Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

In 1990, it the behest of the acclaimed astronomer Carl Sagan, NASA turned the camera’s of Voyager 1 to face earth. In a photograph captured from a distance of about 6 billion kilometers, Earth's apparent size is less than a pixel – one pixel out 640000. The planet appears as a tiny dot against the vastness of space, among bands of sunlight scattered by the camera's optics.

This picture was famously referred to as “The Pale Blue Dot.” Carl Sagan, remarked about it:

“From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it's different. Consider again that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”

This perspective is overwhelming and difficult to imagine. It’s a fact of our existence, but one which we feel uncomfortably small considering. The truth is that we, human beings are not comfortable with the powers of nature much closer to home. We, alone amongst the species of our planet, have spent our history inventing marvelous and miraculous ways to avoid experiencing the natural world.

Air conditioning, heating and screens. Umbrellas, raincoats, boots and seat warmers built into our cars. Of course, these are primarily a function of comfort, but in a much deeper way, they also serve to alleviate our fears of inadequacy in the face of natural power. A power, that Hurricanes and storms remind us of all too clearly.

Our disconnect from the natural word allows us the disillusion of thinking that we are far more invincible than we actually are.

The Beis Yaakov of Izbitz explains that this disillusionment is part of a larger concern of human kind. We do not enjoy staring our inadequacies in the face – we don’t like looking at our weaknesses head on. So we hide from our own smallness. We create spaces where we can be content, comfortable and secure, and at all costs, we avoid stepping outside of those bubbles. And there’s good reason for it too. On a psychological level, it could be quite dangerous to expose oneself so completely to the totality of the universe.

So Hashem gives us Chag HaSukkos. It comes after the Yamim Noraim; at time where we’ve done some serious reflection and introspection and have begun taking the necessary steps to change those things about ourselves that we’re not so proud of.

With this fresh perspective, Hashem asks us to step outside of the comfort zone expose ourselves – not too much, just a little. And this idea is reflected in all the halachos of Sukkah.

We need a structure that is temporary, but one that provides shade. A structure in which one can feel the rain, and see the stars. The roof is all natural and it cannot be so high that we forget where we’re sitting.

The goal of leaving our homes, and entering the Sukkah is to get in touch with our vulnerabilities. To reconnect with the natural world, and thereby recognize our own smallness.

The Sukkah provides an opportunity to open ourselves to an encounter with the Master of the Universe, Creator of Heaven and Earth. We’re stripping away a layer of hubris and invincibility and acknowledging that we have more to achieve, more to grow and greater distance to cover.

But ultimately, the purpose of it all is to recognize that nothing is possible without Hashem. All of our brilliance, ingenuity and creativity is meaningless without His desire for us to be here. The Sukkah is a week-long demonstration that despite the vastness of universe, Hashem cares about me and you.

The Seder HaDoros tells an incredible story from the life of the Ramban:

The Ramban once had a student, Rav Avner, who converted to Catholicism and assimilated into Spanish society. Soon he rose to the highest ranks of the nobility. Once he summoned his former teacher to appear before him on Yom Kippur.

Fearful of the possible negative consequences that could arise from not heeding the order and hopeful that the influence of the holy day would enable him to spur his former student to repentance, the Ramban made his way to Avner’s palace.

When he entered, he was ushered into his student’s chamber. Avner had been waiting for him. He took a knife, approached a pig that he had prepared, slaughtered it, cut it up, roasted its meat on a fire, and ate it with relish.

“How many transgressions involving the serious punishment of Kerais did I just commit?” he asked the Ramban.

“Four,” the sage answered.

“No, five,” Avner replied, and with erudition, he proceeded to prove the correctness of his assertion.

“If your knowledge is so great,” the Ramban asked, “why did you abandon the Torah?”

“It's your fault!,” Avner replied.

“What did I do?”

“Once at a public shiur, you stated that everything that will ever transpire in all of History is alluded in the Song Haazinu. I considered that a most preposterous statement and decided that I want no part of a religion whose teachers would utter such absurdities.”

“What I said is absolutely true,” replied the Ramban.

“Prove it to me,” responded Avner. “Show me where my name is alluded to in Haazinu. ”

The Ramban retreated to a corner to daven, and after a moment he answered: “It is written: אמרתי אפאיהם אשביתה מאנוש זכרם (Haazinu 32:26), “I said: ‘I will scatter them; I will obliterate their memory from among mankind.’’ The third letters of each of the words of the verse spells out , Rav Avner.”

“What can I do to correct my error?” Avner asked in awe.

“Follow the directive of the verse,” the Ramban replied.

Indeed, the Ramban on his commentary to this Pasuk explains:

אשביתה מאנוש זכרם – גלותנו בין העמים – To be exiled amongst the nations of the world.

Shortly afterwards, a black-masted ship set off from a Spanish harbor to a destination unknown.

---

The Gemara in Rosh Hashana (30b) tells us that the aliyos of Parshas Ha'azinu are quite specific. In fact, Ha'azinu is the only Parsha in Chumash whose Aliyos are listed in the Talmud.

במוספי דשבתא מה היו אומרים אמר רב ענן בר רבא אמר רב הזי”ו ל”ך

Rav Anan bar Rava said that Rav said: They would recite in accordance with the mnemonic hei, zayin, yod, vav, lamed, kaf. They would divide the song of Ha’azinu into six sections, each of which began with a letter of the mnemonic: “Give ear [ha’azinu], you heavens” (Deuteronomy 32:1); “Remember [zekhor] the days of old” (Deuteronomy 32:7); “He made him ride [yarkivehu] on the high places of the earth” (Deuteronomy 32:13); “The Lord saw it [vayar] and spurned” (Deuteronomy 32:19); “Were it not [lulei] that I dread the enemy’s provocation” (Deuteronomy 32:27); “For [ki] the Lord will judge His people” (Deuteronomy 32:36).

But what is the story of Ha'azinu? What is this prophetic poem of Moshe Rabbeinu about?

Rav Saadya Gaon (אמונות ודעות מאמר ז א) explains:

The song of Ha'azinu is the story of the Jewish people. In the beginning, Hashem chose us (זכור ימות עולם – Remember the days of old...). Second, He looked after us in the desert (ימצאהו בארץ מדבר – He found him in a desert...) Third, we rebelled (וישמן ישרון ויבעט – Yeshrun grew fat and kicked). Fourth, Hashem punished us (וירא ה' וינאץ – Hashem saw and was angry). Fifth, Hashem punished our enemies (כי מגפן סדום גפנם – The vine for them is from Sodom). Sixth, we will be redeemed (ראו עתה כי אני אני הוא – See that I am Hashem...). And just like a body that is healed from sickness is still the same body, so too, the body that dies will be the body that arrises at the time of resurrection.

The Ramban writes (לב:מ):

והנה אין בשירה הזאת תנאי בתשובה ועבודה, רק היא שטר עדות שנעשה הרעות ונוכל, ושהוא יתברך יעשה בנו בתוכחות חימה אבל לא ישבית זכרנו, וישוב ויתנחם ויפרע מן האויבים בחרבו הקשה והגדולה והחזקה, ויכפר על חטאתינו למען שמו. אם כן השירה הזאת הבטחה מבוארת בגאולה העתידה על כרחן של מינין.

There are no conditions in this song. It is a promissory note that we will do evil and be consumed. And that He will punish us, but never destroy us. And He will exact justice on our enemies... and forgive our sins. And thus this song is a promise that redemption will come, despite the protests of the heretics. (Referencing his debates with the Christians who claimed that we would never again be redeemed.)

The first six Aliyos of Ha'azinu are the story the 6000 years of our era. But there is something strange about this song, in that it is written with an empty space in between. Like two towers of pesukim, leaving a vast gap in the middle. That gap is our capacity to live in the middle of the song of Jewish History and feel nothing, see nothing, live as if nothing is happening around us. It's the world of “I guess so... I suppose I could...” It's the world of cold, uncommitted Jewish life. It's the life a bystanders to the awesome saga of Jewish history.

The Avoda of this Shabbos is to find ourselves in the text as well, as the Divrei Yechezkel of Shinnov quotes from Reb Mendel of Rimanov:

כשהייתי אברך ורציתי לידע האיך אני עומד בדרך העבודה חפשתי בשירת האזינו בשורה הימנית מצות עשה ובשורה השמאלית מצוות ל”ת

When I was young, I wanted to know where I stand regarding my service of Hashem. So I searched in Haazinu on the right hand side to find the positive mitzvos I should work on, and on the left hand side to know the negative mitzvos I should work on.

The Sefer Pi Tzadik (עמ׳ קנ”ה) quotes from the Shinnover himself:

יודע אני באיזה מקום אנוכי מרומז בשירת האזינו – I know where I am in the song of Haazinu

Personally, I am not zocheh to know where I am mentioned in this great song of Moshe. But I think we know we are... I think it's clear that we’re somewhere near the very end.

But that's where Jewish history as a whole is holding. The credits will soon be rolling up on the screen.

But on Shabbos Shuva, the question that Ha'azinu asks is far more personal. This Shabbos, the Torah is asking each of us if we tethered to the text and the story, or just floating idly and inconsequentially in the middle?

Hashem should help each of us, our families and communities to Exit Ha'azinu Valley. The Teshuva of this Shabbos is to reengage in our place in Jewish history and anchor ourselves to the future of our people.

The Rambam (הלכות תשובה ג:ג) tells us that the Shofar is wake up call. It awakens us to do Teshuva, to return to Hashem, to become the people who need to become.

אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁתְּקִיעַת שׁוֹפָר בְּרֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה גְּזֵרַת הַכָּתוּב רֶמֶז יֵשׁ בּוֹ כְּלוֹמַר עוּרוּ יְשֵׁנִים מִשְּׁנַתְכֶם וְנִרְדָּמִים הָקִיצוּ מִתַּרְדֵּמַתְכֶם וְחַפְּשׂוּ בְּמַעֲשֵׂיכֶם וְחִזְרוּ בִּתְשׁוּבָה וְזִכְרוּ בּוֹרַאֲכֶם. אֵלּוּ הַשּׁוֹכְחִים אֶת הָאֱמֶת בְּהַבְלֵי הַזְּמַן וְשׁוֹגִים כָּל שְׁנָתָם בְּהֶבֶל וָרִיק אֲשֶׁר לֹא יוֹעִיל וְלֹא יַצִּיל, הַבִּיטוּ לְנַפְשׁוֹתֵיכֶם וְהֵיטִיבוּ דַּרְכֵיכֶם וּמַעַלְלֵיכֶם וְיַעֲזֹב כָּל אֶחָד מִכֶּם דַּרְכּוֹ הָרָעָה וּמַחֲשַׁבְתּוֹ אֲשֶׁר לֹא טוֹבָה.

Even though the sounding of the shofar on Rosh HaShanah is a decree, it contains an allusion. It is as if [the shofar's call] is saying: Wake up you sleepy ones from your sleep and you who slumber, arise. Inspect your deeds, repent, remember your Creator. Those who forget the truth in the vanities of time and throughout the entire year, devote their energies to vanity and emptiness which will not benefit or save: Look to your souls. Improve your ways and your deeds and let every one of you abandon his evil path and thoughts.

How fortunate are we that Hashem gave us this incredible mitzvah.

But this year we have a problem. This year, on the first day of Rosh Hashana we will are not blowing the shofar! We have forfeited this mitzvah in deference to Shabbos. How then will we be awakened?

The Baal Shem Tov relates that he attended a horrible cheder, school, in his small village of Okop, Ukraine. In those days, there were no institutional yeshivos or principals greeting all of the boys each morning with a smile each day. The wealthy families hired better rebbes and brought them into their nice homes to teach their children. The poorer families scraped together whatever they could for the lesser-trained rebbes and the boys went to learn in the rebbe’s “house,” which was often little more than a shack.

Little Yisroel (who was known as Srulik at the time), the future Baal Shem Tov, was an orphan, so his lot was even worse than most. The people in Okop did what they could to provide a rebbe for little Srulik, but the rebbe’s home was a disgusting mess which made him very uncomfortable. And the rebbe was a coarse person who unfortunately often used the back of his hand to communicate the lessons to the boys. The rebbe and his wife would often fight and yell at each other as well. Little Yisroel was a sensitive boy and he was extremely upset by every aspect of this cheder.

One day, when he could not tolerate it any more, little Yisroel skipped school and went to daven in the woods by the village for salvation from this cheder. He prayed, “My mother and father have left me, now Hashem gather me up!”. He sat under a tree and began to cry. He cried until his eyes closed, and he fell soundly asleep.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder and there was a man who he did not know standing there, which was unusual, because he knew every face in the small village. “Wake up!” The man said. “Wake up Srulik, I want to give you a brachah that you should have eyes to see.” Little Yisroel said, “Amen,” and with that, the man left.

Yisroel could not skip school forever and when he returned, he suddenly saw everything differently than before. When the rebbe got angry with the boys, little Srulik saw that this was because he felt ashamed of his poverty and lack of knowledge. When the rebbe fought with his wife, he saw that this was only because of the difficult circumstances of their lives, they could no longer see each other for who they were and could be. The Baal Shem Tov relates that after this bracha he never saw the world the same way again.

Reb Leibele Eiger explains: There are different ways for a person to be awakened. One Rosh HaShana Hashem gives us a Shofar, it's a loud noise, an alarm clock. Sometimes the alarm doesn't help, we're tuned out to it's sound. So in the long years of exile Hashem told us to turn on the lights, that’s the story of Chanukah.

But there is another way that we are awakened. Sometimes, we wake up in the middle of the night because we just remembered something. We're startled awake by a memory. Ah! Now I remember who I needed to call. Now I know what I was supposed to do! It’s a small, subtle voice – a קול דממה דקה. It whispers in our hearts; it’s giving us eyes to see, and ears to hear, and we can remember who was once wanted to be.

Chazal tell us that we don’t blow Shofar on Shabbos because today is not a Yom Teruah. Today is Zichron Teruah – a memory of Teruah. And indeed, we change our davening to reflect this memory. We remember the sound of the Shofar of Akeidas Yitzchak, of self sacrifice and ideals. We remember the Shofar of Har Sinai, when everything made sense, if even for a moment. We remember that the final Tekiah Gedola of history is yet to be heard. But when we hear it, the world will return to who and where we need to be.

This year there is no Shofar. But there is a voice inside of you, screaming in a whisper: Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! You have eyes to see and ears to hear. Remember who you are. Remember who you wanted to be.

#תפשג #נצבים #וילך

Rav Zevin in his Moadim B'Halacha, quotes from Rav Aharon of Karlin that in the final mincha of the year – next Erev Shabbos – we are still going to say the words ברך עלינו את השנה הזאת – Bless us this year with a year of sustenance and abundance.

By that point in the year, there will be barely fifteen minutes left. Yet, our text remains the same, and our obligation to pray with honestly and intent is unchanging. The meaning behind this then, is our deep rooted understanding that in one minute, we can still transform this year.

So why should you buy a lottery ticket?

Chazal tell us that each year between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, Hashem determines the amount of bracha that He will be sending our way. This is calculated by the Master of All Worlds, and takes into account our prior utilization of His brachos, as well as our stated intentions from last year.

But it is entirely possible that we have not yet received our full allotment of Hashem's generosity and kindness. Why not?

Chazal (קידושין פב ב) explain:

רַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן בֶּן אֶלְעָזָר אוֹמֵר, רָאִיתָ מִיָּמֶיךָ חַיָּה וָעוֹף שֶׁיֵּשׁ לָהֶם אֻמָּנוּת, וְהֵן מִתְפַּרְנְסִין שֶׁלֹּא בְצַעַר. וַהֲלֹא לֹא נִבְרְאוּ אֶלָּא לְשַׁמְּשֵׁנִי, וַאֲנִי נִבְרֵאתִי לְשַׁמֵּשׁ אֶת קוֹנִי, אֵינוֹ דִין שֶׁאֶתְפַּרְנֵס שֶׁלֹּא בְצַעַר. אֶלָּא שֶׁהֲרֵעוֹתִי מַעֲשַׂי וְקִפַּחְתִּי אֶת פַּרְנָסָתִי.

Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar says: Have you ever seen a beast or a bird that has a trade? And yet they earn their livelihood without anguish. But all these were created only to serve me, and I, a human being, was created to serve the One Who formed me. Is it not right that I should earn my livelihood without anguish? But I, humanity, have committed evil actions and have lost my livelihood.

Reb Itche Meir Greenwald once told this story of his father, Doctor Yaakov Greenwald:

“Before the wedding of a sister of mine, my parents needed twenty thousand dollars, and they didn’t have it. Then someone came to the house with a whole story. Many years earlier, he’d stolen money from my father and he’d always felt bad. He wanted to pay it back, and he gave my father 19,500 dollars.”

Reb Yankel Greenwald accepted the money and later mused to his wife, “I lost that five hundred dollars, which was meant for me; somehow I caused the flow from Shamayim to be blocked for that amount.”

Hashem has indeed sent the fullness of his Brachos to us. But we have erected walls of aveiros; we have closed ourselves off to His presence in our lives. The net result being that not all of that which we are due to receive actually makes its way to our wallets and bank accounts.

It stands to reason then, that if we use this final week of the year to remove the partition between us and Hashem, then any remaining brachos should arrive before Rosh Hashana. With earnest and heartfelt Teshuva, we can still earn our full share – provided we have done a modicum of Hishtadlus – even a tiny effort to make it possible. So, this week, do Teshuva, and buy a lottery ticket.

Of course, it is not just Parnasah that we have “left on the table”. Perhaps last year, Hashem decreed Refuah, or a child, or a shidduch. Perhaps He has already granted us wisdom, creativity and some brilliant new ideas. Or perhaps He already blessed us with Shalom Bayis, and nachas from our children. Perhaps He gave us the skill and will to master Shas and Poskim. Perhaps all of this is waiting just beyond our reach due to the walls of frustration, negativity and failure we have put up around us.

There is only one week left. One week to claim the gifts of 5783. By Rosh Hashana 5784 those brachos will ascend to Shamayim, and we will once again plead with Hashem to give us a year of live and love and success. But how foolish of us to wait until then?! Who knows what more there is left on the Gift-Card labeled 5783? Why not try to use it up? Hashem will certainly give us more next year – after all, He is infinite.

Of course, there is one final ingredient to make it work. We need to ask.

The Belzer Rebbe would tell his Chassidim: Stop Davening For Parnosah. You’re a Jew, Daven to be Rich! Parnosah – sustenance – is for poor people. A Yid is a child of the King. Ask for Ashirus, ask to be wealthy!

For many of us, we don't ask for what we want and need. We feel strange asking Hashem for things which we don't feel we deserve. But this is only because we have a weird idea of what it means to Daven. We think of it as a ritual, or an obligation. At its core, Tefillah is a conversation between parent and child. And children are not shy to ask their parents for ridiculous things. Sometimes, it even works out!

Two summers ago, our son Dovi came home from camp and declared “Abba, I want a hoverboard!” “Cool”, I replied. “Me too.”

He was frustrated with my response. “No, Abba, I want you to buy me a hoverboard.” “Yes, I know. And the truth is, I'd like you to buy me a hoverboard.”

He realized the conversation was getting nowhere. “Ok Abba. What can I do to earn a hoverboard?” “Aha! That's a much better question...” Six months later, through mitzvos, middos and helping around the house, he had earned his hoverboard.

Hashem wants to give everything to us; and He wants us to earn it. But we'll never get anything if we don't ask.

The Torah tells us of a conversation between Moshe Rabbeinu and Hashem at the burning bush. Hashem is attempting to persuade him to take the job of leading the nation out of Mitzraim. Moshe, for his part, has many reasons why he should not go, finally culminating in his complaint that:

בִּי אֲדֹנָי לֹא אִישׁ דְּבָרִים אָנֹכִי ...כִּי כְבַד־פֶּה וּכְבַד לָשׁוֹן אָנֹכִי

“Please, I have never been a man of words, either in times past or now that You have spoken to Your servant; I am slow of speech and slow of tongue.”

Moshe is telling Hashem, I can't do it, I have a speech impediment – How could I possibly be the person to speak to Paroah and the nation?

Hashem then tells Moshe, that He will send Aharon to be the spokes person instead. But the Ramban (Shemos 4:10) asks a simple question: Hashem is Hashem. Why didn't he simply heal Moshe's speech impediment?!

He answers devastatingly: Moshe never davened for it.

As we approach the end of the year, the Yismach Yisrael reminds us that picking up one end of the stick raises up the whole stick. Lifting up this Shabbos and this final week, with our Torah, Tefillah, Teshuva and Tzedaka will raise up the entirety of 5783.

So do Teshuva, fix what you need to fix, ask Hashem for what you want and need, and buy a lottery ticket. There might just be a little bit left waiting in our accounts in Shayaim.

#כיתבא #תשפג

Rav Tzvi Yehuda Kook once related a conversation that he had with Rav Mordechai Shmuel Kroll, the Rav of Kfar Chassidim: (שיחות הרב צבי יהודה – מועדים א, עמ' 319).

While growing up in Europe, Rav Kroll had been a Chossid of Reb Leibele Eiger in Lublin. Reb Leibele was well known to spend many hours in preparation for doing any mitzvah, and certainly for davening. And so it was, that one Yom Kippur night, the Chassidim waited until 11pm before beginning Kol Nidrei.

Rav Kroll turned to Rav Tzvi Yehuda and asked: “What do you think we did while we waited?”

Rav Tzvi Yehuda replied: “Most likely, those who could learn Gemara, spend their time learning Maseches Yoma. Perhaps some learned Mishna, and those who couldn't learn said Tehillim?”

Rav Kroll answered: “You don't understand Chassidim at all! For five hours we sang and danced! And do you know what we sang?”

“Perhaps the words that Chazal say were sung in the Beis HaMikdash on Sukkos: אַשְׁרֵי מִי שֶׁלֹּא חָטָא, וּמִי שֶׁחָטָא — יָשׁוּב וְיִמְחוֹל לוֹ – Happy is one who hasn't sinned, and one who has should do Teshuva and be pardoned?”

Once again Rav Kroll responded: “You still don't understand Chassidim!” He continued, “the great principle of Chassidus is to serve Hashem with joy. Being that Yom Kippur requires the highest level of Avoda, it must begin with the greatest joy. For five hours, hundreds of us danced and sang the Purim song, Shoshanas Yaakov!”

I'm not sure how many of us are looking for such a Yom Kippur experience. Mind you, our hesitation with this type of Yom Kippur is not just because our emotions on Yom Kippur are usually more sobering. Many would have a hard time doing this on Purim. For most of us, it's hard to imagine being so thoroughly “into it” for such an extended period of time.

A few weeks ago, there was a Yid told me honestly that dancing on Simchas Torah for more than a few minutes was mind-numbingly boring to him. He asked if we could perhaps go back to the abridged Hakafos of COVID?

While I appreciated the honestly, it saddened me to hear it. We cannot mandate religious exuberance, but Moshe Rabbeinu this Shabbos, reveals the result of a Yiddishkeit devoid of Simcha.

Deep in the painful pesukim of the Tochacha, we discover the central reason for our exile and persecution:

תַּחַת אֲשֶׁר לֹא־עָבַדְתָּ אֶת־ה' אֱלֹקיךָ בְּשִׂמְחָה וּבְטוּב לֵבָב מֵרֹב כֹּל

Because you did not serve Hashem, your God in joy and gladness over the abundance of everything.

The end of the Pasuk – “מֵרֹב כֹּל” – seems unnecessary. Ostensibly, we are punished for failing to serve Hashem with joy. What need is there to add “over the abundance of everything”?

The simplest reading of this pasuk is that as a result of the many blessings Hashem had given to us, we became spoiled. In order to return us to the simple joy of Yiddishkeit, Hashem will take away those pleasures which ruined us.

Perhaps this is a piece of the story, but the Sfas Emes (כי תבא תרמ”ג) quotes from the Arizal that there is far more going on here:

מרוב כל: להיות שמח בעבודת הש”י יותר מכל מיני טוב שבעולם

The words “מרוב כל” mean that we are to be happier with serving Hashem than the happiness we experience from all the other good in the world.

The central question of Jewish life is: What brings you the most joy? A life of service or a life of stuff?

The Torah is setting up a comparison, a hierarchy of Simcha. Moshe Rabbeinu is telling us that there is nothing wrong with enjoying physical pleasures. There is nothing problematic with enjoying good food, sleeping in a comfortable bed, and taking full advantage of our material success.

Indeed, the pasuk in our Parsha (כו:יא) tells us:

וְשָׂמַחְתָּ בְכׇל־הַטּוֹב אֲשֶׁר נָתַן־לְךָ ה' אֱלֹקיךָ וּלְבֵיתֶךָ

And you should enjoy all the bounty that Hashem your God has given to you and your household...

Yet, in a profound and painful way, the Torah is telling us that equating our pursuit of happiness with our pursuit of “things” is a recipe for sadness, brokenness and destruction.

The Torah is not advocating a life of asceticism and abstinence. There is no inherent value in deprivation. But there is most certainly a value in aligning our priorities so that we find our greatest enjoyment in purpose rather than in possessions.

I dare say, but this is a radical departure from most of our religious experience and aspiration. Especially as we approach the Yamim Noraim, we are conditioned to think of this season as being filled with obligations. Of course, this is true. We cannot escape the reality that Hashem has expectations of us. The Shulchan Aruch is replete with details discussing how exactly to ensure that we are in fulfillment of our obligations.

But how tragic would it be if we never succeeded in transcending the obligations to truly enjoy these moments of closeness and engagement with Hashem? Is it not the height of dysfunction for partners in a relationship to dread the time they spend together? To view each others' presence as a chore?

Imagine a couple coming home from a date night, and one spouse turning to the other and insisting that they need some down time, because spending time together was so draining.

The pasuk is bemoaning a world in which Klal Yisrael leaves shul exhausted at the end of Shabbos or Yom Tov only to “recharge” by binge watching some (hopefully kosher) nonsense online.

Reb Leibele's world was one in which people don't count the minutes until Havdalah; where they don't get annoyed when the Rabbi's Shema or Shmoneh Esrei forces us to wait another thirty seconds. It's a world in which Shabbos lunch is filled with Zemiros and Divrei Torah, and not simply a highway to taking a nap. It's a world where Yiddishkeit is joyful, enjoyable and enriching. It's about finding the meaning and value in mitzvos, even more than we find in our other pastimes and hobbies.

Rav Soloveitchik related that:

Not far from where our family lived in Warsaw there was a Modzitzer shtiebel where I would occasionally go for shalosh seudos. The Chasidim would be singing Bnei Heichala, Hashem Ro’i Lo Echsor, again Bnei Heichala, again Hashem Ro’i. It occurred to me that they weren’t singing because they wanted to sing, they were singing because they did not want to allow Shabbos to leave…. I remember an encounter in this shtiebel as a small child. One of the men who had been singing most enthusi­astically, wearing a kapoteh consisting of more holes than material, approached me and asked if I recognized him. I told him that I did not, and he introduced himself as Yankel the Porter. Now during the week I knew Yankel the Porter as someone very ordinary wearing shabby clothes walking around with a rope. I could not imagine that this individual of such regal bearing could be the same person. Yet on Shabbos he wore a kapota and shtreimel. That is because his soul wasn’t Yankel the Porter, but Yankel the Prince. Well after nightfall I naively asked him, “When do we daven Ma’ariv?” He replied: “Do you miss weekdays that much that you cannot wait to daven Ma’ariv?”

Perhaps we are not yet ready for this kind of Yiddishkeit, but with a little preparation and effort we can aspire to find real joy in some part of our Avodas Hashem. At the very least, we can hold back our frustration when the Chazzan takes an extra minute in Kedusha, when someone bumps into our chair on Yom Tov or the AC is not set to our liking. We can enter the Yamim Noraim with hopeful anticipation, rather than boredom and dread. And if none of this seems attainable yet, perhaps we could begin our journey towards Rosh Hashana with a simple Tefillah:

Please Hashem, help us to find meaning in the words that we say and in the mitzvos that we do; open our hearts so that we can talk to you honestly and help us to enjoy this time that we're going to spend together.

#כיתצא #תשפג

This Shabbos, the Torah tells us the most tragic parenting story imaginable: the story of the Ben Sorer U'moreh. It's the story of a child, who, just before his bar mitzvah, begins down a road that will lead to his total spiritual destruction. Ultimately, the pesukim describe, his parents will bring him to the Sanhedrin to be executed.

It's an impossibly painful saga for anyone to fathom. Thankfully, the conditions for a boy to become a Ben Sorer U'moreh are incredibly difficult to satisfy. The Sanhedrin will need to prove that there was not a single external contributing factor to explain this boy's behavior. He must have had access to a stellar education, wonderful, harmonious and loving parents, excellent health for himself and his parents, etc... Only when everything in his life is perfect, can the Torah conclude that he is fully culpable for his actions. Absent of even one detail, he cannot be a Ben Sorer U'moreh.

This is a powerful perspective in our understanding of people in general. How often is a child (or adult!) simply reacting to some unseen challenges that they are facing? Are we so convinced that the negativity we’re seeing in someone truly originates in them?

Indeed, creating such an ideal environment is so nearly impossible that the Talmud (סנהדרין ע”א א) suggests: בן סורר ומורה לא היה ולא עתיד להיות – throughout Jewish history, there has never been a Ben Sorer U’moreh, nor will there ever be.

But let’s suspend our disbelief for a moment, and imagine the story playing out: The perfect child, from a perfect family, in a perfect community; who nevertheless chooses the path of rebelliousness and destruction.

Imagine the tears, the horror, the despair. No doubt, his rebbeim and teachers would've have been discussing him for years. He's bounced from class to class, teacher to teacher. His parents have dedicated hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars to multiple attempts at therapy. And despite all efforts, this child is relentless and incurable.

Imagine that child – determined, defiant, arrogant, angry. With no options left, his parents bring him to Yerushalayim as the Torah describes. The judges call witnesses, consults psychologists, and reach the impossible conclusion that he is a bona fide Ben Sorer U’moreh. The Sanhedrin is about to rule that he must be executed. But just before the sentence is handed down, his parents begin to cry uncontrollably. Please, they beg, despite everything, we forgive him, we want him, we love him. Don't sentence him!

The Gemara in Sanhedrin (88a) tells us:

בן סורר ומורה שרצו אביו ואמו למחול לו מוחלין לו A stubborn and rebellious son whose father and mother wish to forgive him, they may forgive him.

Even in the last moment. They can pick him up and take him home.

This idea, while beautiful, is troubling. Why indeed is this the Halacha? Chazal tell us that a Ben Sorer U'Moreh is not judged based on what he has already done, but for what he will do if he continues down this now inevitable path.

After all, what exactly are his crimes? Thus far, all he has done is theft, eating too much meat and drinking too much wine. In any other case, these crimes are not deserving of the death penalty, but the Torah declares with Divine certainly (that only Hashem Himself could claim): Such a child, at this age and stage of life will become a menace to himself and society. Better that he die now, rather than destroy himself, his family and the world any further.

But if the Ben Sorer U'Moreh is judged on what he will become, what difference does it make if his parents forgive him for what he has done?! How are they given this power? Hasn't the Torah declared that his future is a forgone conclusion?

The Shem Mishmuel (כי תצא תרע”א) explains:

כשאביו ואמו מוחלין לו הנה הוא עדיין נקשר בשלשלת הקודש, שוב אינו נהרג, שיכול להיות שעוד ישוב בתשובה שלימה המתקבלת

The moment that his parents forgive him, he is reconnected to the Jewish people, and his fate is not yet sealed. He can no longer be killed, because now it is possible that he will do Teshuva.

As long as his parents believe in him, he has a chance at returning and repairing. Only one who is completely disconnected from Klal Yisrael, from his parents and friends can be deemed a lost cause. But for this child, his parents' forgiveness alone plugs him back in to eternity.

Of course, this truth is not limited to our relationship with our children. No Jew's life experience exists in a vacuum. When we relate to people with love, with respect and with graciousness, we transform who that person is, and impact who they can become.

This influence – the effect that our confidence in other has on those around us – is not only transformative, it’s the primary Avoda of our generation.

The Mishna in Avos (א:ב) famously tells us:

שִׁמְעוֹן הַצַּדִּיק הָיָה מִשְּׁיָרֵי כְנֶסֶת הַגְּדוֹלָה. הוּא הָיָה אוֹמֵר, עַל שְׁלשָׁה דְבָרִים הָעוֹלָם עוֹמֵד, עַל הַתּוֹרָה וְעַל הָעֲבוֹדָה וְעַל גְּמִילוּת חֲסָדִים:

Shimon the Tzadik was from the remnants of the Great Assembly. He would say, “On three things the world stands: on the Torah, on Service and on Acts of Lovingkindness.”

During the summer months the Sfas Emes would learn Pirkei Avos with his son, later to become the Imrei Emes. Commenting on that Mishna, the Imrei Emes explained in the name of his father:

The world stands on three things: Torah, Avoda and Chessed. But our history has shown that we have not always worked on these pillars simultaneously. Before Hashem gave us the Torah, the world did not have Torah. And since the destruction of Yerushalayim, we no longer have the Avoda of the Korbanos. Therefore, we must conclude that the world stands on either Torah, or Avoda, or Chessed – depending on the era.

The Sfas Emes then quotes in the name of Reb Elimelech of Lizensk: Until the time of the Arizal, the world stood on Torah. Now the world stands on Gemilus Chassadim – taking care of other people. Our job is to love each other.

It's our mission for life, our mission for the school year ahead, and quite acutely, it's our mission during the month of Elul. If we want Hashem to grant us this Chessed, we need to emulate it in our own lives as well.

A young man once came to the Klausenberger Rebbe and told him that he was thrown out of his yeshiva. The Rebbe summoned for the mashgiach of the bachur’s yeshiva and asked him why he threw this bachur out. The mashgiach told him all the terrible things that the boy had done, and concluded, “It’s impossible to keep him in the yeshiva if he does these things.”

“That’s true,” the Rebbe agreed, “but I spoke with the bachur, and he told me that he’s ready to change.”

The mashgiach said in exasperation, “This bachur promised me a thousand times that he will improve and he never keeps his word!”

The Rebbe held his white beard and said softly, “Throughout the many years of my life I promised Hashem even more than a thousand times that I will improve, and I haven’t done so yet. According to what you’re saying, I should give up. And Hashem should give up on me. But that's not how it works. As long as a Yid lives, he still has potential to change...”

Hashem should help us to internalize this message for ourselves, and emulate it for each other. Or as Viktor Frankel would say:

“If we take man as he is, we make him worse. If we take man as he should be, we make him capable of what he can be.”

#שופטים #תשפג

Rabbi Yitzhak Tuvia Weiss zt”l, was the Av Beis Din of the Eidah Charedis in Yerushalayim. He grew up in a small town just outside of Presburg, and when the Nazi's came, he was one of the privileged 669 children to be evacuated to Great Britain on the famous Kindertransport.

When he arrived in England he was taken to an orphanage, along with many of the other boys. Many years later he recalled the following:

He was living in an orphanage with other refugees, when one day the teacher entered in a state of excitement and proclaimed that King George VI was coming. All the children were ordered to their room to put on their best shorts and scrub their faces and knees in preparation for their meeting with the king.

Along with all the other residents of the street, the school children turned out on the pavement and there was a great sense of anticipation. However as the other spectators were aware, the 'meeting with the king' was not quite as the children had imagined. Instead they were merely part of the welcoming party as the king's fancy car turned the corner and proceeded down the street.

Nonetheless the children joined in the cheering and flag waving as the car passed them at a processional pace. However, Rabbi Weiss, recounting the story explained that for the boy standing next to him in line simply watching was not enough and he broke ranks and proceeded to chase the car down the road. When he reached the vehicle which was still at processional pace he began banging on the boot with all his might, when finally the car stopped and lo and behold the door opened and the boy stood face to face with the king.

King George asked what was the problem and the boy explained that he had been told he would meet the king and very much wanted to thank him for having brought him to this country and rescued him from Europe. “However”, continued the boy, “you see, I'm terribly lonely as my parents are still over there.” The king responded by asking the boys name, the name of his parents and where he was from. He thanked him and bid him on his way back to the rest of the children.

The boy was sure he would be severely punished for his actions but surprisingly the school did not make anything of the incident. Until a few weeks later the headmaster summoned the boy to his office, to which the boy was sure he was to be reprimanded. The headmaster wished to talk to him about the incident that had taken place but instead of punishment he explained that the boy had made quite an impression upon the king. So much so in fact that King George had sent a gift.

With that the headmaster opened the side door to the office and standing there waiting was the boy's parents.

Rabbi Weiss added that for the past 60 years he has asked himself, “why did I just stand there watching like everyone else? Why did I not seize the moment and chase the king? Maybe if I had I might have seen my parents again and not lost them to the gas chambers...”

Hashem is Close By

We have just entered the month of Elul – a month of closeness to Hashem. The famous expression of the Alter Rebbe (ליקוטי תורה פ׳ ראה) is already on our lips and in our hearts – המלך בשדה – The King, Hashem, is in the field. He is not yet in the palace, and He is more accessible than any other time.

The Navi (Yeshayahu 55:6) tells us: דִּרְשׁוּ ה׳ בְּהִמָּצְאוֹ – Seek Hashem while He may be found, קְרָאֻהוּ בִּהְיוֹתוֹ קָרוֹב – Call upon Him while He is near.

Chazal (יבמות קה א׳) explain:

יָחִיד אֵימַת? אָמַר רַב נַחְמָן אָמַר רַבָּה בַּר אֲבוּהּ: אֵלּוּ עֲשָׂרָה יָמִים שֶׁבֵּין רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לְיוֹם הַכִּפּוּרִים.

For an individual, when is the time that God is close to him? Rav Nachman said that Rabba bar Avuh said: These are the ten days that are between Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur.

But the Hafla'ah (Rabbi Pinchas HaLevi Horowitz – פנים יפות פ׳ אחרי) adds: Chazal are telling us that “When he may be found – בְּהִמָּצְאוֹ” is the Yamim Noraim, but when is the time of בִּהְיוֹתוֹ קָרוֹב? When is Hashem is closest? That happens in the month of Elul.

The special nature of Elul as a time for connection with Hashem is well known as the acronym for this month: “אני לדודי ודודי לי – I am for my Beloved and my Beloved is for me”. But this is not simply an acronym, there is real Avoda to be done, and there are even Halachik implications:

The Maharil (אות ל״ג) writes that, as opposed to a regular Shabbos or Yom Tov, one is not allowed to “take in” Rosh HaShana early. We need to wait until nightfall to begin Maariv. The reason for this, he explains, is that the moment that we say “מקדש ישראל ויום הזיכרון” we have transformed the moment from Elul – which is Rachamim, to Rosh Hashana – a day of judgement.

To that end, so as to ensure we are not losing the opportunity, we need to understand the nature, the obligation and lifestyle of אני לדודי ודודי לי that Elul prescribes.

Making it Real

In the simplest and most profound way, the Avoda of Elul is expressed in our Parsha: תָּמִים תִּהְיֶה עִם ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ – You should be wholehearted/wholesome with Hashem.

Rashi explains that our attitude towards Hashem determines our relationship; how much Hashem is with us:

הִתְהַלֵּךְ עִמּוֹ בִתְמִימוּת, וּתְצַפֶּה לוֹ, וְלֹא תַחֲקֹר אַחַר הָעֲתִידוֹת, אֶלָּא כָּל מַה שֶּׁיָּבֹא עָלֶיךָ קַבֵּל בִּתְמִימוּת וְאָז תִּהְיֶה עִמּוֹ וּלְחֶלְקוֹ:

Walk before Him whole-heartedly, put your hope in Him and do not attempt to investigate the future, but whatever it may be that comes upon you, accept it whole-heartedly. Then you will be with Hashem and become His portion.

How do we live whole-heartedly with Hashem? What does that entail? Perhaps we could illustrate with a story (שיח שרפי קדש ח״ב אות רס״ג):

It once happened that the Yid HaKadosh of Pshischa was dangerously ill. The town came together to pray for their Rebbe, and declared a day of fasting, tzedaka and tefillah for his recovery.

That morning, a simple Jewish traveller arrived in Pshischa, exhausted and famished. He knocked on the door of the local tavern looking for food, a stiff drink and a bed to rest on. To his shock and horror, he was informed that no such request would be honored. No-one was available to serve him, and the entire town was fasting that day.

“Fasting?! Why?!”

They explained to him the dire condition of the Rebbe, and his need for Divine Mercy. At this point, the traveller looked up to the Heavens and cried:

“Master of the Universe! Please help and heal the Yid HaKadosh so that I can get myself something to drink!”

When the Rebbe eventually recovered, he explained that the most powerful tefilla offered for his Refuah was that of the thirsty traveller. It was simple, honest and had no agenda. That tefilla was the epitome of תָּמִים תִּהְיֶה – a wholesome relationship with Hashem.

Our Avoda this Elul, the time of אני לדודי ודודי לי – is to understand that Hashem is not foreign to us. He is right here; not even a phone call away. The more we make Him part our lives, the more He is with us.

He's waiting for us to call out, to run down the street, to knock on the door of His car, and say “HaMelech BaSadeh – please give us everything we need; for us, for our families, for our community, for Klal Yisrael and the world.

#ראה#תשפג

Every year when the month of Elul arrived, the Rav of Yerushalayim, Rav Tzvi Pesach Frank, used to relate a childhood memory from when he was still living in the city of Kovno. Rav Yisrael Salanter was also a resident of Kovno, and Rav Tzvi Pesach retained a vivid memory about Rav Yisrael one Elul when he was eight years old.

A sign had been posted in the main shul of Kovno that Rav Yisrael Salanter would be giving a drasha in the afternoon of Shabbos Mevarchim Elul.

“I went to shul at the designated time,” said Rav Tzvi Pesach, “and I couldn't find a place to sit. With the innocence of a child, I decided to sit on the steps leading up to the aron kodesh. A few minutes later, Rav Yisrael entered the shul and walked past the aron kodesh to speak. He called out, ‘Rabbosai, we have already bentched Chodesh Elul.'”

“At the moment that Rav Yisrael cried out the word “Elul”, he fainted from the awesomeness of the month, and as he fell, he landed on top of me. Everybody in the shul stood up in shock, and brought water to revive Rav Yisrael from his faint.”

Rav Tzvi Pesach added, “I was only a boy of eight when this happened, but since that day, I have felt the weight of Rav Yisrael Salanter's Elul.”

Every year on Shabbos Mevorchim Elul, I come back to this story, hoping to pick up just a little of that experience. It's not the intensity and dedication that draws me, but the feeling of “this is real; this is meaningful.”

Our Elul experience quite a distance from those palpable overwhelming emotions. Of course, we also work to rededicate, refocus and refine ourselves; but somehow we are often falling very short of feeling anything, and even the fleeing highs of inspiration seem short lived.

The solution to this problem, however, might be hiding in an unlikely place. The Torah, this Shabbos instructs Klal Yisrael to eradicate Avoda Zara from Eretz Yisrael:

וְנִתַּצְתֶּם אֶת־מִזְבְּחֹתָם וְשִׁבַּרְתֶּם אֶת־מַצֵּבֹתָם... לֹא־תַעֲשׂוּן כֵּן לַה׳ אֱלֹהֵיכֶם Tear down their altars, smash their pillars, put their sacred posts to the fire, and cut down the images of their gods, obliterating their name from that site. Do not do this to Hashem your God.

The end of the Pasuk is bizarre: “Do not do this to Hashem your God.” Of course not! Why would any think that we should do this to Hashem?

In a piercing insight, R' Tzvi Elimelech of Dinov (אגרא דכלה ראה ג׳) notes that the Torah is telling us the deepest form of destruction – the one we so desperately need to avoid: לֹא־תַעֲשׂוּן כֵּן לַה׳ – Don't “Yes” (כֵּן) Hashem.

We've all been “yessed” at some point. Sometimes by a parent, a child or a spouse. I dare say that we're all probably guilty of it as well. It's that moment when someone comes to you exasperated, looking for care, concern and validation, and we answer with “yes dear.” It's painfully and frustratingly dismissive. In one “yes” we manage to convey the full force of: “I'll do the thing you want, but it's annoying. And I don't want to talk to you about it, because it's not important to me. And the fact that this is important to you is your problem.”

That's the greatest destruction possible. It rips apart relationships and friendships while maintaining the guise of dedication. It drives a wedge between our mind, heart and actions, while we adamantly insist that we are doing all we can. Be beneath the surface, we know it's lip service.

Moshe Rabbeinu is begging us: You should destroy the Avoda Zara in Eretz Yisrael, but don't destroy your relationship with Hashem.

Do we ever ״Yes״ Hashem?

We have a laundry list of mitzvos, obligations, schedules and sedorim. We think to ourselves: “if I get this done, Hashem will leave me alone. He'll give me what I need and stop bothering me.” It's possible for a person to be engaged in Torah and mitzvos all day and, Chas V'Shalom, still be engaged in destroying Hashem's presence in their lives.

It's also possible for a person to achieve the opposite. All it takes is a single moment of speaking to Hashem, learning His Torah or doing a Mitzvah with gratitude and love. It requires living as a Jew because we want to; a relationship with Hashem that is conscious and emotional, not simply transactional.

Hashem is, so to speak, reaching out to us in Elul saying “I know you're doing as much as you can. You're good, you're dedicated and I love you, I care about you. But please, can we just talk?”

Our Avoda this Shabbos is to find the space and place within our Torah and Mitzvos to recultivate meaning, purpose and our shared vision.

#עקב#תשפג

One cold winter day, the Tzadik of Yerushalaim, Rabbi Aryeh Levin was walking outside when he noticed the boys from his Yeshiva playing outside. Towards the end of the game, they ran over to a caretaker, each one buying a cup of hot tea. All but one boy.

Reb Aryeh walked over to the boy, and asked why he wasn’t getting a tea. “Rebbi,” he exclaimed loudly, “I hate tea!”

Reb Aryeh nodded his head slowly and smiled. He walked over to the caretaker, and taking a few coins out of his pocket, he instructed the caretaker to bring a cup over the boy, who, to the amazement of the caretaker, drank it immediately.

The bewildered caretaker turned to Reb Aryeh “The boy said he hated tea.”

“Yes, he did say that” said the Rabbi. “But if only you would have heard him, you would have known that he was really saying “I’m cold and I’m thirsty and I have no money to buy tea. And I’m too embarrassed to ask my friends. So I’ll say that I hate tea instead.””

“My dear friend,” Reb Ayreh continued, “You cannot just listen with your ears...״

The Torah tells us this Shabbos that listening begins with the ears, but doesn't end there:

וְהָיָה עֵקֶב תִּשְׁמְעוּן... (Literally) If your heels will listen

Of course, the common translation of this phrase is that “as a result of listening, Hashem will bless you”... But the simple reading of the Pasuk is telling us something quite different: If “our heels would listen”, then Hashem will shower us with bracha.

Reb Shalom Ber of Lubavitch once told a story explaining this literal translation (A Treasury of Chassidic Tales pg. 498):

“When Reb Menachem Mendel of Lubavitch – later to become the Tzemach Tzedek – was a little boy his grandfather, The Alter Rebbe, examined him on the Chumash which he had recently begun to study. They came to the pasuk עקב אשר שמע אברהם בקולי 'Because (eikev) Avraham listened to My voice.'

Asked to explain it, the child said; “Avraham heard God's command even with his “eikev,” his heel!' [As if to say: So utterly permeated was his whole body with an awareness of the divine spark that animated it, that with his very eikev (heel) Avraham listened to My voice'!]

The grandfather, Reb Shneur Zalman of Liadi, was more than pleased with this answer, and said: 'In fact we find this very command in another verse – וְהָיָה עֵקֶב תִּשְׁמְעוּן (literally: 'And it shall come to pass that if you listen, then as a result ... '. This verse tells us that we should strive to attain a level at which our hells should listen – that even our heel should hear God's command and hasten to fulfill it!'”

Listening is not simply a process by which we absorb information. It's a process of being transformed by the information we encounter.

The need to listen with our whole selves is the goal of Talmud Torah. But it's also essential when listening to each other, and it's just as important when listening to our own needs.

When I started running, the best advice I received was to “listen to my body”. I was told “Pay close attention to how you feel, when you feel differently and analyze the actions and habits that preceded this feeling.” I've been working on doing so ever since. But itequires constant consciousness, questioning how I'm feeling and what it is that made me feel that way.

In every area of life, we ignore the subtleties of the messages around us at our own peril. So much illness, pain and injury could be avoided by listening to the quiet early warning signs in our bodies, families and careers.

But even when we are listening carefully, these critical and soft sounds are not easily heard over the noise echoing in the world around us. So the Yetzer Hara convinces us to focus only on that which is loudest and largest, ignoring the small details that might hold the keys to our future success and happiness.

How can we possibly contend with it?

Practically speaking, there are two ways to ensure that we get better at listening. We can either strain our ears to hear over the noise, or perhaps, a better way is simply to turn down the volume, or move to a quieter spot.

There was a moment in the middle of COVID that someone approached me looking for some assistance on how to deal with his growing anxiety. I asked him what the problem was, to which he explained all of his concerns about the State of the Union and the future of the USA. He confided that it was becoming clear to him that the political damage of COVID would irrevocably lead the world to to a path of violence and starvation. With all of this, he was struggling to sleep at night.

I asked him how his kids were doing. Were they healthy? Were they making it through zoom-school ok? How was his marriage? What about his parnassah?

To all of this, he told me that it was going well. In some cases, even better than before.

“This sounds amazing” I said. “Baruch Hashem you guys are doing so well. I don't understand what the problem is.”

He repeated his concerns about the world and the future of humanity. At this point I asked him simply what might happen if he deleted his news apps and stopped doom-scrolling through social media. He chuckled nervously and agreed, “Rabbi, I think most of these problems would go away...”

Hashem should help us to get better at listening. But at the very least, He should bless us to turn down the noise.

This Shabbos is one of comfort – Shabbos Nachamu, so named for the opening words of the Haftarah: נַחֲמוּ נַחֲמוּ עַמִּי – The Navi is instructing us to be comforted in the wake of the devastation of Tisha B’av. But what is this comfort? What are we supposed to feel?

“Making someone comfortable” means something very different when you hear it in a nursing home. There, the sadness of comfort becomes very real. I can still vividly recall the first time I asked what what “making him comfortable” meant, and since that day, I can no longer feel comfortable with being comfortable.

Comfort, as we know it, is a fairly recent consideration of humanity. For most of our history, life was decidedly uncomfortable. Heat and cold were aspect of nature to contend with, to mitigate if possible. Sickness, ailments, pain and aging, were parts of life.

But in the past century, we have moved beyond mitigating these discomforts. Indeed, with the wonders of modern science and technology, we have all but eradicated the major discomforts of our ancestors. And now comfort reigns supreme. Comfortable beds, shoes, clothes, seats, cars, shuls, schools and couches.

This is a good thing. Without the constant barrage of daily frustration, we now have the time, headspace, and wherewithal to devote ourselves to loftier pursuits on both personal and national levels. Right?

Right?

But if we’re honest, we know know that’s not true.

A number of years ago, a close friend of mine told me the story of his grandmother, a Holocaust survivor who made her way to the United States. With the characteristic perseverance of a woman who would not allow Hitler to win, and despite her poverty, she raised her children with to value life, learning, Torah and the Jewish people.

At some point in the mid sixties, after a number of a years, saving penny by penny, she had finally saved up enough to buy an electric washing machine. On that day, she called her children together and told them, “Now that I no longer need to spend all day at home – we’re going to the library. If we have free time, it’s to be used for learning.”

I dare say that we don’t live that way. I’ve often joked to my Talmidim that if aliens from outer-space would land on earth, they’d see us carrying these glass/plastic rectangular slabs in our pockets. They’ll ask us “what are those?” And we’ll respond “These are smart phones. (Oooooh!) They give us the ability to connect to our friends, and families, and almost anyone on the planet. With these marvelous devices we can access all of human knowledge. We can use them to learn skills, languages, and art.” “Amazing,” they will say. “And what do you all use them for?” “Netflix, Lashon Hara and memes...”

It's a frustrating truth to admit, but we should be asking ourselves: Why do we live our lives with such cavalier disregard for our own values?

We could explain it by a simple lack of commitment, but I think there is more going on here. The constant barrage of influences, celebrities and edutainers have convinced us that the greatest values of our generation is the all impossible goal of achieving a successful and comfortable life. We chase after independence, freedom and the absence of pain as an inherent value.

Aside from the harsh truth that these dreams are often a facade, we know that even if we do manage to emulate these lifestyles, there is still no guarantee that our lives will be pain-free. Regardless, such aspirations are not the meaning of comfort in the Torah.

Rashi (בראשית ו:ו) tells us the meaning of the word נחמה does not mean the removal of pain. Instead, he writes:

נהפכה מחשבתו ... וכן כל לשון ניחום שבמקרא לשון נמלך מה לעשות

A change of mind and perspective... Every נחמה mentioned in the Torah means a reevaluation of what to do now.

Nechama is an invitation to look at ourselves, the world and our circumstances with a fresh perspective. Rather than becoming stuck in our pain, or seeking to avoid it, Nechama grants the possibility of transcending it.

This is true on a national level as well as on a personal level.

Moshe Rabbeinu tells each of us this Shabbos: וְאַתֶּם הַדְּבֵקִים בַּה׳ אֱלֹקיכֶם, You, who stick to Hashem your God, חַיִּים כֻּלְּכֶם הַיּוֹם, are all alive today.

Rabbi Moshe Yechiel Epstein, the Ozharover Rebbe explains this strange phrase (באר משה – דברים עמ׳ נג):

The Yetzer Hara tries to persuade us that there is no way for us, regular people, to achieve closeness to Hashem in this world. After all, we are bound by the needs and pressures of the body. Any attempt is ultimately futile and predestined to fail. Perhaps there are great tzadikim who can overcome their desires and natural inclinations – but that's certainly not me.

“Not so”, says Moshe Rabbeinu. “You – everyone – can, and must, connect to Hashem. This is the meaning of your life today, here, now, in this world, in this moment.”

In the deepest sense, Moshe Rabbeinu is talking is us when we are feeling most stuck. He tells us that life itself is earned, discovered and enjoyed in the pursuit of growth and Godliness. It is achieved when we are brave enough to face discomfort head on and push ourselves to become better today.

Our desire for comfort does bring us a mixture of resilience and acceptance. But at it’s core, this kind of comfort is about resignation and a loss of sensitivity. We paper over our pain by saying “it doesn't matter anyway.”

Nechama, on the other hand profoundly and boldly demands responsiveness and responsibility. Nechama asks us to live with the tension of navigating a broken world, while never capitulating to a broken reality. Or in the words of Dylan Thomas, Nechama asks us to “Rage against the dying of the light.”

In Oros HaTechiyah (פרק ה׳) Rav Kook explains that there really is no other way. Our basic nature, as Jews, demands that we live up to our potential:

גדולים אנחנו וגדולות הנה משוגותינו ובשביל כך גדולות הן צרותינו, וגדולים גם תנחומותינו

We are so great and therefore our meshugasim (our insanities) are great as well. And because of this, our pain is great. Just imagine how great will be our eventual Nechama...

Hashem has given our generation a level of material comfort that humanity has never seen before, and we dare not waste it on “making ourselves comfortable.” Tisha B’av should leave us with deep discomfort, but not despair. Hashem should help us to begin changing our reality. This the true meaning of Shabbos Nachamu: Be comforted with the knowledge that you can fix this. But please, don't get comfortable.