"לָכֵן אֱמר לִבְנֵי-יִשְׂרָאֵל: אֲנִי יְהוָה, וְהוֹצֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם מִתַּחַת סִבְלת מִצְרַיִם, וְהִצַּלְתִּי אֶתְכֶם מֵעֲבדָתָם, וְגָאַלְתִּי אֶתְכֶם בִּזְרוֹעַ נְטוּיָה וּבִשְׁפָטִים גְּדלִים. וְלָקַחְתִּי אֶתְכֶם לִי לְעָם, וְהָיִיתִי לָכֶם לֵאלהִים; וִידַעְתֶּם, כִּי אֲנִי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם, הַמּוֹצִיא אֶתְכֶם מִתַּחַת סִבְלוֹת מִצְרָיִם. - Therefore say to the children of Israel: I am the Lord, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of Egypt, and I will deliver you from their servitude, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments. And I will take you to Me for a people, and I will be to you a God; and you shall know that I am the Lord your God, who takes you out from under the burdens of Egypt."
(Exodus 6: 6-7)
The first part of this week's D'var Torah is taken from the Ma'ayanei HaTorah, which cites Chidushei HaRim. It is written there that the ten plagues we read about during the course of this week's and next week's parsha readings are linked to the utterances with which the world was created (Pirkei Avot 5:1). There were ten of those, too, but the link goes a lot deeper than just that.
As the Chidushei HaRim explains, the ten utterances which caused the creation of the world acted to codify the laws of nature. As a result, it became impossible to observe the supernatural wonder of nature. In Jewish mystical thought, there is a concept of constriction - that God had to somehow contrain His eternal and omnipotent Self in a way conducive to forging the world as we know it. God effectively hid Himself through His acts of creation.
In a similar fashion, the ten plagues that are unleashed upon the unwitting Egyptians were directly related to each of these utterances. Step by step, they served to peel back the layers and reveal Hashem's presence in the world to one and all, that there is a creator and there does exist such a thing as an administrator of the universe who can change the rules of nature as He so wishes. Moreover, these ten plagues paved the path for the Jews to leave Egypt in a blaze of glory and made possible the ultimate revelation later on at Sinai. The ten plagues were not merely punishments for the Egyptians' oppression of the Jews; they also served to make a very strong statement about the nature of this world.
The relevance of the insight above is made apparent by something I read a few p'sukim later in verse 9: " וַיְדַבֵּר מֹשֶׁה כֵּן, אֶל-בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל; וְלֹא שָׁמְעוּ אֶל-מֹשֶׁה מִקֹּצֶר רוּחַ וּמֵעֲבֹדָה קָשָׁה. - And so Moshe spoke to the children of Israel; but they did not hearken Moshe because of shortness of wind and for hard bondage." The verse seems simple enough, but the Meshech Chochmah explains that Moshe chose his words very carefully. His people were under extreme stress and were unable to listen to him. Had he told anyone that "Everything's going to be alright - God is going to save us all in the close future", he would have likely been completely ignored. Anyone who is experiencing such severe trouble simply cannot pay attention to the future; they are instead preocuppied with the present. As such, Hashem instructed Moshe to speak in the present tense and let them know that their redemption was imminent.
Returning to the first part of this D'var Torah, we may now understand just how vital it was for Hashem to perform these miracles. It wasn't just for the Egyptians. It was for the generation of Jews who never knew their forefathers and foremothers. They had never witnessed the miracles that Avraham, Yitzchak and Ya'akov had. They barely knew what it meant to be Jewish. As such, the ten plagues allowed them to be liberated from the oppression of being limited and bound to nature. When they saw Hashem's hand behind nature, they were able to set out on the road that took them out of Egypt and home to Israel.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Parshat Sh'mot - פרשת שמות
"וְלא-יָכְלָה עוד, הַצפִינו, וַתקח-לו תבַת גמֶא, וַתחְמְרָה בַחֵמָר ובַזפֶת; וַתשם בה אֶת-הַיּלֶד, וַתּשׂם בּסוף עַל-שׂפַת הַיְאר - And when she could no longer hide him, she took for him an ark of bulrushes, and daubed it with slime and with pitch; and she put the child in it, and laid it in the flags by the river's brink."
(שמות ב:ג)
This week's Parsha, Sh'mot, marks the beginning of the second book of the Torah. The Jews had been plunged into crisis with the evil decree issued by Par'oh that all male babies born that day would be killed. (Intriguingly, the commentries note that Egyptian baby boys born then were murdered too, such was their desperation to see the future Jewish leader seen off.)
In the verse above, we read of how that great leader, Moshe Rabbeinu, who we learn was born 3 months prematurely, came to an age where he was impossible to hide. Because of the severe penalty for hiding a male baby from the Egyptian authorities, it was decided that he would have to be taken out of his home.
In a conversation with a friend previously, I noted that pitch is used when the Torah relates the story of Noach's ark. There, it uses the phrase, "כָפַרְתָּ אֹתָהּ מִבַּיִת וּמִחוּץ, בַּכֹּפֶר - and you shall pitch it, within and without, with pitch." Although the term is different, there is more than a passing resemblance between the two episodes, for Moshe's little ark was also smeared with a dark, sticky substance.
My friend answered me by saying that there is indeed a connection between the two episodes. He explained that Noach lived at a time during which there was the greatest destruction the world has ever known. Why was there such destruction? Not because the people were exceedingly wicked - for they were not. Rather, this generation was actually one of the most knowledgeable generations that ever existed. The problem, however, was that they used their wisdom to their own ends. For example, we learn that the people of the time knew that one who stole less than "shava pruta," (a minute amount) would not be considered cuplable. (I forget the source, but I believe that it comes from a Midrash.) They would therefore feel free to steal from one another in a manner that exploited and abused this loophole in Biblical law.
The reason that this generation was punished so heavily was that it was a generation with unusually high potential. It could have become the generation to receive the Torah from God, but because the people were so perverse in their way of thinking, they merited destruction by being drowned in the מבול, the great flood that immersed the entire world. There is a saying in Judaism that אין מים אלא תורה, there's no water other than Torah, and here we see an expression of that: whereas this generation might have been deserving of receiving (and being immeresed in) the Torah, because of the way they acted, they received, and were immeresed under the thing that we equate Torah to - water.
By way of contrast, the generations that came to Egypt were considered worthy of redemption, even though they had sunk to a very low level. But if they had sunk to such a low level, why was it that then that they deserved the miracles of the exodus and receipt of the Torah?
We may answer this question by looking at the opening words of the Parsha: "וְאֵלֶּה, שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל, הַבָּאִים, מִצְרָיְמָה: אֵת יַעֲקֹב, אִישׁ וּבֵיתוֹ בָּאוּ - Now these are the names of the sons of Yisrael, who coming into Egypt with Ya'akov; every man came with his household."
The phrasing of this verse seems odd - why does it say both הַבָּאִים and בָּאוּ? One word means "coming" in the present tense, and the other means "came," which is in the past tense. What is the explanation for this anomoly. The way to understand this, posits Rav Yehoshua of Belz, is that while the Jewish nation undeniably had come, (in the past tense) to Egypt, they were only present physically. We learn that they did not integrate fully or take on Egyptian names. This generation always saw themselves as being in exile, as temporary residents of Egypt. Due to this clear perception of their impermanent status in a foreign land, they deserved their eventual redemption, the receipt of (and immersal in,) the Torah, and ultimately their return to their ancestral homeland in Israel.
If we compare the two cases, the differences are clear. While one generation acted in a way that was technically pious, they were wicked to the core. The other generation, while almost completely rotten, was careful to never sink down that bit too far. By maintaing their identity, they kept their souls intact and merited redemption. I think we can take this message to heart, too. Many times we feel as if we are slipping religiously. But if we ask ourselves who we are at our core, we know what kind of people we want to be. So long as we preseve that concept of ourselves, we are never too far away from returning to our true selves.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
(שמות ב:ג)
This week's Parsha, Sh'mot, marks the beginning of the second book of the Torah. The Jews had been plunged into crisis with the evil decree issued by Par'oh that all male babies born that day would be killed. (Intriguingly, the commentries note that Egyptian baby boys born then were murdered too, such was their desperation to see the future Jewish leader seen off.)
In the verse above, we read of how that great leader, Moshe Rabbeinu, who we learn was born 3 months prematurely, came to an age where he was impossible to hide. Because of the severe penalty for hiding a male baby from the Egyptian authorities, it was decided that he would have to be taken out of his home.
In a conversation with a friend previously, I noted that pitch is used when the Torah relates the story of Noach's ark. There, it uses the phrase, "כָפַרְתָּ אֹתָהּ מִבַּיִת וּמִחוּץ, בַּכֹּפֶר - and you shall pitch it, within and without, with pitch." Although the term is different, there is more than a passing resemblance between the two episodes, for Moshe's little ark was also smeared with a dark, sticky substance.
My friend answered me by saying that there is indeed a connection between the two episodes. He explained that Noach lived at a time during which there was the greatest destruction the world has ever known. Why was there such destruction? Not because the people were exceedingly wicked - for they were not. Rather, this generation was actually one of the most knowledgeable generations that ever existed. The problem, however, was that they used their wisdom to their own ends. For example, we learn that the people of the time knew that one who stole less than "shava pruta," (a minute amount) would not be considered cuplable. (I forget the source, but I believe that it comes from a Midrash.) They would therefore feel free to steal from one another in a manner that exploited and abused this loophole in Biblical law.
The reason that this generation was punished so heavily was that it was a generation with unusually high potential. It could have become the generation to receive the Torah from God, but because the people were so perverse in their way of thinking, they merited destruction by being drowned in the מבול, the great flood that immersed the entire world. There is a saying in Judaism that אין מים אלא תורה, there's no water other than Torah, and here we see an expression of that: whereas this generation might have been deserving of receiving (and being immeresed in) the Torah, because of the way they acted, they received, and were immeresed under the thing that we equate Torah to - water.
By way of contrast, the generations that came to Egypt were considered worthy of redemption, even though they had sunk to a very low level. But if they had sunk to such a low level, why was it that then that they deserved the miracles of the exodus and receipt of the Torah?
We may answer this question by looking at the opening words of the Parsha: "וְאֵלֶּה, שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל, הַבָּאִים, מִצְרָיְמָה: אֵת יַעֲקֹב, אִישׁ וּבֵיתוֹ בָּאוּ - Now these are the names of the sons of Yisrael, who coming into Egypt with Ya'akov; every man came with his household."
The phrasing of this verse seems odd - why does it say both הַבָּאִים and בָּאוּ? One word means "coming" in the present tense, and the other means "came," which is in the past tense. What is the explanation for this anomoly. The way to understand this, posits Rav Yehoshua of Belz, is that while the Jewish nation undeniably had come, (in the past tense) to Egypt, they were only present physically. We learn that they did not integrate fully or take on Egyptian names. This generation always saw themselves as being in exile, as temporary residents of Egypt. Due to this clear perception of their impermanent status in a foreign land, they deserved their eventual redemption, the receipt of (and immersal in,) the Torah, and ultimately their return to their ancestral homeland in Israel.
If we compare the two cases, the differences are clear. While one generation acted in a way that was technically pious, they were wicked to the core. The other generation, while almost completely rotten, was careful to never sink down that bit too far. By maintaing their identity, they kept their souls intact and merited redemption. I think we can take this message to heart, too. Many times we feel as if we are slipping religiously. But if we ask ourselves who we are at our core, we know what kind of people we want to be. So long as we preseve that concept of ourselves, we are never too far away from returning to our true selves.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Parshat Vayechi - פרשת ויחי
וַיֹּאמֶר יוֹסֵף, אֶל-אָבִיו, בָּנַי הֵם, אֲשֶׁר-נָתַן-לִי אֱלֹהִים בָּזֶה; וַיֹּאמַר, קָחֶם-נָא אֵלַי וַאֲבָרְכֵם - And Yoseph said unto his father: 'They are my sons, whom God has given me here.' And he said: 'Bring them to me, please, and I will bless them.'
Although I have read this passage previously, and heard it discussed during my fifteen-years-plus of education in a Jewish environment, when I read this passage again today, I saw a question that I can't believe I didn't know the answer to.
The event described in the Pasuk above is that of Yaakov, Yoseph's father, blessing Yoseph's sons; Ephraim and Menashe. Intriguingly and famously, Yaakov crosses over his hands so that his right hand falls on Ephraim's head, even though he is the younger son. Noteworthy as this detail is, a lot of "commentary inches" are spent on interpretations as to the meaning behind Yaakov's actions.
That, however, is not what I want to focus on. The most obvious question that may be asked here is why were Ephraim and Menashe blessed before all the other tribes? Indeed, they hardly seem like they should join the rest of the tribes, as they are all brothers, whereas Ephraim and Menashe are only the descendants of one of the brothers. So, we can ask, why are they blessed first, and why do they merit their place as equals amongst their uncles?
Rabbi Shmuel Hominer, in his work, "עבד המלך, Servant of the King," explains exactly why these two young men deserved to join the rest of the tribes. He points out that from all the tribes, only Ephraim and Menashe were born outside of Israel. These two were born in Egypt, as Yaakov notes when he says: "וְעַתָּה שְׁנֵי-בָנֶיךָ הַנּוֹלָדִים לְךָ בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם - And now your two sons, who were born unto you in the land of Egypt."
The significance of the brothers' birthplace cannot be understated. Yaakov realised that the blessing he was to give the thirteen brothers were not just for them as people, but for them as heads of tribes, for them as the heads of a future nation. Yaakov chose Ephraim and Menashe because those two knew what it was like to be in exile; away from the holy land. His blessing for them forms a well-known Jewish song, Hamalach Hagoel. The words at the end are particularly noteworthy: "וְיִדְגּוּ לָרֹב, בְּקֶרֶב הָאָרֶץ - and let them grow into a multitude, in the midst of the earth." Yaakov blesses these two brothers, the brothers of exile, that despite all that surrounds them, they (but read we, as all Am Yisrael,) should only grow into a strong and populous nation.
From Yerushalayim, Shabbat Shalom!
Although I have read this passage previously, and heard it discussed during my fifteen-years-plus of education in a Jewish environment, when I read this passage again today, I saw a question that I can't believe I didn't know the answer to.
The event described in the Pasuk above is that of Yaakov, Yoseph's father, blessing Yoseph's sons; Ephraim and Menashe. Intriguingly and famously, Yaakov crosses over his hands so that his right hand falls on Ephraim's head, even though he is the younger son. Noteworthy as this detail is, a lot of "commentary inches" are spent on interpretations as to the meaning behind Yaakov's actions.
That, however, is not what I want to focus on. The most obvious question that may be asked here is why were Ephraim and Menashe blessed before all the other tribes? Indeed, they hardly seem like they should join the rest of the tribes, as they are all brothers, whereas Ephraim and Menashe are only the descendants of one of the brothers. So, we can ask, why are they blessed first, and why do they merit their place as equals amongst their uncles?
Rabbi Shmuel Hominer, in his work, "עבד המלך, Servant of the King," explains exactly why these two young men deserved to join the rest of the tribes. He points out that from all the tribes, only Ephraim and Menashe were born outside of Israel. These two were born in Egypt, as Yaakov notes when he says: "וְעַתָּה שְׁנֵי-בָנֶיךָ הַנּוֹלָדִים לְךָ בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם - And now your two sons, who were born unto you in the land of Egypt."
The significance of the brothers' birthplace cannot be understated. Yaakov realised that the blessing he was to give the thirteen brothers were not just for them as people, but for them as heads of tribes, for them as the heads of a future nation. Yaakov chose Ephraim and Menashe because those two knew what it was like to be in exile; away from the holy land. His blessing for them forms a well-known Jewish song, Hamalach Hagoel. The words at the end are particularly noteworthy: "וְיִדְגּוּ לָרֹב, בְּקֶרֶב הָאָרֶץ - and let them grow into a multitude, in the midst of the earth." Yaakov blesses these two brothers, the brothers of exile, that despite all that surrounds them, they (but read we, as all Am Yisrael,) should only grow into a strong and populous nation.
From Yerushalayim, Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, December 10, 2010
Parshat Vayigash - פרשת ויגש
"וְלֹא-יָכֹל יוֹסֵף לְהִתְאַפֵּק לְכֹל הַנִּצָּבִים עָלָיו, וַיִּקְרָא, הוֹצִיאוּ כָל-אִישׁ מֵעָלָי; וְלֹא-עָמַד אִישׁ אִתּוֹ בְּהִתְוַדַּע יוֹסֵף אֶל-אֶחָיו. וַיִּתֵּן אֶת-קֹלוֹ בִּבְכִי; וַיִּשְׁמְעוּ מִצְרַיִם, וַיִּשְׁמַע בֵּית פַּרְעֹה - Then Yoseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him and he cried: 'Let every man go out from [before] me.' And there stood no man with him while Yoseph made himself known unto his brothers. And he wept aloud; and the Egyptians heard, and the house of Pharaoh heard."
(בראשית מה:א-ב)
In the two verses above, the story of Yosef and brothers finally reaches its climax. The story is one of the most famous in the Torah, and one I thought I was very familiar with. But maybe familiarity does indeed breed a sense of contempt; this week, for the first time, I noticed a discrepancy in the passage above.
Yoseph, we are told, is unable to bear the pressure any longer. To this end, he clears his court of all observers. So far, so good. But what does the Torah tell us next? That he raises his voice and cries so loudly that all of Egypt knows precisely what is happening. If that's the case, what's the point in instructing all those present to exit the room?
The Radak (if I recall correctly – my Chumash doesn’t have his commentary, unfortunately) presents a novel, yet straightforward, explanation of what is meant by "and the Egyptians heard." He posits that rather than Yoseph's voice - miraculously - carrying over the length and breadth of Egypt, his cry was a normal one and only overheard by a few. From here, the knowledge was passed on by word of mouth.
Not that this event wasn't dramatic enough as it was, but Rav Chasman writes in 'Ohr Yahel' that Yoseph knowingly put himself in a situation of poetentially grave danger. The last time he was alone with his brothers, they sought to kill him. There was no way he could be sure that, given the cicrumstances, one of might not attack him. He took a very real risk in isolating himself so.
With the above in mind, we may understand the depth of Rashi's commentary. Rashi is noted for typically giving the simplest explanation. However, despite his simplicty, there are often complicated concepts and motivations alluded to in his words. When Rashi writes here that Yoseph felt it important to protect his brothers from being embarassed in front of strangers, we may now understand that he wasn't merely writing a simple explanation. Instead, Rashi indicates just how sensitive Yoseph was. Even though he knew that the word would get out in any case, he did his utmost to protect them from unecessary embarrassment. For as long as was possible, Yoseph wanted to protect his brothers. He understood that sooner or later the story would become known, but while he could, he felt it imperative to guard their dignity.
At this point I'd like to mention that a friend of mine pens weekly D'var Torah, too. This week, he wrote that Yoseph was so sensitive to his brothers that there is no evidence in the Torah that Yosef ever let his father Yaakov or brother Binyamin (who wasn't present at his sale) know about this episode at all, such was his concern and sensitivity for his brothers' pride.
Wishing a Shabbat Shalom.
(בראשית מה:א-ב)
In the two verses above, the story of Yosef and brothers finally reaches its climax. The story is one of the most famous in the Torah, and one I thought I was very familiar with. But maybe familiarity does indeed breed a sense of contempt; this week, for the first time, I noticed a discrepancy in the passage above.
Yoseph, we are told, is unable to bear the pressure any longer. To this end, he clears his court of all observers. So far, so good. But what does the Torah tell us next? That he raises his voice and cries so loudly that all of Egypt knows precisely what is happening. If that's the case, what's the point in instructing all those present to exit the room?
The Radak (if I recall correctly – my Chumash doesn’t have his commentary, unfortunately) presents a novel, yet straightforward, explanation of what is meant by "and the Egyptians heard." He posits that rather than Yoseph's voice - miraculously - carrying over the length and breadth of Egypt, his cry was a normal one and only overheard by a few. From here, the knowledge was passed on by word of mouth.
Not that this event wasn't dramatic enough as it was, but Rav Chasman writes in 'Ohr Yahel' that Yoseph knowingly put himself in a situation of poetentially grave danger. The last time he was alone with his brothers, they sought to kill him. There was no way he could be sure that, given the cicrumstances, one of might not attack him. He took a very real risk in isolating himself so.
With the above in mind, we may understand the depth of Rashi's commentary. Rashi is noted for typically giving the simplest explanation. However, despite his simplicty, there are often complicated concepts and motivations alluded to in his words. When Rashi writes here that Yoseph felt it important to protect his brothers from being embarassed in front of strangers, we may now understand that he wasn't merely writing a simple explanation. Instead, Rashi indicates just how sensitive Yoseph was. Even though he knew that the word would get out in any case, he did his utmost to protect them from unecessary embarrassment. For as long as was possible, Yoseph wanted to protect his brothers. He understood that sooner or later the story would become known, but while he could, he felt it imperative to guard their dignity.
At this point I'd like to mention that a friend of mine pens weekly D'var Torah, too. This week, he wrote that Yoseph was so sensitive to his brothers that there is no evidence in the Torah that Yosef ever let his father Yaakov or brother Binyamin (who wasn't present at his sale) know about this episode at all, such was his concern and sensitivity for his brothers' pride.
Wishing a Shabbat Shalom.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Parshat Miketz - פרשת מקץ
"וַיִּזְכֹּר יוֹסֵף--אֵת הַחֲלֹמוֹת, אֲשֶׁר חָלַם לָהֶם; וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם מְרַגְּלִים אַתֶּם, לִרְאוֹת אֶת-עֶרְוַת הָאָרֶץ בָּאתֶם - And Yoseph remembered the dreams which he dreamed of them, and said unto them: 'You are spies; to see the nakedness of the land you have come.' "
(בראשית מ"ב:ט)
In this week's Parsha, we read of the famous episode in which Yosef is asked to interpret the dreams of Par'oh. This sets in action a chain of events which leads to his transformation and reversal in fortunes, going from a lowly prisoner to second-in-command over the Egyptian Kingdom.
As we know, Yoseph was sold into slavery by his brothers. Denied the chance to see his father for years, it's surprising that he waited as long as he did to reveal himself. If we stop to think, we may realise that although Yoseph decided to contact his father later on, he might have done so considerably earlier. True, Yospeh kept his identity hidden for some time as he decided to test his brothers, but surely he didn't need to wait quite as long as he did. Why did Yoseph tarry so? This is all the more puzzling given Ya'akov's continued mourning over his long-lost/long-feared-dead son. Surely such a delay was needless?
The Ramban poses precisely this question in his commentary on the verse above. His answer is puzzling; he had to wait until the dreams of his youth, the dreams in which he saw his entire family bow down to him, come true. To tell the truth, I don't really see much of a connection between the two, though. Surely Yoseph could have waited to see the dream be realised and also send his father a message to let him know that he was indeed alive? Indeed, couldn't Yoseph have done this even earlier? Why did Yoseph wait to meet his brothers? He could have easily sent a message home when he was appointed head of Poiphar's household.
Rav Ari Kahn of Aish Hatorah frames Ramban's answer in a different way. As he writes: "The answer which Nachmanides offers is that Joseph could not contact Jacob until the dreams of his youth had come true. Joseph had dreamt that his brothers would one day bow to him, and his revelation of this dream had set off the brothers' jealous rage that led to his eventual sale into slavery. Only when the dream came true could Joseph be vindicated and reveal himself." (From here.)
If I understand correctly, I think Rav Kahn expresses an important aspect of Yoseph's actions which I'd like to elaborate upon; that Yoseph realised that he had to act with the utmost sensitivity to his family. Indeed, he quotes Rav Shimshon Rephael Hirsch, who in turn writes that: "...Joseph's consideration in not sending a letter to his father in his years of success was: What would Jacob gain in getting one son back, if in the process he would lose ten?... Therefore, Joseph used all the subterfuge [necessary], and in my mind this was certainly worthy of the wisdom of Joseph." (Commentary on verse above.)
I would like to add to this by saying that not only was Yoseph concerned with his father, but that Yoseph was concerned with his brothers. Imagine standing in his shoes for a second. Before you are the brothers who, the last time you saw them, sought to have you killed. Wouldn't you be furious with them? Nevertheless, Yoseph conducts himself carefully. His immediate concern is for his family and to ensure that, at this most sensitive of times, he doesn't cause unnecessary pain. I think that we can all learn a tremendous amount from this.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
(בראשית מ"ב:ט)
In this week's Parsha, we read of the famous episode in which Yosef is asked to interpret the dreams of Par'oh. This sets in action a chain of events which leads to his transformation and reversal in fortunes, going from a lowly prisoner to second-in-command over the Egyptian Kingdom.
As we know, Yoseph was sold into slavery by his brothers. Denied the chance to see his father for years, it's surprising that he waited as long as he did to reveal himself. If we stop to think, we may realise that although Yoseph decided to contact his father later on, he might have done so considerably earlier. True, Yospeh kept his identity hidden for some time as he decided to test his brothers, but surely he didn't need to wait quite as long as he did. Why did Yoseph tarry so? This is all the more puzzling given Ya'akov's continued mourning over his long-lost/long-feared-dead son. Surely such a delay was needless?
The Ramban poses precisely this question in his commentary on the verse above. His answer is puzzling; he had to wait until the dreams of his youth, the dreams in which he saw his entire family bow down to him, come true. To tell the truth, I don't really see much of a connection between the two, though. Surely Yoseph could have waited to see the dream be realised and also send his father a message to let him know that he was indeed alive? Indeed, couldn't Yoseph have done this even earlier? Why did Yoseph wait to meet his brothers? He could have easily sent a message home when he was appointed head of Poiphar's household.
Rav Ari Kahn of Aish Hatorah frames Ramban's answer in a different way. As he writes: "The answer which Nachmanides offers is that Joseph could not contact Jacob until the dreams of his youth had come true. Joseph had dreamt that his brothers would one day bow to him, and his revelation of this dream had set off the brothers' jealous rage that led to his eventual sale into slavery. Only when the dream came true could Joseph be vindicated and reveal himself." (From here.)
If I understand correctly, I think Rav Kahn expresses an important aspect of Yoseph's actions which I'd like to elaborate upon; that Yoseph realised that he had to act with the utmost sensitivity to his family. Indeed, he quotes Rav Shimshon Rephael Hirsch, who in turn writes that: "...Joseph's consideration in not sending a letter to his father in his years of success was: What would Jacob gain in getting one son back, if in the process he would lose ten?... Therefore, Joseph used all the subterfuge [necessary], and in my mind this was certainly worthy of the wisdom of Joseph." (Commentary on verse above.)
I would like to add to this by saying that not only was Yoseph concerned with his father, but that Yoseph was concerned with his brothers. Imagine standing in his shoes for a second. Before you are the brothers who, the last time you saw them, sought to have you killed. Wouldn't you be furious with them? Nevertheless, Yoseph conducts himself carefully. His immediate concern is for his family and to ensure that, at this most sensitive of times, he doesn't cause unnecessary pain. I think that we can all learn a tremendous amount from this.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Parshat Vayeshev - פרשת וישב
ויספר אל אביו ואל אחיו ויגער-בו אביו ויאמר לו מה החלום הזה אשר חלמת הבוא נבוא אני ואמך ואחיך להשתחות לך ארצה. ויקנאו-בו אחיו ואביו שמר את-הדבר. וילכו אח֑יו לראת אׄתׄ-צׄאן אביהם בשכם.
בראשית לז:י-יג
Yoseph, having just related the second of his famous prophetic dreams to Ya’akov is met with by a certain ambivalence from his father. Whereas his siblings abhorred and utterly resisted Yoseph’s visions, his father’s reaction was to initially rebuke his son, but soon turned to being more open-minded and receptive. The verse employs the conservative “שמר,” indicating that his father quietly listened to him and regarded Yoseph’s words as a possibility in his mind, but did not act on it one way or another.
It is interesting to note that the last of the three verses quoted above is broken with an Etnachta (a symbol used for singing the Torah which indicates a pause) in an unusual place. Liberally translated, the verse then reads, “And the brothers went (Etnachta) to see their father’s flock in Shchem.” Why the break? What does the break imply? Rav Hirsch goes on to point out that Shchem was 80km away from Hevron, where the brothers were. He explains that the brothers left immediately as soon as they heard their father humour Yoseph and seriously entertain the notion that his dreams had true meaning, hence the Etnachta cuts off the words “And the brothers went” from the rest of the sentence to show that the brothers left immediately. And why Shchem? Rav Hirsch points to the Midrash Rabba, which references the two dots that appear above the word את. These two dots signify that the brothers didn’t truly go to the sheep, rather that they used the sheep as an excuse to get away and spend some time mulling things over. They actually went to themselves, in that decided to take some time for introspection. It is significant that they went to Shchem because that was the place where they first demonstrated their sense of family unity. It was at Shchem that Shimon on Levy massacred the whole male population so that their sister’s name would not be besmirched. If this was the case when they were threatened from outside the family, it makes sense that when they were threatened from within the ranks, the family should return to the place where they first experienced true solidarity.
So Yoseph’s brothers did not exactly warm to his predictions, as is clearly stated in the verse, “ויקנאו-בו אחיו – and his brothers were jealous of him.” The traditional understanding of this verse is that the brothers were appalled to hear of their younger sibling’s grandiose statements about his future role as ruler over them. Moreover, the assertion that he would dominate over his father was even more contemptible in their eyes, and they soon moved to act in an attempt to ensure that such an occurrence would never come to fruition.
The interpretation that Rav Hirsch provides however, is far more fulfilling. In the same way that Adam HaRishon came to eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil as a result of his ultimately good intentions, it would be churlish to suppose that the brothers’ scheming was simply evil, or that they were acting in a selfish manner.
Rav Hirsch offers the explanation that the brothers actions (like those of Adam HaRishon) were ultimately meant for the good, and that we should not allow ourselves to think that they merely acted on impulse against a perceived threat to the regular familial hierarchy. It would be a mistake to think that they were so simple. Often people look back at history and wonder how famous people could have acted quite so foolishly. If we think that way, we are the fools; those people knew what they were doing. Just because the characters we study in our history classes lived hundreds of years ago, doesn’t mean that they were lacking in common sense! Additionally, as was the case with the twelve tribes, many were far more spiritually sensitive than we are today.
So how can we understand their behaviour? What was the cause for their mistake? Rav Hirsch proposes that only recently had Nimrod introduced the world the concept of a kingdom. Up until that time, the brothers had never been exposed to a ממלכה – a Kingship, and and to be honest, Nimrod’s Kingdom wasn’t all that great. Nimrod was an evil and corrupt ruler who imprisoned his people and subjected them to slavery. The brothers’ cousins in Seir-Edom had “been enslaved by the whip of the Alufim (chieftains) and kings.” By way of comparison, Ya’akov’s family were quietly creating a society of equality and tranquillity. But what would happen to this model if one man were to rise to the top and dominate over everyone else? The brothers had this one terrible example of Kingship, and when they heard their younger brother’s dreams, they quite understandably resolved themselves not to allow the Jewish nation to be ruled over by a monarch, assuming with relative plausibility that a rule of monarchy lead to the oppression of Am Yisrael. The brothers were determined not to let the future generations of the Jewish nation be reduced to slaves, and so we can now understand that their actions were not out of foolish pride or a bloated sense of self-importance, rather they were driven by their perception of Yoseph as a severe threat to the future of Am Yisrael.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
בראשית לז:י-יג
Yoseph, having just related the second of his famous prophetic dreams to Ya’akov is met with by a certain ambivalence from his father. Whereas his siblings abhorred and utterly resisted Yoseph’s visions, his father’s reaction was to initially rebuke his son, but soon turned to being more open-minded and receptive. The verse employs the conservative “שמר,” indicating that his father quietly listened to him and regarded Yoseph’s words as a possibility in his mind, but did not act on it one way or another.
It is interesting to note that the last of the three verses quoted above is broken with an Etnachta (a symbol used for singing the Torah which indicates a pause) in an unusual place. Liberally translated, the verse then reads, “And the brothers went (Etnachta) to see their father’s flock in Shchem.” Why the break? What does the break imply? Rav Hirsch goes on to point out that Shchem was 80km away from Hevron, where the brothers were. He explains that the brothers left immediately as soon as they heard their father humour Yoseph and seriously entertain the notion that his dreams had true meaning, hence the Etnachta cuts off the words “And the brothers went” from the rest of the sentence to show that the brothers left immediately. And why Shchem? Rav Hirsch points to the Midrash Rabba, which references the two dots that appear above the word את. These two dots signify that the brothers didn’t truly go to the sheep, rather that they used the sheep as an excuse to get away and spend some time mulling things over. They actually went to themselves, in that decided to take some time for introspection. It is significant that they went to Shchem because that was the place where they first demonstrated their sense of family unity. It was at Shchem that Shimon on Levy massacred the whole male population so that their sister’s name would not be besmirched. If this was the case when they were threatened from outside the family, it makes sense that when they were threatened from within the ranks, the family should return to the place where they first experienced true solidarity.
So Yoseph’s brothers did not exactly warm to his predictions, as is clearly stated in the verse, “ויקנאו-בו אחיו – and his brothers were jealous of him.” The traditional understanding of this verse is that the brothers were appalled to hear of their younger sibling’s grandiose statements about his future role as ruler over them. Moreover, the assertion that he would dominate over his father was even more contemptible in their eyes, and they soon moved to act in an attempt to ensure that such an occurrence would never come to fruition.
The interpretation that Rav Hirsch provides however, is far more fulfilling. In the same way that Adam HaRishon came to eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil as a result of his ultimately good intentions, it would be churlish to suppose that the brothers’ scheming was simply evil, or that they were acting in a selfish manner.
Rav Hirsch offers the explanation that the brothers actions (like those of Adam HaRishon) were ultimately meant for the good, and that we should not allow ourselves to think that they merely acted on impulse against a perceived threat to the regular familial hierarchy. It would be a mistake to think that they were so simple. Often people look back at history and wonder how famous people could have acted quite so foolishly. If we think that way, we are the fools; those people knew what they were doing. Just because the characters we study in our history classes lived hundreds of years ago, doesn’t mean that they were lacking in common sense! Additionally, as was the case with the twelve tribes, many were far more spiritually sensitive than we are today.
So how can we understand their behaviour? What was the cause for their mistake? Rav Hirsch proposes that only recently had Nimrod introduced the world the concept of a kingdom. Up until that time, the brothers had never been exposed to a ממלכה – a Kingship, and and to be honest, Nimrod’s Kingdom wasn’t all that great. Nimrod was an evil and corrupt ruler who imprisoned his people and subjected them to slavery. The brothers’ cousins in Seir-Edom had “been enslaved by the whip of the Alufim (chieftains) and kings.” By way of comparison, Ya’akov’s family were quietly creating a society of equality and tranquillity. But what would happen to this model if one man were to rise to the top and dominate over everyone else? The brothers had this one terrible example of Kingship, and when they heard their younger brother’s dreams, they quite understandably resolved themselves not to allow the Jewish nation to be ruled over by a monarch, assuming with relative plausibility that a rule of monarchy lead to the oppression of Am Yisrael. The brothers were determined not to let the future generations of the Jewish nation be reduced to slaves, and so we can now understand that their actions were not out of foolish pride or a bloated sense of self-importance, rather they were driven by their perception of Yoseph as a severe threat to the future of Am Yisrael.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Parshat Vayishlach - פרשת וישלח
In this week's Parsha, Ya'akov is given a new name - Yisrael. Unlike other biblical charachters, though, he retains his original name, and the Torah continues to refer to him by this name as well as the new.
The difference here is that while characters such as Avraham and Yehoshua underwent transititions that meant that a new, more appropriate name was requried, Yisrael was not intended as a replacement as Ya'akov remained an apt name. How can we understand this?
If we understand Ya'akov's role as the final patriarch before the generation of the twelve tribes, we can see that he had not one, but two defining qualities. It is imperative to understand the Jewish nation's continuing mission in the context of Ya'akov two names.
The Kli Yakar explains that the two names of Ya'akov and Yisrael are analogous to two exiles and redemptions of Am Yisrael. He writes that the name Ya'akov (which etymologically derives from the word "heel") is meant as a parallel to the redemption of the exile in Egypt. He describes that redemption as not being the most notable and prominent of the redemptions of the Jewish nation, rather that its miracles should be regarded as “Tafel,” almost as a bonus. It is said in the Bereshit Rabbah that similarly the name Ya’akov should be regarded as secondary to the primary Yisrael. And if that is so, the two are really two aspects of one particular thing. Both names are necessary to understand the concept of Ya’akov/Yisrael.
Previously, I read on Chabad's website that, "Jacob and Israel are two different names, with two different meanings. While it is true that Israel represents a loftier state of being than Jacob (thus the Israel element in Jacob is "no longer Jacob"), there are certain virtues to the Jacob state that the Israel state cannot possess. So Jacob remains a name for both the third Patriarch and for the Jewish people as a whole. Israel might represent a higher stage in the Jew's development than Jacob, but the greatness of the Jewish people lies in that there are both Jacob Jews and Israel Jews, and Jacob and Israel elements within each individual Jew."
Turning to the source of Ya'akov's new name, it is interesting to note that he takes his it from Esav’s angel. This was the angel that opposed him at the river, the angel that wrestled with him in a ferocious struggle. The angel’s name was Yisrael, which as the Kli Yakar points out means “Straight to Hashem.” Now, I don’t know how you understood the struggle, but however you read it, it doesn’t seem as if the angel was assisting Ya’akov in his task of getting closer to Hashem. It doesn’t seem as if he was doing anything like getting him towards Hashem, on the contrary, he was opposing Ya’akov, blocking Ya’akov’s path! It is instructive to note that every angel is named after the very specific task he is assigned, so how can it be that this angel seems hell-bent on stopping Ya’akov?
The Kli Yakar's answer is revealing in its depth. The angel was doing exactly what was required of him. To him, it very possibly made little sense at all, but the angel, somewhat paradoxically, fulfilled his task. We all know that this world is not a simple place. Our task is not always obvious, and often takes painful turns and requires arduous journeys. Yet if we stick to our task, we will find the straightest path to Hashem.
Returning to our orginal question of the two names, I see two different answers. Rashi makes the straightforward suggestion that while the name Yaaakov indicates subservience, Yisrael signifies strength and victory. Another view is offered by the Meshech Chochma, who sees the different names as expressing the distinction between Yaakov as an individual versus Yisrael as a national identity. Thus, according to Meshech Chochma, God addresses "Yisrael" exclusively when, and only when, there are national issues at hand. For this reason, both names are retained.
Shabbat Shalom!
The difference here is that while characters such as Avraham and Yehoshua underwent transititions that meant that a new, more appropriate name was requried, Yisrael was not intended as a replacement as Ya'akov remained an apt name. How can we understand this?
If we understand Ya'akov's role as the final patriarch before the generation of the twelve tribes, we can see that he had not one, but two defining qualities. It is imperative to understand the Jewish nation's continuing mission in the context of Ya'akov two names.
The Kli Yakar explains that the two names of Ya'akov and Yisrael are analogous to two exiles and redemptions of Am Yisrael. He writes that the name Ya'akov (which etymologically derives from the word "heel") is meant as a parallel to the redemption of the exile in Egypt. He describes that redemption as not being the most notable and prominent of the redemptions of the Jewish nation, rather that its miracles should be regarded as “Tafel,” almost as a bonus. It is said in the Bereshit Rabbah that similarly the name Ya’akov should be regarded as secondary to the primary Yisrael. And if that is so, the two are really two aspects of one particular thing. Both names are necessary to understand the concept of Ya’akov/Yisrael.
Previously, I read on Chabad's website that, "Jacob and Israel are two different names, with two different meanings. While it is true that Israel represents a loftier state of being than Jacob (thus the Israel element in Jacob is "no longer Jacob"), there are certain virtues to the Jacob state that the Israel state cannot possess. So Jacob remains a name for both the third Patriarch and for the Jewish people as a whole. Israel might represent a higher stage in the Jew's development than Jacob, but the greatness of the Jewish people lies in that there are both Jacob Jews and Israel Jews, and Jacob and Israel elements within each individual Jew."
Turning to the source of Ya'akov's new name, it is interesting to note that he takes his it from Esav’s angel. This was the angel that opposed him at the river, the angel that wrestled with him in a ferocious struggle. The angel’s name was Yisrael, which as the Kli Yakar points out means “Straight to Hashem.” Now, I don’t know how you understood the struggle, but however you read it, it doesn’t seem as if the angel was assisting Ya’akov in his task of getting closer to Hashem. It doesn’t seem as if he was doing anything like getting him towards Hashem, on the contrary, he was opposing Ya’akov, blocking Ya’akov’s path! It is instructive to note that every angel is named after the very specific task he is assigned, so how can it be that this angel seems hell-bent on stopping Ya’akov?
The Kli Yakar's answer is revealing in its depth. The angel was doing exactly what was required of him. To him, it very possibly made little sense at all, but the angel, somewhat paradoxically, fulfilled his task. We all know that this world is not a simple place. Our task is not always obvious, and often takes painful turns and requires arduous journeys. Yet if we stick to our task, we will find the straightest path to Hashem.
Returning to our orginal question of the two names, I see two different answers. Rashi makes the straightforward suggestion that while the name Yaaakov indicates subservience, Yisrael signifies strength and victory. Another view is offered by the Meshech Chochma, who sees the different names as expressing the distinction between Yaakov as an individual versus Yisrael as a national identity. Thus, according to Meshech Chochma, God addresses "Yisrael" exclusively when, and only when, there are national issues at hand. For this reason, both names are retained.
Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, November 12, 2010
Parshat Vayetze - פרשת ויצא
"וַיִּפְגַּע בַּמָּקוֹם וַיָּלֶן שָׁם, כִּי-בָא הַשֶּׁמֶשׁ, וַיִּקַּח מֵאַבְנֵי הַמָּקוֹם, וַיָּשֶׂם מְרַאֲשֹׁתָיו; וַיִּשְׁכַּב, בַּמָּקוֹם הַהוּא - And he lighted upon the place, and tarried there all night, because the sun was set; and he took one of the stones of the place, and put it under his head, and lay down in that place to sleep."
(בראשית כח:יא)
One of the focal events of this week's Parsha happens when Ya'akov lies down to go to sleep. He dreams a dream, in which he sees a ladder above him and also receives prophecy that the entire land of Israel would become an inheritance for Am Yisrael.
Many commentators on the Parsha choose to discuss the exact details and the precise meaning of these events, but a seemingly "minor" point is the focus of this D'var Torah. Rashi points on the verse above that the words, "וַיִּשְׁכַּב, בַּמָּקוֹם הַהוּא - And [Ya'akov] lay down in that place to sleep" are an expressed in a way that suggests a measure of limit. Rashi goes on to explain that whereas here Ya'akov lay down to sleep, for the duration of previous fourteen years, when he learned in the Yeshiva of Shem and Ever, he refrained from going to lie down to sleep.
The Yalkut Lekach Tov notes the words of Kovetz Sichot by Rav H. Shmulovitz, that after Ya'akov's fourteen years restless pursuit of Torah, he doesn't go to sleep on a plush king-size bed with soft cushions. No, he lies down on the ground. He does prop up his head, but with what - a rock?
Moreover, Ya'akov takes more rocks and sets them around his head in order to protect himself "from wild beasts." Here too, we have a problem as Rav Simcha Zissel of Kelm points out. Why would a few rocks stop an animal from getting to Ya'akov while he sleeps - surely the rocks could be knocked away with ease.
The answer to be found is a lesson taught by Ya'akov's behaviour. Ya'akov's actions are an example in how to conduct oneself; after massive sleep deprivation, Ya'akov realised that if one pushes himself to the limits, he can do tremendous things. As such, he was able to deal without sleeping properly for all this time. Indeed, Ya'akov has conquered his natural desires and instincts to the extent that after this episode, he felt no need to use anything more than a few rocks to lie on. Similarly, when he placed these stones around his head, ostensibly to protect himself from animals, he was fully aware that they didn't offer proper protection.
Over the course of this past week, I read somewhere* that Ya'akov was happy with this relatively insecure barrier. This seems puzzling. I aso read that Ya'akov went on to enjoy the best night's sleep he'd ever had that night. It seems that he was completely satisfied in his act of השתדלות (acting in a way to demonstrate one's commitment to a cause while accepting that one's own role is always beneath that of God.) Nevertheless, the assertion that he was entirely comfortable with this most minimal of safeguards remains troubling. To resolve this difficulty we have to understand that Ya'akov chose to employ this simple barrier in the knowledge that in reality, everything that one does is essentially a miracle. Man is incapable of doing anything himself - he is only permitted to by God. As such, Ya'akov knew that he had no need to place stones around his head. The reason he put them there was to reduce the miracle, as it were. His action was an attempt to limit the need for a miracle. We may tender that in this merit, Ya'akov deserved to experience the bigger miracle of waking up to see the multiple stones unite to become one.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
*I can't remember exactly where, sorry. I'll try to edit/comment on this note during the next week to rectify my shortcomings.
(בראשית כח:יא)
One of the focal events of this week's Parsha happens when Ya'akov lies down to go to sleep. He dreams a dream, in which he sees a ladder above him and also receives prophecy that the entire land of Israel would become an inheritance for Am Yisrael.
Many commentators on the Parsha choose to discuss the exact details and the precise meaning of these events, but a seemingly "minor" point is the focus of this D'var Torah. Rashi points on the verse above that the words, "וַיִּשְׁכַּב, בַּמָּקוֹם הַהוּא - And [Ya'akov] lay down in that place to sleep" are an expressed in a way that suggests a measure of limit. Rashi goes on to explain that whereas here Ya'akov lay down to sleep, for the duration of previous fourteen years, when he learned in the Yeshiva of Shem and Ever, he refrained from going to lie down to sleep.
The Yalkut Lekach Tov notes the words of Kovetz Sichot by Rav H. Shmulovitz, that after Ya'akov's fourteen years restless pursuit of Torah, he doesn't go to sleep on a plush king-size bed with soft cushions. No, he lies down on the ground. He does prop up his head, but with what - a rock?
Moreover, Ya'akov takes more rocks and sets them around his head in order to protect himself "from wild beasts." Here too, we have a problem as Rav Simcha Zissel of Kelm points out. Why would a few rocks stop an animal from getting to Ya'akov while he sleeps - surely the rocks could be knocked away with ease.
The answer to be found is a lesson taught by Ya'akov's behaviour. Ya'akov's actions are an example in how to conduct oneself; after massive sleep deprivation, Ya'akov realised that if one pushes himself to the limits, he can do tremendous things. As such, he was able to deal without sleeping properly for all this time. Indeed, Ya'akov has conquered his natural desires and instincts to the extent that after this episode, he felt no need to use anything more than a few rocks to lie on. Similarly, when he placed these stones around his head, ostensibly to protect himself from animals, he was fully aware that they didn't offer proper protection.
Over the course of this past week, I read somewhere* that Ya'akov was happy with this relatively insecure barrier. This seems puzzling. I aso read that Ya'akov went on to enjoy the best night's sleep he'd ever had that night. It seems that he was completely satisfied in his act of השתדלות (acting in a way to demonstrate one's commitment to a cause while accepting that one's own role is always beneath that of God.) Nevertheless, the assertion that he was entirely comfortable with this most minimal of safeguards remains troubling. To resolve this difficulty we have to understand that Ya'akov chose to employ this simple barrier in the knowledge that in reality, everything that one does is essentially a miracle. Man is incapable of doing anything himself - he is only permitted to by God. As such, Ya'akov knew that he had no need to place stones around his head. The reason he put them there was to reduce the miracle, as it were. His action was an attempt to limit the need for a miracle. We may tender that in this merit, Ya'akov deserved to experience the bigger miracle of waking up to see the multiple stones unite to become one.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
*I can't remember exactly where, sorry. I'll try to edit/comment on this note during the next week to rectify my shortcomings.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Parshat Toldot - פרשת תולדות
This week's Parsha opens with the words, "וְאֵלֶּה תּוֹלְדֹת יִצְחָק, בֶּן-אַבְרָהָם: אַבְרָהָם, הוֹלִיד אֶת-יִצְחָק - And these are the generations of Yitzchak, Avraham's son: Avraham begot Yitzchak."
There is a golden rule in the study of Torah that, as the Torah is perfect, there are no supefluous words anywhere. Each and every word has a meaning. Why, therefore, are we twice told that Yitzchak was Avraham's son?
Rav Machlis of Ma'alot Dafna in Jerusalem proposes an interesting insight as to why the seemingly needless repetition is warranted. The first mention, "יִצְחָק בֶּן-אַבְרָהָם," is meant to refer to Yitzchak. We may learn from these words that Yitzchak defined himself as "Yitzchak, the son of Avraham." Yitzchak's respect and love for his father extended to him determining himself by his father.
The next phrase, "אַבְרָהָם, הוֹלִיד אֶת-יִצְחָק - Avraham begot Yitzchak" can be understood as Avraham, the father, referring to himself by mentioning his son. While it is inspiring for the son to realise his position by defering to his father, I find it beautiful, and rather poetic, that Avraham Avinu found himself to be fulfilled through his son. Of course the positions of father and son should never be confused, and the son must always defer to the father, but I personally find this expression of mutual love and respect in Avraham and Yitzchak's relationship to be a true measure of the appreciation and depth of their love for one another.
Another interesting phenomenon I'd like to point out comes in response to an academic article I read last year during my studies. Written by feminist Susan Moller-Okin, the rhetorical question (more of an attack, really,) is asked why we read of "all those endless begats" such as the one found above, whereby a father (Avraham in our case) has a son (Yitzchak here), born to him without the mother being mentioned at all. When I first heard this, it really bothered me. Truth be told, it still does, but I'm sure that I'll find an answer if I do my searching. People told me that while it is clear that we wouldn't write things in such a way today, at the time that Avraham lived, women were very much marginalised by society. Whether the Torah is divine or not, (and I firmly believe that it is,) it was suggested to me that we can "excuse" this uncomfortable phrase as a sign of times past.
Nevertheless, reading through the parsha this last week, I realised something that does provide an answer of sorts to the allegation that Judaism is intrinsically sexist and discriminatory. Only a few verses after the one quoted above, we read that, " וַיֶּאֱהַב יִצְחָק אֶת-עֵשָׂו, כִּי-צַיִד בְּפִיו; וְרִבְקָה, אֹהֶבֶת אֶת-יַעֲקֹב - Yitzchak loved Esav, for trapping was in his mouth; and Rivkah loved Ya'acov."
It is intriguing to note that the two parents developed favourites at all, but I'd like to focus on the fact that while Yitzchak chose Esav, Rivkah favoured Ya'akov. Rivkah chose the 'right' son - the son from whom the Jewish people would emanate, the son who would turn out to be righteous. Responding to claims that Judaism is entirely discriminatory to women, it is important to note that no excuses are given for Yitzchak's "misjudgment" - women are regarded as typically being more insightful and in possession of the trait of בינה, proper understanding. I think that the right conclusion to draw is that there are no explanations given for this simple verse because none are really needed. Yitzchak, great as he was, could never have a woman's perception and understanding. During the Shmonah Esrei we speak of the three forefathers, but we don't mention the four foremothers. But this absolutely doesn't mean that they are of no value, that they had no contribution, and that we don't learn things from them. A glance further ahead in this week's parsha bears that out: Ya'akov, whom we learn represented absolute truth, was forced to bend somewhat after his mother compels him to disguise himself in order to "steal" a bracha from under his brother's nose. It is important not to underestimate the strength of Rivka's role here. She hoodwinked her own husband and forced her son to act against his will, but for a very good reason - she perceived that which the male characters couldn't. Without her guidance this whole episode could never have happened. Although it might seem as if women's roles are very low, if we closely analyse events and view them as a chain, rather than as isolated occurences, we may see just how vital women's contributions are. On a personal note, I may not have all the answers, but I feel that if I learn more about this, there are answers to be found.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
There is a golden rule in the study of Torah that, as the Torah is perfect, there are no supefluous words anywhere. Each and every word has a meaning. Why, therefore, are we twice told that Yitzchak was Avraham's son?
Rav Machlis of Ma'alot Dafna in Jerusalem proposes an interesting insight as to why the seemingly needless repetition is warranted. The first mention, "יִצְחָק בֶּן-אַבְרָהָם," is meant to refer to Yitzchak. We may learn from these words that Yitzchak defined himself as "Yitzchak, the son of Avraham." Yitzchak's respect and love for his father extended to him determining himself by his father.
The next phrase, "אַבְרָהָם, הוֹלִיד אֶת-יִצְחָק - Avraham begot Yitzchak" can be understood as Avraham, the father, referring to himself by mentioning his son. While it is inspiring for the son to realise his position by defering to his father, I find it beautiful, and rather poetic, that Avraham Avinu found himself to be fulfilled through his son. Of course the positions of father and son should never be confused, and the son must always defer to the father, but I personally find this expression of mutual love and respect in Avraham and Yitzchak's relationship to be a true measure of the appreciation and depth of their love for one another.
Another interesting phenomenon I'd like to point out comes in response to an academic article I read last year during my studies. Written by feminist Susan Moller-Okin, the rhetorical question (more of an attack, really,) is asked why we read of "all those endless begats" such as the one found above, whereby a father (Avraham in our case) has a son (Yitzchak here), born to him without the mother being mentioned at all. When I first heard this, it really bothered me. Truth be told, it still does, but I'm sure that I'll find an answer if I do my searching. People told me that while it is clear that we wouldn't write things in such a way today, at the time that Avraham lived, women were very much marginalised by society. Whether the Torah is divine or not, (and I firmly believe that it is,) it was suggested to me that we can "excuse" this uncomfortable phrase as a sign of times past.
Nevertheless, reading through the parsha this last week, I realised something that does provide an answer of sorts to the allegation that Judaism is intrinsically sexist and discriminatory. Only a few verses after the one quoted above, we read that, " וַיֶּאֱהַב יִצְחָק אֶת-עֵשָׂו, כִּי-צַיִד בְּפִיו; וְרִבְקָה, אֹהֶבֶת אֶת-יַעֲקֹב - Yitzchak loved Esav, for trapping was in his mouth; and Rivkah loved Ya'acov."
It is intriguing to note that the two parents developed favourites at all, but I'd like to focus on the fact that while Yitzchak chose Esav, Rivkah favoured Ya'akov. Rivkah chose the 'right' son - the son from whom the Jewish people would emanate, the son who would turn out to be righteous. Responding to claims that Judaism is entirely discriminatory to women, it is important to note that no excuses are given for Yitzchak's "misjudgment" - women are regarded as typically being more insightful and in possession of the trait of בינה, proper understanding. I think that the right conclusion to draw is that there are no explanations given for this simple verse because none are really needed. Yitzchak, great as he was, could never have a woman's perception and understanding. During the Shmonah Esrei we speak of the three forefathers, but we don't mention the four foremothers. But this absolutely doesn't mean that they are of no value, that they had no contribution, and that we don't learn things from them. A glance further ahead in this week's parsha bears that out: Ya'akov, whom we learn represented absolute truth, was forced to bend somewhat after his mother compels him to disguise himself in order to "steal" a bracha from under his brother's nose. It is important not to underestimate the strength of Rivka's role here. She hoodwinked her own husband and forced her son to act against his will, but for a very good reason - she perceived that which the male characters couldn't. Without her guidance this whole episode could never have happened. Although it might seem as if women's roles are very low, if we closely analyse events and view them as a chain, rather than as isolated occurences, we may see just how vital women's contributions are. On a personal note, I may not have all the answers, but I feel that if I learn more about this, there are answers to be found.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Parshat Chayei Sarah - פרשת חיי שרה
"ואהברהם זקן בא בימים וה' ברך את אברהם בכל - And Avraham became old of age and Hashem blessed Avraham with everything."
(בראשית כד:א)
This week's Parsha begins with Avraham Avinu setting out to bury his wife, Sarah. Rav Eliyahu Dessler writes in Michtav M'Eliyahu that out of all the challenging events in Avraham's life this episode was the most troubling. He had just passed the test of the Akeidah, whereby he intended and prepared himself to slaughter to his only son on God's word, and now he hears that his beloved wife had passed away.
Avraham set out to bury his wife in a spot in Hevron that we now call "Ma'arat Hamachpela," in a manner that was befitting of such a righteous woman. Unfortunately though, the people of Hevron, the Chitites, knew that Hashem had given Avraham the land of Israel and did their best to inflate the price. The leader, Efron, was a base man who at first told Avraham that he would give the land away for nothing but when Avraham told Efron that he wanted to pay for the burial plot, Efron raised the price well over the acceptable rate. The Yalkut Lekach Tov notes that Efron's name is composed of the root letters "עפר," - dust. Dust is common and representative of the physical; exactly Efron's nature - all he cared about was that which was physical. Efron's initial "polite" refusal to accept any money was soon revealed to be a front for his true nature. (Indeed, toward the end of this episode, the letter ו is dropped from עפרון's name so that it spells "עפרן," which we may note happens to be numerically equivalent to עין-רע; evil eye.)
In the face of this, and despite his intense pain at his wife's passing, Avraham remained calm, respectful and truly polite. He even bows twice to the Chitites. His behaviour is a real lesson for us to learn - even when in the most terribly depressing moment of his life, Avraham was staunchly pious. While it would be hard for us to emulate him, we can learn from his actions.
Later on in the Parsha, we read, "ואהברהם זקן בא בימים וה' ברך את אברהם בכל - And Avraham became old of age and Hashem blessed Avraham with everything." The word everything seems a bit vague. What is intended? The stock answer is that בכל has a gematria of 52. The word בן, son, also has a gematria of 52 and so we learn that Avraham's reward was his son, Yitzchak.
There's a problem with this explanation, though: Yitzchak was born years ago! Another way to read this word resolves our problem. בכל, "with everything," can instead be replaced with בן, but not in the sense of a son. Rather we can read it to mean "with the number 50." We learn that the number 50 has a special significance - there are 50 levels of Kedushah, spiritual levels, in which we may ascend. Avraham's blessing was not merely that he was given a son, but also that after many years of hard work, he had finally attained this fiftieth level of holiness.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
(בראשית כד:א)
This week's Parsha begins with Avraham Avinu setting out to bury his wife, Sarah. Rav Eliyahu Dessler writes in Michtav M'Eliyahu that out of all the challenging events in Avraham's life this episode was the most troubling. He had just passed the test of the Akeidah, whereby he intended and prepared himself to slaughter to his only son on God's word, and now he hears that his beloved wife had passed away.
Avraham set out to bury his wife in a spot in Hevron that we now call "Ma'arat Hamachpela," in a manner that was befitting of such a righteous woman. Unfortunately though, the people of Hevron, the Chitites, knew that Hashem had given Avraham the land of Israel and did their best to inflate the price. The leader, Efron, was a base man who at first told Avraham that he would give the land away for nothing but when Avraham told Efron that he wanted to pay for the burial plot, Efron raised the price well over the acceptable rate. The Yalkut Lekach Tov notes that Efron's name is composed of the root letters "עפר," - dust. Dust is common and representative of the physical; exactly Efron's nature - all he cared about was that which was physical. Efron's initial "polite" refusal to accept any money was soon revealed to be a front for his true nature. (Indeed, toward the end of this episode, the letter ו is dropped from עפרון's name so that it spells "עפרן," which we may note happens to be numerically equivalent to עין-רע; evil eye.)
In the face of this, and despite his intense pain at his wife's passing, Avraham remained calm, respectful and truly polite. He even bows twice to the Chitites. His behaviour is a real lesson for us to learn - even when in the most terribly depressing moment of his life, Avraham was staunchly pious. While it would be hard for us to emulate him, we can learn from his actions.
Later on in the Parsha, we read, "ואהברהם זקן בא בימים וה' ברך את אברהם בכל - And Avraham became old of age and Hashem blessed Avraham with everything." The word everything seems a bit vague. What is intended? The stock answer is that בכל has a gematria of 52. The word בן, son, also has a gematria of 52 and so we learn that Avraham's reward was his son, Yitzchak.
There's a problem with this explanation, though: Yitzchak was born years ago! Another way to read this word resolves our problem. בכל, "with everything," can instead be replaced with בן, but not in the sense of a son. Rather we can read it to mean "with the number 50." We learn that the number 50 has a special significance - there are 50 levels of Kedushah, spiritual levels, in which we may ascend. Avraham's blessing was not merely that he was given a son, but also that after many years of hard work, he had finally attained this fiftieth level of holiness.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, October 22, 2010
Parshat Vayera - פרשת וירא
"ויֹּאמַר: אֲדֹנָי, אִם-נָא מָצָאתִי חֵן בְּעֵינֶיךָ--אַל-נָא תַעֲבֹר, מֵעַל עַבְדֶּךָ - And said: 'My lord, if now I have found favour in thy sight, pass not away, I pray thee, from thy servant."
(בראשית יח:ג)
The words above form Avraham's request of God after his circumcision: please don't leave me now, even though I have to leave.
The days after a circumcision are supposed to be the most painful, with the pain at its most intense on the third day. Although the pain was great, Avraham was pre-occupied with other things; he was desperate to welcome guests into his tent, and sat watching for weary travellers he could welcome in to his abode.
But if we think about this situation over, something seems amiss. Avraham was sitting in the presence of God, and yet he was searching for people he could bring into his house. What more could he need? Surely being with Hashem is better than being with mere mortals!
The Talmud in Gemara Shabbat (127) learns from this episode that: "מכאן שגדולה הכנסת אורחים יותר מקבלת פני השכינה - from here [we know] that hosting guests is more [important] than receiving the heavenly presence." This still leaves a question, though. How did Avraham know how he should act?
In the book Mayanei HaTorah (a compilation of various teachings) a few Rabbis point out the answer to this question. We have to recognise that Avraham Avinu was a tremendous person. He devoted his life Torah and becoming close to Hashem and he had an incredible level of control over his natural desires and instincts. Avraham was so accustomed to defeating his own will and attuned to Hashem's that his body gravitated towards doing mitzvot. When there was an opportunity for performing a mitzvah, he would find that his body "wanted" to take him there. Avraham was aware that his body wanted to take him there, and so he came to the realisation that the proper conduct was in fact to leave Hashem's presence and seek out people to take into his home.
Personally, I learn a great deal from this. If ever there was an example in the whole Torah of the lengths to which we have to go to make other people happy, this is it. To Avraham, nothing in the world mattered more than being with God. Yet he understood that to become closer with God, there are times when one has to do the simple things.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
(בראשית יח:ג)
The words above form Avraham's request of God after his circumcision: please don't leave me now, even though I have to leave.
The days after a circumcision are supposed to be the most painful, with the pain at its most intense on the third day. Although the pain was great, Avraham was pre-occupied with other things; he was desperate to welcome guests into his tent, and sat watching for weary travellers he could welcome in to his abode.
But if we think about this situation over, something seems amiss. Avraham was sitting in the presence of God, and yet he was searching for people he could bring into his house. What more could he need? Surely being with Hashem is better than being with mere mortals!
The Talmud in Gemara Shabbat (127) learns from this episode that: "מכאן שגדולה הכנסת אורחים יותר מקבלת פני השכינה - from here [we know] that hosting guests is more [important] than receiving the heavenly presence." This still leaves a question, though. How did Avraham know how he should act?
In the book Mayanei HaTorah (a compilation of various teachings) a few Rabbis point out the answer to this question. We have to recognise that Avraham Avinu was a tremendous person. He devoted his life Torah and becoming close to Hashem and he had an incredible level of control over his natural desires and instincts. Avraham was so accustomed to defeating his own will and attuned to Hashem's that his body gravitated towards doing mitzvot. When there was an opportunity for performing a mitzvah, he would find that his body "wanted" to take him there. Avraham was aware that his body wanted to take him there, and so he came to the realisation that the proper conduct was in fact to leave Hashem's presence and seek out people to take into his home.
Personally, I learn a great deal from this. If ever there was an example in the whole Torah of the lengths to which we have to go to make other people happy, this is it. To Avraham, nothing in the world mattered more than being with God. Yet he understood that to become closer with God, there are times when one has to do the simple things.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, October 15, 2010
Parshat Lech Lecha - פרשת לך לך
וַיֹּאמֶר יְהוָה אֶל-אַבְרָם, לֶךְ-לְךָ מֵאַרְצְךָ וּמִמּוֹלַדְתְּךָ וּמִבֵּית אָבִיךָ, אֶל-הָאָרֶץ, אֲשֶׁר אַרְאֶךָּ
Hashem said to Avram: 'Go for yourself, from your land, from your birthplace and from your father's house to the land that I will show you.'
(בראשית יב:א)
There are two parts of this Pasuk that I would like to deal with. The part that immediately interests us is the list of places that Hashem commands Avram to leave - Avram's land, his birthplace and his father's house. After that, Avram we read of the oddly vague "place that I will show you."
There is one obvious question to be asked on the first part of this pasuk. It is posed in the Kli Yakar's commentary: when one lists where one hails from, one normally starts with the most local place and then mentions increasingly bigger areas. For example, I was born in Hendon, which is in London, which in turn is in England. Here however, the list order is reversed. One possible reason for this could be that when moving away from a certain place, a person notices things that he used to take for granted. Personally I have noticed many cases of American and English expatriates assuming an exaggerated persona. I believe that the reason for this is as much to do with being homesick and attempting to compensate for the inability to actually be immersed in the old country's culture as it is to play the culture card on local people. By this I mean that I will often exaggerate my Londoner accent for Israeli and American friends as it is both a talking point, and also reminds people where I come from and what kind of behaviour and customs to expect from me. It also serves to confirm to myself that I am different from Israelis and that although I have moved abroad, I am not a native. To misquote Sting, "I'm an Englishman in Jerusalem!"
Coming back to the point, the word ארץ in Hebrew means land, but it also has another connotation. The word may be read as "א-רץ," meaning "I will run." The concept of the ground in Hebrew is the place you are heading to to, what your goal is. By way of comparison, Egypt is called מצרים, which derives from the word צר, meaning thin. Eretz Yisrael, a very thin strip of land geographically, is called "Eretz tova U'rechava - A good and wide land." How can that be? The answer is simple enough; that Egypt was a spiritually stifling place for the Jews to live in, whereas in Eretz Yisrael, our potential is significantly "wider" and expanded.
It is only natural that a man once removed from his natural surroundings will pine for them and attempt to re-enact them in his mind. For this reason, Hashem first told Avram to leave behind the land he came from. He wasn't telling him to literally leave the land first, that would be impossible! What was meant was for Avram to leave that mentality behind, to abandon it completely. Only after he had left behind this mentality could he truly leave his home and his father's house without feeling the need to come back.
But where shall he go to? We have grasped the fact that Avram had to leave behind all that he used to know, but where was he to head to? The Pasuk simply says the place "אשר אראך - that I will show you." How can Avram go somewhere without knowing where it is that he is to be heading?
To answer this, we may look at the beginning of the Pasuk. The first two words Hashem said, "לך לך," may be translated as "Go for yourself," but it can also be rendered "Go to yourself." Or, alternatively, "Go (to) 50." 50 is known as one of the many numbers of Kedusha. The concept here is not that Avram was being instructed to merely head for a different place on the map, rather that he wass being commanded by Hashem to go to his limit, to reach the highest spiritual level he possibly could.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Hashem said to Avram: 'Go for yourself, from your land, from your birthplace and from your father's house to the land that I will show you.'
(בראשית יב:א)
There are two parts of this Pasuk that I would like to deal with. The part that immediately interests us is the list of places that Hashem commands Avram to leave - Avram's land, his birthplace and his father's house. After that, Avram we read of the oddly vague "place that I will show you."
There is one obvious question to be asked on the first part of this pasuk. It is posed in the Kli Yakar's commentary: when one lists where one hails from, one normally starts with the most local place and then mentions increasingly bigger areas. For example, I was born in Hendon, which is in London, which in turn is in England. Here however, the list order is reversed. One possible reason for this could be that when moving away from a certain place, a person notices things that he used to take for granted. Personally I have noticed many cases of American and English expatriates assuming an exaggerated persona. I believe that the reason for this is as much to do with being homesick and attempting to compensate for the inability to actually be immersed in the old country's culture as it is to play the culture card on local people. By this I mean that I will often exaggerate my Londoner accent for Israeli and American friends as it is both a talking point, and also reminds people where I come from and what kind of behaviour and customs to expect from me. It also serves to confirm to myself that I am different from Israelis and that although I have moved abroad, I am not a native. To misquote Sting, "I'm an Englishman in Jerusalem!"
Coming back to the point, the word ארץ in Hebrew means land, but it also has another connotation. The word may be read as "א-רץ," meaning "I will run." The concept of the ground in Hebrew is the place you are heading to to, what your goal is. By way of comparison, Egypt is called מצרים, which derives from the word צר, meaning thin. Eretz Yisrael, a very thin strip of land geographically, is called "Eretz tova U'rechava - A good and wide land." How can that be? The answer is simple enough; that Egypt was a spiritually stifling place for the Jews to live in, whereas in Eretz Yisrael, our potential is significantly "wider" and expanded.
It is only natural that a man once removed from his natural surroundings will pine for them and attempt to re-enact them in his mind. For this reason, Hashem first told Avram to leave behind the land he came from. He wasn't telling him to literally leave the land first, that would be impossible! What was meant was for Avram to leave that mentality behind, to abandon it completely. Only after he had left behind this mentality could he truly leave his home and his father's house without feeling the need to come back.
But where shall he go to? We have grasped the fact that Avram had to leave behind all that he used to know, but where was he to head to? The Pasuk simply says the place "אשר אראך - that I will show you." How can Avram go somewhere without knowing where it is that he is to be heading?
To answer this, we may look at the beginning of the Pasuk. The first two words Hashem said, "לך לך," may be translated as "Go for yourself," but it can also be rendered "Go to yourself." Or, alternatively, "Go (to) 50." 50 is known as one of the many numbers of Kedusha. The concept here is not that Avram was being instructed to merely head for a different place on the map, rather that he wass being commanded by Hashem to go to his limit, to reach the highest spiritual level he possibly could.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, October 08, 2010
Parshat Noach - פרשת נח
"אֵלֶּה תּוֹלְדֹת נֹחַ. נֹחַ אִישׁ צַדִּיק תָּמִים הָיָה בְּדֹרֹתָיו: אֶת-הָאֱלֹהִים, הִתְהַלֶּךְ-נֹחַ - These are the generations of Noach. Noach was in his generations a man righteous and whole-hearted; Noach walked with God."
(בראשית ו:ט)
In Zichron Meir, Rabbi Meir Robman writes that there is a problem with the way we perceive Noach. From the verse above, it would seem quite clear that Noach was a particularly holy man, but a number of the commentators on the Torah talk about Noach in a denigratory manner. Commenting on Masechet Sandhedrin in his notes on the Talmud, Rashi points out that "There are a number of our Rabbis who praise Noach... and there are those who denigrate him; "According to his generation he was deemed righteous, but had he lived during the time of Avraham, he wouldn't have been counted as anything."
This perception of Noach's relative merit is not normally challenged, but upon consider things, we may realise that this is a rather odd state of affairs. And it's even more puzzling given the Radak's view of Noach. The Radak explains that "Noach walked with Hashem, he was attached to Him, and all his deeds were in His name," before going on to highlight his great strength in "defeating his natural inclination, for he lived in a generation of wicked and evil people but didn't learn from their ways."
So we have two ways of regarding Noach - we can say that he was only deemed a righteous man because he lived amongst a very low, base people and only by comparison could he be deemed a good man. Or we can say that he was genuinely righteous because he managed to ignore them and stay on the "straight and narrow." These two persepectives are the polar opposite of one another. Either way, we need to resolve this issue - either Noach was righteous or he was not!
The answer to this problem is that the two opinions do not truly clash - both schools of thought agree that Noach was righteous man; what they argue about is the meaning of the word "בְּדֹרֹתָיו - his generations."
When saying that Noach didn't compare to the men of Avraham's generation, Reish Lakish's opinion in the gemara might seem derogotary of Noach, but he actually wasn't criticising Noach. His point was that it although it wasn't his fault, Noach lived amongst wicked people, and because Noach lived at that particular time, he was limited spiritually. Had he lived at another time though, Noach may well have been able to attain a significantly higher spiritual level. Either way, I think this insight is genuinely relevant to all of us - we can't choose the time we were born into; we all live in the present. Maybe we would have done better if we had been around in the times of the Bet Hamikdash of old, maybe we feel that we would have done better if we'd have been born in the future. Maybe we feel that we are surrounded by people who are low, base and evil. All this is out of our control. As it says in Pirkei Avot: במקום שאין" אנשים השתדל להיות איש - In a place where there are no men, try to be a man." We can't help the fact that the world is such a cruel, relentless place. It's too hard to change the entire world when the situation is as bad as it is. But if we all start by changing ourselves for the good, the world will be changed for the better. After all, at a time when the world warranted destruction, in Noach's merit alone did the human race continue.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
(בראשית ו:ט)
In Zichron Meir, Rabbi Meir Robman writes that there is a problem with the way we perceive Noach. From the verse above, it would seem quite clear that Noach was a particularly holy man, but a number of the commentators on the Torah talk about Noach in a denigratory manner. Commenting on Masechet Sandhedrin in his notes on the Talmud, Rashi points out that "There are a number of our Rabbis who praise Noach... and there are those who denigrate him; "According to his generation he was deemed righteous, but had he lived during the time of Avraham, he wouldn't have been counted as anything."
This perception of Noach's relative merit is not normally challenged, but upon consider things, we may realise that this is a rather odd state of affairs. And it's even more puzzling given the Radak's view of Noach. The Radak explains that "Noach walked with Hashem, he was attached to Him, and all his deeds were in His name," before going on to highlight his great strength in "defeating his natural inclination, for he lived in a generation of wicked and evil people but didn't learn from their ways."
So we have two ways of regarding Noach - we can say that he was only deemed a righteous man because he lived amongst a very low, base people and only by comparison could he be deemed a good man. Or we can say that he was genuinely righteous because he managed to ignore them and stay on the "straight and narrow." These two persepectives are the polar opposite of one another. Either way, we need to resolve this issue - either Noach was righteous or he was not!
The answer to this problem is that the two opinions do not truly clash - both schools of thought agree that Noach was righteous man; what they argue about is the meaning of the word "בְּדֹרֹתָיו - his generations."
When saying that Noach didn't compare to the men of Avraham's generation, Reish Lakish's opinion in the gemara might seem derogotary of Noach, but he actually wasn't criticising Noach. His point was that it although it wasn't his fault, Noach lived amongst wicked people, and because Noach lived at that particular time, he was limited spiritually. Had he lived at another time though, Noach may well have been able to attain a significantly higher spiritual level. Either way, I think this insight is genuinely relevant to all of us - we can't choose the time we were born into; we all live in the present. Maybe we would have done better if we had been around in the times of the Bet Hamikdash of old, maybe we feel that we would have done better if we'd have been born in the future. Maybe we feel that we are surrounded by people who are low, base and evil. All this is out of our control. As it says in Pirkei Avot: במקום שאין" אנשים השתדל להיות איש - In a place where there are no men, try to be a man." We can't help the fact that the world is such a cruel, relentless place. It's too hard to change the entire world when the situation is as bad as it is. But if we all start by changing ourselves for the good, the world will be changed for the better. After all, at a time when the world warranted destruction, in Noach's merit alone did the human race continue.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Parshat Noach - פרשת נח
"אֵלֶּה תּוֹלְדֹת נֹחַ. נֹחַ אִישׁ צַדִּיק תָּמִים הָיָה בְּדֹרֹתָיו: אֶת-הָאֱלֹהִים, הִתְהַלֶּךְ-נֹחַ - These are the generations of Noach. Noach was in his generations a man righteous and whole-hearted; Noach walked with God."
(בראשית ו:ט)
In Zichron Meir, Rabbi Meir Robman writes that there is a problem with the way we perceive Noach. From the verse above, it would seem quite clear that Noach was a particularly holy man, but a number of the commentators on the Torah talk about Noach in a denigratory manner. Commenting on Masechet Sandhedrin in his notes on the Talmud, Rashi points out that "There are a number of our Rabbis who praise Noach... and there are those who denigrate him; "According to his generation he was deemed righteous, but had he lived during the time of Avraham, he wouldn't have been counted as anything."
This perception of Noach's relative merit is not normally challenged, but upon consider things, we may realise that this is a rather odd state of affairs. And it's even more puzzling given the Radak's view of Noach. The Radak explains that "Noach walked with Hashem, he was attached to Him, and all his deeds were in His name," before going on to highlight his great strength in "defeating his natural inclination, for he lived in a generation of wicked and evil people but didn't learn from their ways."
So we have two ways of regarding Noach - we can say that he was only deemed a righteous man because he lived amongst a very low, base people and only by comparison could he be deemed a good man. Or we can say that he was genuinely righteous because he managed to ignore them and stay on the "straight and narrow." These two persepectives are the polar opposite of one another. Either way, we need to resolve this issue - either Noach was righteous or he was not!
The answer to this problem is that the two opinions do not truly clash - both schools of thought agree that Noach was righteous man; what they argue about is the meaning of the word "בְּדֹרֹתָיו - his generations."
When saying that Noach didn't compare to the men of Avraham's generation, Reish Lakish's opinion in the gemara might seem derogotary of Noach, but he actually wasn't criticising Noach. His point was that it although it wasn't his fault, Noach lived amongst wicked people, and because Noach lived at that particular time, he was limited spiritually. Had he lived at another time though, Noach may well have been able to attain a significantly higher spiritual level. Either way, I think this insight is genuinely relevant to all of us - we can't choose the time we were born into; we all live in the present. Maybe we would have done better if we had been around in the times of the Bet Hamikdash of old, maybe we feel that we would have done better if we'd have been born in the future. Maybe we feel that we are surrounded by people who are low, base and evil. All this is out of our control. As it says in Pirkei Avot: במקום שאין" אנשים השתדל להיות איש - In a place where there are no men, try to be a man." We can't help the fact that the world is such a cruel, relentless place. It's too hard to change the entire world when the situation is as bad as it is. But if we all start by changing ourselves for the good, the world will be changed for the better. After all, at a time when the world warranted destruction, in Noach's merit alone did the human race continue.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
(בראשית ו:ט)
In Zichron Meir, Rabbi Meir Robman writes that there is a problem with the way we perceive Noach. From the verse above, it would seem quite clear that Noach was a particularly holy man, but a number of the commentators on the Torah talk about Noach in a denigratory manner. Commenting on Masechet Sandhedrin in his notes on the Talmud, Rashi points out that "There are a number of our Rabbis who praise Noach... and there are those who denigrate him; "According to his generation he was deemed righteous, but had he lived during the time of Avraham, he wouldn't have been counted as anything."
This perception of Noach's relative merit is not normally challenged, but upon consider things, we may realise that this is a rather odd state of affairs. And it's even more puzzling given the Radak's view of Noach. The Radak explains that "Noach walked with Hashem, he was attached to Him, and all his deeds were in His name," before going on to highlight his great strength in "defeating his natural inclination, for he lived in a generation of wicked and evil people but didn't learn from their ways."
So we have two ways of regarding Noach - we can say that he was only deemed a righteous man because he lived amongst a very low, base people and only by comparison could he be deemed a good man. Or we can say that he was genuinely righteous because he managed to ignore them and stay on the "straight and narrow." These two persepectives are the polar opposite of one another. Either way, we need to resolve this issue - either Noach was righteous or he was not!
The answer to this problem is that the two opinions do not truly clash - both schools of thought agree that Noach was righteous man; what they argue about is the meaning of the word "בְּדֹרֹתָיו - his generations."
When saying that Noach didn't compare to the men of Avraham's generation, Reish Lakish's opinion in the gemara might seem derogotary of Noach, but he actually wasn't criticising Noach. His point was that it although it wasn't his fault, Noach lived amongst wicked people, and because Noach lived at that particular time, he was limited spiritually. Had he lived at another time though, Noach may well have been able to attain a significantly higher spiritual level. Either way, I think this insight is genuinely relevant to all of us - we can't choose the time we were born into; we all live in the present. Maybe we would have done better if we had been around in the times of the Bet Hamikdash of old, maybe we feel that we would have done better if we'd have been born in the future. Maybe we feel that we are surrounded by people who are low, base and evil. All this is out of our control. As it says in Pirkei Avot: במקום שאין" אנשים השתדל להיות איש - In a place where there are no men, try to be a man." We can't help the fact that the world is such a cruel, relentless place. It's too hard to change the entire world when the situation is as bad as it is. But if we all start by changing ourselves for the good, the world will be changed for the better. After all, at a time when the world warranted destruction, in Noach's merit alone did the human race continue.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, October 01, 2010
Parshat B'reishit - פרשת בראשית
In Lecha Dodi there's a line that I find particularly relevant to this week's Parsha. The line is: "סוף מעשה במחשבה תחילה," roughly meaning that "the end product is found in the first thoughts."
This Shabbat we read B'reishit, which is the first Parsha in the Torah. The concept outlined above, of finding the DNA, as it were, for all that comes afterwards, can be found in various levels in this week's Parsha. As it forms the beginning of the entire Bible, it is here that we read of the creation of the universe - the very first thing that happened, according to the opening verse of the Torah. Following the concept above, we learn that everything in the Torah can be found in the opening act of B'reishit.
Incredibly, the Vilna Gaon claimed to have a way of reading into the first word of the Torah 613 ways; one for each of the Mitzvot. It is told that that he was once challenged by a student/a group of his students, who asked him how he could see the mitzvah of Pidyon Haben encrypted here in the the word B'reishit.
A tough ask, it would seem. But the Vilna Gaon had no trouble responding and answered by explaining that the letters of the word "בראשית" form an acronym. Each of the letters stand for בן ראשון אחרי שלושים יום תפדה, which means "Firstborn son - after 30 days you shall release" and sums up the essence of the mitzvah in six words.
Another thing worth pointing out about Parshat B'reishit, the first Parsha in the Torah, is that it opens with the second letter in the Alef-Bet, not the first letter, Aleph. The typical explanation for this is found in the Medrash, where it is posited that the word ארור - Arur (meaning cursed) begins with an Alef, but as Bet is the beginning of the word ברוך - Baruch (meaning blessed), it is preferred so that there can be no way in which one could imagine that the Torah begins with even a hint of a curse. It's a cute answer, but there's plenty of other reasons, as well.
In the Sh'ma, there's a phrase "ושננתם לבניך ודברת בם," meaning "And you shall teach them your sons and you shall speak of them. The "בם" here is rather vague. It literally means "them," and we are not helped by the fact thay they are introduced earlier on as "הדברים" - another vague term, meaning "things."
Thankfully the Magid Ta'alumah provides a beautiful explanation as to what is being referred to. He notes that the Talmud starts with the letter מ, mem, in the tractate of Brachot. There we read the words, "מאמתי קורין את השמע - from what time do we read the Sh'ma?". The Magid Ta'alumah claims that the two letters of the word "בם" which we have such difficulty with actually correspond to the written Torah and to the oral Torah. The written Torah begins with a ב, as in בראשית, while the oral law starts with a מ - which together form the word בם. Thus, when we read the relevant part of Sh'ma, "ודברת בם," we may now understand what is being commanded of us - to continually speak words of Torah; both the written and the oral Torah.
And all of this is alluded to in just the first word of the Torah!
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
This Shabbat we read B'reishit, which is the first Parsha in the Torah. The concept outlined above, of finding the DNA, as it were, for all that comes afterwards, can be found in various levels in this week's Parsha. As it forms the beginning of the entire Bible, it is here that we read of the creation of the universe - the very first thing that happened, according to the opening verse of the Torah. Following the concept above, we learn that everything in the Torah can be found in the opening act of B'reishit.
Incredibly, the Vilna Gaon claimed to have a way of reading into the first word of the Torah 613 ways; one for each of the Mitzvot. It is told that that he was once challenged by a student/a group of his students, who asked him how he could see the mitzvah of Pidyon Haben encrypted here in the the word B'reishit.
A tough ask, it would seem. But the Vilna Gaon had no trouble responding and answered by explaining that the letters of the word "בראשית" form an acronym. Each of the letters stand for בן ראשון אחרי שלושים יום תפדה, which means "Firstborn son - after 30 days you shall release" and sums up the essence of the mitzvah in six words.
Another thing worth pointing out about Parshat B'reishit, the first Parsha in the Torah, is that it opens with the second letter in the Alef-Bet, not the first letter, Aleph. The typical explanation for this is found in the Medrash, where it is posited that the word ארור - Arur (meaning cursed) begins with an Alef, but as Bet is the beginning of the word ברוך - Baruch (meaning blessed), it is preferred so that there can be no way in which one could imagine that the Torah begins with even a hint of a curse. It's a cute answer, but there's plenty of other reasons, as well.
In the Sh'ma, there's a phrase "ושננתם לבניך ודברת בם," meaning "And you shall teach them your sons and you shall speak of them. The "בם" here is rather vague. It literally means "them," and we are not helped by the fact thay they are introduced earlier on as "הדברים" - another vague term, meaning "things."
Thankfully the Magid Ta'alumah provides a beautiful explanation as to what is being referred to. He notes that the Talmud starts with the letter מ, mem, in the tractate of Brachot. There we read the words, "מאמתי קורין את השמע - from what time do we read the Sh'ma?". The Magid Ta'alumah claims that the two letters of the word "בם" which we have such difficulty with actually correspond to the written Torah and to the oral Torah. The written Torah begins with a ב, as in בראשית, while the oral law starts with a מ - which together form the word בם. Thus, when we read the relevant part of Sh'ma, "ודברת בם," we may now understand what is being commanded of us - to continually speak words of Torah; both the written and the oral Torah.
And all of this is alluded to in just the first word of the Torah!
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Shmini Atzeret, Simchat Torah - שמיני עצרת ושמחת תורה
A number of the Jewish festivals are referred to by more than one name. For example, Sukkot is also known by the moniker Chag Ha'Asif, Shmini Atzeret is also referred to as Simchat Torah and Pesach is sometimes called Chag Hamatzot. Similarly, Rosh Hashana is called Yom T'ruah, Yom HaZikaron and Yom HaDin, while Shavuot is known variously as Chag HaBikkurim, Chag HaKatzir and Zman Matan Torateinu.
Each of these names have a different meaning and represent a different aspect of each festival. In a speech I heard last year, Rav Yonah Metzger, the Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Israel, suggested that some of these names are linked. While he didn't go through all the names of all the chagim, he took a few examples.
The two names Pesach and Chag Hamatzot, Rav Metzger suggested, are a pair. Pesach refers to Hashem's passing over the houses of the Jews; it is Bnei Yisrael's way of being grateful for Hashem's kindness in overlooking them while killing Egyptians worthy of death. On the other hand, Chag Hamatzot is Hashem's name for the festival and it refers to how God found our actions favourable. (We displayed a desire to leave Egypt swiftly when the time came, to the point whereby we let bread bake on our backs.)
In the same way, two of Sukkot's names can be seen as a pair; Chag Ha'Asif, Festival of the Collecting (of the harvest,) is the one of the names that the Jewish people uses for it - we thank God that we He has given us sustenance. But Hashem has refers to it from a different perspective; His name for the festival is Sukkot, for He recognises the Jewish people's devotion to sitting outside in the Sukkah, often through what can sometimes prove to be rather unpleasant conditions.
And so too we have the names of Chag Shmini Ha'atzeret and Simchat Torah. Shmini means eight, and Atzeret means stopping. Rav Metzger explained that this name can be understood as belonging to Hashem. After seeing the Jews observing Sukkot for seven days, he says to us "today is the eight day - you may stop dwelling in your Sukkot now and dwell inside with me." So that's Hashem's perspective, as it were.
But there's a second name, too: Simchat Torah. This moniker represents a rather different aspect; it represents the side of Bnei Yisrael and shows the Jewish nation's love for Hashem. When we celebrate Simchat Torah, we are thanking Hashem for the greatest gift given - that of the Torah. While we refer to our festivals by their various names without thought, interchangeably even, it is interesting to note how these names dovetail and reciprocate each other's sentiments, despite the differences between them.
From Jerusalem, wishing you all a Chag Sameach!
Each of these names have a different meaning and represent a different aspect of each festival. In a speech I heard last year, Rav Yonah Metzger, the Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Israel, suggested that some of these names are linked. While he didn't go through all the names of all the chagim, he took a few examples.
The two names Pesach and Chag Hamatzot, Rav Metzger suggested, are a pair. Pesach refers to Hashem's passing over the houses of the Jews; it is Bnei Yisrael's way of being grateful for Hashem's kindness in overlooking them while killing Egyptians worthy of death. On the other hand, Chag Hamatzot is Hashem's name for the festival and it refers to how God found our actions favourable. (We displayed a desire to leave Egypt swiftly when the time came, to the point whereby we let bread bake on our backs.)
In the same way, two of Sukkot's names can be seen as a pair; Chag Ha'Asif, Festival of the Collecting (of the harvest,) is the one of the names that the Jewish people uses for it - we thank God that we He has given us sustenance. But Hashem has refers to it from a different perspective; His name for the festival is Sukkot, for He recognises the Jewish people's devotion to sitting outside in the Sukkah, often through what can sometimes prove to be rather unpleasant conditions.
And so too we have the names of Chag Shmini Ha'atzeret and Simchat Torah. Shmini means eight, and Atzeret means stopping. Rav Metzger explained that this name can be understood as belonging to Hashem. After seeing the Jews observing Sukkot for seven days, he says to us "today is the eight day - you may stop dwelling in your Sukkot now and dwell inside with me." So that's Hashem's perspective, as it were.
But there's a second name, too: Simchat Torah. This moniker represents a rather different aspect; it represents the side of Bnei Yisrael and shows the Jewish nation's love for Hashem. When we celebrate Simchat Torah, we are thanking Hashem for the greatest gift given - that of the Torah. While we refer to our festivals by their various names without thought, interchangeably even, it is interesting to note how these names dovetail and reciprocate each other's sentiments, despite the differences between them.
From Jerusalem, wishing you all a Chag Sameach!
Friday, September 24, 2010
Shabbat Sukkot - שבת סוכות
Although Shabbat Sukkot doesn't seem to have much that separates it from the rest of Sukkot, there is one thing at least upon which we may comment - Megillat Kohelet, one of the five special scrolls we read over the course of the year.
Megillat Kohelet is always read during the festival of Sukkot, but it doesn't quite seem to fit - it's tone is decidedly downbeat and certainly appears to clash with the sentiment echoed in a a song commonly sung, "ושמחת בחגך - V'samachta b'chagecha - and you shall rejoice in your festivals" (Sourced from פרשת ראה: טז:יד).
Two Psukim later in פסוק טז, we read, "שלוש פעמים בשנה... בחג המצות ובחג השבועות ובחג הסוכות - Three times a year... On Chag Hamatzot, Vhag Hashavuot, and Chag HaSukkot..." We are clearly supposed to be happy on our Chagim, we must rejoice on Sukkot. So if we are meant to be happy, how can we read Kohelet, which talks about the "futility" of life?
If we examine the text of the Mussaf Shmonah Esrei we say every day of Chag, we say "ומפני חטאנו גלינו מארצנו, ונתרחקנו מעל אדמתנו - But because of our sins we have been exiled from our land and sent far from our soil." This is certainly no happy statement, and if we pray the we are meant to, these words must surely evoke a certain emotion within us, an emotion rather dissonant with the theme of rejoicing. Again, it seems to clash. How do we resolve such a discrepancy?
Rav Kook answers the question as follows. There are two types of negative feelings in life, one is sadness and one is pain. Pain is a neccessary part of life, as it allows us to realise that something is wrong and to build on it. Sadness on the other hand, is restricting and inhibits us. When we are sad, we can become depressed and caught up in the act of "being sad." Humans tend to wallow in sadness. Sometimes people feel really bad about something, and then compound their feelings by playing a depressing song. That is an example of sadness; it's destructive and a waste of one's time and energy.
Rav Kook argues that we are instructed to be full of happines during our Chagim. We must not allow ourseleves to experience sadness, or any type of negative feeling upon which we cannot build. Pain on the other hand, pain that we wrecked our Bet Hamikdash and consequently been cast into a 2,000 year long exile, is useful. That kind of pain allows us to temper our joy to a degree, and lets us realise that we are still homeless. So too, by reading Kohelet, we understand how all in life is transient. Even the greatest joy passes. Just like the Sukkah booths in which we live during the course of the festival, everything is temporary.
Wallowing in melancholy is not a Jewish quality, it will get us nowhere. Being in touch with that twinge of pain however, is essential for us to build ourselves up.
Shabbat Shalom and a Chag Sameach!
Partially based on a D'var Torah I heard from a dorm-mate of mine (Etan) during my Yeshivat Hakotel days, and added to with thoughts of my own and others found from other sources.
Megillat Kohelet is always read during the festival of Sukkot, but it doesn't quite seem to fit - it's tone is decidedly downbeat and certainly appears to clash with the sentiment echoed in a a song commonly sung, "ושמחת בחגך - V'samachta b'chagecha - and you shall rejoice in your festivals" (Sourced from פרשת ראה: טז:יד).
Two Psukim later in פסוק טז, we read, "שלוש פעמים בשנה... בחג המצות ובחג השבועות ובחג הסוכות - Three times a year... On Chag Hamatzot, Vhag Hashavuot, and Chag HaSukkot..." We are clearly supposed to be happy on our Chagim, we must rejoice on Sukkot. So if we are meant to be happy, how can we read Kohelet, which talks about the "futility" of life?
If we examine the text of the Mussaf Shmonah Esrei we say every day of Chag, we say "ומפני חטאנו גלינו מארצנו, ונתרחקנו מעל אדמתנו - But because of our sins we have been exiled from our land and sent far from our soil." This is certainly no happy statement, and if we pray the we are meant to, these words must surely evoke a certain emotion within us, an emotion rather dissonant with the theme of rejoicing. Again, it seems to clash. How do we resolve such a discrepancy?
Rav Kook answers the question as follows. There are two types of negative feelings in life, one is sadness and one is pain. Pain is a neccessary part of life, as it allows us to realise that something is wrong and to build on it. Sadness on the other hand, is restricting and inhibits us. When we are sad, we can become depressed and caught up in the act of "being sad." Humans tend to wallow in sadness. Sometimes people feel really bad about something, and then compound their feelings by playing a depressing song. That is an example of sadness; it's destructive and a waste of one's time and energy.
Rav Kook argues that we are instructed to be full of happines during our Chagim. We must not allow ourseleves to experience sadness, or any type of negative feeling upon which we cannot build. Pain on the other hand, pain that we wrecked our Bet Hamikdash and consequently been cast into a 2,000 year long exile, is useful. That kind of pain allows us to temper our joy to a degree, and lets us realise that we are still homeless. So too, by reading Kohelet, we understand how all in life is transient. Even the greatest joy passes. Just like the Sukkah booths in which we live during the course of the festival, everything is temporary.
Wallowing in melancholy is not a Jewish quality, it will get us nowhere. Being in touch with that twinge of pain however, is essential for us to build ourselves up.
Shabbat Shalom and a Chag Sameach!
Partially based on a D'var Torah I heard from a dorm-mate of mine (Etan) during my Yeshivat Hakotel days, and added to with thoughts of my own and others found from other sources.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Sukkot - סוכות
In my last D'var Torah, I spoke about Yom Kippur and its connection with Rosh Hashanah. Similarly, it is by no coincidence that the festivals of Sukkot and Shmini Atzeret/Simchat Torah (which takes place over one day in Israel but is split over two days in the Diaspora,) fall right next to one another. Upon consideration, it seems a tad strange to be commanded to live in a Sukkah for seven days, and then without a break, without even a day in which to dismantle the Sukkah, we jump right into another festival.
The word Atzeret comes from the Hebrew root עצר, which means stopping. On this day, Jews around the world celebrate finishing the yearly cycle of reading the Torah. But there's a concept in Judaism that seems to directly contradict this term. The concept is that we never stop going; that there's always more work to be done in this world. I'd like to point out that although this idea seems simple, it's very much the opposite of the prevalent custom today. Most people nowadays live a lifestyle that demands hard work so that ultimately, one may take time off. The Jewish concept though, is that up until one's dying day, one remains obligated to perform Mitzot - there's no such thing as time off. There's no such concept as retirement in Judaism - one is obliged to do their best till their dying day.
With this in mind, how can there be a Jewish festival that celebrates the completion of the Torah? The standard answer is cute; that we don't just stop - we start again and read from Parshat B'reishit on the same day. We refuse to wait the normal week to progress to the next Parsha, and instead signal our intent to keep going. This answer certainly proves that though this Torah reading has ended, we don't really stop, but I would like to propose an alternative answer.
A point repeatedly made by various Rabbis over the years is that the number seven in Judaism signifies that which lies in the natural. There are seven notes in the musical scale, seven continents and there are seven days in the week - something that remains remarkably indisputed, despite the fact that there are various calendar systems in use around the world, all agree that there is such a thing as a week and that it has seven days. We also say that there Hashem made seven heavens (hence the expression,) Tefillin are wrapped around the arm seven times and the Menorah in the Bet Hamikdash had seven branches. Additionally, it is said that the world was created with the number seven. The first verse in the Torah deals with the creation of the universe, and contains seven words and twenty-eight letters; a number which happens to divisible by seven!
As such, it is no surprise to say that the seven days of sukkot correspond to the natural world. For seven days we sit outside, exposed to the elements. Therefore, the second Gerer Rebbe writes in his seminal work, the Sfat Emet, that during this time we need the extra defence of the Sukkah. But beyond seven, the number of the physical, of the natural, is the number eight - which is said to represent the spiritual. He explains that the festival of Sukkot is one that "gives life to the whole world." This is alluded to by the fact that we observe Sukkot for an entire week. Similarly, in the times when the Bet Hamikdash stood, 70 bulls were sacrificed - for each of the 70 distinct nations* in the world. Through these sacrifices, the whole world was given nourishment.
On the day after Sukkot we go one level above the physical world and enter into the spiritual domain, so to speak. We call this day Shmini Atzeret, which means the eighth day. After observing Sukkot and giving physical life to the world, we don't waste any time and focus on imbuing the world with the spiritual energy it needs. The question posed at the beginning of this D'var Torah, why Sukkot and Shmini Atzeret are placed next to one another, may now be answered. On Shmini Atzeret, we leave the Sukkot outside because we don't need the protection it affords. That protection is only needed by someone living a physical, natural lifestyle. We learn that Sukkot and Shmini Atzeret have to be placed next to one another to show that when one lives life fully and spiritually, one moves beyond the need for such external protection.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom and a pleasant Sukkah experience :)
*There is a Torah concept that there are 70 nations in the world. Although there are over 190 countries in existence today, many of these share roots and originate from one people. As such, it's not so absurd to refer the world in terms of "70 nations".
The word Atzeret comes from the Hebrew root עצר, which means stopping. On this day, Jews around the world celebrate finishing the yearly cycle of reading the Torah. But there's a concept in Judaism that seems to directly contradict this term. The concept is that we never stop going; that there's always more work to be done in this world. I'd like to point out that although this idea seems simple, it's very much the opposite of the prevalent custom today. Most people nowadays live a lifestyle that demands hard work so that ultimately, one may take time off. The Jewish concept though, is that up until one's dying day, one remains obligated to perform Mitzot - there's no such thing as time off. There's no such concept as retirement in Judaism - one is obliged to do their best till their dying day.
With this in mind, how can there be a Jewish festival that celebrates the completion of the Torah? The standard answer is cute; that we don't just stop - we start again and read from Parshat B'reishit on the same day. We refuse to wait the normal week to progress to the next Parsha, and instead signal our intent to keep going. This answer certainly proves that though this Torah reading has ended, we don't really stop, but I would like to propose an alternative answer.
A point repeatedly made by various Rabbis over the years is that the number seven in Judaism signifies that which lies in the natural. There are seven notes in the musical scale, seven continents and there are seven days in the week - something that remains remarkably indisputed, despite the fact that there are various calendar systems in use around the world, all agree that there is such a thing as a week and that it has seven days. We also say that there Hashem made seven heavens (hence the expression,) Tefillin are wrapped around the arm seven times and the Menorah in the Bet Hamikdash had seven branches. Additionally, it is said that the world was created with the number seven. The first verse in the Torah deals with the creation of the universe, and contains seven words and twenty-eight letters; a number which happens to divisible by seven!
As such, it is no surprise to say that the seven days of sukkot correspond to the natural world. For seven days we sit outside, exposed to the elements. Therefore, the second Gerer Rebbe writes in his seminal work, the Sfat Emet, that during this time we need the extra defence of the Sukkah. But beyond seven, the number of the physical, of the natural, is the number eight - which is said to represent the spiritual. He explains that the festival of Sukkot is one that "gives life to the whole world." This is alluded to by the fact that we observe Sukkot for an entire week. Similarly, in the times when the Bet Hamikdash stood, 70 bulls were sacrificed - for each of the 70 distinct nations* in the world. Through these sacrifices, the whole world was given nourishment.
On the day after Sukkot we go one level above the physical world and enter into the spiritual domain, so to speak. We call this day Shmini Atzeret, which means the eighth day. After observing Sukkot and giving physical life to the world, we don't waste any time and focus on imbuing the world with the spiritual energy it needs. The question posed at the beginning of this D'var Torah, why Sukkot and Shmini Atzeret are placed next to one another, may now be answered. On Shmini Atzeret, we leave the Sukkot outside because we don't need the protection it affords. That protection is only needed by someone living a physical, natural lifestyle. We learn that Sukkot and Shmini Atzeret have to be placed next to one another to show that when one lives life fully and spiritually, one moves beyond the need for such external protection.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom and a pleasant Sukkah experience :)
*There is a Torah concept that there are 70 nations in the world. Although there are over 190 countries in existence today, many of these share roots and originate from one people. As such, it's not so absurd to refer the world in terms of "70 nations".
Friday, September 17, 2010
Yom Kippur - יום כפור
The topic of sound and its place in Judaism is one that I have covered from time to time in my Divrei Torah. Once again, I would like to refer to it in order for us to make more sense of Yom Kippur.
In Judaism, a basic concept in emunah (faith), is that one retains the capacity to listen. For this reason, the most basic sentence that encapsulates the essence of what it is to be Jewish begins with the word שמע, meaning "listen!" By way of contrast, the reigning school of thought in Western society today is one that clashes with this perspective - we are not expected to believe in anything unless it is 100% provable. Judaism requires the patience to listen and piece things together for ourselves, but the modern man all too often finds it hard to listen at all. We are busy, immersed in a hundred different things. We are restless and want things given to us on a plate. Consequently it shouldn't really be much of a surprise that we are often unable to tune into the "קול דממה הדקה" - that silent, still voice inside of each of us.
In a well-noted passage found at the end of Mishnah Masechet Yuma, we read that "אמר רבי עקיבה, אשריכם ישראל, לפני מי אתם מיטהרין ומי מטהר אתכם--אביכם שבשמיים - Rabbi Akiva says: Happy are you, Israel: For before whom are you purified, and who makes you purified? Your father in heaven... "
Upon close examination, we may note that two types of purification, separated by a subtle difference, are hinted at here. First we come across a more passive form of purification, as the verse asks, "before whom are you purified?" Then we come to a more active form: "And who makes you purified?" The distinction is a deep one and could be elaborated upon at length in its own right, but for the purposes of this D'var Torah, it is enough to know that two types of spiritual purification exist; one active and one passive.
On Rosh Hashanah, over 100 hundred blasts of the Shofar are sounded in most synagogues. Thus, the process of teshuvah starts in earnest. But for all its obvious grandeur and clear power, the shofar reduces our role to an almost passive one. On Yom Kippur, though, we hear no shofar blasts at all - at least, not until right at the very end. I think that there is a very deep lesson here. On Yom Kippur, we need no artificial stimulation from tools like the shofar. On Yom Kippur, we raise ourselves to a higher level, the level of angels, and so instead of relying on the voice of the shofar, we are able to listen to our own inner voices.
As such, I believe that it is no coincidence, that we are "treated" to one last shofar blast, right at the end of Yom Kippur. After all our activity in reaching the level whereby we are able to hear our own inner voices, we may then realise that the shofar blasts of Rosh Hashanah and then the almost total absence of these blasts on Yom Kippur were not antithetical to one another at all. On the contrary, on Yom Kippur, we finally reach the level where we hear our own voices, our own inner shofar blasts, and we hear how they were connected all along. And once we have reached that level, right at the end of the process of spiritual purification, when we hear that final shofar blast, we hear not only an artificial stimulus, but also our own voices at the same time.
Wishing you, and all of Am Yisrael, a good Yom Kippur. May you have a meaningful fast and all your prayers be answered in the only the best way possible.
---
Collected and adapted from essays by Rav Moshe Dov Kasper, Rav Yaakov Ariel and augmented with some thoughts of my own.
In Judaism, a basic concept in emunah (faith), is that one retains the capacity to listen. For this reason, the most basic sentence that encapsulates the essence of what it is to be Jewish begins with the word שמע, meaning "listen!" By way of contrast, the reigning school of thought in Western society today is one that clashes with this perspective - we are not expected to believe in anything unless it is 100% provable. Judaism requires the patience to listen and piece things together for ourselves, but the modern man all too often finds it hard to listen at all. We are busy, immersed in a hundred different things. We are restless and want things given to us on a plate. Consequently it shouldn't really be much of a surprise that we are often unable to tune into the "קול דממה הדקה" - that silent, still voice inside of each of us.
In a well-noted passage found at the end of Mishnah Masechet Yuma, we read that "אמר רבי עקיבה, אשריכם ישראל, לפני מי אתם מיטהרין ומי מטהר אתכם--אביכם שבשמיים - Rabbi Akiva says: Happy are you, Israel: For before whom are you purified, and who makes you purified? Your father in heaven... "
Upon close examination, we may note that two types of purification, separated by a subtle difference, are hinted at here. First we come across a more passive form of purification, as the verse asks, "before whom are you purified?" Then we come to a more active form: "And who makes you purified?" The distinction is a deep one and could be elaborated upon at length in its own right, but for the purposes of this D'var Torah, it is enough to know that two types of spiritual purification exist; one active and one passive.
On Rosh Hashanah, over 100 hundred blasts of the Shofar are sounded in most synagogues. Thus, the process of teshuvah starts in earnest. But for all its obvious grandeur and clear power, the shofar reduces our role to an almost passive one. On Yom Kippur, though, we hear no shofar blasts at all - at least, not until right at the very end. I think that there is a very deep lesson here. On Yom Kippur, we need no artificial stimulation from tools like the shofar. On Yom Kippur, we raise ourselves to a higher level, the level of angels, and so instead of relying on the voice of the shofar, we are able to listen to our own inner voices.
As such, I believe that it is no coincidence, that we are "treated" to one last shofar blast, right at the end of Yom Kippur. After all our activity in reaching the level whereby we are able to hear our own inner voices, we may then realise that the shofar blasts of Rosh Hashanah and then the almost total absence of these blasts on Yom Kippur were not antithetical to one another at all. On the contrary, on Yom Kippur, we finally reach the level where we hear our own voices, our own inner shofar blasts, and we hear how they were connected all along. And once we have reached that level, right at the end of the process of spiritual purification, when we hear that final shofar blast, we hear not only an artificial stimulus, but also our own voices at the same time.
Wishing you, and all of Am Yisrael, a good Yom Kippur. May you have a meaningful fast and all your prayers be answered in the only the best way possible.
---
Collected and adapted from essays by Rav Moshe Dov Kasper, Rav Yaakov Ariel and augmented with some thoughts of my own.
Yom Kippur - A quick insight on Avinu Malkeinu
I saw this posted last year on the Elder of Ziyon blog. Interesting stuff.
~~~~~~~~~
For those who read Hebrew, here's something I wasn't aware of - a comparison between the text of Avinu Malkeinu and the weekday Shmoneh Esrei, from here:
~~~~~~~~~
For those who read Hebrew, here's something I wasn't aware of - a comparison between the text of Avinu Malkeinu and the weekday Shmoneh Esrei, from here:
הקבלה לשמונה עשרה
אבינו מלכנו מקביל לשמונה עשרה ברכות העמידה ביום חול:
"אבינו מלכנו חננו ועננו" כנגד "חונן הדעת".
"אבינו מלכנו החזירנו בתשובה" כנגד "הרוצה בתשובה".
"אבינו מלכנו סלח ומחל" כנגד "סלח לנו".
"אבינו מלכנו כתבנו בספר גאולה" כנגד "גואל ישראל".
"אבינו מלכנו שלח רפואה" כנגד "רפאנו".
"אבינו מלכנו חודש עלינו שנה טובה" כנגד "ברך עלינו".
"אבינו מלכנו הרם קרן ישראל" כנגד "תקע בשופר".
"אבינו מלכנו בטל מעלינו" כנגד "השיבה שופטנו וכו' והסר ממנו יגון ואנחה".
"אבינו מלכנו כלה כל צר" כנגד "ולמלשינים וכו' שובר אויבים".
"אבינו מלכנו מחוק ברחמיך הרבים" כנגד "על הצדיקים וכו' יהמו נא רחמיך".
"אבינו מלכנו הרם קרן משיחך" כנגד "את צמח דוד וכו' וקרנו תרים".
"אבינו מלכנו הצמח לנו ישועה" כנגד "מצמיח קרן ישועה".
"אבינו מלכנו שמע קולנו" כנגד "שמע קולנו וכו' "שומע תפילה"
מנהגי מהר"י טירנא, ראש השנה; לבוש סי' תקפ"ד א
G'mar chatima tovah 5771 - גמר חתימה טובה
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Rosh Hashanah and Parshat Ha'azinu
This year, as you probably know by now, Rosh Hashanah occurs the two days prior to Shabbat. Due to this phenomenon, I will not be able to post my weekly Parsha thought on Thursday or Friday, and am making a dual entry. In many ways, however, this is actually a positive thing; due to the workings of the Jewish calendar system, Parshat Ha'azinu is always in the weeks around Rosh Hashanah. As such, there are many links between the two - one of which I hope to explore in this D'var Torah.
In a much discussed passage in the Talmud, the Gemara in Eiruvin (13b) declares that, "נוח לו לאדם שלא נברא יותר משנברא." Translated (somewhat liberally): "It would have been better for man to have not been created." The reason? The number of 'positive' commandments - those that require action in order to be performed - are outnumbered by 'negative' commandments (which require inactivity and abstinence from specific actions). Therefore, if man had not been created, he would have been able to "fulfil" over half of the Torah's laws just by doing nothing; he would still be able to "perfom" all the negative-based commandments.
However, positive commandments have something over negative commandments. Negative commandments merely require inactivity and withdrawal; for example, one who sleeps for the entire duration of Shabbat is considered as having observed Shabbat to some degree, even though s/he didn't consciously do anything in order to commemorate the day. By way of contrast, positive commandments require phyiscal (and often deliberate) actions - it is hard to imagine a circumstance in which they can be performed without explicitly knowing that they are being done.
What does all this mean for us? The result of all this is the rabbinic dictum: עשה דוחה לא תעשה - Positive commandments are given preference over negative ones. If we don't take care to do them, they will never get done. Over and over again in Judaism, we hear of the two opposing forces that are love of God and fear of God. We are taught that we supposed to both love and fear God, but it is very hard to do both in equal measure. Hopefully here we can shed some light on their relationship and learn something useful for this Rosh Hashanah.
The Ramban attempts to demistify the rule mentioned above by explaining that positive commandments stem from the trait of love for God, while negative commandments are a result of fear of G-d. The difference between love and fear is best understood by considering the relationship children experience with their parents. While a child is young, they only know how to fear their parents. Infants and little children never obey their parents out of love; they obey because they know that they must, or else! But as children grow up, they relationship with their parents change completely. They learn to love their parents, as well. BUt in order to get to that stage, children need to pass through the first stage; they must fear their parents.
So too, we must realise that while love is a very beautiful thing, it needs to have a firm base in reality. It is only when we consider the might and the astonishing, infinite power of God, that we can truly love Him. Without a proper appreciation for God, our love for Him is severely limited. It is clear that the optimal state of affairs for us is to act out of love for God.
With this in mind, we can now return to our relationship with God. It is clear that acting and relating to God with love is very important. But no less important is understanding how important it is for us to treat God with proper respect; for us to realise that His might and power are more than we can ever hope to comprehend. The Torah says at the end of Parshat Ha'azinu:
וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם, שִׂימוּ לְבַבְכֶם, לְכָל-הַדְּבָרִים, אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מֵעִיד בָּכֶם הַיּוֹם: אֲשֶׁר תְּצַוֻּם, אֶת-בְּנֵיכֶם, לִשְׁמֹר לַעֲשׂוֹת, אֶת-כָּל-דִּבְרֵי הַתּוֹרָה הַזֹּאת. כִּי לֹא-דָבָר רֵק הוּא, מִכֶּם--כִּי-הוּא, חַיֵּיכֶם; וּבַדָּבָר הַזֶּה, תַּאֲרִיכוּ יָמִים עַל-הָאֲדָמָה, אֲשֶׁר אַתֶּם עֹבְרִים אֶת-הַיַּרְדֵּן שָׁמָּה, לְרִשְׁתָּהּ. - He said to them: 'Set your hearts upon all the words that I testify against you this day; and with which you may command your children to guard; to do all the words of this law. For it is no vain thing for you; because it is your life, and through this thing you shall prolong your days upon the land; you pass over the Jordan to there, to possess it.' (Deuteronomy 32: 46-47)
Note that the Torah describes our acceptance and observance of Torah law as the essence of our life. We have heard this kind of language before, notably last week, when it is claimed in Parshat Nitzavim, "וּבָחַרְתָּ, בַּחַיִּים--לְמַעַן תִּחְיֶה, אַתָּה וְזַרְעֶךָ. לְאַהֲבָה אֶת-יְהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ... - You choose life, that you may live; you and your seed. To love Hashem your God..." (Deuteronomy 30:19-20). Here, the call to chose life is deliberately placed next to the command to love God. Clearly, love for God is very important... but how can we resolve this with the seemingly greater importance attributed to fear of God?
I think that the answer can be drawn from the puzzle posed at the beginning of the D'var Torah. The Talmud concludes that it would have been better for man to have not been created at all. But that was not all that was concluded. Chazal went on to say that seeing as God did see fit to bring mankind into existence, we now are best served by following the rules of the Torah. As such, although we most certainly do need to aspire to the heights of love for Hashem, we must first learn how to fear Him properly. Over Rosh Hashanah, a lot of our energy goes into expressing realisation of our own lowly status. We spend much of our time concentrating on building up our Yirat Shamayim, our fear of God. But we should remember that this is part of a two-step process. God does not want us to act purely out of fear. Then we would be automatons. Instead, over Rosh Hashanah, we are to draw a direct line between these two seemingly competing aspects of our relationship to God. Only by connecting them together can we then achieve the right attitude and relationship.
Adapted from an essay by Rav Elazar Hager.
Wishing you all a very happy Rosh Hashanah and a restful Shabbat.
In a much discussed passage in the Talmud, the Gemara in Eiruvin (13b) declares that, "נוח לו לאדם שלא נברא יותר משנברא." Translated (somewhat liberally): "It would have been better for man to have not been created." The reason? The number of 'positive' commandments - those that require action in order to be performed - are outnumbered by 'negative' commandments (which require inactivity and abstinence from specific actions). Therefore, if man had not been created, he would have been able to "fulfil" over half of the Torah's laws just by doing nothing; he would still be able to "perfom" all the negative-based commandments.
However, positive commandments have something over negative commandments. Negative commandments merely require inactivity and withdrawal; for example, one who sleeps for the entire duration of Shabbat is considered as having observed Shabbat to some degree, even though s/he didn't consciously do anything in order to commemorate the day. By way of contrast, positive commandments require phyiscal (and often deliberate) actions - it is hard to imagine a circumstance in which they can be performed without explicitly knowing that they are being done.
What does all this mean for us? The result of all this is the rabbinic dictum: עשה דוחה לא תעשה - Positive commandments are given preference over negative ones. If we don't take care to do them, they will never get done. Over and over again in Judaism, we hear of the two opposing forces that are love of God and fear of God. We are taught that we supposed to both love and fear God, but it is very hard to do both in equal measure. Hopefully here we can shed some light on their relationship and learn something useful for this Rosh Hashanah.
The Ramban attempts to demistify the rule mentioned above by explaining that positive commandments stem from the trait of love for God, while negative commandments are a result of fear of G-d. The difference between love and fear is best understood by considering the relationship children experience with their parents. While a child is young, they only know how to fear their parents. Infants and little children never obey their parents out of love; they obey because they know that they must, or else! But as children grow up, they relationship with their parents change completely. They learn to love their parents, as well. BUt in order to get to that stage, children need to pass through the first stage; they must fear their parents.
So too, we must realise that while love is a very beautiful thing, it needs to have a firm base in reality. It is only when we consider the might and the astonishing, infinite power of God, that we can truly love Him. Without a proper appreciation for God, our love for Him is severely limited. It is clear that the optimal state of affairs for us is to act out of love for God.
With this in mind, we can now return to our relationship with God. It is clear that acting and relating to God with love is very important. But no less important is understanding how important it is for us to treat God with proper respect; for us to realise that His might and power are more than we can ever hope to comprehend. The Torah says at the end of Parshat Ha'azinu:
וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם, שִׂימוּ לְבַבְכֶם, לְכָל-הַדְּבָרִים, אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מֵעִיד בָּכֶם הַיּוֹם: אֲשֶׁר תְּצַוֻּם, אֶת-בְּנֵיכֶם, לִשְׁמֹר לַעֲשׂוֹת, אֶת-כָּל-דִּבְרֵי הַתּוֹרָה הַזֹּאת. כִּי לֹא-דָבָר רֵק הוּא, מִכֶּם--כִּי-הוּא, חַיֵּיכֶם; וּבַדָּבָר הַזֶּה, תַּאֲרִיכוּ יָמִים עַל-הָאֲדָמָה, אֲשֶׁר אַתֶּם עֹבְרִים אֶת-הַיַּרְדֵּן שָׁמָּה, לְרִשְׁתָּהּ. - He said to them: 'Set your hearts upon all the words that I testify against you this day; and with which you may command your children to guard; to do all the words of this law. For it is no vain thing for you; because it is your life, and through this thing you shall prolong your days upon the land; you pass over the Jordan to there, to possess it.' (Deuteronomy 32: 46-47)
Note that the Torah describes our acceptance and observance of Torah law as the essence of our life. We have heard this kind of language before, notably last week, when it is claimed in Parshat Nitzavim, "וּבָחַרְתָּ, בַּחַיִּים--לְמַעַן תִּחְיֶה, אַתָּה וְזַרְעֶךָ. לְאַהֲבָה אֶת-יְהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ... - You choose life, that you may live; you and your seed. To love Hashem your God..." (Deuteronomy 30:19-20). Here, the call to chose life is deliberately placed next to the command to love God. Clearly, love for God is very important... but how can we resolve this with the seemingly greater importance attributed to fear of God?
I think that the answer can be drawn from the puzzle posed at the beginning of the D'var Torah. The Talmud concludes that it would have been better for man to have not been created at all. But that was not all that was concluded. Chazal went on to say that seeing as God did see fit to bring mankind into existence, we now are best served by following the rules of the Torah. As such, although we most certainly do need to aspire to the heights of love for Hashem, we must first learn how to fear Him properly. Over Rosh Hashanah, a lot of our energy goes into expressing realisation of our own lowly status. We spend much of our time concentrating on building up our Yirat Shamayim, our fear of God. But we should remember that this is part of a two-step process. God does not want us to act purely out of fear. Then we would be automatons. Instead, over Rosh Hashanah, we are to draw a direct line between these two seemingly competing aspects of our relationship to God. Only by connecting them together can we then achieve the right attitude and relationship.
Adapted from an essay by Rav Elazar Hager.
Wishing you all a very happy Rosh Hashanah and a restful Shabbat.
Friday, September 03, 2010
Parshiot Nitzavim and Vayelech / פרשיות נצבים-וילך
"אַתֶּם נִצָּבִים הַיּוֹם כֻּלְּכֶם, לִפְנֵי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם: רָאשֵׁיכֶם שִׁבְטֵיכֶם, זִקְנֵיכֶם וְשֹׁטְרֵיכֶם, כֹּל, אִישׁ יִשְׂרָאֵל. טַפְּכֶם נְשֵׁיכֶם--וְגֵרְךָ, אֲשֶׁר בְּקֶרֶב מַחֲנֶיךָ: מֵחֹטֵב עֵצֶיךָ, עַד שֹׁאֵב מֵימֶיךָ."
"You are standing today, all of you, before Hashem your God: your heads, your tribes, your elders, and your officers, all the men of Israel; Your infants, your wives, and your stranger that is in the midst of your camp, from the hewer of your wood to the drawer of your water."
(Deuteronomy, 29: 9-10)
This week we read two Parshiot - Nitzavim and Vayelech. Parshat Nitzavim details the end of Moshe's lengthy speech; a speech that spans a good few weeks' readings.
At first glance, the opening words of the first of this week's two parshiot, quoted above, seem straightforward and formulaic enough. The Ohr HaChayaim notes something interesting, however. Drawing on the word kulchem, (all of you) he asks why is it that we then have a list of who all these people are? Surely the phrasing before was enough?
The answer the Ohr HaChayim gives is simple, but has deep ramifications for us, especially at this time of year. It is imperative for us to understand that although we are being judged individually, we are also judged as a unit. As Jews, we have a collective responsibilty. If we look at the list, we see that infants, women and strangers are all listed here. Typically, we regard these groupings of people as ones that are obligated to a lesser extent, if at all, to fulfill the mitzvot of the Torah. But here, these groups are mentioned in order to make a clear point about responsibility - no one is excluded.
I was listening to a recording to a shiur by Rebbetzin Heller earlier this week, and she mentioned something that many of us know in our heart of hearts; contemporary judicial systems are totally corrupt. When judging in accordance with Torah law, it is forbidden to judge the person; one must judge only the deed. This sounds obvious, but this concept is not shared in America, England, even here in Israel. Modern law systems refuse to judge the deed alone; they judge the person.
By way of comparison, Torah law dictates that we do not pay attention to personal circumstances; a crime is a crime. (Of course, we find ways to be lenient, but that's something else.) We are forbidden from dealing at the person; there's only dealing at the reality of the facts of the case. All else is extraneous.
Judaism forbids judges from looking at personal circumstance for a very good reason; if it is allowed, law becomes wholly subjective and relativistic. Compare this approach to common law systems and we see that they belie an assumption that we have no right to judge. By backing away from making harsh judgments when necessary, law is not properly upheld. The effect of this is to make law totally subjective.
Coming back to the quote at the beginning of the parsha, I would like to connect the two ideas. There may be instances in life when we are not obliged to act in a certain way, or are required to fulfill certain mitzvot, as is the case with the infants, women and strangers. Nevertheless, despite the supposedly extenuating circumstances, we are never absolved of our responsibilty toward others. The point is an exceptionally powerfui one; even when personally relieved of duties, we are fully responsible for enabling others to do theirs. If other people fail in their goals, we have to ask ourselves why we didn't do more to help them.
Based on a shiur given by Rav Ari Heller of Yeshivat Hakotel.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
"You are standing today, all of you, before Hashem your God: your heads, your tribes, your elders, and your officers, all the men of Israel; Your infants, your wives, and your stranger that is in the midst of your camp, from the hewer of your wood to the drawer of your water."
(Deuteronomy, 29: 9-10)
This week we read two Parshiot - Nitzavim and Vayelech. Parshat Nitzavim details the end of Moshe's lengthy speech; a speech that spans a good few weeks' readings.
At first glance, the opening words of the first of this week's two parshiot, quoted above, seem straightforward and formulaic enough. The Ohr HaChayaim notes something interesting, however. Drawing on the word kulchem, (all of you) he asks why is it that we then have a list of who all these people are? Surely the phrasing before was enough?
The answer the Ohr HaChayim gives is simple, but has deep ramifications for us, especially at this time of year. It is imperative for us to understand that although we are being judged individually, we are also judged as a unit. As Jews, we have a collective responsibilty. If we look at the list, we see that infants, women and strangers are all listed here. Typically, we regard these groupings of people as ones that are obligated to a lesser extent, if at all, to fulfill the mitzvot of the Torah. But here, these groups are mentioned in order to make a clear point about responsibility - no one is excluded.
I was listening to a recording to a shiur by Rebbetzin Heller earlier this week, and she mentioned something that many of us know in our heart of hearts; contemporary judicial systems are totally corrupt. When judging in accordance with Torah law, it is forbidden to judge the person; one must judge only the deed. This sounds obvious, but this concept is not shared in America, England, even here in Israel. Modern law systems refuse to judge the deed alone; they judge the person.
By way of comparison, Torah law dictates that we do not pay attention to personal circumstances; a crime is a crime. (Of course, we find ways to be lenient, but that's something else.) We are forbidden from dealing at the person; there's only dealing at the reality of the facts of the case. All else is extraneous.
Judaism forbids judges from looking at personal circumstance for a very good reason; if it is allowed, law becomes wholly subjective and relativistic. Compare this approach to common law systems and we see that they belie an assumption that we have no right to judge. By backing away from making harsh judgments when necessary, law is not properly upheld. The effect of this is to make law totally subjective.
Coming back to the quote at the beginning of the parsha, I would like to connect the two ideas. There may be instances in life when we are not obliged to act in a certain way, or are required to fulfill certain mitzvot, as is the case with the infants, women and strangers. Nevertheless, despite the supposedly extenuating circumstances, we are never absolved of our responsibilty toward others. The point is an exceptionally powerfui one; even when personally relieved of duties, we are fully responsible for enabling others to do theirs. If other people fail in their goals, we have to ask ourselves why we didn't do more to help them.
Based on a shiur given by Rav Ari Heller of Yeshivat Hakotel.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Parshat Ki Tavo - פרשת כי תבוא
"וענית ואמרת לפני ה' אלקיך ארמי אבד אבי וירד מצרימה / And you shall respond and say before Hashem your God, 'An Aramean [tried to] destroy my [fore]father and he went down into Egypt...' "(דברים כו:ה)
At the beginning of this week's Parsha, we read of the mitzva of Bikkurim. The Torah explains that one who settles the land of Israel and grows one of the "Shivat haMinim" (seven selected species of fruit and grain) is obligated to take a ribbon around the first fruit that grows from the land, mark it off as property of the Bet Hamikdash, and once the fruit has ripened fully, the person is to take this fruit to Jerusalem and hand it over to a Kohen.
Part of the process of giving Bikkurim over to the Kohen is a statment, which opens above. At first, the choice of the opening few lines seems rather surprising; what has the old story of Am Yisrael's descent into Egypt got to do with the bringing of fruit to the Bet Hamikdash?
To understand our situation better, we have to examine Jewish behaviour during the Egyptian exile. Famously, we learn that B'nei Yisrael were on the forty-ninth level of impurity and were only moments away from descending into the 50th level; a level from which there could be no return. There can be no doubt about it - Am Yisrael were in a very bad place.
Or can we doubt that? For Am Yisrael warranted to be saved by Hashem on the premise that they insulated themselves from Egyptian society, and Sh'mot Rabbah (א:א) says that "they were redeemed because they did not change their names, their language and their dress." So now it would seem that Am Yisrael were very careful to protect their religion and culture and did not integrate and assimilate into a foreign society. How can resolve this apparent contradiction?
The Netivot Shalom on Parshat Ki Teitze explains that these Jews were actually almost completely cut off from Hashem. These Jews constantly indulged themselves in pleasures and desires that were not expressly disallowed by Torah law. So needy of material pleasure, these people were indeed culturally assimilated and had started to believe in the Egyptian way of life. Because these Jews maintained their outer appearances but indulged themselves in whatever was technically permissable, their connection with Hashem was almost entirely lacking.
Rabbi Eliyahu Hoffman suggests that maybe the reason why we read this passage when we bring Bikkurim is to do with the concept of "קדש עצמך במותר לך" (Sanctify yourself with that which is permissable to you). The generation that lived in the Egyptian exile didn't actually break any laws, but certainly weren't too eager too apply the concept of being holy in that which is permissable. Fast forward to the person standing before the Kohen with Bikkurim in his hand, and we may now understand why it is appropriate for him to make reference to his forebears in Egypt. Whereas they fulfilled their obligations to a minimal extent, the Jew who brings Bikurrim is eager to subjugate his pride and ego before God.
Later in the Parsha, a long list of punishments is attached to the statement, "תחת אשר לא עבדת את ה' אלוקיך בשמחה / Because you did not serve Hashem your God with joy." The Torah is very clear that the measurement of real observance of its laws is when a Jew confirms his actions with desire. Whereas food is something that Jews are permitted to grow and eat, the Jew who brings Bikkurim is careful not to give in to his desires and controls his behaviour in the right way and before eating first makes sure to take the Reishit to Hashem.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
At the beginning of this week's Parsha, we read of the mitzva of Bikkurim. The Torah explains that one who settles the land of Israel and grows one of the "Shivat haMinim" (seven selected species of fruit and grain) is obligated to take a ribbon around the first fruit that grows from the land, mark it off as property of the Bet Hamikdash, and once the fruit has ripened fully, the person is to take this fruit to Jerusalem and hand it over to a Kohen.
Part of the process of giving Bikkurim over to the Kohen is a statment, which opens above. At first, the choice of the opening few lines seems rather surprising; what has the old story of Am Yisrael's descent into Egypt got to do with the bringing of fruit to the Bet Hamikdash?
To understand our situation better, we have to examine Jewish behaviour during the Egyptian exile. Famously, we learn that B'nei Yisrael were on the forty-ninth level of impurity and were only moments away from descending into the 50th level; a level from which there could be no return. There can be no doubt about it - Am Yisrael were in a very bad place.
Or can we doubt that? For Am Yisrael warranted to be saved by Hashem on the premise that they insulated themselves from Egyptian society, and Sh'mot Rabbah (א:א) says that "they were redeemed because they did not change their names, their language and their dress." So now it would seem that Am Yisrael were very careful to protect their religion and culture and did not integrate and assimilate into a foreign society. How can resolve this apparent contradiction?
The Netivot Shalom on Parshat Ki Teitze explains that these Jews were actually almost completely cut off from Hashem. These Jews constantly indulged themselves in pleasures and desires that were not expressly disallowed by Torah law. So needy of material pleasure, these people were indeed culturally assimilated and had started to believe in the Egyptian way of life. Because these Jews maintained their outer appearances but indulged themselves in whatever was technically permissable, their connection with Hashem was almost entirely lacking.
Rabbi Eliyahu Hoffman suggests that maybe the reason why we read this passage when we bring Bikkurim is to do with the concept of "קדש עצמך במותר לך" (Sanctify yourself with that which is permissable to you). The generation that lived in the Egyptian exile didn't actually break any laws, but certainly weren't too eager too apply the concept of being holy in that which is permissable. Fast forward to the person standing before the Kohen with Bikkurim in his hand, and we may now understand why it is appropriate for him to make reference to his forebears in Egypt. Whereas they fulfilled their obligations to a minimal extent, the Jew who brings Bikurrim is eager to subjugate his pride and ego before God.
Later in the Parsha, a long list of punishments is attached to the statement, "תחת אשר לא עבדת את ה' אלוקיך בשמחה / Because you did not serve Hashem your God with joy." The Torah is very clear that the measurement of real observance of its laws is when a Jew confirms his actions with desire. Whereas food is something that Jews are permitted to grow and eat, the Jew who brings Bikkurim is careful not to give in to his desires and controls his behaviour in the right way and before eating first makes sure to take the Reishit to Hashem.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, August 20, 2010
Parshat Ki Tetzei - פרשת כי תצא
"כִּי-יִהְיֶה לְאִישׁ, בֵּן סוֹרֵר וּמוֹרֶה-אֵינֶנּוּ שֹׁמֵעַ, בְּקוֹל אָבִיו וּבְקוֹל אִמּוֹ; וְיִסְּרוּ אֹתוֹ, וְלֹא יִשְׁמַע אֲלֵיהֶם. If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, that will not hearken to the voice of his father, or the voice of his mother, and though they chasten him, will not hearken unto them" (Deuteronomy 21:18).
In this week's parsha, we read of the strange episode of the ben sorer u'moreh. Although there never was a case in reality that fulfilled the exact conditions in order for a child to be classified as such, there are still many lessons which we may learn. I'd like to share a fascinating insight I read by the Ba'al Haturim.
Two P'sukim after the one above, we read of how the the parents go to the city elders to declare their son a Ben Sorer u'Moreh: "וְאָמְרוּ אֶל זִקְנֵי עִירוֹ בְּנֵנוּ זֶה סוֹרֵר וּמֹרֶה אֵינֶנּוּ שֹׁמֵעַ בְּקֹלֵנוּ זוֹלֵל וְסֹבֵא / And they shall say to the elders of his city, 'This our son is stubborn and rebellious, he doth not hearken to our voice; he is a glutton, and a drunkard.'"
The Ba'al HaTurim notes two discrepancies in this Pasuk. Firstly, there is a yud missing in the word בְּנֵנוּ, and then the word וּמֹרֶה is missing a letter too; this time a vav.
Fortunately for us, we receive a good explanation as to why these words are spelled as they are. In the first case, the missing yud in the word בְּנֵנוּ, our son, is a deliberate reference to the Aseret Hadibrot, the Ten Commandments. The Ba'al HaTurim briefly explains that that this son was wayward to the extent that he didn't care about the most basic tenets of Judaism, wayward to the extent that he even disregarded the ten commandments.
The next missing letter, the (missing) vav in the word מרה, stubborn, is explained as a reference to the bitter end of this situation. The word מרה in Hebrew means bitter. By dropping the vav, the Torah hints that this stubborn and gluttonous boy will only experience bitterness.
If we break up the verse and digest it in pieces, we see that the son doesn't listen to "the voice of his father". Then, separately, his mother's voice is mentioned: "and the voice of his mother." The pasuk uses discrete clauses for each of the parents, and only groups them together when the son hears them speaking in unison. And the one thing that the parents agree upon is negative, as it says "they turned him away."
It is very clear that the lesson to be grasped here is that parents must always act as a unit, and not just when it comes to condemning a child. A child who hears disparate voices from his parents hardly has a chance at growing up to become a decent person, and we can hardly blame him or her. The real lesson of the episode, it would seem, is to show us just how much responsibility we have for one another, and for each others' actions.
Wishing you a שבת שלום ומבורך from Yerushalayim Ir Hakodesh.
In this week's parsha, we read of the strange episode of the ben sorer u'moreh. Although there never was a case in reality that fulfilled the exact conditions in order for a child to be classified as such, there are still many lessons which we may learn. I'd like to share a fascinating insight I read by the Ba'al Haturim.
Two P'sukim after the one above, we read of how the the parents go to the city elders to declare their son a Ben Sorer u'Moreh: "וְאָמְרוּ אֶל זִקְנֵי עִירוֹ בְּנֵנוּ זֶה סוֹרֵר וּמֹרֶה אֵינֶנּוּ שֹׁמֵעַ בְּקֹלֵנוּ זוֹלֵל וְסֹבֵא / And they shall say to the elders of his city, 'This our son is stubborn and rebellious, he doth not hearken to our voice; he is a glutton, and a drunkard.'"
The Ba'al HaTurim notes two discrepancies in this Pasuk. Firstly, there is a yud missing in the word בְּנֵנוּ, and then the word וּמֹרֶה is missing a letter too; this time a vav.
Fortunately for us, we receive a good explanation as to why these words are spelled as they are. In the first case, the missing yud in the word בְּנֵנוּ, our son, is a deliberate reference to the Aseret Hadibrot, the Ten Commandments. The Ba'al HaTurim briefly explains that that this son was wayward to the extent that he didn't care about the most basic tenets of Judaism, wayward to the extent that he even disregarded the ten commandments.
The next missing letter, the (missing) vav in the word מרה, stubborn, is explained as a reference to the bitter end of this situation. The word מרה in Hebrew means bitter. By dropping the vav, the Torah hints that this stubborn and gluttonous boy will only experience bitterness.
If we break up the verse and digest it in pieces, we see that the son doesn't listen to "the voice of his father". Then, separately, his mother's voice is mentioned: "and the voice of his mother." The pasuk uses discrete clauses for each of the parents, and only groups them together when the son hears them speaking in unison. And the one thing that the parents agree upon is negative, as it says "they turned him away."
It is very clear that the lesson to be grasped here is that parents must always act as a unit, and not just when it comes to condemning a child. A child who hears disparate voices from his parents hardly has a chance at growing up to become a decent person, and we can hardly blame him or her. The real lesson of the episode, it would seem, is to show us just how much responsibility we have for one another, and for each others' actions.
Wishing you a שבת שלום ומבורך from Yerushalayim Ir Hakodesh.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Parshat Shoftim - פרשת שופטים
...ואמר אלהם שמע ישראל אתם קרבים היום למלחמה על-איביכם
דברים, כ: ג
One of the many things set out in Parshat Shoftim are the rules of war. Famously later we learn that a Jewish army is not permitted to destroy trees, although this is normal military behaviour, and we also learn that a man who desires a captive woman must adhere to a strict set of rules before he may take her as a partner.
Here, at the beginning of this particluar chapter, we learn that Am Yisrael are instructed to gather and listen to the words of the Kohen Gadol, who served to act as the Army's Chief of Staff and prepared the warrior for battle. In "Ma'ayanah shel HaTorah" a small paragraph attributed to "Sefarim" points out that the word Sh'ma, (hear,) is crucial. As I have mentioned in my Divrei Torah a number of times, when the Hebrew word for hearing is used, it also means something that is accepted. Another aspect of hearing is that it is intriniscally linked to collecting. You might ask yourself at this point what do listening and collecting have to do with one another, so I'll try to pass over something I've learned about the faculty of hearing.
When a person sees something, he sees the entire entity at once, and there can be no doubt as to what it is that the person is perceiving. But when that person hears something, they only hear that thing in stages; a piece at a time. If we take music for an example, one never hears a song, but rather hears a note at a time. If you ask someone to pick their favourite song and then ask them whether they like an individual note, they'll look at you as if you're mad - a person likes the song as an entity - not for it's constituent parts! Similarly, when one listens to another person talking, one only hears one word at a time, and by the time one hears one word, the previous word is only a memory. Hearing, by its very definition, is a process of memory, collection, and most importantly, unification.
It is no coincidence that "Sh'ma" is the opening word used in the most famous sentence in Judaism, for when we talk of oneness, of achdut, we talk of listening and bring back together that which is seemingly separate. And here too, when the nation of Israel enters into a war, all the constituent parts must come together, else failure beckons (God forbid).
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
דברים, כ: ג
One of the many things set out in Parshat Shoftim are the rules of war. Famously later we learn that a Jewish army is not permitted to destroy trees, although this is normal military behaviour, and we also learn that a man who desires a captive woman must adhere to a strict set of rules before he may take her as a partner.
Here, at the beginning of this particluar chapter, we learn that Am Yisrael are instructed to gather and listen to the words of the Kohen Gadol, who served to act as the Army's Chief of Staff and prepared the warrior for battle. In "Ma'ayanah shel HaTorah" a small paragraph attributed to "Sefarim" points out that the word Sh'ma, (hear,) is crucial. As I have mentioned in my Divrei Torah a number of times, when the Hebrew word for hearing is used, it also means something that is accepted. Another aspect of hearing is that it is intriniscally linked to collecting. You might ask yourself at this point what do listening and collecting have to do with one another, so I'll try to pass over something I've learned about the faculty of hearing.
When a person sees something, he sees the entire entity at once, and there can be no doubt as to what it is that the person is perceiving. But when that person hears something, they only hear that thing in stages; a piece at a time. If we take music for an example, one never hears a song, but rather hears a note at a time. If you ask someone to pick their favourite song and then ask them whether they like an individual note, they'll look at you as if you're mad - a person likes the song as an entity - not for it's constituent parts! Similarly, when one listens to another person talking, one only hears one word at a time, and by the time one hears one word, the previous word is only a memory. Hearing, by its very definition, is a process of memory, collection, and most importantly, unification.
It is no coincidence that "Sh'ma" is the opening word used in the most famous sentence in Judaism, for when we talk of oneness, of achdut, we talk of listening and bring back together that which is seemingly separate. And here too, when the nation of Israel enters into a war, all the constituent parts must come together, else failure beckons (God forbid).
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, August 06, 2010
Parshat Re'eh - פרשת ראה
The name of our Torah portion is Re'eh, which means, "See." After the Jewish People entered the Land of Israel, the first place that they stopped at was the City of Shechem. Moshe commands the twelve tribes to split up and stand on two adjacent mountains, הר גריזים and הר עיבל, Mount Grizim and Mount Eval (/Aival), where the "Kohanim" and "Levi'im" would express God's blessing to them if they would fulfill the Torah, and God's curse if they sin.
These mountains, adjacent to each other, are unique. Mount Grizim is alive with foliage and vegetation, while Mount Eval is bleak and desolate. (These mountains can be seen today outside the city of Shechem/Nablus.) Six tribes were commanded to ascend Mount Grizim, to the south of Shechem to receive the blessing, and the remaining six tribes were commanded to ascend Mount Eval, to the north of Shechem to receive the curse.
The blessing and curse are visually apparent on the mountains themselves. Mount Grizim, the mountain of blessing, is green and verdant. Mount Eval, on the other hand, is barren and accursed.
Rabbi Hirsch explains the symbolism of these mountains. Although both mountains have the same sunlight, rainfall, and fertility, one is verdant and the second is bare. In Kabbalah, we learn that these two mountains represent two eyes. Mount Grizim represents the right eye of wisdom, from which emanates pure blessing. Mount Eval represents the left eye of understanding, from which judgments, even severe judgments, may manifest.
This symbolizes the concept of free will that our Parsha begins with: "Behold, I have placed before you today the blessing and the curse." (Deut. 11:26) It is possible for two people to have the same exact potential, while one thrives and the other withers. We all must choose the path of blessing or curse, and what we sow is what we reap.
The fact that six tribes stood on Mount Eval means that there was a positive element to the curse. In Hebrew, the word for "curse" is klalah; kuf, lamed, lamed, hei. The root of the hebrew word for curse, קללה - klalah is kalal - קלל; kuf, lamed, lamed, which means "brilliant, shining light," as in the expression nechoshet kalal, "brilliant copper." At its source, a curse is a brilliant, shining light. This brilliance can be blinding, making it impossible for us to understand and incorporate it into our consciousness. Even though a curse is the result of transgression, it is not a punishment or an expression of Divine revenge, God forbid. Rather, the curse that comes from the Torah is from a very high source, whose purpose is to rectify the souls of those who have transgressed.
Wishing you a beautiful שבת שלום ומבורך
These mountains, adjacent to each other, are unique. Mount Grizim is alive with foliage and vegetation, while Mount Eval is bleak and desolate. (These mountains can be seen today outside the city of Shechem/Nablus.) Six tribes were commanded to ascend Mount Grizim, to the south of Shechem to receive the blessing, and the remaining six tribes were commanded to ascend Mount Eval, to the north of Shechem to receive the curse.
The blessing and curse are visually apparent on the mountains themselves. Mount Grizim, the mountain of blessing, is green and verdant. Mount Eval, on the other hand, is barren and accursed.
Rabbi Hirsch explains the symbolism of these mountains. Although both mountains have the same sunlight, rainfall, and fertility, one is verdant and the second is bare. In Kabbalah, we learn that these two mountains represent two eyes. Mount Grizim represents the right eye of wisdom, from which emanates pure blessing. Mount Eval represents the left eye of understanding, from which judgments, even severe judgments, may manifest.
This symbolizes the concept of free will that our Parsha begins with: "Behold, I have placed before you today the blessing and the curse." (Deut. 11:26) It is possible for two people to have the same exact potential, while one thrives and the other withers. We all must choose the path of blessing or curse, and what we sow is what we reap.
The fact that six tribes stood on Mount Eval means that there was a positive element to the curse. In Hebrew, the word for "curse" is klalah; kuf, lamed, lamed, hei. The root of the hebrew word for curse, קללה - klalah is kalal - קלל; kuf, lamed, lamed, which means "brilliant, shining light," as in the expression nechoshet kalal, "brilliant copper." At its source, a curse is a brilliant, shining light. This brilliance can be blinding, making it impossible for us to understand and incorporate it into our consciousness. Even though a curse is the result of transgression, it is not a punishment or an expression of Divine revenge, God forbid. Rather, the curse that comes from the Torah is from a very high source, whose purpose is to rectify the souls of those who have transgressed.
Wishing you a beautiful שבת שלום ומבורך
Friday, July 30, 2010
Parshat Ekev - פרשת עקב
" הִשָּׁמֶר לְךָ, פֶּן-תִּשְׁכַּח אֶת-יְהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ, לְבִלְתִּי שְׁמֹר מִצְוֹתָיו וּמִשְׁפָּטָיו וְחֻקֹּתָיו, אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מְצַוְּךָ הַיּוֹם. - Beware lest you forget Hashem your God, in not keeping His commandments, and His ordinances, and His statutes, that I command you this day."
(דברים ח:יא)
Parshat Ekev is a parsha that is full of mitzvot. One particular one interests us in this Dvar Torah. The verses preceding the quote above detail the commandment to remember the 40 years the Jews sent wandering in the desert. In that time, we were sent the Mon (Manna when rendered in English for some odd reason) - a heaven sent food substitute that was pure spiritual nourishment. The verses there explain that it was food " אֲשֶׁר לֹא-יָדַעְתָּ, וְלֹא יָדְעוּן אֲבֹתֶיךָ - that you did not know, and your forefathers did not know" (i.e. it was totally foreign and bizarre to us) so that we would learn to rely on Hashem and so that we would appreciate our place and role in this world better. Indeed, the narrative goes on to explain "לְמַעַן הוֹדִיעֲךָ, כִּי לֹא עַל-הַלֶּחֶם לְבַדּוֹ יִחְיֶה הָאָדָם--כִּי עַל-כָּל-מוֹצָא פִי-יְהוָה, יִחְיֶה הָאָדָם - in order to let you know; that man does not live by bread alone, but by every thing that issues from Hashem's mouth man lives."
Rav Shimshon Rephael Hirsch writes in his commentary here that there was a reason why bread specifically is mentioned. At first, we might find it odd that that bread is mentioned - bread is a kind of food that requires man's input for it to be completed. One doesn't eat wheat by itself, as it is found in nature. For bread to be eaten, man must work on the wheat. With this in mind, we may understand the reason that bread is mentioned. Almost all people appreciate the wonders of the natural world. Anyone who picks an apple from a tree and eats it will agree with you that it is amazing that something so tasty can be found growing naturally. But a person who works hard on bread might be forgiven for thinking that he is at least an equal partner in the process of creating the food.
For this reason, close to this passage we find the verse quoted above - warning us not to forget Hashem and our responsibilities. There are plenty of commandments in this week's Parsha, but this specific passage merits the warning above. Why is that? Well, Rav Hirsch explains that if we look at the verse closely, we can see three categories מצוות (commandments), משפטים (ordinances/laws) and חוקים (statutes). Now, traditionally we regard the latter two as more severe categories of obligations toward Hashem. That being the case, there must be a good reason as to why מצותיו (His commandments) is listed first. Rav Hirsch posits the explanation that this category deals with the things that we derive enjoyment from in this world. Bread, and food as a general, is something that Hashem gave us to enjoy. It is a strong Jewish belief that everything in this world is created for man to make use of or benefit from.
The problem is, we are only human and susceptible to momentary lapses of appreciation of this fine gift. As such, Hashem makes a point of stressing that while we are to derive benefit from all "that issues from Hashem's mouth", we must be careful to never become lax and take for granted what we have in this world.
This D'var Torah is dedicated for the speedy recovery of יוסף בן חנינה לאה, the brother of a friend of mine. Please take a few seconds to think and/or pray on his behalf. Thank you.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom :)
(דברים ח:יא)
Parshat Ekev is a parsha that is full of mitzvot. One particular one interests us in this Dvar Torah. The verses preceding the quote above detail the commandment to remember the 40 years the Jews sent wandering in the desert. In that time, we were sent the Mon (Manna when rendered in English for some odd reason) - a heaven sent food substitute that was pure spiritual nourishment. The verses there explain that it was food " אֲשֶׁר לֹא-יָדַעְתָּ, וְלֹא יָדְעוּן אֲבֹתֶיךָ - that you did not know, and your forefathers did not know" (i.e. it was totally foreign and bizarre to us) so that we would learn to rely on Hashem and so that we would appreciate our place and role in this world better. Indeed, the narrative goes on to explain "לְמַעַן הוֹדִיעֲךָ, כִּי לֹא עַל-הַלֶּחֶם לְבַדּוֹ יִחְיֶה הָאָדָם--כִּי עַל-כָּל-מוֹצָא פִי-יְהוָה, יִחְיֶה הָאָדָם - in order to let you know; that man does not live by bread alone, but by every thing that issues from Hashem's mouth man lives."
Rav Shimshon Rephael Hirsch writes in his commentary here that there was a reason why bread specifically is mentioned. At first, we might find it odd that that bread is mentioned - bread is a kind of food that requires man's input for it to be completed. One doesn't eat wheat by itself, as it is found in nature. For bread to be eaten, man must work on the wheat. With this in mind, we may understand the reason that bread is mentioned. Almost all people appreciate the wonders of the natural world. Anyone who picks an apple from a tree and eats it will agree with you that it is amazing that something so tasty can be found growing naturally. But a person who works hard on bread might be forgiven for thinking that he is at least an equal partner in the process of creating the food.
For this reason, close to this passage we find the verse quoted above - warning us not to forget Hashem and our responsibilities. There are plenty of commandments in this week's Parsha, but this specific passage merits the warning above. Why is that? Well, Rav Hirsch explains that if we look at the verse closely, we can see three categories מצוות (commandments), משפטים (ordinances/laws) and חוקים (statutes). Now, traditionally we regard the latter two as more severe categories of obligations toward Hashem. That being the case, there must be a good reason as to why מצותיו (His commandments) is listed first. Rav Hirsch posits the explanation that this category deals with the things that we derive enjoyment from in this world. Bread, and food as a general, is something that Hashem gave us to enjoy. It is a strong Jewish belief that everything in this world is created for man to make use of or benefit from.
The problem is, we are only human and susceptible to momentary lapses of appreciation of this fine gift. As such, Hashem makes a point of stressing that while we are to derive benefit from all "that issues from Hashem's mouth", we must be careful to never become lax and take for granted what we have in this world.
This D'var Torah is dedicated for the speedy recovery of יוסף בן חנינה לאה, the brother of a friend of mine. Please take a few seconds to think and/or pray on his behalf. Thank you.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom :)
Friday, July 23, 2010
Parshat V'etchanan - פרשת ואתחנן
"ואתם הדביקים ביהוה אלוהיכם חיים כלכם היום / And you who cling to Hashem your God, are living today"
(דברים, ד:ד)
Parshat V'etchanan is jam-packed full of events, ranging from Moshe's request to enter Eretz Yisrael to the recounting of the Ten Commandments through part of the text we recite daily in Kriyat Sh'ma. The focus of this D'var Torah though, is on the last Pasuk of the Levi's Aliyah in Rishon, quoted above. The pasuk is one well-known; each time we read from the Torah, it is recited by the entire congregation as a confirmation of how much the Torah means to us.
The verse is straightforward enough, but the Degel Machane Efraim makes an interesting comment on these words. He points out that it is well-documented in Jewish texts that three paragraphs of the Shm'a cumulatuively comprise 248 words. We learn that these 248 words correspond to the 248 limbs of the human body, and we believe that each word gives strength and vitality to a specific limb. Thus we believe that reading the Sh'ma helps sustain a Jew in this world.
There's a problem though, namely that the 248th word, אמת (Emet - truth), isn't part of the text of Sh'ma as it's found in the Torah. It's really part of the next paragraph, and we join the two paragraphs together and repeat the two words preceding it, and in that way we have our 248th word. But this solution doesn't seem too tidy at all. It all seems a tad arbitrary.
Fortunately, the Degel Machane Efraim resolves the matter with a neat suggestion as to why we do this. The text reads: "And you who cling to Hashem your God, are living today" but if we look closely, we may see that the word אתם (Atem - you) has the same letters as another Hebrew word - אמת. These two words are connected.
Furthermore, when the text says הדביקים (which means clinging/adhering), we may read it literally as an instruction for us to 'stick' something to something else. The insinuation as for us to attach the word אמת (Emet) to the paragraph that precedes it. And what will happen if we are to do this? Simple - the verse continues to bless Israel with life, "חיים כלכם היום - and you are living today" It is my wish that with our prayers, we may realise both our own inner capabilities and be able to make use of all the faculties of our bodies to realise them. Similarly, may we all be blesssed to really live life and grasp the truth of this world.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
(דברים, ד:ד)
Parshat V'etchanan is jam-packed full of events, ranging from Moshe's request to enter Eretz Yisrael to the recounting of the Ten Commandments through part of the text we recite daily in Kriyat Sh'ma. The focus of this D'var Torah though, is on the last Pasuk of the Levi's Aliyah in Rishon, quoted above. The pasuk is one well-known; each time we read from the Torah, it is recited by the entire congregation as a confirmation of how much the Torah means to us.
The verse is straightforward enough, but the Degel Machane Efraim makes an interesting comment on these words. He points out that it is well-documented in Jewish texts that three paragraphs of the Shm'a cumulatuively comprise 248 words. We learn that these 248 words correspond to the 248 limbs of the human body, and we believe that each word gives strength and vitality to a specific limb. Thus we believe that reading the Sh'ma helps sustain a Jew in this world.
There's a problem though, namely that the 248th word, אמת (Emet - truth), isn't part of the text of Sh'ma as it's found in the Torah. It's really part of the next paragraph, and we join the two paragraphs together and repeat the two words preceding it, and in that way we have our 248th word. But this solution doesn't seem too tidy at all. It all seems a tad arbitrary.
Fortunately, the Degel Machane Efraim resolves the matter with a neat suggestion as to why we do this. The text reads: "And you who cling to Hashem your God, are living today" but if we look closely, we may see that the word אתם (Atem - you) has the same letters as another Hebrew word - אמת. These two words are connected.
Furthermore, when the text says הדביקים (which means clinging/adhering), we may read it literally as an instruction for us to 'stick' something to something else. The insinuation as for us to attach the word אמת (Emet) to the paragraph that precedes it. And what will happen if we are to do this? Simple - the verse continues to bless Israel with life, "חיים כלכם היום - and you are living today" It is my wish that with our prayers, we may realise both our own inner capabilities and be able to make use of all the faculties of our bodies to realise them. Similarly, may we all be blesssed to really live life and grasp the truth of this world.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom.
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