, it is too
late. Therefore, the Torah limits the time period for eating the
thanksgiving offering. Grasp the moment! If we wait, it will be gone.
A high-level royal minister was deeply involved in a national

crisis situation. During this time, while the king and his ministers
conferred daily to discuss developments, the king’s birthday came and
went without the customary celebration. The crisis eventually passed,
and the conduct of government affairs returned to normal. Shortly
thereafter, the minister purchased a beautiful birthday gift and sent it to
the king.
A few weeks later, the king and his minister were discussing
the crisis and what could be done to prevent future recurrences.
“We can’t afford to go through something like this again,” said
the king with a wry smile. “Do you realize that I didn’t even receive any
birthday gifts this year because of the crisis?”
“Your majesty, have you forgotten?” the minister protested. “I
sent you a very beautiful gift. Didn’t you receive it?”
“Indeed, I did,” said the king. “And I thank you. Had you given it
to me on my birthday, I would have perceived it as an expression of
your joyous celebration of such an important day in my life. But it was
given several weeks later. It did not represent your sense of joy but
rather your sense of obligation. Much as I appreciate it, I do not
consider it a true birthday gift.”
In our own lives, we are often profoundly inspired during times

of great joy or, Heaven forbid, great distress. On these occasions, we
are inclined to take stock of our existence and resolve to make
important changes, either to improve our relationship with our Creator,
to correct our flaws and shortcomings or simply to spend more time
with our families. When this happens, it is important to translate our
inspiration into action immediately, for if we wait until we get around to
it, more often than not we never will.
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Don’t Cut Corners

The money didn’t come out of the priests’ own pockets. It came
from the well-filled coffers of the Temple. Every year, money poured
from all the Jewish people to a special fund which provided for the
daily sacrifices. There really was no reason to skimp.
And yet, I this week’s Torah portion we read that Hashem told
Moses to “command Aaron and his sons” regarding the daily olah
sacrifice. Why did the priests have to be “commanded”? Why wasn’t it
enough for them to be “told,” as was usually the case? Our Sages tell
us that Hashem was forewarning the priest not to cut corners in order
to reduce the considerable expense of bringing an animal every
morning and every afternoon.
But why was this necessary? Why would the priests even
consider such a thing? After all, there was no cost to them personally,
and there was plenty of public money for the sacrifices.
Let us consider for a moment the nature of the sacrificial

service. There were actually two aspects to it. First, the detailed
physical process of the sacrifice. Second and even more important, the
thoughts, feelings and commitments that the sacrifice represented;
without the idea behind it, the sacrifice was meaningless.
Unlike most of the sacrifices, which were partially burnt on the

altar and partially eaten, the olah sacrifice was kalil, completely
incinerated. Therefore, the commentators explain, there was a real
possibility that the priest would focus on the intent and not attribute
enough importance to the physical act itself. Since the sacrifice was all
being given to Hashem, they might reason, what difference would it
make if fewer funds were expended on the sacrifices? All that mattered
was the intent.
Not so, the Torah warned. It was not the place of the priests to
make such judgments. If the Torah commanded that two animals be
brought daily, the commandment was to be obeyed without question.
An elderly king appointed a new chamberlain to oversee his

palace affairs.
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“Your first major responsibility in your new post,” said the king,
“will be to arrange the parade in honor of my birthday next week. Find
out how it is done every year. The information is in the palace records.”
The following week, on the king’s birthday, there was no

parade. Instead, the chamberlain brought together the greatest poets
in the land in a gala public ceremony, and each of the poets read an
exquisite poem composed for the occasion. The king was pleased.
The next day, the king summoned the chamberlain and

removed him from office for failing to stage the customary parade.
“But, sire,” the chamberlain protested, “I only tried to please

you, and if I am not mistaken, you really did seem pleased.”
“The poems were very beautiful,” said the king, “but it is not for
you to substitute poems for the customary observance. You are not a
chamberlain for me.”
In our own lives, it is easy to take a somewhat cavalier attitude

towards the rituals and observances of the Torah by rationalizing that it
is the heart that counts. The heart indeed counts a great deal, but
actions speak more loudly than words. As servants of the Almighty, we
should leave it to Him to decide what form those actions should take.
With our own limited scope, we cannot possibly know the extent to
which a particular ritual or observance described in the Torah may
stimulate our inner feelings and touch our very souls. We all
understand that the Almighty needs nothing from us. Therefore, if the
Torah calls for a certain action, we can rest assured that it is for our
own benefit and that in the end it is we ourselves who will be
immeasurably enriched.
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Humility Breeds Respect

While the inaugural service of the Mishkan was certainly a long
and intricate process, each of the individual steps was not particularly
difficult. Each act was fairly simple and straightforward, and the
Torah’s instructions are really quite clear. One would not expect that
Aaron, the High Priest, would have any difficulty following instructions
and performing the service in the proper manner.
And yet, the Torah makes a point of praising Aaron for

following the instructions precisely, for doing that which was expected
of him without any deviation. Why was this such an exemplary
accomplishment? Why did he deserve praise for performing a series of
relatively uncomplicated tasks, albeit a rather long series, without error
or deviation?
The commentators explain that an important emotional

dynamic was at work here. The instructions for the inaugural service
came directly from God, of course, but they were delivered by His
messenger Moses, Aaron’s younger brother. Moses had originally
been reluctant to accept the role of redeemer of the Jewish people
from bondage in Egypt, because he feared his older brother would feel
slighted for having been passed over for this honor. God, however,
assured him that Aaron would not be offended, and indeed he wasn’t.
He welcomed Moses with open arms and assisted him at every step of
the way. But the inaugural service presented Aaron with a special
challenge.
Until then, Aaron had subordinated himself to his younger

brother by accepting the role of second in command. But during the
inaugural process, he had to accept a much different role. Aaron and
his four sons performed their duties under Moses’ didactic direction,
like children guided by a patient teacher. At each step of the process,
Moses gave them detailed instructions, and all Aaron and his sons had
to do was follow obediently without any innovation and without any
creative input.
To a lesser man, this would have been demeaning, especially

in front of his children. But Aaron was not a lesser man. He accepted
his role with absolute humility and joy, with no thought of his personal
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honor or prestige. It did not occur to him to assert his ego through even
the slightest deviation from Moses’ instructions.
Paradoxically, Aaron’s extreme humility brought him great

honor. The Torah praises him for his sterling character and humility,
and the people respected and revered him all the more for it. In fact,
the Torah later on remarks how deeply all the people mourned his
passing. Humility breeds respect. By his humility, Aaron had gained
the respect of the Torah and the respect of the people.
Two brothers traveled together to a great sage and studied

under his guidance for several years. Afterward, they returned to their
city, and each of them established his own congregation. As the years
passed, the younger brother’s congregation flourished. There was an
empty seat during the prayer services, and when he gave his sermons,
there was barely any standing room. The older brother, however, did
not fare well. His congregation remained meager in number and
soporific in spirit.
One day, the older brother decided he could not endure the
situation any longer. He returned to the sage to ask his advice.
“I don’t understand it,” he complained. “I am as learned and
talented as my brother, if not more, and my sermons are at least as
good. Why do they flock to him and avoid me?”
The sage smiled. “You know, my son,” he said, “your brother
was here a few months ago, and he asked me the exact same
question. Apparently, the same question is on both your minds, and
the people in your city see it. When your brother asks the question,
people admire his humility and flock to him. When you ask the
question, people are put off by your self-importance and stay away.”
In our own lives, we sometimes tend to criticize authority

figures, such as rabbis and community leaders. These people are
nominally superior to us, and our instinctive reaction is to level the
playing field by criticizing them. But what kind of message does that
send to our children, family and associates? It shows us as mean-
spirited and malicious, and we lose respect in their eyes. On the other
hand, if we are graciously humble and speak kindly of others, we are
the ones who gain the most. Instead of demeaning ourselves, we earn
immeasurable respect.
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PARASHAS SHEMINI
The Eloquence of Silence

What can be more painful than the loss of a child? After a parent
holds his infant child in his arms, after he helps the growing child walk,
speak, read, discover the wonders of the world, the child becomes forever
a living part of the parent. The death of a child, therefore, rips a gaping
hole in the parent’s heart, a wound that can never be healed - and the
older the child the more gaping the wound.
In times of such terrible tragedy, it is almost impossible for a

parent not to cry out in grief and anguish, not to scream with pain. And
yet, in this week’s Torah portion we are told that when Aaron witnessed
the violent death of his two grown sons “Vayidom Aharon - Aaron was
silent.” How deeply he must have been hurt and grieved by the loss of his
beloved sons! But nonetheless he remained totally silent. He showed no
reaction whatsoever. How can this be? How could he suppress his cries of
anguish?
Furthermore, the Midrash tells us that the Creator rewarded Aaron

for remaining silent by conveying through him, rather than through Moses,
the prohibition against performing the Temple service in a state of
alcoholic intoxication. The question immediately arises: The Torah is
attuned to the feelings of the mourner and actually encourages him to cry
for the first three days of his bereavement; why then was Aaron’s
suppression of his cries of anguish so praiseworthy? And if his silence
was indeed so commendable, how was his selection to convey the
prohibition against intoxication during the Temple service a fitting reward?
The Hebrew word the Torah uses here to portray Aaron’s silence,
domeim, has two other meanings - the state of being inert and singing.
What common thread connects silence, inertia and song?
Let us consider for a moment the most desirable state that all
people seek. The American Declaration of Independence actually hits the
nail on the head when it speaks of “life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness.” Everyone wants to be happy, but how is this achieved? Does
a lot of money deliver happiness? More often than not, it accomplishes the
exact opposite. Does physical gratification deliver happiness? Hardly.
Happiness depends on inner harmony. When a person is at peace
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with himself and his environment, he is happy. But harmony does not
derive from external sources. It emanates from within, from serenity of the
soul. Our senses, however, are the enemies of harmony. They constantly
bombard us with a variety of stimuli to which we are inclined to react, and
thus our harmony is disrupted. We cannot be at peace with ourselves if
we are at the mercy of a volatile world.
A simple experiment proves this point. Enter a room by yourself,

shut out all sound, close the lights and sit back with your eyes closed. In a
short while, you will undoubtedly feel a pleasant serenity (if you don’t fall
asleep). Insulated from external influences, your soul naturally gravitates
towards harmony; it enters a state of happiness. Thus, inertia and silence
lead to song. The only problem is that we cannot spend our lives in a dark
and silent room, and as soon as we step out, we are back into the
maelstrom.
Aaron, however, was able to achieve absolute harmony and

serenity even in the midst of the active world. His faith in the Creator was
so profound that he was impervious to external stimuli. He did not react to
his senses; his thoughts and actions all emanated from the wellsprings of
his soul within. Even when his won sons perished suddenly, he did not
react with an outcry of pain. He dealt with his sorrow within the confines of
his soul. He bowed to the will of the Creator with perfect acceptance, and
his harmony remained undisturbed. “And Aaron was silent.”
As a reward for this transcendent silence, the Creator conveyed

the prohibition against intoxication during the Temple service through him.
The priestly service symbolized the spiritual bond between the human
soul and its Creator, and as such, it could only be distorted by external
stimulants such as alcohol and other consciousness-altering chemical
substances. Aaron had shown himself to be completely at peace with his
inner self, and therefore, he was the perfect conduit for this prohibition.
In our own lives, we can also seek to achieve, to the best of our
abilities, some semblance of inner harmony. The key is to recognize the
source of true happiness, which does not come from external sources but
from within. When we embrace Torah values and ideals, we insulate our
inner selves against the vicissitudes of the world around us, and we are
rewarded with a harmonious and immeasurable enriched life.
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Forbidden Waters
Certain practices are just too vile and despicable for civilized
people to endure, especially when it comes to food. The thought of
chewing and swallowing the repulsive little vermin that live under rocks
or in stagnant pools of water would make anyone gag. And yet, when
the Torah in this week’s portion delineates the organisms we are
forbidden to eat there is a detailed mention of all sorts of reptiles,
vermin and other loathsome creatures. Why does the Torah find it
necessary to forbid something we would find repulsive in any case?
The Talmud addresses this problem and explains that Hashem

wanted the Jewish people to accumulate additional reward. Therefore,
He forbade them to eat vermin, so that they would be rewarded for
their abstention. But the questions still remain: Why would we deserve
to be rewarded for refraining to do something we find despicable and
revolting and would never do anyway? Aren’t we rewarded for
overcoming our natural inclinations in order to comply with Hashem’s
will? In the case the prohibition against vermin, however, can we in all
honesty claim that our compliance shows our high regard for
Hashem’s commandments or does it rather show our concern for our
own fastidious nature?
The answer to these questions reveals one of the fundamental

paradoxes of human nature. “Forbidden waters are sweet,” proclaims
the wise and ever insightful King Solomon in Proverbs. We seem to
have a peculiar fascination with anything that is forbidden to us. And
the more stringent the prohibition the greater the attraction. Are we
ever more inclined to run our forefinger along a wall than when we see
a sign declaring “Wet Paint”?
Why does the forbidden exert such a strong attraction to us?

Because it triggers our inherent egotistical conviction that we are in
control of our own lives, that we are the masters of our destiny.
Therefore, we automatically view every prohibition as a challenge, an
assault on our supposed independence and self-sufficiency, and we
are drawn to violate the prohibition simply to prove to ourselves that
we can do whatever we please, that no one else can tell us what to do.
In this light, we can well understand why we deserve to be
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rewarded for refraining from eating vermin. Certainly, we are not
naturally predisposed to eating the slime of the earth. But when the
Torah imposes a legal prohibition on these selfsame vermin they
suddenly become strangely appealing. And when we resist this
temptation generated by the commandment itself we are rewarded for
our compliance. In this way, the Talmud tells us, Hashem rewarded us
with additional merit simply by imposing a prohibition on the most
loathsome foods imaginable.
Two mothers brought their young sons to the seaside on a

warm summer day. They placed the children in a sandbox and gave
them pails and shovels. Then they walked a short distance away to sit
and enjoy the balmy weather.
Before walking off, one of the mothers bent down to her child
and said, “Remember, my precious little one, don’t go near the waves.
They’re very dangerous. You might get hurt.”
No sooner had she sat down, however, than her little boy was
off to stick his toes into the surf. The mother ran to retrieve him. She
brought him back to the sandbox and repeated her admonition, more
sternly this time. Minutes later, the little boy was off to the water once
again. During all of this commotion, the other child remained in the
sandbox, completely focused on the castle he was building.
“I don’t understand,” the frustrated mother said to her friend.
“You didn’t say a word to your son, and yet he hasn’t even looked at
the water. But my son keeps running to the water even though I
explained to him how dangerous it is.”
Her friend smiled. “That’s it exactly. You forbid your son from
going to the water, so he has to prove himself by going. I didn’t say
anything to my son, so he couldn’t care less. He is far more interested
in the sand.”
In our own lives, we can all recognize this tendency in

ourselves, whether in issues as momentous as the challenges of
Torah observance or as relatively minor as exceeding the speed limit.
Somehow, we feel diminished when we subject ourselves to
restrictions imposed upon us by others. But if we were truly honest
with ourselves, we would realize that accepting the authority of the
Torah does not diminish us in any way. On the contrary, it allows us to
be directed by the Divine Wisdom rather than our own limited vision
and rewards us with serenity and fulfillment that would otherwise be far
beyond our reach.
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Genteel Ambiguity
Vulgar language is not acceptable according to the Torah. We
are always expected to speak with refinement and decorum, but the
Torah does not tell us this explicitly. Rather, the Torah lets us know by
inference in the context of the story of Noah’s ark.
God tells Noah to build an ark because the world is about to be

inundated. He is to assemble in this ark specimens of the various
species, which will be used to replenish the fauna of the world after the
floodwaters subside. Specifically, God tells him to take seven males
and seven females of “the clean beasts” and two males and two
females of “the beasts that are not clean.”
In the system of the Torah, language is used with extreme

economy. An extra word − an extra letter! − can be the source of an
important law. And yet, the Torah disregards its customary economy of
language and writes about “the beasts that are not clean (min
beheimah asher einenah tahorah)” instead of “the unclean beasts (min
beheimah temeiah).” Why does the Torah use this unnecessarily
wordiness? The Talmud (Pesachim 3a) sees this as an object lesson
that vulgar language must be avoided even at the cost of unnecessary
wordiness. The word tamei or temeiah, which means unclean, is
considered a vulgar word.
A question, therefore, arises. In this week’s parashah, when the

Torah discusses the classifications of kosher and non-kosher animals,
it refers to the hare, camel and swine as tamei, unclean. What
happened to the refinement of language for which the Torah was
prepared to go to the length of unnecessary wordiness in the story of
Noah’s ark? Why is the Torah no longer reluctant to use words like
tamei?
The commentators explain there is an important difference

between a narrative and the explication of a set of laws. When telling
the story of Noah assembling the animals for his ark, the Torah can
well afford to be delicate and oblique in its choice of words, since there
are no practical ramifications to the story. But when the Torah is
setting forth the laws of kosher and non-kosher animals, the Torah
sees a need to be as direct as possible. Refinement and delicacy of
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language are all good and well, but not at the price of allowing the
least bit of ambiguity into the prohibitions. Clarity overrides all other
considerations in the presentation of the laws. There is no room for
genteel ambiguity.
A scientist working in his laboratory concocted a chemical

compound, which gave off a pleasing aroma, but upon analysis was
exceedingly toxic. He prepared a large vat of the compound and
placed it on a table in a corner to await further experimentation.
Later that day, the scientist heard that a group of young
children from a nearby school would be taking a tour of the laboratory
on the following day. The scientist gave his assistant instructions to put
a big sign in front of the vat to warn the children not to taste or even
touch it.
As soon as he arrived the next morning, the scientist surveyed
the laboratory to make sure everything was in order for the visit of the
young students. When he saw the sign his assistant had placed in
front of the vat, his face grew beet-red. It read: NOT FOR DRINKING OR
TASTING.
“Do you think that is adequate to protect the children?” he
shouted at his assistant. “Do you think that will stop the adventurous
and the curious? Go right now and make a big sign with bold letters
stating: POISON! INSTANT DEATH! And draw a skull and crossbones on
it for good measure.”
In our own lives, we are fully aware of the proliferation of

restricted substances in contemporary society. It is not for us to judge
the people that are plagued by this affliction nor is it our place to judge
people in general. But when it comes to rearing our own children, there
is no place for genteel ambiguity. We must tell them in no uncertain
terms that these substances are deadly, that they can destroy their
lives by going down that pathway. For the sake of our children, we
must make big signs labeling poison as poison and drawing skull and
crossbones if need be.
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PARASHAS TAZRIA
A Matter of Life and Death

The tiny bundle of pink flesh, with the tightly clenched fists and
eyes, emits a lusty cry, and suddenly, all faces are wreathed in smiles.
The child is alive! It is the moment of greatest wonder, the revelation of
the marvelous miracle of life.
What are the consequences of this momentous, life-affirming

event? Let us look into this week’s portion. “When a woman conceives
and gives birth to a male child . . . she shall remain in a state of impurity
for seven days. And on the eighth day you shall circumcise the flesh of his
foreskin.” These laws present a most perplexing anomaly. Generally, we
find the state of ritual impurity associated with the cessation or absence of
life. Contact with a dead body, for instance, results in a state of impurity.
But the moment of birth, the creation of a new life in the world, is the exact
opposite condition. Why then does it cause a state of impurity?
Furthermore, immediately after informing us of the state of

impurity deriving from the birth of a male child, the Torah tells that the
child must be circumcised on the eighth day. Why? After all, this
commandment has been established long before. In fact, it is the very first
commandment in the entire Torah, given to Abraham back in Parashas
Lech Lecha. Why then does the Torah find it necessary to remind us of it
here?
In order to answer these puzzling questions, let us consider for a

moment the birth of a child from a different perspective. Every person is a
hybrid - a combination of the physical body and the spiritual neshamah.
The physical body only has life in this world, a life that begins at
conception, becomes viable birth and ceases at death. The neshamah,
however, is eternal, a denizen of the spiritual world, a spark of the divine,
without beginning, without end. Miraculously, Hashem combines these
two totally incompatible elements into one creature called a human being.
How has this arrangement affected the neshamah? Has its

condition improved or deteriorated? Has its life force been impaired or
enhanced by this marriage made in Heaven?
The Sages tell us that the neshamah is taken from Hashem’s

Heavenly Throne, that it is sent down to this world in a state of total purity,
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that as long as it is still within the womb it continues to enjoy the
unrestrained radiance of the Divine Presence, that it continues to
experience the entire Torah with perfect clarity, that it can observe the
entire world from end to end with unrestricted vision.
At the moment of birth, however, everything suddenly changes.

The neshamah’s vision becomes clouded and obscured by its physical
envelope, its awareness of its origins is dulled and submerged, it
knowledge of the Torah is forgotten. It is flung into a dirty, contaminated
world and expected to fend for itself, to grope through the spiritual
darkness of the physical world and find its way back home.
The purpose of this abysmal plunge is clearly to allow the

neshamah to create islands of holiness in this world under the most
adverse conditions and thereby reach levels of holiness it could not attain
in its pristine state. But for the moment at least, the neshamah has
undergone a precipitous fall and a sharp decline in its spiritual vitality. This
decline in its vitality, in its transcendent spiritual life force, which takes
place at the moment of birth, triggers a state of ritual impurity, the
condition associated with the absence or loss of life.
But how is the neshamah to overcome the debilitating condition

imposed? How is it to rise above the contamination of the physical world
and find its way back to the Eternal Source of all neshamos?
To answer this question, the Torah reminds us once again that on

the eighth day we are to circumcise the foreskin of the child. The removal
of the foreskin, the “blockage,” from the organ of continuity demonstrates
the striving to remove the physical barriers and blockages that separate
the neshamah from Hashem. It demonstrates that our life’s journey, from
its very beginning, is directed at overcoming the physical restriction to our
innate spirituality and drawing ever closer to Hashem.
In our own lives, we sometimes need to take a step back and ask
ourselves if we are allowing our neshamah to breathe or if we are burying
it under an avalanche of physicality. After all, the only true, eternal,
indestructible life we possess is the spiritual life of our neshamah. And if
we concentrate on removing the physical “blockages” that restrict its
spiritual consciousness and perception, we will be rewarded with a surge
of spiritual vitality that will invigorate and enrich our entire lives.
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Skin Deep
It first appears on the skin as a sickly white lesion, and then it
begins to spread. It looks like leprosy, but it is not. The Torah in this
week’s portion identifies as tzoraas, a strange phenomenon that
appeared when the Holy Temple existed. These lesions were not life
threatening, yet the Torah views them with utmost seriousness. The
afflicted person was put under priestly observation, and if his condition
deteriorated, he was quarantined. What is the significance of the
tzoraas lesions?
Our Sages tells us that these lesions afflicted those who spoke
malicious gossip and slander. They caused innocent people to be
estranged from their friends and neighbors. Therefore, they
themselves must suffer the isolation of quarantine. The questions,
however, still remain. Why does the quarantine have to result from skin
lesions rather than some other affliction?
The answer goes to the root of the mentality of malicious talk.

Why do some people have a tendency to see only the worst in others?
Because they themselves have those selfsame weaknesses and
shortcomings. “Those who find failings in others,” our Sages tell us,
“are surely guilty of the same failings.” People who engage in slander
are not willing to accept others at face value. They are always driven to
dig down underneath to find the negative undercurrents in others,
because they themselves are so thoroughly negative.
The skin is the perfect metaphor for the positive approach to

the perception of others. Take a look at a handsome person and
imagine him for a moment as a skeleton entwined in ligaments, nerves
and bloody tissue. Suddenly, he is not so handsome any more. But to
make people more appealing to each other, Hashem covered all their
internal systems with a layer of beautiful skin. As a result, those who
look at people as they appear find them appealing, but those who
dwell on what goes on underneath find them repulsive. The slanderer
sees only the weaknesses of others because his own weaknesses are
so prominent. He seeks to expose others because he himself is so
thoroughly exposed. Therefore, his skin, the organ of concealment, is
afflicted, and he is quarantined.
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A weary traveler was trudging along a dusty road, thinking
about where he could spend the night. Far off in the distance, he saw
the towering walls of a city, and he wondered if this would be a good
place to seek hospitality.
As he approached the city, he saw a sage sitting under a tree.
“Tell me, good sir,” said the traveler. “Do you know this city?” “Indeed I
do,” said the sage.
“Then perhaps you could tell me what kind of people live here?”
“I certainly can,” said the sage. “But first tell me what kind of people
live in your own city.”
“My own city?” said the traveler, his eyes shifting back over his
shoulder. “It is an evil place. The people are nasty. They watch you all
the time with suspicious eyes, and they whisper about you behind your
back. Stay away if you know what’s good for you.”
“Well, I am afraid you are out of luck, my friend,” said the sage.
“Unfortunately, you will find exactly the same kind of people here.”
A short while later, a second traveler approached the city. He
too saw the sage under the tree and decided to inquire about the
inhabitants.
“I will be glad to tell you,” said the sage. “But first tell me what
kind of people live in your own city.”
“My own city?” said the second traveler. “It is such a wonderful
place. The people are kind and considerate. They are always eager to
help each other in any way they can.”
“I’m happy to tell you, my young friend,” said the sage, “that
you have come to the right place. Those are just the kind of people you
will find here. I think you will find this city a most compatible place.”
In our own lives, we almost continuously find ourselves in a

position of being able to judge other people, to find fault in what they
do or to look at them in a positive light. The Torah instructs us never to
think evil of others and certainly never to verbalize such negative
thoughts. The key is to focus on improving ourselves, to purify and
perfect our own thoughts and motivations. If we do so, we will
undoubtedly recognize the same noble sentiments in others, and we
will find the world a most compatible place indeed.
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Surrounded by Mirrors
The city gates swing open, and a solitary man walks out,
carrying a bundle of food and personal belonging on his shoulder. The
gates swing shut behind him. He walks to a secluded spot, puts down
his things and sits down to contemplate his fate in the solitude of his
isolation. As we take a closer look, we notice strange skin lesions that
resemble leprosy. Who is this man, and why has he been banished to
sit in isolation outside the city? And why does he have lesions on his
skin?
This man is called a metzora. The lesions, called tzoraas, are

not caused by toxins or microbes. Rather, they are a physical
manifestation of a spiritual malaise. Our Sages tell us that a person
who gossips and slanders other people is afflicted with tzoraas, and as
we read in this week’s Torah portion, he must go into isolation until it
fades away.
Why isolation? The commentators want to know. Wouldn’t it

have been better for him to deal with the problems of his character in
the company of his friends and loved ones? Wouldn’t their emotional
and moral support help him overcome his malicious inclinations?
Furthermore, the Torah states, “Impure, impure, he shall call

out.” What is the significance of the repetition of the word impure? Why
wouldn’t once suffice?
The commentators explain that our attitudes toward other

people are always a reflection of our own level of spirituality and
refinement. We see ourselves in others. People of good will and
magnanimous spirit will always view others in the most favorable light.
They will attribute only the best motives to the actions of other people.
Mean-spirited people, on the other hand, are surrounded by mirrors.
They always view others with suspicion and disdain, and they
automatically assume that others look at them in the same negative
way.
This is the implicit meaning of the statement, “Impure, impure,

he shall call out.” The impure person sees himself in others and calls
out, “Impure!”
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A person afflicted with tzoraas because he accused other

people of improper behavior is most probably guilty of those same
offenses himself. He knows what evil things he himself would do in
certain situation and therefore he assumes everyone else would do the
same. The company of others is like poison to such a person, because
he sees every person he encounters through the malignant filter of his
own debased personality and character. Therefore, the Torah decrees,
it is better that he sit in isolation and contemplate what he has become.
It is better that he face the harsh reality that he is unworthy of human
company. In this way, he will be perhaps take stock of himself and
decide to make fundamental changes.
A man sought the advice of a great sage about a problem he

was having with his son. “How do I improve my relationship with my
son? I try to show him how I care about him by giving him many
compliments. I compliment his schoolwork, his behavior at home, his
singing, everything. But he always accuses me of insincerity. ‘You just
saying it, but you don’t really mean it,’ he says. What should I do?”
“The problem, my friend,” said the sage, “is that your son does
not see the good in other people. Therefore, when you say you see
good in him, he doesn’t believe it. Spend more time pointing out to him
all the goodness you see in other people. Once he sees that, he will
believe that others may see goodness in him.”
In our own lives, we often encounter people who relish

speaking ill of others. First of all, we must not accept slander at face
value. Most probably, it is a reflection of the deficiencies of the
talebearers themselves. And even when such people victimize us, we
should not react with anger and retaliation. As long as we maintain our
high standards, as long we do not stoop to the level of our detractors,
we can take comfort in the knowledge that it is not us that these people
are seeing but themselves.
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Big Black Holes

It was a disease unlike any other in the annals of medical
history. This disease produced lesions on the skin that resembled
leprosy, but it was not related to leprosy. Neither microbial infection nor
systemic malfunction caused it. It could not be treated with antibiotics
or medication or even hot chicken soup. It was called tzaraas.
This week’s Torah portion describes this affliction and its

remediation in great detail. Although tzaraas produced physical skin
lesions, it was a spiritual malady. When a person contaminated his
spiritual essence by speaking gossip or slander, he would become
afflicted with tzaraas and quarantined. Because his malicious tongue
had caused relationships to be broken and people to become
separated from each other by barriers of hostility, he would became
afflicted with tzaraas and forced to sit in isolation, contemplate the
harm he had caused and hopefully repent.
Which brings us to the obvious mystery. Unfortunately, people

in our times are not so perfect that they never stoop to gossip and
slander; there is plenty of malicious verbal sniping and backstabbing in
contemporary society. And yet, where is the tzaraas? Why don’t we
see people coming down with this spiritual malaise and its skin
lesions?
Earlier in this week’s portion, we read that a woman who gives

birth because ritually impure and must go through a process of
purification. How can such an event as wondrous and holy as childbirth
cause ritual impurity?
The mystical teachers explain that there is constant tension in

the world between holiness and impurity. When the one contracts
creating a black hole in spiritual space, the other expands to fill the
void, and vice versa. When a person’s soul departs his body, there is a
contraction of holiness, and ritual impurity flows into the void. When a
woman gives birth her separation from that spark of holiness in her
child diminishes her holiness, and ritual impurity flows into the void.
Over the centuries, as our experiences at Mount Sinai slips

further into the past, there has been a general decline in the overall
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state of holiness in the world. In ancient times, people were on a very
high level of holiness. When they spoke maliciously and ruinously, they
tore a gaping hole in their holiness, leaving a big black hole, and the
negative energy that flowed into that void manifested itself as tzaraas.
In our day, however, the level of holiness is not high enough to trigger
such a phenomenon.
The countdown for launching the spaceship was underway.

The systems were all checked and rechecked. The monitors detected
no glitches. The media arrived to observe the dawn liftoff. At the last
minute, however, a problem was detected. The pressure wasn’t
holding steady. The countdown was stopped, and the launch was
aborted.
The technicians examined every inch of the rocket for hours in
search of the cause of the pressure failure. Finally, they found it, and a
press conference was called.
“Gentlemen,” the project director announced to the assembled
representatives of the media, “we have discovered the problem, and
we will correct it. The launch has already been rescheduled. We will
issue a press release with all the details tomorrow.”
“Sir,” asked a newsman, “can you describe the exact cause of
the problem?”
“Yes. There was a hairline fissure in an O-ring seal.” “That’s
all?” the newsman exclaimed in wonder. “When my car has a hairline
fissure in a seal, it can still make it halfway across the country.”
“How can you compare your car with this rocket?” the project
director replied. “This is such a sophisticated, complex machine that
the slightest flaw upset its equilibrium. By comparison, your car is a
donkey cart.”
In our own lives, we often observe that our great spiritual

leaders endure more than their share of suffering and sorrow, and we
wonder why this is so, and we are puzzled by it. Certainly, we say to
ourselves, they who are better than we are should not have to suffer
more. In fact, it is their great spiritual attainments that place them at
higher risk. The higher their level of holiness, the greater the spiritual
black hole when they take a wrong turn, the greater the flow of
negative energy in their direction.
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PARASHAS METZORA
Plants and Wheelchairs

There is an old saying that a candle in the sunlight serves no
purpose. Dazzled by the bright illumination of the sun, we really gain
nothing from one small candle. But does this always hold true? The
Passover Seder would seem to contradict this concept.
What happens at the Seder? We read the Haggadah, which

tells the magnificent story of the Exodus, the pain and suffering in
bondage, the sacrifice of the Paschal lamb, the glory of our
redemption. But we also place a whole array of symbols on the table.
Bitter marror herbs to remind us of the bitterness of our suffering. Wine
to remind us of the blood that was spilled. The matzah and the Seder
plate to remind us of the Paschal sacrifice. What do we need these
symbols? What do they add to the dramatic and magnificent story? Do
we need candles in the sunlight?
The commentators find a strong parallel to this issue in this

week’s Torah portion. We read about the purification process of the
metzora, a person afflicted with lesions because he spoke improperly
about other people. One of the items he must take is the hyssop, a
lowly plant that grows close to the ground. Why the hyssop? Our
Sages observe that the hyssop symbolizes the metzora’s lowly stature.
It reminds him that he is a speck in the universe and teaches him
humility, the first step in his spiritual rehabilitation.
But the question still remains: Why isn’t it enough for the priests
to take him aside and talk to him about the virtues of humility and the
evils of malicious speech? Why is there a need for the hyssop?
The commentators explain that true change must come from

within. The priests could talk to the metzora endlessly about the
importance of being humble, about how insignificant he is in the grand
scheme of things, and it would have no genuine effect. No matter how
much lip service he will pay them, in his own mind he will remain
arrogant. But when he considers the hyssop in the privacy of his own
thoughts, he embarks on a journey of introspection, reflection and self-
analysis. And when he arrives at his destination, he will have achieved
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true humility.
At the Passover Seder as well, the mere telling of a story

cannot penetrate to the very depths of our hearts. Therefore, we have
the symbols that lead us to associate with the experience of our
ancestors and to reflect deeply on their significance. Only in this way
can we achieve a true feeling of personal redemption.
A teacher was telling his students about the dangers of riding a

bicycle without the protection of a helmet. In case of an accident, he
warned, head injuries were very likely to occur. He then told them a
number of stories about teenagers who had been paralyzed by falls
from bicycles.
The students listened to the stories wide-eyed and open-

mouthed, but the next day they were again riding blithely down the
road, their helmets dangling from their bicycle seats.
The frustrated teacher sought the principal’s advice. “I know

they believed the stories,” he said. “I could see it in the shock and the
concern on their faces. If so, why didn’t they start wearing their
helmets? I don’t understand it.”
“It’s just human nature,” said the principal. “You hear the
stories, but somehow, you never relate them to yourself. Listen to me.
Tomorrow, bring a wheelchair into your classroom and leave it there
for a few days. In their own minds, they will begin seeing themselves in
the wheelchair. Mark my words. In a week, they will all be wearing their
helmets.”
In our own lives, we have an intellectual understanding the

Almighty’s goodness and kindness, but sometimes that awareness
does not penetrate to the depths of our hearts. How then do we
accomplish this? By taking note of the myriad symbols of His
benevolence that surround us; everywhere we turn, everywhere we
look, we encounter manifestations of it. Let us not take for granted our
health, our families, our homes, the birds in the sky, the very air that
we breathe. Let us rather reflect on these symbols of His presence and
engender awareness at the core of our being.
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PARASHAS ACHAREI MOS
Nothing Wasted
Nothing is as painful as the loss of a child. The wound it leaves
in the heart of the parent is so deep, so jagged that no amount of time
can ever heal it. And if that child was a shining young star, beautiful,
talented and accomplished, the pain is that much greater to bear. The
pain Aaron felt at the sudden demise of Nadab and Abihu, his two
brilliant sons who perished while bringing unauthorized fire into the
sanctuary, must have been excruciating.
With this in mind, let us take a close look at this week’s Torah
portion. The reading begins with a description of the sacrificial service
conducted by Aaron, the High Priest, on Yom Kippur. The Torah
prefaces these instructions with the following words, “And the Lord
spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron, when they
drew near to Hashem and died . . . With this shall Aaron come into the
sanctuary, with a young bullock as a sin-offering . . .”
Two questions immediately come to mind. One, why mention

the death of Aaron’s two sons in this context? What was the point of
rubbing salt in his wounds? Furthermore, what is the significance of
the seemingly superfluous words “with this”?
Let us reflect for a moment on loss. Two people die. One is

killed on a subway by a deranged killer on a shooting spree. The other
dies of smoke inhalation while rescuing children trapped in a burning
building. Both families mourn the death of their loved one, but which
feels a greater sense of loss, of emptiness? Clearly, the family of the
hero suffers a more bearable sorrow. At least there was meaning to his
death. But what is the family of the subway victim supposed to feel?
How are they deal with the pointless snuffing out of a vibrant life? How
are they to deal with the sudden senseless void that has appeared in
their lives? The perception of waste is the most difficult aspect of
personal loss.
The untimely deaths of Nadab and Abihu, two brilliant young

priests with such promising futures, must have seemed like such a
terrible waste. But our Sages tells us that their intentions were pure,
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Vayikra: Acharei Mos
that they acted out of tremendous although somewhat misguided zeal.
The commentators explain that anything a person does for the good
takes on a life and an existence of its own, even if its effectiveness is
not immediately apparent. The act, the word, the thought still exist, and
at some time and place in the future they can affect important results.
Nothing is lost. Nothing is wasted.
This is what Hashem was telling Aaron by way of consolation

for the death of his two sons. “With this” shall Aaron enter the
sanctuary. With the fiery zeal of his two sons, which would now be
channeled to their proper destination through the Yom Kippur service
performed by their father. Through his actions, Aaron could tune in to
the spiritual energy generated by his sons and harness it to add
momentum to his own service. In this way, he could bring fulfillment to
the lives of his sons and solace to his own broken heart.
A young dissident was sentenced to fifteen years of hard labor

in a prison camp. Each day he would push a long pole attached to a
gear that turned a heavy millstone in the next room. Day in and day out
for fifteen years, from dawn until long after dark, the prisoner pushed
the pole in an endless circle of backbreaking labor.
When he was finally released, he asked to see the millstone,

and his wish was granted. The room turned out to be dark and musty,
covered with cobwebs and many inches of dust. The former prisoner
took one look and burst into tears.
“Why are you crying?” asked the puzzled warden.
“All these years, I had thought I was grinding grain, that I was
helping make bread. But now I see that all that terrible hardship was a
total waste. That is simply too much to bear.”
In our own lives, we often expend energy on all sorts of good

deeds without seeing any tangible results. For instance, we put
tremendous efforts into our children, and sometimes we become
frustrated, thinking it is all for naught. But it is not. We can all take
comfort in the knowledge that no good deed or good word is ever
wasted, that somewhere, sometime, in one way or another, our efforts
all bear fruit…
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A Matter of Opinion
The two festivals of Pesach and Shavuos come in such rapid
succession they almost seem like one extended celebration. Indeed,
some commentators compare the intervening days between Pesach and
Shavuos, when we count down to the Omer, to Chol Hamoed, the
Intermediate Days of the Festivals. By rights, this should be one long
period of uninterrupted festivity - but it is not.
The days of Sefiras Haomer, the Countdown to the Omer, are also
days of mourning and sadness. We mourn a catastrophe that befell the
Jewish people in Talmudic times, shortly after the destruction of the
Temple in Jerusalem. The Talmud (Yevamos 62) tells us that a plague
broke out among the disciples of Rabbi Akiva during the period between
Pesach and Shavuos, killing twenty-four thousand of them.
This was indeed a terrible tragedy, but an annual memorial is

nevertheless somewhat puzzling. Unfortunately, Jewish history is a long
succession of terrible tragedies that blankets the entire calendar, and if we
were to observe annual mourning for them all, we would never cease to
mourn. Our Sages, therefore, selected only the most disastrous calamities
for annual commemoration. Why then does this plague rank among the
most disastrous calamities ever to befall the Jewish people?
Furthermore, let us consider the cause of the plague. According to

the Talmud, it happened because “they did not have sufficient respect for
one another.” Two problems immediately come to mind.
First, why would an infringement on the respect of their fellow
disciples precipitate such dire consequences?
Second, why indeed did they fail to respect each other

sufficiently? Rabbi Akiva was one of the foremost proponents of ve’ahavta
lereiacha kamocha, loving one’s fellow as oneself; he considered it one of
the fundamental concepts of the Torah. Surely then, he would have
stressed this idea to his disciples, impressing on them the importance of
treating other people with absolute respect. After hearing such words from
the holy lips of Rabbi Akiva, how could twenty-four thousand of his
disciples even consider being disrespectful to one another?
The commentators explain that Rabbi Akiva’s disciples were

certainly people of sterling character who would never have dreamed of
uttering a single rude word to another person. Rather, their “disrespect”
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manifested itself in the intellectual sense.
The Talmud tells us that just as no two people are exactly identical
in their appearance, they are also not identical in their outlook and
opinions. Every person has his own particular way of looking at things,
and no one else in the world has exactly the same perspective. When
Rabbi Akiva taught his disciples, each one absorbed the teachings
according to the nuances of his particular perspective. This was, of
course, as was to be expected. But how did they view the opinions of their
colleagues?
This is where the “disrespect” came into play. They could not
acknowledge the possibility that other people’s perspectives might also
have validity. Each one considered his own opinion the absolute truth and
the opinions of his colleagues as erroneous. This attitude reflected a lack
of objectivity and intellectual honesty. They were so enamored of their
own wisdom that they could not see the wisdom of others and respect
their opinions. The transmission of the truth of the Torah to future
generations, however, required intellectual purity and integrity, and these
disciples were found lacking in that respect. Therefore, in order to prevent
the chain of transmission from being compromised, these disciples
perished in a plague.
And we mourn. We mourn the loss of twenty-four thousand great

Torah scholars. But even more, we mourn the riches of Torah knowledge
and insight we could have gained from an additional twenty-four thousand
conduits of Torah, with all the textures and nuances of their varied
perspectives - if only they had been worthy. How these disciples could
have made the Torah blossom before our eyes - if only they had been
able to achieve perfect objectivity. But they did not, and our loss is
irreplaceable.
In our own lives, we sometimes become so wrapped up in our own

point of view that we fail to acknowledge the possibility that an opposing
point of view may also have validity. There is an element of egotism and
conceit behind such an attitude. We love ourselves, and therefore we
must be right. But if we find it in ourselves to love our fellow as we do
ourselves, we will suddenly see the world with a new and profound clarity.
Things that bothered us will no longer do so. Things we did not appreciate
will take on new value and importance. And more likely than not, we will
discover we have gained much wisdom and peace of mind.
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The Crossroads of Life

Two identical goats awaited the High Priest in the Temple
courtyard on Yom Kippur. The multitudinous spectators watched with
bated breath as the High Priest was presented with a box that
contained two slips of paper, the lots that would determine the
respective fates of the two goats. He reached into the box, drew the
lots and placed them on the heads of the goats. One goat was now
designated “for God,” the other for Azazel.
The High Priest proceeded to ritually slaughter the goat that

was “for God.” He collected its blood, sprinkled it on the holy altar and
offered up the goat as a sanctified sacrifice top God. The other goat
was led out of the courtyard in to the open country to a distant
mountainside covered with jagged rocks. The goat was pushed over
the precipice, and as it tumbled down the mountainside it was torn to
pieces by the sharp rocky protrusions.
What was the significance of this ritual? Why was it considered

one of the highlights of the Yom Kippur service, the holiest day of the
year?
The commentators explain that the two goats symbolize the

two divergent roads along which a person can travel through his
lifetime on this earth − the road of spirituality and the road of
materialism.
The road to spiritual growth is arduous and difficult. It requires

much sacrifice. But in the end, perseverance brings fulfillment and
eternal rewards as the exalted spirit connects with the Above. Most of
us have felt at one time or another a moment of spiritual
transcendence and remember the profound exhilaration as it
resonated in their hearts and souls. This is the greatest pleasure a
human being can experience, and it is represented by the goat that is
designated “for God” and sacrificed on the altar.
The road to material success, on the other hand, is more

accessible. It provides constant gratification for the body’s physical
needs and lulls us into a false sense of security. But this road
ultimately leads to destruction, to a life wasted on the pleasures of the
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moment and deprived of the supreme and enduring pleasures of the
spirit. At the end, it falls off the final precipice and disintegrates into
nothingness.
Yom Kippur is the day when these two roads intersect. It is a

defining moment in a person’s life. Once again, he stands at the
crossroads. Once, he must make the hard choices that will affect not
only his life on this earth but the eternal condition of his indestructible
soul.
A weary traveler, thirsty and covered with dust, sat by the side
of the highway in the broiling sun. Suddenly, he heard a rumble in the
distance. He looked up and saw a cloud of dust approaching. As it
drew near, he saw that it was a beautiful carriage drawn by four
handsome white horses. As the carriage drew nearer, it came to a halt,
and a rich man stepped out.
“My good fellow,” he said to the weary traveler, “can I offer you
a ride? It is much to hot to walk when you can ride in comfort.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the traveler, “but I must decline your kind
offer.”
“But why?” said the rich man. “I am not asking you for anything.
I’m just offering to help a man in obvious distress.”
“And I thank you for it,” said the traveler. “But you see, we are
not traveling in the same direction. You are traveling south, but I am
headed north. We have different destinations.”
In our own lives, we need to ask ourselves if we are headed

north or south. We need to ask ourselves if spiritual aspirations are our
ultimate goal or if we are completely focused on material
accomplishments. We need to ask ourselves if we are really content to
take the easy way, the point of least resistance, or if we are prepared
to make hard choices and sacrifices. Let us remember that the road to
materialism ends in disappointment, while the road to spiritual growth
ultimately delivers everlasting reward.
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PARASHAS KEDOSHIM
A Critical Difference
Why do we cringe when our flaws and shortcomings are
pointed out to us? Why do we find criticism such a bitter pill to
swallow? Logic would seem to dictate the exact opposite. We all want
to be the very best we can possibly be, to reach our full potential.
Therefore, it is important that we know our flaws in order to correct
them, and we should be happy to have them pointed out to us. Why
then do we cringe? Why do we feel humiliated?
Furthermore, the Torah in this week’s portion commands us,

“Do not hate your brother in your heart. Rebuke your friend, and do not
bear sin upon him." There seems to be a contradiction here. On the
one hand, the Torah requires us to rebuke others. Yet the Sages tell
us that “people who accuse others of shortcomings are themselves
guilty of the same flaws,” clearly implying that we should refrain from
offering rebuke.
The answer lies in a closer reading of the Torah’s

commandment. “Rebuke your friend.” Make sure your rebuke is
delivered in a spirit of friendship. “Do not bear sin upon him.” Separate
the person from the sin. Rebuke the deed, not the person. People who
judge and condemn, the Sages add, are generally guilty of the very
crimes of which they accuse others. People who are righteous and free
of guilt, however, offer constructive criticism in a spirit of friendship.
Criticism itself does not humiliate. After all, very few people
consider themselves absolutely perfect. Rather, it is the manner in
which the criticism is delivered that humiliates. Very often,
unfortunately, it is delivered in a mean-spirited, malicious manner,
whereby the critic demeans us in order to make himself appear "holier
than thou." It is a put-down, and we instinctively recoil.
Constructive criticism, however, delivered in a pure spirit of

love and compassion, is always welcome. Indeed, it is one of the
primary catalysts of personal growth.
In a certain district of Jerusalem, all the storekeepers agreed to
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close down their stores for Shabbos - except for one grocer. No matter
how much pressure was brought on him, he refused to budge.
One Friday, one of the prominent Jerusalem sages dressed in

his best Shabbos finery and entered the grocery store. He stationed
himself on a chair in the back of the store and proceeded to stay there
for the entire day, watching the busy hustle and bustle of the grocery
shoppers.
As evening drew near, the grocer approached the sage and

asked, “Is everything all right, rabbi? Do you need anything? Is there
anything I can do to help you?”
“No,” said the sage. “I have come here because I wanted to

understand why you refuse to close your store on Shabbos. Now, it is
clear to me. You have such a busy store that it would be a tremendous
ordeal for you to close it, even for one day.”
The grocer burst into tears. “You are the first one to try to see it
from my side,” he managed to say between sobs. “Everyone scolded
and berated me, but before you, no one tried to understand me.”
After that day, it did not take long before the grocer agreed to
close his store on Shabbos. A few kind words had been effective
where threats and invective had failed.
In our own lives, we often feel a need to criticize others. Before

we do so, however, we should ask ourselves: Are we doing it for their
good rather than our own? Are our motives pure and compassionate?
If the answer is yes, and if we deliver the criticism in a kind and gentle
manner, it will undoubtedly be effective. The difference is critical.
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Ohr Shalom
The Secret of Clairvoyance

You won’t bump into many sorcerers and wizards on the
streets of New York or Chicago, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
There are innumerable reports about the feats of practitioners of the
occult. Granted that a good many of them are nonsense, but some are
probably true. Where there’s smoke, there has to be at least some fire.
The Torah acknowledges the existence of sorcerers and

wizard, as well as an entire list of other occult practices, such as
witchcraft, divination and necromancy, and strictly prohibits them in the
strongest possible terms. Reading through this long list is an eerie,
bone-chilling experience, and when it is over, we stumble across a
strange juxtaposition.
What is the first commandment the Torah gives us after the

subject of the occult comes to an end? It is the prohibition against
cursing one’s father or mother. The commentators are puzzled. What
is the connection between this cursing a parent and the occult?
Let us now consider for a moment the Torah prohibition against

the occult. Imagine a person at a major crossroads in his life. Face
with difficult decisions, confused, he wants desperately to know what
the future holds in store. So what does he do? He consults a
necromancer or another occult diviner of the future. Why is this such a
terrible sin?
The commentators explain that it is actually possible to

discover the future by ascending the Kabbalistic ladder through the fifty
levels of holiness to the ultimate level of divine inspiration. This is
actually the secret explanation of the powers of the occult. All things in
the world exist in dichotomies in order to provide people with free will.
If there is a holy path to clairvoyance, then the Almighty will create, as
a counterpoint, an unholy path to clairvoyance. Therefore, when a
person seeks clairvoyance on the unholy path of the occult, he is in
essence rejecting the holy path to clairvoyance, which leads directly to
the embrace of the Almighty.
This is what the Torah is telling us by the juxtaposition of the

prohibition against cursing parents to the prohibition against the occult.
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Do not think for a moment that occult practices are a harmless,
nondenominational spiritual experience. They are a rejection of the
Almighty, just like cursing your parents instead of blessing them is a
rejection of the people to whom you owe most in the world.
A young traveling in a distant land man sought out a famous

guru. The guru, painfully thin and wearing only a stained dhoti,
received the young man while sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor of
his hut. He stared at the young man with large, liquid eyes and told him
all about his past and his future. The young man was astounded.
Upon returning home, the young man visited a great sage and
told him about the guru.
“Interesting,” said the sage, “but tell me, how did he treat his
wife?” “Well, he was a little sharp and abrupt with her.”
“Then he is nothing. His powers come from unholy sources. If

he were a man of genuine spirituality and elevation of the soul, he
would treat his wife with more consideration.”
In our own lives, living as we do in such an intensely

materialistic society, we are witnessing a great upsurge of interest in
things spiritual, as is to be expected. But unfortunately, much of this
interest is being diverted into unholy channels. People who are
accustomed to seeking easy fixes for material pleasure are now
seeking out the occult and other ersatz spiritual experiences as easy
fixes for spiritual fulfillment. We even hear about degenerate media
celebrities dabbling in the Kabbalah. It is all a farce. There is no easy
path to true spirituality, nor is there a substitute for it. If we want real
spiritual fulfillment, we must embrace the Torah, its values and its
ideals. This is the only path that leads to the Almighty Himself.
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PARASHAS EMOR
Give Me Liberty
A famous pre-Revolutionary American once said, “Give me
liberty or give me death!” Not all would agree that life without liberty is
not worth living, yet we all acknowledge that liberty is a priceless gift.
But what is liberation and why is it so precious? Is simply casting off all
restrictions a virtue? Should a mother aspire to be liberated from
caring for her infant child?
Furthermore, our Sages tell that “the only free person is one
who studies the Torah.” But how is Torah study liberating? If anything,
its many prohibitions and restrictions would seem to be quite
restrictive.
Let us look into the very first verse of this week’s Torah portion
for the answer. “And Hashem said to Moses, ‘Say it to the Kohanim,
the sons of Aaron, and you shall say to them, ‘You shall not
contaminate yourselves . . .’” Say it to the Kohanim . . . and you shall
say to them . . . There are no superfluous words in the Torah. What
then is the point of this apparent redundancy?
The commentators find a profound implication in this verse.

Hashem was actually sending two different and distinct messages to
the Kohanim through Moses. The principal message was the
prohibition against contamination by corpses and all the other
precautionary guidelines that follow thereafter. There was always the
possibility, however, that the Kohanim would find the prohibitions
restrictive, that they would chafe at the burden imposed upon them.
Therefore, Hashem told Moses to preface his remarks with

another message: “Say it to the Kohanim . . . the sons of Aaron!”
Remind them of who they are. Remind them that they are not ordinary
people. They are the sons of Aaron, the exalted princes of the Jewish
people, the privileged members of Hashem’s priestly caste. Ordinary
modes of behavior and lifestyle would be inappropriate for such
people. Their special status requires a higher, more purified way of life.
Thus, the prohibitions are not oppressive restrictions but marks of
distinction.
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In this light, we gain new insight into the meaning of liberty. It is

the freedom to achieve the maximum personal growth without
hindrance or outside interference. The mother caring for her infant
child enjoys liberty when she is allowed to fulfill her maternal role
completely, not when she is released from it. Liberty allows us to live
up to our standards, our values and ideals, to seek personal fulfillment.
How does a person reach fulfillment by the transcendent

standards that apply to a human being, a creature formed betzelem
Elokim, in “the Image of the Lord”? Our Sages tells us that it is only
through Torah. Without Torah, a person is drawn into the vortex of his
passions and desires. He is swept away on the carnal currents and
drifts ever further from the fulfillment of his exalted potential. Only
through years of painstakingly following the divine guidelines of the
Torah can a person approach perfection. This is liberty of the highest
order.
In our own lives, in a society that glorifies liberty and

libertarianism, we sometimes find ourselves restricted by the
commandments of the Torah, and reflexively, we may feel a twitch of
resentment. But if we reflect on the overall benefits of our way of life,
we will surely understand that we are the ones who enjoy true liberty,
we are the ones whose entire lives are directed toward bring us to ever
higher levels of spirituality. Torah truly enriches us and gives us the
priceless gift of liberty.
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The Power of Connection

They were ten of the best and finest Jewish men, the pride of
the Jewish people who had emerged in the Egyptian exodus. And yet
these ten men brought untold calamity upon their people. Sent by
Moses to reconnoiter the Promised Land before the people actually
crossed into it, these ten spies brought back the most slanderous and
distorted reports to the desert encampments. They caused such
dissension and turmoil that the entry into the Promised Land was
postponed for nearly forty years, after the entire generation had
passed away and a new generation emerged.
Is there anything constructive to be learned from these ten

wicked sinners? Strangely enough, it seems that there is.
In this week’s Torah portion, we read that Hashem “will be

sanctified amidst the Jewish people.” The Talmud points out that
“amidst” refers to a minyan, a quorum of ten men, the minimum
number of Jews whose presence is required for prayers and readings
of special sanctity. How do we know this? By an exegetic comparison,
the Talmud explains, to the word “amidst” that appears in the narrative
of the spies. Just as that “amidst” refers to a group of ten, so too does
the “amidst” of sanctified prayers and readings refer to a group of ten.
But the question immediately jumps out at us. Why did the
Torah see fit to derive the guidelines for the minyan from the number
of slanderous spies? Could this information not have been conveyed in
some other fashion?
The commentators explain that the Torah is teaching us a very

important lesson here. There are many forces in the physical world
which we instinctively view as destructive, such as dynamite and the
splitting of the atom. But in actuality, these very destructive forces can
be put to beneficial use. Dynamite can be used not only to wreak
destruction but also to clear a path through mountains and forests for
new highways to serve civilization. The splitting of the atom does not
necessarily have to result in mushroom clouds over populous cities. It
can also be harnessed to provide power for industry and private
homes. Everything depends on how it is used.
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Vayikra: Emor
The forces in the spiritual world also follow the same pattern. If
a group of ten men could produce results of such destructive intensity
that calamity would befall millions of Jews, this was clearly an
extremely potent spiritual force. Clearly, the connection effected by the
critical mass of ten Jews was so powerful that the group became far
greater than the sum of its parts. Surely, this selfsame force could also
be harnessed for the good to create the proper spiritual environment
for prayers and readings of special sanctity.
A general deployed his army on the battlefield, preparing for

the onslaught of a vastly superior enemy force. He exhorted his troops
to rise above their limitations in numbers and weaponry, to fight
heroically and defeat the enemy against all odds.
The battle began, and the army held fast, fighting desperately
for every inch of territory, But as the battle wore on, the superiority of
the enemy began to take its toll. First the right flank caved in, then the
left flank. The center held out for a while longer, then it too collapsed.
Only one battalion entrenched on a hilltop held out. They fought
furiously and with utmost bravery until they broke through the enemy
lines. They attacked the enemy’s communications and command
posts, wreaking such havoc that the battle ground to an inconclusive
halt.
The soldiers in the heroic battalion all received medals and
commendations, eventually becoming the subjects of military legend.
“How could your few men have accomplished such an amazing
feat?” the captain was asked at the ceremony.
“It’s quite simple,” said the captain. “Before the battle, we all
made a pact that we were willing to die for each other and the
fatherland. We all connected and became one solid group, not just a
collection of individuals. There is no limit to what a group of men can
do.”
In our own lives, we often tend to withdraw into our own insular
little worlds, enjoying the comforts and pleasures of our homes and
hearths with only a tangential relationship to the community at large.
By doing so, however, we forgo the opportunity to be part of a greater
good. But if we connect with others in the community, if we forge
alliances for the accomplishment of important goals for the community,
we can tap into the enormous spiritual power of the group and reap the
benefits in every aspect of our lives.
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49 Days, 11 Hours
It’s really a matter of simple arithmetic. Seven times seven is
forty-nine. Add one, and you get fifty. A young schoolchild shouldn’t
have any problems making this easy calculation. Yet it would appear
that the Torah does not trust us to get the answer right.
In this weeks portion, we are introduced to the mitzvah of

counting the Omer, the seven-week countdown from the second day of
Passover until the festival of Shavuos (Leviticus 23:15-16): “And you
shall count for yourselves,” the Torah commands, “from the morrow of
the day of rest . . . there should be seven complete weeks. Until the
morrow of the seventh week, you shall count fifty days.” Why does the
Torah find it necessary to do the arithmetic for us? Don’t we know that
the day after a full seven weeks is the fiftieth day?
The commentators offer a homiletic explanation.
Let us take a closer look at the counting of the Omer. On an

elementary level, we count the Omer to build up our excitement and
anticipation for the festival of Shavuos, which celebrates the Giving of
the Torah. On the mystical level, however, the preparation is far more
profound. During these seven weeks, we are meant to climb the ladder
of elevation, to refine and improve our inner selves so that we will
receive the Torah with purity of soul. Each day, each week brings us
higher and higher until we reach the final goal.
But what if you are distracted by the disturbances of life and

arrive at Shavuos having counted the days but not having done the
introspective work? Should you lose heart and become despondent?
The Torah reassures us that all is not lost. Even if you waited
until the eleventh hour, it is still not too late. You may have missed the
opportunity to climb the fifty steps to perfection in the methodical,
laborious and reliable step-by-step process. But you need not despair.
You can still make the leap in one glorious bound. If you can generate
within yourself one burst of transcendent inspiration, you can be
catapulted right to the top of the fifty-step ladder in one day, in one
exhilarating moment.
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Vayikra: Emor
This is what the Torah is telling you. “Until the morrow of the
seventh week, you shall count fifty days.” You can still accomplish a
complete fifty-day count on the morrow of the seventh week. It will just
take more effort.
A young man who lived with his parents left on an extended

business trip which kept him away from home for over a month.
The first morning after his return, his mother came into the
kitchen in the morning to find that her son had prepared a lavish
breakfast for her. The table was exquisitely laid and covered with
platters of the choicest foods. A large bouquet of flowers stood in the
center.
The mother smiled with delight. “What’s the occasion?” she
asked. “Is it the anniversary of some special event? What’s going on?”
“Mother,” said the young man, “it is my honor and privilege to
serve you breakfast every day. But since I’ve been away for over a
month, let me at least make up for it with one special breakfast.”
In our own lives, we are sometimes inclined to think that life

has passed us by, that we have squandered away the opportunities for
spiritual growth that came our way. If only we could live our lives over
again, we tell ourselves, how differently we would do things. If only we
could avoid all those foolish mistakes we made, how much better off
we would be. All this is probably true, but it no cause for throwing up
our hands in defeat. As long as we live, we have the ability to make a
great leap that will transform who and what we are, a great leap that
will bring us right into the loving embrace of the Almighty.
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Over the Top

How long would it take for a single person to lift twenty-two
thousand full-grown men off the ground one at a time? It is exhausting
even to think about such a daunting endeavor. You lift a few. You take a
rest. And then you lift some more. One would imagine that it would take
weeks or even months to complete the task.
But what if it had to be done in one day? What if a single person

was required to begin lifting twenty-two thousand full-grown men off the
ground, one by one, at sunrise and to complete the task by sunset? This
would entail lifting one man every four seconds, without a moment’s
respite from morning until night. It seems like an impossible undertaking.
And yet, this is exactly what Aaron the High Priest was required to
do at the dedication ceremony of the Levite tribe in a process called
tenufah. And he did it! It was an incredible feat, and it earned him the
honorary title High Priest. According to the Midrash, he was called High
Priest, because he was greatest of all the priests in physical strength. No
one else among the priests could have managed this astonishing feat, but
he did.
But was Aaron’s extraordinary feat really proof of his extraordinary

physical strength? Is it humanly possible for one person to lift twenty-two
thousand full-grown men in a single day? Surely, there must have been
miraculous intervention. And if so, how do we know that Aaron had great
physical strength.
The commentators explain that the key to human strength is focus

and concentration. We all have the ability to muster far more strength than
we think we possess. The difficult challenge is to harness that strength.
From time to time, we hear news reports about young mothers,

slender women without bulging biceps, who lift automobiles to save their
trapped husbands or children. Apparently, the normal human body has the
innate ability to generate enough energy to lift an automobile, but it takes
a crisis such as an automobile accident to bring that energy into focus.
The normal reaction when face with a task requiring extraordinary

strength is to say, “I can’t. It’s too hard.” It takes an extreme crisis to spark
the will and determination that can bring out all that hidden strength.
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Vayikra: Emor
For Aaron, God’s command was more galvanizing than the
greatest personal crisis. When God told him to lift the Levites, He did not
say it would be accomplished by a miracle. He told Aaron to lift, and Aaron
ran to do it. And as he was lifting the Levites, achieving physical feats that
staggered the imagination, God decided to perform a miracle to help him
complete the task in one day. A lesser man would have declared, “This is
an impossible task” and thrown up his hands in defeat. God would not
perform a miracle for such a man.
A famous sage traveled to the premier center of learning to find an

outstanding scholar as a husband for his gracious and talented daughter.
Many young men, eager for this exceptional match, came forward to meet
the sage.
In order to text the suitors, the sage posed an extremely difficult
and perplexing question to them. The one who offered a solution would
clearly be the outstanding scholar he sought. A day went by. The young
men pondered long and hard, but no one could discover the solution.
Disappointed, the sage declared that he was leaving. Apparently,
he had would have to continue his search further afield. The young men
hung their heads dejectedly and walked away.
As the sage was walking out the door to resume his journey, a
young man came running up to him.
“Sir, I need to know the solution,” he said breathlessly. “I’ve been
wracking my brains, and I cannot figure out. It would have been nice to
marry your daughter, but even if not, I must have the answer to the
question. I will not sleep otherwise.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the sage. “You are the one I was seeking. You are
the perfect husband for my daughter.”
“I am?” said the young man. “But I thought you . . .” “You have the
desire, my son,” said the sage. “I can help you with the skills.”
In our own lives, we sometimes tend to be overwhelmed by

daunting tasks. But in actuality, we probably have the strength and ability
to complete them successfully. All we are lacking are the will and the
determination. If we are focused and try hard enough there is practically
no limit to what we can accomplish. And if we come up a little short, God
is always there to give us that last little boost to get us over the top.
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PARASHAS BEHAR
A Place of Refuge
How low can a Jew fall in status? Even when a Jew is overcome
by such difficult circumstances that he is sold into slavery, he still retains
some of his former dignity and identity. At least, he finds himself in the
home of a co-religionist with a similar life style. However, enslavement to
a gentile resident of Eretz Yisrael, to bear the yoke of an alien master, that
is the ultimate social degradation possible for a Jew. How can this
unfortunate slave maintain his ties to family and tradition under such
conditions? The Torah, at the end of this week’s portion, directs him to
hold fast two commandments - spurning idolatry and keeping the Sabbath.
Why does the Torah single out these two particular

commandments? We can easily understand why the Torah emphasizes
the prohibition against idolatry, since this is the very antithesis of Judaism.
But why the emphasis on the Sabbath more than on other observances
such as wearing tefillin or studying the Torah?
We find a similar emphasis on the Sabbath in the Midrash. When

Moses was a young boy growing up in Pharaoh’s palace, he was
extremely disturbed by the physical affliction and spiritual decline of his
Jewish brethren. It occurred to him that if the Jewish people would be
allowed to observe the Sabbath, they would survive the Egyptian bondage
as an exalted people. The Midrash relates that Moses suggested to
Pharaoh that he could significantly increase the productivity of his Jewish
slaves by allowing them a day of rest to replenish their depleted stores of
energy. Pharaoh followed this advice, and the productivity did indeed
increase. But at the same time, the Jewish people were able to
congregate and celebrate the Sabbath, thus ensuring their spiritual
survival. Once again, we are presented with this question: What special
powers did Moses see in the Sabbath as an antidote to enslavement?
The rabbi of a certain well-known Ukrainian city was famous for

always arguing with the Creator in defense of the Jewish people. Late one
Passover night, he ran into the square and called an emergency meeting
of all the Jews in the city.
“Quick!” he said. “Bring me all your tobacco. Right now!” “But,
rabbi,” protested the people. “That is contraband. Anyone caught with it
would be instantly executed.”
But the rabbi would accept no excuses, and sure enough, little by
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little, the pile of tobacco in the square began to grow quite large.
The rabbi immediately called for another contraband item, and
once again, he was greeted by incredulous protests. But he persisted, and
slowly but surely, a second pile materialized as well.
“And now,” ordered the rabbi, “bring me all your bread!” This time,
however, all his persistence was to no avail. Not a single crumb appeared.
“Master of the Universe!” the rabbi cried out to the heavens. “How
wonderful are your people! Look at all this contraband. All the police
forces and threats of execution could not prevent them from collecting this
material. But one word from You forbidding bread on Passover, spoken
over three thousand years ago, and there in not one crumb in the whole
city!”
The word of the Creator is an impenetrable wall, more real than

piles of brick and mortar or a battalion of soldiers. Yet it is a spiritual wall,
visible to the soul but not the eye. On the Sabbath, when Hashem
commands us to rest and refrain from all sorts of mundane activities, He is
in effect surrounding us with spiritual walls composed of His holy words.
When we enter within these sanctified walls, we are transported to higher
world, a place ideally suited to communing with our inner selves, to
contemplating the timeless truths of the Universe, to bonding with the
Creator. This is the secret of the magical power of the Sabbath to touch
the Jewish soul. Were we to emulate the Sabbath observance on an
ordinary weekday, it would have no effect - because it the divine
commandment that sets it apart.
For the unfortunate Jewish slaves, in Egypt as in other times, the

Sabbath was the perfect place of refuge. By keeping the Sabbath, they
could escape the mundane world into a transcendent abode where their
souls could feast on the divine aura, reinforcing their identity as exalted
Jews even in a state of slavery.
In our own lives, we often find ourselves swept away by the

maelstrom of seemingly endless mundane concerns and activities. Life
literally enslaves us. There are bills to pay, things to do, obligations to
fulfill, a never-ending succession of miles to go before we sleep. But on
the Sabbath, we have the opportunity to step away from it all, to enter this
spiritual edifice constructed of the divine word and enjoy a day of
uninterrupted peace and spirituality. This is the special gift Hashem
reserved for the Jewish people, a gift that sanctifies, enriches and
elevates all the days of our lives.
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Enough Is Never Enough

It took a real act of faith for Jewish farmers to leave their lands
fallow during the Sabbatical year. For six years they had planted and
harvested their crops, and now in the seventh year, Hashem
commanded them to sit back and do nothing. What were they
supposed to eat? How were they supposed to support their families?
The Torah addresses this question in this week’s reading. “And

if you should say, ‘What will we eat in the seventh year since we
cannot sow or gather produce?’ do not fear. I will command My
blessing for you during the sixth year . . .” Hashem promised to deliver
such large bumper crops during the sixth year that there would be
plenty left over for all their future needs until they could reap another
harvest.
But let us take a closer look at the question. “What will we eat
in the seventh year?” Surely, they meant the eighth year, not the
seventh. Everyone knows that each year’s harvest provides the food
for the following year. The sixth year’s harvest thus assured them of
food for the seventh year. The seventh year’s harvest would have
provided the food for the eighth year, and therefore, leaving the land
fallow placed the eighth year in jeopardy, not the seventh. Why then
did they express concern about what they would eat in the seventh
year?
The answer touches on the very fundamentals of faith. A

person who has faith in Hashem is not concerned about the future.
Fully aware that he does not control his own fate, that everything is in
Hashem’s hands, he lives by the dictates of the Torah and relies on
Hashem to do the rest. Once this attitude becomes truly integrated into
his thinking, he discovers a new serenity in his life, a feeling of peace
and security.
A person without faith, however, is under the impression that

he is the master of his own fate, that his entire future depends on his
own efforts. He puts inordinate pressure on himself by thinking that he
alone stands between his family and starvation. Understandably, this
gives rise to anxiety and insecurity. Ultimately, it leads to an irrational
drive to work unnecessarily hard and long just to keep the wolf from
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the door.
This is the attitude the Torah was anticipating among the

farmers enjoined not to plant in the seventh year. Those of weaker
faith might worry irrationally about the seventh year, even though the
granaries were still full from the sixth year’s harvest. The Torah
reassures these people that there would be so much grain in the sixth
year that even they would not need to worry.
A fabulously wealthy man once complained to a great sage

about the pressures of running his vast financial empire.
“Tell me,” said the sage, “why don’t you just sell all your
holdings and relax? Don’t you have enough to last you for the rest of
your life?”
“Certainly I do,” replied the rich man. “But by amassing all this
wealth I can secure the financial future of all my children and
grandchildren as well.”
“Indeed?” said the sage, raising his eyebrows. “So when your
grandchildren grow up and come into possession of all the wealth they
inherit from you, will they live a life of leisure or go to work as well?”
The rich man thought for a moment. “I expect they will go to
work.” “Why?”
“To ensure that their own grandchildren are also taken care of.”
“Aha!” said the sage. “And so on. And so on. I would certainly like to
see that one grandchild for whose benefit all these generations have
been working so hard. No, my friend. That is not the reason why you
work so hard. The real reason is that no matter how much money you
have you do not feel secure. Deep in your heart, you feel that the more
money you pile up the greater your guarantee of being wealthy for the
rest of your life. You are living in a fantasy.”
In our own lives, it is undoubtedly prudent to save a little for a

rainy day. But what happens when we suddenly see the future as a
series of endless rainy days and plunge into a frenzy of work? At times
like these, we need to reaffirm in our own minds that everything comes
from Hashem and that there are no rainy days for Him. If we relegate
the final responsibility for our lives to Hashem, we will enrich our lives
with tranquility, prosperity - and rationality.
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Small Coincidences
Fire and thick clouds descended on Mount Sinai as millions of
Jewish people trembled in awe at the foot of the mountain. And then
the voice of the Almighty spoke directly to all the people, the first and
last time that such an incredible divine revelation would occur in all the
history of mankind. What did the Almighty say to the Jewish people on
that historic day at Mount Sinai? He gave them the Ten
Commandments.
But what about the rest of the Torah? Where and when was
that given to the Jewish people? In fact, all the rest of the Torah was
also given to the Jewish people at Mount Sinai. The encampment
remained at the foot of the mountain for over a year, and during this
time, Moses taught the entire Torah to the Jewish people, and the
process of study began.
This week’s portion, however, when presenting the laws of the

sabbatical year, opens with a strange statement. “And Hashem spoke
to Moses at Mount Sinai, saying . . .” What is the connection between
Mount Sinai and the sabbatical year? wonders the Talmud. After all,
wasn’t the entire Torah taught at Mount Sinai? Why make particular
mention of Mount Sinai with regard to one commandment?
The Talmud explains that this we are meant to draw a parallel

from this commandment to all the other commandments in the Torah.
Just as the laws of the sabbatical year, which require that the land be
left fallow every seventh year, were taught in full at Mount Sinai so too
were all the laws of the Torah taught there.
The question remains: Why were the laws of the sabbatical

year singled out as the example which all the other laws follow?
The commentators point to an interesting passage a little

deeper into the Torah portion we are reading this week. “And if you
shall say, ‘What will we eat in the seventh year? Behold, we cannot
plant nor gather in our produce,’ then I will command My blessing for
you in the sixth year, and it will yield enough produce for three years.”
What an amazing statement! Here is clear proof (among many
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others) of the divine origin of the Torah. First of all, do laws of the
sabbatical year sound like something people would make up? And
even if we could conjure up some motivation for instituting such laws,
how exactly did they plan to deliver on the three-for-one crop in the
sixth year? This was not written by men. It couldn’t have been.
This, the commentators explain, is the point the Torah is

making here. Just as the sabbatical laws were formulated by the
Almighty and not by men, so too are all the other laws of the Torah
from Mount Sinai, divine in origin and not the product of human
imagination.
A man, who had business in a distant city, bid his wife farewell,
left his apartment and went out to the street to find a taxi. To his
delight, a taxi was standing at the curbside. At the airport, he found a
skycap waiting to take his luggage just as he opened his door. His
ticket was waiting for him at the counter, and once again, he was
delighted to discover he had been assigned his favorite seat. What
wonderful coincidences, he thought.
The coincidences continued throughout his trip, and he

marveled at his good fortune. Finally, he arrived at the hotel in the city
of his destination and found that a delicious meal had been prepared
for him. Moreover, the food was prepared and arranged exactly as he
preferred it!
Aha! he thought. This is too much to attribute to coincidence.

Now I clearly see my wife’s loving hand. She made sure that I was
happy and comfortable every step of the way. I must thank her not only
for the meal, but for every convenience I have so fortuitously
encountered on my trip.
In our own lives, most of us can easily think of at least one or

two times when we saw clearly the Almighty’s hand leading us through
difficult times. But think about it. Doesn’t it stand to reason that all the
other good things that have happened to us in the normal course of
events, all the little coincidences that we are so accustomed to taking
for granted, all of these were also engineered by the loving hand of the
Almighty? Once we come to this realization, our relationship with Him
will rise to a new level and will be forever spiritually enriched.
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PARASHAS BECHUKOSAI
Familiarity Breeds Respect

Anticipation. What a wonderful feeling. As the long-awaited event
draws ever closer, we cannot help but count the days. Five days left. Four
days. The excitement builds and builds until it is almost unbearable.
We experience this excited anticipation at this time of the year,

during the days of Sefiras Haomer, when we count down towards the
Giving of the Torah on Shavuos. But the count does not follow the
expected pattern. We do not count 49, 48, 47 and so on, calculating the
diminishing number of days remaining. Instead, we count 1, 2, 3 and so
on, calculating the days that have already passed. Why is this so?
A look into this week’s Torah portion offers an illuminating insight.

Hashem reassures us that if we are faithful to the Torah, He will shower
us with blessings. Among these is the promise to “place My Abode among
you, and I will not be revolted by you.” The choice of words here is quite
puzzling. If Hashem chooses to establish His Abode among the Jewish
people, why in the world would He be revolted by them?
The answer lies in a very familiar concept. We have always been

conditioned to believe that “familiarity breeds contempt,” and indeed, it is
true in most cases. When we observe a person from afar, we develop an
idealized impression formed of his most striking characteristics. But as we
become more familiar, as we draw closer, we begin to notice the minute
faults, the moles and warts, both literal and figurative, that are not visible
from afar. We no longer think of this person as such a paragon of virtue
but as an ordinary person with human failings - if not worse. Furthermore,
a relationship that falls into familiarity loses its glamour and mystique. The
old thrill is often gone.
One might have thought, therefore, that when the Creator chose to
establish His Abode among the Jewish people it would spell the beginning
of the end for His special relationship with them. Although, He certainly is
all-seeing and all-knowing, when the shortcomings and foibles of the
Jewish are not brought into the spotlight of the Divine Presence, so to
speak, they are not as easily dismissed. When Hashem actually dwells
among the Jewish people, a higher standard of behavior is required;
anything less would be “revolting” to Him. From the side of the people,
furthermore, one might have thought that the thrill of having the Divine
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Presence among them would eventually dissipate, and the people would
take it for granted, once again causing Him to be “revolted,” so to speak.
Therefore, Hashem reassures us that this will not happen. The
relationship would grow ever stronger, breeding respect not contempt.
During the days of Sefiras Haomer, our counting is not merely an

emotional outburst of impatience and anticipation. Rather, it is a sober
expression of a gradual process of drawing closer to Hashem, whereby
each day is a building block resting on the previous day and forming a
foundation for the next.
As we contemplate the approach of the awesome Giving of the

Torah, as we condition our inner selves to become attuned to the eternal
truths of the universe, we undergo a process of growth. As we draw closer
to the Creator, we are increasingly overwhelmed by His infinite greatness.
And we become ever more purified and more beloved to Him. The Count
of the Omer, in its ideal form, is the record of this growth, of this
blossoming relationship.
Two cross-country travelers met in a roadside inn.

“Tough trip,” one of them commented to the other. “But just one
thousand miles to go, and I’ll reach the coast. How about you?”
“I’m also heading for the coast. I’ve covered two thousand miles
already, and I’ve had a very good trip.”
“Really? Say, if we’re both going coast to coast, how come I find
the trip tough and you don’t?”
The other thought for a moment, then he said, “It’s really quite
simple. You say you have a thousand miles to go, which shows your mind
is totally focused on the destination, and the entire trip is just terrible
drudgery. I say I’ve already covered two thousand miles, which shows the
trip itself has value to me. I enjoyed the spectacular vistas, seeing new
places and observing their ways of life. I look at my two thousand miles as
an accomplishment, and so, I’m having a very good trip.”
In our own lives, we acknowledge that we need to strive toward

idealistic goals, to a life of goodness and spirituality, but we sometimes
lose sight of the transcendent value of each passing day in helping us
achieve those goals. We think that at some future time we will become
more spiritual, that we will live a higher and better life. But these goals
cannot be reached by a mere decision and a snap of the fingers. Only by
painstakingly building a structure of days set upon days can we reach the
peaks to which we aspire. And in the process, we will discover that getting
there is itself a very rewarding and enriching experience.
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Intrinsic Rewards
What do we really gain after the struggles of a lifetime? Even
under the best of circumstances, life is but a bubbling brew of joy and
grief, of success and failure, of hope and despair. We accumulate
wealth and possessions, and we leave them all behind. So where are
life’s rewards? Are the brief experiences of pride and pleasure, the
occasional highs, sufficient compensation for all the effort we invest in
life?
Judaism believes they do not even come close. According to

our Sages, this world is a “vestibule to the next.” It is a world of illusion
in which we have the opportunity to prepare for “the world of truth,” the
eternal world of the spirit, to gather merit which will last us for all
eternity. True reward and punishment cannot be measured by material
standards.
If so, ask the commentators, why doesn’t the Torah tell us

specifically about the world to come? For example, in this week’s
portion, we read about the rewards for fulfilling the mitzvos of the
Torah and the consequences of failing to do so. What are the
rewards? Bountiful crops, secure borders, prosperity. What are the
consequences? A litany of horrendous calamities, pestilence and
mayhem. There is no mention of the rewards and consequences in the
next world, no hint of the eternal bliss that waits those who fulfill the
commandments of the Torah. Why not?
Most people think of reward in terms of receiving something

external to ourselves. We win a major contest, and we receive a new
car. We turn in a criminal to the police, and we receive a check. But
these rewards are basically inferior. Since they derive from external
sources, they remain external to us. They become our possessions but
remain separate from us. They do not improve who and what we are,
just what we have.
Spiritual reward is of a completely different nature. When we

are rewarded in the next world we will not be given an object or some
other transferable entity which we will take into our possession to use
as en external stimulus to pleasure. Spiritual reward transforms us
from within. It makes us higher and more refined, more capable of
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coming close to the Almighty, and that in itself is the greatest reward.
“The reward for a mitzvah,” the Sages say, “is the mitzvah.”
What does this mean? The sacred texts find a correlation between the
word mitzvah and the word tzavsa, which means connection. The
performance of a mitzvah, they explain, connects you directly to the
Almighty. The more mitzvos you do the more closely connected you
become. This connection itself is the highest form of reward to which
we could possibly aspire, and its achievement is entirely within our
power. Conversely, anything we do to weaken this connection is its
own greatest punishment.
The Torah, therefore, does not have to tell us about the

rewards and consequences awaiting us in the next world. They are not
external things Hashem promises to do. They are implicit in the word
mitzvah, and they come to us of their own accord. But here the Torah
is telling us that, in addition to the spiritual implications to the mitzvos
themselves, we will also receive material rewards or punishment, a
minor external stimulus to steer us in the right direction.
A professor in a medical school offered a reward the student

who would score the highest mark on a test in an exceedingly difficult
subject. The students were motivated by the challenge, and they
studied very hard. Two weeks later, the test was administered. One
student got a perfect score, and he was awarded the prize.
The next day, the professor presented him with a gift-wrapped
package. The student thanked the principal profusely.
“Why are you thanking me so much?” asked the professor.
“You haven’t even unwrapped the package. How do you know you’ll
like it?”
“Oh, the package is insignificant,” said the student. “Your
challenge led me to learn much I might not have otherwise known. It
has given me priceless insight that will improve my ability to help
others for the rest of my life. Thank you.”
In our own lives, material goals and rewards can easily distract
us, and we may find that we are expending inordinate amounts of
physical and emotional energy in that direction. But life is ephemeral,
and those rewards will not accompany us when we are done. Only the
rewards of the spirit enrich us in a meaningful and lasting way.
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Remember the Land

One could not say that the Jewish people had not been
adequately forewarned. The fearsome prophecies of the Tochachah,
the Divine Rebuke, in this week’s Torah portion depict in chilling detail
the immense tragedies that would punctuate and characterize Jewish
history during the periods of spiritual decline. But there would always
be hope. No matter how bleak and dark their circumstances in the land
of their foes, God has promised to “remember the covenant” binding
Him to the Jewish people and redeem them.
And then, almost as an afterthought, God adds, “And I will

remember the land.” What is the meaning of this phrase? It is the
suffering of the people that we want Him to remember. Why does He
promise us that He will remember the land? How is that a consolation
for us? In what way will He remember it?
If we take a closer look at the dark prophecies of the

Tochachah, we find an earlier reference to the land. “I will lay waste
the land and your enemies who dwell in it will be wretched.” As part of
the retribution for the infidelity of the Jewish people, God promises to
exile them and also to devastate the land and turn it into a virtually
uninhabitable wasteland. What is the point of this promise? Isn’t
enough to scatter the Jewish people among the hostile nations of the
world? Why must the soil of the land also be grievously afflicted?
The commentators explain that this verse is actually meant to

offer a glimmer of hope to the Jewish people in their darkest hours. No
matter how bleak and desperate the exile may become, the Jewish
people will always comfort themselves by dreaming of an eventual
return to their ancestral lands, to the homes in which they had
experienced such joy and inspiration. But if their homes should seem
forever out of their reach, their hopes and dreams would be dashed on
the hard rocks of reality, and they would succumb to despair.
Therefore, God promised them that the land would be

devastated, that no great nations would take root in the ancestral
Jewish lands, that no prosperous cities and flourishing economies
would arise their during their absence − even if it lasts for thousands of
years.
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Looking back on history, we have seen the fulfillment of this

prophecy. For nearly two thousand years, while our people suffered
exile, pogroms, massacres, oppression and all sorts of other
persecution, the land of Israel, situated at the crossroads of the world,
has lain desolate and virtually depopulated. Clearly, it has not allowed
any other culture to sink deep roots there. Clearly, the land awaits our
return from the land of our enemies.
“One day this war will come to an end,” one refugee said to the
other, “and we will go home and resume our lives. I have a photograph
of my house that I look at from time to time. It brings me comfort.”
He drew out a crumpled photograph from his pocket and
showed it to his companion.
His companion nodded. “Nice. But mine is even more
comforting.” He drew out his own photograph and handed it over.
“But this is a picture of a bombed-out house!” exclaimed the
first man. “How can this be comforting to you?”
“This war has gone on for a long time. It is caused a lot of
chaos. Who knows what we will find when we return? Who knows how
hard it will be to recover our property? My house is devastated, and I
don’t think anyone will bother to rebuild it and move in as long as this
war is raging. I will reclaim it when I return and take the greatest
pleasure in rebuilding it.”
In our own lives, we have seen the connection of the Jewish

people to the prosperity of the land. Until the last century, Israel was a
dusty backwater, sparsely populated and extremely poor. But with the
return of our people to the land in significant numbers, it is no longer a
wasteland. The desert blooms. The cities sprout and flourish. Multi-
lane highways crisscross the land. We see the fulfillment of God’s
promise to reserve the land for the Jewish people. Let us pray that the
ultimate redemption will follow speedily in our times.
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PARASHAS BAMIDBAR
Separate but Equal

How many barricades have been stormed over the last few
hundred years for the ideals of universal equality! How much blood has
been shed! From earliest childhood, we have been brought up to believe
that all people are created equal, that no single individual has more rights
or privileges or obligations than any other individual. We have been taught
to aspire to a classless society, and to look askance at other societies that
have rigid caste systems. Indeed, these are among the very foundations
of the society in which we live.
In this week’s Torah portion, however, we find an altogether

different view. The Torah describes the encampment of the Jewish people
in the desert, each tribe occupying a specified position under its own
banner. “The people of Israel did everything Hashem had commanded
Moses,” the Torah concludes. “This is how they encamped and this is how
they traveled.”
The question is obvious. Why make special mention of the

compliance of the Jewish people with the divine instructions for
encamping and traveling? What was so commendable about it?
The Midrash explains that the people were indeed to be

commended for their unquestioning compliance. The Levites occupied the
position of honor in the center of the encampment near the Tabernacle,
while the other tribes, many of whom were superior in wisdom and
knowledge to the Levites, occupied positions on the fringes. Nonetheless,
to their everlasting credit, they did not raise any objections or attempt to
push the Levites aside. They submitted willingly to the divine wisdom that
had assigned hereditary roles to all the tribes.
But was this indeed a fair system? Was it right that for all
generations no member of another tribe could aspire to the priestly duties
of the Levites? What happened to upward mobility? How can this be
reconciled with our contemporary conception of justice?
The answer lies in the difference between the Jewish attitude and
the contemporary secular attitude. In the secular view, the purpose of
each individual’s existence is solely for personal fulfillment. Therefore, if
all people are inherently equal, their purposes are also equal, and no one
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should be allowed to take precedence over someone else.
In the Jewish view, on the other hand, all people are united in one
common purpose, the fulfillment of the divine plan for the world. Each
person in the world has a divinely assigned role which will allow him to
contribute to the universal effort to fulfill the will of Hashem. Some roles
are, of course, more prominent and prestigious than others. But in the
greater scheme of things, everyone is of equal importance, since
everyone’s contribution is essential towards achieving the greater
common goal.
As we prepare for Shavuos, the Festival of the Giving of the

Torah, these thoughts give us new insight into the statement of our Sages
that at Mount Sinai the Jewish people “encamped together as one man
with one heart.” The acceptance of the Torah engendered a profound
unity among the Jewish people, because all their lives became focused on
the single sublime goal of fulfilling the will of the Creator.
A great sage once asked his disciples a riddle. “Which part of a

car is the most important?”
“The engine,” replied one disciple. “The wheels,” said another. “The
transmission,” said a third.
“The driver!” called out yet another in a burst of inspiration. The
sage shook his head. “You are all wrong. If the car is missing any of these
things you mention it cannot move. So you see, they are all of equal
importance. But more important than how the car works is the purpose it
serves. The most important part of a car is its passenger!”
In our own lives, we cannot help but feel occasional pangs of

jealousy or resentment when we compare ourselves to others. But if we
transcend the narrow parameters of our personal situation and see
ourselves as playing a vital role in a vast universal plan, we can gain an
altogether different perspective on the world. We will come to the
realization that those people, whose superior endowments we resented,
are not our rivals on the surface of this planet. All of us are on the same
team. We are the wheels and the engines and the brakes and the
batteries, and as long as we pool our individual talents and endowments
for the greater purpose of fulfilling the will of Hashem, we will never have
any reason to be discontented with the roles we have been assigned.
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The Wilderness Within

Was it an accident of geography that a barren wilderness lay
between Egypt and the Promised Land? Was it an accident of
geography that the Torah was given to the Jewish people on a rocky
mountain in a parched and desolate land? Would history have taken a
different course had they encountered wooded mountains and verdant
pastures when they emerged from bondage in Egypt?
This week’s Torah reading seems to indicate that there is a

significant connection. The commentators observe that the reading
begins with the words “And Hashem spoke to Moses in the Sinai
wilderness.” Why was it necessary for the Torah to tell us the obvious,
that the Torah was transmitted in the wilderness? These words,
explain the commentators, contain a powerful implied message. In
order for a person to make himself a receptacle for the Torah, he must
first render himself a wilderness. In other words, he must distance
himself from the concerns and pressures of society and live a more
insular life.
What exactly does this mean? Are we meant to seek the

wisdom of Torah in pristine corner of the world, far from the sounds
and smells of civilization? Can’t the Torah be discovered in the
synagogues and study halls of great urban centers where millions of
Jewish people live?
Of course it can. The Torah is identifying the mental rather than

the geographic locales in which Torah can be found.
The Hebrew word for wilderness, midbar, reveals a certain

ambivalence. On the one hand, it refers to a remote and isolated
place. At the same time, however, it is closely related to the word
medaber, one who speaks or communicates, which is quite the
opposite of isolation.
A person who learns Torah has to function on two levels. He

must focus on becoming a medaber, a person who interacts with
others and communicates to them the values and ideals of the eternal
Torah. But first he must fortify himself and become a midbar, a person
insulated against the pernicious influences and peer pressures of
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society, a person who stands on his principles and refuses to
compromise in order to curry favor with others.
The Torah does not seek to make people into hermits and
monastics. Rather, the paradigm of a true Torah Jew is one who brings
the light of Torah to society with a sincere smile on his face and
tempered steel in his heart, a gregarious recluse.
An idealistic young man came to seek the advice of a great

sage. “I want to change the world,” he said. “I want to make it a better
place. Where exactly should I concentrate my efforts?”
The sage smiled. “You remind a little of myself when I was

young,” he said. “At first, I wanted to change the world, but I
discovered that I could not. Then I decided I would at least change my
community, but I discovered that I could not. Then I decided that
perhaps I could at least change my family, but that too was beyond my
ability. Finally, I realized I should at least try to change myself, and that
has been a lifetime struggle. But I believe that if I had started with
changing myself I might have been able to do something for the world
as well.”
In our own lives, there is practically no spot n the developed

world where we are not blanketed by an aura of decadence and
corruption that seeks to penetrate our very souls. So what are we to
do? Are we to abandon our homes and careers and go off to a desert
island? Not at all. But we must always be acutely aware of the spiritual
dangers that lurk everywhere we turn. We must imbue ourselves with
the spirit of Torah until it become like an impenetrable suit of armor.
Only when we are thus fortified can we venture forth to bring the
message of the Torah to society at large.
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Chaos in the Desert

It must have been chaos in the desert, a city planner’s
nightmare, before the encampment of the Jewish people was
reorganized in the second year after the Exodus from Egypt. The new
plans called for the encampment to follow a rigidly defined grid. The
people were to be divided into four groups of three tribes and placed to
the north, south, east and west of the central hub in which the Mishkan
stood. Each tribe was assigned its precise place in the scheme of
things, with its own flag and tribal emblem.
Why did God put off the organization of the encampment until
the end of the second year of the Jewish people’s sojourn in the
desert? Why did He allow chaotic conditions to prevail for so long?
The commentators explain that it would not have been wise to

create a formal pattern of encampment during the first year. At that
time, the Jewish people were still in an early formative stage. Although
they were all descended from Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, although
they had all shared the common woes of bondage in Egypt, the idea of
a Jewish nationhood based on the Torah and the covenant with God
was still very new.
Each tribe had its own outlook and personality, which gave it a
singular perspective on Torah and Jewish issues. Had the tribes been
assigned to different sections of the encampment, there was a high
likelihood that their ideological differences would lead to factionalism
and dissension. At the same time, ideological differences among the
tribes could also be a potential source of great national strength. The
various perspectives could engender lively exchanges and debates.
So how could the ideological differences be used to create a strong
intellectual, emotional and spiritual vitality without leading to
factionalism?
God’s solution was to allow the tribes to live together in one

huge, chaotic melting pot for a full year. During this time, they would
merge together into one nation indivisibly united around the core of the
holy Torah. They would bond not only as a large clan but also as
partners in the divine covenant.
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But this condition could only be allowed to continue for a limited
time. Otherwise, the tribes would truly melt together into some kind of
a composite that lacked the focused strengths and virtues of each
individual tribe. Therefore, God instructed the tribes to separate into a
structured encampment in the second year, after the Mishkan had
been built. The tribes would thus retain their individual character and
still remain bonded to the rest of the Jewish people by their common
connection to the divine Abode in their midst.
A man enlisted in the army and was assigned to an army base,

where he made a number of new friends. After a few months of intense
training, he was transferred to another base where he was given
artillery training. One of his new friends was assigned to infantry
training, while another was sent to communications school.
“What is going on here?” the young soldier complained to his

sergeant. “If we are to be separated, why were we thrown together in
the first place? Why didn’t they send him straight to communications
school and where we fit? They knew his aptitude when he enlisted,
didn’t they?”
“They certainly did,” said the sergeant. “Tell me, if you are
called on to support the infantry in battle with artillery fire, will you rush
to do it?”
“Of course. That is my job.”
“But will it help at all if you now that your friend is in the infantry?” “I
suppose it would.”
“There you go,” said the sergeant. “Starting with all the men
together leads to greater sense of commitment.”
In our own lives, we also live in small separated units. We are

divided from each other by our interests, our professions, our family
backgrounds, our neighborhoods. But we must recognize that there is
more that binds us than divides us. We are brothers and sisters whose
ancestors stood together at Mount Sinai and heard the voice of God.
We shared the memories, both glorious and painful, of thousands of
years of history. Regardless of our differences, we are one people.
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PARASHAS NASO
It’s all in the Delivery

On the Shabbos immediately after Shavuos, we are treated to
the longest Torah reading of the year - the one hundred and seventy-
six verses of Naso. Interestingly enough, the longest tractate of the
Talmud (Bava Basra) has one hundred and seventy-six pages, and the
longest chapter of the Psalms (119) has one hundred and seventy-six
verses.
The massive tractate is famous for the range and complexity of
its subject matter, and the long psalm explores the full gamut of a
Jew’s relationship with his Creator. But what constitutes the bulk of this
week’s protracted Torah portion?
It is an elaborate description of the offering brought by each of

the twelve tribal princes at the dedication ceremony of the Mishkan. All
the offerings were identical, yet the Torah describes each offering in
the same precise, meticulous, apparently repetitive detail - twelve
times! How utterly amazing! Surely, it would have sufficed to describe
the offering once and point out that this selfsame offering was brought
by each and every tribal prince. What's more, each letter in the Torah
is so carefully measured that even a single seemingly superfluous one
is considered a clear sign of a hidden message. Surely, therefore,
there must be some transcendent message in this cascade of
seemingly superfluous letters!
Furthermore, we find that Midrash compares the offerings of

the tribal princes to the songs of joy sung by the Jewish people at the
parting of the Sea of Reeds. What exactly is the parallel between the
two?
The commentators explain that the offerings of the tribal

princes were only identical to each other in their external appearance.
But the essential element of each man’s gift was not in the physical
composition of the offering but in the emotions, sentiments and
expressions of devotion it represented. In this respect, all the offerings
were as different from each other as the men were different from each
other, and each offering was the particular expression of each
individual’s state of mind and heart.
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But the question remains: If each man’s offering carried a

different message, why didn’t they bring different offerings?
This is the very crux of the Torah’s message in this week’s

portion. It is not necessary to find varieties of external forms to satisfy
the varieties of internal expressions. The Torah identifies the perfect
physical form, and through it, a limitless variety of expression can be
channeled. At the splitting of the sea, six hundred thousand people
sang the exact same song. Undoubtedly, each individual had his own
nuances and personal angles on that song, yet the exact same song
could serve as the conduit for the exultant expressions of six hundred
thousand different hearts bursting with joy. The offerings of the tribal
princes also followed this pattern. The Torah identified the perfect
physical form of the offering, and each man’s innermost thoughts and
feelings were able to find expression through it.
How critical is this concept to our understanding of Judaism?

Clearly, it is extremely critical if the Torah saw fit to repeat the offerings
of the tribal princes twelve times to hammer home this message.
In our own lives, we are confronted by this paradox all the time.
The prayers are exactly formulated, the times and modes of mitzvah
performance are strictly delineated by Halachah. Tinkering, modifying
and improvising are sometimes tempting options for frustrated people,
but they are strictly forbidden. Where then is the room for individual
expression and creativity, for the development of a personal
relationship with the Creator?
It is there between the lines. We must learn from the example

of the Jewish people who witnessed the splitting of the sea and the
tribal princes who brought their offerings for the dedication of the
Mishkan. They were able to take the divinely ordained formulae and
find with them endless potential for personal nuance and creativity.
Similarly, when the Torah or the Sages present us with the ideal forms
of observance, we can give free rein to our creativity by focusing on
the inner feelings of connection they are designed to engender rather
than on the external physical forms themselves. Rich mother lodes of
spirituality await us there. They need only to be mined.
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A Drink of Wine
What is the greatest blessing to which a person can aspire in
this world? For Jewish people, at least, the answer seems to be peace.
How do people in Israel greet and take leave of each other? Shalom,
the Hebrew word for peace. What is the traditional Jewish greeting?
Shalom aleichem, let there be peace unto you. Peace, always peace.
Jewish people know full well that without peace there is nothing.
The roots of this awareness go back thousands of years. In this

week’s Torah portion, we read about the priestly blessing, whose
climactic words are, “Let Him establish peace for you.” Peace is the
ultimate blessing. But let us take a closer look at these words. What is
the significance of Hashem’s “establishing peace for you”? Would it not
have been simpler to say, “Let Him give you peace”?
Perhaps we can find the answer in the topic that immediately

precedes the presentation of the priestly blessing - the laws of the
Nazir. At certain times, when a man feels himself drawn by worldly
temptations, the Torah allows him to make a Nazirite vow whereby he
accepts upon himself an abstemious life style for a specified period of
time. He may not drink wine or cut his hair, and he must maintain
himself on a high level of ritual purity. When the term of the vow
expires, these restrictions are removed, and then, the Torah says, “the
Nazir shall drink wine.”
“The Nazir shall drink wine.” It almost seems as if the Torah is

instructing him to drink wine, not just permitting it. But why?
Furthermore, the Torah tells us that at the end of the Nazirite period he
is required to bring certain sacrifices, one of which is a sin offering.
What was his sin? Our Sages explain that his sin was his voluntary
abstention from wine. What is so important about drinking wine?
The answer touches on one of the most fundamental tenets of

Judaism. The Torah does not want us to withdraw from the physical
world and pursue a monastic life. On the contrary, the Torah insists
that we find a harmonious balance between our spiritual and physical
sides. The Torah does not want us to shun the gorgeous world
Hashem created but rather to enjoy it in a civilized manner, to integrate
our physical pleasure into our spiritual connection to our Creator. That
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is the ideal mode of living. The Nazir felt himself out of balance, drawn
to worldly temptations to an inappropriate degree. Therefore, the Torah
allows him to go temporarily to the opposite extreme in order to regain
his balance. Once that period is over, once he recaptures his inner
harmony, he “should drink wine.”
This is the essence of peace. True peace is not achieved by

hiding from the disruptive forces of life but by finding an inner harmony
which integrates physical needs and spiritual aspirations. This sort of
peace is not just the absence of conflict but the positive presence of
harmony, a state that Hashem helps us “establish” so that we can truly
benefit from all His other blessings. As our Sages tell us, “Hashem
found no vessel capable of containing and preserving blessings other
than peace.”
A teacher and his principal were discussing a young

troublemaker who consistently disrupted the class.
“I would like to have him removed from my class,” said the

teacher. “Maybe then we could have some peace.”
“Indeed?” said the principal. “Do you think removing him will
bring you peace?”
“Of course it will,” said the teacher.
The principal shook his head. “I’m afraid you are wrong.
Removing this troublemaker from your class will bring you silence.
Making him a functioning, contributing member of the class would
bring you peace.”
In our own lives, we all crave that moment of peace. We dream

of the time when our lives will become peaceful and happy. But more
often than not, our concept of peace is the removal of irritating factors.
The obnoxious co-worker will hopefully find a different job. The
troublesome teenager will mercifully grow up and get married. And so
on. But that is not true peace. It is escape. Why hitch our happiness to
the shallow satisfactions of an illusive escape that may never come?
But if we learn to live in harmony with the people and the
circumstances in the here and now, we will surely find happiness in the
profound satisfactions of inner peace.
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The Edge of the Abyss

It was an uncommon and unsettling sight. The accused
adulteress stood before the presiding priest in the Holy Temple in
Jerusalem as he interrogated her carefully about her alleged infidelity.
If she persisted in her denials, she was given special bitter waters to
drink. If she was innocent, the waters would bestow blessing on the
fruit of her womb. But if she was indeed guilty as charged, her belly
would swell and she would die.
What was someone to do if he happened to witness this sordid

scene? Our Sages take note of the juxtaposition of the laws of the
accused adulteress and the laws of the Nazirite vow. From this, they
infer that “whoever sees an adulteress in her state of degradation
should take upon himself the Nazirite vows of abstention from wine
which stimulates desire.”
The question arises: Why is it necessary to go to such

extremes in order to curb our impulses? Is this the path that leads to
personal growth? Surely, the optimum approach would be to
contemplate the degradation and utter senselessness of adultery and
all other forms of immorality, to study, to learn, to forge a close bond
with Hashem. Surely, that would be preferable to taking vows of
abstention.
Moreover, the Torah tells us that one who takes the Nazirite
vow is required to bring a sin offering. What was his sin? Our Sages
explain that it is sinful to proscribe the legitimate forms of pleasure,
such as drinking wine in moderation, that Hashem has made available
to people. If so, why indeed should one who sees the degradation of
an adulteress take the somewhat sinful Nazirite vow rather than follow
a more spiritual path?
The commentators explain that contemplation, study and

character development are certainly the preferred methods of gaining
control of our carnal impulses. It is far better to supplant our lustfulness
with a transcendent spirituality that eschews adultery than to tie down
our lustfulness forcibly with fearsome vows.
Nonetheless, when we feel a sudden powerful impulse
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penetrate our defenses, we must act immediately. This is no time for
contemplation and deep thoughts. A fire is raging, and we must spring
into action. Once the fire is brought under control, we can return to our
exalted introspection. But first we must take drastic action.
When a man sees an accused adulteress in a state of

degradation, with her hair disheveled and her garments rent, when he
hears the accusations of adultery, he can easily feel a surge of
temptation. If he leaves it unchecked, it can take root in his heart and
worm its way into his very essence. Therefore, the Torah suggests that
he act quickly and take the Nazirite vow. He must stem the sudden tide
of lustfulness before it gathers force and inundates him completely.
A poor woman received a precious gift from a rich farmer. It

was an egg. Rarely had she held an egg n her hands, and as she lifted
the treasure before her eyes, many thoughts passed through her mind.
What would she do with egg? She had plans. This single egg
would change her life. She would place under her neighbor’s chicken
until it hatched. Then she would take the precious little chick and take
care of it until it grew into a strong, healthy chicken. Her chicken would
lay more eggs, which would then hatch and become more chickens.
She would sell some of her surplus chickens and buy a goat with the
money. Then she would sell the goat’s milk and save up the money to
buy more goats. Before too long, she would be a rich woman living.
Meanwhile, as she was wandered blissfully through her

fantasies, her grip on the egg loosened, and it fell to the ground.
In our own lives, we often experience moments the eerie

feeling of stepping back from the edge of the spiritual abyss, of coming
within a hairsbreadth of doing something shameful. When feel this jolt,
it is simply not enough to breathe a sigh of relief and go on as if
nothing had happened. Rather, it is important to take concrete action
to reinforce our choice of right over wrong. We must do whatever we
can to ensure that in the future we will stay far away from the edge of
the abyss.
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Guaranteed Investments
Gifts are not worth much if the recipient cannot keep them. In
fact, that is the very meaning of the word “gift,” something that is given,
something that may used in any way the recipient sees fit. If so, how
do we explain the Torah’s choice of words when describing the
mitzvah of giving tithes and gifts to the Kohein, the one who performs
the priestly duties for the community? Listen closely to the words of the
Torah. “And all that a man gives to the Kohein shall be his.” (5:10)
Well, if he gives it to the Kohein, then it is obviously his, isn’t it?
Some commentators perceive a novel insight in this verse. The

Torah, they explain, is addressing the instinctive defiant reaction of a
person who is required to give some of his hard-earned money to the
Kohein or to the poor. “Why should I give him my money? He didn’t
work for it. I did. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to keep it?” The Torah
reassures this person that he is mistaken, that the money given to the
Kohein is indeed money well spent, that it is actually the best by far of
all his diversified investments.
A person never really has his possessions firmly in his grasp. If

he uses them up, he many have derived some enjoyment from them,
but they are now forever gone. If he hoards them, he can never be
assured that they will stay with him. They may be stolen. He may
suffer financial reverses. Nothing is guaranteed.
The only way a person can safeguard his money and make
sure he always retains it is by using it in a way that will bring him
eternal reward. When he gives some of his to a beggar who cannot
feed his family. He has earned himself eternal reward. When he gives
to the Kohein who ministers to the spiritual needs of the community, he
has earned himself eternal reward. When he supports institutions of
Torah, he has earned himself eternal reward. This is what the Torah is
saying. “And all that a man gives to the Kohein shall be his.” Only
when he uses his money for a higher purpose does it become truly
“his.” Only then is his investment guaranteed.
A great sage once visited a very wealthy man. “They say you
are very rich,” said the sage. “Is it true?” “I’m afraid it is,” said the man.
“I am one of the wealthiest men in the country.”
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“Indeed?” said the sage. “Can you prove it to me?”
The man smiled. “I could take you on a tour of my properties,

but we would have to travel for days on end. I could show you my
storehouses of treasures, but you would become weary climbing from
one floor to the next. But I can show you my account books. Would
you like to see them?”
“Please,” said the sage.
The man took the sage into his back room and opened some of
his account books for him.
“I am not convinced,” said the sage. “Show me more.” The man

opened more and more account books for the sage, but he was still
unconvinced.
“I have no more account books,” the man finally said in

frustration. “What is that little book up on that shelf?” said the sage.
“That is the ledger of my charitable donations,” said the man. “Show it
to me!” said the sage.
He leafed through the little ledger and closed it with a smile on

his face. “I see that you are indeed a wealthy man,” said the sage.
“Very few people have given as much to charity as you have. You see,
all those other account books mean nothing. Tomorrow, you can be
penniless, and then what would you be worth? But the charity you
gave can never be taken from you. Your good deeds are yours
forever.”
In our own lives, we often feel pressured by the communal

charities and all those worthy institutions who are always so
desperately I need of funds. And there is no end to it. If we give to
them this year, we know they will be back next year for more. But let
us look at them from a different perspective. Let us see them as an
opportunity to make an investment that will bear dividends for
ourselves and our families for all eternity, in this world and the next.
Let us be thankful that we are fortunate to be on the giving end and
that by doing so we enrich our own lives beyond measure.
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The Measure of Our Worth

The job of transporting the disassembled Mishkan during the
travels of the Jewish people in the Desert was too much for one family
alone. The Torah therefore divided it among the three clans of the tribe
of Levi. The clan of Kehas carried the holy furnishings, such as the ark
and the menorah. The clan of Gershon carried the draperies and
hangings. The clan of Merari carried the beams.
The Torah relates that God told Moses with regard to each clan
individually to count them and delineate their assignments. Strangely,
however, the Torah speaks about the clan of Kehas at the end of last
week’s portion and the other two clans at the beginning of this week’s
portion. This is highly unusual. The Torah does not normally divide one
cohesive subject between two weekly portions. What is the message
here?
Furthermore, when God tells Moses to “count” the Levite clans,

he does not use the standard word pakod, as one might expect, but
the word naso, which literally means “lift up.” What is the significance
of this unusual term in this context?
The commentators explain that the Torah is showing special

deference to the clan of Gershon, descended from Levi’s oldest son.
Nonetheless, we find that the choice assignment of carrying the ark,
the menorah and the other sanctified furnishings of the Mishkan was
given to the clan of Kehas, descended from Levi’s second son. Why
was this so? Because Moses and Aaron, the great Torah leaders of
the Jewish people, were members of the clan of Kehas. Still, the clan
of Gershom might have felt slighted and offended that they had been
passed over for the first honors. Therefore, the Torah interrupts this
section after the assignment of Kehas and begins a new weekly
portion with the assignment to the clan of Gershon to show that they
were also important.
For the same reason, the command to count is given with the
unusual word naso, lift up. This was the message to the clan of
Gershon. Lift up your spirits. Do not feel disheartened because you
were given a lesser assignment. It is not a reflection on your worth. It
does not mean that you are inadequate. Do not be discouraged. You
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too are descended from the great Levi. You too have royal blood
flowing in your veins and immense spiritual energy in your hearts. You
too have a great and glorious destiny. For whatever reason, one
brother may sometimes be given preference over another, but you
must never use this as the measure of your own worth. Doing so will
only cloud your own judgment and cause you to lose sight of your own
inherent greatness. Focus on how you can improve yourself.
Concentrate on your own spiritual growth, and you will never go wrong.
A young man dozed off in a chair while he was reading a book.

When he awoke he groped on the night table for his glasses, but they
were not there. He looked around the room, but without his glasses,
everything was a blur. He could not see where his glasses were. He
got down on the floor and fumbled for his glasses near his chair and
under it, but without success.
With a sigh, he walked into the bathroom to wash his hand and
face. As he splashed water on his face, he cried out in surprise. He
had found his glasses! They were perched on his forehead. He must
have pushed them up before he fell asleep and forgotten about it.
“What a fool I was,” he declared. “I looked everywhere around

me, but I did not look at myself.”
In our own lives, no more how skilled and talented we are, we

often cannot resist comparing ourselves to siblings, friends or
associates who are even more skilled and talented. What is the point?
What can we gain by measuring our worth according to the measure of
those around us? Each of us is a world unto himself, infinitely valuable,
with his own mission in life, endowed with all the skills and talents he
will ever need to accomplish that mission. Only we are the measure of
our own worth.
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PARASHAS BEHA’ALOSCHA
Lemonade in the Desert

Packing up an entire family and moving to a new location is
one of the great physical, mental and emotional ordeals in life.
Relocation imposes great hardship and throws the normal rhythms and
cadences of life into disarray. Those who have endured the experience
are thankful that it normally needs to be done only once in a very long
time.
The Jewish encampment in the desert, however, was not quite

so fortunate. The people traveled by divine command numerous times,
always with extremely short notice. The signal to encamp or decamp
was delivered by the cloud pillars that hovered over the encampment.
When the cloud pillars rose and edged away, the people scrambled to
pack up and follow. And when the cloud pillars descended and came
to a stop, the people knew this was the place to pitch their tents.
The travels were unpredictable. Sometimes, the cloud pillars

would signal them to move within a very short time, and sometimes,
they would remain in one spot for a very long time. Sometimes, the
cloud pillars would bring them to a barren and desolate stretch of
desert and stay there for a long time, and sometimes, they would guide
the people to a lovely spot but uproot them in a matter of days.
What was the purpose of all this constant relocation? And why
was it done in a manner so unpredictable and fraught with such
difficulty? Why did God force them into such a trying nomadic
existence?
The commentators explain that the forty-year sojourn of the

Jewish people in the desert was meant to prepare them for the trials
and vicissitudes of the life that lay ahead. There is no life that is not
fraught with hardships and frustration, nor is there any important period
in a person’s life that passer without any adversity whatsoever.
So how do we deal with these difficulties? Many people just

burrow down and try to get past it. They think, “When I will get to high
school, then my problems will be over.” Or: “When I get my driver’s
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license, then life will be just perfect.” Or: “When we get married and
settle down in a place of our own, then life will be uninterrupted bliss.”
And what about their relationship with the Creator? “I know I have to
improve,” they say. “Just let me get past these hurdles, and then I will
concentrate on it.”
The travels of the Jewish people in the Desert taught us that

we always have to deal with what life has handed us. As we travel
through the various chapters of our lives, we need to rise above the
unpredictability and the hardship. We must not let ourselves become
distracted fro the ultimate purpose of our existence. We must deal with
our situations as they arise and turn them to our advantage. If God
served us lemons, we should use them to make lemonade.
A young man was traveling on a train with a great sage. The

window was open, and the cold air was blowing in. The young man
kept his holy books open on his lap, but he stared at them blankly.
“Why aren’t you studying?” asked the sage.
“Because it is so cold,” said the young man. “Then close the window,”
said the sage.
The young man closed the window but still was not studying. “What
now?” asked the sage.
“I am still disturbed by the memory of the cold.”
“My dear young man, if you had wanted to, you really could
have studied in the cold. And if you don’t want to, you can find a
reason under any circumstances.”
In our own lives, we are faced with the struggles of existence

every day, whether they are financial, intellectual, social, emotional or
medical by nature. There never comes a time when we can step back
and say, “All right, I’ve set up my life just right. Everything is just
perfect. Now the good times can begin.” No matter how difficult they
may be, the good times are right now. These moments will never pass
our way again. We must grasp them, elevate then, sanctify them and
store them away forever.
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A Taste of Heaven
It didn’t cost anything. They didn’t have to work for it. They
didn’t even have to go anywhere to pick it up. For the entire forty years
the Jewish people spent in the desert, they did not have to worry about
where their next meal was coming from. It fell from the heavens in the
form of manna. When they stepped out of their tents in the morning,
there it was, covering the fields like a shimmering crystalline blanket on
a bed of moist dew.
And what a food it was! King David called it “the bread of

angels.” Our Sages tell us it provided perfect nutrition, every last
molecule being absorbed into the body, with no wastes whatsoever.
Our Sages also tell us that this wonderful manna contained the tastes
of all the foods.
It seems the Jewish people enjoyed an ideal situation in the

desert. They were free to pursue intellectual and spiritual goals without
being distracted by such mundane concerns as making a living. What
more could a person ask for? And yet, in this week’s Torah reading we
find a significant group of people complaining to Moses about the food
situation. What in the world was bothering these people? What could
be more desirable than a superbly nutritious food that could duplicate
the tastes of just about every delicious food in existence?
Perhaps we can find the answer in the well-known Midrashic

analogy which compares the Torah to water. Why water? Surely there
are more delicious and exciting drinks than plain water. Why wasn’t the
Torah compared to fine wines or other richly flavored beverages?
The commentators explain that while many beverages provide

pleasure for the palate, water is the penultimate thirst quencher. When
a person is thirsty, nothing compares to a drink of cool, crystal clear
water. At the moment those refreshing waters cascade down his
throat, there is no beverage in the world is more delicious and flavorful.
But when a person is not thirsty, when he only wants to drink to
stimulate his taste buds, water is quite a bland, unexciting beverage.
The same holds true for the Torah. If a person is not seeking spiritual
awareness and growth, he will not find the Torah especially appealing.
But when he is thirsty, when he yearns to expand his spiritual horizons
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and discover the divine truths of the universe, there is nothing more
exhilarating and fulfilling than the Torah, the divine water of creation.
In this light, we gain new insight into the manna. This “bread of
the angels” was more than just a simple physical food. It was a piece
of heaven, sparks of spirituality captured and transformed into a
physical form, but spiritual in its essence nonetheless. Those who
sought spirituality, who were attuned to the spiritual pulse of the
universe, were able to connect with this angelic food and experience
the most exhilarating and fulfilling tastes imaginable. But those focused
completely on the physical world could not relate to the singular nature
of the manna; they were completely oblivious to the taste of heaven it
delivered. To them, the manna was a bland and boring substitute for a
good piece of steak.
A scholar brought a friend to a discourse delivered by a great

sage. The sage spoke for only fifteen minutes, during which his
audience listened in absolute silence. Afterwards, the two friends
compared notes about what they had heard.
“I never heard a more fascinating talk in my entire life,” said the
scholar.
“Really?” said his friend. “I didn’t find it fascinating at all. In fact,
I found it boring and dull. All he spoke about was water carriers, wagon
drivers and broken down horses.”
The scholar looked at his friend in amazement. “My dear
friend,” he said, “you missed the entire point. Everything was an
analogy to the deepest mysteries of the universe. He opened up a
mystical world which was incredibly fascinating. But if all you heard
was a story about a wagon driver and his troubles, it must have been
very boring indeed.”
In our own lives, we encounter numerous occasions which can

provide a fascinating experience or a boring one, depending on our
point of view. Every mitzvah we do, every act of kindness holds the
potential for such ambivalence. If we are focused completely on the
physical, we may find these activities tedious. But if we thirst for
spirituality, if we yearn to connect with Hashem, each mitzvah, each
good deed we do becomes a transcendent experience which is
incredibly exciting and fulfilling. Each one provides us with another
taste of heaven.
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Nothing and Everything

What was the secret of the greatness of Moses? What special
qualities made him stand out as the greatest spiritual leader in the
history of the Jewish people? How did he reach the supreme level of
prophecy, far surpassing all previous and subsequent prophets?
In this week’s reading, the Torah gives us the answer. Moses

may have been the greatest person in the history of the world, but he
was also the most humble. In fact, his humility was the key to his
greatness.
The commentators, however, are puzzled by the context in

which the Torah chooses to record this endorsement of Moses.
Towards the end of this week’s portion, we read that Aaron and
Miriam took their brother Moses to task for separating from his wife.
Why was it necessary, they contended, to withdraw from ordinary life?
After all, they were also blessed with the gift of prophecy and they still
had normal spousal relationships. At this point, the Torah interrupts the
story to tell us about Moses’s humility. Then the story is continued.
Hashem reprimands them severely for their slander, and Miriam is
punished.
Why does the comment about Moses’s humility belong right in

the middle of this episode?
The commentators explain that very often people who set off in
pursuit of spiritual greatness remove themselves from human society
and isolate themselves from contact with other people. This, however,
is not the path towards spiritual growth that the Torah advocates. Such
people may indeed expand their awareness of the Creator, but at the
same time they are also expanding their awareness of themselves. By
focusing on their own goals, ideals and aspirations at the expense of
other people, they are inevitably channeling their lives into a selfish
direction. This is not what the Torah wants.
Miriam suspected that Moses had separated from his wife

because he hoped this would bring him to higher spiritual levels. She
suspected he was selfishly willing to sacrifice his spousal relationship
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to advance his own personal spiritual goals, regardless of how his wife
was affected. Therefore, she took him to task for being so focused on
his own goals that he became insensitive to the needs of others, in this
case his own wife.
Not so, the Torah bears witness. Moses was the ultimate
humble man, without a single selfish bone in his body, and his decision
to separate from his wife was clearly not for his own aggrandizement
but for the greater good of the Jewish people.
A young fellow once traveled to a faraway land to study in the

academy of a great sage. After the first day, he heard two of the older
students conversing about the wisdom of the sage.
“Oh, the words of the sage are like the sun,” said one of the
students. “When I listen to him I realize that I am absolutely nothing.
That’s all I am. A great big nothing.”
His friend nodded sagely. “I know exactly how you feel. I feel
exactly the same way. When I sit at his feet, listening to the pearls of
wisdom pouring from his lips, I realize am just a nothing, a living,
breathing nothing.”
The new student was very moved and inspired. “Me, too,” he
cried out. “When I look at the glowing face of the sage, I realize that I
too am just a nothing.”
One of the older students turned to the new student and fixed
him with an eagle stare. “Listen to this!” he exclaimed. “This fellow has
just arrived in the academy, and already he presumes to be a nothing.”
In our own lives, we often find ourselves taking the high ground
in various circumstances and professing moral indignation about the
behavior of other people. In such cases, we would do well to take out a
little time for introspection and examine our motivations. If there is
even the least bit of self-interest involved, if we seek to show that we
have a higher standard than other people, then we would do better to
remain silent.
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The Repetitive Trap

Aaron felt slighted. The princes of the tribes had all brought
offerings in honor of the dedication of the Mishkan, while he had been
omitted from participation in the event. The Almighty, however,
reassured him that “yours is greater than theirs.” Aaron would be given
the high honor and privilege of performing a duty of transcendent
importance, not only during the dedication but for always. He and his
descendants after him would kindle the seven lamps of the golden
Menorah every single day.
Lighting the Menorah was far more than the simple act of
illuminating the physical space of the Sanctuary in which it stood.
Every morning, when Aaron ignited the seven holy flames, he also
sparked a new outflow of incandescent spiritual illumination that lit up
the world. The Menorah was the prism through which the divine light
concealed in the physical world shone forth into the open, where it
could be perceived by people of high spiritual achievement and
sensitivity.
The Torah then proceeds to make a very strange comment

(8:3), “And Aaron did it . . . as Hashem had commanded Moses.” What
is the point of this statement? Our Sages explain that the Torah is
praising Aaron “shelo shinah,” that he did not alter the nature of the
service. But why would we have thought that Aaron would disobey
Hashem’s command and alter the service? And why does he deserve
praise for not doing so?
Some commentators resolve this problem by an alternate

reading of the word shinah, which can also mean repetition. According
to this interpretation, the Sages were praising Aaron for not being
repetitive. The physical aspect of the kindling of the Menorah did not
vary in the slightest from day to day, and Aaron could easily have
fallen into a mechanical routine, performing the service by rote. But he
did not.
Every single day, Aaron brought a freshness to the kindling

service. He always found new insights into the divine light concealed in
creation, an endless flow of new aspects and nuances of the
manifestation of the divine in the world around us, and he gave them
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expression through his act of kindling the Menorah. For this he
deserved immense praise.
A great rabbi passed away, and the congregation invited his

son to take his place. The deceased rabbi was famous for his sharp
insight and wisdom. He initiated many innovations into the synagogue
practices. He revamped the system of adult education, introducing
refinements in the educational philosophy and the nature of his
sermons and lectures. He also upgraded the community’s benevolent
and charitable programs.
The congregation assumed that the new rabbi would be

delighted with what his father had accomplished, especially since it
would make life much easier for him. But to their dismay, as soon as
he was installed as the new rabbi, he began making drastic changes.
He reevaluated and restructured the educational system again and
made numerous modifications in all the synagogue programs.
“Why are you doing this?” one of the congregants asked him.
“Your father was highly successful. Why change so many things? Why
don’t you follow in your father’s footsteps?”
“Oh, but I am following in my father’s footsteps,” said the new

rabbi. “My father never imitated other people. He always insisted on
thinking for himself. I am exactly the same. I will also not step in and
do what has already been done without expressing my own insights
and originality.”
In our own lives, we cannot allow ourselves to fall into the trap
of becoming repetitive in our religious practices. Life is full of mystery,
surprises and unprecedented opportunities for finding the divine light in
the world around us and giving it expression through our own deeds.
No two people are alike, no two days, no two moments. If we seek out
their special qualities and address them with spirituality, we can find
inspiration and closeness to Hashem every day that we live upon this
earth.
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Perpetual Illumination
Every parent and teacher knows that children must be praised for
special efforts and accomplishments, not for what is expected of them as
a matter of course. Praise loses its value if it is too easily given. And yet,
in this week’s portion, after Aaron and his descendants are given the
honor of lighting the Menorah, the Torah praises Aaron for performing this
ritual “as Hashem had commanded him to do.”
The question immediately arises: Why does a great and righteous

man such as Aaron deserve praise for obeying Hashem’s instructions? On
the contrary, we would be shocked if he had done anything else!
Rashi quotes the explanation of the Sages that Aaron was being
praised for not altering the performance of this mitzvah. But the question
still remains: What was so remarkable about his abiding by the rules in a
fairly straightforward matter such as lighting the Menorah? What motive
would he have had to do otherwise?
The commentators elucidate the words of Rashi as follows:

Certainly, there was never any question that Aaron might decide to modify
the process of lighting the Menorah. Why in the world would he want to do
such a thing? Rather, Aaron was being praised for maintaining the same
high level of excitement and enthusiasm day after day, month after month,
year after year. Every day for forty years, as he stood before the gleaming
Menorah, he felt the same tingle in his spine and flutter in his heart as he
had felt on the very first day.
Questions, however, refuse to go away: If Aaron retained the old

thrill in the lighting of the Menorah he probably did so as well in all his
daily duties and activities. Why then does the Torah single out the lighting
the Menorah for which to praise Aaron?
Let us reflect for a moment on this remarkable facet of Aaron’s

character. How indeed was he able to maintain such an extremely high
level of enthusiasm day in and day out for decades? Why indeed didn’t
the relentless grind of familiarity and regularity wear him down?
The answer lies in basic human psychology. People tend to lose

enthusiasm because they lose sight of the emotions and ideals which
inspired them in the first place. Eventually, they go through the motions
driven by an increasingly dim memory of the inspiration they once had.
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But if they could recapture that inspiration every single day, their
enthusiasm would never flag.
Aaron was able to transcend this common human failing, because

he saw the presence of the Creator with crystal clarity in every corner of
the world around him. Amid the spiritual darkness of the physical world, he
continually beheld the magnificence and goodness of the Creator with the
same awe and wonder. He saw the divine light in every blade of grass,
and in every breath of life. And therefore, as he went about his priestly
duties in the Mishkan in the very presence of the Creator, he was as
inspired and electrified every day as he had been on the very first.
The Menorah was the symbol of the divine light in the mundane
world. Every day, when Aaron stood before this golden beacon, he saw
beyond the glittering arms and glowing flames. He saw the splendid
spiritual radiance it represented, and he was struck anew by a sense of
indescribable awe. Therefore, in the context of his performance of this
mitzvah, the Torah praises Aaron for the superb level of inspiration that
infused all his priestly duties and activities.
A couple came to a wise rabbi and asked him to arrange a

divorce. Each one poured out a long litany of complaints, bitterness and
misery.
“Tell me,” the rabbi finally said, “what did you see in each other
when you got married? I want you to write down every detail.”
Coaxed on by the rabbi, husband and wife reached into their
memories, and slowly but surely, a long list materialized for each of them.
Simultaneously, the tension in the room eased.
“Listen to yourselves,” said the rabbi. “I want both of you to read
this list every morning when you wake up. Remind yourselves every day
of the fine qualities you saw in each other. The rest will work itself out.”
In our own lives, we often find ourselves stuck in a rut of

mechanical performance of mitzvos and other good deeds. The old fire is
gone, and everything becomes a heavy burden. In our minds, of course,
we still understand the importance of what we are doing, but we seem to
have lost the soaring thrill, the exhilarating wings of fulfillment.
Sometimes, it even reaches the point where we experience “burnout.” But
we can reverse the situation by following Aaron’s example. If we focus on
the eternal truths of the universe, if we open our eyes and allow ourselves
to recognize the limitless miracles of creation, we can infuse every
moment of our lives with inspiration and infinite meaning.
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PARASHAS SHELACH
Hard Choices
The vast Jewish encampment stands at the edge of the desert on
the threshold of Canaan. It is a time of incredible excitement. After
centuries of bondage in Egypt, the Jewish people are finally returning as a
nation to their ancestral homeland. They know that Hashem has promised
them the land, but they also know they will have to fight a war of conquest.
They choose twelve outstanding men, one from each tribe, and send them
off to reconnoiter the land before they invade. The results of this ill-fated
expedition are disastrous, to say the least.
The spies deliberately slant their reconnaissance reports to sow

fear and despair among the people. The generation of the Exodus loses
its chance to enter the Holy Land and is doomed to remain in the desert
for forty years. Moreover, as our Sages tells us, because of the perfidy
and sedition of the Meraglim, the night of their return, the ninth of Av,
becomes an occasion of national mourning for all time.
How could such a thing happen? Was it a mistake to send the

spies?
The Torah tells us that the Jewish people asked Moses to send
the spies, and as always, Moses presented the question to Hashem.
“Shelach lecha,” Hashem replied. “Send for yourself.” What did

Hashem mean by “send for yourself”? Rashi explains that, in effect,
Hashem was saying, “You decide. Send them if you so choose, but I am
not instructing you to send them. I leave it completely to your discretion.”
Many questions immediately come to mind: Why did Hashem

refrain from giving Moses specific instructions regarding how to proceed?
Why didn’t Hashem spare the Jewish people all this grief by simply
instructing Moses not to send the spies?
Furthermore, since Hashem specifically declined to endorse the

reconnaissance plan, why did Moses choose to go ahead with it anyway?
Why didn’t he let the whole thing go, just to be on the safe side?
The answers to these perplexing questions derive from one of the

fundamental aspects of Judaism. We all know how difficult it is to cope
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with the temptations and challenges of life, and it would certainly be easy
to deal with it by withdrawing into a monastic life of sheltered meditation.
But that is not what we are meant to do. The Torah teaches us to live
spiritually at the very center of civilization. It teaches us not to run away
but to face the issues squarely and make the hard choices.
As long as the Jewish people were in the desert, they lived in a

spiritual cocoon, shielded from the choices of everyday existence. Their
food, water and clothing were miraculously provided, and they did not
engage in commerce or agriculture. But all this was part of the process of
preparation for their entry into the real world where they would face the
hard choices. In the desert, the bread falling from heaven conditioned to
the concepts of faith and trust in Hashem, but the ultimate goal was to
carry this faith forward to a time when bread would grow from the ground.
This was their national destiny.
As they stood on the threshold of Canaan, this time had come.

Soon they would inherit the land and begin the daunting task of building a
functioning society built on faith in Heaven and Torah values and ideals. It
was time to begin making the hard choices.
When Hashem told him to decide on his own if he should send

spies to Canaan, Moses realized that Hashem, far from expressing divine
disapproval, was actually presenting the Jewish people with their first
opportunity to make their own choice. From the point of their very entry,
Hashem was telling them, would already be allowed to choose. Moses
chose to send the spies. But now the choice shifted to the spies
themselves, and tragically, almost all of them chose poorly.
In our own lives, we are bombarded with myriad choices. The

media and technology bring the temptations and blandishments of
contemporary culture into the innermost privacy of our homes, making
every day a never-ending struggle to maintain our sanity and morals. How
can we preserve our ideals and values for ourselves and our children in
such an environment? It can only be done if we see beyond the glitter and
hype that surrounds us, if we reach into our reservoirs of faith and
recognize the hand of Hashem guiding us - as it always has and as it
always will.
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Gentle Reminders
The universal image of the devout Jew is a praying figure
wrapped in a tallis, but it is not the tallis that is significant. Rather, it is
the long fringes on each of its four corners. At the conclusion of this
week’s Torah portion, we read that these fringes were to be dyed a
particular shade of blue called techeiles. What was the significance of
this particular shade of blue?
The Talmud explains: “Because techeiles is reminiscent of the

sea, and the sea is reminiscent of the sky, and the sky is reminiscent
of the Kiseh Hakavod, Hashem’s celestial throne.” Wearing techeileth,
therefore, draws the mind to thoughts of Hashem and is a source of
constant inspiration.
The questions immediately arise: Why do we need any memory

devices at all to remind us of Hashem? Why doesn’t the Torah simply
command us to think of Hashem continuously?
Furthermore, why does the Torah choose techeiles which

reminds us of Hashem in such a roundabout way? Why doesn’t the
Torah simply choose a color directly associated with Him?
The commentators point out that our natural tendency of

people is to connect what we see with whatever is dear to our hearts.
Thus, a businessman spotting a piece of paper on the ground will think
of the problems of waste disposal, the new technologies, the
investment opportunities in companies active in this field. A policeman
spotting the same piece of paper will think of the littering laws, zero
tolerance policies, and litterbug fines. An environmentalist will think of
the tree that was cut down to produce this piece of paper which was so
casually discarded. The businessman, the policeman, the
environmentalist may all have been walking along absorbed in totally
unrelated thoughts. But that little deviation from the ordinary, the
simple piece of paper lying on the ground, pulls each one out of his
reverie and sets him off in his own individual direction along the route
that is dear to his heart.
In this light, the commentators explain the rationale behind

techeiles. The Torah does not make unrealistic demands of us. The
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Torah realizes full well that no matter how spiritual we want to be, no
matter how much we would like think of Hashem, we still live in the
mundane world. We have to earn a living and pay the mortgage and
take care of the children, and we cannot realistically expect to keep our
minds focused on Hashem at all times.
If, however, we truly yearn to be connected with Him, if we

harbor a strong love for Him deep in our hearts, then a few gentle
reminders here and there will bring Him squarely back into our
thoughts. Therefore, the Torah does not simply command us to think of
Hashem at all times. It is too much to expect of us amid the sea of
distractions in which we live. Instead, the Torah tells us to keep a
symbol with us at all times, a symbol which will remind us of Hashem
with just a brief glance. To accomplish this purpose most effectively,
the Torah does not choose a symbol directly associated with Hashem.
Rather, the Torah chooses a fairly simple symbol which can insinuate
itself easily into the mad rush of daily life, a shade of blue that reminds
us of the sea. But once the chain of thought is set in motion, our
natural tendencies take over. That flash of blue sets us to thinking, and
if there is a true love for Hashem deep in our hearts, our thoughts will
naturally turn to Him. If the heart is set in a good direction, the mind is
sure to follow. But the converse is also true.
A great sage was visiting an art gallery, and he saw a large

red-faced man protesting vigorously in front of a colorful abstract
painting.
“How can you display such lewd art?” the angry man yelled.
Intrigued, the sage drew closer and looked at the painting. “My good
fellow,” he said. “This is a wonderful painting. It is a warm
representation of a mother soothing a distraught child. The lewd
images you see on the canvas are a reflection of the lewd images that
occupy your own mind.”
In our own lives, we are all caught up in the dynamics of our

daily existence, continuously distracted by financial, familial, social,
emotional and all sorts of other concerns that make up the fabric of our
lives. Under these circumstances, it is very easy to forget about
Hashem. But if He has a permanent place in our hearts, if deep down
we recognize and acknowledge that life has no meaning without a
strong relationship with Him, then we will inevitably find myriad
symbols everywhere that will nudge us gently back on track and bring
Him back into our thoughts.
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The Grasshopper Syndrome

So near and yet so far. The Jewish people were massed in the
Desert, waiting for the signal to enter into the Promised Land. In a
matter of days or weeks, they could have been in possession of the
land that Hashem had promised to Abraham’s descendants centuries
before. But fate intervened. They decided to send spies to scout the
land and its defenses, and these spies returned with slanderous
reports, causing an insurrection among the people and their exclusion
from the land for forty years.
Who were these spies who took it upon themselves to slander

the Promised Land, to inflame the minds of the people with their
distortions and exaggerations, to instill fear in the hearts of the
innocent?
Our Sages tell us that they were among the greatest and finest
leaders of the respective tribes.
How then is it possible that these righteous men would do such

a terrible thing? Hadn’t they themselves witnessed the wondrous
miracles Hashem performed for the Jewish people in Egypt, during the
Exodus and at Mount Sinai? Did they think He was incapable of
leading the Jewish people to victory against the Canaanites
entrenched in the Promised Land?
Let us look into this week’s Torah reading for the answer.
When the spies returned from their mission, they made a very
revealing comment, “We felt like grasshoppers next to them, and that
is how we appeared in their eyes.”
The commentators explain that this comment illuminates the

underlying reason for the downfall of the spies. These people did not
believe in themselves. They lacked confidence and a sense of their
own worth. They felt like grasshoppers in the presence of the
Canaanites, and therefore, the Canaanites viewed them as
grasshoppers as well.
This selfsame lack of confidence also led them to slander the

land. They saw the major obstacles that had to be overcome, and they
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felt intimidated and overwhelmed. They shriveled within, unable to
believe that they were worthy of yet another display of spectacular
miracles. And so they chose to slander the land in order to deflect the
Jewish people from their plans of conquest and to persuade them to
remain in the relative safety of the Desert.
A great sage told his disciples for a walk, “Today, we will do

something different.”
Without another word, he led them to a deep ravine at the end

of the town. A taut rope was stretched across the top of the ravine, and
a huge crowd was gathered a short distance away.
Presently, a tightrope walker holding a long balancing rod

stepped off the rim of the ravine onto the rope and began to walk
across the chasm. The crowd gasped in amazement as the tightrope
walker made his way steadily along the quivering rope. When he finally
reached the opposite rim of the ravine safely, the crowd responded
with an audible sigh of relief and an enthusiastic round of applause.
The sage nodded gravely, turned around and started to walk

away. “Why did you bring us here today?” one of his disciples asked
him. “What are we supposed to learn from the tightrope walker?”
“A very important lesson,” said the sage. “Walking a tightrope is

a metaphor of life, because all of us are indeed walking a tightrope.
Did you watch that tightrope walker? He was totally focused on what
he was doing, and he was confident in his ability to do it. If he had lost
focus or confidence he would never have made it across.”
In our own lives, we are always faced with challenges and

ordeals that may lead us to question our own capabilities and worth.
Whenever we are inspired to do something good and worthwhile, the
evil inclination immediately tries to make us second-guess ourselves.
Can we really do it? Is it too difficult? Are our motivations pure? And as
our confidence erodes, the chances of success slowly fade away. But
if recognize that the source of our inspiration is the divine spark within
us, if we find within ourselves the courage and the confidence to
persevere, Hashem will surely bless our efforts with success.
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Heart Palpitations
One might have thought that after their first attempt at
espionage ended in such a major disaster the Jewish people would
learn their lesson. Yet at first glance, it seems they didn’t.
The twelve spies Moses sent to reconnoiter the land of Canaan

before the projected invasion returned with such bleak reports that the
people wanted to turn back. This was a terrible sin, and the generation
of the Exodus was denied entry to the Land.
Nearly forty years later, as the next generation stood poised to

cross the Jordan River, Joshua again sent spies to Jericho. How could
he do such a thing? Wasn’t he afraid that there might be a repeat of
the first disaster?
Moreover, our Sages understand the words “send for yourself”

to mean that the Almighty had originally disapproved of Moses’ plan to
send spies. Why did Joshua disregard the divine disapproval and send
spies once again?
Let us take a closer look at these two missions. In this week’s

Torah portion, we are not told the precise purpose of the mission, but it
appears when Moses recapitulates in Deuteronomy (1:22), “And you
said, ‘Let us send men before us to reconnoiter the land for us and
bring us back word of the route by which we should invade and the
cities we should attack.’”
Clearly, the purpose of the mission was to devise a specific

invasion strategy. But why would they need invasion strategies if they
trusted in the Almighty? He was leading them into the Promised Land
after taking out of Egypt with spectacular miracles. Surely, He could be
trusted to accomplish the invasion of Canaan with equal success.
Surely, He did not need the help of spies and strategists. This mission
was a breach of faith in the Almighty, and the Jewish people suffered
the consequences.
Was this also the purpose of Joshua’s spies? Let us listen to

their report when they return (Joshua 1:24), “The Lord has surely
delivered all the land into our hands, and all the inhabitants of the land
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melt away before us.” The spies gauged the morale of the defenders
and found them quaking with fear. Victory would be easy. The purpose
of their mission was not to devise strategies, select invasion routes or
target points of attack. Their purpose was to reassure the invaders that
the battle would go easily in their favor.
This was no breach of faith. It is quite normal for a person of

faith to have heart palpitations as he goes into battle even though he is
convinced he will be victorious. The Almighty does not expect average
Jews to reach such a high level of faith that they feel no anxiety at the
prospect of war. Therefore, it was perfectly acceptable to send spies to
reassure the invaders that the enemy defenders were so frightened
they would just melt away at the first signs of battle. The issue was not
whether to go or not to go. It was purely the state of mind of the
invaders when they went.
An irreligious man who owned a large factory visited a sage.

“Do you think I don’t know there is a Creator?” he said. “Of course I do.
I see it all the time. So many times I’ve been in tight spots, and just
when I thought it was all over, everything worked out. Just last week, I
needed eleven thousand dollars to cover the bank, and I had no idea
where to get it. Then I opened the mail and there was a check for
eleven thousand dollars from a customer who owed me a lot of money.
It couldn’t be clearer to me that the Creator runs the world.”
The man paused. “But tell me, can I live like this?”
The sage laughed. “My good friend,” he said, “the closer you
get to the Creator the more comfortable you will become with your
faith.”
In our own lives, we know the feeling very well. We have faith
in the Almighty, but our hearts are in our mouths until everything works
out. These feelings do not mean we do not have faith. It is quite all
right to be anxious about the outcome. But if we want to reduce the
feelings of anxiety, the only answer is to draw closer to the Almighty.
The more strongly we feel His presence around us the more secure we
will feel.
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Reverse Spin
Spies never had it so good. Ordinarily, spies devote at least as
much time and effort to avoiding detection as they do to the collection
of vital information. But the spies Moses sent to reconnoiter the Holy
Land did not need to worry at all about detection. They were traveled
the length and breadth of the land and gathered all the information
they needed, and yet, no one paid them the slightest attention.
Wherever they went, they encountered one funeral procession after
another. It seemed that just about every Canaanite in the land was in
mourning.
This was not, of course, some happy coincidence. God had

deliberately arranged that these Canaanites deaths, which would
ordinarily have been spread over a longer period of time, should all
occur in rapid sequence at this particular time, while the spies were in
their midst. It was a kindness God had shown them, a divine
dispensation to facilitate their mission.
That, however, was not how the spies interpreted the situation.
They were among the most prominent and distinguished leaders of
their respective tribes, and they understood full well that the rash of
funerals could not be mere coincidence. Instead, they saw them as a
negative reflection on the land. “Why are so many people dying all
around us?” they said to each other. “Why do we see only funeral
processions wherever we go? This must be a very harsh land, a land
that devours its inhabitants.”
When they returned from their mission and reported on what

they had seen, they put their reverse spin on everything. They
slandered the land and caused a panic-stricken near uprising among
the people. The Torah considers the report of the spies a very big sin,
and the results were disastrous. Instead of entering the Holy Land right
away, the people were forced to stay in the desert for another thirty-
eight years, until the entire generation passed on and another arose to
take their place.
But what had the spies done wrong? Did they lie? Did they
invent any stories that were not true? All they said was that they
encountered funerals wherever they went, and they offered their
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interpretation.
The commentators explain that people often have a tendency

to see what they want to see. The spies were concerned they would
lose their positions of importance when the journey through the desert
came to an end. They preferred that the people remain where they
were, and this colored their judgment. Instead of recognizing the
funerals as a divine kindness, they chose to believe the rather far-
fetched interpretation that ubiquitous daily funerals formed the pattern
of life in the Holy Land, that it was a land forever in mourning. They
were so absorbed with themselves that they could not hear the
absurdity of their own words.
A husband was pacing nervously back and forth in the waiting

room of the hospital while his wife was delivering their first child. Every
time the door opened, he would jump from his seat, fully expecting to
see the doctor bringing news of the new, anxiously awaited arrival.
Time and again, however, he was disappointed.
His nervousness increased with every passing moment. He
tried to drink some water, but he could not bring himself to swallow.
The thought of food did not even enter his head. Beads of sweat
collected on his brow, and he felt his ears flushed with a slight fever.
He could not believe the ordeal he was experiencing.
Finally, after many false alarms, the door opened, and the
doctor appeared.
“Congratulations, my friend,” he declared. “You are the father of
a very lovely and healthy little girl.”
“Thank Heaven,” the young man cried out. “Thank you so
much. Oh, if my wife only knew what I’ve been through these last three
hours, she would be shocked!”
In our own lives, we are sometimes so intensely focused on

ourselves that it does not even occur to us that others may be equally
or even more affected than we are. As a result, we may perceive
slights and insults where they were never intended, and we may
develop insensitivity to our friends, family and associates and damage
our relationships with them. Only when we rise above our own selfish
needs can we see the world around us as it really is. Only then can we
truly prosper and flourish.
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PARASHAS KORACH
One-sided Arguments
The stakes were high, the tension unbearable. Although Moses
had his hands full from the very beginning, nothing like this had ever
happened before. Contentious, argumentative, hard to satisfy, the “stiff-
necked” Jewish people had tested him again and again, yet they had
never challenged his authority. But now the aristocratic Korach and his
followers were contesting Moses’s right to lead, and the budding conflict
threatened to rip the community to pieces. Only the miraculous absorption
of the dissenters into the bowels of the earth averted catastrophe.
The Torah portrays Korach’s dissension as the prototype of

corrosive conflict, the paradigm of the type of arguments to be avoided;
“you shall not be,” the Torah tells us, “like Korach and his assembly.” The
Torah’s intent is certainly not to restrict the rights of Jews to express their
opinions and engage in meaningful dialogue on any issue. What then are
the particular characteristics of the Korach affair that brand it as an
unacceptable expression of conflicting opinions?
The Mishnah gives us a clue. Arguments for the sake of Heaven,

the Mishnah tells us, such as “those of the sages Hillel and Shamai,” have
staying power, while arguments not for the sake of Heaven, such as
“those of Korach and his followers,” do not. But why exactly is the staying
power of an argument dependent on its motivation?
A close reading of the Mishnah reveals an additional clue. When

speaking about arguments for the sake of Heaven the Mishnah mentions
“Hillel and Shamai,” the two principal antagonists who squared off against
each other on Halachic issues hundreds of times. When speaking about
Korach, however, the Mishnah mentions “Korach and his followers.” Why
doesn’t it refer to “Korach and Moses,” the two principals in the conflict?
The commentators explain that these very words, ”Korach and his
followers.” hold the key to understanding the Mishnah.
When Hillel and Shamai argued points of Halachah, no matter

how heated and intense the debate would become, there was never any
personal rancor. Both were focused on one clear goal - the discovery of
the absolute truth. Therefore, in a very real sense, they were not
antagonists but allies in the noble quest for the truth. The clash of
conflicting points of view only helped highlight the strengths and
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weaknesses of each argument, bringing everyone closer to the common
goal. In this light, these were truly the arguments of “Hillel and Shamai,”
since both were equal partners in this intellectual enterprise.
On the other hand, Korach and his followers were not engaged in
a quest for the power. They were motivated only by the quest for personal
power. They were not interesting in engaging Moses in an intellectual
debate to clarify the issues. They simply wanted him out of the way so that
they could grab the reins of power. Therefore. Moses was not a partner in
this argument, and the Mishnah rightfully refers to it as “the arguments of
Korach and his followers.” Such an argument, which would readily
sacrifice truth for personal gain, has no staying power.
A prominent member of a synagogue was persuaded by his rabbi

to accept the demanding position of president. He took his responsibilities
very seriously and devoted countless hours to the needs of the
congregation.
“Well, how is it going?” the rabbi asked him one day. “Are you
happy you accepted the position?”
“I find the work very fulfilling,” said the new president. “But there is
one member who always finds fault with me and complains about
everything I do. It bothers me no end.”
“Indeed?” said the rabbi. “Tell me, when you walk down the main
street of town and a vagrant in front of a bar yells insults at you, are you
personally offended?”
“Of course not. He doesn’t mean me. He yells at everyone.”
“Exactly,” said the rabbi. “The same applies to the fellow who’s pestering
you. He is just venting his own frustrations and insecurities and taking it
out on you. Don’t take it personally.”
In our own lives, we see the drama of the Korach incident

replayed in many different settings, such as shul and office politics, family
situations and the like. Ostensibly, the arguments are about all sorts of
issues, but almost invariably, the real issues lie just beneath the surface –
power, prestige, and privilege. If only we could recognize these arguments
for what they truly are, we could defuse potentially explosive situations
and prevent untold pain and heartache. As Korach and his followers
discovered, these arguments never have a happy ending.
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The Purpose of Prayer

There was never any question as to who was right and who was
wrong. When Korach challenged Moses for the leadership of the Jewish
people, it was a brazen attempt to usurp a position to which he had no
right. Hashem had chosen Moses to be the leader of the Jewish people,
grooming him from infancy for that exalted role. Korach had no such
legitimate claim.
How did Moses react to this challenge to his authority? In this

week’s portion, we read that he prayed to Hashem that He spurn the
sacrificial offerings of Korach and his followers. “I have not appropriated
so much as a donkey from any of them,” Moses concluded in his prayer,
“nor have I done them any harm.”
The question immediately arises: Why did Moses have to defend

himself against Korach in his prayer? Even if Moses had been less than
perfect, Korach would have been rejected by Hashem as a usurper.
Let us consider for a moment the concept of prayer. A person is

gravely ill or in serious financial trouble. In desperation, he turns to the
Creator and begs Him for relief in this time of crisis. But surely, the crisis
itself has been brought into being by the same Creator. How then do we
have the temerity to ask Him to reverse Himself? What gives us the right
to ask Hashem to heal us when He is the one who deliberately made us
ill? Are we asking him to admit that He made a mistake, Heaven forbid?
Obviously not. What then is the point of our prayer?
Let us consider one more point. Our Sages instituted the

requirement to pray to Hashem thrice daily. We ask for his help a
thousand times a year, regardless of whether or not we have any pressing
needs at the time. Clearly, there is a deeper purpose to prayer.
The commentators explain that the overriding mission of our lives

during our brief sojourn in this world is to connect with Hashem, to
develop a close relationship with Him, to bring ourselves to transcendent
levels of spirituality for all eternity. How do we accomplish this?
One of the most direct avenues to Hashem is prayer. Through

prayer, we open our hearts to Him every day, three times a day. We turn
to Him as our loving Father in Heaven and pour out all the pain, the fear,
the yearning and, yes, the joy that floods our hearts. If we truly engage our
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emotions in our prayer, if we experience an uplifting personal connection,
then our prayer connects us to Him, regardless of whether or not we
receive a positive response to our request. Prayers that result in personal
growth are successful prayers. Sometimes, that very personal growth can
effect changes in the divinely ordained order of things, but the efficacy of
the prayers does not depend on these changes.
When Korach challenged Moses for the leadership of the Jewish

people, Moses immersed himself in prayer, seeking comfort in a deeper
closeness with Hashem. This led him to profound soul searching and, in
his great humility, to a thorough examination of his treatment of Korach’s
congregation. But even so, he could not recall doing anything to provoke
this rebellion. These words then were not an argument and a justification.
They were the natural result of true prayer.
A desperate woman approached a great sage. “My child was born

with a terrible deformity. Please help me! What shall I do?”
“I want you to pray for your child,” said the sage. “Pray at least
once every day, and for at least an hour each time.”
“And will He then perform a miracle for me?” asked the woman.
The sage spread his hands. “Anything is possible. We will see.” A month
later, the woman returned, her face wreathed in a serene smile. “The
prayer has really helped,” she said. “My child’s condition has not changed,
but I have. I can accept it now, and go on with my life.”
“Ah,” said the sage. “Then He did indeed perform a miracle.”
In our own lives, we often have occasion to pray to Hashem to

extricate us from one crisis or another. Hopefully, our prayers will be
answered in the way we want, and we will be spared pain and anguish.
But even if Hashem decides not to grant our request, our prayers do not
have to go to waste. If we pray in the proper frame of mind, our prayers
will inevitably enrich us spiritually and bring us closer to Hashem. They will
help us rise above the vicissitudes of the transitory world and become
connected to the eternal truths of the universe.
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The Easy Way In

How do you put down an insurrection? Sometimes, all it takes
is calling their bluff. Moses had to face just such an insurrection in the
Desert. Korach and his followers challenged the royal authority of
Moses as the divinely ordained leader of the Jewish people and the
right of Aaron to serve as the High Priest.
“All the people are holy,” Korach and his followers declared.
“Why do you place yourselves above them?” Surely, they contended,
Hashem would want the power and the privilege spread about more
equitably.
How did Moses respond? By challenging them to a test. On the

morrow, Korach and each of his followers were to take a pan of
incense and approach the Mishkan to perform the daily burning of the
incense ritual. If Hashem accepted their offering, they would be
vindicated. But if their claims were unjustified, they could expect to die.
Sure enough, when the rebels brought the incense the next day, they
were incinerated.
Why did Moses choose this particular ritual as a test of divine

favor? The Midrash explains that the burning of the incense is the most
exalted and important part of the divine service, and therefore, it is also
the most devastating if its integrity is violated.
The commentators also discern another dimension in the

choice of the burning of the incense as the test of divine favor. The
rebels wanted to usurp the hereditary priesthood of Aaron because
they felt they were equally qualified. And what were their
qualifications? That they considered themselves as knowledgeable as
Aaron about the intricacies of the temple service.
Therefore, Moses directed their attention to the burning of the

incense. Although the production of the incense was an intricate and
arcane process, the actual burning of the incense was very simple and
straightforward, far simpler than the service of the animal sacrifices or
the meal offerings. Clearly, Aaron’s qualifications for this service were
not any specialized knowledge or training. Rather, it was his many
years of selfless dedication to Hashem, his transcendent spirit and his
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all-embracing love for the people that earned him the privilege of
wearing the priestly vestments.
The service itself may have been easy, but getting to the
required level of worthiness was not. It required a lifetime of effort.
Unfortunately, the rebels had to learn the hard way that there is no
easy way in.
A famous sage was traveling by wagon from town to town. In

each place he stopped, crowds greeted him with great honor. Some
people asked for his blessing, while others asked for his advice. The
sage responded to each person kindly and quickly.
“I want to ask a favor,” said the wagon driver once they were
back on the road. “Never in all my life have I received honors such as
you receive in each town we visit. Before the next town, could you
change clothing and places with me? The people will think I am the
sage, and they’ll shower me with honors. I will give them blessings,
and I will give them advice. For once in my life, I would like to
experience that feeling.” “As you wish,” said the sage.
They changed clothing and places, and sure enough, the
people in the next town greeted the disguised wagon driver with
adulation.
One man pushed through the crowd. “I need your advice
desperately,” he said to the sage, and he went on to describe his
problem.
The wagon driver tried to think of an answer, but every solution
only seemed to create more problems.
Suddenly, he had a flash of inspiration.
“This is really a very simple question,” he said. “In fact, it is so
simple even my wagon driver knows the answer. Why don’t you ask
him?”
In our own lives, we are often ready to criticize those in

positions of leadership and authority, whether it be the rabbi, the
school principal or anyone else in a similar position. From a distance,
what they do may seem easy and uncomplicated, and we, of course,
see with perfect clarity where they could use improvement. But
appearances are deceiving. They spent many years preparing for
those positions, and we are not qualified to second-guess everything
they do. Better that we should turn that powerful lamp of scrutiny on
ourselves and become the very best that we can possibly be.
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Behind the White Beard

He must have been the epitome of a Jewish sage. His face
must have glowed with a holy light. His beard must have been long
and white, his eyes bright with wisdom. He commanded great respect
among the people, both for his illustrious lineage and for his own
righteousness. His name was Korach. He led a rebellion against
Moses and was swallowed up by the earth. He is one of the most
infamous men in Jewish history
How could such a thing happen? How could one of the leading
Jewish sages of his generation stoop so low as to rebel against
Moses? The commentators explain that it all began quite innocently.
Korach had a strong desire to be close to the Almighty, and he strove
to achieve that goal through the study of Torah and the performance of
the commandments. But then he saw that there was another avenue
open to Moses and Aaron, an avenue that was closed to him. Moses
and Aaron had the special privilege of serving the Almighty in the
Mishkan, of entering the inner sanctums and treading on the most
hallowed ground on the face of the earth. Korach was filled with a
righteous envy. How he longed to serve the Almighty at the highest
level possible. How yearned to be as close as possible to Him.
So what went wrong? After all, righteous envy (kinath sofrim) is

a positive force that leads to excellence in spiritual achievements.
The commentators explain that true righteousness is selfless. If

his motivations had been pure, he would have accepted the Almighty’s
decision to delegate Aaron as the high priest, and he would have
derived closeness to the Almighty from this very acquiescence. But
somewhere deep inside, other motivations also lurked. In some sinister
corner of his heart, he begrudged Moses and Aaron their honors and
prestige. Perhaps he didn’t even admit it to himself, but his motives
were not exclusively righteous. And in the end, they brought him down.
Listen closely to his revolutionary statement, and you can hear

the jealousy clearly. “Why do you raise yourself above Hashem’s
people?” Korach declared. “Why do you lord over them?” If he were
only concerned about his own spiritual accomplishments, why focus on
Moses? Why should he care about what Moses did or didn’t have?
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This is jealousy in its pure form, concerned that someone might have
something better.
A certain village along a well-traveled route always had

strangers staying for the Sabbath. The custom in the village was that
householders would invite these strangers after the Friday night
services in the synagogue. The president would be the first to choose
his guest, and afterwards, the householders would extend invitations to
the others.
A poor traveler once passed through the village and spent the
Sabbath there. Friday night, he stood at the back of the synagogue
waiting for someone to invite him for the meals. The president was
talking to the rabbi.
One of the householders walked up to the traveler, shook his

hand and extended an invitation. The traveler accepted gratefully.
Just then, the president turned around and saw what had
happened.
“Did you see that?” he said to the rabbi furiously. “How dare
that fellow extend an invitation before me. Maybe I wanted him as my
guest!”
“My good fellow,” said the rabbi. “If you are really motivated by
feelings of hospitality, then you should be happy for the traveler who
now has a good place to stay. If you are upset, it must be that you
were more concerned with your own pleasure than with the needs of
the guest.”
In our own lives, we constantly need to evaluate and reexamine

our own good deeds. We must look closely into ourselves to discover if
we are acting for the higher good or if we are seeking honors and
acclaim for our spiritual accomplishments. And we must always
remember that selflessness is the surest route to closeness with the
Almighty.
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Faint Perception
Korach says to Moshe, “Why do you elevate yourself above the
congregation of Hashem?” Korach claimed that Moshe was acting
haughtily. How could he possibly have accused Moshe, the humblest
of all man of vanity, wasn’t this rather absurd?
Commentators explain that Korach’s charge was reserved of

projection. As our sages teach us ‘one who seeks to disqualify
another, projects his own defects on him.’ Korach’s distorted
perception of Moshe was because he himself possessed such an
inflated self-view. It was impossible for him not to see that
characteristic in others.
But why do we see ourselves in others? Why can’t we judge

others rationally and objectively, outside of our tainted self-
perceptions?
The answer is that this is a natural weakness of the human

condition. We deeply desire to feel comfortable with ourselves. And the
only way we rationalize our defects is by seeing the world as an
extension of our own tainted selves.
A young man lived through the horrors of the holocaust and

told a religious leader that in the valley of death he lost his faith in G-d.
It was one story he said that stripped him of his faith. A religious Jew
had smuggled a prayer book into the barracks and fondly shared it with
those who shared half their daily bread rations with this opportunistic
wicked Jew. When I saw the long line of emaciated Jews being forced
to give up their lifeline to this supposedly religious Jew, I knew I would
never be religious again.
“What do you mean”, said the Rabbi? “Why did you look at
those other Jews that refused to share the siddur with others? Why
didn’t you look at those who were willing to give up their precious life
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support for their faith?”
In our own lives, all too often we too see others with our own
warped sense of pointing out the failings of others. We are simply
trying to justify our own weaknesses. Let’s try to cultivate a positive
sense of hi-lighting other peoples good points, thus accentuating our
own positive traits.
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PARASHAS CHUKAS
The Inside Story

Of all the commandments and rituals prescribed by the Torah,
none is more mysterious than the burning of the parah adumah, the red
heifer. As described in this week’s Torah reading, the young red heifer
must be completely free of blemishes and completely red; even two hairs
of a different color disqualify it. There is also a set of other requirements
that must be met before the heifer is considered eligible for its purpose.
What is its purpose? It is slaughtered and burned, and its ashes are mixed
with special water, which is then sprinkled on people who have become
ritually impure, rendering them pure once again.
No rational explanation for this enigmatic ritual is given. The

Sages labeled this mitzvah a chok, a commandment whose rationale is
concealed from human eyes. Indeed, even King Solomon, the wisest of all
men, could not fathom the significance of the red heifer. At the same time,
however, our Sages tell us that Moses was able to penetrate to the true
meaning of the red heifer. The immediately arises: If Moses could
understand this commandment, why couldn’t King Solomon as well?
Normally, when we seek to acquire knowledge, we follow the

intellectual avenues of the learning process. We observe, we examine, we
analyze, we study, we assimilate, and we memorize. But sometimes all
this is simply not enough. Sometimes the material is so arcane and
unfamiliar that no matter how much we try it remains impossible to
assimilate. What happens then? Is there no choice but to throw up our
hands in defeat? Or is there another approach that might be more
successful?
A businessman often traveled to a certain primitive country where

he owned a factory. It dawned on him that he could make his investment
far more profitable if only he could speak the native language and not
have to be dependent always on his interpreters. He hired tutor after tutor,
bit it was all to no avail. Hard as he tried, he could not learn more than a
few simple words. The system and structure of the language far
completely beyond him.
“I have an idea for you,” said his foreman, a wise old native. “Why
don’t you go live in a village for a few months? That will surely help you
learn the language.”
“You mean in a hotel?”
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“Certainly not! You have to live with a native family in their hut, just
as exactly as they live. No running water. The most primitive conditions.
But you will learn the language.”
The businessman took his foreman’s advice, and within a few
short months, he was indeed fluent in the language.
Why was the businessman able to learn the language only by

living with a native family but not from his native tutors? Because his
approach was entirely different. As long as he was attempting to learn
from his tutors, he was an outsider looking in, an observer from the
distance. Much knowledge can be acquired that way, but for most of us,
something so obscure as a thoroughly alien language cannot be acquired
by a purely intellectual approach. We have to come much closer, to
experience the object of our study from the inside, to become connected
to it. Only then can we gain the knowledge that could not be captured by
our intellectual antennae.
Knowledge of the Torah follows the same patterns. There are

some aspects of Torah knowledge that we can perceive from a purely
intellectual viewpoint, but some are so profound and mysterious that our
intellectual faculties alone cannot grasp them. We can only acquire this
knowledge through intimate experience. We cannot simply stand apart as
detached intellectual and gather information. Rather, we must step right
into the Torah with total attachment and immersion so that we can view it
from the inside, so that we can experience the knowledge rather than just
observe it.
This is where Moses differed from King Solomon. Moses was the
most humble man that ever lived. Completely devoid of an independent
ego, he was able to attach himself to the Torah with a totality that was
impossible for any other human, including the wise King Solomon.
Therefore, he alone was able to fathom the profoundly obscure meaning
of the ritual of the red heifer.
In our lives, we can apply this concept to every aspect of the

Torah. Although most of the commandments can be understood on a
purely intellectual basis, they are nonetheless all part of the unfathomable
mysterious spiritual wonder known as the Torah. As such, they are full of
infinite meaning and significance which we cannot even begin to perceive
with our intellectual faculties. However, if we embrace the Torah, if we
experience it and make it an intimate part of our lives, we can begin to
perceive glimpses from the inside. We can discover a spectacular new
world which can only be seen by those who experience it.
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Leadership Qualities
He brought down the wrath of Heaven on Egypt until Pharaoh
agreed to let the Jewish people go. He led them out to freedom. He parted
the sea and led them through. He brought them to the foot of Mount Sinai
to receive the Torah. He guided them through the desert for forty years.
But at the last moment, when they stood poised on the threshold of the
Promised Land, his leadership came to an end. Moses passed away
without stepping a foot into the Promised Land.
Why wasn’t Moses granted the privilege of entering the Promised

Land to which he had labored so diligently to bring the people?
We find the answer in this week’s Torah portion. After Miriam died,
the miraculous well from which the people had slaked their thirst in the
desert vanished, and they were left without water. They maligned Moses
for taking them from the gardens of Egypt into an arid wasteland. Hashem
told Moses to assemble the people and speak to the rock, which would
then give forth water. Moses called the people together. “Listen, you
rebels,” he declared angrily. “Can water come out of this rock?” Then he
struck the rock with his staff and water flowed. But Moses had erred.
Instead of speaking to the rock, he had struck it. And for this, Hashem
decreed that Moses would not enter the Promised Land.
Let us now look for a moment at the Torah reading of Devarim,

where Moses is reviewing the events of the previous forty years in his
parting words to the Jewish people. He reminds them of how the people
had responded to the slanders spread by the spies upon their return from
the land of Canaan, and how Hashem had decreed that the entire
generation would die in the desert and only their children would enter the
Promised Land. “Hashem was also infuriated with me because of you,”
Moses concluded, “saying, ‘You too will not arrive there.’” It would seem,
therefore, that Moses was barred from entering the Promised Land
because of the sin of the spies, not because of the sin of striking the rock.
How do we account for this apparent contradiction?
The commentators explain that Moses had originally been exempt

from the decree barring the Jewish people from entering the Promised
Land because of the sins of the spies. As a leader of the Jewish people,
he was in a class by himself. He was not integrated into the body of the
common people. He was not driven by their motivations or influenced by
their social currents. Although he was always sensitive to their needs, his
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thoughts, convictions and motivations were never controlled by the ebb
and flow of public opinion. Therefore, since he was not really one of them,
he did not have to share the unfortunate fate of the people when they
erred and sinned.
But at the incident of the rock, Moses lost his imperviousness to

public opinion. No longer aloof and remote in his decision-making, he
flared at the Jewish people. “Listen, you rebels!” he cried in anger. He
allowed the people to get to him, and as a result, he struck the rock
instead of speaking to it, in disobedience of Hashem’s command.
Therefore, he no longer deserved to be considered in a class by himself,
and he shared the fate of the people who were barred from the Promised
land because of the sin of the spies.
A man once asked a great sage for his opinion of some popular
political leaders.
“They are like dogs,” he replied. The man was puzzled. “Like dogs?
Why?”
“Very simple,” said the great sage. “When a man walks down the
street with his dog, the dog always runs ahead, yapping excitedly. But
when he gets to the corner, he doesn’t know which way to turn. So he
stands and waits for his master to catch up. Once his master chooses the
new direction, the dog is off and running once again. These leaders you
mentioned have no opinions or convictions of their own. They sniff the air
to discover in which direction the wind is blowing, and then they are off
and running. Some leaders!”
In our own lives, we are called upon to act as leaders, whether in

the broader community, our immediate circles or simply in our own
families for our children. Everything we do sets an example for others and
influences them at least to some extent. But in order to be true leaders,
we must have the courage and integrity to follow our own convictions. We
must have the fortitude to live spiritually rather than cave in to the
pressure of the fashionable materialistic trends. Despite the decadence of
our society, or perhaps because of it, there is a latent thirst for spirituality
among the people around us. If we live by our convictions, we can have a
part in bringing that thirst into the open and literally change the world.
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Miriam’s Well
Without water, life cannot survive. Nonetheless, millions of
Jewish people survived in the parched and barren desert for forty
years. How was this possible? Only through a miracle. During their
travels through the desert, the Jewish people were accompanied by a
rock from which an abundant supply of water constantly flowed. It was
called Miriam’s Well, because it existed in the merit of Moses’ older
sister Miriam, who was a righteous woman and a prophetess in her
own right.
In this week’s portion, we read about Miriam’s death only

months before the entry of the Jewish people into the Holy Land. The
Torah also tells us that Miriam’s Well ceased to function after she died,
and the people were faced with a critical water shortage. They
besieged Moses and demanded that he provide water for them, for
otherwise they would die. God told Moses to take his staff in hand and
speak to the rock. Instead of speaking, however, Moses struck the
rock with his staff. The waters gushed forth again, but Moses forfeited
the opportunity of entering the Holy Land. Because of his mistake, he
passed away while the Jewish encampment was massed on the east
bank of the Jordan River.
A number of questions come to mind. Why was the water given

to the Jewish people only in the merit of Miriam? Why couldn’t the
water continue after her death without Moses speaking to the rock?
Why didn’t God want to leave the faucet open for the Jewish people?
The commentators explain that one of the most striking

features of water is that its viscosity allows it to adapt perfectly to its
surroundings; water will naturally assume the shape of any container
into which it flows. Symbolically, Miriam represented this quality. She
was able to adapt her faith and her steadfast fealty to God’s will under
any and all circumstances. Come what may, Miriam shone as the
paragon of staunch faith.
Miriam was born during the darkest chapter of the Jewish

bondage in Egypt. Her name, recalling the word marah, bitter, evokes
the bitterness of the Jewish condition. When she was just a young girl,
Pharaoh decreed that all male babies be thrown into the river.
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Husbands and wives separated in order to avoid producing children
who would be drowned, but Miriam persuaded her parents to have
faith and remain together. As a result, her brother Moses, redeemer of
the Jewish people, was born. Miriam was the famous midwife Puah,
who crooned to the infants when they were born.
Like water, Miriam adapted to the oppression and the suffering

and remained strong in her faith. Therefore, in her merit, God provided
the Jewish people with miraculous water in the desert. And when she
died, a new demonstration of supreme faith was required. God wanted
Moses to draw water from the rock by speaking alone.
A man hired a wagon driver to take him to a distant city. As

they traveled through dense forests and over craggy mountains, the
passenger sat relaxed in his seat, enjoying the scenery.
Suddenly, a thunderstorm arose. The passenger told the

wagon driver to pull over, but he insisted that they could not do so
safely. They had to push on through the storm.
The passenger began to tremble with fear.
“Don’t worry,” the wagon driver reassured him. “All will be well.” “But
how do I know that?”
“Because I am telling you so,” the wagon driver replied. “You

were not afraid when we were traveling through dangerous forests and
over steep mountain roads on the edge of sheer cliffs. You relied in my
skills. Well, do you think I’ve never driven through a thunderstorm?
You can trust me.”
In our own lives, we find it easier to have faith when things are
going reasonably well. When we seem to be on the road to success
and encounter trials and struggles, we have faith that we will ultimately
succeed. But what happens when things are falling apart, Heaven
forbid? What happens when they become stormy? Those are the times
that test our faith. Those are also the times when our faith can spell the
difference between hope and despair.
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PARASHAS BALAK
Forever a Donkey
How is it possible for a pompous fool to have the gift of prophecy,
to communicate directly with Hashem? This question immediately springs
to mind as we read the amazing story of Bilaam in this week’s parashah.
Bilaam had immense powers. He could marshal awesome cosmic forces
to serve his designs. He could foresee the future all the way to Messianic
times. And yet he seems to have been an evil, money-grubbing buffoon
ridiculed by his own donkey. How could this be?
Our Sages tell us that Bilaam did not earn his gift of prophecy
through any merit of his own. Rather, it was because Hashem did not
want the gentiles to have any excuses for their rejection of the Torah. He
did not want them to say, “We are not to blame. The Jewish people had
Moses as their prophet, but we had no one.” Therefore, Hashem gave
them a prophet of comparable power in the corrupt person of Bilaam.
But the question still remains: True, Bilaam did not attain prophecy
because of his fine character and spiritual qualities. Nonetheless,
shouldn’t the very experience of communicating with Hashem have
wrought fundamental changes in his character? How could he remain
such a silly fool after perceiving the grandest prophetic visions?
Furthermore, when Hashem sent the angel to dissuade him from

his sinister plans, why was it necessary for the angel to address him
through the mouth of his donkey? Why didn’t the angel speak to him
directly?
The commentators point out that the word used to describe the
initiation of contact between Hashem and Bilaam is almost identical to the
word describing the initiation of contact between Hashem and Moses, and
yet they are worlds apart. “Vayekar Elokim el Bilaam,” the Torah (23:3)
states. “And the Lord chanced upon Bilaam.” It was like a chance
encounter, brusque, businesslike, and distasteful. Not so with Moses.
“Vayikra el Moshe,” the Torah (Leviticus 1:1) declares. “And He called to
Moses.” Hashem calls out to him with excitement and awaits him with
anticipation, so to speak.
The difference in spelling between the words vayekar and vayikra

is one aleph, and in the Torah, that aleph appears in reduced size. Here
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lies the key to the difference between Moses and Bilaam.
It is possible for two people to have the same experience, and yet,
one will be deeply affected while the other remains indifferent.
Everything depends on the mindset. Moses was the quintessential

humble man. The tiny aleph symbolizes the insignificance of his ani, his
ego, and this humility and submission to the Creator gave him the
receptiveness and clarity of vision to attain true greatness.
Bilaam, on the other hand, was a pompous, arrogant and selfish

fool, and this overwhelming self-absorption clouded his vision and stunted
his spiritual growth. For all his wondrous prophetic powers, he remained
forever a fool. This was the message of the talking donkey. “Do not think
your prophetic ability makes you exalted,” Hashem was saying to him.
“Behold, your donkey is also speaking, yet he remains forever a donkey.”
A country bumpkin once asked a great sage how to go about

meeting Eliyahu Hanavi.
“According to a Kabbalistic teaching,” said the sage, “if you remain
silent for forty days you merit meeting the prophet.”
The man clamped his mouth shut, and for the next forty days, to
the immense frustration of his family, he went about his everyday
business without uttering a word. The forty days passed, however, without
any supernatural visitations., and the man complained to the sage.
“And what did you do during these forty days besides being
silent?” asked the sage. “Did you study Torah? Did you devote time to
prayer and introspection?”
The man squinted at the sage and shook his head. “I did what I
always do,” he said.
“Look out there,” said the sage, pointing to the window. “Do you
see that donkey? He hasn’t spoken a word for forty days either.”
In our own lives, we all experience moments of unusual

transcendence from time to time, moments of intense inspiration that have
the power to uplift our souls and effect in us lasting spiritual changes. But
it does not happen by itself. If we can find within ourselves the spiritual
strength to be receptive, if we can rise above the distractions of our
mundane existence and connect with the vast eternal truths of the
universe, we can discover a joy and serenity we never thought existed.
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The Epitome of Righteousness

How we admire people who combine great wealth with great
social consciousness, who not only take from society but give
something back as well. We read and hear about philanthropists who
make huge bequests to medical research, educational institutions and
charitable organizations, and we are duly impressed. In our eyes, they
have reached the pinnacle of righteousness. Could there be anything
greater? Indeed there could. This week’s Torah reading offers us a
totally different perspective on the epitome of righteousness.
As the vast multitude of the Jewish people emerged from the

desert and approached the Promised Land, the kingdoms on the
periphery became very jittery. In the Trans-Jordanian lands to the
southeast of Canaan, Balak, the king of Moab viewed developments
with increasing anxiety, and he decided to do something about it. He
ordered Bilaam, a sorcerer of proven effectiveness, to curse the
Jewish people. All the arrangements were made, but at the last
moment, Hashem placed unexpected words in Bilaam’s mouth.
Instead of cursing the Jewish people, Bilaam blessed them. Moreover,
his blessings were so extraordinarily eloquent that they were
incorporated into our daily prayers.
Let us now take a look into the Haftorah, the supplementary

reading, that draws on the prophecy of Micah. “O my people,” the
prophet declares centuries later, “remember, I beg of you, what Balak,
the king of Moab, plotted and what Bilaam the son of Beor answered
him . . . , thus will you know the righteousness of Hashem!”
Apparently, the prophet felt that the interdiction of Bilaam’s

curses was the ultimate proof of Hashem’s righteousness. More so
than the plagues visited upon the Egyptian. More so than the splitting
of the sea. More so than the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. More
so than the bread that fell from heaven in the desert for forty years.
Why is this so?
The commentators explain that true righteousness is totally

altruistic. If we do a righteous deed but expect some reward for it, our
righteousness is incomplete. Although the deed itself is righteous, and
we undoubtedly deserve credit for doing it, we cannot be considered
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genuinely righteous people if our motives are less than righteous, if we
seek recognition, gratitude or even gratification.
All the dazzling miracles Hashem performed for the Jewish

people from the time He brought them forth from Egypt until He
brought them in to the Promised Land were, therefore, not absolute
proof of His righteousness. They were public spectacles that inspired
awe in all who witnessed them, thereby exalting Hashem’s honor and
glory in the eyes of the people. But the Jewish people passed right by
Moab undisturbed; they were completely unaware of the threat posed
by Balak and Bilaam and how it was miraculously averted. Hashem
had no ulterior motives, so to speak, and therefore, this incident more
than any other proved His righteousness.
During his travels, a great sage was offered the hospitality of a

very wealthy man. The next morning, the sage and his host sat down
to have breakfast together.
“This is such a busy town,” observed the sage. “You must have
guests in your home all the time.”
“Oh no,” said the wealthy man. “There are plenty of very
reasonably priced guesthouses in town. There is never a problem.”
The sage immediately jumped to his feet and called to his
attendant.
“Bring me my coat right away,” he said. “We are leaving. And

pay this gentleman for our accommodations last night. I accept
hospitality, but I do not accept gifts.”
In our own lives, as we seek to grow spiritually through

righteous and charitable deeds, we should sometimes step back and
take stock of our thoughts and motives. Are we acting out of pure
altruism, out of an unadulterated desire to fulfill Hashem’s commands?
Or are we perhaps motivated by other considerations such as social
status or the expectation of some future kindness in return? If it is
spiritual reward that we really seek, righteous deeds performed
anonymously deliver the greatest dividends.
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The Seesaw Principle

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. This was apparently
the philosophy of Balak, King of Moab, when he was faced with the
vast multitude of the Jewish people approaching his lands. Terror-
stricken, he sent messengers to summon Bilam, the famous sorcerer,
to come to Moab and curse the Jewish people.
Balak led Bilam to a high promontory from which they saw the
entire Jewish encampment. Balak gleefully rubbed his hands together
in anticipation of Bilam’s potent curses, but to his astonishment,
blessings rather than curses poured forth from Bilam’s mouth.
Frustrated, Balak took Bilam to a different vantage point from

which he could only see the edge of the encampment. Once again,
Balak implored Bilam to curse the Jewish people, and once again, he
could only speak blessing rather then curses.
Finally, Bilam turned to face the Wilderness and managed to

utter some vague, ineffectual curses.
The commentators are puzzled. Why did Bilam repeatedly

narrow his focus on the Jewish people after each failure to curse
them?
A quick look into this week’s Torah portion brings Bilam’s
character into sharp relief. His most striking features were his bloated
ego and his insatiable hunger for flattery. People seeking constant self-
aggrandizement generally tend to disparage and humiliate others.
Whether consciously or subconsciously, they feel superior only when
they diminish other people. By putting others down, their own egos are
by contrast inflated. They view life like a seesaw, with themselves on
one side and the world on the other. If the other side goes down, they
go up.
Balak understood this aspect of Bilam’s character, and he

played on it. At first, he brought Bilam to a point where he could see
the entire people. If Bilam could curse and disparage an entire people,
what a surge his ego would enjoy. But he was unsuccessful.
Conceding failure, he narrowed his focus to only part of the people,
concentrating on individuals in the hope that their shortcomings would
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be more glaring. Once again he was unsuccessful, and therefore, he
narrowed his focus even more by cursing the people even though he
was unable to highlight any particular fault. But even these curses
were ineffectual, because Hashem protects the righteous.
Two businessmen were once sitting in a bar, discussing the

state of the world.
“You know,” said the first man, “if you really think about it, there
are really only two classes of people in the world - our countrymen and
foreigners. And we both know that all foreigners are totally worthless.”
“Of course,” said the second man. “But even among our
countrymen there is clear division into two classes. The city dwellers
and the peasants.”
“Exactly,” said the first man. “And we both know that peasants
are worse than useless. Only city dwellers are worth anything at all.
But even among city dwellers, there are two classes - intellectuals and
businessmen.”
“I totally agree,” said the second man. “Intellectuals are pointy
headed fools. Totally useless. Only businessmen have any worth.”
“But not all businessman are worthy,” said the first man. “Plenty
of them are nothing more than bumbling fools.”
“I agree,” said the second man. “In fact, if you really think about
it. You can probably rule out just about every businessman on one
count or another. I guess, that just leaves us with me and you, my
friend.”
“Exactly,” said the first man, “and just between you and me, we
both perfectly well that you’re nothing but a windbag.”
In our own lives, we may sometimes find ourselves bring

inadvertently critical of other people or even entire ethnic or racial
groups. Perhaps we would do well to look into ourselves to find the
source of these sentiments. Why in the world should we be flirting with
mean-spiritedness and bigotry? Why should we be so eager to
highlight other people’s flaws? More likely than not, these are sign of
latent insecurities which mistakenly lead us to think we can secure
ourselves better by undermining others. In actuality, however, tearing
other people down only diminishes and demeans us, while looking at
them in a positive light enhances our spirits and brings us the serenity
and satisfaction of recognizing our own true worth.
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PARASHAS PINCHAS
Breaches in the Wall

Two thousand years ago, Roman armies surrounded and laid
siege to Jerusalem, and life inside the city became one continuous
purgatory. Huge boulders, flung by mammoth siege engines, came
screaming over the walls, smashing into buildings, pulverizing them and
everything inside. Hailstorms of arrows filled the air, and fires raged
everywhere. Some managed to find a bit of shelter, but there was no
shelter from the rampant disease and starvation.
On the Seventeenth of Tammuz, the Romans breached the walls

of the city, and the three-week-long destruction of the city began. This
past week, on the anniversary of this national tragedy, we fasted and we
grieved. We grieved for the pain and suffering of our people, for the
destruction of our homeland, and for the interminable exile to which we
were condemned.
We are accustomed to speaking about the “dark and bitter exile”

of the Jewish people, but let us stop and take stock for a moment. Those
of us living in the United States enjoy full rights under the law and
unrestricted financial opportunities. We are free, prosperous and
respected. Do we see ourselves as exiles? Do we feel any emotional
kinship with our ancestors who were led away in chains and sold into
slavery after the destruction of Jerusalem? How are we to relate to our
being in exile?
Perhaps we can find the keys to this dilemma in this week’s Torah
reading. After a close brush with disaster at the hands of Balak and
Bilaam, the Jewish people are corrupted by the Midianites who send their
own daughters to entice the Jewish people into sin. The Torah exacts a
terrible vengeance for this treachery, ordering the Jewish people to crush
the Midianites mercilessly. And yet, the Torah tells us to be grateful to the
Egyptians, even though they enslaved the Jews for centuries, because
they provided hospitality to our people in times of distress. How
incongruous this seems as first glance! The Egyptians who oppressed,
enslaved and tried to annihilate the Jews are to be treated with kid gloves,
while the Midianites are to be crushed?!
The commentators explain that the difference between the

Egyptians and the Midianites lay in the focus their attack. The Egyptians
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sought the physical destruction of the Jews, and every decree was
designed to accomplish that end. The Midianites wanted to subvert the
Jews spiritually, and that is far more destructive. The direction, the goal,
the very life of the Jew is spiritual, and therefore, the attack of the
Midianites was direct and against the very essence of the Jewish people.
A king wanted to prepare his two sons for the responsibilities of

government, and so he dressed them as commoners and sent them into
the land to make their own way. They were not to return for ten years.
The older son immediately set about seeking employment. Over
the years, he moved from one job to another, and eventually he formed
connections with organized crime and grew very rich.
The younger son sought out different sages and mentors from
whom he could learn about his country. He had very little to eat and his
clothing became tattered, but his quest for knowledge was relentless.
As the day of reunion drew near, the older son hired the finest
tailors to dress him as befitted a prince. The younger son, however,
practically stopped eating and sleeping so that he could cram in as much
knowledge as possible before returning to the king.
After ten years both sons came before the king. On the day of the
reunion. The older son looked every bit the prince, but as soon as the king
began to converse with him, he was sorely disappointed. The ostensible
prince was no more than an empty-headed, shifty-eyed shopkeeper! The
younger son, however, despite his bedraggled appearance, was a true
delight, wise, intelligent, sensitive, clearly the best choice to become
crown prince.
If the Jewish people are to be the crown princes of the world, it will
not be their material possessions which qualify them but their spiritual
achievements. The freedom we enjoy in the United States today is
certainly a wonderful thing, but it also presents a serious danger. We have
been lulled into a sense of complacency. Our spiritual walls have been
breached, and we are under a relentless cultural attack. We are indeed in
exile, an exceedingly insidious and subtle exile. Our only defense is to
dam up the breach in our own personal lives, to saturate our lives with the
Torah spirit, to reaffirm our unswerving commitment to Torah values and
ideals. Our very survival as a nation is at stake.
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No Little Things
What is the image that comes to mind when we think of the
ideal national leader? Someone who has a grasp of the issues, who
can see the big picture. Someone who is strong and courageous, who
can hold his own in the arena of international affairs in times of war
and peace. Someone who has a vision for the future and the ability to
make it happen. Someone who, through his words and actions, can
inspire and galvanize his people.
But in this week’s Torah portion we find an altogether different

measure of leadership. As the Jewish people approach the Promised
Land, Hashem appoints Joshua as the successor to Moses. And what
is his qualification for leadership? That he is attuned to the spirit of
each and every individual Jew.
The commentators explain that this is the overriding quality

required of a leader. It is not enough for a leader to have grand
schemes and plans. It is not enough for a leader to deliver soul-stirring
addresses to the people. A leader must be able to relate to his people
on every level. He must be sensitive to their needs and aspiration. He
must empathize with their pain and joy. A true leader cannot stand off
in the distance. He must be thoroughly attuned to the most minor
requirements of his people in order to lead effectively. For a true
leader, there are no little things.
For forty years, Moses had fulfilled this role. During all this time,
as he enjoyed daily prophetic encounters with Hashem, Moses was
constantly growing in holiness until he reached a point where he was,
according to the Midrash, half human, half angel. Even so, whenever
the people had challenged the divine will, he had fathomed their
motivations and defended them. Even as he ascended from the
mundane to the celestial, the gulf between him and his people had
never widened to the point where he could not relate to them. Now that
it was time for a change in leadership, Hashem chose Joshua who
also excelled in his sensitivity to the nuances of each individual’s spirit.
This was the fundamental quality that Hashem wanted for a Jewish
leader.
A revolutionary general was trying to revive the fighting spirit of
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his trapped and starving guerillas. “If we can fight our way out of this
corner,” he announced, “I will issue a large bonus to each man. You
will have enough money to buy all the bread and meat and fruits and
vegetables you need to recover your strength.”
The guerillas responded to the promise. They fought like tigers

and were able to break out and get away. As soon as they got to safer
territory, the general, true to his word, awarded each man his bonus.
The next day, the one of the general’s aides stormed into his
tent. “Sir, a whole group of the men took their bonus money and
wasted it!”
“Indeed?” said the general. “And what did they do?”
“Instead of buying food to rebuild their strength,” the aide said

furiously, “they spent all their money on tiny tins of caviar!”
The general stroked his chin thoughtfully for a few moments.

“Thank you for telling me this,” he said to his aide. “It is important
information. This caviar must have been very important to them if they
would spend all their money on it even when they are starving and
exhausted. Apparently, the men need occasional splurges of luxury to
help them deal with the tensions of battle. I will make sure to provide it
for them in the future.”
In our own lives, as we seek to grow spiritually, we must never

lose sight of the physical needs of those around us. A great sage once
said, “My spiritual need is to serve the physical needs of others.” There
is profound spiritual fulfillment in bringing comfort and happiness to
other people, even on the physical level. But in order to do so, we must
be extremely sensitive and attuned, for as people are different from
each other so are their needs.
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Peace without Conjunctions

Peace is the ultimate blessing of the Jewish people. When we
are at peace, we have everything. When we are not at peace, we have
nothing. Indeed, the concluding statement of the Talmud is that
Hashem found peace to be the only vessel capable of preserving the
blessings of the Jewish people.
But how is all this peace meant to come about?
In this week’s Torah portion, we read that Hashem sealed a

covenant of peace with Pinchas, the grandson of Aaron, as a reward
for his zealous defense of the Torah. For all future generations, the
priestly descendants of Pinchas would be the guardians of the peace.
By serving as role models and arbiters, they would spread peace
among the Jewish people.
The commentators draw our attention to an unusual aspect of

the lettering in these verses. A close look into the Torah scroll at the
word for peace, shalom, reveals that the third letter, the vav, is broken
across the middle. Why is this so?
The commentators explain that there are two distinctly different

levels of peace. On a more prosaic level, peace exists when people
reach an accommodation for reasons of expediency. It may be that
they are working together in order to reach a common goal by putting
aside their differences and concentrating fully on their objective. Or
else, they may simply find themselves living together in close proximity
and therefore find it necessary to tolerate each other. This is a no more
than a superficial peace imposed from without, a marriage of
convenience.
There is, however, a higher form of peace which comes when

distinct and separate individuals develop a profound sensitivity to each
other’s thoughts and feelings, when they learn to become perfect
complements to each other. Far more than an expedient
accommodation, this peace results from the bonding of two individuals
into one organic whole. It is a marriage of love.
Ideally, the first from of peace leads to the second. What starts
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as a marriage of convenience blossoms into a marriage of love.
The different forms of peace are reflected in the Hebrew word

shalom, peace, which is formed by adding the letter vav to the word
shalem, complete. In the Hebrew language, the vav serves as a
conjunction, a point of connection between two disconnected entities.
There is a peace which is based on the vav, a conjunction of the
disconnected. In its pure form, however, peace derives from a sense of
completion or wholeness, a sense of perfect harmony and fusion. In its
pure form, it jettisons the vav and becomes shalem, complete.
One of the missions of the priestly caste is to promote peace

among the Jewish people, but a simple peace of accommodation is not
enough. The ultimate goal must be to create a harmonious fusion
among the Jewish people so that they become one organic whole.
Therefore, the letter vav in the word shalom is broken, to indicate that
peace founded on a conjunction is inadequate. Pure peace is shalem,
complete.
An elderly sage brought his wife to the doctor. “What seems to

be the problem?” asked the doctor. “Well,” said the sage, “whenever
we walk more than a short distance we feel very fatigued and often
experience shortness of breath.”
“Indeed?” said the doctor. “Are you telling me that both of you
have the same symptoms?”
“Oh no,” said the sage. “I feel perfectly fine. It is my wife who is
ill. But when she becomes fatigued and out of breath, I feel as if I am
suffering as well.”
In our own lives, we all yearn for the gift of peace which will
allow us to savor life’s blessings. But what sort of peace do we seek?
A peace of accommodation and expediency may give us some respite
from the hurly-burly of existence, but in the end, it is superficial. Deep
down, we are still at odds with the world around us. All we will have
accomplished in doing is putting a lid on it. Our true goal should be to
achieve a deeper peace, a peace that connects us with our people, our
world, our Creator, a peace that enriches us with the transcendent
serenity that comes from the sense of being complete.
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All Eyes on the Shepherd

Moses knows that his life is drawing to an end. Very shortly, the
Jewish people will arrive on the banks of the Jordan River, and then
they will cross into the Holy land. Moses knows he will not make that
crossing. He will not enjoy the privilege of entering the Holy Land along
with the people he has led out of Egypt and through the desert for forty
long and trying years.
At this time, Moses does not think of his own desires and
yearnings. Rather, his thoughts are with his people, the unruly but
beloved flock he has guided through many crises during his tenure as
leader. What will happen to the people when he is gone? he wonders.
“Please appoint a leader for them,” he pleads with God, “one who will
go out and come back at the head of the people, so that they will not
be like sheep without a shepherd.”
According to the Sages, Moses wants the new leader to “go

out” and “come back” at the head of the people during times of war.
Kings of the other nations customarily stand in relative safety at the
rear of their armies, but a Jewish king should go out to the battlefield in
the vanguard of his armies, setting an inspiring example of faith and
courage for the soldiers that follow behind.
So now we understand why they must “go out” at the head of

the people. But why must they also “come back” at the head of the
people?
The commentators explain that the test of faith is far greater

when we return victorious from battle than when we go out to fight in
the first place. The soldier that steps onto the battlefield knows that his
life hangs in the balance. As confident as he may be about his own
prowess, he knows that by nightfall his own blood may be soaking the
trampled earth. As brave and ferocious as he may be, he cannot help
but feel a measure of powerlessness and humility. At moments like
this, the Jewish king must inspire the soldier to place his faith and trust
in our merciful father in Heaven.
But when the soldier returns victorious from battle, he is likely

to be entirely full of his own self, intoxicated with his valor, endurance
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and martial skills. He can easily forget that it is only by the grace of
God that he has lived to see this day and glory in it. This is where the
Jewish king must exert himself to the greatest extreme. He must
“come back” at the head of his army, showing his followers that a
faithful Jew returns from battle with an even greater feeling of humility
and the most profound gratitude to the Almighty for protecting him and
granting him victory over his enemies.
This was the kind of shepherd Moses was for the Jewish
people for so many. This is the kind of leader he prayed would be his
successor.
A young man began experiencing regular headaches. Most

nights, he would go to sleep with a severe migraine, and in the
morning, he would awake with his migraine still intact. He found it
increasingly hard to study, work or simply to function at all. So finally,
he decided to take a drastic step for a vigorous young man. He went to
see a doctor.
“This appears to be very serious,” said the doctor after

examining the young man. “I want to run some tests on you. See me
day after tomorrow.”
Terrified, the young man spent the next two days deep in
prayer, pleading with God to spare him from an untimely death.
“I have good news, my friend,” said the doctor on his next visit.
“There is nothing seriously wrong with you. It seems it’s just a
seasonal allergy.”
The young man breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, God,” he said

when he got back into his car, “I guess I didn’t need Your help this
time, but thanks anyway.”
In our own lives, we often tend to ascribe our good or ill fortune
to happenstance. We sometimes look at the world as a place of
random events, and whether we suffer or prosper is governed by sheer
chance. To do so, however, would be dangerous self-delusion. Real
security derives only from faith and the knowledge that we are all in
God’s hands.
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PARASHAS MATTOS
Personal Tragedies
Two men commit identical crimes. Both are convicted and
sentenced. One remains in confinement for twenty-five years, while the
other goes free after six months. How is this possible?
In this week’s Torah portion, we read that a person who commits

accidental homicide is exiled for the rest of his life to one of the
designated cities of refuge. However, when the High Priest dies all the
accidental killers in exile at the time go free - regardless of whether they
had been there for six months or twenty-five years. As a result, two men
can commit identical acts of accidental homicide and serve widely
different sentences. Where is the fairness in this system? And why indeed
should the death of the High Priest result in amnesty for all exiled killers?
Furthermore, the Talmud tells us that the High Priest’s mother,

fearful that the exiled killers would pray for her son’s untimely death, used
to visit them in their places of exile and bring them food and other small
gifts. But why would an old woman bringing cookies and chocolate
dissuade a cooped-up killer from praying for the death of the High Priest
and his early release from exile?
The commentators explain that the sentence of exile is not

intended as a punishment but as the beginning of the process of
rehabilitation. Accidental homicides which result in exile are due to a
significant degree of negligence, of thoughtlessness and insensitivity. Had
the accidental killer genuinely appreciated the sanctity of human life, he
would have been extremely careful while swinging that hammer, and the
accidental death would most probably never have been occurred. It is this
cavalier attitude that the exile is intended to correct.
In these cities of refuge, populated for the most part by Levites,

the exiled killer came into contact with people who lived not for
themselves but for their Creator and their people, devoting themselves to
study and prayer and to teaching, inspiring and helping others. In this
environment, he learned to be sensitive and unselfish, to think about other
before he thought about himself. In this environment, he also gained
profound admiration and attachment to the High Priest, the peacemaker of
the Jewish people, the loving father figure who tended to their spiritual
needs and ailments, the ultimate Levite role model. He began to feel a
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personal connection to the High Priest, whether or not they had actually
ever met, and learning from his example, he began to develop those
positive character traits he had been missing before.
Therefore, when the High Priest died, the exiled killers who had
become so attached to him were devastated. Each of them, in his own
way, felt he had suffered a deep personal tragedy. This catharsis sealed
forever the bond between the erstwhile killers and the saintly High Priest,
thereby completing the process of their expiation. After mourning the
death of the High Priest, the exiles were fully rehabilitated.
The High Priest’s mother, however, was concerned that the exiled
killers would not relate to her son in a direct personal way but rather as an
abstract symbol in distant Jerusalem, and therefore, they might pray for
his death. Therefore, she brought them food and small gifts. Let them
meet the High Priest’s mother and enjoy her cookies and chocolates. Let
them see him as real flesh-and-blood human being. Let them relate to him
as a living, breathing father. It was important for their own rehabilitation,
and at the same time, it would protect her son from malicious prayers.
A great sage once came to a town and was told by the

townspeople to avoid a certain reputed informer.
Sure enough, the man approached the sage and began to
question him. The sage, however, did not beat a hasty retreat. Instead, he
asked the man his name, inquired about his welfare and his family and
drew him into a long conversation.
In the course of the sage’s stay in the town, he was visited often
by the informer, and each time, he was received warmly. By the time the
sage left, the man had made a complete turnaround in his life.
“How did you accomplish it?” someone asked the sage as he was
leaving. “What did you tell him that changed him so completely?”
“Why, nothing,” said the sage. “Because I treated him as a person,
he related to me as person. And why would he want to hurt another
person?”
In our own lives, we sometimes hurt and offend others with

meaning to, and we excuse ourselves by saying it was all unintentional.
But in the Torah system of values, lack of intention does not exonerate us,
only lack of control does. If these hurts and offenses could have been
avoided, we must bear responsibility for them. If, however, we learn from
the example of the High Priest and from the exemplary people we meet in
the course of our lives, we can refine our own characters and ultimately
enrich ourselves and the people around us.
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The Human Ingredient

Oaths and vows are very sacred things, so sacred that it is
unthinkable that someone would violate them. In fact, no matter how
skeptical and distrustful we may generally be, if we hear someone,
anyone, make a solemn vow by all that is holy, we tend to believe it.
But what if the one making the vow could rescind it at will?
Would a vow still have the same credibility? Obviously not. The force
of a vow derives from its permanence and inviolability. And yet, the
Torah laws regarding vows, about which we read in this week’s Torah
portion, feature a mechanism by which one can be released from a
vow. Surely then, this mechanism reveals a very fundamental flaw in
the vow.
What is the mechanism? And what is the flaw?
They are as follows. If the one making the vow encounters an

unexpected situation in which the vow creates complications, it may be
possible to obtain a release. For instance, a person vows not to eat a
certain type of food and afterwards he discovers that just this food will
be served at his son’s wedding. In retrospect, had he known he would
not be able to eat at his own son’s wedding he would never have made
that vow in the first place. In this case, he must present his argument
to a rabbinical court, and if it is meets the specific criteria, the court can
release him from his vow.
What is the basis for this release mechanism? The Talmud

derives it from the verse, “Everything a person expresses in an oath.” It
would have been sufficient to say, “Everything expressed in an oath.”
Why the inclusion of the words “a person”? This seems to indicate that
only someone considered “a person” can make binding oaths and
vows. Oaths and vows that do not take future developments into
consideration are not valid. Why? Because they were made without
the human ingredient.
Let us reflect for a moment. What are we accustomed to

thinking of as the human ingredient? In what way does our society
consider human beings superior to animals? It is in our creativity, our
intelligence, our ability to think and reason. Homo sapiens. Thinking
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man. But the Torah uses an altogether different criterion. “A person,”
according to the Torah, is someone who has foresight, who considers
not only the instant gratification of the here and now like an animal but
also the future ramifications of all his actions.
Why is this the ultimate human ingredient? Because what truly

sets a human being apart from an animal is his soul, the indestructible
spark of the divine that will continue to exist after the body perishes,
that draws its sustenance from the spiritual world rather than the
physical.. A person with foresight, therefore, realizes he cannot allow
himself to be distracted by the immediate gratification of his physical
impulses. He knows that he must use the short time allotted to him in
this world to accumulate merit which will stand him in eternal good
stead in the next world. This is the mark of a true human being.
A father was sitting on a park bench watching his young sons

at play. Nearby sat an old man.
The boys were exceedingly rough in their play, pushing and

grabbing things from each other, and the father looked on with
concern. “Are you worried about them?” asked the old man.
“A little,” replied the father. “But I have foresight. I came

prepared with paraphernalia from my medicine cabinet in case they get
hurt.”
The old man laughed. “That’s foresight? Thinking of bringing
paraphernalia when you’re already standing at the door? If you really
had foresight you would have started years ago by bringing them up to
be more courteous and considerate of each other.”
In our own lives, we are all aware of the importance of

preparing for the future. But for which future are we preparing, the
temporary future we will encounter in a few years or the eternal future
of our indestructible souls? It is all good and well to make financial
investments that will secure our physical well-being when we grow old,
but it even more important to make spiritual investments that will
secure the well-being of our souls for all eternity.
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We’re in the Same Boat

Moses was a patient man. No matter how often his patience
was tried - and it was tried quite often indeed - he always responded
softly and moderately. Except for one incident toward the very end of
his tenure as leader of the Jewish people.
As the people stood poised to cross the Jordan River and begin
the conquest of Canaan, the tribes of Reuven and Gad approached
Moses and asked to be allowed to settle in the lush grazing lands of
TransJordan. Moses instantly responded with a sharp rebuke, “Would
you have your brothers go to war while you remain here? Why would
you discourage the Jewish people from crossing into the Land that
Hashem has given them?”
Such a sharp rebuke, such an unexpected denunciation seems

out of character for Moses. Why didn’t he didn’t he deal with them in
his customary loving and gentle manner? Furthermore, the Torah
expects us to judge others favorably and give them the benefit of the
doubt. Why then didn’t Moses consider the possibility that they had
every intention of joining the battle for the conquest of the Holy Land
before returning to settle on the other side of the Jordan River?
The commentators explain that Moses always had extreme

consideration for others because he was sensitive to their state of
mind. When he saw people sin, he understood that it is difficult to
judge without knowing all the particulars of their situations. Perhaps
they faced extraordinary temptations that they found impossible to
resist. Perhaps there were mitigating circumstances that justified their
actions. And so he would always speak to them gently and patiently,
drawing them out and showing them the error of their ways.
But what if these sins affected the spiritual well-being of

others? In that case, there was no time for gentleness and delicate
conversations. Drastic actions needed to be taken right away. And that
was exactly what Moses did. When the tribes of Reuven and Gad
asked to remain on the other side of the Jordan, Moses was afraid that
this request would undermine the morale of the people and cause
them to have second thoughts about fighting for the Land. Therefore,
Moses immediately chastised them in order to nip any possible
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sedition in the bud.
A ship was sailing on the high seas when the captain noticed
that it was listing to starboard. He quickly sounded the alarm and sent
his first mate to investigate.
The first mate went below deck to look for the source of the
problem. On the very lowest level, there were a number of fourth-class
cabins occupied by indigent travelers. He noticed water seeping out
under one of the doors.
The first mate yanked the door open and was met by a surge of
seawater. In the center of the cabin, a young man was sitting on a
chair near a gaping hole in the wall, through which water was pouring
in.
“What are you doing?” screamed the first mate.
“I’m hungry,” said the young man. “I decided to make a hole in

my cabin and go fishing.”
The first mate’s eyes bulged. “Are you some kind of a

madman?” “What do you mean?” said the young man. “I’m within my
rights. I paid for this cabin, and I can do whatever I please.”
“Fool,” said the first mate. “There are hundreds of people on

board. Whatever you want to do for yourself, you have no right to
endanger them.”
In our own lives, we must always recognize that we are not an

island unto ourselves. Everything we say or do affects others, whether
they are family, friends or associates in the workplace. A disdainful
facial expression, a caustic remark, a sharp criticism, any of these can
be devastating. No matter how confident we feel in our judgments, we
must always stop to consider the effect on others. Perhaps the
damage is simply not worth it.
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PARASHAS MATTOS-MASEI
The Accidental Murderer

He told the police it was an accident. He had never intended to
kill or hurt anyone; it was the farthest thing for his mind. All he wanted
was some wood for his fireplace because it was so cold outside. He
had taken his axe and gone out to chop wood. Little did he know that
the blade was a little loose. Little did he know that the blade would fly
off when he lifted the axe high over his head and brought it down with
all his might. Little did he know that the blade would whiz through the
air like an arrow and lodge in the heart of an innocent passerby. It was
such a shock, and he was so sorry. But what was he to do? It was just
an unfortunate accident.
So what does the Torah tell us about such a man? How are the
courts to deal with him? Should we just shake their heads sadly and
move on? Or should he have to suffer consequences?
The Torah tells us that such an accidental “murderer” is to be

banished for life to one of the six Cities of Refuge, specifically
designated safe havens that protect him from reprisals by his victim’s
relatives. Only if the Kohein Gadol, the High Priest, should pass away
during the period of his confinement may he go free.
How are we to understand this law? After all, what did this
hapless fellow do already? He had not intended to kill anyone. He had
not even known that anyone was in the vicinity. He had just swung the
axe with perfectly innocent intentions, and the blade had flown off and
killed someone. Should his whole life be ruined for such a small thing?
Does he deserve to be banished for the rest of his days?
Furthermore, why should his banishment depend on the

survival of the High Priest? Why should he be put in a position that
almost forces him to pray for the death of the blameless High Priest?
The commentators explain that the human mind is extremely

intricate and complex. People often do or say things for reasons they
themselves cannot even fathom. Deep in their subconscious, they may
harbor long forgotten resentments or insensitivities that still trigger
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negative actions and behaviors.
The Torah expects us to root out these hidden malignant

tendencies. The Torah expects us to probe, purify and cleanse our
souls. If a person can wield a defective lethal weapon in the open,
there is something wrong with him. Somewhere deep inside, he has a
callous disregard the safety of human life and limb. For if he really
cared, he would have lifted that axe as if it were a flaming torch. He
would have inspected it carefully and looked around to make sure the
coast was clear before swinging it.
That is why the Torah describes him as a “murderer.” In a

sense, he really is a murderer. That is also why the Torah makes his
confinement dependent on the survival of the High Priest. When this
“murderer” finds himself praying for the death of the High Priest, the
epitome of innocence, he will finally come face to face with his dark
side. He will realize that he really does have homicidal tendencies.
Only then can the process of self-appraisal, introspection and
rehabilitation begin.
A student came into his dormitory late at night. He closed the

door behind him, and the door slammed shut with a loud bang. The
student turned around, and there stood the headmaster glaring at him
with disapproval.
“How can you slam doors in the dormitory so late at night?” he
asked. “Doesn’t it mean anything to you that people are fast asleep?
Don’t you care about other people?”
“Of course I do, sir. I certainly didn’t want to slam the door and
make noise. I just closed the door, and it slammed shut. It wasn’t my
fault.”
“Tell me, my young friend,” said the headmaster, “if your ailing
father had been sleeping in one of this rooms, do you think the door
would have slammed shut?”
The student fidgeted. “I don’t think so,” he admitted. “I don’t
think so either,” said the headmaster. “When you really care, the door
closes gently.”
In our own lives, we are driven by so many complex and varied

motives. The lesson of the accidental murderer teaches us to probe
and examine even our seemingly altruistic actions and seek the hidden
motives. If we discover that the motives are indeed pure, we can be
sure that the actions are worthwhile.
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PARASHAS DEVARIM
Tooth and Nail

Moses knew he had only days to live. Standing on the Plain of
Moab near the banks of the Jordan River, he felt the spiritual tug of the
Promised Land only a stone’s throw away, but he knew he would never
tread on its hallowed soil. He called together the Jewish people and
prepared them for a future without his leadership.
As he reviewed all the turbulent events that took place from the
time of the Exodus until their arrival on the threshold of the Promised
Land, Moses uttered a groan of lamentation. “Eichah?” he declared. “How
can I bear it?”
The commentaries explain that as he contemplated the troubled

past Moses felt a sense of foreboding about the future. In his mind, he
followed the sequence of events to their logical conclusion, and thus, he
foresaw the destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem that would take
place nearly a thousand years later. He foresaw the estrangement of the
Jewish people from their Father in Heaven and their banishment from their
homeland. In pain and grief, Moses uttered the word eichah, which is also
the eponymous first word of Lamentations, otherwise knows as Eichah,
the book which was to memorialize the national tragedy. Therefore, we
traditionally read this verse in the chanting style unique to Lamentations.
What did Moses see in the past and present that convinced him
that a great national tragedy lay in the future? How did he discern the
eventual breakdown in the relationship between the Jewish people and
the Creator?
The commentators explain that contentiousness derives from a

fundamental lack of faith. If a person has a deep and abiding faith in
Hashem, he understands that nothing happens without Hashem’s
approval. Therefore, if he suffers at the hands of another person, he
recognizes it as a test from Hashem. His first reaction is to look into
himself and correct his inner laws. His second step is to deal with the
situation gently, ethically and honorably, just as Hashem would want him
to deal with it.
If a person lacks faith, however, he is not convinced that Hashem

is behind the injustice he has suffered. On the contrary, he is convinced
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that he alone controls his destiny. Therefore, when he perceives an
attack, he has no time or patience for conciliation and the niceties of
ethical conduct. He is prepared to fight tooth and nail for his rights.
When Moses considered the combative nature of the Jewish

people, he realized that their faith was flawed. Sadly, he understood that
these flaws would eventually widen into fissures and create a chasm
between them and their Father in Heaven. This was clearly a road that
headed for disaster.
A young soldier was assigned to a brigade commanded by a

famous general. The soldier was excited about being in the general’s
brigade, but he came into serious conflict with his platoon sergeant.
Whenever the sergeant gave him an order, he would argue
interminably and seek ways to extricate himself. The sergeant grew
furious and punished the soldier every time he did not obey instantly.
Things went from bad to worse, until one day the soldier struck his
sergeant in anger.
The soldier was arrested and court-martialed. The general
presided at his trial.
“Young man,” said the general, “you stand accused of gross
insubordination against me.”
“Oh no, sir,” said the soldier. “You must be mistaken. I have
nothing but respect and admiration for you. My problems are with the
sergeant.” “I am afraid you are the one who is mistaken,” said the general.
“Who do you think gave the sergeant command of his platoon? It was me.
Who do you think assigned you to his platoon? It was me. If you had
brought your complaints to me, I would have listened. But if you strike the
man I appointed, it is insubordination against me.”
In our own lives, we find ourselves in highly litigious world.

Everyone around us is concerned about his rights and prerogatives and is
ready to go to war to defend them. It makes for stressful living conditions,
because we always find ourselves contending with our neighbors and
associates, with the insurance company, the phone company, even the
grocer on the corner. And even when we win, we often find ourselves
emotionally exhausted and frazzled. But if we could reach into ourselves
for an extra measure of faith, we would recognize the vicissitudes of
modern life as a test of our relationship with Hashem, and we would
respond on a spiritual level. Instead of anxiety and stress, we would enjoy
peace and serenity.
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Payment in Full
After forty long years in the desert, the Jewish people stood
poised to conquer the Holy Land. But there were complications. Two of
their most formidable foes were untouchable. The Torah forbade the
Jewish people to attack the nations of Ammon and Moav; they had to
circle around to the north even though the direct path of invasion led
through the lands of these two nations. The Torah did, however, allow
the Jewish invaders to make threaten and intimidate Moav, as long as
they stopped short of actual combat.
Why was this special protection granted to these two

implacable foes of the Jewish people?
Our Sages find the answer in an incident that took place five
centuries earlier. During a period of famine, the Jewish patriarch
Abraham, his beautiful wife Sarah and his nephew Lot went to seek
food in Egypt. The pharaoh at that time had a roving eye. Whenever a
beautiful woman caught his fancy, he would kill her husband and take
her into his harem. Sarah caught his fancy, which led him to focus on
Abraham, who had escorted her to Egypt. Had he known Abraham
was her husband, he would have killed him on the spot, but Abraham
claimed he was her brother and was spared.
Lot was standing there when Abraham represented himself to

the pharaoh as Sarah’s brother. If Lot had said one word or made one
gesture to arouse the pharaoh’s suspicions, Abraham would have
been doomed. But Lot remained silent, and the pharaoh accepted
Abraham’s story. The Torah rewarded Lot by forbidding the Jewish
people to attack Lot’s descendants, the nations of Ammon and Moav.
The question arises: Why does the Torah protect Ammon and
Moav only from an actual assault? Why does the Torah permit threats
and other intimidating actions Moav? True, the Torah does forbid the
Jewish people to threaten and intimidate the nation of Ammon, but that
is not a reward for Lot’s actions. It is a reward for his daughter’s efforts
to conceal the shameful paternity of her children (which is a subject for
a different discussion). Lot’s reward for his silence was limited to a
protection from assault against his descendants. Why was this so?
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The commentators explain that the deficiencies in Lot’s reward
were measure for measure for the deficiencies in his act of kindness.
Lot was indeed silent when Abraham told the Egyptian pharaoh that he
was Sarah’s brother. But he did not have the sensitivity and
consideration to reassure Abraham that he could count on his silence.
He could have told Abraham, “Don’t worry. You can count on my
silence. I won’t give your secret away.” But he did not. And so,
Abraham’s heart must have been beating wildly throughout that tense
confrontation with the pharaoh. Therefore, the Torah only protects
Lot’s descendants from actual harm but not from threats and
intimidation.
A rich man caught sight of a pauper sitting on a bench and

decided to invite him for dinner. But first, he had some business to
discuss with an associate. A half-hour later, the business was settled.
The rich man offered the pauper a gracious invitation and brought him
to his house. He seated the pauper in a place of honor and wined and
dined him like a king.
Afterwards, the pauper thanked the rich man and prepared to

leave.
“Tell me, did I treat you kindly?” said the rich man, “Oh, yes,”
said the pauper.
“Could you have been any kinder to you than I was?” The
pauper fidgeted. “Do you want me to be honest?” “Certainly,” said the
rich man.
“Well, you could have invited me before you discussed

business with your friend. For that half hour I was afraid that I might
have to go to sleep hungry tonight.”
In our own lives, we need to pay close attention not only to

what we do but also to how we do it. The full value and quality of a
kind deed is determined by considering it in its full context. Indeed,
sometimes the manner in which a kind deed is done is more important
than the deed itself.
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PARASHAS VA’ESCHANAN
Heaven and Earth

Honoring parents is considered one the most exalted
commandments in the Torah. It occupies a position of primacy among
the first five commandments on the Tablets of the Ten
Commandments, along with the commandments safeguarding the
honor of God.
One would expect that the ultimate practitioners of this

commandment would be found among the most righteous people in
the world. Paradoxically, however, the Talmud identifies Isaac’s evil
son Esau as the greatest exemplar of a person who honors his father.
The Talmud tells us that Esau had a set of special garments that he
wore when he entered his father’s presence. Not even the great Sages
of the Talmud penetrated so deeply into the essence of this
commandment.
But a different profile of Esau emerges from the Biblical

account. The Torah tells us that Esau married two women steeped in
idolatry and that this caused great heartache and anguish to Isaac and
Rebecca, his parents. It was not until he lost his father’s blessings that
Esau married the more suitable daughter of his uncle Ishmael. How do
we reconcile Esau, the supremely obedient son who enters his father’s
presence in absolute awe, with Esau, the rebellious son who marries
women that are the antithesis of everything his parents represent? And
why didn’t the righteous Jacob, Esau’s younger brother, rise to a
similar level of honoring his parents?
The commentators explain that Esau held his father in the

highest regard, viewing him as a veritable angel from Heaven. When
he entered his father’s room, Esau felt as if he were stepping into
another world, leaving his earthly existence behind and entering the
celestial domain. He thought it appropriate to wear special garments,
and he stood before his father trembling in submission and awe.
But what about his own life? Esau looked upon his father as an
angel and respected him for it, but he himself was not yet prepared for
the angelic existence. He was a down-to-earth man, and his lifestyle
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reflected it. When it came to marriage, he chose women that suited his
own inclination.
Jacob, on the other hand, related to his father as a human

being rather than some celestial creature. He saw his father as the
symbol of how a man should live in this world. Therefore, he lived by
his father’s values and ideals. He many have treated his father with the
transcendent awe of unbridgeable distance, but by following in his
footsteps, he gave his father the only honor that is truly meaningful.
A man traveled a great distance to ask a sage’s advice on a

complicated business matter. After explaining the situation and filling in
all the details, he presented his problem.
The sage thought over the matter for a long while, then he gave
the man his answer. The advice was brilliant, and the man was very
please. “Now let us talk about something else, my son,” said the sage.
“Let us discuss your spiritual condition. Perhaps I can give you some
good advice on that as well.”
“No, thank you,” said the man. “I got what I came for. I do not
think you can give me any other advice that I need.”
“Really?” said the sage. “You traveled all this way for my advice
on a business matter, which is not really my specialty, and you are
happy with my advice. Don’t you think I could give you good and useful
advice on issues of spirituality, which is my specialty?”
“You don’t understand,” said the man. “Money is money. It
doesn’t matter if I am talking about it or you are. But spirituality? Hey,
I’m not ready for that stuff yet. When I’m ready, I’ll come ask your
advice.”
“If that is your attitude,” said the sage, “I expect you’ll never
come.”
In our own lives, we look up to our great leaders and spiritual

sage. We respect and admire them. We even revere them, but do we
relate to them on a personal level? Do we pattern our lives after the
lessons we learn from them? The ultimate reverence is to recognize
that their lives are meaningful to us, that each of us on his own level
and in his own way can enrich his life immeasurably by applying the
teachings of the sages to everyday life.
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Ohr Shalom
Sight and Insight

The long-awaited moment is finally drawing near. The forty long
years in the desert are coming to an end. The Jewish people are
massed on the far side of the Jordan River, preparing to cross into the
Promised Land. Exuberant joy sweeps through the Jewish
encampment, but it is tempered by an element of poignant tragedy.
Moses, their great leader, will not accompany them on this final leg of
their journey from slavery to exalted statehood.
In this week’s Torah portion, we watch as Moses pleads with

Hashem for a reprieve from this difficult decree, but Hashem grants
only one small concession. Before his passing, Moses is allowed to
climb the summit of Mount Nevo and gaze upon the entire length and
breadth of the land - north, south, east and west.
A number of questions immediately come to mind. Wouldn’t

showing Moses a tantalizing view of the land he could not enter only
add to his sense of loss? Furthermore, even from his vantage point on
the high mountaintop, how was he able to see the entire expanse of
the land all the way to its most distant borders? And if it was
miraculous, why did he have to go up to the mountaintop at all? Why
didn’t Hashem simply show him the same miraculous vision right at
sea level?
Let us stop and consider for a moment. What exactly did

Moses see when he stood on the mountaintop? What sort of
panoramic view could even partially compensate for his failure to enter
the Holy Land? The answer lies in the difference between sight and
insight. Moses undoubtedly was not concerned with the graceful
contours of the land or the pretty flowers that adorned the valleys. He
did not climb the mountain to feast his eyes on the superficial beauty of
the land. Rather, he wanted to train his penetrating gaze on the sacred
land, to probe beneath the surface and connect with its holy spiritual
core, to experience its essence through observation, insight and
ultimately knowledge.
Earlier, when Moses was a fugitive in the land of Midian, the

Torah tells us that he saw a bush engulfed in flames and said, “Why
isn’t the bush being consumed?” Our Sages tells us that Hashem
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rewarded Moses for turning to look at the bush. What was so
praiseworthy about turning to look at a burning bush that was not being
consumed? Wouldn’t it have piqued the curiosity of any passerby?
Clearly, Moses was not being rewarded for simply looking at

the bush. It was his faculty of looking beyond appearances and
probing for the essence that earned him everlasting reward. Whereas
an ordinary man might have seen a piece of vegetation in a state of
combustion, Moses saw the deeper symbolism, the image of the
Jewish people writhing in the flames of Egyptian slavery but divinely
protected from destruction.
When Moses trained this penetrating gaze on the Holy Land,

he saw beyond its body. He saw its heart and its soul. At this level, the
land has a symmetrical unity and form, and seeing part of it is like
seeing the whole. Just as a person can see an entire tree even without
looking at every individual leaf and twig, so did Moses on his
mountaintop see the entire length and breadth of the essence of the
land.
When the insight of his mind connected with the image

absorbed by his eyes, he saw the spiritually radiant land blossom into
the transcendent Abode of the Divine Presence, and he experienced a
spiritual elevation far greater than lesser people would someday
experience when standing near the Holy of Holies.
In our own times, contemporary culture and the media bombard

us with so many eye-catching images that we have become inured to
the myriad wondrous sights around us. It sometimes seems our sight
has become so overloaded that we have lost sight of insight. But we all
have it within our power to look with a more penetrating gaze, with
more than our retinas and optic nerves. If we seek out the internal
beauty in every creature, every tree, every blade of grass, if we
recognize the handiwork of Hashem in every speck of the universe, we
will discover a far deeper level to existence, a world where sight is
rewarded by insight.
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What Is True Love?

Love is the most powerful human emotion. It electrifies, inspires
and exalts us. It illuminates and gives meaning to our lives. The Torah
wants our relationship with Hashem to be built on a foundation of love,
so that we can reach the highest levels of connection and exaltation.
In this week’s Torah portion, we read the Shema prayer, which

we say every morning and evening. It begins with a declaration of our
faith, and the rest of the paragraph sets forth the commandment of
loving Hashem. The paragraph concludes with the following two
precepts: “And you shall tie them things upon your arms as a sign, and
as a symbol between your eyes, and you shall write them upon the
doorposts of your homes and your gateways.”
These precepts are more familiar to us as the mitzvah of tefillin,

which we wear on our arms and our heads, and the mitzvah of
mezuzah, which we affix to our doorposts. The question, however,
immediately arises: What is the connection between these two
precepts and the commandment of love? It would seem that these
precepts fall more readily into the category of obedience than love.
The answer lies in a deeper understanding of the essential

nature of true love. In contemporary society, there is a perception of
love as an emotional frame of mind. We love other people as we would
love a beautiful painting. It is a self-centered sensation, personal
gratification rather a profound spiritual union with the object of our love.
When we say we love a painting, we are not implying a bond with the
canvas and pigments. We are expressing our own pleasure that is
stimulated by the painting. It is, therefore, not the painting that we love
but ourselves. Unfortunately, this attitude may often characterize our
love for other people. If we examine these feelings closely we may
sometimes find that what we call love is really only attraction and self-
gratification. True love, however, is a total absorption in the object of
our love.
The Torah wants us to love Hashem in a spirit of true love. We

have to form a complete and constant attachment to Him, to be
completely absorbed in Him in all places, at all times and under all
circumstances. “These things shall be close to your heart . . . when
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you dwell in your homes and when you are traveling on the road, when
you go to sleep and when you awaken.” True love is total connection.
Therefore, when we affix mezuzahs to our doorposts, when we place
tefillin on our heads, close to our brains, and on our left arms, close to
our hearts, we cement our close connection with Hashem and show
our consummate love.
The young newlyweds had just come back from their

honeymoon and were settling into married life. During the first few
weeks, he went back to his normal job routine, and she spent her days
setting up their new home.
One time, he returned from a particularly grueling day at the
office, grabbed a quick bite, settled into his easy chair and buried his
head in the newspaper. The young woman, who had been waiting for
him all day, began to cry.
He looked up, surprised. “Why are you crying?” he asked.
“Because I am not so sure that you love me,” she replied. “Why should
you say something like that?”
“Because I’ve waited all day for you. I expected you to tell me
what your day was like, and I would tell you about mine. And now, you
just withdraw into yourself. You sat down in your chair and shut me
out.”
“But can’t you see I’m exhausted?” the young man protested.
“That’s exactly it,” she said. “Of course you’re interested in me when
you’re relaxed and at ease. But if you truly loved me, you would be
interested in me even when you’re frustrated and exhausted.”
In our own lives, we might do well to examine the love we feel

for other people to determine if we have really achieved the
transcendent state of true love. True love is what any normal parents
feel for their children. No matter how much pride and gratification they
derive from the children, their feelings are not self-centered but
focused on the objects of their love. Is this what we feel for the other
people in our lives whom we profess to love? Is this what we feel for
Hashem? Let us never forget that we have the power to control our
feelings. We can look at the people important to us in a new light and
learn to love them with a love that is truly true. If we can rise above our
self-centered impulses, we can enrich ourselves immensely and
illuminate our lives.
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With Your Own Ears

They were a new generation. Some of them had experienced
the Exodus as very young children. Most had been born during the
forty years of confinement in the Desert. Now, as they stood on the
threshold of the Promised Land, the older generation had all died. The
future belonged to the young and innocent. And sadly, Moses would
not be there to share it with them.
As Moses prepared to bid them farewell, he spoke to them

words that would fortify their faith and leave them with an enduring
sense of inspiration. To this end, he recalled the gathering of the
people at the foot of Mount Sinai to receive the Torah. “Investigate the
records of the past,” he declared. “Has there ever happened such a
great thing, or was anything similar ever reported, that a nation should
hear the Lord’s voice speaking from the fire, as you have heard, and
survive?”
The commentators are puzzled. Why does Moses refer to the

revelation at Sinai “as you have heard” when in fact it was their parents
who had heard, not them? This was a new generation most of whom
had not even been born at the time.
The answer lies in a phenomenon know as national memory.

Let us take American history as an example. How do know there was a
Civil War? After all, this war took place over a century ago, and no one
alive today has a personal recollection of it. So how do we know that it
actually took place? Is it because documentary evidence proves that it
happened? Of course not. There is a much more fundamental reason.
Anything that happens in full public view and is experienced by the
entire nation automatically becomes part of our national memory. Even
after the individuals who lived at the time pass on, the experience lives
on in the national consciousness from generation to generation. We
know the Civil War took place because America, collectively,
remembers it.
Throughout the ages, people have come forward and claimed

divine revelations. For one reason or another, their claims may have
seemed credible to some of the people of their times, thereby gaining
them a following. But as generation follows generation, the credibility
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of such claims fades. Why should people accept the word of self-
proclaimed prophets whom they have never seen with their own eyes?
Why should they make the leap of faith?
Not so with the revelation at Sinai, Moses was telling the

Jewish people. Belief in the divine origin of the Torah requires no
especial leap of faith. It was given in full view of millions of people, and
as such, it was indelibly inscribed in the national memory. Each of you,
as individuals, may not have been there, but it is firmly rooted in your
national memory. It is as if you have seen it with your own eyes and
heard it with your own ears.
A king died unexpectedly, leaving behind two sons. The older

son was a somewhat lackluster, lackadaisical character, while the
younger son was bright, articulate and ambitious.
Not surprisingly, the royal succession came into question.
Some believed that by rights of primogeniture the throne should go to
the older son. Others insisted that the welfare of the kingdom would by
better served with the younger son on the throne.
A special meeting of the Council of Ministers was convened to
debate the question of the succession, and both princes were invited
to air their views.
“Gentlemen,” said the younger prince, “I have some very
important news for you. The problem of the succession has been
solved. My father appeared to me in a dream last night and told me in
no uncertain terms that he wants me to succeed him as king.”
“If I may be so bold, your highness,” one elderly minister
replied, “It seems to me that nothing has been solved. If your father
really wanted you to be king, he should have come to us in our
dreams, not to you in yours."
In our own lives, living in a global multi-cultural society, we are

surrounded by myriad religious and ideological messages that are at
odds with the fundamental tenets of Judaism, and it would not be
surprising if at times we entertained some doubts and anxiety
concerning our faith. At such times, we should recall the words of
Moses that speak of the revelation at Sinai “as you have heard.” Each
of us has indeed heard it, because it is imbedded in our national
memory. For thousands of years, Jewish people have willingly sacrifice
their lives for the Torah because we have all “heard” Hashem’s voice
speaking to us at Mount Sinai as vividly and distinctly as if we had
been standing there in the flesh when it took place.
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Opposites Are Equal

(or: Of Parents and Eggs)
What does honoring parents have to do with collecting birds’
eggs? Both of these seemingly unrelated activities figure among the
list of the Torah’s commandments. The obligation to honor one’s
parents is, of course, one of the Ten Commandments, as we read in
this week’s portion. There is also a mitzvah to send away the mother
bird before taking her eggs from her nest. How are these two mitzvos
connected?
These are the only two mitzvos for which the Torah specifies
the rewards of fulfillment. In general, the Torah does not speak about
specific reward for the performance of mitzvos. All we are told is that if
we follow the commands of the Torah loyally and sincerely we will be
abundantly blessed, but we are not told how each individual mitzvah is
rewarded. In these two cases, however, the Torah tells us that
observance is rewarded with long life. Why does the Torah single
these out for special mention? And why is their reward identical?
The commentators observe that in a certain sense these two

mitzvos are at the opposite ends of the spectrum. Honoring one’s
parents is the most difficult mitzvah to perform properly. At its root, it is
an expression of gratitude for a debt that can never be repaid. Our
parents invest incalculable time, effort and toil into bringing us up, but
even more important they give us the gift of life. No matter how much
we do for our parents, we can never even the accounts. Moreover, the
constant requirement to subordinate our own interests and desires to
the needs of our parents goes against the natural urge to be
independent and free.
On the other hand, sending off the mother bird before taking
her eggs is just about the easiest mitzvah to fulfill. Just one wave of
the hand to shoo away the mother, and the mitzvah is done. What
could be easier?
Nonetheless, they both earn the same reward.
This is the lesson the Torah is teaching us here. We cannot
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measure the value of a mitzvah by our own yardsticks. A difficult
mitzvah is not necessarily more valuable than a simple one. Each
mitzvah provides a singular opportunity to connect with the Almighty,
and if it’s performed with the proper spirit, it is equal to all others.
Two men came to visit a great sage whom they had not seen in
many years. The sage, who was already old and feeble, did not
immediately recognize them. He looked more closely, and finally the
light of recognition appeared in his eyes.
“I remember you,” he said to one of the men. “I traveled to your

town twenty-five years ago when I was raising money for an
orphanage. You gave me a donation. Yes, yes, I remember you well.
And who is your friend?”
“But sir,” the second man protested. “How come you don’t
remember me? I was also there when you came to our town. I also
gave you money for the orphanage. In fact, I gave you five times as
much money as my friend here did. How come you remember him but
not me?”
“My dear fellow,” said the sage, “I don’t remember how much
money your friend here gave me. But I do remember that as soon as I
finished speaking he ran up to me with tears streaming down his face
and pressed an envelope into my hand. I could see his heart breaking
with compassion for the unfortunate children in the orphanage. Many
other people also came forward with envelopes and donations but
without the tears. I don’t remember them.”
In our own lives, our state of mind is more important than the
actual deeds we do. If we contribute to a good cause, we gain the
favor of the Almighty not by the size of our donation but by the feelings
and thoughts in which our donations are wrapped. Whether caring for
an elderly parent or sending off a mother bird, our passion, love and
devotion are the true measures of our achievement..
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PARASHAS EIKEV
No Easy Matter
In ancient times, many of the more enlightened Romans were
fascinated by the purity, spirituality and truth of Judaism - but very few
of them actually converted. The burden of the Torah - submission to
divine authority, circumcision, Sabbath and festival observance, dietary
laws, ritual purity - was simply too heavy to bear. In our own times as
well, many secular Jews feel drawn to traditional observance, but only
a limited number of them can bring themselves to make the
commitment. Without question, keeping the Torah is no easy matter.
And yet, in this week’s Torah portion, we find an amazing

statement. In summing up the demands of the Torah, Moses declares,
“And now, O Israel, what does G-d your Lord ask of you but to fear G-d
your Lord, to walk in all His ways, and to love Him, and to serve G-d
your Lord with all your heart and all your soul?” So what is Hashem
asking of us already? Not much, Moses tells the Jewish people. Only
to fear Him. Only to walk in all his ways and love Him. Only to serve
Him with all our hearts and souls. That’s all.
That’s all? Is this such an easy thing?
The commentators explain that the Hebrew word yirah, fear, is

closely related to the word re’iyah, seeing. The key to fear is clear
vision. If we see the Creator in the world around us, if we recognize
His Presence, we will inevitably be seized by an overwhelming awe of
His greatness and goodness. All Moses asked was that we open our
eyes and look. The rest would take care of itself.
But how do develop this clear vision? How do we penetrate the

veil of concealment that separates us from our Creator? This in itself is
surely no easy matter.
Our Sages find an allusion in this verse to the daily requirement

of making one hundred blessings. Nothing may be taken for granted.
On special occasions, we are inspired to make the blessing of
Shehechianu, thanking Hashem for giving us the life and the
sustenance to enjoy this wonderful experience. We can relate to the
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wonder of these rare occasions. If a sunrise occurred only once every
twenty years, we would rise before dawn to watch the spectacle with
bated breath, and we would be humbled by the awesome Presence of
the Creator. But a sunrise occurs every day, and we have learned to
take it in stride.
The same is true of the countless miracles of daily living. If they

were not so familiar, we would gasp at them in wonder. We would be
exhilarated as we wrap ourselves in warm clothing. We would be
intoxicated by the smell and taste of a fresh cup of coffee. We would
be astounded at the ability of the body to excrete its waste products
and cleanse itself. Yet we take all these things for granted. But if we
make the hundred blessings, if we take the time to acknowledge the
divine benevolence inherent in all the minute details of existence, we
would maintain a perpetual sense of awe and wonder. This is what
Hashem wants of us, that we open our eyes and truly see the wonders
of His creation, so that this clarity of vision will translate into a sense of
the awesomeness of Heaven.
However, as a great sage once commented, heaven is closer

to earth than the heart is to the mind. A purely intellectual awareness
of Hashem, expressed by lip service in the form of a hundred daily
blessings, is simply not enough to inspire true fear of Heaven. The
knowledge cannot be detached from the person. We must “lift up our
eyes and see who created all these,” in the words of the prophet
Isaiah. We must transcend our materialistic view of the wonders of the
world and see them as an expression of an infinite spirituality of which
we our souls are an integral part. We must involve our hearts and
souls in this awareness of the omnipresence of the Creator, and
thereby transform ourselves.
A famous Greek philosopher’s disciples discovered him eating

flesh ripped from a live animal, and their disgust registered on his face.
“How can I philosopher do such a thing?” they asked. “Right
now I am not a philosopher,” he replied. “I’m just a hungry man. When
we meet later, I shall be a philosopher once again.”
We all have the ability to transform our own lives, as long as we

integrate our awareness of the Creator into our identities. When our
blessing and expressions of gratitude emanate from such an
awareness, we will undoubtedly find that all these difficult things
Hashem asks of us are, indeed, an easy matter.
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Everlasting Blessings
As Moses gets ready to hand over the reigns of Jewish
leadership, he admonishes the people not to become complacent. He
reminds them of the rebelliousness of the Jewish people in the
wilderness, how they constructed a golden calf even as Hashem
prepared to give them the Torah. In particular, he singles out his
brother Aaron, as the object of Hashem’s wrath for his involvement in
this unfortunate incident. As retribution, Aaron’s children died.
The commentators wonder why Aaron deserved such a severe

punishment. Furthermore, we know that Hashem always deals out
retribution measure for measure. In what way was the death of his
children measure for measure for the sin of idolatry?
Let us consider for a moment the almost universal desire

among people to have children. Children are a very difficult and
expensive enterprise. They can virtually exhaust all our physical and
emotional resources until they reach the point where they can function
independently. They take so much from us, and they give back so little
in return. True, they give us love and companionship and are our
security for our old age, but is this the entire answer? Surely, it is
possible to find other ways to give and receive love. Moreover, if all the
money spent on children were invested, the result would be an
astronomical retirement fund that would provide for a very luxurious old
age.
The answer goes much deeper. We are all physical creatures,

but our souls are immortal. Therefore, we are not content with passing
through this world and leaving it as if we had never been there. We
have a natural urge to make our own indelible mark, to immortalize
ourselves and achieve eternal existence even in this temporal world.
Children give us this opportunity. When we leave behind us children
and grandchildren, we know that the world will forever be affected, at
least in some small way, by our erstwhile presence in it.
The sin of idolatry, as manifested by the golden calf, effected a

profound change in the Jewish people. Encamped at Mount Sinai, they
were exalted spiritual creatures akin to angels, and in one fell swoop,
they became lowly creatures of pure physicality. They had betrayed
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their immortal souls, and therefore, a fitting retribution was to remove
the everlasting blessing of children.
A very talented woman decided to pursue a business career,

and before long, she was moving up the corporate ladder very rapidly.
Nonetheless, she wanted to very much to marry and have children,
and she was prepared to forgo certain career advancements in order
to satisfy her desire to be a mother.
Unexpectedly, a merger upset the company’s executive

structure, and the new board offered her the job of chief executive
officer. It was an opportunity of a lifetime for the young woman, and
she was sought the advice of a great sage to help her deal with her
dilemma.
“Should I think about having children at this point in my life?”

she asked. “I cannot see how I can be a mother and a CEO at the
same time. Should I sacrifice my career? Or should I wait a while to
have children?”
The sage nodded gravely. “It must be very difficult for you
indeed,” he said. “I can well imagine how excited you must be at the
prospect of running a major corporation, but it is all fleeting, an ego
trip. Children, however, will give you permanence. Through them you
will exist for all eternity. Don’t risk losing your eternity. That is my
advice.”
In our own lives, we would do well to recognize this inner

compulsion to leave our mark in this world. Having children is indeed
the most popular expression of this urge, but there are others as well.
The prophet assures the childless not to consider themselves
“withered wood.” For as long as they observe the Sabbath and hold
fast Hashem’s covenant, Hashem promises, “And I will give them an
honorable place in my House within My ramparts far better than sons
and daughters. I will give them an everlasting name that will never be
obliterated.” If we focus on the spiritual side of life, if we devote
ourselves to its eternal values, we can be sure that our blessings will
indeed be everlasting.
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Scattered Apples
When we want to do some serious studying, what sort of
environment do we seek out? Do we sit ourselves down in the center
of all the hullabaloo of daily life? Or do look for a quiet corner where
we can concentrate on our studies without being disturbed?
The question is, of course, rhetorical. Everyone will agree that

study requires concentration and focus, with as few distractions as
possible. And yet, in this week’s Torah reading we find the opposite
approach. Moses tells the Jewish people to ponder the words of the
Torah in the midst of their daily activities at home and away so that
“your days may be lengthened on the land that Hashem promised
you.”
Why did Moses enjoin them to ponder the words of the Torah
during their daily activities? Would it not have been more appropriate
to set aside a quiet time each day for Torah study? Furthermore, how
does Torah study “lengthen our days”?
Let us reflect for a moment on the pace and texture of life in

contemporary society. From the time we force our eyes open in the
morning until we fall exhausted into bed at night, we are swept up in a
never-ending whirlwind of activity. Grab some breakfast. Drive to work.
Plow through stacks of faxes and e-mails. Juggle clients and
associates on three different lines. Prepare for the board meeting
tomorrow. Stumble home. Help the kids with their homework. Get a
little exercise. Rest for a little while. Off to sleep. Tomorrow is another
day.
So when do we live? We spend so much time and effort

providing our families and ourselves the means to live, but when do we
actually live?
This is what Moses was telling the Jewish people. If you

dedicate precious time throughout your hectic day to studying the
Torah yourself and to teaching it to your children, you will discover that
you are really living. You will find that those little islands of holiness
and serenity are the very essence of life. Instead of spending your life
preparing industriously for some distant point in the future when you
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will really get down to living, you will enjoy the wondrous pleasures of
living right now, every day, throughout the day. And you will discover
that you have “lengthened your days on the earth.”
A fruit peddler called upon his son to sell apples in the

marketplace. He packed up a cart with the most beautiful, flawless,
mouth-watering apples, placed it in a good location and entrusted it to
the boy.
The marketplace filled with people, and the boy eagerly

awaited his new and exceedingly responsible role.
Suddenly, a horse and rider came galloping through the narrow

lanes among the carts and stalls. One of the horse’s hooves caught
the edge of the apple cart and flipped it onto its side, scattering apples
in every direction. As the boy watched in stunned disbelief, people
scrambled after the luscious apples, and within moments, not a one
was left.
When the fruit peddler learned what had happened, he gave

his son a very disapproving look.
“But could I have done, father?” wailed the boy.
“When everyone was grabbing for the apples,” said the

peddler, “you should have grabbed some for yourself as well. But you
just stood by, and now you have nothing at all.”
In our own lives, we sometimes get so caught up in the mad

rush of our daily existence that we lose sight of the larger picture. We
must not stand by as the apples scatter in all directions. Every moment
we salvage is a gift. Every minute we devote to Torah study is a
priceless treasure that can never be taken from us. Think about it. We
put so much effort into enriching ourselves materially. If we put only a
fraction of that effort into our relationship with the Creator, we would
enrich ourselves spiritually beyond measure..
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A Father’s Love
The sadness still lingers in our hearts. Just days ago, we fasted
and grieved over the destruction of Jerusalem. We read the lurid
accounts in the Book of Lamentations, and we shed a tear over our
ancestors who suffered so terribly in ancient times. And then our
thoughts turned to our own situation, still mired in exile and divine
disfavor, still surrounded on all sides by foes and detractors who seek
our downfall.
But the time for grieving has passed, and now it is time to be
consoled. The seven weeks between Tishah b’Av and Rosh Hashanah
are known as the Weeks of Consolation. For the Haftorah during this
period, we read passages of solace and hope from the Book of Isaiah,
whose glowing prophecies paint a picture of the pure joy, thanksgiving
and music we will experience when this exile comes to an end.
These inspirational messages are meant to lift our spirits, but

this is easier said than done. How can we nurture hope in our hearts
when we have to endure so much suffering? How can we relate to a
serene and blissful future when we see our people attacked,
persecuted and vilified all over the world? How can we fortify our faith
n the Almighty when He presents us with so many challenges?
The answer to these troubling questions lies in this week’s

Torah portion. Moses tells the Jewish people that the Almighty
chastises them “just as father chastises his son.” This is the key to
dealing effectively with life’s challenges. As long as we remember that
the Almighty loves us like a father loves his children, we can be
confident that everything that takes place is for the greater good. A
father would never allow gratuitous harm befall his son.
A man from a big city took his family for a long visit with a
brother that lived on a farm. Early one morning, the man’s young son
went out to the fields and saw his uncle plowing.
“I don’t understand, uncle,” he said. “Why are you ripping apart

this beautiful field? It was so pretty, and now it’s full of long ditches.”
The farmer smiled indulgently at his little nephew and
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continued to plow. “Just wait a little while,” he said, “and you will
understand.”
The farmer stripped the kernels from a sheaf of golden wheat

stalks until he had a little mound. Then he took a handful of the kernels
and began to walk alongside the furrows, dropping them in as he went
along.
“Why are you ruining those beautiful stalks?” the boy protested.
“Why are you tossing those kernels into the ground?”
Time passed, and fresh stalks grew from the ground. “Watch
closely,” said the farmer. He cut down the stalks and ground them into
flour. Then he made the flour into dough, which he formed into loaves.
He put the loaves into the oven, and soon, the kitchen was filled with
the savory smell of fresh bread baking.
“Now do you understand why I tore up the field?” the farmer

said to his nephew. “It is called plowing; there can be no bread without
it.”
In our own lives, we often see that seemingly catastrophic

downturns and reversals can actually lead to great results. We may
lose a well-paying job and be devastated by our misfortune; we may
even reproach Hashem. But a short time later, we find another job far
better and more lucrative than the first. So what do we think? Do we
recognize Hashem’s guiding hand, or do we chalk it up to sheer good
luck? It all depends on our perspective. If we live with the knowledge
that Hashem is our loving Father, we can see His kindness all around
us. If we widen the lens of our perception and observe the broader
landscape of life, we will see Hashem’s loving fatherly embrace all
around us. And we will discover within ourselves the strength to
survive and even grow spiritually during the long dark night of our
exile.
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A Simple Thing
Ask most people if keeping the Torah is a simple thing or a
hard thing, and just about all of them would say it is hard. Not that it
isn’t supremely rewarding. Not that it isn’t absolutely wonderful and
exhilarating. Not that they would ever dream of having it any other
way. But simple it isn’t.
And yet, in this week’s Torah portion, Moses tells the Jewish
people, “And now, O Israel, what does God your Lord expect of you
other than to fear . . ., to walk in all His ways, to love Him and to serve
. . . with all your heart and all your being?” What a question! Moses
starts off as if he is asking for something simple. “What does He
expect of you other than . . .,” he says. But then he follows with a long
list of demands that holds the Jewish people to the highest standards
of religious dedication. How do we explain this seeming anomaly?
The commentators explain that the long journey to the Almighty

starts with the feeling of fear. When a person contemplates the
awesome majesty of the Divine with complete honesty and sincerity,
he will inevitably gain an entirely new perspective on life and the world
around him. He will feel dwarfed and insignificant, and he will be
overcome by an intense inner trembling in his soul. In Hebrew, the
word for fear is cognate with the word for sight. When a person fears
the Almighty, he begins to see clearly that in order to imbue his life
with genuine meaning he must enfold himself in the divine embrace
and become one with the Eternal. All the rest will follow naturally until
his journey is successfully completed.
A young prince once lost his senses and became convinced he

was a rooster. He took off his clothing and sat underneath the table
and refused to eat anything other than chicken feed. The king called
summoned his finest doctors to the palace, but none of them could
cure the prince of his strange obsession. The king was beside himself.
Every day, he was forced to observe the heir to his throne sitting under
unclothed a table squawking like a rooster. What was he to do?
One day, a sage appeared in the palace and asked the king to
let him attempt to cure the young prince. The king agreed.
The sage took off his clothing, climbed under the table and sat
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down across from the prince.
“Why are you here?” said the prince. “Can’t you see I’m a rooster?”
“Well, so am I,” said the sage. “I’m a rooster, too.”
“Oh,” said the prince, and he fell silent.
Presently, the sage began to eat some ordinary food. “What
are you doing?” said the prince. “I thought you were a rooster!”
“Oh, but I am,” said the sage.
“Then why are you eating human food?”
“Why not?” said the sage. “I can eat any food I like. Just
because I’m eating human food, I can’t be a rooster? Why not? Here,
have some.”
The prince looked at the sage doubtfully. Then he nodded and
took some of the proffered food.
“You see?” said the sage. “We ate human food, and we’re still
roosters. It’s no big deal.”
The next day, the sage put on some clothing.
“What are you doing?” said the prince. “Roosters don’t wear clothes!”
“And why not? If I want to wear clothing, I’ll wear clothing.
Roosters can do whatever they like. Here, why don’t you put this on?”
Little by little, the sage cajoled the prince to abandon his
roosterly behavior and act like a human being. One day, at long last,
the prince emerged from under the table, and he was cured.
In our own lives, we sometimes find ourselves running around

in circles, focusing on the trivial and unimportant things that take up so
much of our attention and losing sight of the greater goals and
aspirations of the human condition. How do we break out of this
vicious cycle? How do we get control of our lives on so many fronts?
Only by opening our eyes to the awesome majesty and omnipotence
of the Almighty. All the rest will follow.
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PARASHAS RE’EH
The Love Test

He is everything you would expect a prophet to be. He has a
flowing white beard and eyes that glitter with fire. He is wise and learned,
and he seems to have supernatural powers. And he claims to be the
bearer of an important prophetic message. But there is one problem. His
message runs contrary to the dictates of the Torah.
How are we supposed to deal with such a person? The answer

appears in this week’s Torah portion. “If there should arise in your midst a
prophet or a dreamer of dreams who will show you a sign or an omen, and
if the sign or the omen should materialize as he spoke to you, saying, ‘Let
us follow other gods whom you do not know, and let us worship them,’ you
shall not listen to the words of that prophet or dreamer of dreams, for G-d
your Lord is testing you to determine if you still love G-d your Lord with all
your heart and all your soul.”
Why did Hashem allow this false prophet to display “signs and
omens”? In order, the Torah explains, “to test us, to determine if we still
love Him with all our hearts and souls.”
Two questions immediately come to mind: If anything, such a

scenario would seem to be a test of our faith or our fear of Heaven. Why
does the Torah consider it a test of our love, of all things? Furthermore,
what is the purpose of testing our love? Surely, the Creator knows
whether or not we love Him. A test of faith would present us with a choice,
an exercise of our free will, just like any other commandment in the Torah,
but a test of love only determines a fact - which is already known to Him.
The solution to this puzzle can be found earlier in the Torah when
Bilaam attempts to curse the Jewish people. “But G-d, your Lord, did not
want to listen to Bilaam,” the Torah tells us. “And G-d your Lord
transformed the curse into a blessing, because G-d your Lord loves you.”
Why did He find it necessary to transform the curse in to a blessing? Why
wasn’t it sufficient to nullify the curse and render it impotent and
harmless?
The answer, explain the commentators, lies in the next phrase,

“Because G-d your Lord loves you.” Such is the power of love! A person
who loves cannot bear to hear anything negative about the object of his
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love. His beloved is pure and good and beautiful, a paragon of virtue and
grace. Because of His love for the Jewish people, Hashem found the very
sound of Bilaam’s curse abhorrent, even if defanged and rendered
harmless. Only by transforming the curse into a blessing was His love
fulfilled and satisfied.
Similarly, when we are confronted with a false prophet who

attempts to tear us away from our beloved Creator, the Torah tells us,
“You shall not listen to the words of that prophet or dreamer of dreams.”
We must turn a deaf ear to him. It is not enough to ignore, reject or disdain
his words. That only shows good intellectual judgment, not passionate
love. We must place our hands over our ears and blot out those terrible
words from our earshot, from our very consciousness. We must show that
the love burning in our hearts makes us wince and cringe at each
blasphemous syllable, that we cannot bear to listen.
“I am having serious problems with my wife,” a man told a great

sage. “We bicker. That wonderful feeling we had when we first married is
gone.”
“Indeed?” said the sage. “I’m not surprised. You see, I’ve heard
she was unfaithful to you.”
“What!” screamed the man. “That cannot be! She is a fine, loyal
woman. My wife would never do such a thing. Take those words back
right now! How can you say such a terrible thing about my wife? I can’t
even begin to tell you what a wonderful person she is.”
“Fine, I take them back,” said the sage. “But if she is such a
wonderful person, perhaps your problems are not serious after all. Eh?”
Sometimes, when the pristine love in our hearts is buried under

the rubble of everyday life, the shock of hearing our beloved maligned will
reawaken the dormant love and fan its embers into a flame once again.
Unfortunately, the same can happen to our love for the Creator.
Therefore, in order to revive our love, He sends false prophets who speak
dreadful, blasphemous words. And if there is still some love in our hearts,
we clap our hands over our ears, unable to listen.
In our own lives as well, the ubiquitous blandishments of

contemporary society whisper in our ears and lure us away from a faithful
Jewish life. But if we allow ourselves to be scandalized, if we to turn a
deaf ear to the modern false prophets and embrace our own ideals and
values, we will undoubtedly feel a new surge of love for our Creator, a
love that will blossom forth and suffuse “all our hearts and all our souls.”
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Give and Take

The deadline is rapidly approaching. In a few days, the
Shemittah laws will cancel all outstanding loans. You intensify your
efforts to collect all the money owed to you before it is too late. A poor
knocks on your door. He needs a loan desperately. If you lend him the
money you have virtually no chance of ever being repaid. What would
you do?
In this week’s portion, the Torah tells us that even under such
circumstances we are forbidden to harden our hearts and turn away
the needy. “Do not begrudge it when you give it to him,” the Torah
admonishes us. “Rather, do it warmly with an open hand, for this is
why Hashem with the ability to give, for there will never cease to be
destitute people on the face of the earth.”
The questions leap out at us. When the poor man is standing in
front of me seeking help, what difference does it make to me that there
will always be poor people on the earth? Should the knowledge that
there will never be a world without poverty somehow inspire me to be
more charitable?
Furthermore, why indeed does Hashem assure us that we will

never wipe out poverty? Why doesn’t He give us the option of creating
a truly equitable society where wealth is distributed fairly to all its
members and no one must suffer privation?
The Talmud often relates sharp exchanges between the

illustrious Jewish sage Rabbi and the Roman governor Turnus Rufus.
On one occasion, Turnus Rufus asked him, “Why should you give
charity to the poor? If the Creator wanted the poor to have money, why
doesn’t he provide for him?”
“It is for our own benefit,” Rabbi Akiva replied. “Helping the
poor elevates us.”
This then is the rationale for the unceasing existence of

poverty. The poor play an important role in society, and they must
endure the challenge of poverty to fulfill it. For the rest of us, poverty
challenges us to use our prosperity for the good of others.
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Therefore, when a poor man appears on our doorstep, no

matter the circumstances, we must help him. We must recall that there
will always be poor people on the earth, that they are not only here
because of their own privation but also to give us the opportunity to
gain merit, to help us grow spiritually through acts of kindness.
A great sage was walking alongside a river. In the distance, he

saw a poor man begging passersby for pennies. Presently, the poor
man approached a very wealthy man, whom the sage knew well. The
wealthy man reached into his pocket with a great show of
magnanimity, pulled out a large wad of bills and handed it to the poor
man. The poor man thanked him profusely and hurried off with a huge
smile on his face.
The wealthy man continued on his way and saw the great sage
coming toward him.
“Good morning,” he called out in greeting.
“Good morning,” the sage replied. “I saw what you just did.
Very commendable. “But tell me, did you remember to thank him?”
The wealthy man was bewildered. “Surely, he meant to ask me
if he thanked me?”
“No, I meant exactly what I said,” the sage replied. “You have
much more to be thankful for than he does. That poor fellow had to
swallow his pride to ask you for a handout. Before you know it, all that
money you gave him will be gone, and he’ll be back to begging on the
street. At least, he will manage to fill the hungry bellies of his family for
a few days, and that is a good thing. You, however, have gotten
yourself a wonderful deal, my friend. You have justified your wealth
and shown yourself to be a fine gentleman. And the merit of your good
deed will last you forever. Who got the better of this deal my friend?
Who should thank whom?”
In our own lives, we are often approached by organizations and

individuals seeking our assistance in various charitable endeavors.
When these opportunities present themselves, let us remember that
they have been sent to us as challenges, that we are being given a
chance to attain spiritual growth and merit, that we are being tested.
Let us remember that by giving to the poor we are the ones that are
most enriched.
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Constructive Destruction
The goal was nothing less than total destruction on a vast
scale. Moses warned the Jewish people that when they crossed into
the Promised Land they would encounter all sorts of pagan idols and
places of worship. These intolerable abominations were to be
immediately eradicated. Pulverize every idol and graven image, he
exhorted them. Burn down their asheirah trees. Destroy their altars
and temples. Wipe out every trace of the idolatry prevalent in the land.
The exhortation concludes, however, with a rather strange directive,
“You shall not do so to Hashem!”
Why did Moses find it necessary to tell the people not to mount
a campaign of destruction against Hashem? Who would ever dream of
wantonly destroying Jewish places of worship?
The commentators explain that human nature has a way of

adapting to the most unpleasant circumstances. Sensitive people
exposed to violence and mayhem for longer periods of time very often
become hardened and thick-skinned. After a while, deeds and
spectacles which would have scandalized and revolted them no longer
have the same effect. They become different people, cruel, hard,
merciless.
When Moses told the Jewish people to attack the pagan culture
with utmost violence, to uproot, pulverize, smash everything in sight,
they had good reason to be concerned about how this would affect
their character. Would formerly gentle, refined people become
brutalized and violent?
There was no need to worry, Moses reassured them. Smashing

idols was not an act of destruction, and it would not transform them
into violent people. On the contrary, cleansing the land of the pagan
abominations was a constructive enterprise of the highest order.
Smashing idols would never lead them to acts of wanton and
gratuitous violence.
“You shall not do so to Hashem!” Moses told them. This was a

promise rather than a command. In other words, do not be afraid to
attack the idols with unrelenting ferocity. You shall not become inclined
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to turn that same destructiveness against Hashem’s holy places. You
shall remain the same high-minded, refined people that you were
before.
Several army officers, one of them a field doctor, went to see a

boxing match. As the pugilists stepped into the ring, the crowd greeted
them with loud and boisterous cheers.
The match began. Punches and blows flew through the air.
Most missed their mark, but some of them landed. After two rounds,
both fighters were bleeding profusely from cuts to the face. The crowd
loved it and screamed with delight at every new burst of blood.
The army officers were on their feet, lustily cheering on the

fighters. Only the army doctor remained seated. He looked pale, and
he face was bathed in a cold sweat.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” asked one of his comrades. “You

look ill.” “I cannot bear to watch,” said the doctor. “The sight of blood
makes me queasy.”
The other officer laughed. “That’s a fine joke,” he said. “You

queasy at the sight of blood? Why, I’ve seen you amputate a soldier’s
leg on the battlefield without batting an eyelash. What’s a little blood to
you? You must be immune to the sight of blood.”
“You don’t understand,” said the doctor. “When I operate in the

hospital or out on the battlefield, I am healing my patients. That is not
blood of violence. The blood flowing in that ring down there is of a
totally different character, and I have no stomach for it.”
In our own lives, we often find it necessary to take harsh

measures in our relations with our children, family members or
business associates. Many people who find themselves in these
situation experience feelings of self-doubt. Are they becoming
somewhat cold and callous? The answer lies in focusing on the
positive results we aim to achieve. If our motivations are constructive,
well advised and devoid of anger and frustration, we can rest assured
that we will not suffer any spiritual damage.
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Walk Behind Me
How far back is “behind”? In Hebrew, there are different words
for “behind” that address this question. The word achar indicates a
short distance behind, while the word acharei indicates a long distance
behind.
If the Almighty invites us to walk “behind” him, it would seem to

be a positive thing, an expression of divine favor drawing us near into
a close relationship with Him. If so, He would want us to walk close
behind Him, so to speak. Strangely, however, when Moses exhorts the
Jewish people to walk “behind the Lord,” he uses the word acharei,
which means far behind. How do we account for this anomaly?
The commentators explain that Moses actually intended the

word acharei to be a source of hope and encouragement for the
Jewish people. Sometimes, a person may become so wrapped up in
his own little world that he loses sight of the big picture. Instead of
making good use of his youth, health and vigor to grow in a spiritual
sense and come close to the Almighty, he focuses primarily on
material acquisitions and status symbols.
The years fly by. One day, he takes stock of his life and comes
to the shocking realization that he has frittered away his best and most
vigorous years on matters of little consequence. He suddenly
perceives how far he has drifted away from the Almighty, and he is
discouraged. Where can he begin? How can he ever make up all that
ground he has lost? How can he ever hope to achieve the closeness
with the Almighty that derives from lifetime of spiritual exertions.
Do not be discouraged, says Moses. Walk behind the Lord

even if it is acharei, even if following behind from a very great distance.
The Almighty values highly a “walking behind” motivated by a
desperate awareness of the gulf that needs to be traversed. Take one
step at a time. One step will lead to the next and bring you ever closer.
Do not lose hope.
A king was seeking a suitable husband for his daughter. He

wanted a man of stout heart and strong character, and he devised a
contest to find such a man. He placed a long ladder, whose rungs
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were slippery and rickety, against an extremely high wall. The ladder
reached to the roof.
“The first young man that reaches the roof,” declared the king,
“will have won the hand of the royal princess in marriage. But anyone
who attempts the climb and fails will be sent to the dungeon.”
A few athletic young men, experienced mountain climbers, rose

to challenge, but when they were no more than halfway up the ladder,
they could no longer maintain their grip on the slippery and unstable
rungs. They fell to the ground and were immediately dragged off to the
dungeon for wasting the king’s time. Witnessing their failure, no other
young men dared make the attempt.
Presently, one fellow steeped forward and offered to make the

climb. Halfway up, he too began to lose his grip. He looked up at the
long distance remaining and could not imagine how he would ever
reach the top, but he refused to give up. Tenaciously, he continued to
climb, hand over hand, rung by painful rung. All of a sudden, he found
himself on the roof. He had activated a hidden spring that catapulted
him all the way to the top.
“You have won my daughter’s hand,” said the king. “But how
did you know about the hidden spring?”
“I didn’t,” said the young man. “But I knew that the king’s offer
was not frivolous. If the king laid down the challenge, it must be
somehow possible to accomplish it. So I refused to give up, no matter
what.”
In our own lives, we sometimes look at a distant spiritual goal

and think it is way beyond our grasp, and so we become discouraged
and give up. But we can never know how things will develop. If we
keep trying tenaciously without becoming discouraged, it is always
possible that the Almighty will send us unexpected break that will
catapult us all the way to that elusive goal. Whether it is in prayer,
study or some other spiritual endeavor, we may think we are on such
an elementary level that there is no hope for us. Never give up hope.
One day, everything may just fall into place so that we suddenly find
ourselves making great strides we never thought possible.
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PARASHAS SHOFTIM
Critical Followers
Shul politics are nothing new, and the hapless victim is usually
the rabbi. If he is not extra careful, the president and the synagogue
board will find fault in what he says, what he does, how he dresses,
anything. Even if the rabbi is much wiser and far more learned than his
congregation, he is not immune.
But what about the illustrious rabbis of earlier times, the great
luminaries whose immortal works infuse our lives with meaning and
direction? Did they also suffer from shul politics?
Unfortunately, the answer is yes. The annals of Jewish history

are replete with accounts of stellar scholars persecuted and
sometimes even driven away by their congregations. How can this be?
The very names of these people fill us with awe and admiration, and
we would travel great distances if we could but meet them and ask for
their blessings. How then is it possible that their own contemporaries
treated them so shabbily?
The key to this strange phenomenon can perhaps be found in

one of the more baffling biblical mysteries. In the early chapters of
Genesis, we read that Abraham recognized and acknowledged the
Creator, and that he carried the message of his stunning discovery to
the world at large. Many people flocked to him, pledging their loyalty to
his views and the way of life he advocated. But a brief generation, we
find the Jewish nation still limited to the small but growing family of
Abraham’s descendants. What happened to all these converts?
The commentators explain that once Abraham passed away

these people were reluctant to accept Isaac as their new leader. They
criticized him and drew unfavorable comparisons between him and his
father. Left without a leader they were willing to accept, they drifted
away from Judaism and eventually reverted to their old idolatrous
ways. What inner compulsion drives people to look at everyone around
them with critical eyes, to belittle the great and find fault with the
faultless? Why are we inclined to measure our great leaders against
the idealized standards of their predecessors?
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It is our own insecurities that engender our cynical attitudes. It

is only natural for a person to seek assurances of his own importance
and self-worth. Some people, however, have such a poor self-image
that they can only feel accomplished by tearing down their superiors.
Narrowing the perceived gulf between themselves and the great
people of their time makes them feel more worthy and important. They
can accept the greatness of deceased sages or their own idolized
mentors, because they do not feel competitive towards them. But their
contemporaries are fair game.
In this week’s portion, the Torah warns against just such an

attitude. When two people become involved in a dispute, the Torah
tells us, they should bring to the matter to the judge “of those days.”
What is the significance of the phrase “of those days”? To whom else
would they bring their dispute? The Talmud explains that we are not to
measure the judges of our own times against the judges of bygone
generations. We are to accept them on their own considerable merits
and bow to their judgment.
Two friends were sitting together at the funeral of a prominent

community member. A long procession of distinguished personages
and family members delivered warm eulogies, bringing tears to many
eyes. After the funeral, the two friends walked home in a contemplative
mood. “You know something,” one of them commented. “He was a
very fine fellow. I’m going to miss him.”
“Aw, c’mon,” said his friend. “I know you’re not supposed to
speak ill of the dead, but you couldn’t stand the guy. You always had
something nasty to say about him.”
“Yeah. But let’s be honest. Whenever he was honored, I always
wished I was receiving those honors. But now that he’s passed on, I
can think about him more objectively. And you know what? He really
was a fine fellow!”
In our own lives, regrettably, we all too often see the tendency
to denigrate our leaders as a means of self-aggrandizement.
Sometimes, we are even guilty ourselves. But if we can condition
ourselves to recognize these criticisms for what they are, we will find it
easier to focus on the many positive qualities of our devoted
community leaders and rabbis. Not only will we then be able to give
them their due respect, we will also discover greater inner satisfaction
and a higher sense of self-worth for ourselves.
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Doctors and Pilots

Seeing is believing. Most of us are natural skeptics, and it is
difficult to convince us of something we have not seen with our own eyes.
And even then, we are apt to have lingering doubts. Indeed, we take pride
in our skepticism, because we know it protects us from all sorts of fraud
and deception. We are nobody’s fools.
In this week’s portion, however, the Torah goes directly against

this tendency. The Torah exhorts us not to deviate one whit from the
words of our Sages, neither to the right nor to the left. What does this
mean? The Talmud explains that even if they tell us that our right hand is
our left and our left is our right we are to follow them with implicit faith. Of
course, our Sages would obviously never tell us something that is patently
ridiculous. Rather, the left and rights hands are a metaphor for something
that is seemingly erroneous according to our perceptions. Nonetheless,
we are required to follow their lead rather than our own judgment. The
Torah demands that we have faith.
How do we understand this requirement to have faith? Why does

the Torah demand of us to go against our natural instincts? Why should
we follow blindly rather than take a stand as independent thinkers and
demand explanations?
If we pause to consider, however, we will discover that faith forms

an integral part of our everyday lives. In fact, without faith we would be
practically immobilized. When we get into our cars, we do not worry that
our brakes may be defective and will suddenly fail when we are traveling
at high speeds. Why? Because we have faith in the manufacturers. When
we get on a plane, we do not worry that the pilot is incompetent or drunk.
Why? Because we have faith in the pilot. When we go to doctors, we
generally accept what they tell us. Why? Because we have faith in our
doctors.
Without faith, we would be afraid to switch on the lights or put food

into our mouths or believe a word anyone tells us. Clearly, Hashem
created us with the innate ability to have faith. Why then, if we so easily
have faith in our doctors and pilots, do we find it so difficult to have faith in
Hashem even when we believe in His existence? Why do we find it so
hard to accept all His deeds and commands without question?
The answer lies in our egotism. Doctors and pilots are there to
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serve us. Accepting them on good faith may result in physical restrictions,
but it does not require us to surrender our personal independence in any
way. We are still in control of our destinies. They advise. We make the
decisions. Such faith comes easily.
Faith in Hashem is an altogether different matter. If we forfeit the

right to question His deeds and commands, we acknowledge that we are
subservient to Him. We surrender our independence, and that is a very
difficult thing to do. But still, we must. For if we believe in Hashem yet
refuse to give Him our faith and trust, we would be living a lie.
Therefore, the Torah exhorts us again and again to have faith in

Hashem, to overcome the stiff, illogical resistance of egotism and submit
to His higher intelligence. Certainly, He is at least as deserving of our
good faith as our doctors and pilots.
After attending the yeshivah of a great sage for a number of years,

a young student suddenly declared himself an atheist and announced that
he was leaving. Naturally, this came as great shock to the other students
and the faculty, and they begged him to consult the sage before he left.
The sage nodded gravely as he listened to the young man. “I
agree that if you are an atheist this is not the place for you,” he said. “But
tell me, what made you become an atheist?”
“It is because I have lost my faith,” the young man replied.
“Indeed? And why did you lose your faith?”
“Because I have questions.”
The sage smiled sadly. “No, my young friend, you do not have
questions. You have answers. You have decided that you want to live a
certain lifestyle, and in order to do so you have to be an atheist. Now that
you’ve come up with this answer, you have found questions to support
your foregone conclusion.”
In our own lives, we experience the egotistical resistance to faith

in our children, who find it hard to admit that their parents may be right but
would willingly accept the same statements from others. The difference is
simple. When we acknowledge the wisdom of parents, we pay a high
price in personal independence. Similarly, we pay a high price when we
acknowledge the awesome might and wisdom of the Master of the
Universe. But if we overcome our stubborn egotism and acknowledge the
obvious truth, we will find that the rewards of faith are well worth the price
we pay for them.
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Under the Hood

When the Torah tells us two things in practically the same breath,
we can be sure that they are very closely related. Yet sometimes the
connection is somewhat obscure, and we are completely dependent on
the guidance of the Talmud to enlighten us.
In this week’s Torah reading, we are instructed to appoint judges

of the highest integrity, people who are honest, upright and unwavering,
people who would never consider taking bribes or otherwise corrupting the
process of justice. Side by side with these laws is the prohibition against
planting an asheirah tree, a species commonly worshipped in the pagan
societies of the Near East.
What is the connection between these two apparently unrelated

topics?
The Talmud tells us that the appointment of an unworthy judge is

comparable to planting an asheirah tree.
Illuminating but not completely enlightening. The corruption of

justice and idolatrous practices are both unarguably very grave
transgressions, but how are they related to each other? What specific
kinship places them on a common ground?
The commentators explain that the asheirah tree has marvelous

natural beauty, as do all the other trees the Creator implanted in this
world. But through their idolatrous practices, people have transformed this
thing of pristine beauty into an abomination. Although the asheirah tree
still retains its enchanting exterior, its very essence has been corrupted,
and therefore, it is forbidden to plant such a tree.
The Torah compares people to “the trees in the field.” People are
also dominant and exceptionally beautiful fixtures on the natural
landscape of the world. Some of them, endowed with special talents and
abilities, are even more outstanding. They exude an aura of wisdom and
integrity that seem to make them ideal choices to serve as the magistrates
of society.
Beware, warns the Torah. Do not be taken in by exterior

appearances. This seemingly ideal candidate for judicial office may be
nothing more than an asheirah tree. If he is guilty of the slightest bribery or
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any other subversion of perfect justice, he has become an abomination,
and all his cleverness, wisdom and charisma mean nothing.
A king was seeking a suitable candidate for a ministerial office

which had become vacant. He invited a number of promising government
officials to his palace for a conference on the pressing problems facing
that ministry. The most knowledge official would be offered the post.
The king prepared a royal table for his guests, with the finest foods
and beverages and an assortment of exotic fruits which could not be
found anywhere else in the realm.
At the conference, one official in particular stood out among all the
rest. He was a highly personable man who spoke with eloquence, wisdom
and wit. His grasp of the issues and problems was exceptional, and the
solutions he offered were clever and insightful. After an hour, it seemed a
forgone conclusion that he would be chosen, but to everyone’s surprise,
the king chose another man.
The disappointed candidate approached the king. “Your majesty,
why was I passed over for the post? Am I not the most qualified by far?”
“Take out what you have in your right pocket,” said the king. The
man flushed crimson. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a
persimmon. “Your majesty, for such a minor matter I lost the post?” he
said. “It is nothing but a tiny fruit that I wanted to take home to my family.”
“It is indeed a very minor thing,” said the king. “And if you had
asked, I would surely have given you a basketful to take home. But when I
saw you slip that persimmon into your pocket I knew I could never trust
you.”
In our own lives, we are all impressed by the glittering people we

encounter, people who sparkle with personality, wisdom, talent and
extraordinary accomplishment. But those are not necessarily the best
people. We wouldn’t buy a car without taking a good look under the hood.
In the same way, we should not invest admiration in these glitterati without
asking ourselves if there is true goodness behind the façade, if there is
kindness, humility and integrity. Those are the qualities we should admire
and emulate. Those are the qualities that will make us better people.
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Life Is Not Cheap

On the highway, in the middle of nowhere, a body is found, an
apparent homicide victim. The police cordon off the crime scene and
painstakingly collect whatever forensic evidence remains on the scene
of the crime. They question passersby, travelers who may have seen
someone or something that would shed some light on the identity of
the killer, but they are no closet to finding the killer than when they
began. This death will have to remain a mystery. They file it away
among their other unsolved crimes.
So what is to be done now? Is this the end? Having exhausted

all avenues of investigation, does the case become forgotten?
Not so, says the Torah. There is still a need for atonement.
Exact measurements are taken from the spot in which the body was
found to the surrounding towns and villages. The responsibility for
atonement falls on the one closest to the scene of the crime. Their
elders must bring a calf and perform the ritual of the eglah arufah, and
they must say, “Our hands have not spilled this blood.”
Where in the Torah do these laws appear? It wedges between

two chapters that discuss the laws and ethics of waging war.
The commentators explain that this placement is very telling. In

war, there is a tendency to devalue human life. People see the dead
and the dying wherever they turn, they are surrounded by slaughter
and bloodshed, and life becomes cheap. Therefore, the Torah
interrupts its instruction regarding warfare and draws our attention to
the ritual of the eglah arufah.
We see the town elders declare that they did not shed this
blood, when no one really suspects them of murder. At most, they may
have allowed the stranger to pass through their town without offering
him proper hospitality. Still, the entire town needs atonement for the
unexplained death of an unidentified traveler. Clearly, all life is
precious beyond measure. And just when we are studying the rules of
engagement in war, we must bear in mind that we cannot allow
ourselves to be brutalized and desensitized. We cannot allow
ourselves to forget the infinite value of a single life.
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A young woman standing in a doorway saw a little boy fall off a

low ledge. The child lay on the ground writhing in pain and screaming
at the top of his lungs. Even from the distance, the woman could see
that the child was badly injured and that his legs were smeared with
blood.
Screaming and crying desperately. The woman ran though the

streets toward the fallen child. An old sage was also moving toward the
scene of the accident, but at a much slower pacer. He stepped aside
and leaned on his cane to let the screaming woman pass, and then he
continued on.
A few moments later, he saw the woman coming back, wiping

tears from her eyes with the edge of her apron. When she saw the
sage, she stopped respectfully.
“What happened?” asked the sage. “A moment ago you were

beside yourself, and now you are so calm.”
“Oh yes,” said the woman. “I am truly so relieved. I thought that

my little boy had fallen and hurt himself badly, and I was beside myself
with worry and fear. But I came there and saw it was not my son but
someone else. Now I can breathe again.”
“This other little boy?” asked the sage. “Is he badly hurt?” “I’m
afraid he is,” said the woman.
“Then how can you feel so calm and relieved? Aren’t you upset
you that an innocent young human being is enduring so much pain and
suffering?”
In our own lives, we need to find it within ourselves to care for

all people, not only those in our immediate circle of family and friends.
We are all brothers and sisters, all part of the Jewish people. Every
Jewish life, every human life, should be infinitely precious to us. When
other people suffer, we should fell their pain. When other people die,
even if they are not connected to us, we should feel a sense of terrible
loss. We must remember that if we value other people then we
ourselves have value as well.
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PARASHAS KI SEITZEI
Tough Love
The mood in the courtroom is somber. The parents wring their
hands as they listen to the deliberations. Somewhere their son went
wrong. The fine upstanding young man they had expected him to become
has never materialized. Instead, he has developed into an incorrigible
young ruffian, robbing and stealing to satisfy his gluttonous appetites, a
degenerate, anti-social, destructive menace to society. Who knows what
havoc he can wreak if given free rein? Therefore, as we read in this
week’s portion, the Torah decrees that he be put to death before he can
do any more damage.
Interestingly, however, the Torah assigns a very important role to

the parents in this entire procedure. It is the parents, father and mother
together, who must bring their wayward son to the court and denounce
him. What can be the purpose of this requirement? Haven’t the parents
suffered enough? Why add to their anguish and suffering?
Furthermore, the Talmud (Sanhedrin 71a) tells us that there never

was an actual case of a wayward son being sentenced to death, nor could
there ever be. The conditions prescribed by the Torah are virtually
impossible to be met. Why then, wonders the Talmud, did the Torah
bother to formulate this set of laws which can never relate to actual
practice? “Study the laws,” the Talmud replies, “and you will be rewarded.”
But the question remains: What is the point? Why require us to

study the procedure of dealing with a hypothetical situation that has
absolutely no relevance whatsoever to real life?
The commentators explain that although it is virtually impossible

for a wayward son to be convicted and executed, these laws nonetheless
have tremendous relevance to real life. After all, what caused this young
ruffian, this wayward son, to go astray? Quite likely, there was a lack of
discipline in his upbringing, a laissez faire attitude on the part of his
parents who chose to give unlimited “space” to “express himself.”
Mistaking permissiveness for love, they unwittingly deprived their child of
the structure and conditioning that would make him a productive member
of society. Had they reared him with a judicious blend of freedom and
discipline, they would have conditioned him to deal with adversity, to be
satisfied with what he has, to develop self-control. Instead, they indulged
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his whims and desires. And what was the result? A wayward son who has
become a menace to society.
Therefore, the Torah requires that the parents bring their son to
the court and denounce him. They are the ones who failed him, and they
must acknowledge their responsibility and thereby set an example for
others.
This is what the Talmud was referring to in the statement, “Study

the laws, and you will be rewarded.” Although the actual execution of a
wayward son can never come to pass, there are very important object
lessons here for every Jewish parent. By studying these laws, it becomes
impressed on our minds that excessive permissiveness deprives our
children of the disciplined upbringing they need and crave. If we truly love
our children we need to do more than help them achieve instant
gratification at all times. We must instill in them the character, the fortitude
and the values to see beyond their immediate cravings and desires. In
contemporary terms, this is called “tough love,” and the Torah
resoundingly endorses this concept. Children need to be nurtured with
boundless love but also with mature guidance. All this becomes
abundantly clear to us if we spend the time studying the laws of the
wayward son, and this is a fine reward indeed.
Two little boys were playing in the park, while their mothers sat on
a bench nearby. Suddenly, the bigger boy pounced on the smaller one
and began to pummel him. The victimized boy’s screams brought the
mothers running.
The bully’s mother squatted down in front of her son. “What
happened, my little darling?” she purred. “Something must have upset you
terribly to make you react in this way. What was it? What made you so
angry?”
“If you really love your son,” said the victim’s mother, “you would
teach him that no matter what upset him there is no excuse for what he
did. If you taught him that lesson he would grow up to be a better person.”
Undoubtedly, it is often easier to avoid confrontations with our

children than to invite their resentment by taking a firm stand. Moreover,
the pressures of contemporary society make such demands on our time
that it sometimes seems easier just to give in and let the children have
their way. But there is a price to pay for the quick fix. If we want our
children to know right from wrong, we must take the time and make the
effort to establish boundaries they may not overstep. They may rant and
rave right now, but someday, they will thank us.
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Perfect Bliss
What are proper grounds for divorce according to Jewish law?
The Torah is somewhat cryptic on this question. “Should she not find
favor in his eyes,” we read in this week’s Torah portion, “for he found in
her a wicked thing, then he may write her a bill of divorce.” What does
this mean? How did she “not find favor in his eyes”?
There is a divergence of opinion on this matter among the

Sages of the Talmud. Shammai, known for his strict interpretation of
the Law, insists that only infidelity presents grounds for divorce. Hillel,
however, contends that the courts would not reject a husband’s
petition to divorce his wife because she burned his lunch. Rabbi Akiva
would even honor the petition of a husband who seeks a divorce
because he has found a prettier woman.
We are immediately struck by the incongruity of these

statements. These Sages are among the most prominent in the
Talmud, and students of the Talmud are intimately familiar with their
respective outlooks on many life issues. Hillel is celebrated for his
humility, compassion and unflappable patience. How could this gentle
scholar condone burnt meals as grounds for divorce? And what about
Rabbi Akiva, the stellar scholar who strove for the highest goals in
order to be worthy of his wife, who gave his wife the credit for
everything he and his thousands of disciples accomplished? How
could Rabbi Akiva consider finding a prettier woman grounds for
divorce?
The commentators explain that, on the contrary, the very

sensitivity of these Sages to the high worth of women accounts for
their interpretations. The wife is the essence of the home, the spirit that
infuses it with life, zest and warmth. She is the emotional anchor of the
marriage, the fountainhead of domestic love and harmony. A man’s
wife is his soul mate, his life, his universe. Without her, the Talmud
tells us, he is incomplete.
How is it possible, says Hillel, that a husband should become

enraged when his wife accidentally burns his lunch? Can’t he see the
love and devotion that the food symbolizes even if it is somewhat
charred? How is possible, says Rabbi Akiva, that a husband should
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find other women attractive? Shouldn’t all other women pale beside his
wife who is the sunshine of his life? The answer is as obvious as it is
tragic. All is not well on the marital front. Something is amiss.
Something has gone awry. The marriage is malfunctioning. Certainly,
every effort must be made to rectify the situation and repair the
marriage, but unfortunately, the possibility of divorce is also an option
that cannot be ignored.
A king commissioned the leading artist in his realm to deliver a

painting of perfect bliss. He gave no other instructions. The artist set
out to find what people considered perfect bliss.
“A victory parade with thousands of cheering people,” said a

general.
“Finding the solution to a very perplexing problem,” said a scholar.

“Making a lot of money,” said a merchant told.
“Spending a lot of money,” said a young bon vivant. Finally, the

artist used his own judgment. When the king unveiled the painting, he
saw an elderly couple sitting on a park bench in the dappled sunlight
and smiling devotedly at each other.
The king stroked his chin thoughtfully, then he nodded. “Well done,” he
said.
In our own lives, it is virtually impossible to avoid being swept

along by the imperatives of contemporary society. We need larger
houses, faster cars and more complex and lucrative investments,
because we are convinced these things will deliver perfect bliss. And
so we pursue the shimmering mirages of material success with all the
energy and single-mindedness that the frenetic pace of today’s world
demands. Husbands and wives become like ships passing in the night,
with little more than a friendly wave to sustain their marital relationship.
But we may be searching in all the wrong places. If we would only
invest a fraction of all this effort into our relationships with our wives,
we would easily reap boundless spiritual rewards and achieve that
elusive goal of finding perfect bliss..
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Don’t Take the Millstones

Creditors and debtors are on opposite sides of the fence. The
debtor, usually strapped for money and barely able to feed his family,
wants to keep his creditor at bay. The creditor, on the other hand,
wants his money back and seeks to exert whatever pressure he can to
force the debtor to fulfill his obligation.
Creditors have different ways to exert pressure on their

debtors. One time-honored method is to seize some of the debtor’s
property and hold it as a surety until the debtor pays up. What kind of
property would a creditor take? Logically, one would expect him to take
something of value but of little utility. Certainly, one would assume, he
would not take the tools of the debtor’s trade, since this would render
him incapable of earning the money needed to pay off the debt.
Therefore, it seems strange that the Torah found it necessary

to forbid a creditor to take the debtor’s millstones. Why would the
creditor do such a thing? If he wants his money back, he certainly
wouldn’t shut down the debtor’s business.
Furthermore, the Torah juxtaposes this prohibition with the

exemption from military service for a newlywed husband for one year
so that he can spend more time with his wife. What is the connection
between these two concepts?
The commentators explain that the Torah is addressing one of

the most powerful yet least recognized human drives. It is the desire to
dominate other people, which is rooted in the primal impulse for
conquest. History has shown us how this terrible impulse has
destroyed civilizations and brought misery and death to countless
millions of people, but mankind has not learned his lesson.
A creditor wields power over his debtor. In a real sense, he

controls his life. “The borrower is the slave of the man who lends
money,” King Solomon writes in Proverbs (22:7), and unfortunately,
the creditor often enjoys it. In fact, sometimes the sense of power and
mastery are sweeter and more important to the creditor than the return
of his money. This sort of man will gladly take the debtor’s millstones
as a surety, thereby effectively making it impossible for him to repay
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his loan. But he doesn’t mind. On the contrary, he prefers it this way,
because it will perpetuate his power of conquest.
The generals in charge of recruiting an army for the protection

of the homeland may be affected by similar subconscious drives. They
may feel inclined to pull a newlywed away for his young wife, because
it gives them a sense of power. The Torah, therefore, lumps the two
together, the creditor taking the debtor’s millstones and the generals
recruiting young newlyweds, and issues prohibitions against them
both. No man should exert power and mastery over another.
A boatman was ferrying passengers across a river during

wartime. A woman walked up the gangplank carrying two large
suitcases.
“Madam, I need to inspect your baggage,” said the boatman. “I
have to check for weapons.”
She opened her bags. “Here, take a look,” she said. “There are
no weapons.”
“Please unpack them. Take everything out.”
“What!” said the woman. “I’m letting poke around and look at
whatever you want. Why make me take it all apart?”
An old man standing nearby spoke up. “My good man, there
really is no need to put her through so much bother. Just take a good
look.”
The boatman drew himself up to his full height. “It is important
that I check thoroughly. That is my obligation.”
“Are you sure that you are only motivated by obligation?” said
the old man.
“Of course,” said the boatman.
“Then why,” said the old man, “do you have such a look of
pleasure on your face?”
In our own lives, we need to look closely at our relationships

with family members, employees and colleagues. What lies behind the
demands we make of them? Is our motivation always open and
aboveboard or is there sometime a more sinister undercurrent? Are we
looking to control the people around us and dominate their lives? Are
we trying to be masters? Such behavior is destructive not only to those
around us but also to us, because long lasting, fulfilling friendships and
relationships can only be grounded in genuine love and mutual
respect.
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Double Standards
Dishonesty is an affront to Heaven and mankind. It is a
violation of the divine will, a transgression of the most basic standards
of morality. The Torah places tremendous emphasis on honesty,
especially in business transactions and consistently demands that we
deal with integrity and fairness and never cheat another person.
In this week’s portion specifically, the Torah enjoins us, “Do not
keep two different measures in your house, one large and one small . .
. keep a whole and just measure.” Obviously, the Torah is legislating
against merchants cheating their customers. But the question
immediately arises: Why would a dishonest merchant keep two sets of
measures, one true and one false? Why wouldn’t he simply use the
false measure at all times?
Furthermore, immediately following these commandments, the

Torah enjoins us never to forget the treachery of Amalek when they
attacked the Jewish people emerging from Egypt. What is the
correlation between these two sets of commandments?
The commentators explain that the Torah is giving us a

metaphor which applies to many aspects of our lives. Unfortunately, it
is very common in our day-to-day activities to apply a double standard,
one for ourselves and one for everyone else. From others, we are
inclined to demand a high standard of behavior, but when we find
ourselves in a similar situation we tend to rationalize and equivocate
and find some way to allow ourselves that which we would deny to
others.
“Do not keep two sets of measures,” the Torah tells us, for by
doing so we not only deceive others but also ourselves. Living by a
double standard forces us to sacrifice our integrity, to lie to ourselves,
to infuse our lives with chronic dishonesty. Rather, the Torah tells us,
we must “keep a whole and just measure.” We must live our own lives
and view others with the same whole and consistent measure, for a
justice that is not universal is not justice at all.
This then is the correlation to the attack of Amalek. As the

Torah relates, Amalek’s attack was treacherous, preying on the
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straggles who fell behind the main body of the people. They did not
meet the Jewish people head on with bravery and courage as did their
other enemies. But the Amalekites themselves would certainly have
disdained an enemy who stooped to such shabby tactics, and yet they
did not hesitate to use those selfsame tactics to further their own ends.
This is the epitome of evil, and it must never be forgotten.
A man was sitting in shul on Yom Kippur, wrapped in his tallis

and swaying back and forth. He was completely absorbed in his
prayers, and from time to time, a sigh or a groan escaped his lips.
Presently, a young boy came to join his father, who was sitting
beside the man praying so fervently. In order to get to his father, the
boy had to squeeze by his neighbor and unintentionally jostled his
shoulder.
The man flung the tallis off his head and turned on the boy in
fury. “What is the matter with you?” he snapped. “Don’t you have
respect for your elders? Can’t you see there’s a person sitting here?”
The young boy flushed crimson and ran off to his mother. “Tell
me, my friend,” said the boy’s father. “Didn’t you just say in the
Shemoneh Esrei that you are an empty vessel full of shame? How
could you do that to a child if you really consider yourself a nothing?”
“A nothing?” the man sputtered. “Me, a nothing? Maybe to

Hashem I’m a nothing, but I am certainly something to everyone else.”
In our own lives, it is almost impossible to avoid situations

which call for a double standard. For instance, how often have we
reprimanded our children for all sorts of transgressions of which we
ourselves are also guilty behind closed doors? Of course, it is easy to
rationalize and say that we want our children to have better standard
than we do. But it is not honest, and in the end, it is bound to fail.
Better and wiser would be for us to listen closely to the words we
speak to our children. If they have the ring of truth then perhaps we
would better served to apply to ourselves as well.
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PARASHAS KI SAVO
Gratitude, Jewish Style

The gnawing cold of the winter has faded from the farmer’s
memory. He watches the warm spring sun awaken the slumbering
fields. He watches the young shoots sprout and bloom and the tiny
buds ripen into fruit bursting with the juices of life. And his own heart
also fills to bursting with the joyous surge of new vitality, the aura of
irrepressible hope and promise, the sense of being blessed with gifts
from the secret treasure houses of the earth. At this transcendent time
of the year, the Torah instructs him to share his innermost feelings with
his Creator through the performance of the mitzvah of bikurim. He is to
take the first fruits of the land, bring them to the Holy Temple in
Jerusalem and declare his joyous gratitude to the Master of the
Universe, the Source of all goodness in the world.
This joyous declaration of gratitude, however, begins in a very

puzzling way. It recalls the litany of tragedy and misfortune that
characterizes Jewish history. It recalls the duplicitous Lavan’s attempt
to destroy our forefather Jacob and the descent of Jacob and his
family to Egypt. It recalls the enslavement of the fledgling Jewish
nation by the cruel Egyptians and the suffering inflicted upon them until
they cried out in anguish to G-d. It recalls that God heard the voices of
the oppressed Jewish people, and with a great display of wonders and
miracles, He liberated them from their Egyptian bondage and brought
them to a land of milk and honey. What is the connection of all these
memories to the simple act of thanking G-d for the first fruits of the
harvest?
The answer to this question reveals one of the central elements

in the character of the Jewish people. The Jewish farmer who has
been blessed with a new harvest does not see himself as an
independent individual living in the enclosed world of his own life
experiences. He sees himself in the broader historical context of the
Jewish people and their developing relationship with G-d. In his mind,
the harvest in a small field in a remote corner of the Galilee is directly
connected with cosmic events that took place hundred or even
thousands of years earlier. He sees himself as part of that continuum
and the blessing he has been granted as an extension of the kindness
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G-d has shown the Jewish people in taking them from slavery to
freedom, from misery to joy. Therefore, his expressions of gratitude
must also extend to events that happened in distant times and distant
places, because in reality, they all part of one continuous pattern of
divine benevolence to the Jewish people.
There is also a powerful symbolism in the parallel drawn

between Jewish history and the annual harvest. As we celebrate the
passing of the cold and dark winter and the rejuvenation of the land,
we are bidden to view our history from a similar perspective. We are
shown that the cold, dark winters of our people’s past also led to a
springtime of rejuvenation and growth, and we must strengthen our
faith in G-d and believe that our present suffering is not without
purpose and not without end.
Finally, the recollection of the tragedies of our past gives added

depth and meaning to our expressions of gratitude.
Let us for a moment imagine two young men who purchase

cars at the same time. One of these young men is from a poor family.
He had to struggle to make a career for himself, and he worked hard
for everything he was able to accomplish. Now, after saving and
scrimping, he finally has accumulated enough money to buy a brand
new car. The other young man is a pampered child of rich parents. His
father handed him his American Express card on the way to lunch and
told him to go get himself a car. Which of these young men will derive
greater pleasure from his new car? The answer is obvious.
Here, too, stands the Jewish farmer. He recalls the hardships

and the struggles of his ancestors that brought him to this cherished
plot of land in Israel, and therefore, each fruit that he plucks from the
ground is immeasurably sweeter because of the memories. In this
frame of mind, his expressions of gratitude to G-d go far beyond the
fruits in his basket. They encompass all the unending benevolence and
providence that are manifest in this incredibly precious little bundle of
fruit.
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The Power of One Word

Time was running out for Moses, and as the Jewish people
massed on the east bank of the Jordan River on the threshold of the
Promised Land, he issued his final instructions. Immediately after crossing
the river under the leadership of Joshua, there was to be a solemn
gathering of all the people in the valley bordered by Mount Gerizim and
Mount Eival, which formed a natural amphitheater. Half the tribes were to
take positions on one slope and half on the other. The tribe of Levi was to
deploy in the lowlands in the center around the Holy Ark. The Levites were
to pronounce the twelve cardinal tenets which determine blessing and
accursedness, and the people massed on the mountainsides were to
respond with a resounding, “Amen!”
Forty years had passed since the Jewish people had received the
Torah at Mount Sinai, forty years under the guidance of Moses, the
greatest prophet who ever lived. Why then wasn’t this special pledge of
allegiance to the Creator and His Torah taken at some time during
Moses’s tenure as the leader of the Jewish people? Why leave it to his
successor? Furthermore, why was the pledge encapsulated in the single
word “Amen”? Why wasn’t each and every individual required to make an
explicit statement of allegiance of his own?
Let us reflect for a moment on this mysterious word - Amen. What

exactly does it mean and what does it signify? The Talmud tells us that
the one who answers Amen is greater than the one who makes the
blessing. Why is this so? What gives this one word its extraordinary
power?
The commentators explain that the word Amen is related to the

word emunah, faith. The person who makes a blessing over a delicious
fruit, for instance, is poised to enjoy this wonderful pleasure, and naturally,
he expresses his gratitude to the Creator of all things. A person who
makes a blessing under other circumstances, such as the performance of
a mitzvah, expresses an intellectual appreciation for the capacity of a
mitzvah to reinforce the relationship between a human being and his
Creator.
The one who answers Amen, however, is not acknowledging the

bounty of the Creator out of gratitude, nor is he communicating his
appreciation on an intellectual level. Rather, he is grasping the occasions
that warrant blessing to express himself to Hashem in terms of a pure faith
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unrestricted by the limits of his gratitude or the boundaries of his intellect.
His connection with the Almighty transcends the human condition entirely
and derives directly from the absolute spirituality of the divine spark in the
human soul. It is a total sublimation of the self in the Infinite. This
connection as expressed by the single word Amen, explains the Talmud,
is far greater than the blessing itself.
With this in mind, we can gain new insight into the purpose and
tone of the solemn gathering on Mount Eival and Mount Gerizim. During
their years in the desert, the Jewish people had existed in a celestial
oasis, fed by manna from heaven and guarded by pillars of cloud and fire.
Their faith, instead of being much tested, was continuously reinforced by
the miracles which characterized their everyday lives. But now the
situation was about to change drastically. Once they crossed into the
Promised Land, they would have to engage the physical world in the
conventional manner. They would till the soil, ply the seas and frequent
the marketplaces. No longer would they walk on a cushion of miracles.
In this new environment, they would need a new and powerful

infusion of faith and allegiance. And the most effective, powerful, soul
charging expression of faith would be the thunderous declaration of
“Amen!”
A king wanted to test the loyalty of two of his ministers. “What will
you do for me?” he asked the first minister.
“For you, your majesty,” said the first minister, “I would move
heaven and earth. I would battle your enemies and bring you vast riches. I
would build you palaces in every city and I would provide food and
entertainment from morning until night.”
“And you?” said the king to the second minister. “What would you
do for me?”
“Absolutely anything you wish,” he replied.
The king beamed. “You, my good minister, are a truly loyal
servant!”
In our own lives, we also find ourselves between a spiritual oasis

and the teeming world of affairs. On the Sabbath, we enjoy the wonderful
tranquility of being totally removed from the cares and concerns of
mundane living, the soul-satisfying rewards of Torah study, meditation,
introspection and uninterruptible family time. But when these sylvan hours
pass, we once again face the challenges of the workplace and the world,
and we must once again fortify ourselves with a reaffirmation of our faith.
The formula is not complex. It is simple, short and powerful. One word.
Amen.
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The Little Voice

Joyous enthusiasm is the child of inspiration. It is the emotional
elixir that galvanizes, energizes, electrifies our lives. It empowers us to
move mountains and make impossible dreams come true. Without joy,
we plod mechanically toward our goals, seeking relief rather than
fulfillment, but with joy, we soar toward glittering mountaintops.
Clearly then, joy is a critical factor in our service of the Creator.

It infuses every observance, every prayer, every moment of study with
a divine energy that brings us that much closer to our Father in
Heaven. One of the Chassidic masters once said, “Joy is not a
commandment, but no commandment can accomplish what joy can.”
But what if a person cannot achieve joy? What if a person is

overwhelmed by the vicissitudes of life and is unable to free his spirit
and let it soar? Surely, he does not deserve to be condemned and
chastised for this failure. Surely, he should continue to serve the
Creator to the best of his ability even if his efforts are less than
inspired.
Let us now look for a moment into this week’s Torah portion.
The Torah describes the terrible consequences of the disloyalty of the
Jewish people to their Father in Heaven. How does the Torah
characterize this disloyalty? “Because you did not serve Hashem your
Lord with joy.” How can this be? How can the Torah deliver such harsh
punishment for the failure to achieve a high standard of excellence?
Some commentators resolve this perplexing problem

homiletically. They read the verse as follows, “Because you did not
serve Hashem your Lord - with joy.” It is not the absence of joy which
is deserving of punishment but rather the presence of inappropriate
joy. It is one thing to fall short in the service of Hashem, to fall victim to
the weakness of the flesh. But it is quite another to revel in sinfulness,
to delight in the saccharine juices of forbidden fruit. This is an
unconscionable affront to the Creator and it is deserving of the most
severe punishment.
Modern psychology has made the eradication of guilt one of its

primary objectives. But in the Torah perspective, guilt a very valuable
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trait, a true blessing. The insistent voice of our conscience reminds us
who we are and where our responsibilities lie. Whenever we step over
the line, this same little voice berates and chastises us, and more often
than not, it robs us of the pleasures of sin. No matter how far we stray,
guilt is our lifeline to Hashem.
Should we, however, find unmitigated joy in a sinful life, it

would be a clear sign that the inner voice of conscience had been
quashed, that our innate guilt had been expunged from our hearts, that
our connection to Hashem had been severed, Heaven forbid. In this
case, only the most severe afflictions could effect a reconciliation.
A king was angry with his son for neglecting his princely duties.
He decided to discipline him by banishing him incognito to a remote
village. When the prince arrived in the village of his banishment, he
was mortified. The place was a collection of rude huts without the most
basic comforts and refinements of polite society. There were no books
or works of art for miles around. The people were vulgar and ignorant.
The stench in the streets was overpowering.
A year passed, and the king began to reconsider his decree of
banishment against the young prince. But first, he sent spies to see
how the prince was faring.
The spies arrived in the village, but it was a while before they
located the prince sitting among a group of peasants in a barnyard.
The once handsome and elegant young prince was filthy and dressed
in vermin-infested rags. He was stuffing his face with half-raw meat,
the red juices running down his chin. Every few minutes, he would roar
with laughter at one or another of the coarse peasant stories that were
being bandied about. The spies immediately returned to the palace to
report on what they had seen.
When the king heard their report, he wept. “If my son is happy
among the peasants, he will never be a prince.”
In our own lives, we know all too well how difficult it is to avoid
occasional missteps and lapses. After all, we are only human. But let
us never forget who we are and what is expected of us. If we listen to
the little voice of our conscience, if we embrace our guilt and use it as
a lifeline to bring us back to Hashem, we will always remain royal
princes and princesses and the doors to the palace will always be
open to us.
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Open Your Eyes

It is the last day of Moses’ life. The forty years of confinement
in the desert are at an end, and the Jewish people stand poised on the
banks of the Jordan River. The atmosphere is somber and subdued.
Moses had just finished reciting the litany of calamities that would
befall the Jewish people should they ever turn away from the Creator.
Now it is time for a few words of encouragement. “Hashem did not give
you an understanding heart,” Moses calls out to the people, “nor eyes
that see, nor ears that hear, until this very day!”
Until this very day? What can this possibly mean? The people
had just spent forty years learning Torah from Moses in the desert
under the most wondrous conditions. A cloud pillar had stood guard
over them during the day, and a pillar of fire in the night. They had
eaten manna that fell daily from heaven and drunk water from a rock
that accompanied them on their from encampment to encampment.
Did Moses really think that the people were oblivious to all these divine
manifestations? Did he really think they had turned a blind eye and a
deaf ear to everything?
There is an old Talmudic saying that “the departure of a

righteous person leaves an impression. As long as the righteous
person is in the city, he is its grace, its radiance and its glory. When he
departs, its grace, its radiance and its glory also depart.” The
commentators are puzzled by the apparent redundancy. If the
righteous person is the grace of city while he is in it, it goes without
saying that when he departs the grace departs as well.
The answer, they explain, is that all too often we don’t

appreciate what we have until we have lost it. When do we realize that
the righteous person is the grace of the city? When he departs and the
city is suddenly graceless. That is when we recognize the value of
what we once had.
In this light, we can understand what Moses was saying on the

last day of his life. For forty years, the Jewish people had lived in close
proximity to the greatest prophet who ever lived. He had brought them
out of Egypt. He had gone up on the mountain to receive the Torah.
He guided them with transcendent and inspired leadership. Most
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important, he devoted day after day, month after month, year after year
to teaching them the concepts and nuances of the Torah.
After all this time, however, the Jewish people had, to a certain
degree, come to take him for granted. They enjoyed the incredibly
breathtaking privilege of having Moses as their leader and teacher, but
familiarity had sapped them of their breathlessness. Only now, during
the waning hours of the last day of Moses’ life, did they realize the
sheer grandeur of what they were about to lose. Only now did their
eyes and ears open fully.
A young man asked a sage how to go about finding riches.

“Would you give a leg,” asked the sage, “for a bagful of diamonds?”
“Yes, I would,” said the young man. “The pleasures riches bring would
easily compensate for my loss of a leg.”
“Come with me,” said the sage, and he led him into the
marketplace where a one-legged man sat leaning against a wall.
“My good fellow,” said the sage, “would you give me a bagful of
diamonds if I could restore your leg?”
“I would give two bagfuls,” he replied, “even if I had to spend
years stealing them. I would do anything to be relieved of my legless
misery.”
The sage turned to the young man. “Would you still make that
deal?”
The young man shivered and shook his head.
“Go home,” said the sage. “You don’t have to seek riches. You
have it already.”
In our own lives, we all want to achieve, acquire and

accomplish. We focus all our energies and determination on the high
goals we have set for ourselves, but high goals are not easily nor
quickly reached. What happens in the interim? Do we feel deprived
because our goals still elude our grasp? If this is our attitude, then we
are cheating ourselves of the exquisite pleasures of what we already
have. Let us focus instead on all the blessings Hashem has granted
us, our families, our health, the air we breathe, and the glory of a
summer sunset. We may discover that the most valuable riches are
already in our possession.
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PARASHAS NITZAVIM
Family Values
We have heard a great deal recently about family values. For a
while, the phrase was mocked and ridiculed. Then it enjoyed a shift in
popularity, and everyone claimed to be its champion. Today, it is
universally acknowledged in our society that family values are
important. But what exactly are family values, and how are they to be
transmitted to our children? These questions remain points of serious
contention.
Let us look into this week’s portion to see what the Torah has
to say about this subject. The Jewish people are standing on the
Plains of Moav, about to enter the Land of Israel. Moses, however,
knows that he will not enter the Land and that he is about to die. “I
have placed before you life and death, blessings and calamity,” he
admonishes the people from whom he will soon be parted, “and you
shall choose life, in order that you may live, both you and your
children.” (Deuteronomy 30:19)
These words are a veritable enigma. Why did the Jewish

people need to be instructed to “choose life”? What sane person, when
presented with a choice between life and death, would not choose life?
And how would “choosing life” ensure that their children would live as
well? Wouldn’t the children be presented with the same choices as
their parents?
The famous medieval commentator Rabbeinu Yonah of

Gerona, author of the classic Shaarei Teshuvah, explains that our
decision to embrace the values of the Torah should not be based
solely on our obligation to God to obey His will. Rather, we should
embrace it with a profound appreciation of its awesome power and
eternal truths. We should appreciate fully that the Torah, which is the
Word of the Creator of the Universe, is the true source of life - the only
source of life. He goes on to explain that the importance of developing
this outlook with regards to developing a relationship with God is not
only in order to ensure that we have the proper attitude. It is to raise us
to a higher level, to make us servants who serve their lord out of
exuberant joy rather than sullen obedience.
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With this in mind, a great sage explained how “choosing life”

affects one’s children. If parents fulfill their obligation to God as if it
were a burden upon them, the children may choose to do even less.
However, if children see their parents living by the wisdom and
guidance of the Torah with joy and enthusiasm, the children will
associate their precious Jewish heritage with the essence of life itself.
Then they too will “choose life.”
There was once a noted scholar who taught many disciples

and received people from early morning until late at night. To his great
disappointment, however, his son was wild and displayed little interest
in his studies. Down the street lived a simple shoemaker whose son
was a budding young scholar. One day, the scholar paid the
shoemaker a visit.
“Tell me, my friend,” he said, “what do you do that has earned

you such a fine son? I want to learn from you.”
“It is very simple, rabbi,” said the shoemaker. “Friday night, you
come to the table exhausted from your holy efforts. You rush through
the meal, give the children a few minutes of your time and go to sleep.
On the other hand, the highlight of my whole week is Friday night when
I can linger over the meal, sing songs with my family and review the
events of the week in the light of the wisdom of the Torah. The spirit of
Shabbos is alive in my home, and my children love it.”
As we face the new year, let us take these lessons to heart.

Family values begin with ourselves. If we know what to value in life, if
we appreciate the priceless gifts of the Torah, our own enthusiasm will
automatically be transmitted to our children. And when they are
presented with the awesome choices of this week’s Torah portion, they
will undoubtedly “choose life.”
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You’re Still Standing

We have all seen it happen. A nervous speaker steps to the
podium and begins his remarks with platitudes and other matters of no
great significance. Then, as he becomes more comfortable, he gets
down to business. But surely this is not what we would expect from
Moses, the greatest Jewish leader and prophet of all time, addressing
his final words to his people on the last day of his life. And yet, how
does he begin his remarks? “You are all standing here before Hashem,
your Lord,” he declares in this week’s Torah portion. What was the
significance of these words? Didn’t they all realize they were standing
there?
The Midrash tells us that Moses spoke these words to allay the
anxieties of the Jewish people. As we read in last week’s Torah
portion, they had just heard a long litany of curses, a list of all the
horrible misfortunes that would befall them should they stray from the
path of righteousness. The situation seemed utterly hopeless. After all,
they were only human, subject to periodic failings and shortcomings.
Surely, at some point they would inevitably stray. And then they would
face disaster. What a disheartening thought! Calamity was suspended
over their heads by the flimsiest of threads, and it was only a matter of
time before it would crash down and destroy them.
“You need not be concerned,” Moses was telling them. “Look!

After all your sins and misdeeds, you’re still standing here before
Hashem! Hashem may sometimes choose to punish you, but He will
never destroy you.”
But the question still remains: By telling the Jewish people that
they need not be concerned, wasn’t Moses actually defeating the
entire purpose of the curses? The threat of the curses was intended to
keep the people from straying, but without fear what was the good of
the threat?
The commentators explain that Moses was trying to allay the

Jewish people’s fear of rejection; he was certainly not trying to allay
their physical fear. Moses sensed that the people felt unsure of
Hashem’s commitment to them should they ever falter and slip into sin.
The dreadful curses terrified them but did not dishearten them. They
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recognized the fearsome curses as a powerful deterrent, and they also
accepted that, should they ever slip, they would have to suffer the
consequences. But what if their sinful lapse resulted not only in
suffering but actual rejection by Hashem? That would be the ultimate
calamity! The specter of hopelessness threatened to demoralize the
people even as they stood on the threshold of the Promised Land, on
the verge of experiencing the fulfillment of their dreams.
Moses, therefore, began his farewell address with words of

comfort and reassurance. “Look, you’re still standing here before
Hashem! In the short time since becoming a nation, you’ve already
sinned and rebelled, but Hashem has not rejected you.”
The curses and punishments triggered by Jewish sinfulness

are not the product of antipathy, vengeance and rejection. On the
contrary, they are signs of divine favor, the firm chastisement of a
loving Father who does not want His precious children to become
estranged from Him. No matter how far they wander, Moses reassured
them, the loving touch of their Father would always be with them. The
hope of salvation would never be extinguished.
A young man once asked a great sage, “What is the greatest

miracle Hashem has ever performed for the Jewish people? Was it the
splitting of the Sea of Reeds? The crumbling of the walls of Jericho?”
“How do you define a miracle?” asked the sage.
“Anything that shows Hashem is watching over us,” replied the
young man.
“If so,” said the sage, “the survival of the Jewish people is the
greatest miracle of all time! Centuries of oppression, persecution,
countless pogroms and massacres have not succeeded in annihilating
our people. Even after the darkest hour of the holocaust, we have
rebounded with a fresh spirit of nationhood and a renaissance of
Jewish learning and awareness. Can there be a greater miracle?”
As Rosh Hashanah draws near, let us reflect with gratitude

upon the bounty and goodness we have received from Hashem in the
year gone by. But even if our year was less than perfect, let us keep in
mind that Hashem is a loving Father who is concerned for the welfare
of all His people. Adversity is not a sign of abandonment, as Moses
reminded the Jewish people. It is an opportunity for personal growth,
and if we use it wisely, we will surely be blessed with a good and
sweet new year.
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Of Blandishments and Seductions

There would be no tomorrow for Moses. He knows this is the
last day of his life, and as he stands before the people, he strives to
leave them with a message that would carry them forward to success
in the Promised Land. What concerns occupy his mind at this
auspicious moment?
He is concerned about the influence of the idolatrous peoples

among whom the Jewish people find themselves. “You have seen their
abominations,” he declares, “their idols forged from wood and stone,
from silver and gold.” Should anyone embrace these gods, Hashem
will respond with fuming anger and the most horrific curses.
Why was Moses so concerned about this? For forty years, he

had conditioned the people against idolatry, teaching them the
numerous commandments in the Torah which prohibit anything
remotely resembling idolatrous practices. Surely, a deep antipathy to
idolatry had become ingrained in the national psyche, a strong
aversion to the pagan abominations and their degenerate lifestyles.
Why was he afraid that they would backslide into idolatry - as indeed
they did?
Before we explore this intriguing question, let us focus for a

moment on Moses’ somewhat curious choice of words. Why does he
find it necessary to specify that the abominations are made of “wood
and stone, silver and gold”? Why dwell on the range of materials from
which idols are made?
Here in this very phrase, explain the commentators, lies the

crux of the matter. Moses knew without question that the Jewish
people emerging from a forty-year-long divine encounter in the desert,
from the daily miracles of the manna and the cloud and fire pillars,
from intensive study of the Torah under the tutelage of the greatest
prophet of all time, were on a very high spiritual level. Without
question, they would find the idols thoroughly abominable, vulgar
contrivances of wood and stone.
But human nature is a fickle thing. As time goes on, people

have a tendency to come to terms with their surroundings, to legitimize
the illegitimate. Before long, Moses feared, those execrable idols of
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wood and stone might begin to take on a different aspect in their
perception, undergoing a transformation to silver and gold. This was
where the danger lurked.
In this light, we can understand a rather puzzling comment in

the Talmud. In the Torah, the laws of the Nazirite vows and the laws of
the suspected adulteress appear next to each other. What is the
significance of this juxtaposition? The Talmud explains that when a
person witnesses the public degradation of the adulteress, he should
take the Nazirite vow of abstinence from wine in order to protect
himself from promiscuity.
But why would the sight of an adulteress in disgrace threaten a

man’s virtue? Shouldn’t it have quite the opposite effect? Here again
we come face to face with the vagaries of human nature. Although his
first reaction might have been profound disapproval, the image of the
adulteress may linger on in his mind and becomes legitimized and
sanitized with time. Therefore, he should turn to the Nazirite vows for
protection.
An old man developed a propensity for alcohol in his old age.

During his binges, he would stagger drunkenly through the
marketplace and often fall asleep in the gutter. His son, a respected
member of the community, was mortified. Something had to be done.
The son decided to take his father to the marketplace on one of
his sober days. Together, they walked past the stalls until they found a
drunk lying in the gutter in a state of stupefaction.
“Look at him,” said the son. “Do you see what drinking does?”
The old man stared intently at the snoring drunk.
“Indeed, I do,” he said. “I wonder what kind of wine he is
drinking. It seems to be wonderful stuff.”
In our own lives, we need to recognize the seductive power of

forbidden fruit. "Never trust yourself," the Talmud advises. Just
because we frown on the deprivations and abominations of modern
society does not mean that we are impervious to moral subversion.
What seems disgusting to us today may seem interesting tomorrow.
Only by insulating our families from unnecessary exposure to the
degeneracy of the street can we preserve the purity and holiness that
are inherently ours.
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The Ends of Heaven

Turbulence seems to be inescapable in Jewish history. When
times are good, Jewish people tend to forget about the Creator and His
Torah. They wander off in search of the forbidden fruit the pagan
cultures dangle in front of them, thus bringing down calamity on their
heads.
In this week’s reading, Moses prophesies that the Jewish

people will be oppressed, persecuted and driven into exile. But there
would always be hope. In the throes of their misfortune, he foresees,
they will think about what has befallen them, and they will repent. Then
Hashem will gather the exiles from the nations among whom they have
been scattered. “If your castaways will be at the ends of heaven,”
Moses assures the Jewish people, “Hashem, your Lord, will gather
them in from there.”
The commentators are puzzled by the strange language of this

last verse. You would normally expect to find castaways at the ends of
the earth, not at the ends of heaven. In what sense will Hashem gather
the castaways from the ends of heaven?
Some commentators resolve this problem by interpreting the

verse in an allegorical sense. Every person, they point out, is a
paradoxical hybrid, an improbable fusion of the spiritual soul and the
material body. The soul is a spark of the divine, a fragment of
Hashem’s heavenly throne sent down to the earth to dwell in a
beautiful clot of matter called the human body. The soul yearns to be
reunited with its celestial Source, while the body is drawn to the
pleasures of the material world. The tensions generated by this internal
conflict defines the dynamics of human existence. Who will emerge
victorious the body or the soul? The answer to this question
determines success or failure when all is said and done.
This then is what Moses was telling the Jewish people. When
will Hashem bring the castaways back to the Holy Land? If they are “at
the ends of heaven.” If their striving is for spirituality, if they reach out
to grasp the fringes of heaven so that they can pull themselves ever
upward. But if they are “at the ends of the earth,” if they reach out for
the illusory enticements of the material world, they will not be worthy of
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redemption.
There was once a sage who had only small group of disciples,
but he was exceedingly wise. After a while, his fame spread, and he
began to receive many requests for admission to his academy.
The sage called a meeting of his disciples to discuss the

situation. “We don’t want to let in just anyone,” he said. “We want only
the best and the finest. But how do we determine who they are? By
what standards shall we measure our applicants?”
“Honesty,” said one disciple.
“Piety,” said another.
“Intelligence,” said yet another.
The sage shook his head. “None of these are critical. We can
accept the devious and make them devout, the sinful and make them
sincere. But we must have someone who has a genuine desire to
grow, someone whose heart and mind are attuned to higher
aspirations. That is more important than anything else.”
In our own lives, as we approach the High Holidays with a

sense of awe and trepidation, we make all sorts of resolutions about
how we intend to improve ourselves. We resolve to be kinder and
more considerate to others. We resolve to pray with greater
concentration. We resolve to devote more time to Torah study. All
these things are good and well. But these are not the most critical
things on which we should focus. Rather, we should focus on fanning
the flames of the divine spark that dwells within so that we should be
consumed with a desire to reach out and touch the heavens. That
desire will energize and inspire us and guide us down all the right
paths to fulfillment. Someone once asked a sage, “I can only spare five
minutes a day for Torah study. What should I choose to learn?” The
sage smiled and said, “Study works of spiritual inspiration, and you will
discover that you can spare far more than five minutes a day.”.
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Only Skin Deep

Moshe stands up the last day of his life and delivers his final
message to the people. He implores them to follow Hashem’s ways
with love. To recognize his kindness and goodness, and not to
succumb to the seductions and temptations that will inevitably face
them as they enter the pagan land of Knan. He tells them when you
enter the land, and you see there dominations and detestable idols,
those of wooden stone, and those of silver and gold that they posses.
Don’t let your heart turn you astray from Hashem, your G - d...
Why did Moshe find it necessary to specify the material from

which the idols where made? Furthermore, why list as those of
wooden stones, and those of silver and gold? Is there any difference?
Surely an idol is an idol.
The commentaries explain, that as humans we naturally judge

everything by its appearance. It is exceedingly difficult not to be
influenced by the external façade and to recognize the underlined
essence of people or things. Moshe knew that the generation of the
dessert who had lived in the spiritual incubator of Hashem’s clouds of
glory for forty years would surely dismiss as nonsense the totem poles
and carved idols carved out of simple wooden stone. But what if these
self same practices were conducted in magnificent gated temples
attended by powerful well-dressed and dignified personages. What if
there and houses of were not to decrepit hobbles or people shabbily
dressed. But they sparkled with all the glitter and glamour of the
physical world. Could the people still maintain the strength to reject
and maintain their core beliefs?
This was the message that Moshe intended to convey.

Whether their icons are of plain wood and stone, or they are
appealingly adorned in silver and gold, they are just the same. They
are detestable and abominable, whichever way they are gilded.
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The atmosphere in the operating room was extremely tense.
The young, beautiful girl in her bloom of her youth had been diagnosed
with a tumorous growth. Frantically the surgeon was attempting to
point the section pump to extra blood seepage. Perspirations poured
down his brow. His assistant, a young surgeon was watching all the
activity sipping on his coffee. What a beautiful girl he muttered. The
surgeon exploded, “You idiot, our head is involved in the sinews and
blood vessels, and you are busy with nonsense, where is your head?
This girl’s life in hanging in the balance.”
Society is constantly bombarding us with images of the

external. Let’s not be deceived. Beauty is but the handmaiden of
substance. It is important that we not be led astray by the allure of the
gold and silver. But stay committed and connected to our core beliefs.
Not allowing ourselves to lust after the external.
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PARASHAS VAYEILECH
The Secrets of Longevity

Only two mitzvahs in the Torah come with the promise of a long
life: Kibud Av V’em - Honoring our parents and Shliach Hakan -
sending off the mother bird before taking the fledgling children.
These mitzvahs seem totally dissimilar and unrelated. In fact,

the Midrash tells us that the two mitzvahs are the easiest of the easy,
and the most difficult of the difficult, yet they should have the same
reward. Honoring our parents is extremely difficult. Sending away the
mother bird and taking the children is so easy. Why does the Torah
designate the exact same reward? And why did the Torah designate
these particular two mitzvahs? For the reward of a long life?
The commentaries explain that these two mitzvahs span the

spectrum of human nature. The Torah wants us to perform the merciful
act of sending away the mother bird before taking the children. Mercy
is a common, human emotion. We instinctively feel a search of mercy
and compassion when we see an animal in distress. This is because
the animal poses no threat to us. Our base goodness emerges when
there are no complications and prejudice ness that come into play. The
Torah tells us to reinforce our mercy and compassion through the
mitzvah of Shliach Hakan.
Honoring our parents, however, is one of the most difficult of all

mitzvahs. It requires us to acknowledge what they have done for us,
and forces us to admit how much we need them, and we could not
have done it ourselves. It tests our egocentricity to the ambit. We
would like to be independent, self sufficient, and invincible.
Recognizing our parents forces us to say “I owe it all to you” This then
is the most difficult of the mitzvahs.
The Torah, however, does not designate the reward simply on

the basis of what is easy and what is not. The infinite reward of
mitzvahs is dependant on the spirit in which they were performed, and
the love with which they were dispensed. Long life in the world to come
can be secured by good deeds regardless of whether our body propels
us to do it or creates obstacles. It’s how much in a fuel we are
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contributing to the act that determines its true value. Thus, the Torah
designates the identical reward for when we are following our base
instinct in the easiest of all mitzvahs, or we are countering it in the
most difficult. It is the spirit that truly counts.
A king was being paraded along the highway. Jubilant cheers

accompanied the row pageantry pomp and splendor. Nearby a fellow
was swimming in the river when he heard news of the king’s imminent
passage. Jumping out of the water, he saw the king’s chariot from the
far.
In a surge of passion and excitement, he ran up the riverbank

and wildly waved and cheered the king in his bathing gear. People
were taken aback at his lack of basic. The king noticed him from the
far, and to the sheer dismay and aghast crowds, he welcomed him into
his plush carriage. This fellow truly loves him. “He is not thinking of his
honor, he is only thinking of mine,”
In our own lives, let us be conscious of emphasizing the spirit

of the mitzvah as much as the details. The details of the rituals are
important, but it is the spirit that enables us to lift off the ground and
connect to the heavenly spheres ensuring a life of infinite bliss.
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Actions and Words

They come streaming into Jerusalem from all over Israel,
everyone, men and women, the young and the old, even the smallest
suckling infants. They gather around the glittering Temple under the
canopy of the brilliant Judean sky, one vast gathering focused on the
royally bedecked platform in the Temple courtyard. A hush falls over
the crowd as the king gravely mounts the platform and begins to read
from the Torah to the people. The spectacle unfolds with a strange
blend of solemnity and festivity in the air, leaving indelible images in
the minds of the multitude.
Why did all these people come to Jerusalem? Because the

Torah, as described in this week’s portion, mandated periodic national
assemblies to inspire the people and reaffirm their special relationship
with the Creator.
The Torah is very specific about when these dazzling

spectacles are to take place. Every seventh year during the Festival of
Sukkoth, immediately following the close of the Sabbatical year, when
all the land lay fallow, unplanted, unplowed, undisturbed. Why at this
particular time?
The commentators explain that this august convocation was

meant to be a learning experience, to impress all the people with the
universal acceptance of the lessons and teachings of the Torah on. In
such an environment, each individual, no matter how young or humble,
would be inspired to follow the example of the multitude and embrace
the words of the Torah.
But as all parents and educators know, actions speak more

loudly than words. The most effective teaching method is by example.
Therefore, if the periodic assembly of the Jewish people was to teach
the children the importance of adhering to the Torah despite all
obstacles, there could no better time than immediately after the
Sabbatical year, when all agricultural commerce had ceased abruptly
in accordance with the commandment of the Torah. When the young
people saw the major sacrifices their elders were willing to make for
the sake of the Torah, they knew that their professed enthusiasm for
the Torah was the genuine article.
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A man once sent his young son to school in a distant city. The
man had spent a long time collecting great books he felt would help
the boy develop his intellectual faculties, and as they stood on the
platform by the waiting train, he handed the boy the tightly wrapped
package.
“My son, these are the works of some of the greatest writers
that ever lived,” he said. “Absorb them, and you, too, may become a
great person.”
The boy nodded dutifully and took the package, although it was
obvious that he did not relate to what his father was saying.
Father and son spoke for another fifteen minutes, and when the
departure whistle sounded, they embraced and bid each other
farewell.
As the train pulled out of the station, the man noticed the
package of books lying at his feet. His son had forgotten to take it.
The man bought a ticket and boarded the next train with the
package in hand. Six hours later, he arrived at his son’s school, sought
him out and handed him the package.
The boy was mortified. “I’m so sorry that I forgot it, father. The
last minute rush, you know. But why did you have to travel so far
yourself to bring it to me? Surely, you could have sent it by messenger
or the post!” “Of course, I could have, my son. I saw that you are still
too young to appreciate the treasures within these books. But I knew
that if you saw me travel six hours just to bring them to you, you would
realize that they are of tremendous importance to your future.”
In our own lives, most, if not all, of us are forever involved in

the business of teaching in one form or another. We try to influence
our children, our families or members of the community to accept our
opinions, our values, our ideals. We argue, we bend ears, we write
letters to the editor, we exhort, we cajole, anything to disseminate our
perspectives to those people that share our world. All these things help
to a certain extent, of course, but nothing is as effective as teaching by
example. If we ourselves live in scrupulous accordance with the values
and ideals we profess, it is inevitable that others will respect what we
have to offer and recognize its value.
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PARASHAS HAAZINU
Open Door Policy

They are among the most stirring words in the Torah. In
vermilion verse, Moses calls upon heaven and earth to bear witness to
the poetic image he is about to conjure of Hashem’s awesome majesty
and His special relationship with the Jewish people. The Song of
Moses, which we read in this week’s portion, is a stunning paean
characterized by sharp rebuke but also glorious hope.
Towards the beginning of his Song, Moses inserts an enigmatic

cue for the Jewish people. “As I call out the Name of Hashem, declare
the greatness of our Lord!” These are very puzzling lines. Since the
entire Song is a declaration of Hashem’s greatness, what exactly was
he asking the people to contribute? Furthermore, why does Moses
calling out Hashem’s Name trigger the Jewish declaration of Hashem’s
greatness?
Let look for a moment into the first portion of the Torah, which
we will be reading in just a few weeks. After the serpent subverts
Adam and Eve and causes then to be expelled from the Garden of
Eden, Hashem curses him, “And you shall eat dust all the days of your
life.”
The commentators wonder: How severe can this curse be if it

assures the serpent of a plentiful supply of food at all times? This
exactly is the essence of the curse. The commentators explain. Man,
who must struggle for his sustenance, is always calling out to the
Creator for help and support, and as a result, man’s very needs
provide him with the transcendent rewards of a relationship with Him.
The serpent, however, was given everything he would ever need and
cast aside, without any prospect of enjoying a spiritual relationship with
Hashem.
This is what Moses was saying to the Jewish people. When

they hear him call out the Name of Hashem, when they realize how
immensely privileged they are in that they can always call out to
Hashem, that they can raise themselves up spiritually by connecting
with Him, then they should declare Hashem’s greatness. For surely
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Devarim: Haazinu
this precious gift, the opportunity for mortal man to bond with the
divine, is one of the greatest kindnesses that He has ever bestowed
upon his people.
A king was very displeased with the behavior of one of his

sons. Despite being warned many times, the young prince persisted in
his profligate ways, and presently, the king could no longer tolerate the
situation. With a heavy heart, he banished the prince to a distant
province and decreed that he live the rest of his life as a commoner,
without any of the privileges of royalty.
On the day the prince was to leave the palace, the king came
into his room and handed him a tiny sealed box.
“Take this, my son,” he said. “Although you are banished from
the palace, this box may help you in times of most dire need.”
Years passed. The prince managed to survive without the
protective cocoon of privilege, but not with exceedingly great difficulty.
In the hardest of times, however, he knew in the back of his mind that
when all else failed he could break open the sealed box and use the
riches it contained.
One time, he was in such a desperate situation that he had no
choice but to open the box. He fully expected to find it filled with
diamonds, but to his surprise, it contained a piece of paper folded over
many times.
With trembling hands, he unfolded the paper and read it. Then
he burst into tears. It was a letter from the king allowing the banished
prince to enter the palace and present any request directly to the king.
This letter, the prince realized, was a more precious gift than a boxful
of the finest jewels.
In our own lives, when we stand before Hashem and pour out
our hearts in prayer, it is important for us to realize that the very act of
prayer is its own reward, that the relationship we form with Hashem
through intense spiritual communication is far more important than
many of the things for which we pray. Hopefully, during this season of
hope and prayer, Hashem will grant us all long life, health, prosperity
and joy. But it important to remember than even before all these
blessings are delivered to our doorsteps, we have already been
immeasurably enriched through the very act of prayer.
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The Ultimate Contact

Never give up hope. No matter how bleak your plight may
seem, do not allow yourself to surrender to despair. This is what we
are told. This is what we tell others. This is what we believe. Hope
springs eternal in the human heart.
In this week’s Torah reading, however, we find an altogether

different perspective. On the last day of his life, Moses addresses an
evocative poem replete with metaphors and allusions to the Jewish
people. With broad strokes, he presents a sweeping view of the past
and a searing vision of the future. When will Hashem bring an end to
the suffering of His people? He tells them. When the power of their
enemies spreads uncontrollably and no one can withstand the
onslaught.
What does this mean? The Talmud provides the answer. It is a

reference to the Messianic era. Moses is prophesying that the Messiah
will come when then Jewish people abandon all hope of redemption,
when they despair of salvation.
The commentators are mystified. Why is despair a prerequisite

for redemption? Yearning for the arrival of the Messiah is one of the
central tenets of Judaism. If so, why does the Talmud contend that this
yearning must be forgotten before the Messiah can come?
The commentators explain that the yearning for the ultimate

redemption must indeed remain strong and vital among the Jewish
people without any interruption. The Talmud, however, is addressing a
different brand of hope. What is our first reaction when we face an anti-
Semitic crisis? Do we turn toward Hashem and plead with Him to save
us? Or do we consider other avenues? Do we mobilize our military
forces, if we have any? Do we bring all our political and diplomatic
influence to bear? Do flex our financial muscles? Do we call upon the
press and the media to help us?
This then is the hopelessness that will hasten our redemption.

First, we must recognize the utter futility of self-reliance. We must
despair of solving our problems on our own. Only then will we turn to
Hashem with absolute trust and faith in Him as the sole Source of
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salvation. Only then will we deserve to be redeemed.
A great sage was sitting in his room, immersed in a pile of holy

books. Just then, a distraught woman burst through the door and
planted herself in front of him.
“You must help me!” she wailed as tears ran down her cheeks.
“My husband is desperately ill.”
“Come back tomorrow,” said the sage.
“Tomorrow?” she shrieked. “I can’t wait until tomorrow. He may

be dead by tomorrow. I need your help now!”
“If you insist,” said the sage. He closed his eyes and pursed his
lips. After two minutes of silence, he opened his eyes. The woman
looked at him with breathless expectation.
“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I can do nothing for your husband.”

The woman went deathly pale. She clutched her head and screamed,
“Lord in Heaven! Help me! I am lost. Even the holy sage cannot help
me. Only You can save my husband. Please! I beg of you!”
Then she collapsed into a chair, her body wracked by
wrenching sobs.
“Go home in peace, my child,” said the sage. “Your prayers will
be answered. As long as you placed your trust in me, there was no
hope. But the hopelessness in your heart led you to our Father in
Heaven. He is the only One who can give you what you need.”
In our own lives, as we strive for financial and professional

achievement, how often do we think to ourselves that the key to
success lies in contacts, marketing or other stratagems? But that is not
really true. No matter how hard we work or plan or scheme, Hashem
can wipe it all away with a flick of His figurative wrist. So what are we
supposed to do? Of course, we need to make our best efforts, to go
after the contacts and the marketing and whatever else seems to be
indicated. But we must always keep in mind that Hashem controls the
world, and if we’re looking for contacts, He is undoubtedly the Ultimate
Contact.
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Ohr Shalom
PARASHAS VEZOS HABERACHAH
Total Dedication
Last impressions are impressively lasting. They linger on long
after other images and memories have faded away. Parting words are,
therefore, exceptionally important and are usually chosen with the utmost
care. So what are the parting words of the Torah?
In the portion read on Simchas Torah, which is the concluding

portion of the entire Torah, we read the blessings Moses bestowed upon
the Jewish people just before he passed away. We also read about his
death, the grief of the people and the passing of the mantle of leadership
to his disciple Joshua. The final verses are a tribute to the greatness of
Moses. “Never again did there arise a prophet in Israel such as Moses,
one who knew Hashem face to face . . . the signs and wonders which
Hashem sent him to inflict upon the land of Egypt . . . all the feats of his
powerful hand and all the great awesomeness he performed before the
eyes of all Israel.”
What is the significance of the last phrase, “before the eyes of all
Israel”? The Sages explain that this is a reference to the Tablets of the
Law which Moses smashed “before the eyes of all Israel” when he came
down from the mountain and saw they had made a Golden Calf.
Amazing! These are the last words of the Torah? A reminder of

one of the most shameful episodes in Jewish history? Why couldn’t the
Torah have ended on a positive note, a note of hope and inspiration?
Let us consider for a moment the Shema, the confession of faith

we say daily, which begins, “And you shall Hashem your Lord with all your
hearts . . .” Hearts, in the plural. Does a person have more than one
heart? Yes, say the Sages. Every person has both positive and negative
tendencies, and he must love Hashem with both of them. How is this
accomplished?
The commentators explain that every characteristic, both positive

and negative, can be used both for the good and the bad. Appetite for
food can manifest itself in gluttony, but it can also be sanctified in the
context of the Sabbath, the Festivals and the making of blessings.
Expressions of anger, although generally negative, can be constructive in
the appropriate situation. Mercy, although generally positive, can be very
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Devarim: Vezos Haberachah
harmful if it leads to allow dangerous criminals to go free. Telling the truth
is generally positive, but should we reveal the truth if it will cause others
unnecessary pain and embarrassment? The ideal then is to subjugate all
our tendencies to the service of Hashem so that everything becomes a
force for the good.
Moses, more than anyone else, had refined himself to the point
where every fiber of his being was attuned to the service of Hashem
rather than to his own needs and desires. What would a lesser man have
done had he come down from the mountain to find the people worshipping
a Golden Calf? A lesser man might easily have reacted with kindness and
sympathy. Perhaps they should be treated with compassion. Perhaps they
should be given the Tablets in any case to guise them gently in the right
direction.. But not Moses. Moses suppressed any feelings of mercy and
compassion and reacted with righteous indignation. This is the positive
message with which the Torah concludes. As much as it hurt him
personally to break the Tablets, he reacted with total dedication to
Hashem.
A great sage once held a major public address about the

importance of serving the Creator with all one’s resources, both positive
and negative.
When the crowd had all dispersed, a single man remained.
Tentatively, he approached the sage and said, “You said that we must
harness all our faculties and characteristics to the service of the Creator.
Well, I want to ask you how you would apply that to me. I’m not exactly an
atheist, but I have doubts about His existence. How would I harness my
doubts to serve Him?”
The sage peered intently at the mean. “I believe your question is
sincere,” he finally said, “and I’ll answer it. The next time a poor man asks
you for a contribution, don’t send him away with an assurance that
Heaven will surely help him. Give him a generous amount.”
In our own lives, we are forever faced with situation where political
correctness and various social sensitivities incline us to certain courses of
action. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Before we rush
down these paths, we should first stop and reflect. Are these seemingly
high moral attitudes misdirected? Are they truly leading us to do the right
thing? Let us put them to the test. Only if they support the values and
ideals of Hashem’s Torah can we be sure that they will lead us in the right
direction.
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Ohr Shalom
ROSH HASHANAH
The Mystical Tug of the Shofar

This Rosh Hashanah, we will once again gaze spellbound as
the man in the prayer shawl (tallis) and white robe (kittel) raises the
shofar to his lips and sends its exquisite sounds into our minds, our
hearts, our very bones. Why do we tremble when the stillness in the
synagogue is suddenly punctured by the piercing pitch of the shofar
blasts? What do those sounds mean to us? Why do we find them so
deeply moving yet so utterly mysterious?
The Sages, based on the words of the Prophets, describe the

sound of the shofar as a call to repentance. If so, why is the shofar
sounded at night at the close of Yom Kippur when there is as yet no
need for a new call to repentance? Clearly, the sound of the shofar
also signals an outburst of joyous confidence that our Yom Kippur
prayers were accepted favorably. But this is in itself puzzling. How
does one sound serve both as a call to repentance and a cry of joy?
The Kabbalists explain that the sounds of the shofar transcend

all verbal expression. Human speech is constrained by the limitations
of a person’s ability to enunciate words, to find expressive words in his
vocabulary, to arrange his words in a form that will accurately reflect
and articulate his thoughts. But some thoughts and feelings are too
exalted to find expression through such limited means. The yearning of
the Jewish soul to come close to G-d, to cleave to the Divine, is so
intensely spiritual that mere human speech is inadequate to give it
expression. The sound of the shofar, however, connects with this inner
yearning and gives it expression. It is the sound of the immortal soul
crying out to its Creator in an ecstasy of love, devotion and yearning. It
is the sound that breaks the barriers of mere words and embraces
myriad spiritual expressions - from the most abject remorse to the
most intense joy.
We find a similar concept in one of the ten forms of prayer

identified by the Sages. It is called naakah, a groan. The Torah tells us
that when the Jewish people were subjected to the cruelest slave labor
by the Egyptians, they groaned in the agony of their distress. “And G-d
heard their groans” and responded to them. The commentators point
out that when the Jewish people directed their groans towards G-d it
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Moadim: Rosh Hashanah
was one of the most eloquent forms of prayer imaginable. No
sentences. No words. No entreaty. Just a cry from the depths of the
heart and the soul, the cry of the children of G-d torn from the warm
embrace of their Father in Heaven. Prayer in its purest form.
In the same vein, the sounds of the shofar are the expressions
of the soul in the purest form. They encompass all sorts of thoughts
and emotions that are too sublimely spiritual to be clothed in human
speech. The call to repentance, the exuberant joy of Yom Kippur night,
the mysterious tremble of spiritual longing in the soul of every Jew
when he hears the shofar, all these and countless others find
expression in the sounds of the shofar.
As we listen to the shofar this Rosh Hashanah, and as we feel

the mystical tug of its poignant sounds, let us recognize that the
neshamah within each of us is crying out to our Creator with an
eloquence beyond words. Let us capture these sounds and these
feelings in the innermost chambers of our hearts and carry them with
us throughout the entire year. Undoubtedly, this will assure us of a
sweet and wonderful year.
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Ohr Shalom
A Breath of Air
The shofar has a strange voice, jarring yet enthralling. It cannot
rightfully be called music, nor can the shofar itself be considered a musical
instrument. And yet, the shofar plays an exceedingly prominent role in
Jewish observances. Its voice accompanied the Giving of the Torah, and
subsequent momentous occasions, such as declarations of war, are also
accompanied by the sound of the shofar. It is considered the perfect
sound to awaken the slumberer from his spiritual torpor, the quintessential
call to repentance.
Wherein lies the secret power of the shofar? True, the shofar, a
ram’s horn, is reminiscent of Abraham’s preparedness to sacrifice his only
son Isaac on the Akeidah, but surely the sound itself must have some
visceral force even for those unaware of the connection to Isaac.
Let us consider for a moment. What is the ultimate form of

communication? Most of us would be inclined to say it is language,
sophisticated combinations of words that express the ideas and concepts
we seek to communicate. But what if we want to communicate something
much more basic? What if we want to communicate who we are and what
we are? Could we weave a tapestry of words that would capture the
essence of our very beings? Probably not. Strangely enough, our voices
actually offer a much better glimpse into the innermost chambers of our
souls than any words we can string together. Why is this so?
When the Creator first formed man from the dust of the earth, the
Torah tells us that “He blew the breath of the Lord into his nostrils.” This
brought the man to life, and this represents his very essence, the breath
that flows through his body. The unadorned breath of life, free of the
artificial manipulations of speech, is the most expressive form of
communication. A gasp, a sigh, a scream are more eloquent than pages
of prose, because they don’t tell about what is inside us, they actually are
what is inside us.
Therefore, the voice itself, the exhalation of the breath, is more

expressive than the spoken words it transports. When Hashem wanted
Abraham to heed the advice of his wife Sarah, He told him to “listen to her
voice.” The voice is the key, not the words.
In this light, we gain a new appreciation for the role of the shofar.
The shofar dispenses with all the affected trills and warbles of musical
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instruments. Its sound is the unadorned magnification of the human
breath. The barely audible sound of breathing heard on a very high
decibel level shocks us, because we are suddenly confronted with our
very beings. It is traumatic and disconcerting, but it can also be uplifting.
Deep down, on a very primal spiritual level, we are reminded of who and
what we are. We are awakened from our slumber, and we are moved to
repent.
For this very reason, the shofar has such a ubiquitous role in
Jewish observance. We need to approach all momentous occasions as
real people, devoid of the airs and layers of affectation in which people
ordinarily clothe themselves. We need to remove the barriers of artificiality
that stand between us and our Creator. The shofar accomplishes this as
nothing else can. It presents us with the primal substance of everyman,
the pristine essence of humanity as it was formed by the Creator. When
we listen to the sound of the shofar, we are in touch with ourselves.
The Polish government once issued a decree abolishing ritual

slaughter of animals. With the greatest difficulty, the Jewish communities
arranged for one of the leading sages of the time to meet with a high-
ranking Polish minister and plead for the abolition of the decree.
The sage and his delegation were shown into the presence of the
minister, and the sage immediately began to speak. There was just one
problem. The sage spoke only Yiddish, and the minister understood not a
word of it.
Another member of the delegation immediately interposed himself
as the interpreter, but the minister waved him aside. Instead, he sat and
listened intently as the sage spoke for many minutes.
Afterwards, the would-be interpreter tried once again to translate
and summarize the sage’s remarks. Again, the minister waved him aside.
“I did not know the meaning of a single word he uttered,” said the
minister, “but I understood him completely. The decree is abolished!”
This year, as we listen to the shofar, let us recognize its message

and reflect on it. Let us reach down to the very core of our identity and
present ourselves to our Creator stripped of all the vanities we accumulate
in our daily lives. Let us stand before Him as He created us, without the
barriers of artificiality. If we open our minds and hearts and souls to Him,
surely He will gather us in His loving embrace and bless us with a
wonderful new year.
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Wordless Prayers
High noon on Rosh Hashanah. The people tremble in fear and
trepidation. What will the future bode? Will it be life or death? Health or
sickness? Riches or poverty? All morning, songs and prayers rocked
the synagogue walls, and now, the Mussaf prayer, the highlight of the
day, begins. Suddenly, the sounds are muted, and the prayers become
ethereal murmurs fainter than the softest whisper. Why is this so? Why
don’t we give free rein to our emotions and shout our prayers with all
our might?
The answer lies in the Haftorah reading of Rosh Hashanah. It

tells the story of Hannah, the barren wife of Elkanah. She makes a
pilgrimage to the Tabernacle in Shiloh and prays her heart out for a
child, but not in the customary manner. Her prayers are not
demonstrative nor vocal. Instead, she stands in a corner with her eyes
squinted shut and her lips moving soundlessly. Observing her strange
behavior, the High Priest assumes she is drunk and asks her to leave.
“No, my lord,” she protests. “I am a woman distraught; no wine

or spirits have I drunk. I was pouring out my heart before Hashem.”
“Go then in peace,” says the High Priest. “The Lord of Israel will
surely grant your wish.”
Surely not everyone who prayed in the Tabernacle had his wish
granted. Yet something about Hannah’s reply convinced the High
Priest that her prayer had been favorably received before the Heavenly
Throne. What convinced him of this?
The commentators explain that the ultimate prayer emanates

from a yearning so deep that it is beyond articulation. Words, no matter
how eloquent, are boundaries to the aspirations of the soul. But the
yearning in Hannah’s soul for connection with the Almighty was so
profound that it transcended all verbal boundaries, so profound that
she found it impossible to pray aloud as other people did. Instead, the
whispered words of her silent prayer just opened the floodgates of her
heart and allowed her torrential feelings to flow upward to Heaven.
Such prayers, the High Priest was convinced, would surely be
answered, and indeed, it has become customary to pray silently in an
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attempt to achieve Hannah’s exalted state of prayer
On Rosh Hashanah, the sound of the shofar is the conduit

through which the deepest feelings of our hearts flow upward to
Heaven. On this awesome day, we do not constrain our prayers in
boundaries of specific personal requests. Instead, we offer up our
intense yearning for connection with the Almighty, for if we can truly
connect with Him, all our needs will be abundantly fulfilled.
A great sage was mulling over the question of who would

sound the shofar in the synagogue. A number of his disciples asked to
be considered for this great honor.
“This is not simply an honorary task,” said the sage. “I need

someone who really knows how to sound the shofar.” He pointed to
one of his disciples. “How about you? What would you think as you
sound the shofar?”
“I would think about the deep mystical significance of each of

the individual sounds.”
“Not good enough,” said the sage and shook his head. He
pointed to another. “How about you?”
“I would concentrate on extracting pure, perfectly pitched

sounds from the shofar.”
“Not good enough,” said the sage and shook his head again.
He pointed to another. “How about you?”
“I would not think any specific thoughts. I would simply close

my eyes and let my inner feelings flow through the shofar.”
“Ah!” said the sage. “You are the one I am looking for.”
In our own lives, we all prepare a long list of personal needs

and requests which we will intend to present to Hashem on Rosh
Hashanah. But if we would really be in touch with our innermost
feelings, we would realize that all our desires and aspirations derive
from the insatiable yearning of our souls for connection with the
Creator. We would discover that if we focused on achieving that divine
connection we would experience joy and fulfillment beyond our wildest
dreams.
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SHABBOS SHUVAH
Reversing the Chain Reaction

The spirit of the Shabbos that separates Yom Kippur from Rosh
Hashanah is captured in the opening words of the haftorah. “Shuvah
Yisrael!” cries the prophet Hosea. “Return, O Israel, to G-d your Lord,
for you have stumbled in your sinfulness.” This Shabbos signals the
last call for repentance for our shortcomings of the bygone year, and
therefore, we call it Shabbos Shuvah, the Shabbos of Return.
But a very important question presents itself: How far do we

have to come back in order to have “returned”? Must we reach the
ultimate levels of perfection? The thought can be discouraging, but the
prophecy of Hosea reassures us.
Return, O Israel, to G-d your Lord. The Midrash infers from

these words that we can consider ourselves to have returned once we
feel that G-d is our Lord. When a person sins, he also jeopardizes his
relationship with his Creator, and now he must repair that relationship.
We can easily relate to this concept by its parallel in the realm

of friendship. If a person is disloyal to his friend, he damages the
friendship. A certain coolness develops, and this coolness pushes the
friends even further apart. A chain reaction begins. The friendship
declines, and an even greater estrangement results - until the two
former friends become like strangers to each other. The act of
disloyalty in itself may not have been serious enough to warrant the
demise of the friendship, but it set into motion the process of
destruction.
Fortunately, however, the chain reaction works in the reverse

as well. If the disloyal person makes an effort to be particularly
thoughtful to his wronged friend, good feelings will be engendered.
These good feelings will draw them closer and stimulate more acts of
mutual kindness - until the two estranged people are suddenly friends
again.
This process also applies to our relationship with G-d, but with
a slight difference. G-d never becomes estranged from us. His Hand is
always outstretched to His wayward children. But we sometimes
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become estranged from Him. When we commit a sinful act, we drive a
wedge into our relationship with G-d. The guilt and embarrassment we
feel creates a sense of distance from G-d, and in this state of
estrangement we may find it easier to commit more sinful acts, which
create even greater estrangement - until we may suddenly find
ourselves, Heaven forbid, disconnected from G-d. But we can reverse
this process. Step by step, we can draw ourselves closer to G-d and
reestablish the spiritual attachment that our souls so desperately
crave.
How do we know when we have succeeded? When we have

not only acknowledged G-d’s mastery of the world but also feel he is
our personal Lord, when we truly feel a deep relationship of Lord and
cherished servant, then we know that we have truly “returned.”
But how specifically are we to accomplish this? Once again, the

words of prophet hold the key.
For you have stumbled in your sinfulness. We must not be

discouraged. We must not think of ourselves as evil people for having
sinned. We must realize that we are essentially good people who have
unfortunately “stumbled” along the way. We have been led astray by
our impulses and desires, and we never deliberately intended to
jeopardize our priceless relationship with our Creator. We must forgive
ourselves, so to speak, and then we can begin the mending process.
As we prepare for Yom Kippur, let us open our hearts to the

encouraging words of the prophet. Let us turn away from the
destructive distractions that life places in our paths and focus on what
is precious and important. Let us mend our relationships with our
friends and families - and above all, with our Creator.
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YOM KIPPUR
Jonah’s Dilemma
The sun is already beginning to set in the western sky. As the
precious final minutes of the holiest day of the year slip away, we reach
one of its celebrated high points - the haftorah reading which relates the
story of Jonah and the whale.
This famous yet thoroughly baffling story opens with Hashem

sending Jonah as a divine messenger to the huge Assyrian metropolis of
Ninveh. The city had descended to a level of decadence that was simply
intolerable, and destruction was imminent. Only immediate repentance
would bring about a reprieve. Jonah, however, does not want to undertake
this mission, and he attempts to flee from Hashem. He books passage on
a ship which will carry him far away from Ninveh, but a sudden storm
threatens to tear the ship apart. The sailors cast lots, and Jonah is tossed
into the sea, where he is swallowed by a whale.
From the belly of the whale, Jonah cries out to Hashem in anguish
and despair and pleads for deliverance. Hashem answers Jonah’s prayer.
The whale spits him out onto the shore, and he sets off at once for
Ninveh, where his message is greeted with consternation. The people don
sackcloth and repent, and the city is spared.
The obvious question leaps at us from the page: Jonah was

undoubtedly a very holy man if Hashem granted him the gift of prophecy.
How then did he have the effrontery to refuse to serve as the messenger
of Heaven?
Our Sages tell us that Jonah was concerned for the welfare of the
Jewish people who, at that time, were also guilty of grievous sins in spite
of the repeated warnings of the great prophets. They explain Jonah feared
the people of evil Ninveh, a nation of degenerate pagans, would heed his
prophetic warning and repent, causing the Jewish people, the custodians
of the Torah, to suffer by comparison. They would stand indicted before
the bar of Heavenly justice with nothing to say in their own defense.
Therefore, Jonah chose to flee rather than bring down retribution on the
heads of his people.
But the questions still remain: Did Jonah think he could frustrate
the divine plan by fleeing on a ship? Did he think Hashem would find no
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other way to offer Ninveh the option of repentance? And even if he
thought his flight could somehow benefit the Jewish people, what right did
he have to suppress the prophecy entrusted to him?
Furthermore, what lesson are we meant to derive from this story in

the climactic moments of Yom Kippur? Is it only meant to present us with
another example of disaster avoided through timely repentance? Or is
there also a deeper significance in the central theme of the story, which
revolves around Jonah’s attempt to extricate himself from his mission?
The commentators explain that Jonah certainly had no illusions

about thwarting the divine plan. If Hashem wanted to warn Ninveh that
only repentance could save them, He undoubtedly would. However, Jonah
had such an overpowering love for the Jewish people that he could not
bear to be the agent of their misfortune. In desperation, he resolved to flee
so that Hashem’s will would be fulfilled through some other channel. He
was fully aware of the magnitude of his act and the dire consequences he
would probably suffer for his disobedience, but the alternative was
unbearable.
Hashem, however, chose not to send a different messenger to

Ninveh. Instead, He sent storms and whales to force Jonah to return and
accept his mission. The message to Jonah was very clear, and it
resonates down through the ages to reach us every Yom Kippur. Jonah
had no right to weigh the pros and cons of obeying Hashem’s command.
He did not have the option of deciding whether or not to obey. If Hashem
commanded him to go to Ninveh, then that was what he was obliged to
do, and no amount of rationalization could change it. A person has to
subjugate himself completely to the divine will, to obey without question,
reservation or rationalization. Hashem undoubtedly knew of Jonah’s love
for his people, and if He nevertheless sent him on his mission, Jonah had
no choice but to obey.
In our own lives, we sometimes bend the rules to suit our

convenience. We fall into the trap of “situation ethics,” seeking a middle
ground between our desires and the dictates of our Creator. We
rationalize. We equivocate. We compromise. Like Jonah, we seek to
escape the strictures imposed on us by our innermost conscience. But in
actuality, as Jonah discovered so painfully, it is not for us to make value
judgments about the divine will. Total acceptance may indeed be difficult
from time to time, but overall, it is the only path to spiritual tranquility and
fulfillment.
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SUKKOS
The Secret of Perfect Joy

The solemn majesty of Rosh Hashanah has come and gone.
The white-clad awe of Yom Kippur has cleansed our hearts and souls
and passed into the treasure house of our memories. We are now
prepared for our annual outburst of . . . joy! Sukkos, the Time of Our
Rejoicing! The Torah tells us to be “only joyous” for seven full days.
This joy was realized to its fullest when the Beis Hamikdash in
Jerusalem was still standing. The streets bursting with throngs of
excited people from near and far. The air perfumed by the aroma of
the sacrificial offerings and the burning incense. The sounds of music,
singing and dancing reverberating through every window and doorway.
The spectacle of an exalted people united in a common outpouring of
love and gratitude to the Creator of the Universe.
At the center of these splendid festivities was the Simchas Beis

Hasho’evah, the celebration of the drawing of the water for the nisuch
hamayim, the water libation on the altar in the Beis Hamikdash. The
Talmud draws a vivid picture of the exultant singing and dancing that
accompanied this ritual. It even tells of great and venerable sages
juggling and leaping about like young acrobats. Indeed, the Talmud
assures us that “whoever did not witness the Simchas Beis
Hasho’evah has never seen true joy in his life.”
But what was so remarkable about the ritual of the drawing of

the water? What made it the most powerful stimulus to joy imaginable?
The commentators explain that the Hebrew word for joy,

simchah, is related to the word for erasing, machah. Joy is not
something that must be generated. It is our natural state.
Nevertheless, the pain, sorrows and disappointments of life overlay
and obscure our natural joyousness. When we erase these
impediments to our happiness, we achieve true joy by default.
Still, why indeed is joy our natural state? Because joy is an

expression of a perfect existence, of fulfillment to the highest degree
possible. The essence of a person is the immortal soul, the neshamah,
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our spark of the divine. When our souls cleave completely to their
Source and Creator, we are in a state of perfect existence, and we
experience joy. However, when our sins and misdeeds come between
our souls and their Divine Source, we feel the anguish of
estrangement, and our joy is extinguished. Consequently, all the
commonplace vexations of life become magnified far out of proportion
to their true significance in the greater scheme of things. Therefore, in
order to achieve true and perfect joy, we must erase the taint from our
sublime souls so that they can again cleave perfectly to the Creator.
Only then can we achieve fulfillment and the joy that results from it.
On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we cleansed and purified

our souls. On Sukkos, we are finally capable of cleaving to the Creator
and achieving true joy. The water libation symbolized this concept.
Water has the property of absolute adaptability. It can attach itself to
any shape or form so perfectly that no gaps or crevices are left unfilled.
The ritual of pouring the water over the altar in the Beis Hamikdash,
therefore, symbolizes the perfect and absolute attachment which the
Jewish people have achieved to the Creator through their prayers and
repentance during the High Holidays. And perfect attachment leads to
perfect joy.
If we aspire to that perfect attachment, we can all achieve it, no

matter what walk of life we pursue. If we only allow ourselves to be like
water, gladly adapting to Hashem’s will, we can find the key to true
contentment. We must only seek it. And the reward for finding it is a
joy unlike any other we have ever known.
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Time Capsules
Philosophy is an intimidating subject. Most of us would rather
deal with concrete intellectual and emotional issues, something into
which we can get our teeth - and our hearts. And yet, during the
Festival of Sukkoth, amidst our most joyous celebrations, our Sages
instituted the reading of King Solomon’s Koheleth (Ecclesiastes), an
often brooding work that agonizes over the philosophical problems of
existence. What is the connection between this work and the
transcendent joy of Sukkoth? What message does it carry that could
not have been delivered in a more conventional form?
Let us take a brief look into this penetrating book. In its

recurring theme, Solomon declares, “All is emptiness,” the pleasures of
the world are all without value. More than any other Jewish king in
history, Solomon enjoyed virtually limitless honor, wealth and luxury.
He had vast properties, numerous slaves and one thousand wives and
concubines. His palaces were adorned with the most exquisite works
of art, and his tables were laden with the finest foods and wines. No
material pleasures were denied to him, and no one was in a better
position to assess their true value. Having sampled everything that the
material world had to offer, he was able to step back and take an
honest look at it. And he concluded that all was emptiness. The only
reality was to fear and obey Hashem.
So what are we meant to derive from this philosophical

evaluation? How can we relate to concepts of extreme unreality when
we’ve just taken out a mortgage on a house and the car needs a new
brake job?
Let us look a little further into the words of King Solomon. “For
everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under
Heaven, a time to be born, a time to die, a time to plant, a time to
uproot, a time to weep, a time to laugh, a time to grieve, a time to
dance.” These lines, so clearly profound and meaningful, have been
quoted and paraphrased and borrowed for poems and songs the world
over. But what do they really mean? What insight into the meaning of
time is immortalized in King Solomon’s enigmatic words?
Time, if we stop to think about it, is an inexorable current which
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sweeps us along through the passages of life. It is the framework in
which we live, the receptacle of our experiences. We create terms and
classifications - years, days, hours, minutes, seconds - in a vain
attempt to gain a modicum of control over time, but it remains
uncontrollable. We feel its relentless flow through our very beings.
There is no stop button, no pause button. The unstoppable tick of the
clock controls our lives. But what is this thing called time? Is it merely
the passive blank canvas on which we paint the stories of our lives? Or
is it something of far deeper significance?
These are the questions King Solomon is addressing. “For

everything there is a season.” Time is more than a path upon which we
tread. Time is Hashem’s most amazing creation in the natural world. It
is a dynamic force, the source of all life energies. The mystical sources
point out that time is not defined by the artificial units we assign to it
but by the different energies and emanations that infuse it. One
particular block of time may be charged with the energies of planting,
and that activity is therefore most suited to it. Another block may be
charged with the energies of uprooting, and so forth. Each moment
has its distinctive challenges and opportunities, and therefore, only by
tapping into the correct energy source of each moment of time can we
utilize it to its fullest and capture it.
“All is emptiness,” King Solomon tells us. The only reality is that
which can be contained and preserved in time. The accumulation of
material possessions has no real value. It does not connect with the
synergies of time. It is no better than a boulder by the riverside, left
behind by the rampaging current. Only the way we live and the things
we do penetrate to the core of time and are carried along with us
through and beyond our lifetimes.
On the Festival of Sukkoth, when we begin the new year with a

clean slate, King Solomon’s profound message shines for us like a
beacon in the dark. Throughout the year, we have been caught up in
the mad rush of the daily grind, pummeled by the spinning hands of
the clock. We have allowed ourselves to be subjected to the tyranny of
time. But with our new insight into time, we can harness and control
this relentless flow. If we can perceive the nature of time as it passes,
if we do not plant in a time of uprooting nor weep in a time of laughing,
we can spare ourselves the frustrations of futility and find serenity and
peace of mind. Only then can we capture and preserve the capsules of
time for all eternity.
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Jewish Citizenship
Citizen has always been a title of honor not easily attained. In
the city-states of ancient Greece and especially in the Roman Empire,
citizenship was a highly prized distinction. It was a recognition of social
and economic status and a guarantee of special rights and privileges.
But what does citizenship signify in Jewish society?
Let us take a look at the Torah’s presentation of the mitzvah of

sukkah. After the uplifting experience of the High Holidays, we are
enjoined to build an impermanent booth and make that our primary
place of residence for an entire week. “You shall dwell in booths for
seven days,” the Torah tells us, “every citizen of Israel.”
This is an unusual choice of words. The Torah always directs

itself to “all the people of Israel.” Yet here, the Torah seems to limit the
injunction to people of status and privilege. We know, however, that
this is not so, that the mitzvah of sukkah is universal, regardless of
class and social status.
The commentators explain that the Torah is being as inclusive

here as everywhere. The use of the term citizen, however, is meant to
teach us an important lesson. Jewish citizenship does not derive from
an accumulation of worldly possessions, high social status or political
power. Quite the contrary. It derives from a deep faith in the
benevolent guidance of the Creator, from a focus on spirituality rather
than materialism.
Where does this supremely Jewish attitude manifest itself? In

the sukkah. When the harvest is in and the weather grows cold, the
entire world withdraws to the warmth and security of home and hearth,
but not the Jewish people. We leave the comfort of our homes and
celebrate the festival of joy in our makeshift booths to show that we are
in Hashem’s hands. If we have faith, we are secure anywhere, and we
if we don’t, we are secure nowhere. Those who enter the sukkah are
the true citizens of Israel.
A traveler from a distant land paid a visit to a great sage. Many

people stood on line for the privilege of spending a few brief moments
with the sage, and it was fully an hour before he was allowed to enter.
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The sage sat at the head of a rough-hewn table, which groaned

under the weight of his holy books; the furnishings of the room were
threadbare.
The sage lifted his kindly, wise eyes, greeted the traveler
warmly and invited him to sit down. The chair groaned angrily under
the traveler’s bulk, but fortunately, it did not collapse.
“If you would forgive me,” said the traveler, “I would like to ask
a personal question.”
“Go right ahead,” said the sage.
“You are so famous and celebrated. People come to ask you

advice and blessing from all over the world. Why isn’t there any decent
furniture in this room?”
“A very good question,” said the sage. “But let me respond with
a question of my own. Where is your own furniture?”
“Back home, of course.”
“But why isn’t it here with you?”
“Because I am a traveler. I am only passing through this place.”

“Ah, that is indeed the answer. And it is also my answer to your
question. I too am only a traveler. I too am only passing through this
world. In the few years I will spend here, I have no need for fine
furniture.”
In our own lives, we are inevitably absorbed by material

pursuits. We have to earn a living to put food on the table, to provide
health care for our families, to pay the mortgage and tuition. We need
to replace the old car, and the children need braces. But once a year,
we should step back and put it all in perspective. When we enter the
sukkah, we face the true reality of our existence, that the kindness of
Hashem protects and sustains us and not the walls we build around
ourselves. When we accept this knowledge into our hearts and
respond with the transcendent joy of the festival, that is when we are
granted our citizenship papers.
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SHEMINI ATZERES
Praying for Rain

The days of summer are only a warm memory. Leaves wither and fall
to the ground. Brisk autumn breezes sends chills up our spines. The world
retracts into winter. People shut their windows tight and gather indoors around
a warm hearth. At just this time, the Jewish people celebrate the Festival of
Sukkoth by moving out of the comfort of their homes and into drafty sukkah
booths. It is a sublime expression of faith in the Almighty, a declaration that
our safety, security and comfort derive directly from Him and no other source.
Sitting in the sukkah after having only just been purified and cleansed
of sin by Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we are transported for seven
beautiful days to a transcendent world of pure spirituality. And then on the
eighth day we celebrate the Festival of Shemini Atzereth. And what is one of
the central features of this festival? A formal, elaborate prayer for rain!
How can this be? Should we praying for something so prosaic as

rainfall and crops at such an exalted time? Or should we rather be praying for
spiritual growth, for our souls to be uplifted and our hearts and minds to
become receptive to the divine aura that permeates the universe?
Furthermore, after having shown such disdain for the ways of nature
and such faith in divine guidance, why are we suddenly so worried about
rain? What happened to our faith?
The answer lies in the first Torah portion of the year, which is read on
the Shabbos immediately after Shemini Atzeres. The evil serpent brings down
the wrath of Hashem upon himself by cleverly inducing Eve to eat from the
Tree of Knowledge, and for this, he is condemned to “crawl upon his belly and
eat the dust of the earth.” The commentaries find this punishment perplexing.
Being relegated to eat dust is certainly not a very pleasant fate, but it also has
its positive aspect. At least, with dust being in such abundant supply, the
serpent would never again want for food! Why didn’t Hashem give him a
punishment that was totally and exclusively negative without even the
slightest redeeming feature?
The commentaries explain that there is nothing more precious to a

human being than maintaining an ongoing relationship with his Creator. What
is the basis for this relationship? On what grounds is it conducted? One of the
fundamental connections is prayer. A person who begs the Creator to fulfill
his needs, both material and spiritual, enjoys the added benefit of connecting
to the Almighty through his prayers, regardless of whether or not his requests
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are granted. In fact, the Talmud tells us that the Creator “desires the prayers
of the righteous” and therefore withholds some of their needs in order to
induce them to pray. The connection between the human and the divine
through the act of prayer is clearly an end in itself, far greater than the
fulfillment of any particular wish expressed in the prayer.
The serpent was so utterly rejected, the commentators conclude, that

he was denied any contact with Hashem whatsoever. His food would be
tasteless dust and he would have it in such abundance that he would never
have to raise up his voice to Hashem in supplication. He was cast aside and
totally ostracized.
On Shemini Atzeres, after we have been purified by the High Holy

Days and uplifted by the Festival of Sukkoth, there is nothing more desirable
for us than developing and deepening our relationship with the Creator, and
we turn to the critical channel of prayer to help us in this respect. We pray for
rain not merely to spare ourselves the hardships of drought; we have faith that
Hashem will send us what we need. Rather, we pray for rain in order to reach
out to Hashem, to connect to Him and submerge ourselves in His infinite
goodness.
A courtier was telling his friend about the latest palace politics. “The
minister of war seems to have gained favor over the minister of the treasury,”
he said.
“Indeed? How do you know?”
“Because the king fed the minister of the treasury table scraps, but
the war minister was treated to a royal feast.”
“It certainly appears you are right. But tell me, exactly where did they
dine?”
“The minister of the treasury dined at the king’s table, but the minister
of war’s feast was sent to his rooms.”
“Aha! Then you are mistaken, my friend. The minister of the treasury
is really the favorite - by far.”
In our own lives, it often happens that some of our prayers go

unanswered. Most of us are mature enough to understand that Hashem is not
obligated to grant our every request, but it is sometimes difficult not to feel
that all the emotional energy we invested in our prayer was somehow wasted.
But if we recall the transcendent feeling of spiritual connection to Hashem we
experienced while we prayed, we will surely realize that prayer itself is our
most precious gift.
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Hold On for Dear Life

Shemini Atzereth is our strangest festival. It appears
mysteriously at the end of the seven-day Festival of Sukkoth, and it
lasts for only one day (two in the Diaspora). It is a time of joy, yet there
are no specific observances. In the days of the Temple, only one
additional animal was sacrificed. What is the deeper meaning of this
festival?
The Midrash tells us that it is a time of lingering. After the

intensely close contact between the Jewish people and Hashem during
the month of Elul, the Days of Awe and the Festival of Sukkoth,
Hashem declares, “It is difficult for me to part with you. Stay on for a
little while, and let us share yet one more small banquet together.”
The Rabbis took advantage of this supplementary festival and

made it into a time of rejoicing with the Torah. They directed that the
annual cycle of synagogue Torah readings should begin on the
Shabbat after Shemini Atzeret and conclude on the following Shemini
Atzeret. The conclusion of the public reading of the Torah is then
crowned by a celebration of prolonged and ecstatic dancing known as
Simchat Torah. Why did the Rabbis choose to designate this particular
time for the celebration of Simchat Torah?
The commentators explain that this is really a time of great

apprehension. Our close encounters with the Creator are coming to an
end, and the long and dismal winter months stretch out before us. For
two months, we have been absorbed by prayers and introspection, by
fasting and repentance, by observances and celebrations, and now it
is back to the grind. Now it is time to grapple again with the mundane
considerations of earning a livelihood and all the other material
pursuits that insinuate themselves into the fabric of our lives.
How can we prevent that high level of inspiration from fading

away? Only by a strong reaffirmation of our profound commitment to
the study of the Torah. Only by embracing the Torah with an
outpouring of boundless love.
During the time of the Talmud, there lived a couple who had
never been blessed with children. The husband wanted desperately to
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have a child to carry on his name, and the thought of divorce crossed
his mind. However, he still loved his wife, and he was unsure if it would
be proper for him to seek a divorce under the circumstances.
He consulted the sages of the courts on this question and was

told that he could divorce his wife if he so chose.
The day arrived when husband and wife would part ways, and
she would return to her father’s house.
“My dear wife,” the man said, “I have nothing but the highest
esteem for you. You have always been good to me. Please look
around and take whatever you cherish most back to your father’s
house.”
“You are so kind,” she said. “It would mean a lot to me if we

could enjoy one last meal together. I will prepare your favorite dishes.”
“Of course,” he said.
During the meal, she gave him to drink strong wines and he
soon fell into a heavy slumber. She summoned her servants, and they
carried off her husband with his bed to her father’s house.
The next morning, he awoke in confusion. “What am I doing

here?” “My dear husband,” said his wife, “you said I should take
whatever I cherish, and so I took you. I cherish you above all else.”
In our own lives, when we stand at this juncture of the year,

when it seems we must inevitably relinquish our hard-won closeness
with the Creator, we must find a way of embracing Him and holding on
for dear life. How? Simchat Torah is the answer. As we dance with the
Torah clasped in our arms, let us also take it into our hearts with a firm
resolution to delve into its beauty and its wisdom. Hashem is always
present in the Torah, and if we give the Torah a place of honor in our
homes, we can be sure He will always be there as well.
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CHANUKAH
Switching on the Lights

Fluorescents, incandescent, strobes, neon, infrared, ultraviolet,
laser beams. From all sides, we are bombarded by seemingly endless
forms of light. Our homes are dim-lit, backlit, floodlit from every angle
imaginable. We look down from a jetliner flying through the night five miles
over the earth, and we see cities and towns like shimmering islands of
light in a vast archipelago stretching from coast to coast. In one of the
most radical changes in the history of civilization, this century has brought
an explosion of light to a world previously illuminated by torches, lamps
and candles.
Yet paradoxically, this very century has also brought a darkness to

the world such as history has never seen. Many tens of millions of people
have perished in a global orgy of incendiary hatred and savage slaughter.
Where is humanity? Where is the light in this century of such phenomenal
illumination?
It seems that the more we illuminate the external world the greater
the pall of darkness that fall over the internal world. As people become
more and more distracted by the glitter of the outside world, they lose
sight of the inner glow, the spiritual light, the inexhaustible fount of
mystical energy that can truly illuminate the world in every sense of the
word.
This was at the root of the struggle between the Greeks and the
Jews. The Greeks were the ultimate materialists, fascinated by the beauty
of form as captured in sculpture, art and architecture. The Greek purpose
of life was to extract as much pleasure as possible from the world - by
beholding its beauty and tasting its delights. As the Greek conquerors
spread across the civilized world, many peoples became enchanted by
their siren song - including a large proportion of the Jewish people.
But the Torah represented the antithesis of the Greek way of life,
and a stalwart nucleus of Jews led by the Hasmoneans rose up to defend
it. Form, according to the Torah, is only the handmaiden of substance; the
glorious physical beauty of the world is there to facilitate inner growth.
Without the inner spiritual beauty, however, outward beauty is but a hollow
shell - and worse. It is a seductive light that lures the wayfarer to his
doom.
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With the help of Heaven, the Hasmoneans were victorious after a

long and bitter war. The triumphant Hasmoneans entered the desecrated
Temple and set up a new menorah, fashioned not of gold or silver but of
plain iron rods. There would be time to fashion a new golden menorah, but
first the concept of the menorah had to be reestablished.
Our Sages tell us that the menorah was certainly not needed to
illuminate the Temple. The lights of the menorah represent inner
substance, not outward form. They represent the light that shines from the
pages of the Torah, not the light of fashionable boulevards. They
represent the Presence of our Creator who infused each of us with a
spark of divine light that glows at the center of our being. An iron menorah
makes this statement very loudly, although a golden one makes it with
more elegance and dignity.
A brilliant young man set out to find . . . something he could not

quite describe. He sailed the seven seas, climbed the highest mountains
and visited the great cities on every continent. Still, he was not satisfied.
The unexplained yearning continued to gnaw at him.
One day, as he gazed upon yet another statue in miserable
disappointment, he saw an old man looking at him quizzically.
“What is your problem, my son?” the old man said.
To his own dismay, the young man suddenly found himself
pouring out his heart to the stranger.
“You can travel the world for many years,” said the old man, “and
you will not find what you seek. But I know where it is.”
“Then tell me!” cried the young man. “I will go there tomorrow.”
“But you are there already,” said the old man. “You have always been
there, but you did not know where to look.”
The young man looked at him blankly, and the old man laughed.
“You are seeking yourself,” he said. “You have been looking all around
you, but you have not looked inside!”
The radiant Chanukah lights carry this message down through the
generations and centuries right into each and every one of our homes.
Jewish law forbids the use of Chanukah lights as reading lamps and the
like, because they are not meant for physical illumination. They are
symbols of a light that guides our hearts and souls rather than our eyes. In
this age of blinding light, the little Chanukah flames encourage each of us
to turn inward, to switch on our inner light and let it show us the way to
eternal life.
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The Essence Within

The tiny golden flames glow against the frosted windowpanes,
telling all the passersby in the street below that Chanukah, the Festival
of Lights, has arrived. It is a time for families, for joyous celebration, for
thanking the Almighty for the miracles He has performed in the past
and praying for His continued beneficence in the future.
What miracles do the Chanukah lights commemorate? The

story is well known. After Alexander the Great’s conquest of the Middle
East, Judea came under the power of the Greeks, who tried to
eradicate the Torah and impose their own culture on the Jewish people
in its stead. But the Jews revolted, drove out their Greek oppressors
and reclaimed the Temple Mount. Unfortunately, they could find no
uncontaminated oil with which to kindle the lamps of the Golden
Menorah. Just one small jug, enough for a single day. Miraculously,
however, this small amount of oil burned for eight days until a new
supply of oil arrived. In commemoration of this miracle, the Sages
instituted the festival of Chanukah during which we light the menorah
for eight days.
Let us reflect for a moment. Is this really the miracle that we

celebrate, that a tiny amount of oil burned for seven days? And what
about the victory over our oppressors? What about the struggle on the
battlefields?
Furthermore, we can well imagine the state of the Temple

when the victors wrested it from the grip of the Greeks. It must have
been an utter shambles, and the work of restoration undoubtedly took
a goodly amount of time. Why then were the victorious Jews in such a
rush to rekindle the Menorah? Why didn’t they turn their immediate
attention to repairing the damaged structures and the fixtures and
restoring the Temple to its proper condition?
The commentators explain that it is precisely this very act that

highlights the quintessential difference between the Jews and the
Greeks. What motivated the Jewish people to fight so tenaciously to
throw off the yoke of the Greek oppressors? Was it the desire for
political freedom or unrestricted economic opportunity?
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Not at all. It was to preserve the pure flame of Jewish
spirituality from contamination by the Greeks. They did not fight for the
bricks and the mortar of the Temple but for the pure light that burned
within, and therefore, their first act was to restore that light.
Had the tables been turned, the Greeks would have focused on
restoring the architectural beauty of the Temple, but to the Jewish
people external esthetics were secondary to the restoration of spiritual
purity. Therefore, the light that was miraculously restored was
established as the immortal symbol of the Jewish victory.
A great sage was walking with a young disciple in the market

place. In front of one of the stalls there were two baby carriages. One
was large, richly upholstered and lavishly adorned. The other was
small, simple and shabby.
“Which of those two carriages is more beautiful?” the sage

asked. “I do not understand the question,” the disciple replied. “Clearly,
the larger one is the more beautiful. There is no comparison. Am I
wrong?”
“I am not sure,” said the sage, “but I suspect you may be.” He
strode over to the carriages and peeked inside.
“Just as I suspected,” he declared. “I heard a cry emanating

from the smaller one, but the larger one is strangely still. I thought it
might be empty, and indeed, it is. Without a child inside, a carriage is
nothing, no matter how richly it is adorned. Beauty is always measured
by the essence within.”
In our own lives, we cannot let ourselves be distracted by the

glitter and gleam of superficiality. Contemporary society is adept at
creating alluring exteriors that draw and entice, but what do we
discover when we get there? More often than not, the interior is empty.
It is all form and no substance. Better that we should focus on those
aspects of life that are not only pleasing to the eye but also fulfilling to
the heart, the mind and the spirit. Only these things deliver lasting
satisfaction.
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PURIM
Behind the Purim Mask

Teenage Jewish boys dressed as gorillas or past presidents
dance in the streets. Younger boys wear costumes and masks identifying
them as either Mordechai or Haman or Achashverosh. And of course,
every little girl is dressed up in a Queen Esther masquerade. Once again
we are celebrating the supremely joyous festival of Purim - but why all the
masquerades?
The very name of this festival - Purim - also leads us to ask: What
does this mean, and what is its significance? The Megillah tells us that the
name derives from Haman’s having thrown lots, purim, to determine the
fate of the Jewish people. This seems very perplexing. Why is this festival,
which celebrates the miraculous deliverance of the Jewish people from
the threat of total annihilation, named for a seemingly minor detail like the
casting of lots?
Further on in the Megillah (9:27) we read, “The Jews upheld and

accepted upon themselves, and on their offspring and all their adherents.”
Our Sages infer from the words “the Jews upheld and accepted upon
themselves” that “the Jews upheld what they had previously accepted.”
The Jewish people had stood at Mount Sinai a thousand years before,
and they had accepted the Torah directly from Hashem. But there had
always been a small element of reservation in their commitment to the
Torah. In the aftermath of the miracle of Purim, however, they cast all their
earlier reservations to the winds and reaffirmed their acceptance of the
Torah in a new spirit of love and enthusiasm. What was so significant
about the miracle of Purim that it inspired such an outpouring of love for
Hashem, even more so than at the spectacular revelations at Mount
Sinai?
The answer lies in the very ordinariness of the miracle of Purim.

There were no splitting seas, no smoking mountains, no thunder and
lightning, no celestial visions or manifestations. There was only the hand
of the Creator micromanaging events down to the smallest detail,
manipulating the affairs of state in Persia to bring about the deliverance of
His chosen people in a seemingly natural manner. The divine providence
was concealed but exceedingly active and this inspired a spontaneous
outpouring of love from the Jewish people. Why?
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Moadim: Purim
Let us consider for a moment the following two scenarios: A poor
man knocks on a rich man’s door and asks for a meal. “Come in,” says the
rich man. “Have a seat. You’ll have something good to eat in a few
minutes.” He then calls the finest restaurant in town and orders the most
expensive meal on the menu. He puts a rush on the order and tells the
restaurant to charge it to American Express.
Another day, the same poor man knocks on the same rich man’s
door and asks for a meal once again. This time, the rich man invites him
into the kitchen and asks him to take a seat. He peels fresh vegetables to
make a pot of soup. He puts up a steak to broil and prepares several
delicious side dishes. Then he takes out a fresh loaf of warm bread and
slices it. When all the preparations are done, he places the meal in front of
the poor man.
In which case does the poor man feel better, more esteemed,
more loved? Without question, it is in the second case. By taking the
trouble to attend to all the details himself, the rich man shows his affection
and concern for the poor man. And the poor man, in turn, is inspired to
feel a much stronger gratitude and affection for his benefactor.
Hashem could quite easily have sent down lightning bolts from the
heavens to strike down Haman and all the other oppressors of the Jewish
people. But instead, He chose to take the trouble, so to speak, of
manipulating ordinary events to affect their miraculous deliverance. The
Jewish people were stunned by the Creator’s display of transcendent love
for His people, and in turn, they were inspired to respond with their own
outpouring of love and a renewed acceptance of the Torah without any
reservations whatsoever.
This is the significance of the purim, the lots. Lots represent

randomness and unpredictability. They are a denial of divine providence in
the smallest details of life. Haman’s denial of Hashem was manifest in his
reliance on lots, and this gave him the audacity to attempt to destroy the
Jewish people. But by their miraculous deliverance, the Jewish people
saw the hand of Hashem in the very smallest details, and this realization
was established at the heart of the celebrations for all future time.
For this reason, as well, many of the traditions of Purim symbolize

concealment - the masquerades, the sweet cores of the hamantaschen.
No matter how bleak things may appear on the outside, we can rest
assured that underneath the hand of Hashem is guiding everything with
divine wisdom and benevolence.
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Lots of Joy
Two and a half thousand years ago is a very long time, and
Persia is very far away. Nonetheless, the dramatic events that took
place in that distant place at that distant time are still celebrated with
undiminished joy by Jewish people the world over. The festival is
called Purim, and it is characterized by merriment, masquerades and
an exhilarating joy unequaled at any other time of the year.
Two and a half thousand years ago, the Jewish people reached
the lowest point of their history since leaving Egypt nearly one
thousand years before. The Holy Temple in Jerusalem was razed to
the ground. The city and the land lay in ruins. The kingdom was no
more, and its people were carried off into captivity. Fifty years later, a
Persian minister named Haman, a man of Amalekite descent, paid the
King of Persia a large sum of money for the right to exterminate the
Jewish people once and for all. The situation seemed hopeless. But
fortuitously, the new Queen of Persia was a secret Jew, and she
cleverly engineered Haman’s downfall. The Jews then rose up against
their oppressors and slaughtered them, and disaster was averted.
So how do we characterize this great deliverance? Do we give

it a name that will memorialize Haman’s downfall? Or perhaps the
victorious Jewish uprising? Not at all. It is called Purim in
remembrance of the lottery (pur is the Persian word for lot) that
determined the date on which Haman would exterminate the Jews.
The questions are obvious. Why is the festival named for such
a seemingly minor aspect of the entire harrowing episode? Why does
this festival warrant a more exuberant outpouring of joy than all
others? Why does masquerade play such a prominent role in the
Purim festivities?
The commentators explain that the miracle of Purim had the

most profound significance for the future of the Jewish people. Unlike
the Exodus, the miraculous deliverance of the Jewish people from
Haman’s genocidal plot was not accompanied by supernatural
phenomena. Rivers did not turn to blood. The sea did not split. The
Divine Presence did not appear on smoldering mountaintops. In fact,
the Name of the Almighty does not even appear in the Book of Esther,
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which chronicles the Purim story. Yet this is the very message of
Purim, that the seemingly natural course of events actually conceals
the guiding hand of Providence.
Historically, the Amalekites had always sought to disrupt the

special relationship between the Creator and His chosen people. They
were determined to prove that the Creator only intervenes with
supernatural manifestations, and that human affairs are otherwise
governed by random happenstance and the designs and machinations
of man.
Haman was the supreme expression of that philosophy, plotting

and scheming to turn the tide of natural events against the Jewish
people. But ultimately, an extraordinary turnaround in natural events
caused his downfall. The king, in a drunken stupor, orders the
execution of his queen, and she is replaced by a secret Jew. A palace
plot against the king is uncovered by a Jewish nobleman. And
suddenly, disaster turns to triumph. Clearly, the hand of Providence
had guided these developments and not abandoned the Jewish people
to the mercy of random events.
What could be more encouraging to the embattled Jewish

people through the ages than the knowledge that Hashem would never
forsake them? What could bring them more exhilarating joy than the
knowledge that even the insignificant, seemingly random events are
actually controlled and guided by the loving hand of Hashem?
Therefore, our Sages chose to name the festival Purim,

indicating that even a simple roll of the dice is not determined by a
random luck of the draw. For the same reason, we frolic in
masquerade, indicating that all the world is a masquerade under which
nothing exists but the will of Hashem.
In our own lives, we all fall victim to the vicissitudes of life at

one time or another, and it is hard not to become disheartened or even
depressed. Let us, however, stop and think for a moment. What
exactly gets us down when we run into a brick wall? Surely, it is the
sense of utter futility and hopelessness, the thought that all our efforts
are useless against an overwhelming world. But if we reflect on the
message of Purim, we will understand that we are in the hands of our
loving Father in Heaven, and that in the blink of an eye, our fortunes
can turn completely around.
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A Fistful of Flour
If vengeance is sweet, as the old saying goes, then Haman
must have been licking his fingers. Ever since Mordechai had refused
to bow down to him, Haman had thirsted for revenge, and now it was
at hand. He had paid ten thousand talents of silver into the coffers of
King Ahasuerus for the rights to exterminate all the Jews of Persia lay
in his hands, and now nothing stood in the way of his evil designs.
But first Haman wanted to gloat, to savor his moment of victory

to the utmost. And so, the Midrash tells us, he went on a tour of the
Jewish quarter of the capital city of Shushan. The word of the
murderous decree had already spread among the Jewish people, and
Haman wanted to see their consternation and despair with his own
eyes. He wanted them to see them look upon their tormentor, helpless
to prevent their annihilation.
Meanwhile, Mordechai had also been busy with his

preparations. He assembled the young men of Shushan, and together,
they devoted themselves to study and prayer in order to ward off the
evil decree. When Haman arrived, Mordechai was studying the laws of
the minchah offering with his young disciples. When he saw Haman,
he declared defiantly, “One fistful of the minchah offering will
counteract all your thousands of silver talents! We will prevail, not you!”
Two questions immediately present themselves. One, why was

he studying the laws of the minchah offering at this time? Two, how
would the minchah offering serve as a countermeasure to Haman’s
designs? Let us look into this week’s Torah reading for a clue. When
the Torah describes the other Temple offerings, it refers to “a person”
bringing them. Here, however, the Torah speaks about “a soul” who
brings a minchah. Why is this so?
The commentators explain that the minchah is the simplest of

all the offerings. It consists of flour, oil and frankincense. The one who
brings this offering approaches the Almighty not with the pride of a
person bringing a beautiful animal but with the brokenhearted humility
of a poor and simple person, an abject supplicant declaring his
unworthiness before the Master of the Universe. This is so precious to
the Almighty that He considers it as if the person has delivered his soul
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Moadim: Purim
to Him.
This is what Mordechai was saying to Haman. The simple fistful

of flour that represents the minchah offering is the symbol of the
special bond of devotion between the Jewish people and the Almighty.
When the Jewish people study the minchah offering and bring the
concept of the fistful of flour into their hearts, they become so enfolded
by the protection of the Almighty that no enemy can prevail against
them.
The family of a great sage made a lavish party for him on the
occasion of his eightieth birthday. All his children, grandchildren and
great-grandchildren came, each bearing a special gift. After the guests
had all left, the sage drank a glass of tea with one of his disciples near
the mountain of gifts.
“Which gift was the most precious?” asked the disciple. “The
rare books? The works of art? The luxurious garments?”
The sage shook his head. He rummaged through the gifts and
held up a makeshift hat constructed of sticks and paper. “This was
made by my five-year-old granddaughter,” he said. “She was not
showing me her generosity nor her cleverness nor her good taste. All
she was showing me was her love. That is the most precious of all.”
In our own lives, we need to penetrate the outer crust of our

affectations and focus on the soul that shines within each of us, the
spark of the divine that yearns to connect with its Creator. Admittedly,
this is a difficult thing to accomplish on a daily basis, but at least on
Purim, we must make a special effort. As we are swept up in the spirit
and revelry of the festival, let us dedicate this celebration to the
Almighty as a fistful of flour, as an expression of our love, humility and
overwhelming gratitude for all the blessings He has bestowed on us
despite our unworthiness. Let us say thank you with our very souls.
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PESACH
The Right Staff

The scene played itself out exactly as God had said it would.
Moses and Aaron walked in to Pharaoh’s palace and delivered to him
God’s message, “Let My people go!” But Pharaoh was not impressed.
Who were these people who presumed to give orders to the exalted
king of Egypt? “Show me a wonder for yourself!” he declared.
Aaron cast his staff to the ground, and before the astonished
eyes of Pharaoh and his ministers, the staff morphed into a slithering
serpent. Pharaoh signaled to his wizards, and they too cast their staffs
to the ground. Their staffs too morphed into serpents, duplicating
Aaron’s feat. But Aaron had the last word. His serpent reverted to its
original form as a staff and swallowed the serpents of the wizard.
The language of Pharaoh’s challenge is puzzling. “Show me a

wonder for yourself!” What did he mean by the words “for yourself”?
The situation called for a wonder for the Egyptians, not “for yourself.”
Furthermore, what was the point of performing a wonder that
Pharaoh’s wizards could easily duplicate?
The commentators see this entire scene was a dispute in a far

deeper symbolic form. The Jewish people, steeped in the degenerate
Egyptian culture, had already sunk to their lowest spiritual level ever.
In fact, at the splitting of the sea, which took place about a year later,
the angels wondered aloud why the Jews were being delivered and the
Egyptians drowned. “Both groups are idolaters!” the angels declared.
This was Pharaoh’s argument from the start. “Show me a wonder for
yourself.” Your people are so assimilated and enmeshed in our culture
that you are no longer capable of transcendence. Show me that you
are still retain an element of spirituality. Show me why wonders, those
transcendent phenomena, should be performed “for yourself.” Your
people are no better than the Egyptians.
Moses responded to this charge symbolically by having Aaron

cast his staff to the ground. A staff is a straight rod that connects two
polar extremities. It is represented by the purely linear Hebrew letter
vav, which means hook, implying the connective nature of the linear
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symbol. The essence of every Jew, his soul, his spirit, his conscience,
is the connection between the mundane and the divine, between
Heaven and the earth, the outer extremities of existence. Our mission
in life is to connect Heaven and earth, but when our symbolic staff is
placed in a polluted environment such as Egypt, it is transformed into a
serpent, the symbol of pure evil. In other words, argued Moses, the
Jewish people had fallen to such a low level through no fault of their
own.
Not so, Pharaoh countered. He ordered the wizards to cast

their staffs to the ground, and their staffs also became serpents. In
other words, the Egyptians might very well possess the same divine
spark within them when they are not under the influence of their
environment.
Then Aaron’s serpent reverted to a staff and devoured all the

Egyptians serpents. Even in the presence of so much evil, the Jewish
people retained the power to return to their spiritual purity and defeat
the forces of evil.
A young prince was playing in the fields with the children of the
royal servants. They were all splattered with mud and having a very
good time.
“Look at you!” shouted his exasperated tutor. “Don’t you know

you are a prince? Don’t you know that this sort of play is undignified?
Why, I can’t even tell the difference among you mud-covered urchins.”
“Don’t worry,” said the prince. “When I hear the king

approaching I remember who I am and I become every inch a prince
− although a temporarily muddy one.”
In our own lives, the strains and stresses of everyday life and
the allure of popular culture tend to drag us down from our natural
state of spiritual elevation. But we are nonetheless deeply rooted in the
hallowed traditions of our heritage. And when we hear the approach of
our Father in Heaven, the King of Kings, on the festival of Passover,
we are uplifted and inspired, and even if it is only for a short time, we
become once again the shining princes and princesses of His chosen
people.
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A Pledge of Allegiance
There’s something about the Passover Seder which touches the
hearts of all Jews, no matter their level of observance. Statistics show that
only 55% of American Jews attend a synagogue on Yom Kippur, yet over
70% celebrate the Passover Seder. How can this be explained? Why
would Jews who are totally removed from traditional Jewish observance
gather faithfully every year to commemorate the release of the Jewish
people from Egyptian bondage some three thousand years ago?
Perhaps we can find a clue to this puzzle in the very first of the
Ten Commandments. “I am Hashem your Lord, who brought you forth
from the land of Egypt,” Hashem declared from the smoldering peak of
Mount Sinai as He called upon the Jewish to have faith in Him. Clearly,
the awesome divinity revealed during the Exodus from Egypt was to
inspire faith in the hearts and minds of the Jewish people. But the
commentators are perplexed. Surely, the creation of heaven and earth
was a far more awesome display of divinity than the Exodus. Why then
didn’t Hashem expect the Jewish people to have faith in Him because of
creation?
The commentators offer a number of solutions. Some suggest that

although the creation of the world was certainly the most awesome
manifestation of the divine power it there were no mortal eyewitnesses to
the occasion. Someday, heretics and apostates might choose to deny that
it ever happened, and therefore, the creation is not sufficient grounds for
perfect faith in Hashem. The Exodus, however, was a great historical
event witnessed by millions of people, an event that could not be denied in
its own time nor for many years after. The Exodus, therefore, became
rooted in the national memory as an incontrovertible fact, and as such, it
forms a solid basis for faith in Hashem.
Other commentators take a different approach. Faith, they explain,

is more than an intellectual acknowledgment of the power of the Almighty
and an abiding belief in His mastery of the world. Faith is a very personal
feeling, a spiritual and emotional experience that is the foundation of our
personal relationship with our Creator. Faith is the understanding that
Hashem holds the entire world in His loving embrace, that He is the
Source of absolute benevolence, radiating goodness and kindness upon
us regardless of whether or not we have earned it. Once we root these
beliefs deep in our hearts, we will be carried on the wings of our faith to
the most transcendent levels of connection to Him.
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This then is why the Torah connects the commandment of faith to

the memory of the Exodus. The Jewish people in Egypt had slipped into
the basest idolatry and corruption, but Hashem’s divine gaze penetrated
to the core of goodness implanted in them by their holy forefathers. And
He lovingly gathered them in and brought them forth from bondage. This
is the memory that forms the foundation of faith in Jewish hearts, filling us
with assurance that our loving Father in Heaven will never forget or
abandon us.
Over the years and the centuries, this feeling has become deeply
ingrained in the national Jewish consciousness, and for all generations,
the story of the Exodus has become a source of solace and
encouragement for the Jewish people. And thus, the Passover Seder is
celebrated by nearly all Jews, regardless of their level of observance.
A country was invaded by an aggressor, who was routing the

defenders on all fronts. The situation was exceedingly desperate, and the
people looked to their king to save them from being conquered. The king
rallied his demoralized troops and counterattacked against the enemy.
With brilliant strategies and extraordinary courage, he dashed from one
battlefront to the other, gallantly leading the troops into battle and driving
the enemy away from his beleaguered people. After months of intense
fighting, the enemy was finally driven out, and the borders were once
again secure.
The people greeted the returning soldiers greeted enthusiastically.
They eagerly asked for details of the campaign, especially for stories
about the gallantry of their king.
“Do you know what impressed me most about our king?” one
soldier said. “We came into a city that had been besieged for a long time.
The devastation was terrible. The wounded and starving lay in the street
among the dead. The king wept at this sight, and he lifted one of the
wounded in his own arms and carried him to the hospital. This is the king
to whom I pledge my allegiance forever!”
In our own lives, as we celebrate the Passover Seder and lift our
glasses of wine to commemorate our liberation from bondage, let us
remember that in all times and all places our loving Father in Heaven is
watching over us. No matter how dark the future may seem, we are never
forgotten. Let us only resolve to face all our trials and tribulations with an
abiding faith in divine providence, and we will discover profound harmony
and tranquility in every moment of our existence.
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SHEVII SHEL PESACH
A Time to Sing
In their most desperate moments, with the turgid sea blocking
their way and the fearsome Egyptian chariots bearing down on them
from behind, the Jewish people saw the hand of the Almighty reach
down from the heavens and pull them to safety. Suddenly, the sea tore
itself asunder. Its waters rose up to form two towering walls and a dry
passageway n between, and thus they remained until the very least
Jewish child had passed through. Then they tumbled down upon the
pursuing Egyptians and sent them to a watery death.
In this moment of transcendent inspiration, the Jewish people

sang the exquisitely beautiful Shirah, a song of praise to Hashem for
his kindness and His magnificent miracles. “Then Moses and the
Jewish people sang,” the Torah declares. Only then, when they
witnessed the awesome revelation of the divine power did they lift their
voices in paeans of glory to Heaven.
But the question immediately arises. Only one week earlier, the
Jewish people had also witnessed manifestations of divine power such
as mankind had never seen. For months, they had watched the
Egyptians beset by the most supernatural plagues. They had seen
rivers turn to blood, frogs, locusts, hailstorms, the death of all the
firstborn of Egypt. These too were absolutely stunning miracles, which
ultimately forced Pharaoh and the Egyptians to capitulate and release
the Jewish people from bondage. Why then did they not sing Shirah as
they marched out of Egypt, free at last?
The commentators explain that in order for the Jewish people

to reach the exultant level that would inspire the singing of the Shirah
the feeling of liberation and deliverance had to be absolute, without the
slightest reservation. In Egypt, the Jewish people had witnessed the
subjugation of the Egyptians by the divine power of Hashem.
Nonetheless, they still viewed the Egyptians as a force to be reckoned
with, a powerful nation that had been overcome by an even more
powerful deity. In this sense, the liberation was not truly complete. The
Egyptians had been defeated, but they still exerted an aura of
domination and mastery in the perception of the Jewish people.
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Moadim: Shevii Shel Pesach
But after they walked through the sea to safety and saw the
battered corpses of the drowned Egyptians washed up on the shores
of the sea, they came to the realization that the domination of the
Egyptians had been no more than an illusion. They were powerless
pawns in the divine plan, and there was no point of being concerned
about them at all. Finally, they understood that Hashem alone controls
the world, and this stunning revelation inspired them to sing the Shirah.
A man was fleeing through the silent streets of the city in the
dead of night. A short distance behind, three thugs pounded after him.
They brandished weapons in their hands and shouted dire threats as
they ran. The man was more frightened than he had ever been in his
life, but he knew that if he would reach his father he would be safe. His
father would protect him.
The pursuers slowly gained on the man, but in the distance, he

could see his father beckoning to him. Faster, faster! A surge of hope
gave him renewed strength, but suddenly, he stumbled and fell.
Horrified, he looked behind him at the fast approaching thugs. Ahead,
his father was running towards him. But the distance was too great.
The man realized his life was about to come to an end was hopeless,
and he creamed at the top of his lungs.
A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and began to shake him.

“My son, my son, wake up,” said his father. “You have nothing to fear.
It was all a nightmare. There is no one here but me.”
In our own lives, we often find ourselves buffeted and

overwhelmed by the vicissitudes of living in this world. The hard
knocks all of us experience, in one way or another, can be very
discouraging and disheartening, and we may sometimes even begin to
lose hope. At times like these, it is worthwhile to remember the fugitive
slaves standing on the shores of the sea and singing Shirah to the
Creator. Even in our darkest hours, deliverance can come quickly and
with such totality, that we wonder what had come over us to be
discouraged in the first place.
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SHABBOS HAGADOL
Greatness Lies Within

There are a number of enormously popular questions which have
been addressed throughout the ages by just about everyone who has ever
lifted a pen to write commentary on the Torah and Judaism. Among these
is the rationale for the name we traditionally give to the Shabbos before
Pesach - Shabbos Hagadol, the Great Shabbos. Why is this Shabbos
different from every other Shabbos of the whole year? What gives it such
particular greatness?
Let us consider for a moment the mystical power of a Shabbos. It

is well known that many people who return to Judaism are drawn initially
by the mystical experience of spending Shabbos in an observant home.
What did they see there? They saw people dressed in their finest clothes,
sitting around a table covered with a white tablecloth and laid out with
gleaming dishes and steaming platters of food, candles glowing softly,
songs in the air and smiles on the faces. Certainly a very pleasant
tableau. But wherein lies its power to transform the observer, to make him
rethink his entire system of values and beliefs?
There is a famous story about Valentin Potocki, a young Polish

count who lived in the beginning of the eighteenth century. One Friday,
the count and his friends were out hunting on his estates when a sudden
snowstorm drove them to seek shelter in an inn owned by the count and
leased by a Jew.
The count and his friends were soon staggering drunk. “Moshke,
bring more vodka!” the count shouted to the Jewish innkeeper, using the
derogatory name given to Jewish concessionaires. “Moshke, bring more
food! Moshke, dance for me the way Jews dance on their holidays!”
Fearing the loss of his position, the innkeeper obediently obeyed
every demand for the entire afternoon, but as soon as darkness fell, he
was nowhere to be found. Roaring with frustration, the intoxicated count
went searching through the inn - until he found the Jewish innkeeper.
The laughingstock whom he and his friends had taunted all
afternoon was standing in front of glowing candelabra, wearing a clean,
dignified frock and surrounded by his family. He was holding a silver
goblet of wine in his hand and reciting the Kiddush. The count was literally
stunned. How could this be? How could that obsequious Jew who had
scurried about to fulfill each of his drunken demands have been
transformed into this royal figure that stood before him?
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Moadim: Shabbos Hagadol
The count decided to investigate Judaism. He traveled incognito to
Vienna, where he studied intensely and eventually converted to Judaism.
He returned to Vilna in disguise to live as a Jew, but he was discovered by
the authorities, arrested and burned at the stake. His ashes were gathered
by Jews who buried them, and put up the monument reading: “Count
Potocki - Ger Tzedek - Righteous Convert.”
What had the count seen that so transformed him? He saw the
Jew in his true state, defined by his spiritual status rather than his
mundane condition. He saw the Jew transcend the darkness of the corrupt
world by enveloping himself in the sanctified mantle called Shabbos. He
saw the Jew illuminated with the inner light of his neshamah and revealed
as the prince he truly is. He saw a supernatural spectacle, but one so
familiar to those who experience it every week that they sometimes forget
how supernatural it really is. For someone who experiences it for the first
time, however, it is a revelation.
In Egypt, the enslavement of the Jews had not only deprived them
of their liberty. It had demeaned them, contaminated them, robbed them of
their self-esteem, of their exalted self-image as Hashem’s chosen people
and the descendants of the Patriarchs. But on the Shabbos before
Pesach, they were already emerging from this condition. And when, in full
public view, they obeyed Hashem’s command and tied up the sacrificial
lambs, which the Egyptians worshipped as gods, they finally broke free of
the yoke of spiritual bondage. In this condition, the experience of the
Shabbos once again brought out their inner essence and revealed their
true identity as great princes of the spirit.
In our own lives, we can use this awareness of this supernatural

phenomenon to enhance our appreciation of the Shabbos. Let us
remember that when we celebrate the Shabbos in the glow of the candles
and the sacred melodies, the wine and the food, in the company of our
friends and family, we illuminate ourselves with the inner glow of our
spiritual essence, and we are uplifted to the status of great princes and
princesses - which we indeed are.
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SHAVUOS
Payment in Full
She had once been a princess, privileged and pampered all her
life, but now Ruth was reduced to scrounging in Boaz’z fields for a few
stray stalks of barley. When Boaz saw the destitution and poverty of
this righteous convert, he told her, “You shall be rewarded in full from
Hashem, under whose wings you have come.”
What is the meaning of “rewarded in full”?
The commentators explain that the extent of the reward for any
deed we do is always in direct proportion to the value we attach to it. If
you do a mitzvah because they feel obligated to do so. Or if you feel it
is worthwhile to take off a little time from your daily schedule and
spend it on a visit to the synagogue or a religious ritual. Very little of
the soul is invested in such observances. The reward is, therefore,
essentially physical in nature, commensurate with the deed. But if your
motivation emanates from the depths of your soul, if you are imbued
with a burning desire to form an eternal bond with the Creator, then
your reward is also eternal and limitless.
When Boaz saw that Ruth, the daughter of the King of Moab,
was willing to turn her back on all the riches and glory of her exalted
position and pick stray stalks in the field in order to connect with
Hashem, he knew that her reward would be limitless and she would
receive payment in full.
In this light, we can discern yet another dimension in the

connection between Shavuos, the Festival of the Giving of the Torah,
and the Book of Ruth, which is read on Shavuos. As we renew our
bond with the Creator which was formed at the foot of Mount Sinai, the
recollection of Ruth’s incredible devotion serves to inspire us rise
above the distractions of life and embrace Him with all our hearts and
souls.
A pious man stopped for the night in a roadside inn. In the

dining room, several rowdy merchants were smoking, playing cards
and laughing uproariously at each other’s witticisms.
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Moadim: Shavuos
One of the card players caught sight of the pious traveler.
“Welcome,” he said. “Would you like to join our game?”
“No, thank you,” said the pious man. “I don’t gamble.” “Then
would you like to buy some of my beautiful merchandise?” asked the
card player.
“I have no money.”
“Well, what if I sell you my share in the world to come?” said
the card player with a wink.
“I can only spare a few small coins,” the pious traveler replied.
“Fine, I accept,” said the card player. “It’s a deal.”
That night, the card player tossed and turned but could not fall
asleep. What had he done? How could he have sold his share in the
world to come for a pittance? Had he indeed fallen to such a low level?
He resolved to abandon gambling and turn his life around. In the
morning, he would buy back his share in the world to come.
“I’m very sorry,” said the pious traveler the next morning. “I will
not sell it back to you for a few small coins. I want payment in full.”
“How much do you want?” asked the former card player. The
pious traveler named an exorbitant sum. The former card player was
incensed. They argued back and forth and finally agreed to seek the
guidance of a great sage who happened to be staying in the inn at the
time.
“I have to agree with the other gentleman,” said the sage to the
former card player. “He is not being unfair at all. When he bought your
share in the world to come you were an irreverent, dissolute card
player, and it really wasn’t worth more than the few small coins he paid
for it. But now that you turned over a new leaf and care so much about
your share in the world to come, it suddenly has immeasurable value.
Why should he sell it to you for a few small coins?”
In our own lives, we all have numerous obligations, priorities

and goals which call for our attention. But we must never let the
business of everyday life distract us from the ultimate purpose of our
existence. Everything we do only has lasting value if it facilitates and
enhances our spiritual growth, if it reinforces our bond with the Creator.
Only then will we be rewarded both in this world and the next. Only
then will we receive payments in full.
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Thunder and Lightning

The world had never seen anything like it, nor would it see
anything like it ever again. As the Jewish people gathered at the foot of
Mount Sinai watched with breathless awe, a thick layer of clouds
descended over the mountain. Jagged streaks of lightning rent the
heavens asunder, and the sounds of crashing thunderbolts were so
earsplittingly loud that the people trembled uncontrollably. Sheets of
fire suddenly engulfed the mountaintop, and the entire mountain
quaked and discharged thick smoke like a colossal furnace. The eerie
blast of a ram’s horn grew louder and louder. And then God spoke
from the mountaintop and pronounced the Ten Commandments.
What was the purpose of this spectacular display of special

effects? Wouldn’t the experience of actually hearing God speak have
been awesome enough? Didn’t God’s voice in itself inspire sufficient
fear and reverence in the hearts of the people without the addition of
artificial external stimuli?
The commentators explain that the spectacle at Mount Sinai

was meant to serve as a metaphor for the future conditions under
which the Jewish people would often attempt to study Torah and live
by it. It would not take much courage to study the Torah and observe
its commandments during tranquil and prosperous times. Who would
turn away from the ultimate spiritual fulfillment in the absence of
distractions and obstructions?
But rarely if ever does humankind experience such placid

times. The world is always in upheaval, torn by wars and migrations,
plagued by poverty and deprivation, struggling under oppression and
exploitation and, in the best case, distracted by the material mirages of
prosperity.
Where does a person find the presence of mind to study Torah

and live by it under such daunting conditions? In the memory of the
stand at Mount Sinai when the voice of God penetrated through the
cacophony of the thunder and lightning and the raging fire, and the
people heard His words. This is the only way Torah is absorbed, by the
extreme effort to overcome external distractions and internal emotional
turmoil, by a dedicated perseverance to penetrate to the divine
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Moadim: Shavuos
essence of the Torah and through it to connect with God.
A young man traveled to a distant city to study with a famous

sage. After many days on the road, he arrived at his destination, a
large white building on a sun-drenched street. He walked up to the
front door and tried to open it, but it was locked. He knocked and
knocked for a few minutes, but there was no response. He walked
around to the side of the building where he found another door. It too
was locked. Here too his loud knocking elicited no response.
Through the open windows high up on the wall, he could hear

the sounds of excited young voices engaged in heated arguments and
discussions. He called out to them, but no one heard him. He smelled
cooking food and followed the trail of the odors to another window,
which was surely a kitchen. Here too he called out at the top of his
lungs, but no one came to the window.
Under the kitchen window, he noticed a coal grate. He pulled at

it, and it came away in his hands. Gingerly, he lowered himself through
the coal grate into the cellar. Covered with soot, he groped his way
through the shadows and found the stairway to the upper floors.
The sage was waiting for him at the top of the stairway.
“Welcome, my son,” he said. “We have been waiting for you. I am
happy to see that you have found your way here.”
“If you were waiting for me,” said the young man, “why was the
door locked? Why didn’t anyone respond to my knocking or my calls?”
The sage smiled. “It was a test, my son. If you had not
discovered the coal grate and clambered through the cellar, you could
not have been a worthy member of our group.”
In our own lives, the pressures of everyday life often force us to

forgo the opportunities to study or perform various other good deeds.
Someday, when things settle down, we tell ourselves, we will devote
more time to our spiritual growth, but the time is not yet right. But if we
wait for this tranquil time, it may never come. Distractions are never
lacking. Life is always full of thunder and lightning. It takes
perseverance to penetrate to the truth.
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Ohr Shalom
A Kiss Is Not Enough

Every time we read the story of Ruth, we are once again inspired
by the extraordinary loyalty and noble spirit of this former Moabite
princess. Naomi, a Jewish woman living in Moab, decides to return to
Eretz Yisrael after losing her husband, her two sons and all her wealth.
Her two widowed daughters-in-law, Arpah and Ruth, both of them Moabite
princesses, want to accompany her, but Naomi insists that they return.
Arpah accedes to her mother-in-law’s wishes, but Ruth is steadfast in her
loyalty. Together, Naomi and Ruth return to Eretz Yisrael, where Ruth
ultimately marries Boaz and becomes the ancestress of the Davidic
dynasty. Arpah returns to Moab and becomes the ancestress of Goliath.
How and when was Ruth’s loyalty expressed? Her famous words
immediately come to mind: “Do not press me to abandon you, to turn back
and leave you behind. Wherever you go, I shall go. Wherever you sleep, I
shall sleep. Your people are my people, your Lord is my Lord.”
But if we look into the Book of Ruth, we find that Ruth’s loyalty had
already become evident even before she spoke these famous words. We
read: “And Arpah kissed her mother-in-law, and Ruth embraced her. And
[Naomi] said, ‘Behold, your sister-in-law is returning to her people and her
gods. Follow your sister-in-law.’ And Ruth said, ‘Do not press me to
abandon you . . .’”
How did Naomi know Arpah had decided to return but not Ruth?
The clue seems to have been in their different reactions to Naomi’s appeal
that they return home. Arpah kissed her, but Ruth embraced her. The
Talmud (Sotah 42b) tells us that Goliath was vanquished by David
because the Holy Blessed One said, ‘Let the child of the one who kissed
be vanquished by the one who embraced!’ Clearly, there was a great
difference between Arpah’s kiss and Ruth’s embrace, a difference with
important ramifications for the future.
How can we define this difference between a kiss and an

embrace, which instantly told Naomi that Arpah had decided to return but
Ruth was determined to remain?
Perhaps we can answer this question with another question. The

Talmud tells us that when the Jewish people assembled at Mount Sinai to
receive the Torah, Hashem uprooted the mountain and held it over their
heads. “If you accept the Torah, all is well,” He said, “but if you don’t, this
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Moadim: Shavuos
will be your burial place.” The question immediately arises: Why did He
find it necessary to do this? The Jewish people had just accepted the
Torah unconditionally with the immortal declaration of “Naaseh venishma!
We will do, and we will hear!” Why was it necessary to force them to do
something they had already agreed to do?
The commentators explain that Hashem was teaching the Jewish

people a critical lesson that would carry them through all future
generations. If the Torah had been accepted only because of an
emotional impulse, there would always have been a danger that, at some
future time, the emotion would dissipate - and the commitment along with
it. Therefore, Hashem wanted to impress upon the Jewish people that
Torah was the very breath of life, that without it they were as good as in a
“burial place.” The tremendous inspiration of the moment was to their
everlasting credit, of course, but the perpetual bond to the Torah could
only be forged by a strong fundamental attachment based on need in
addition to emotion.
This is where a kiss differs from an embrace. A kiss is a glancing

touch, an incomplete physical contact which expresses strong inner
emotion but from a slight distance; a kiss does not show the fusion of two
souls. An embrace, however, is an expression of total attachment, of two
hearts that beat as one, that cannot live without each other. When Arpah
kissed Naomi, she showed that her feelings for her mother-in-law were
purely emotional, and Naomi immediately understood that these tender
emotions would not lead her to accept the sacrifices that lay ahead. But
Ruth hugged her mother-in-law, showing a close attachment, a
dependency, and Naomi understood she would not be so easily
persuaded to return home. Nevertheless, she tried to send her away, and
Ruth responded with her celebrated declaration of undying loyalty.
In our own lives, we sometimes find our observances lacking in

zeal and enthusiasm. But if we reflect on the awesome power of the Torah
to transform, elevate and give meaning to our lives, we can recapture that
enthusiasm. As we prepare to receive the Torah this Shavuos, let us do
more than pay lip service to the Torah. Let us recognize that our lives
have lasting, eternal value only through the Torah. And if we embrace the
Torah with all the devotion and dedication in our hearts, we will surely be
rewarded with a feeling of total connection and fulfillment.
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TISHAH B’AV
The Jewish Way of Crying

According to the conventional wisdom, time heals all wounds. The
pain passes, the memory fades, and we go on with our lives. But two
thousand years have passed since the destruction of the Second Temple
in Jerusalem, and the mourning has not abated. Every year on the Ninth
of Av, we remember and weep for our lost world. In fact, the Book of
Lamentations from which we read tells the story of the destruction of the
First Temple, five hundred years farther back into the swirling mists of
antiquity.
What is the peculiar power of this national mourning that resists

the erosions of time? And what is its purpose? Early Jewish sources
report that similar questions were posed to the Prophet Jeremiah:
A Greek philosopher visited Jerusalem shortly after the destruction

of the First Temple. As he walked among the heaps of charred rubble, he
heard the sounds of weeping from the direction of the hill which dominated
the ruined city. A man dressed in sackcloth was sitting on a stone and
looking up at the devastated Temple, his body convulsed by wracking
sobs, his radiant face contorted and streaked with tears.
“Are you the famous Jeremiah?” asked the philosopher. The
crying man looked at the Greek. “I am,” he said. “If you are indeed a sage
and a prophet,” said the philosopher, “why are you crying over sticks and
stones? And besides, what is the sense of crying for something that is
already over and done with?”
“Listen,” said Jeremiah, “do you have difficult philosophical
problems which you were unable to resolve?”
“Indeed I do,” said the philosopher. “Tell me what they are.”
The philosopher posed all his questions, and Jeremiah answered
each and every one to his complete satisfaction.
“All the wisdom with which I answered your questions,” Jeremiah
concluded, “I drew from those ‘sticks and stones’ you so derided.”
“Truly amazing!” said the philosopher. “And how about my second
question? What was the point of crying over the past?”
“That is something I cannot reveal to you,” said Jeremiah.
The commentators explain that Jeremiah declined to respond to

the second question because the Greek philosopher would not have
understood the answer. It would have required a particularly Jewish
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Moadim: Tishah B’av
perspective, a frame of mind diametrically opposed to the Greek mindset.
What was the answer? Let us look into Jeremiah’s own words as
he describes his own awful suffering in Lamentations: “I am the man who
experienced pain through the rod of His wrath. It was me that He led off
into a darkness without light. Only me did He strike back and forth with His
hand all though the day . . .” Yet suddenly, in the midst of his long litany of
tribulation, a note of hope suddenly bursts through. “Yet this remains in
my heart, and therefore, I can hope. That Hashem’s kindnesses they are
not ended, that His mercies are not eliminated. They are renewed every
morning, how great is Your faithfulness!” Hashem’s kindness has not
stopped, it has only gone into concealment. Even in the depths of despair,
Jeremiah grasps at the slender but inextinguishable ray of hope. This
terrible calamity that had befallen the Jewish people did not mean His
kindnesses had come to an end, that the future was forever sealed. The
road back might be long and difficult, but it was open and unobstructed.
Crying over the past connects us to what we have lost and makes
it possible to regain it in the future. It reaffirms the value of our special
relationship with our Creator and reassures us that we will be able to
repair it. But all this is predicated on a profound and transcendent faith in
Hashem, far beyond the conception of even the great Greek philosophers.
When the Egyptian princess found the infant Moses crying in the
bulrushes at the riverside, she said, “This must be a Jewish child!” But the
question arises: During that particular time, the decree of drowning had
been extended to include all male infants in Egypt, Jewish or not. How
then did she know the child was Jewish? A sage of the previous
generation explains homiletically that she identified him by the sound of
his crying. Jewish crying is never a capitulation to despair. It is a blend of
sorrow and hope.
This coming week, when we absorb the Tishah b’Av spirit of

mourning for the destroyed Temples, when we deny ourselves food and
drink, when we sit on the ground and read about what we had and what
we lost, when we grieve for our fallen ancestors, let us remember that we
are not meant to shed tears of despair. Rather, our tears are meant to
connect us to the glorious past and keep it alive in our hearts. They are
meant to serve as important steps on the long road of recovery. Let us
offer up our tears to the Creator in a spirit of hope and prayer for our
speedy and complete redemption.
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Creative Mourning
The embers were still smoldering. The rubble that had once
been the magnificent Holy Temple in Jerusalem still bore the marks of
the Roman battering rams and sledgehammers. The echoes of the war
cries and the screams of the innocent still hung in the tortured air. It
was a time of excruciating tragedy, of abysmal despair. And at this
very time, the Sages declared, “Whoever mourns for the destruction of
Jerusalem will merit seeing it rebuilt!”
What an amazing statement! How can the reward for a simple

act of mourning be so very great? Moreover, hasn’t history brought this
assurance of the Sages into question? Two thousand years have
passed since the destruction of Jerusalem. Countless generations
have shed bitter tears over our terrible national loss, yet none of them
has witnessed the rebuilding of Jerusalem. What about the promise of
the Sages?
Let us consider the traditional practices the Sages prescribed

for the seven-day Shiva period of mourning for a close relative. The
mourners sit on low stools as a steady stream of people comes by to
console them. What is the point of this custom? Why force mourners to
brood over their loss and stew in their misery for seven days? Wouldn’t
it be better to distract them with milder, gentler thoughts?
The Sages, however, considered it best for the mourner to go

through the seven-day consolation rite of the Shiva. Every close
relationship is at its root a bonding of two souls that transcends the
physical and functions on a purely spiritual level. In fact, the two souls
become so attached to each other that separation leaves a gaping
void. This exceedingly painful void expresses itself in the feeling called
grief. We do not truly grieve for the departed soul, which is at peace,
but for ourselves, our pain, the void in our souls. When we console the
mourners during the Shiva period we reach out to them in friendship
and compassion, and our souls connect with theirs in a deepened
bond which somewhat alleviates the void left by their bereavement.
The Holy Temple in Jerusalem was far more than a magnificent

edifice, which it certainly was. It was the symbol and catalyst and
conduit of the profound bond between the Jewish people and Hashem.
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Moadim: Tishah B’av
It was more a spiritual concept than a physical structure. The
destruction of the Temple is a spiritual loss rather than an architectural
loss. We no longer have this sublime point of contact with Hashem,
and this has left us with an aching void in our hearts. But when we
grieve for the destruction and turn to Hashem for solace, the act of
mourning itself creates a new and deepened bond with Hashem,
bringing us ever closer to Him. And thus, when we grieve for
Jerusalem, we rebuild its essence in our hearts.
A man once went to pay a Shiva call on a close friend whose

wife had passed away. In his mind, he reviewed what he would say to
his friend by way of consolation for his terrible loss. He considered
which mutual memories to evoke and which anecdotes to relate in
order to alleviate his friend’s pain and grief.
When he came through the door and saw his friend sitting on a
low stool, his shirt ripped in mourning, the man was overcome with
emotion. He sat down on one of the chairs near his friend, but he could
not bring himself to say a single word.
After many long minutes of sitting together in pained silence,
the man rose, mumbled the traditional words of consolation and left.
Some time later, the man approached his friend. “I want to
apologize,” he said.
“Whatever for?”
“For being quite useless to you during your time of need,” said
the man. “I had so many things I had prepared to say to you, but when
it came right down to it, I couldn’t say a word.”
The man’s friend smiled. “On the contrary. Your emotional
silence meant more to me than any of the other visits I received.”
In our own lives, we have but a passing awareness of our

national loss, of the deprivations of being in exile. Certainly, in our own
affluent, enlightened times we do not feel the oppression of exile that
other generations have experienced. But the deprivations are
nonetheless real. We are ensnared by materialistic values, deprived of
the fountainhead of spirituality that the Temple represented. We are
distant from Hashem. But on Tishah b’Av, when we withdraw from
other pursuits and focus completely on the destruction of the Temple,
we have the opportunity to recreate a microcosm of that spiritual
marvel in our very own hearts.
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PARASHAS LECH LECHA 30

PARASHAS CHAYEI SARAH 46

PARASHAS SHEMOS 108

PARASHAS VA’EIRA 114

PARASHAS YISRO 132

PARASHAS MISHPATIM 138

PARASHAS TERUMAH 144

PARASHAS TETZAVEH 150

PARASHAS KI SISA 154

PARASHAS VAYAKHEL 162

PARASHAS PIKUDEI 168

PARASHAS VAYIKRA 174

PARASHAS SHEMINI 186

PARASHAS TAZRIA 192

PARASHAS METZORA 200

PARASHAS ACHAREI MOS 202

PARASHAS KEDOSHIM 208

PARASHAS EMOR 212

PARASHAS BEHAR 220

PARASHAS BECHUKOSAI 226

PARASHAS BAMIDBAR 234

PARASHAS NASO 240

PARASHAS BEHA’ALOSCHA 250

PARASHAS SHELACH 260

PARASHAS KORACH 270

PARASHAS CHUKAS 280

PARASHAS BALAK 286

PARASHAS MATTOS 300

PARASHAS MATTOS-MASEI 306

PARASHAS DEVARIM 310

PARASHAS VA’ESCHANAN 314

PARASHAS EIKEV 324

PARASHAS RE’EH 334

PARASHAS SHOFTIM 342

PARASHAS KI SAVO 358

PARASHAS NITZAVIM 366

PARASHAS VAYEILECH 376

PARASHAS HAAZINU 380

PARASHAS VEZOS HABERACHAH 384

ROSH HASHANAH 388

SHABBOS SHUVAH 394

YOM KIPPUR 396

SHEMINI ATZERES 404

SHEVII SHEL PESACH 422

SHABBOS HAGADOL 424

TISHAH B’AV 432

A Springtime of the Spirit

The prelude to this wonderful time was Simchas Torah, when

Let us think for a moment about a suspension bridge. Many of

The living world around us is, of course, infinitely more

Simchas Torah is our crowning celebration of the Torah. On

Our joy is complete. Not only is the Torah our passport to

The nip of autumn may be in the air, but as we begin to read

Let Us Make Man

The Sages explain that Hashem was consulting with the

The questions, however, continue to baffle. The angels were

The commentators explain that the creation of mankind was

How then do we evaluate a person? We see if he is attuned to

Therefore, it was in the context of the creation of man that

A young lady came to seek the advice of a great sage. “I am so