Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

A short while ago, I was sitting with some Chevra discussing our rapidly changing world. Every day seems to bring something more unbelievable, and the news can barely keep up with major world events, let alone focus and analysis.

For us, in our lives, it almost feels like we’re passengers on this ride. We’re strapped into to our rollercoaster seats, unable to change or control the track ahead. It’s like we have a front row seat to the greatest show in history, but we’re all in the audience.

And if all of that is as true as it seems, why does Hashem want me here? What am I supposed to be doing with life?

It’s a profound question and one that is uniquely apropos to Sefiras HaOmer. And it begins with a misunderstanding:

When creating humanity, the Torah tells us that Hashem placed Adam in Gan Eden לְעׇבְדָהּ וּלְשׇׁמְרָהּ – to work it and to preserve it.

Naturally, we read this Pasuk as an instruction to develop and protect the Garden of Eden. It’s the charge of humanity to make this world into a better place, whilst ensuring that our creativity doesn’t overstep into the realm of destruction.

That’s how we have always read it and that’s why we feel so inadequate. There is very little that I can effect in the vastness of this Garden.

But the Seforno is bothered by the verbiage used here. Surely, if the Pasuk was commanding us regarding the Garden, the words should read לְעׇבְדו וּלְשׇׁמְרו, since גן is a masculine word.

Rather, writes the Seforno, the pasuk is commanding us something radically different:

לעבדה. לעבוד את נשמת חיים כאמרו ויפח באפיו נשמת חיים To develop his living soul, as the Torah tells us: “Hashem breathed into him a living soul.”

The primary task of mankind is not about the world. It’s not concerning the Garden at all. The real Avoda begins with working, developing and refining our unrefined selves. And truthfully, this work never ends. The Garden is simply the stage and setting that Hashem gives us to do the work of fixing ourselves.

In the words of the Vilna Gaon (אבן שלמה פרק א):

כל עבודת ה' תלוי בתיקון המידות...עיקר חיות האדם הוא להתחזק תמיד בשבירת המדות ואם לאו למה לו חיים

The entirety of service of Hashem depends on correcting our character... the primary life force of a person is that they should strengthen themselves to break their negative traits, and not, what is the point of living?

Or in the words of Reb Elimelech of Lizensk (צעטיל קטן אות טז):

האדם לא נברא בעולם רק לשבר את הטבע The only reason we are created in this world is to break the hold of our impulses.

Paradigmatically, the days of Sefiras HaOmer are the days between the barley harvest and the wheat harvest. Or, in language of Chazal, the movement between unrefined animal food to refined human food.

Seeing the deep resonance between the land and its people, Chazal understood that the agricultural works between Pesach and Shavuos is deeply linked to the personal work we are charged with during this time of year. We are to transcend our animalistic tendencies and become people through Tikkun HaMiddos.

Rabbeinu Bechaye writes (שמות יח כא):

Come and see the greatness of character traits. For the great people of the Torah, such as Noach, Avraham, Yaakov, Moshe and others were never praised for their intelligence and wisdom. The Torah never praises their genius. They are always praised in terms of their middos tovos. This teaches that the main thing is not wisdom, but integrity of character.

In essence: It is far more important to be good than to be smart, happy or successful. It might be difficult to know what Hashem wants us to do. But it is certainly not difficult to know who Hashem wants us to be.

All of this is to say that Hashem is not asking us to change the world. He is asking us to change ourselves. To grow a little more each day, to push ourselves a little harder to become the people that represent Him in this world.

With the passing of the great Rabbi Meir Shapiro, the founder of the Daf HaYomi and Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivas Chachmei Lublin, in 1933, the Yeshiva appointed Rabbi Aryeh Tzvi Frumer to lead.

A short while after his appointment, he stood in front of his students and told them that Rav Meir Shapiro had appeared to him in a dream. In the course of their celestial conversation, Rabbi Frumer asked his predecessor how he was received in the heavenly court. “Surely you, who lead the Yeshiva, founded the Daf Yomi and worked tirelessly for the Jewish people, would be lauded for his achievements?”

Rabbi Shapiro replied: “In this place they care less about achievements, and more about Middos. They don't want to know what you did. They want to know who you became.”

Rav Soloveitchik, in his classic essay Kol Dodi Dofeik writes: “No one can deny that from the standpoint of international relations, the establishment of the State of Israel, in a political sense, was an almost supernatural occurrence... Both Russia and the Western countries jointly supported the idea of the establishment of the [Jewish] State. This was perhaps the only proposal where east and west were united. I am inclined to believe that the entire United Nations organization was created specifically for this purpose – in order to carry out the mission which the divine providence had set for it. It seems to me that one cannot point to any other concrete achievement on the part of the U.N.”

It has been seventy-seven years since the establishment of the State of Israel, and the Rav’s inclination about the U.N. still appears to be correct.

But for a moment, I don’t want to reflect on the rise of antisemitism or the worrying and growing hatred of State of Israel. I don’t want to focus even the painful divisions that are still tearing up Jewish unity inside of Israel and throughout the Jewish world. I don’t want to focus on the fires, physical, psychological and spiritual; painful as they all are.

On Yom Ha’atzmaut, Hashem is asking us to see beyond all of that. That’s not to say that none of this is important. Of course, it’s all essential, and they all require immense Avoda.

But the Avoda of today is to know that all of our current challenges are part of the journey; not the destination. Yom Ha’atzmaut is a day to remember that as Jews, we believe that there is a destination.

The Mekubalim explain that everything in the world is made of עולם, שנה, נפש – Space, time and people. As such, there is a goal of Klal Yisrael; in space, in time and within ourselves. The place is clear: Eretz Yisrael. The time is also clear: Yemos HaMashiach.

But what is the destination, the goal of our people? That’s perhaps the most illusive to describe.

For the first three years of my schooling, I attended a public school in Johannesburg. I didn’t love it, and I didn’t fit in. Twice a week, however, the school brought in a Rabbi to teach Hebrew classes to the Jewish students, and I remember wearing my yarmulka proudly in those classes.

I also remember, as those classes ended, that some of the other kids would grab the Yarmulka off of my head, and run across the soccer field teasing me for wearing “that funny hat on my head.” Looking back, I don’t think they were anti-semites. But I longed to be in a place that being Jewish and looking Jewish, wouldn’t make me “the other.”

In forth grade, the opportunity arose for me to move to a Jewish day school. I was simultaneously elated and terrified. Elated that I would be with kids that wouldn’t bully me for being Jewish, but terrified that I didn’t know as much as them. I knew how to read the first paragraph of the Shema, and the first Bracha of the Shmoneh Esrei, but that was the extent of my knowledge of Davening. I spend that summer breaking my teeth over the Siddur, desperately determined that no one would see or discover how unprepared I was for Jewish schooling.

Just before the school year began, a Rabbi took me aside, and painted a picture that has remained with me for the past three decades.

“Rael, right now, you have big dreams of who you could be and become. For the past three years, you’ve wanted to go to a Jewish school, to be with Jewish kids, to learn Torah. But I’m worried about you. Sometimes, a person can stand on a mountain top, looking at the summit of the next mountain over. They dream of climbing to that next peak. But in order to make to the next peak, the climber will need to descend into the valley bellow, and in the valley, he cannot see the mountain peaks at all.”

I wasn’t sure how to understand what he was telling me, so he explained:

“Right now, you’re looking at the peak in the distance. You have big dreams and big hopes. You want to be a successful and knowledgeable Jew. But to get to the next mountain, you’re going to need to climb into the details of learning, and davening and Halacha. It isn’t going to be easy. You might still get bullied, by different kids, in different ways. When you can’t see the mountain you came from, and you can’t see the mountain you’re aiming for, it’s possible to get stuck in the valley. Please promise me that you won’t stop dreaming of the greatness you're imagining now.”

This is not just my story. It’s the story of a people that has been yearning for Geulah; for a world where things make sense. A world where we don't get bullied. But ultimately, a world where we can become Hashem’s Light to Nations.

The personal destination of Klal Yisrael is, as Hashem tells us: וְאַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ־לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ – You will be to Me a kingdom of Kohanim; and a transcendent nation.

On this, the Seforno writes that the purpose of our people is:

להבין ולהורות לכל המין האנושי לקרוא כלם בשם ה', ולעבדו שכם אחד,... בלתי נפסדים, אבל תהיו קיימים לעד באיש, כמו שיהיה הענין לעתיד לבא

To teach and instruct all of mankind to call out in the name of God and for all to serve him together... never to disappear from the stage of history. You will continue to exist forever.

In 1948, we left the mountain peak of dreams, in the hopes of making it a reality.

In these seventy-seven years, we have been traveling through the valley. Somedays it feels like we haven’t had a glimpse of that next mountain top in years. Sometimes it feels like the dreams were little more than illusions.

But Yom Ha’atzmaut is a day to remember that there was one moment in our recent past, when Hashem reached out from behind the veil of history and told us that He would help us get from one side to the other. He threaded His Will through the nations of the world, and empowered us to take our first steps toward the great mountain in the distance.

Today He reminds us: Don’t stop climbing, don’t stop dreaming, don’t stop yearning. The next summit is closer than ever before.

For as long as I can remember, music has been a big part of my life, and a big part of my day. And judging by the questions that I get asked during Sefira, I think it’s safe to assume that we are all listening to far more music than ever before.

At any given moment, many of us will have music playing in the background; while working, or learning. Not to mention the multiple playlists we’ve set up for working out, for carpools, roadtrips and parties.

Is all of this music forbidden? Is acappella allowed?

Broadly speaking, there are two schools of thought as to why we don’t listen to music during these times of the year:

1. Rav Moshe Feinstein: The Rambam holds that all music was categorically forbidden at all times since the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash. Practically, many of the other Rishonim limit this restriction to hearing musical instruments outside of a Seudas Mitzvah, and/or acappella singing at parties. However, during the times of the year when we focus on national mourning, it is appropriate to refrain from all music. (Based on this, Rav Moshe allowed listening to recordings of acappella music on the radio during Sefira.)

2. Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach: The Magen Avraham prohibits festive dancing (ריקודים ומחולות) during Sefira, in order to limit our expressions of joy during these sad times. Thus any music that is designed to bring one to dance, should be prohibited. (Rav Shlomo Zalman contends, however, that quiet slow music was never prohibited, since there was never a problem with music per se, only the dancing that it encouraged. He does not differentiate between recordings and live music, or instruments vs acappella.)

Ironically however, the vast majority of Sefira music questions are not about listening to music at all.

As a result of the near ubiquitousness of music, we seldom actually listen to music. (When was the last time that you sat down listen to a song with no other activity happening simultaneously?) Culturally speaking, the act of listening to music is no longer an activity we do, and thus it no longer engenders the same emotions and experience as it once did.

In recent years, a number of Poskim have taken this gradual shift into account when discussing the Halachos of Sefira. While everyone agrees that live concerts are still prohibited, listening to certain types of music while driving, exercising and working might well be permissible.

Rav Melamed (פניני הלכה) explains: “nowadays, everyone listens to music on electronic devices regularly, and since it has become so routine, the festiveness and joy associated with listening to music has disappeared.”

Rav Eliyahu Shlesinger (שו”ת שואלין ודורשין) adds: “Even though there we do not display happiness during these times of year, there is still a mitzvah to serve Hashem with joy, and for many people, listening to music is important to maintaining mental health.”

To be clear, there are many Poskim who disagree with this analysis, and these leniencies are not all widely accepted. Nevertheless, for the past few years, I have personally erred on the side of entertaining leniences for the sake of mental health and physical well-being.

The year, however, I’ve been rethinking my Sefira-music orientation, and perhaps some of these thoughts might resonate with you as well.

1. The reason for our mourning during Sefiras HaOmer is the death of the students of Rebbe Akiva, who “did not treat each other with respect.”

Historically, we have marked this mourning by decreasing our expressions of joy. Within this rubric, a public concert is inappropriate, and privately listening to music is benign. But our music listening habits, whilst not violating any public ban on joyousness, might well be perpetuating the same apathy and disdain that we are trying to mourn.

The moment we pop in our AirPods, the world around us goes silent, and we are (often consciously) signaling that we are not to be bothered.

This makes every conversation starter a little more strained.

Perhaps our noise-cancelling musical retreat does afford us the ability to be present with our work. But it comes at the cost of making us far less present with each other.

2. “When the students of Rebbe Akiva died, the world went silent.”

Chazal (יבמות סב ב) describe the aftermath of this plague with the terrifying phrase – וְהָיָה הָעוֹלָם שָׁמֵם – the world was desolate.

We are still mourning during the Omer because that desolation has not yet been repaired. Yet somehow, we have filled it with a lot of noise. So much so, that today, many people find any silence deeply unsettling.

We have noise machines to help us sleep and music in elevators to avoid the awkwardness.

Part of the Avoda of Sefiras HaOmer is to experience the discomfort of a world that feels a little too empty, so that we can choose to refill it with sounds of meaning.

3. The World of Music has Turned Against Us

Music has a unique power to unite people, and that power has been used and abused to incite Jew-hatred.

Just this week, 125,000 concert goers at Coachella were lead into chanting curses at the State of Israel. They roared, cheered and celebrated their unanimous animosity of the singular Jewish state.

I do not know if everyone at that concert arrived with antisemitism burning in their hearts, perhaps they were seduced by the simplistic moral high-ground on offer. But one thing is clear: Everyone left with a little less love for the Jewish people.

Rebbe Nachman (ליקוטי מוהר”ן ג) writes: הנה מי ששומע נגינה ממנגן רשע, קשה לו לעבודת הבורא – When someone listens to the music of a musician who is wicked, it is detrimental to his serving the Creator.

Songs have a powerful effect on us. Their emotions penetrate our hearts, even when as our minds work to protect our thoughts and opinions. Perhaps Sefira gives us a chance to audit the music we listen to?

None of this is Psak Halacha, but on a personal level, I’m trying to be a little more conscious about the types of music I’m listening to – during Sefira and beyond. I’m also trying to make sure that my music, audio books, shiurim and podcasts don’t come at the expense of my personal relationships.

With the hope that if we feel the discomfort that comes with silence, perhaps we can all work together to fill the world with the right kind of music.

In his book “Out of the Depths,” Chief Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau tells the following story:

In 1978, when I was forty-one years old, leaders of this seaside Israeli town (Netanya) asked me to respond to the call for candidates in the election for chief rabbi of the city. I was quite young for such a heavy responsibility; still people said, my chances of winning were good. I attended a meeting with then-mayor Reuben Kliegler, city administrators, and local Labor party leaders. I told the mayor that if I were elected I would be following in the footsteps of the dynasty of rabbis from which I descended.

I met with the mayor and his staff for four hours. The whole time, a man with white curly hair sat with us, but he did not open his mouth. Only when I rose to shake hands and take my leave did he address me and others: Friends, honored rabbi, before we disperse, please allow me to say my piece. In a minute you will understand why I held my tongue this whole time. In these hours sitting before Rabbi Lau, I have been reliving the eleventh of April 1945. I was deported from my hometown of Zarka, Poland, to the infamous camp of Buchenwald. On April 11, American airplanes circled in the skies above the camp. The prisoners, myself among them, burst out of the barracks. Spontaneously, we ran toward the gate, anticipating our liberation after six years of hell. As we ran, a hail of lead shot past us. We had no idea who was shooting, from where, why, or what was happening. We only knew that our lives were in danger.

Among those running toward the gate was a little boy. Later, I learned that his name was Lulek, and that he was just under eight years old. I realized that any child at Buchenwald had to be Jewish. I jumped on top of him and threw him to the ground, and lay over him to protect him from the bullets. And today I see him before me, alive and well. Rabbi Lau is that very same Lulek, the boy from Buchenwald.

Now I declare this to all of you. I David Anilevitch, was saved from that horror, fought in the Palmach, and today serve as deputy mayor of an Israeli city. If I have the merit of seeing this child, whom I protected with my body, become my spiritual leader, then I say to you [and here he pounded on the table so the water glasses shook] that there is a God…

For the next nine years, I served as chief rabbi of Netanya.

Of all the cherished moment in the life of a Jewish family, few compare to the moment our children will stand up proudly and sing “Ma Nishtana” – the “four questions”. Why are we eating Matzah? Why are we eating Maror? We are we all leaning? Why are we dipping?

If your family is anything like mine, by the time your kids sit down again, beaming from the praise from parents and grandparents, no one is looking for answers.

It all seems like such a farce. The object of the night is to educate our children about the story of the exodus. But they know it already, and they’re waiting to sing V’hi She’amda, Dayeinu and Paroah in Pajamas.

Have we all missed the point? Not quite.

The truth is that the questions at the Seder are not supposed to be answered, because the questions are not questions, they are invitations.

No one at the Seder is actually bothered by why we’re dipping. But they are bothered by two thousand years of Jewish exile.

No one is struggling to sleep at night because we all lean while drinking wine and eating matzah. We’re losing sleep over the 552 days that our enemies are still holding our brothers and sisters captive in Gaza.

It’s not a night of textual study or ancient history. The questions we have are not about details of rituals, but the meaning of our lives and the purpose of being Jewish in a world that so often hates us.

As our kids grow older, they too are trying to understand their place in this story. If we’re being honest, by the end of the evening, none of us will be any no closer to answering the big questions.

But one thing is certain, when another Jewish child gets up and sings Ma Nishtana, we can bang on the table and scream “There is a God.”

That’s how we finish the night: אחד אני יודע – I know One. One is Hashem. Somehow, for a few moments, all the biggest and most challenging questions of our lives and history disappear. All the “why’s” and “hows” are less relevant, because by the end of the story, Hashem will slaughter the Angel of Death, and we’re still going to be there. Maybe then we’ll have the time and mind-space for the answers.

For right now, this moment, the experience of Seder night is our opportunity to bang on the table and remind ourselves that there is a God.

In the mid 1800's, in the height of the California Gold Rush, a young father bid his family in New York goodbye, to seek his fortune out west.

Months went by and he found nothing but dirt. Finally, fed up, he decided to come home. He calls the train station and asks when the next train will be. “It's a leaving in 4 weeks”, they tell him “And it'll be months after that before the next one arrives.”

“How much for a ticket?”, he asks. When he hears the reply, he's torn. It's a lot a money. Money that he hasn't made yet. “I'll call you back” he says.

A week before the train leaves, he calls again. The price has gone up. “Should we book it for you?” “No,” he responds.

A day before the train leaves, he calls again. This time he is told: “There are no more tickets to buy. But if you come to the station tomorrow, you may yet be able to get a seat.”

The next day, he wakes up early, packs his bags and leave for station. Everything that could go wrong, goes wrong. Weather, traffic, you name it.

The train is leaving at 12 noon. He gets to the station at 11:55am. Rushing through the throngs of people, he looks for the right platform. It's 11:58. He runs up the stairs, as he hears the train's whistle. It's 12 noon and the train is pulling out of station. Against his best judgement, he begins to run after the train. The conductor looks out of the window, and takes pity on him and he opens a door.

He calls out to the young man “Drop you bags and jump!” The whistle blows again. “Drop you baggage and jump!”

...

The story of Pesach begins on Shabbos Hagadol with one simple question: Are we willing to drop the baggage and jump.

For our ancestors in Egypt, this meant taking an Egyptian deity, tying it to their bedposts, and preparing to slaughter it. The were asked to reject the gods of their host cultures – which they had grown to believe in.In each generation, the baggage is a little different, as is the jump, but it always follows the same basic rules, with the same intensity and lack of clarity.

Ultimately, the challenge crystallizes to one excruciating split second decision; because when we drop the baggage, we still have no idea how the jump will go. We don’t know how we will land, we don’t know one day we will look back and relish this moment, or perhaps resent it.

Despite the regular complaints and failures of Klal Yisrael in the Midbar, Hashem still loved us for the moment that we dropped our baggage and jumped. The Navi describes love: זָכַרְתִּי לָךְ חֶסֶד נְעוּרַיִךְ אַהֲבַת כְּלוּלֹתָיִךְ לֶכְתֵּךְ אַחֲרַי בַּמִּדְבָּר בְּאֶרֶץ לֹא זְרוּעָה – I remember the kindness of your youth, your love as a bride – How you followed Me in the desert, in a land not sown.

Every year, in the days leading up to Pesach, that Avoda returns to us. We are each invited and instructed to take stock of the baggage we’re holding onto, to seek out the Chametz in our lives and souls, and destroy it.

Rav Shlomo Twerski (מלכות שלמה שבת הגדול) explains that before we can decide what we want to become, we need to know what we don’t want to be. As we grow as people, our aspirations should naturally change as well. But knowing what we reject needs to be iron clad. Indeed, the beginning of all personal development is a conviction that “I don’t want to be this way any longer.”

The Torah codifies this commitment with the prohibition of returning to Egypt: לֹא תֹסִפוּן לָשׁוּב בַּדֶּרֶךְ הַזֶּה עוֹד – You must not go back that way again.

On this Pasuk, the Izbitzer (ליקוטי מי השלוח, ספר דברים, שופטים ב׳) explained that the way of Egypt is not simply a road or location, but a way of life:

The impurity of Egypt was in that it constrained and limited a person by surrounding them with everything they could want and need. And when a person is conditioned to certain luxuries and pleasures they are unwilling to give them up, even for the chance to become greater.

To the outsider, our cleaning, kashering and destroying of Chametz must seem insane. For a little more than a week, we act like crazy people; obsessing over every crumb, ensuring that no morsel of leaven survives our scrutiny.

But perhaps thats the whole point. It’s an annual proof to ourselves that we can, in fact, completely eradicate the baggage that’s holding us back. We can walk away from the luxuries of our vices and bad habits. We can abandon our negativity and cynicism, and make the jump to start becoming the people we want to be.

Preparing for Pesach gives us the confidence to know that if we we can live without bread, there is nothing that can hold us back from taking the next big leap in life.

Before you get nervous, this is not a Kashrus alert. Baruch Hashem we are privileged to live in a community with well stocked and well supervised Kosher establishments.

But walking through the Pesach aisles of our local stores, there are products that my kids have noticed as particularly strange: “Salt water for the Seder”, “Ten Pre-wrapped pieces of Chametz for Bedikas Chametz”, or a “Pre-roasted Zeroa for the Seder Plate.”

I’m not going to talk about the prices of these items, but needless to say, I think we’ll be making our own salt water.

Please note, I’m not passing judgement on the companies making these products, or the stores for selling them.

My wife is a therapist, specializing in the mental health of seniors, their spouses and their aides. For the woman suffering with Parkinson’s disease, the ability to purchase “Ten Pre-wrapped pieces of Chametz for Bedikas Chametz” is an immense blessing. It allows her to ensure that she and her husband can fulfill the mitzvah with diligence as well as dignity.

This is an extreme example. But there are many others that are far more palatable – and often far more costly. Top of the list is the ever growing Pesach Hotel industry.

This is a delicate conversation, and I am not looking to make people upset here. On the one hand, we applaud the innovations that allow for large families to unite for Yom Tov, and the ability for people to get a vacation while still observing Torah and mitzvos.

On the other, we are falling into the trap of outsourcing our Yiddishkeit... And that is far more dangerous than we’d care to admit.

But knowing where we should draw the line is complicated. So let's try to ground the discussion in the lessons of the Torah:

Chazal (Yoma 72a) tell us:

אָמַר רַבִּי חָמָא בְּרַבִּי חֲנִינָא מַאי דִּכְתִיב עֲצֵי שִׁטִּים עוֹמְדִים ... שֶׁמָּא תֹּאמַר אָבַד סִבְרָן וּבָטֵל סִכּוּיָין תַּלְמוּד לוֹמַר עוֹמְדִים שֶׁעוֹמְדִין לְעוֹלָם וּלְעוֹלָמִים

Rabbi Chama, son of Rabbi Chanina, said: What is the meaning of that which is written: “And you shall make the boards for the Mishkan of acacia wood, standing”?... “Standing” is written to hint at the following: You might think that since the Mishkan is no longer in use, the boards would rot and decay. Therefore, the verse states “standing” to indicate that they will last forever and ever.

The Seforno (ר׳ פר׳ פקודי) adds:

Not only did the Mishkan last forever, none of the utensils used in the Mishkan ever fell into the hands of our enemies.

But then the Seforno pivots: > This is the opposite of what happened to the “permanent” Temple, בית עולמים, built by Shlomo HaMelech.

He continues to explains that Shlomo's Beis HaMikdash needed regular repair, and that it was eventually, and tragically destroyed.

What could account for this discrepancy? The Seforno's answer here is biting: The Mishkan was built by Jewish hands. The Beis HaMikdash was outsourced to foreign laborers from Tzidon.

His point is clear: If you want to create something that will stand the test of time, you need to do it yourself. We dare not outsource the things that are most important in our lives: Torah, mitzvos and relationships.

But the comments of the Seforno require explanation on two counts. Firstly, if the tragedy of the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash could've been avoided by communal engagement, then why did Shlomo HaMelech – the wises of all men – not insist on it? Secondly, and perhaps more painfully, what difference does this make for us? The Beis HaMikdash is destroyed, and the Mishkan is hidden. Either way, we have no access to them?!

To this the Alshich HaKadosh notes that there were fundamentally different emotions driving the building of the Mishkan and Mikdash.

The Mishkan was build by Jewish hands because it was a project borne out of Love of Hashem, Love of Torah and Love of the Jewish people. They wanted to build it. They wanted to get their hands dirty.

By contrast, the purpose of the Beis Mikdash was to inspire a sense of awe and fear. Walking into the Mikdash was entering the Palace of the King. Royalty. Sovereignty. Majesty. It could not simply be cobbled together by volunteers; even if they wanted to. It needed to be perfect – so the greatest artists and architects were hired. And that meant foreign labor.

Tragically, and ironically, the attempt to create a fixed, permanent, awe-inspiring edifice resulted in the disenfranchising of the very people it was meant to inspire.

This is the tension at the heart of everything we do in life: marriage, raising children, building a business and cultivating a community. Do we do it ourselves or do we outsource to professionals?

Of course, we all know that there must be a balance. We cannot do everything ourselves, that's a recipe for burnout. But by handing over every task, we make ourselves obsolete.

Amazingly, Chazal pondered and resolved this centuries ago by understanding that everything we do creates a change in us and a change in the world. But that the primary orientation of a Jew is first to focus on the change in ourselves.

Let's understand this in context of Pesach.

Our Sages teach us that a מצות הגוף – a mitzvah on ourselves – cannot be outsourced. No one can eat matzah for you. No one can drink the four cups on your behalf. Just like no one can exercise for you, or loose weight on your behalf.

But then there are mitzvos that create an effect: You need a chametz-free home. You need a seder prepared. These can be outsourced. But they should not be, since מצוה בו יותר מבשלוחו – there is a greater mitzvah to do it ourselves. Yes, of course, a professional might be able to do it better. But the goal is changing ourselves far more than having a “perfect seder” (whatever that might mean to your mother-in-law...)

And what if we really, truly, have no idea how to do a particular mitzvah? Chazal do not leave us in the dark. They instructed halachik mechanisms, for example: appointing a Shaliach (an agent) and שומע כעונה (listening to a text rather than saying it).

But the point is clear: We should always err on the side of doing it ourselves. An outsourced Yiddishkeit does not last, even if it is perfect.

The Eretz Tzvi notes that while neither Mikdash not Mishkan are available to us today, the truth that the Mishkan still stands somewhere is deeply meaningful. In the world of Galus, neither love nor fear are readily accessible. But the Mishkan of love still exists – it's hidden, but it's there. It is the only tool we have to build a relationship with Hashem if only we would uncover it.

This understanding is essential in imbuing our children with a commitment to Torah and Mitzvos. By getting them involved in Pesach we ensure that they know that Yiddishkeit is about passion and enjoyment – not perfection and fear. And that makes it last.

But it's not only about our kids and grandkids. Somehow, we have developed this false narrative that kids need to do mitzvos with love while we just need to get it done – to be “Yotzei”.

What happens to good parents on Seder night when the kids fall asleep? Does the seder loose steam, and fizzle out? Or do we, as adults, engage deeper and more meaningfully?

The next two weeks are about getting rid of the Chametz in our hearts, by getting rid of the Chametz in our homes. It's about preparing to leave the Mitzraim of our lives, by preparing for Seder night.

Ultimately, the goal of all of Yiddishkeit is to pour our passion, excitement and engagement into changing ourselves, and deepening our connection to the Ribono Shel Olam.

Hashem should help us to live lives of love and engagement; that whatever we build should last forever.

For the past year and a half, there is one lesson we have been learning over and over again. It’s a lesson that we are still resistant to accept; one that we find inherently and fundamentally challenging.

Everything we thought to be impossible is actually quite possible. And everything we thought to be certain is, in fact, subject to reexamination.

Every news headline has prompted us to question our basic assumptions about politics, war and international diplomacy. Not a week goes without reality defying our expectations, and in the aftermath, we are left to post-rationalize the events of our own lives.

Not a single one of us could’ve predicted the current state of the Jewish people from the vantage of just two years ago.

And yet, despite our obviously limited capacities of prediction, we still hold firmly to our own notions of “possible” and “impossible.”

This is true nationally and politically as well as personally. We find ourselves committed to some arbitrary set of ideas, ideals and ideologies; forcing ourselves to cover over our questions with bandaid after bandaid.

All of is might make us feel inadequate and misguided. But our inability to see how the present develops into the future is not as much a bug as it is a feature.

We cannot predict the future with any accuracy, because our future is bigger than us. The future of Klal Yisrael is that our current reality is and will transform into a state of redemption. And that’s impossible for us to see as individuals. There isn’t a single Jew alive who can plot the map explaining how we get from here to there; much like there was no Jew in Mitzraim who could’ve anticipated the ten plagues.

In retrospect, it all adds up; but Geulah is greater than the sum of its parts. Scientists and philosophers refer to this phenomenon as the principle of Emergence. One molecule of water is incapable of making a wave, but when many more drops of water collect together, they transcend their individual definitions and limitations. The same is true of a swarm of bees, or the beauty we observe in the unique fractal development of a snow flake. Some researchers argue that the presence of human intelligence itself is an emergent property arising from the coalescence of cells in our brains and bodies.

Realizing this, there is a deep and very practical application for us to consider, even as we cannot yet perceive the road to Geulah ourselves. The more that we connect to each other, to Hashem and to His Torah, the more we will become as individuals.

With this in mind, we can understand Rashi’s comment at the beginning of our Parsha:

ויקהל משה. וְהוּא לְשׁוֹן הִפְעִיל, שֶׁאֵינוֹ אוֹסֵף אֲנָשִׁים בְּיָּדַיִם, אֶלָּא הֵן נֶאֱסָפִין עַל פִּי דִּבּוּרוֹ

The word ויקהל is used in the verbal form that expresses the idea of causing a thing to be done, because one does not actually assemble people with one’s hands, but they are assembled through his command.

The gathering together was inspired by Moshe, but it was a naturally occurring event; almost beyond the will of any single Jew, they all “were gathered.” The fictitious divisions between Jews evaporated, and somehow they were drawn together.

Rebbe Nachman (תנינא פ״ב:ג׳) explains how Moshe managed to bring the nation together:

שֶׁמֹּשֶׁה קָשַׁר אֶת עַצְמוֹ אֲפִלּוּ לַפָּחוּת שֶׁבְּיִשְׁרָאֵל וּמָסַר נַפְשׁוֹ עֲלֵיהֶם, כְּמוֹ שֶׁכָּתוּב (שמות ל״ב:ל״ב): וְאִם אַיִן מְחֵנִי נָא. וְזֶה פֵּרוּשׁ (שמות ל״ה:א׳): וַיַּקְהֵל מֹשֶׁה וְכוּ' – שֶׁמֹּשֶׁה הָיָה מְאַסֵּף וּמְיַחֵד וּמְקַשֵּׁר אֶת עַצְמוֹ עִם כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל, אֲפִלּוּ עִם הַפָּחוּת שֶׁבַּפְּחוּתִים.

Moshe bound himself with even the least Jew, and gave his life for them, as it is written, “But if not, please blot me out!” (Exodus 32:32). This is also the meaning of: “And Moshe assembled…” (Exodus 35:1)—that Moshe would gather, unite and bind himself with all of Israel, even with the least of the least.

Moshe had just demonstrated his total self sacrifice for each and every member of Klal Yisrael. When he said “Chevra, I want to talk to you,” they came running. Why did Moshe need everyone together? Because these are the survivors of the Egel HaZahav. These are the ones who saw their friends and neighbors bow to a golden calf and chase Hashem from the midst of Klal Yisrael. The Alshich HaKadosh explains: It would be up to these Jews to bring Hashem’s presence back into their midst. The Shechina of Hashem is an emergent property of the unity of the Jewish people.

The Sfas Emes (ויקהל תרל”ו) writes that when Moshe saw the fractured and frazzled Jewish nation gathered together, he felt a deep sense of Nachas, exclaiming: אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה’ לַעֲשֹׂת אֹתָם – These are the things that Hashem is commanding you to do. These displays of unity, these moments of connection.

A year and a half into this war, with our brave Chayalim returning to fighting in Gaza, we are still plagued by machlokes and disunity.

In many ways, the war had accentuated the divide between Charedim and Dati’im. Right and Left are still arguing vehemently about control over State institutions. The families of the Hostages are constantly pitted against army intelligence. We have no answers, and no clarity appears to be forthcoming.

But Geulah is coming. Somehow from within all this darkness and turmoil, redemption is forming. Our Avoda, and indeed the Avoda of Klal Yisrael is to not fall apart. Jewish unity in our purpose and our presence can and should transcend even the most extreme machlokes.

After all, our long history has proven that any singular approach is most likely wrong. But in gathering together, Hashem’s Presence can yet emerge.

May we merit to see it soon.

When Rabbi Uri Zohar decided to leave behind his previous life of glamour and stardom to become torah observant, his non-religious friends asked the noted comedian if he could tell them one last joke.

He replied by telling them the following: one day a secular Israeli police officer noticed two religious yeshiva students driving together on a motorcycle. The officer drove his car behind them looking for a pretense to issue the duo a ticket. To his chagrin, they stopped at every stop sign, adhered to the speed limit, and drove courteously.

After a half-hour the cop gave up. He pulled them over and said to them, “I don’t get it. I couldn’t catch you doing anything wrong!” The yeshiva boys replied curtly, “that’s because we have Hashem with us.” The cop jumped up, “aha! I’m going to give you a ticket. You have three on a motorcycle!”

How do we get Hashem on our motorcycle? That's the question of the Parsha, of Purim and of Life.

The Jewish people have just built and bowed to the Egel HaZahav. Moshe has smashed the luchos in front of them, and they have narrowly avoided being completely destroyed.

This feeling of utter failure, of brokenness and despair has accompanied us throughout the ages. Every few years or decades, Klal Yisrael feels the weight of our mistakes and misunderstandings; and every time it comes with pain.

We’re somewhere in the middle of our story; not quite at the beginning of this war, but not quite at the end. We’re in a pause, a lull, a moment where we have the clarity to understand that we have work to do, but no idea what needs to be done, or how to go about it.

To that end, the Torah reveals how our ancestors contended with their failures: They built the Mishkan. In the giving and donating, in the building and constructing, in the carpentry and tapestry, they would make a place for Hashem in their lives.

And what a Simcha it must have been! With the anxiety of their destruction finally abated, and the fear of abandonment by Hashem quelled, they gave like no other capital campaign in history.

But beyond the incredible desire to bring the building materials, the Ramban (35:21) describes how each person found within themselves new abilities to craft and construct; skills that they never had before:

וטעם אשר נשאו לבו לקרבה אל המלאכה (שמות ל״ו:ב׳) – כי לא היה בהם שלמד את המלאכות האלה ממלמד, או מי שאימן בהן ידיו כלל, אבל מצא בטבעו שידע לעשות כן, ויגבה לבו בדרכי י״י (דברי הימים ב י״ז:ו׳) לבא לפני משה לאמר לו: אני אעשה כל אשר ה׳ דובר

They were not trained, but found within their nature that they knew what to do... They came to Moshe and declared “I will do what Hashem had commanded.”

Imagine the hislahavus – the passion, drive and devotion!

It is then all the more perplexing that once the mishkan was completed, it was packed up, and not assembled for another few months.

The Medrash (תנחומא פקודי יא) relates that during this waiting period, the ליצני הור – the clowns, the scoffers, were having a good time:

והיו ליצני הדור מרננין ומהרהרין ואומרין: למה נגמרה מלאכת המשכן ואינו עומד מיד

The scoffers of the generation were celebrating and musing and saying: Why is it taking so long for the Mishkan to be standing?

Note the wording of the Medrash: They're not asking “what are we waiting for?” They're saying it. It's not a question, it's a statement. We all know that voice; the one that says: Why is it taking so long? The voice that “knows” it's never going to happen. This is the voice that says “we’ve done everything that needs to get done. We’ve given, and built, and visited and worked and gotten our kids and friends and family involved. There’s nothing more than we can do!”

The Medrash explains further that the delay was due to Hashem's desire to have the consecration of the Miskhan in Nisan the month Geulah, and of Yitzachak Avinu's birth.

But, we should ask, surely there was a better solution to this timing conundrum. Perhaps Hashem could’ve provided a little less supernatural help in building the Mishkan. Perhaps He could’ve told us that the Mishkan would only be dedicated in Nisan? Why leave room for the scoffers to question whether or not Hashem's presence would really return to the Jewish people?

But this mandatory waiting period was not a misaligning of schedules. Clearly, Hashem wanted us to wait.

The Egel HaZahav was built out of fear that Moshe wasn't coming back, and we were now lost in an uninhabitable wilderness. That anxiety led to a rash and disastrous outcome. Hashem wants us to learn to breathe.

Once the Mishkan is complete, He forces us to wait; to take stock, and to understand that while Hashem’s presence will certainly fill the Mishkan, He’s there even before it is built. He always was, is and will be.

He was there when we felt alone without Moshe. He was there when we build the Egel, and He’ll be there when the Mishkan is completed. The deepest truth about the Mishkan, is that you need a Mishkan to find Hashem.

Ultimately, that’s the secret of Purim. It’s a Yom Tov for us: They Jews who are waiting. The Jews without a Beis HaMikdash, in a foreign land, under foreign rule. Jews who live with fear of the unknown and a yearning to be rescued.

Purim tells us that Hashem is here too. He’s always been on the motorbike; and perhaps for the first time we should notice that He’s driving.

Without doubt, we are living in a new golden age of kids' cartoons. When I think back on my own childhood, and the shows we used to watch, I can confidently say that my kids have it better.

This is not a blanket statement; there are still plenty of shows that dangerous, destructive or just plain stupid. But if you’re looking for quality, there are some great options. Shows like Daniel Tiger teach good middos in a fun and friendly way. Bluey has given my kids ideas for games, and demonstrated how to deal with conflict and disappointment. These are wonderful lessons.

(As an aside, perhaps one of the best things to happen to kids TV, is the possibility of avoiding the incessant barrage of advertisements. Today, we have the choice to stream exactly what we want to show, and nothing more.)

Now, in the interest of clarity and full disclosure, I am not advocating for any screen time at all. I am and certainly not in favor of the immense volumes of TV watching that most kids engage in nowadays. But if any TV watching occurs at all, I am grateful that the options we have to choose from are healthier and more wholesome than in the past few decades.

Today’s shows tell stories of tough situations and explore complex emotions. The resolutions of those situations almost always involves empathy, understanding and sensitivity. This is all good, and it’s welcome change from the bland and shallow stories that cartoons used to tell.

But with all of that noted, there is something missing from the safe and colorful entertainment of today: There are no bad guys.

In the interest of demonstrating positivity, we seem to have dismissed the idea that some people, and some actions are wrong. Not simply misunderstood, but wrong.

Even in the more mature and complex world of superheroes, we have learned that villains have backstories; that they are victims of abuse, of bullying and loneliness.

These stories resonate with us today because we want to believe that deep down, people are always good-hearted. We want to believe that that no person truly chooses to be evil.

But this is only partially true.

The circumstances we are born into do indeed shape our perspective. They limit our options and change the way we think about the world. But there is nothing in the world that can force a person to choose to become evil. That is always a choice. And throughout human history, there have been people that have made such choices.

To that end, the Rambam write that the reason we are commanded to read Parshas Zachor this Shabbos is:

וּמִצְוַת עֲשֵׂה לִזְכֹּר תָּמִיד מַעֲשָׂיו הָרָעִים וַאֲרִיבָתוֹ. כְּדֵי לְעוֹרֵר אֵיבָתוֹ. It is a positive commandment to constantly remember their evil deeds and their ambush of Israel to arouse our hatred of them.

We recognize the actions of Amalek is evil, an worthy to be despised.

The Sefer HaChinuch adds that we must be reminded of Amalek: פֶּן תֶּחֱלַשׁ אֵיבָתוֹ וְתֶחְסַר מֵהַלְּבָבוֹת בְּאֹרֶךְ הַזְּמַנִּים – lest the enmity be weakened and be removed from the hearts over the length of time.

The nature of the Jewish people is to see the good in everyone and everything. We are predisposed to forgiving and forgetting, as Chazal explain:

שְׁלֹשָׁה סִימָנִים יֵשׁ בְּאוּמָּה זוֹ: הָרַחְמָנִים, וְהַבַּיְישָׁנִין, וְגוֹמְלֵי חֲסָדִים.

There are three distinguishing marks of the Jewish people. They are merciful, they are bashful, and they perform acts of kindness.

We’re not people who like holding a grudge. Our greatest leaders are teachers; not our warriors. We are the nation that champions the voice of Yaakov, not the hands of Esav.

But if Hashem has to demand from us “Destroy all memory of Amalek. Never forget,” it means that we have more than a tendency to move on. We have a Yetzer Hara to ignore Amalek and forget what he did.

This Yetzer Hara is subtle, complex and devastatingly dangerous: The reason we’d like to forget Amalek is because we understand them.

We do not dismiss Amalek as a psychopath. On the contrary, Chazal (סנהדרין צ”ט ב) provide us with a heartbreaking background story for Amalek:

Timna, the daughter of Lotan sought to convert. She came before Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and they did not accept her. She went and became a concubine of Eliphaz, son of Esau, and said, referring to herself: It is preferable that she will be a maidservant for this nation, and she will not be a noblewoman for another nation. Ultimately, Amalek, son of Eliphaz, emerged from her, and that tribe afflicted the Jewish people. What is the reason that the Jewish people were punished by suffering at the hand of Amalek? It is due to the fact that they should not have rejected her when she sought to convert.

The Chizkuni (שמות יז:ח) further explains Amalek’s vendetta against our ancestors:

וילחם עם ישראל מפני שנאת מכירת הבכורה – He went to fight the Jewish nation due to the hated he harbored from Esav’s sale of his birthright.

Amalek felt cheated and rejected. He carried the generational pain of his grandfather Esav, and his mother Timna. He had good reason to resent the Jewish people!

And yet, despite all of this, when Amalek led his army to attack the nascent Jewish nation who had just escaped Egyptian slavery. He became a murderer.

Our obligation to destroy Amalek is not to eradicate some unimaginable and incomprehensible evil. It is to acknowledge and understand that Amalek might well have been a victim of rejection, failure and loneliness, and that our ancestors might have played a part in that! But even if all that is true, there is nothing that can excuse his choice to become evil.

The profundity of this understanding is instrumental in our current battle against Hamas and their supporters. It allows us to accept that the residents of Gaza are victims. They are victims of Hamas who uses them as human shields, of the UN who is insistent on keeping them as refugees, and of the Arab world who refuses to help them. They are also, in part, victims of Israel who has destroyed their homes and threatens their safety.

We can all acknowledge that their lives are terrible. And yet they are still responsible for the choices that they made to elect Hamas, and participate in the murder, rape and kidnapping of innocent civilians; men, women and children.

Growing up in a painful world does not grant moral license to become a monster. If it did, then the Jewish people should be excused from everything, for all time.

This understanding is true in our national fight against evil, but it is just as important in our internal Milchemes HaYetzer – the fight against our evil inclination. In both cases, we are tempted to make excuses.

All too often, we feel the urge to rationalize our own failures and justify our flaws. After all, we didn’t choose to be in these situations! But the mitzvah of remembering Amalek teaches us that while our circumstances may not be of our own making, our choices most certainly still are.

Torah commands us: It might not be your fault, but it’s still your responsibility.

In the deepest way, this is why Amalek is described as “Happening along the way”. They represent the ideology that humanity is never in control, that we are all always excused as victims of our circumstances. Klal Yisrael represents the opposite. We can always choose to live with morality and integrity; regardless of what might be happening to us and around us.

The mitzvah of this Shabbos is to fight that Yetzer Hara and eradicate it. To commit to an understanding that people can and do choose to be the bad guys.

It’s our obligation to choose Good.

A week ago, I got into a debate with a fellow Jew online. When the bodies of Kfir and Ariel Bibas were returned, without their mother, I harbored the unreasonable hope that Shiri Bibas was still alive, that somehow she had escaped.

Emotionally, I wrote the following:

I know it’s absurd but somewhere, deep down, I’m secretly dreaming, hoping, yearning that tomorrow Shiri Bibas will emerge in slow motion victorious a superhero from the hell hole of Gaza in a blaze of orange smoke as hamas is torn apart destroyed in her wake. Never to recover And without looking behind her, she’ll whisper with the voice of ten thousand mothers “That was for my boys.” And if Shiri Bibas cannot do it... Then Hashem it’s time You do it.

Tragically, as we now know, Shiri Bibas did not survive.

But the hope that Hashem eliminates our enemies and avenges the blood of His children is burning in the hearts and minds of Klal Yisrael.

It was this regarding this point, however, that I was challenged. Is it reasonable to Daven that Hashem destroys our enemies? One commenter wrote “Not the way the world works. God waits for us. He doesn’t like to intervene.”

That’s certainly true... to some extent. The Shulchan Aruch (או”ח רל:א) rules, we are forbidden to pray for a change in the natural order of the world:

One who prays for something that has already happened. For example, he entered the city and heard a cry in the city and he prayed “may it be God's will that this cry is not from a member of my household” or if his his wife was expecting and more than forty days had passed and he said “may it be God's will that my wife will give birth to a boy – behold this is a meaningless prayer. Rather a person should always pray for the future and give thanks for the past...

This Halacha, however, seems contradictory to a custom of the Kol Bo, as quotes by the Rema (או”ח קפז:ד):

If a person forgot to say Al HaNissim in Birkas HaMazon on Channukah or Purim, they should add a “Harachaman”, saying: “May The Merciful One Perform For Us Miracles Like He Did In Those Days”... and this is our custom.

Apparently, there are times that we can pray for miracles explicitly. The Rishonim and Achronim grapple with the distinction, offering explanations as to when we can and cannot ask Hashem to change nature.

• The Yeshuos Yaakov writes that we may not pray for open miracles that defy the laws of nature. But we are certainly allowed to pray for hidden miracles where nature is not obviously subverted.
• The Einayim Lamishpat explains that we differentiate between miracles that we want, versus miracles that we need for survival.
• The Bechor Shor (see Shaarei Teshuva 187:2) notes that there is a difference between an individual and Klal Yisrael. Individuals cannot pray for miracles, since there is no guarantee that an individual is worthy of miracles. But Klal Yisrael is always worthy of miracles.

From all of these explanations, it seems clear that we can and should be praying for Hashem to perform miracles for Klal Yisrael in Eretz Yisrael; for Tzahal and for the hostages still held in brutal captivity.

None of this means we can rely on miracles alone, the Talmud Yerushalmi (יומא א:ד) learns from the Pasuk לא תנסו את ה' אלהיכם – do not test Hashem your God. But we can certainly ask, yearn and hope for miracles when it pertains to life and death of individuals and the needs of the Jewish people.

Thus far, we have discussed the propriety and permissibility of these tefillos. The question that remains is if there is anything we can do it merit these tefillos being answered.

Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak, the Yid Hakdosh of P’shischa, was asked this question in a harrowing moment in his own life.

It once happened that a messenger raced into the Beis Medrash telling the Yid Hakdosh that something was wrong with his son Asher. He had contracted some mysterious illness, the Rebbe should get home as soon as possible; not much time was left.

As he entered his home, a path was cleared to his son’s bed, where he saw the young boy in deep pain and distress, struggling to breath and holding by the last moments of his life. The Yid Hakadosh sat by his son’s bed waiting for the inevitable, when a talmid, Rabbi Peretz, grabbed a Chumash from the bed side table and opened it. The Pasuk was from our Parsha: וְאֶל־הָאָרֹן תִּתֵּן אֶת־הָעֵדֻת אֲשֶׁר אֶתֵּן אֵלֶיךָ – And into the Ark you should place the Tablets which I will give to you.

The Rebbe heard the last words of the Pasuk speaking to him, אֲשֶׁר אֶתֵּן אֵלֶיךָ, “The Torah is telling me, I will give you Asher. My son Asher!” Hope is not lost.

He then stood up and declared: I herby swear that I will give everything that I own to tzedaka; my home and everything in it, down to every thread and shoelace. Master of Universe, it is unreasonable to assume that a child taking has last breath will recover. But it’s also unreasonable for a person to give everything that they own to Tzedaka. I’ll be unreasonable for you, and You’ll be unreasonable for me.

As he finished speaking, color returned to his son’s face. Slowly, Asher made a full recover.

And that’s our Avoda as well. We need miracles. We need Hashem to intervene and help us; to violate the rules of nature which He put in place. But to merit these miracles, we need to overcome our nature as well. If we’re ready and will live an unreasonable life, we’re entitled to ask for unreasonable results.

With Hashem’s help as Chodesh Adar enters, we should soon see miracles. Like He for our ancestors in those days, in this time.