Ohr Shalom

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OHR SHALOM Rabbi Naftali Reich on the Parashah and Moadim

TABLE OF CONTENTS BEREISHIS

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PARASHAS BEREISHIS A Springtime of the Spirit Let Us Make Man Wholeness Is Within

16 16 18 20

PARASHAS NOACH The Sign of the Olive The Roots of Evil Wine and Window Washers Joint Efforts

22 22 24 26 28

PARASHAS LECH LECHA The Ordeal of Departure Cloudy Vision The Kindness Factor Of Threads and Shoelaces

30 30 32 34 36

PARASHAS VAYEIRA Behind the Open Door They Went Together Scattered Apples First Impressions

38 38 40 42 44

PARASHAS CHAYEI SARAH The Completion of Life The Gateway to Eden A Match Made in Heaven The Edges of the Postcard

46 46 48 50 52

PARASHAS TOLDOS A Question of Honor The Spur of the Moment Digging for Water Esau’s Tears

54 54 56 58 60

PARASHAS VAYEITZEI Bread Is for Eating Body and Soul Fourteen Sleepless Years Asleep on Hallowed Ground

62 62 64 66 68

PARASHAS VAYISHLACH The Roots of Strength Heart to Heart Diminishing Returns A Few Small Jugs

70 70 72 74 76

PARASHAS VAYEISHEV The Telltale Sign Freeing the Spirit Of Grapes and Pastries

78 78 80 82

PARASHAS MIKEITZ Who Is the Real Mother? Behind the Gray Blur A Change of Heart

84 84 86 88

PARASHAS VAYIGASH An Escort for Life Tears of Joy Missing Persons First Things First

90 90 92 94 96

PARASHAS VAYECHI A Father’s Blessing Stolen Crafts A Glimpse of the Future A Blessing in Disguise

98 98 100 102 104

SHEMOS

107

PARASHAS SHEMOS Anatomy of a Fire The Strife Factor Leadership Qualities

108 108 110 112

PARASHAS VA’EIRA Coming to Terms with Exile Thanking the River Don’t Flog the Frog

114 114 116 118

PARASHAS BO A Matter of Time Choose Light The Stroke of Midnight

120 120 122 124

PARASHAS BESHALACH The Gateway to Freedom An Eloquent Silence A Cry from the Heart

126 126 128 130

PARASHAS YISRO To Capture a Feeling Last But Not Least Spontaneous Consensus

132 132 134 136

PARASHAS MISHPATIM The Slavery Riddle Old Memories Gilded Bondage

138 138 140 142

PARASHAS TERUMAH Asking the Impossible Temples Without Walls A Heart of Wood

144 144 146 148

PARASHAS TETZAVEH Induced Holiness Knock Before You Enter

150 150 152

PARASHAS KI SISA Strength in Numbers Flaming Desire Dazzled by the Light The Rewards of Sacrifice

154 154 156 158 160

PARASHAS VAYAKHEL Don’t Roll Up Your Sleeves Home Is Where the Soul Is Covering the Deficit

162 162 164 166

PARASHAS PIKUDEI A House of Hearts A Time to Wait

168 168 170

VAYIKRA PARASHAS VAYIKRA The Salt Solution A Man from Among Us

173 174 174 176

PARASHAS TZAV Gratitude Unlimited Grasp the Moment Don’t Cut Corners Humility Breeds Respect

178 178 180 182 184

PARASHAS SHEMINI The Eloquence of Silence Forbidden Waters Genteel Ambiguity

186 186 188 190

PARASHAS TAZRIA A Matter of Life and Death Skin Deep Surrounded by Mirrors Big Black Holes

192 192 194 196 198

PARASHAS METZORA Plants and Wheelchairs

200 200

PARASHAS ACHAREI MOS Nothing Wasted A Matter of Opinion The Crossroads of Life

202 202 204 206

PARASHAS KEDOSHIM A Critical Difference The Secret of Clairvoyance

208 208 210

PARASHAS EMOR Give Me Liberty The Power of Connection 49 Days, 11 Hours Over the Top

212 212 214 216 218

PARASHAS BEHAR A Place of Refuge Enough Is Never Enough Small Coincidences

220 220 222 224

PARASHAS BECHUKOSAI Familiarity Breeds Respect Intrinsic Rewards Remember the Land

226 226 228 230

BAMIDBAR

233

PARASHAS BAMIDBAR Separate but Equal The Wilderness Within Chaos in the Desert

234 234 236 238

PARASHAS NASO It’s all in the Delivery A Drink of Wine The Edge of the Abyss Guaranteed Investments The Measure of Our Worth

240 240 242 244 246 248

PARASHAS BEHA’ALOSCHA Lemonade in the Desert A Taste of Heaven Nothing and Everything The Repetitive Trap Perpetual Illumination

250 250 252 254 256 258

PARASHAS SHELACH Hard Choices Gentle Reminders The Grasshopper Syndrome Heart Palpitations Reverse Spin

260 260 262 264 266 268

PARASHAS KORACH One-sided Arguments The Purpose of Prayer The Easy Way In Behind the White Beard Faint Perception

270 270 272 274 276 278

PARASHAS CHUKAS The Inside Story Leadership Qualities Miriam’s Well

280 280 282 284

PARASHAS BALAK Forever a Donkey The Epitome of Righteousness The Seesaw Principle

286 286 288 290

PARASHAS PINCHAS Breaches in the Wall No Little Things Peace without Conjunctions All Eyes on the Shepherd

292 292 294 296 298

PARASHAS MATTOS Personal Tragedies The Human Ingredient We’re in the Same Boat

300 300 302 304

PARASHAS MATTOS-MASEI The Accidental Murderer

306 306

DEVARIM

309

PARASHAS DEVARIM Tooth and Nail Payment in Full

310 310 312

PARASHAS VA’ESCHANAN Heaven and Earth Sight and Insight What Is True Love? With Your Own Ears Opposites Are Equal

314 314 316 318 320 322

PARASHAS EIKEV No Easy Matter Everlasting Blessings Scattered Apples A Father’s Love A Simple Thing

324 324 326 328 330 332

PARASHAS RE’EH The Love Test Give and Take Constructive Destruction Walk Behind Me

334 334 336 338 340

PARASHAS SHOFTIM Critical Followers Doctors and Pilots Under the Hood Life Is Not Cheap

342 342 344 346 348

PARASHAS KI SEITZEI Tough Love Perfect Bliss Don’t Take the Millstones Double Standards

350 350 352 354 356

PARASHAS KI SAVO Gratitude, Jewish Style The Power of One Word The Little Voice Open Your Eyes

358 358 360 362 364

PARASHAS NITZAVIM Family Values You’re Still Standing Of Blandishments and Seductions The Ends of Heaven Only Skin Deep

366 366 368 370 372 374

PARASHAS VAYEILECH The Secrets of Longevity Actions and Words

376 376 378

PARASHAS HAAZINU Open Door Policy The Ultimate Contact

380 380 382

PARASHAS VEZOS HABERACHAH Total Dedication

384 384

MOADIM

387

ROSH HASHANAH The Mystical Tug of the Shofar A Breath of Air Wordless Prayers

388 388 390 392

SHABBOS SHUVAH Reversing the Chain Reaction

394 394

YOM KIPPUR Jonah’s Dilemma

396 396

SUKKOS The Secret of Perfect Joy Time Capsules Jewish Citizenship

398 398 400 402

SHEMINI ATZERES Praying for Rain Hold On for Dear Life

404 404 406

CHANUKAH Switching on the Lights The Essence Within

408 408 410

PURIM Behind the Purim Mask Lots of Joy A Fistful of Flour

412 412 414 416

PESACH The Right Staff A Pledge of Allegiance

418 418 420

SHEVII SHEL PESACH A Time to Sing

422 422

SHABBOS HAGADOL Greatness Lies Within

424 424

SHAVUOS Payment in Full Thunder and Lightning A Kiss Is Not Enough

426 426 428 430

TISHAH B’AV The Jewish Way of Crying Creative Mourning

432 432 434

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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Bereishis: Bereishis 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 selfconfidence, 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,

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

is in of a

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 selfgratification. 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 foulsmelling 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

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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

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Bereishis: Lech Lecha 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 selfexamination. 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.

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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.

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Bereishis: Lech Lecha 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 selfimprovement 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.

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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

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Bereishis: Lech Lecha 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-

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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.

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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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Bereishis: Chayei Sarah 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.

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Bereishis: Chayei Sarah 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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Bereishis: Chayei Sarah 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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Bereishis: Toldos 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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Ohr Somayach 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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Bereishis: Vayishlach 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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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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Bereishis: Vayishlach 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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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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Bereishis: Vayishlach 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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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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Bereishis: Vayishlach “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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Ohr Somayach 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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Bereishis: Vayishlach 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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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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Bereishis: Vayishlach 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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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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Bereishis: Vayishlach 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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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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Bereishis: Vayishlach 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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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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Bereishis: Vayeishev 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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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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Bereishis: Vayeishev 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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Bereishis: Mikeitz 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 selfrecrimination 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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Bereishis: Mikeitz 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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Ohr Somayach 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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Bereishis: Vayigash 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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Bereishis: Vayigash 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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Bereishis: Vayigash 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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Bereishis: Vayigash 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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Ohr Somayach 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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Bereishis: Vayechi 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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Bereishis: Vayechi 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 selfimage 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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Bereishis: Vayechi 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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Bereishis: Vayechi 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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SHEMOS

Ohr Shalom

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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Shemos: Shemos 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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Shemos: Shemos 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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Shemos: Shemos 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Va’eira 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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Shemos: Va’eira 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, mindnumbing 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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Shemos: Va’eira 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Bo 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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Shemos: Bo 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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Shemos: Bo 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Beshalach 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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Shemos: Beshalach 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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Shemos: Beshalach 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Yisro 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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Shemos: Yisro 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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Shemos: Yisro 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Mishpatim 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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Shemos: Mishpatim 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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Shemos: Mishpatim 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Terumah 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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Shemos: Terumah 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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Shemos: Terumah 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Tetzaveh 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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Shemos: Tetzaveh 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Ki Sisa 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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Shemos: Ki Sisa 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 thirteenyearold 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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Shemos: Ki Sisa 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Vayakhel 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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Shemos: Vayakhel 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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Shemos: Vayakhel 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 ofa-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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Ohr Shalom 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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Shemos: Pikudei 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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Shemos: Pikudei 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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VAYIKRA

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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Vayikra: Vayikra 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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Vayikra: Vayikra 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Vayikra: Tzav 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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Vayikra: Tzav 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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Vayikra: Tzav “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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Vayikra: Tzav 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 meanspirited 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Vayikra: Shemini 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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Vayikra: Shemini 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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Vayikra: Shemini 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Vayikra: Tazria 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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Vayikra: Tazria 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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Vayikra: Tazria 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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Vayikra: Tazria 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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Ohr Shalom 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 selfanalysis. And when he arrives at his destination, he will have achieved

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Vayikra: Metzora 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 openmouthed, 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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Vayikra: Acharei Mos 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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Vayikra: Acharei Mos 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Vayikra: Kedoshim 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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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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Vayikra: Kedoshim 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Vayikra: Emor 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 thousand full-grown men off the ground one at a time? It is even to think about such a daunting endeavor. You lift a few. rest. And then you lift some more. One would imagine that it weeks or even months to complete the task.

twenty-two exhausting You take a would take

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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Ohr Shalom 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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Vayikra: Behar 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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Vayikra: Behar 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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Vayikra: Behar 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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Ohr Shalom 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

Vayikra: Bechukosai 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

Vayikra: Bechukosai 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.

Vayikra: Bechukosai 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. Multilane 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Bamidbar: Bamidbar 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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Bamidbar: Bamidbar 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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Bamidbar: Bamidbar 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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Ohr Shalom 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 seventysix 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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Bamidbar: Naso 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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Bamidbar: Naso 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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Bamidbar: Naso 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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Bamidbar: Naso “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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Bamidbar: Naso 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Bamidbar: Beha’aloscha 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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Bamidbar: Beha’aloscha 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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Bamidbar: Beha’aloscha 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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Bamidbar: Beha’aloscha 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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Bamidbar: Beha’aloscha 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Bamidbar: Shelach 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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Bamidbar: Shelach 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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Bamidbar: Shelach 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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Bamidbar: Shelach 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 thirtyeight 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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Bamidbar: Shelach 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 farfetched 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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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 “stiffnecked” 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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Bamidbar: Korach 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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Bamidbar: Korach 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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Bamidbar: Korach 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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Bamidbar: Korach 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 selfperceptions? 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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Bamidbar: Korach 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Bamidbar: Chukas “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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Bamidbar: Chukas 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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Bamidbar: Chukas 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Bamidbar: Balak 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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Bamidbar: Balak 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. Terrorstricken, 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 selfaggrandizement 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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Bamidbar: Balak 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Bamidbar: Pinchas 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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Bamidbar: Pinchas 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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Bamidbar: Pinchas 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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Bamidbar: Pinchas 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Bamidbar: Mattos 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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Ohr Shalom

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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Bamidbar: Mattos 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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Ohr Shalom

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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Bamidbar: Mattos 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Bamidbar: Mattos-Masei 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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DEVARIM

Ohr Shalom 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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Devarim: Devarim 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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Devarim: Devarim 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Devarim: Va’eschanan 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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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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Devarim: Va’eschanan 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 selfgratification. 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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Devarim: Va’eschanan 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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Devarim: Va’eschanan of such claims fades. Why should people accept the word of selfproclaimed 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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Devarim: Va’eschanan 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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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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Devarim: Eikev 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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Devarim: Eikev 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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Devarim: Eikev 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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Devarim: Eikev 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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Devarim: Eikev 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Devarim: Re’eh 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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Devarim: Re’eh 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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Devarim: Re’eh 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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Devarim: Re’eh 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Devarim: Shoftim 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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Devarim: Shoftim 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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Devarim: Shoftim 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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Devarim: Shoftim 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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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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Devarim: Ki Seitzei 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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Devarim: Ki Seitzei 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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Devarim: Ki Seitzei 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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Devarim: Ki Seitzei 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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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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Devarim: Ki Savo 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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Devarim: Ki Savo 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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Devarim: Ki Savo 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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Devarim: Ki Savo 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Devarim: Nitzavim 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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Devarim: Nitzavim 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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Devarim: Nitzavim 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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Devarim: Nitzavim 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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Devarim: Nitzavim 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Devarim: Vayeilech 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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Devarim: Vayeilech 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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Ohr Shalom 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 antiSemitic 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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Devarim: Haazinu 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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MOADIM

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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Moadim: Rosh Hashanah 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 highranking 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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Ohr Shalom

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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Moadim: Rosh Hashanah 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Moadim: Shabbos Shuvah 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Moadim: Yom Kippur 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Moadim: Sukkos 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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Ohr Shalom

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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Moadim: Sukkos 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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Moadim: Sukkos 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Moadim: Shemini Atzeres 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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Moadim: Shemini Atzeres 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Moadim: Chanukah 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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Moadim: Chanukah 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Moadim: Purim 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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Ohr Shalom

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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Ohr Shalom 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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Moadim: Pesach 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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Ohr Shalom

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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Moadim: Pesach 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Ohr Shalom 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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Ohr Shalom

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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Ohr Shalom 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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Ohr Shalom

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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