Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

Something has changed in the world this week. It was not just the incredible surprise attack on Iran. Not just the immense success of the State of Israel. Not just the unprecedented partnership between Israel and the US.

The most fundamental shift that has occurred in the past two thousand years is that we, the Jewish people, are no longer afraid.

Of course, the ballistic missiles are still terrifying. Of course, we are still constantly davening for our families and friends in Israel. But even in the bomb shelters, Israelis are not fearful. They are inspired, lively, and victorious.

A moment of reflection on our history reveals how truly remarkable this emotional state is for Klal Yisrael. We are proud of our people, proud of our army, and proud of our homeland.

Curiously and beautifully, this immense pride and joy does not come from fixing everything that is wrong in Israel. The fissures between religious, secular, and Dati Le’umi have not been healed. The political divides are just as painful as ever. But something has shifted in the foundations of our nation.

For the first time in our history, we have learned that we don’t need to solve all our problems to know we are worthy of redemption.

We have finally escaped the trauma of thinking we are not good enough for Hashem to help us, empower us, and save us. And escaping this trauma is teshuva for the Egel HaZahav.

It’s a secret that Chazal encoded in the comparison between the Egel and the Parah Aduma.

Truthfully, these two animals should have little to do with each other.

The golden calf was a tragedy of epic consequence. A mistake that turned the clock back on the upward momentum of the Jewish nation and resulted in the destruction of the first set of Luchos.

The Parah Aduma, on the other hand, is a mitzvah two sefarim away—in the middle of Bamidbar. But more than that, this חוקת התורה, above all others, is understood by Chazal to be paradigmatic of the concept of a chok—a law that we cannot comprehend.

Yet despite the supposed difference between these two things, the Medrash quotes Rabbi Eivo:

א”ר איבו משל לבן שפחה שטינף פלטין של מלך, אמר המלך תבא אמו ותקנח את הצואה, כך אמר הקב”ה, תבא פרה ותכפר על מעשה העגל.

Let the mother come clean up the mess of its child.

Somehow, the Parah Aduma is the mother of the Egel, and it is charged with the obligation to clean up the mess. Clearly, this is not simply borne out of the perspective that calf and cow are both bovines—for that we would not need Chazal.

In order to understand the Egel, we first need to ask how it came to be that the Jewish people, within forty days, sank from the revelation at Sinai to building an idol.

To explain this tragedy, Rashi shares a peculiar Medrash:

בשש משה – כתרגומו לשון איחור... כי כשעלה להר אמר להם לסוף ארבעים יום אני בא בתוך ו' שעות, כסבורים הם שאותו יום שעלה מן המנין, והוא אמר שלמים ארבעים יום ולילו עמו ויום עליה ואין לילו... נמצא כלים ארבעים בשבעה עשר בתמוז. בי”ו בא השטן וערבב את העולם והראה דמות חשך ואפלה וערבוביא, לומר ודאי מת משה, לכך בא ערבוביא לעולם, אמר להם מת משה, שכבר באו שש שעות ולא בא...

Satan came and threw the world into confusion, giving it the appearance of darkness, gloom, and disorder so that people would say: “Surely Moses is dead, and that is why confusion has come into the world!” He said to them, “Yes, Moses is dead!”

Rav Chaim Shmulewitz, in Sichos Mussar, asks how, for forty days, Klal Yisrael were convinced that Moshe was fine, yet in the final moments the Satan swayed them. What does that even mean?

He explains that this “Satan” began as seeds of doubt. Maybe this is all a ruse? Maybe Moshe is not coming back? Rumors and fears spread widely through the camp until they reached the tipping point of hopelessness. The moment they lost hope, their lives lost meaning, and a return to their old habits came swiftly.

Rav Moshe Feinstein, in Drash Moshe, explains that it was not the sin of the Egel HaZahav itself that so severely impacted our destiny. It was the hopelessness.

Even after the sin, the Jewish nation was still wearing the crowns Hashem gave us at Matan Torah. Indeed, they refused to take them off, and Hashem demanded that they do so.

Why, asked Rav Moshe, would Hashem initially allow the crowns to remain and then demand that they be removed?

He explains:

If we had all resolved, in that moment, that we would do teshuva and not allow this hiccup to define our future, we would have been accepted as baalei teshuva immediately. We would have retained our status as royalty. Ultimately, we lost our royalty because we thought we could never again be worthy of it.

The Torah tells us that the Parah Aduma is the only way for a person who came in contact with a dead body to become pure. This ritual, complicated and contradictory, somehow allows a person to achieve purity after encountering the reality that we will all, one day, die.

The Mei Hashiloach (ח״א סוף פ׳ בשלח) writes that the Parah Aduma serves to overcome the greatest weakness of mankind—death. Through the Parah Aduma, the Torah teaches that even death is surmountable. That there is never a reason to give up hope.

Thus the Parah Aduma—the ultimate expression of hope—comes to clean up the Egel—the ultimate expression of hopelessness.

We all know people, from our personal lives to the heroes of our people, who overcame the greatest challenges—sickness, persecution, and terror—to become transformed and transformative individuals. Somehow, they achieved purity from the deaths they encountered.

Perhaps this is why the Parah is the paradigmatic chok. No one can explain how to regain hope, not even those who have achieved it.

To become tahor is more than purity. It is confidence, hope, and optimism.

It is internalizing the great lesson of Rebbe Nachman:

אם אתה מאמין שיכולים לקלקל תאמין שיכולים לתקן

If you believe that it is possible to ruin, destroy, and corrupt the wonderful lives that Hashem has given us, then we should also believe that we can repair them as well.

This week Klal Yisrael is retaking our place on the world stage. We are royalty—worthy of our crowns—despite our failures.

Our job now is to emulate this truth on a personal level. Despite your failings and flaws, never give up hope. Never give up your crown.

He got on my zoom call, “Rabbi”, he said, “Can you somehow prove If God’s living or dead?”

I’d like to believe it, At least some days I do. I know I’m supposed to, I know I’m a Jew.

But the world that I come from, Of screens, memes and facts, They look at guys like you, They think you’re all quacks.

But I’m open minded And my friend said to call. Can You prove there’s a God For once and for all?

“I’m afraid I cant help you” He stared back confused. “The God you can’t prove Is not God of the Jews.”

So hear is my challenge, What’s your ideal? Do you want me to prove That Our God is Real?

Or maybe you’d rather Remain with your questions? But if you’d like to find out Then I have some suggestions.

Intrigued, he then asked What do you mean? I asked: “Can you see My bookshelf on your screen.”

Yes? Ok good, Count every red book And I moved out the way, So he’d get a good look.

Then I covered my camera So he couldn’t see, And asked: “how many black books On shelf number three?”

Black books? He challenged I was was looking for red?! I have no idea, And I did what you said!

Well isn’t it funny, How all that we find Are the things we are counting To the rest we’re still blind.

If you’re looking to see That Hashem’s really there You’ll see it’s not hard He is everywhere.

It’s the secret of Purim He’s still holding our hand Though His name isn’t mentioned, It all goes as planned.

All Jewish history, The tales of our nation, Show us how He’s here, And that’s this celebration.

Megillah

• All Jews over the age of Bar/Bas Mitzvah are obligated in hearing the Megillah. Children should be encouraged to attend Megillah for as long as they can without disturbing.
• The night Megillah reading should begin after dark. The day Megillah should be read after sunrise.
• One should not delay the mitzvah of Megillah, but in extenuating circumstances, the Megillah can be read at any point throughout the day. The latest time to conclude the Megillah is sunset.

Mishloach Manos

• The purpose of Mishloach Manos is to increase friendship amongst Klal Yisrael (Manos HaLevi, Ester 9:20), and to ensure that every Jew has food for Seudat Purim (Terumas HaDeshen 111). Both men and women are obligated in Mishloach Manos.
• The obligation is fulfilled by giving two foods to one person on Purim day. (Shulchan Aruch OC 695:4)
  • The items should be fully prepared foods that are usually eaten at a Seuda. (Meat, chicken, fish, bread, kugel, wine etc...)
  • These foods can have the same bracha, so long as they are two distinct portions.
• In addition to the obligation of Mishloach Manos, many have the custom of giving gift/goodie bags to friends and neighbors. These do not have to be “ready for Seuda items.”
• One fulfills the obligation of Mishloach Manos by contributing to the Shul's Mishloach Manos drive, as these will be distributed on Purim day.

Matanos L'Evyonim

• Both men and women are obligated to give Matanos L'evyonim. The purpose of Matanos L'Evyonim is to ensure that no Jew feels left out from the Simcha of Purim. It is better to upgrade our gifts to poor than to upgrade the Seuda or Mishloach Manos. (Rambam Hilchos Purim 2:17)
• The obligation is fulfilled by giving a minimum of a “perutah” (approximately $1.25) to at least two poor people on Purim day.
• One fulfills the obligation of Matanos L'Evyonim by contributing to the Shul's Matanos L'Evyonim. This money will be distributed on Purim day.
• You can give ahead of Purim by visiting brswest.net/purim.

Zecher L'Machatzis HaShekel

• In the times of the Beis HaMikdash, one was obligated in paying dues to the Beis HaMikdash. In the absence of this mitzvah, we give a sum of money to commemorate this mitzvah (Rama 694:1).
• Some have the minhag to give it before Mincha of Ta'anis Ester, while some have the minhag to give it after Mincha but before reading of the Megillah.
• Ashkenazic minhag is to give three coins which are half the value of the common coin in that time and place. In America, the minhag is to give three half dollars.
• Sephardic minhag is to give an amount worth 7.5-10 grams of pure silver (Kaf HaChaim 694:20). (At todays prices, approximately $22.00 – $30.00.)

Mishteh

• During the Seudah, one should have intent that one is eating the meal in order to fulfill the mitzvah of Seudas Purim.
• The meal should be eaten with friends and family during Purim day.
• The meal should ideally consist of meat and wine (Rambam Megillah 2:15). The seudah can, however, be fulfilled by eating other foods.

Ad D’lo Yada

• It is important to prioritize the mitzvos of proper Chinuch, Derech Eretz and looking after our health and wellbeing over the obligation of getting drunk on Purim. This can be fulfilled by drinking slightly more than one is used to.
• In general, there are many mitzvos that we can choose to be strict about. If one is looking for churros, drinking on Purim should not be the first place to start.

Avelim

• During the year of mourning for a parent, one is obligated in Mishloach Manos and Matanos L'Evyonim as usual. However, Mishloach Manos should not be given to the mourner.
• Mourners may accept Mishloach Manos that are given to them. (Best practice is to address Mishloach Manos to the family, rather than an individual.)
• Mourners are likewise obligated in the mitzvah of Seuda, taking care that it not be excessive in size or attendance.

We should merit to see the Geulah of Adar leading us to the Geulah of Nisan.

Purim Sameach!

When everything is taken care of — what will you do with your life?

I was pretty sure it was fake news or some sensationalist clickbait.

The headline read: “The gym might soon be a pill.”

Subtitle: New drug tricks your muscles into thinking they're moving, burning fat and strengthening fibers without leaving the couch ... Same result, no treadmill.

Spoiler alert: it’s some drug they tried on mice that might have added to their muscle mass. (Personal trainers, your jobs are safe... for now.)

But then again, the world is changing faster than ever before. We now have weight loss drugs so powerful that, for the first time in history, Americans are less obese this year than last.

It might not be so far-fetched to think that someone could develop a drug to strengthen our muscles, heal our bones, and help us live healthier and longer lives with minimal effort.

This is far from the only area where human effort is becoming less necessary.

This week, I wanted to update the layout of my blog – raelblumenthal.org – please check it out and let me know what you think!)

It took ChatGPT less than a minute to rewrite all the code I needed. Yes, I needed to tweak it a little, but all things considered, it was amazingly efficient. So efficient that my friends in the high-tech world have told me that coding is essentially a dead career.

This is happening in every sphere, from medicine to marketing. AI is replacing humans in some way in every industry.

Naturally, the doomsday prophets have all but conceded that we are heading toward a massive economic collapse in which vast percentages of humanity will be rendered futile.

I am neither an economist nor a prophet. I don’t know if the world is on the brink of a catastrophic crisis. But I do know that Hashem is posing an ancient question to us on the largest scale we’ve ever seen.

The question is simple:

If everything were perfect, what would you do with your life?

Think about it.

If you could get fit and healthy by taking a shot or a pill.

If you could make a fantastic living by barely lifting a finger.

If your physical needs were all taken care of, what would you do with your life?

For most of human history, this question was laughable. Imagine describing this to your great-grandmothers in Europe, Morocco, or Persia. Imagine telling them that we’re teetering on the brink of a world where living in luxury—or at least extreme convenience—might be attainable for almost anyone, irrespective of their education or skill set.

But nothing is new under the sun. And we, the Jewish people in particular, have been through this experience once before in our history.

This was the strange utopia of the Midbar—a world where food fell from Heaven. Water flowed from a rock. Clothes were laundered by the Ananei HaKavod, and obstacles on the road ahead were smoothed out by the pillars of cloud and fire.

Imagine the whiplash of entering this world.

After centuries of slavery, our ancestors suddenly found themselves totally free. Not simply liberated from Pharaoh, but from labor. In a matter of weeks, money became meaningless. The gold, silver, and riches of Egypt were relegated to outdated trinkets. Who needs them when we lack nothing?

What could one possibly do with wealth and status in the miraculous society of the Midbar?

But there is a far more unsettling question:

What does a utopian society do all day?

Without the existential struggle for survival and stability, what is life about? How do you fill your day?

The simple answer, of course, is to prepare for the next stage. Utopia will not last forever. At some point, we will enter the Land of Israel. We will once again plow the fields, sow our grain, and pray for rain. We will train our soldiers, defend our borders, and work on transforming humanity. We will illuminate the world with the guiding lights of ethical monotheism.

When we get there, all of our wealth, strength, and status will exist in service of these great goals.

The training ground for these national and societal aspirations in the Midbar took the form of building the Mishkan.

Everything we have, everything we earn, can be dedicated, directed, and donated to creating a place for Hashem in this world.

It is not surprising that the construction of the Mishkan takes up so much of Sefer Shemos. In the lives of our illustrious forebearers, the act of constructing the Mishkan was far more than simply creating a place for Hashem.

It filled a hole in their lives that desperately needed filling. It provided an outlet for personal mastery, for social collaboration, and for purpose in their daily lives.

Slowly, the Torah reveals that on the deepest level, the structure of the Mishkan was nothing short of a realignment of Creation. The Mishkan would ultimately put everything and everyone exactly where they needed to be.

Entering the sacred space would ground the visitor in their place in Hashem’s universe. Every aspect of the Mishkan was calculated to perfection. The Aron, Menorah, and Shulchan were perfectly situated to rearrange our perspectives and priorities.

The great Mizbeach would give us the chance to redeem our animal instincts—to repair, correct, and elevate our relationship with Hashem and the physical world.

Ultimately, this grand vision would coalesce in Yerushalayim, becoming the center of all human society—בית תפילה לכל העמים—a house of prayer for all the nations.

The problem, of course, is that once we achieve it, the anxiety of meaninglessness returns.

When the world is finally at peace...

When everyone recognizes Hashem and His Torah...

When we are healthy and wealthy beyond imagination...

What will we do then?

What meaning will life have when the rat race is finally over?

To address this conundrum, the Torah provides us with a training program—a window into that world where everything is already taken care of: Shabbos.

The 39 labors that are essential to building the Mishkan cannot be performed on Shabbos. Fires cannot be lit. The ground cannot be plowed. The crops cannot be harvested.

Shabbos transports us to the world at the end of time—the world of the Midbar once the Mishkan is built. It is quite literally מעין עולם הבא—a taste of the World to Come.

The Sfas Emes used to quip that you can tell whether or not a person will enjoy Olam HaBa by examining how much they enjoy Shabbos now. It is a frightening prospect, because Shabbos challenges us:

Are we able to hold off on doing and be content with being?

If Shabbos makes us itch for our screens, if being in Shul feels like a chore, if sitting at a Shabbos meal is boring, we are not building our Olam HaBa.

In the simplest and most profound way, Shabbos is a date with Hashem. The best dates don’t require an activity. They don’t need an event. The joy is in simply being there.

But if all we gain from Shabbos is a break from the pressures of work, then perhaps we are still working for Pharaoh. We have not escaped slavery, and the things we’ve been building are not part of the Mishkan.

There will come a time—a Shabbos of history—when the hammers are put away, when the phones are powered off, when AI takes care of our parnassah, and when the gym is delivered in a shot or a pill.

This week, the Torah invites us to begin constructing our spiritual, emotional, and intellectual Mishkan—to utilize the six days of the week to construct our own internal space where we no longer feel incomplete or insufficient.

A place where being you is enough.

Overwhelmingly, everyone hated the Sticky Note ad.

A Jewish teen is walking through the halls of a classic American public high school when an antisemitic kid puts a sticky note on his bag reading, “Dirty Jew.” The rescue comes in the form of another teen who covers up the sticky note with a blue square, saying, “I know how it feels.”

Criticisms came from across the Jewish world. Some arguments were financial: Is this the best way to spend $15 million?! Others were frustrated by the blatant portrayal of Jewish weakness.

Many have noted that fighting antisemitism is a fundamentally broken notion—that instead of combating the world’s oldest hatred head-on, we should pour all of our resources into strengthening Jewish schools, shuls, and camps.

Some have added their voices to decry the implication that Jewish identity and Jew-hatred are somehow divorced from Israel.

In general, I agree with all of these critiques, and frankly, I’m not sure what, if anything, this ad has achieved.

I don’t know if any non-Jews have reconsidered their own responses to antisemitism as a result of seeing it. Ironically, it seems that the only audience still thinking about it is the Jewish community.

But there is one thing the ad gets right—and it’s a point that everyone seems to be missing...

Let’s consider the narrative as it’s portrayed. We should be asking: What options does this kid have? He is already ostracized and made into “the other.” If this were your child, what would you tell him to do?

Maybe you’d tell him to punch the guy in the teeth and escalate the fight? That would display Jewish strength, but the ramifications could end his academic career. Should he complain to the school authorities? Probably. But that’s not going to change anyone’s opinion of him.

Likely, in the vast majority of cases, the kid moves on without confronting his bullies. That’s how bullying usually works.

What the ad gets right is the sheer lack of practical and universal options for a Jewish teen in that situation.

To me, the darkest and most devastating part of the ad is not the lack of authority figures, or the lack of Israel. It’s not even the lack of any visible symbols of Jewish identity and observance.

The most devastating absence is the lack of other Jews.

Where are his Jewish friends? Why is he walking through the hallway by himself?

Robert Kraft’s ad is unwittingly calling out the Jewish community for allowing this situation to exist in the first place.

We are all at fault when a Jewish kid spends his high school career absent of Jewish friends and influence. The tragic reality is that these kids may grow to resent their Jewish identity.

R’ Simcha Bunim of Peshischa notes that our acceptance of the Torah is in the plural:

כֹּל אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּר ה’ נַעֲשֶׂה וְנִשְׁמָע
“All that Hashem has spoken, we will do and we will listen.”

Then he asks: How could it be that each and every Jew could say “we,” as if speaking for the entirety of Klal Yisrael?

Imagine a group of prisoners captured and chained in the sweltering summer heat. If a person came by and offered water, each one would answer, “We want water.” Sometimes, our collective need is so obvious that every Jew can speak for every other Jew.

The need for Torah, for Yiddishkeit, for Jewish community should be obvious.

If we’re content letting Jewish kids walk alone through public high schools, the best we can hope for is that someone else will extend a hand in friendship. If we don’t step up, we have relegated these kids to hoping for salvation in the form of a banal blue square from a random stranger.

The sad truth of the Sticky Note ad is that proud Judaism is unsustainable for a lonely individual.

Kids need community.
Klal Yisrael needs each other.

In one of my 9th grade classes this week, a debate erupted.
“What’s actually going on in Minnesota? Is ICE justified? Are they murderers? Are the protestors hiding criminals, or are they protecting innocents?”

Tensions ran high. Emotions pushed to their extremes.

Proofs were offered; videos, quotes, and reels. Skepticism followed.

The debate evolved. How can we tell if what we’re seeing online is real? Is anything legit when images are grainy and angles are so poor? Images are distorted. Any or all of it could be AI-generated by one side or the other. Can we believe anything is true?

I let them argue for a few minutes, stepping in only to ensure civility, until I called a time-out and asked:
“You guys are arguing passionately. You all have strong feelings and valid points. But who benefits from these arguments?”

At first, they didn’t understand the question.
“Who benefits?! The people we are fighting for! The opinions we champion!”

Perhaps that’s true. But the data supports another possibility. The greatest benefit goes to social media companies, who make money off our online engagement. Politicians feed off the intensity. And, of course, foreign hostile nations benefit most from unrest in the USA.

It should make us wonder who is really fueling these viral conversations.

---

In 1748, Benjamin Franklin coined the phrase “Time is money.” For centuries, this wisdom stood as a cornerstone of careers and economies. The idea was clear: money could be earned by trading our time. Of course, the more one could do in an hour, the greater the value of that hour. Skill was an asset. Knowledge was power.

But the world has changed in our own lifetimes. Marketing, advertising, and consumerism executives realized that most people no longer needed to spend all of their waking hours trading time for money.

At first, they monetized watching TV. Then came the internet. In a few short years, we learned that the most valuable asset we possessed was no longer our time, but our attention. And so the race for viewership began.

The more people watched your show, the more you could sell that attention. The more people clicked on your site, the greater revenue your pixels demanded.

It seems to me, however, that we are currently living through yet another major shift. Social media and artificial intelligence have discovered something worth more than your time; something more precious than your attention.

The most valuable asset a human being possesses today is their emotions.

That’s what the whole world is coming for. That’s the question everyone is asking: “Can I get you to care about the thing I want you to care about?”

If I can grab your attention, I might be able to sell you an item. But if I can harness your emotions, then you become an agent of the change that I want to see in the world.

At this juncture in human history, we have learned that the causes we care about direct our focus, our resources, and our time. Ultimately, our emotions mold our identities and color our lives with meaning.

It is obvious, then, that choosing to care about the wrong things yields exponentially negative results. It is possible for a person to dedicate their entire life to some meaningless pursuit because they felt it was important at some point. Those delusions are hard to escape, and attempting to change a person’s feelings by changing their mind is often futile.

As offensive as this may sound, the truth is that we use our intellect to justify our feelings, rather than arriving at truth and then dedicating our emotions to it.

The Ibn Ezra explains that this is the reason Hashem introduces Himself to us as the “One who brought us out of the land of Egypt”:

אֲשֶׁר הוֹצֵאתִיךָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם מִבֵּית עֲבָדִים

The statement “I am Hashem” is an overwhelming theological truth. Most people don’t live based on philosophical truth; we live based on personal emotional experience. Hashem created the world; but that truth carries little practical weight for someone with no relationship to Him.

“Get to know Me,” Hashem says. “I’m the One who saved you, who freed you, who brought you to this moment. I am invested in you; you should be invested in Me.”

Even at the moment of the greatest national prophetic revelation, we need to feel connected as a prerequisite for meaningful action.

All of this is to say: In a world where emotional energy is our most valuable possession, we need to consider how, where, and when we expend it.

After an hour of doomscrolling, we all suffer emotional whiplash. Our phones and apps are curated to keep us in a heightened state: from anger, to sadness, to inspiration, to elation, to horror, and back to anger.

And just as you’re about to put the phone down, your kids get into a fight. Or your spouse says they’re running late. What are the chances we can respond with patience, kindness, and empathy to the people we love, when our emotions have been firing at maximum capacity for hours? Our reservoirs of emotional energy are often far more shallow than we’d like to admit.

It’s time to become more protective of our scarcest resource. To ask:
“Who is making me care about this, and is this where my energy should go?”

To be clear, I am not suggesting that we shrug our shoulders callously at the needs of the world. In fact, I’d argue the opposite. Perhaps it’s a radical suggestion, but it may be wise to spend time, money, and attention addressing the politics and problems of the world, while reserving our emotions for the people and pursuits that should matter most.

But what if, despite our best efforts, our feelings are stoked and hijacked by screens, feeds, and reels?

The Baal Shem Tov (קדושים כז) explains: Whenever we experience a powerful emotion, it is a calling and an opportunity to elevate that feeling and direct it to where it truly belongs.

Simply ask: Imagine if I could feel this strongly about the things I truly care about.

That’s how we begin to change. That’s how we start to grow. Ultimately, we become a מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ – a nation charged by Hashem with the obligation of transforming the world. As the Seforno explains (שמות יט:ו), our mission as Hashem’s people is:

להבין ולהורות לכל המין האנושי לקרוא כלם בשם ה', ולעבדו שכם אחד

To teach and instruct all of mankind to call out in the name of God, and for all to serve Him together.

Two weeks ago, on Friday afternoon at 2:00 pm, my phone rang with a call from Rabbi Rabovsky. It’s always a zechus to speak to Rabbi Rabovsky, but a call on Erev Shabbos at 2:00 pm means only one thing: there’s an issue with the #eruv.

We’ve had these calls a few times over the past few years. On some occasions, it has required nuanced halachic solutions. Other times, it’s meant a bucket truck and some brave chevra working together to get an eruv wire across Lyons Road.

Once, last summer, I found myself at the top of a 20-foot ladder with industrial zip ties and a thirty-foot pole.

But the truth is that for most of us, the entire reality of the eruv is invisible. It’s a system that runs in the background, enabling us to live our lives with the knowledge that someone, somewhere, is making sure that we can carry on Shabbos.

All of this came crashing down two weeks ago when, for the first time in 21 years in Boca, the western section of the eruv was unusable.

By 4:00 pm, we realized that there was nothing that could be done to save our eruv for Shabbos.

(For those who are technically curious, the issue began on Friday morning, when construction crews began demolition on the fence that runs along the canal on Boca Rio Road. That fence had been there for 25 years, and we had no expectation that it would be coming down. Any options to attempt a repair were impossible, since the crews were planning on working into Shabbos.)

Immediately, we pivoted to teaching how to observe Shabbos without an eruv – and to dealing with a host of specific questions. Baruch Hashem, Rabbi Goldberg found the email he wrote two decades ago with instructions on how to keep Shabbos without an Eruv, as we talked through the questions and concerns.

In all of it, I felt a deep sense of Siyata D’Shmaya in the fact that Moreinu V’Rabbeinu Rav Schachter was at BRS that Shabbos, meaning that I could ask him some of the questions we were facing. (By the time we were speaking, it was already Shabbos in Israel and New York. All of the poskim I would normally call were unavailable.)

Amazingly, despite all of our (well-founded) anxieties, numerous people shared that Shabbos without the eruv was beautiful, unique, and uplifting in a way that none of us could have planned for.

To a certain extent, I wish we could bottle that experience. It hearkened back to a time of simplicity that we’ve lost in our drive to create a world of convenient Yiddishkeit.

Of the dozens of reflections that members of BRS West shared, there are three that I’ve been thinking about deeply. Perhaps it doesn’t require an eruv crisis to reimagine making some changes to our Shabbos experience.

One: “My son has been struggling with keeping Shabbos. But he was careful to remind me that the eruv was down, and that we shouldn’t carry.”

This was fascinating. We think that by providing the easiest version of Torah and Yiddishkeit, we are removing all impedance from our children’s observance. Ironically, that is often counterproductive.

In the deepest way, a lifetime of keeping halacha should result in a slow transformation. The Torah provides the roadmap from immaturity and self-centeredness to becoming a refined and empathetic eved Hashem. That work is not simple. Self-transformation is not convenient.

When our children encounter our struggles and share in that mesirus nefesh, Torah becomes all the more real. All of a sudden, mitzvos take on greater meaning.

Two: “I couldn’t bring a sefer to shul! All I had was the siddur and chumash. I think it was the first time in years that I davened and followed the Torah reading for real.”

How many crutches do we bring to “survive” Shabbos morning? A sefer? An article or magazine? Perhaps a drink slipped into the tallis bag?

We’re so used to bringing our distractions that we’ve forgotten how the siddur and chumash themselves are profoundly meaningful.

Sometimes we trick ourselves into thinking it’s frum to bring a sefer into shul. But if we can’t handle sitting through Krias HaTorah, hearing only the words of Hashem Himself, perhaps our gemaros are taking more than they’re giving.

The Yesod HaTzaddik of Zhevil once noticed that a particular teacher offered to be the chazzan one morning, hoping to ensure that the davening wouldn’t schlep. The Rebbe turned to him and noted, “It seems to me that you are not here to daven, but rather to have davened.”

Three: “This is the first time I walked to shul wearing my tallis. It felt authentic; like the pictures of my zeide.” Another member noted, “I felt like Superman, walking through the streets with a cape.”

In our modern world, we try to blend in. We take full advantage of the openness of the USA – from clothing to college, from music to media. But wearing a tallis through the streets of Boca is decidedly countercultural. It’s a proud declaration of our identity, far more than words could ever say.

The Superman comment was particularly interesting, because Superman is different from every other superhero. Every other superhero puts on a disguise when assuming their super-role. Superman, however, has always been Superman. His disguise is when he is pretending to be normal.

That’s our story. In reality, a Jew wearing a tallis is who we really are. The shirt and jacket are just a disguise to fit in.

Of course, none of this requires an eruv emergency to experience. But the break from a “regular” Shabbos revealed hidden dimensions of our Shabbos, our lives, and our relationship with Hashem and with each other.

Baruch Hashem, by last Shabbos the eruv was up again, joining our spaces together and allowing for free-flowing, convenient Yiddishkeit once more. But it is my hope and tefillah that the lessons we learned; of mesirus nefesh, authentic tefillah, and Jewish pride – will make a more permanent addition to our lives and aspirations.

There was one Friday when I was in YU, that I was traveling with a new friend of mine to his home for Shabbos. We boarded the A-train in Washington Heights, and arrived at Penn Station to take the LIRR to the Five Towns.

We bought our tickets and were about to head down to the platform, when a random stranger approached us. “Hey! You guys! Any chance you guys have a little cash to spare? I need to get a ticket home, and I don't have any money...”

I had heard these stories many times before. On the one hand, you feel bad. But on the other hand, it's tough to know if there's any truth to the story. Maybe it’s just a scam? Personally, I would always politely decline and walk away.

But to my surprise, my friend engaged. “How much do you need?” “Twenty bucks man, that's the ticket home.” My friend reached in his wallet, spent a couple of seconds looking for a bill. He pulled out a $50, and said “Any chance you've got change for a fifty?”

“Sure thing man.” And he reached into his pocket. But before he had a chance to do anything more, my friend started to laugh. “If you've got change for a fifty, then use that for the train and stop trying to scam me!”

Needless to say, he walked away quickly...

I’ve reflected on this story over the past years. And I’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t necessarily a scam. That man did in fact need the money. But he didn’t need it for a train ticket. He needed it for something else, whatever that might be, so his train ticket was relegated down the ladder of priorities.

We make the same mistakes in our own lives. None of us have unlimited resources. We don't have infinite money, time, energy or attention.

Which means that we need to make choices. But admitting the choice is tough. How often do we find ourselves saying “I don't have time” or “I cant afford it”? How often do we tell ourselves “I can't do that... maybe in a few years.”

We're not honest with ourselves. We do have the time. But we're choosing not to prioritize this activity. We have money, but not for this.

This might seem like a trivial distinction, but consider that when we tell our spouse, children or Hashem that we don't have time, what we are really saying is “this isn't as important as...”

Sometimes, perhaps that is in fact true. But is there ever a time that it's not, and we simply failed to make the right choices?

This is the lesson that Hashem tells Moshe in our Parsha, as Rashi explains:

וידבר אלקים אל משה – דיבר אותו משפט על שהקשה לדבר ולומר: למה הרעותה לעם הזה (שמות ה׳:כ״ב).

Hashem took Moshe to task because he had spoken so harshly when he complained to Hashem “Why have You done such evil to this people”.

The Torah describes Hashem giving Moshe mussar for his challenge last Shabbos: “How have you done this to your people?”

But the Mozitzer Rebbe questions this Rashi. Surely Hashem is happy that Moshe is defending the Jewish people? Why criticize him for his love of Klal Yisrael? Is that not the most important quality of a leader? Was it not the reason that Moshe was chosen in the first place?

The critique then, is speaking to something much deeper.

Rashi says “על שהקשה לדבר“ – For his challenging speech. Hashem is not upset that Moshe is speaking harshly to Him on behalf of the Jewish people. Rather, he is taking Moshe to task because at the burning bush Moshe had said “I can’t go to Egypt, I’m not a good speaker!” But now, when he has a complaint, Moshe had no trouble speaking at all.

Effectively, Hashem is pushing Moshe: “When you didn’t want to go to Egypt, you couldn’t speak. But now that you have a complaint, some how, you found your voice and your problems are irrelevant?! Moshe, it’s time to realize that you always had a voice. I need you to use it to build, to grow, to develop, to bring freedom to the world. Don’t waste it on complaints and negativity.”

This is our challenge. No one has time – except for the things we really want to do. No one has energy or money – unless it's important. All this is to say “What do you really want to do? What are your priorities?”

It’s a lesson for life, but for many of us, it’s most important this week when many of us are taking some time off to spend with our families.

What does vacation look like? What do we do with our time? When we’re not rushing to carpools and doing homework, what do we do with our kids? What are the things we care enough to make happen?

Tefillah? Torah? Chessed? Healthy eating? Exercise? What does Shabbos look like when we’re not at home? Do our kids know that our Yiddishkeit is real when the neighbors aren’t looking?

It’s an important question to ask this Shabbos. Because perhaps if we can work on getting it right this week, these thoughts and feelings will begin to spill over to the rest of our lives.

When you have some time, when you have some money, when you have a voice... What do you really want to do with it?

By the time we enter Sefer Shemos, a lot has changed. Within a few pesukim of the death of Yaakov, his descendants, once venerated as the family of Yosef, have sunk to the bottom of society.

Reading the Chumash, perhaps the most abrupt change is that the protagonist at the beginning of the Sefer is Pharaoh, while Bnei Yisrael have been relegated to props in his story. Nothing is revealed about the lives, the pain and the stories of any particular Jews.

By the second Perek, we meet the baby who will become Moshe, but even as he is somehow saved, and raised in Pharaoh’s home, the Jewish people have been thoroughly crushed.

If we didn’t know the end of the story, we might think the Moshe experiment had failed. In his very first act of heroism – defending a Jewish life – he is discovered, and forced to flee.

The next time we meet him, Moshe is eighty years old, meaning that that at least sixty years had gone by. Generations of Jews have been swallowed into traumatic oblivion.

This feeling is one that everyone of us has encountered. The feeling the time has gone by, and nothing has changed, nothing has gotten better. It’s that feeling of that track of our lives is playing on repeat, and it’s not a song that we enjoy. The world is still continuing, but I’m not. I’m still in the same place.

Days, weeks, months and even years can slip into amorphous blobs of time, summarized by a sentence or two.

At the core, it’s the feeling of no longer being the protagonist in our own lives.

And then Hashem appears to Moshe in a burning bush, that didn't burn up. Sometimes, I wonder how long that bush had been burning. How many times Moshe had passed it, until the day he first looked up and noticed it.

In the deepest way, it is at this moment, that Moshe becomes the central character of his story. Somehow, in that encounter with the burning bush, Moshe learns how to take control of his own life and destiny.

R’ Chanoch Henoch of Alexander explained the metaphor and message of the the burning bush:

The s’neh represents Galus – a lowly state of exile in which nothing grows. There is no movement, no life, no fruit, no blossoms, no beauty. But even in such a place, Hashem’s presence can be felt. It burns deep in the heart of every Jew.

Sounds uplifting. It’s a beautiful message. But for the person suffering, it is totally unhelpful, so Moshe Rabbeinu is unsatisfied. If Hashem is burning in my heart, and in the heart of every Jew, why is the bush not being consumed? Why don't I feel inspired? Why do I not see Klal Yisrael burning with a fire of purpose? Why have so many days and years disappeared? How come so many Jews have faded into history?

Hashem, You’re telling me that even in the worst places You’re there? Why don’t I feel it? Where is that Holy fire now?

So Hashem explains: של נעליך מעל רגליך – Take the shoes off of your feet.

The Alexander Rebbe continues. נעל doesn't just mean a shoe, it means a Lock. רגל doesn't just mean a foot, it means a habit.

If you want to take control of your life, it starts with a pause. Stop for a moment. Take a day, or even a minute to think. Why am I living this way? What am I afraid of? Do I still have dreams? What’s holding me back?

In that simple act of mentally unlocking ourselves from our hamster wheel, we are able to find that fire again.

The Chafetz Chaim explains the rest of the Pasuk: כי המקום אשר אתה עומד עליו, אדמת קודש הוא – The place that you are standing is Holy ground.

You have escaped Mitzrayim. You're leading a comfortable life, tending your flock, raising your family. No-one is trying to kill you here. Things are fine. And your life has become irrelevant to the story of Jewish history.

It doesn’t have to be that way. But if you stop for a moment, if you take off your shoes, you will realize that the ground of which you stand is holy ground. Wherever you may be.

Hashem is burning inside of you as well, Moshe. Whatever ground you stand on, becomes a special place. Take off your shoes, stop running. If you can find the fire inside of you, you’ll be able to find it in the lives and stories of every Jew in Egypt. That’s how you free Klal Yisrael, and that’s how you free yourself.

Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz once wrote about the advice he received when suffering from encroaching burnout:

In my last letter to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, I told him I was holding down three full time jobs: scholarly writing, outreach work in Russia, and a network of schools in Israel. Since it all seemed like too much for one person, I asked him what to focus on. His answer was typical of him, that I should “continue to do all these things and to do more things and work even harder.”

It's a strange thing to tell a person that feels overwhelmed – you should take on more. But that was always the Rebbe's position. Both for himself and his Chassidim. This wasn’t some life-hack to somehow get more done. It was a re-orientation of the concept of working hard.

In contemporary society, we tend to take the opposite approach:“Work smarter, not harder.”

I was reflecting on this idea a little while ago when trying to convince one of my children to do something they didn't want to do. I found myself telling them “You can either do this the easy way or the hard way.” Then I caught myself wondering what exactly I meant. And the implications were as obvious as they were disturbing: easy means without fear or pain or punishment. Hard means all these things; fear, pain and punishment.

And then it hit me. Have we, as parents, as teachers, as society, been training ourselves and our children for generations, that easy is good and hard is bad? What message does that send when things get difficult?

It means that we do everything we can to avoid the the challenge. That challenges indicate some moral or personal failure. If things are tough, then I have done something wrong, so I need to do all that I can to make sure nothing is tough.

But perhaps the worst result of this approach is that when there is no way around it, when we are forced to endure some discomfort, we make the mistake of wasting our suffering.

In a recent interview, Arthur Brooks shared this insight:

Never waste your suffering. I ask my students in my happiness class to keep a failure and disappointment list. And each time something bad happens that feels like a loss or it feels like a disappointment or feels like a failure, you write it down and leave two lines blank.

And on the first line you write down, it's like that thing really bothered me. And then a month later, you come back to the first line that you left blank under it and write down, what did you learn? And then three months later, you come back to the second line and write down a good thing that happened because of that loss. And you're filling in the notebook.

And by the time you're going to a new thing that's really bugging you, really bothering you, you start to look forward to it because you're gonna be looking back at the knowledge and growth from past negative experiences and the benefit that actually has come from those negative experiences. Never, never, never waste your suffering.

In essence, this means reorienting ourselves to see difficulties as opportunities. It shifts our understanding of ourselves, our lives, and our challenges.

And perhaps it offers a new window into understanding all of Jewish history.

This Shabbos, Rashi tells us:

למה פרשה זה סתומה... שבקש לגלות את הקץ לבניו ונסתם ממנו

Why does this parsha begin without any break in the text? ... Because Yaakov wished to reveal the End of Days to his sons but it was concealed from him.

The simple reading of this Rashi is upsetting. The concealment comes as an unpleasant surprise to Yaakov, and a tragedy for his children. If only we have known... if only he could’ve told us... if only it didn’t have to be that way...

Not so, says the Yismach Yisrael:

Since Yaakov wanted to reveal to his children the world of Mashiach, of Geulah and of Redemption, by definition, Hashem needed to demonstrate to them that light comes from darkness.

Chazal explain: In that moment of darkness, Yaakov was worried about his children. Would they see this darkness a punishment, or an opportunity?

He invites them to consider: Why can’t we see through to the end? Perhaps we are unworthy?

To this, His children respond with a resounding “Sh’ma Yisrael...”. Listen, Yaakov, they say, we all believe in Hashem.

Two things are accomplished by this affirmation of Emunah:

1. It reframes the darkness as an opportunity. Even in this place, in this space, in this confusion, we can still declare that Hashem is present. This is not a punishment, it’s a challenge.

2. In the recognition that this darkness is an invitation for growth, we reveal that there is no darkness at all. The way forward is not in avoidance, but in engagement. The person that comes out the other side of this will be better than the one who entered.

All this is to say, if we want to experience redemption, personally and nationally, we need to get comfortable with the darkness that precedes it. Lean in to the difficultly; work smarter and harder.

This is Yaakov's final message to his children. You can do this the easy way or the hard way. I beg you: Do it the hard way. It’s the only way that you’ll grow. Don’t run from the darkness. Choose the challenge, do the difficult thing. Don’t waste your suffering.