Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

In the years when pirates would roam the seas preying off unsuspecting merchant ships, people learned to fear men wearing an eye patch. Today we assume that this image was due to pirates losing eyes in fights, but recent ophthalmological research yields another answer:

Dr. Jim Sheedy, a doctor of vision science and director of the Vision Performance Institute at Oregon's Pacific University explains:

The eyes adapt quickly when going to the light—emerging from a tunnel into the sun, say—but going to the dark “requires the regeneration of photo pigments, and that takes some time to reach full dark-adaptation.” Adjusting to the dim light next to your bed should only take seconds. But when going from bright light to maximum darkness, studies have shown, eye sensitivity continues to change for up to 25 minutes.

Pirates would historically wear eye patches to ensure that one of their eyes was not exposed to light. That way, when they moved quickly from the sunshine to below the deck, from sunlight to near total darkness, they would uncover the “dark eye”, and not need to wait for their vision to acclimate to the darker environment – thus giving them an advantage over their victims.

This phenomenon can be observed in the spiritual world too. Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak Horowitz, the Chozeh of Lublin, was known to have the ability to “see” more than what meets the eye. Chassidim tell many stories of his capacity to discern a person's history, motives and thoughts simply from glancing at their face. His many followers were often nervous of visiting their rebbe, for fear that he would read them like a book, peering into the recesses of their souls.

It happened once, that the chassidim asked their Rebbe – how is it that he possessed such tremendous insight and vision? The Rebbe responded that it was no supernatural gift. “When I was younger, he explained, I would walk through the market place with my eyes covered so as not to see anything that I shouldn't. I can see what your cannot because eyes are simply more sensitive than yours.”

There's an uncomfortable question which researchers in psychology have been attempting to address for decades: What is the effect of repeatedly exposing ourselves to images of violence, cruelty, negativity and promiscuity on screens large and small?

The effects of personally experiencing something shocking or horrifying can result in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD. This condition is well known and documented – it can severely hinder a person’s ability to function in a normal and healthy way.

But what of our consumption of bite-size trauma? Dr Jessica Hamblen from the VA writes that:

Research generally finds an association between watching media coverage of traumatic events and stress symptoms. However, most studies cannot answer the important question of whether watching television of the event makes people worse or if people who have more severe stress reactions are the ones who choose to watch more television coverage of the event.

Of course, exposing people in controlled experiments is unethical – so research is inconclusive.

If we're honest with ourselves, we know that once we've seen something or heard something, it's hard to un-see or un-hear it. As our consumption of media becomes both more immersive and more frequent, we are risking our ability to think and dream without the intrusions. But perhaps the most significant damage is the dulling of our sensitivities – the more we see, the less we feel about anything.

This insight is expressed in a strange debate of translation in our parsha:

Bilaam refers to himself as ”הַגֶּבֶר שְׁתֻם הָעָיִן”. What exactly does this phrase mean? Chazal (סנהדרין ק״ה א) explain: סומא באחת מעיניו היה – He was blind in one of his eyes. The Targum Unkelus, however, renders the phrase as גַּבְרָא דְּשַׁפִּיר חָזֵי – one who sees very well.

It appears that we a contradiction. Was Bilaam endowed with unique visual capacities or was his vision severely limited?

The Ba'al Shem Tov (בלק ד׳) explains: Both are true. Bilaam’s blind eye was the only part of him pure enough to truly see.

וזאת ידוע דלמעלת הנבואה היו צריכין קדושה יתירה, והנה האדם יש לו ה' חושים, חוש הראייה וחוש השמיעה וחוש הטעם וחוש הריח וחוש המישוש, וכנגדן יש לו חמשה חושים רוחניים כמו שכתב (קהלת א׳:ט״ז) ולבי ראה הרבה חכמה, (מלכים א ג׳:ט׳) ונתת לעבדך לב שומע, (ישעיהו י״א:ג׳) והריחו ביראת ה', וכן יתר החושים (כמבואר במדרש רבה קהלת א׳:ט״ז בפסוק דברתי אני עם לבי) וצריך האדם לטהר ולקדש את החושים החיצונים הגשמיים, ועל ידי זה חלה הקדושה על חושים הפנימיים הרוחניים, ותחול עליו רוח הנבואה, אכן בלעם הרשע היה היפך מזה, כי טימא את החושים ההחיצוניים, כמו שאמרו רבותינו ז”ל (סנהדרין דק”ה) שבא על אתונו, ועוד היה מעונן ומנחש ומכשף וקוסם קסמים, והאיך היה יכול לשרות עליו רוח הנבואה, ולא היה זה אפשר מצדו כלל, אבל ההכרח היה עצום מאוד לעשותו נביא,

This, you must know: Achieving prophecy requires heightened Kedusha. Each person has five senses; sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch. Correspondingly, there are five spiritual senses, as we see in Tanach. A heart that sees wisdom (קהלת א׳:ט״ז). A heart which can hear (מלכים א ג׳:ט׳). The ability to smell with fear of Hashem (ישעיהו י״א:ג׳), as well as the other senses. By purifying our physical senses, Kedusha rests on the internal spiritual senses as well. But Bilaam was an unrepentant, habitual sinner. How then could he achieve prophecy at all? Let alone the level of prophecy that rivaled Moshe Rabbeinu?! It must be then, that his prophecy was achieved through his blind eye – the only part of his body which had not been sullied with impurity.

Chazal tell us that while prophecy has ceased in our day, children can still experience it – they are more responsive to the subtleties of the world – they can still hear Hashem’s voice.

In many ways, Judaism’s entire mandate is to bring a person to a point in which their body is attuned to it’s highest purpose: Ratzon Hashem.

When we shield our ears from hearing Lashon Hara, we might become sensitive enough to hear the pain and suffering of someone in need. When we refrain from overeating, we can enjoy the taste of Shabbos without guilt or resentment. Of course, when we keep tabs on what we are watching, avoiding mindless scrolling and damaging content, we train our eyes to see a little further.

All of this is to say that if you are feeling a little desensitized, overexposed, and sullied by the constant assault on our senses, this summer might be a good opportunity to consider a some kind a detox. Hashem should help us to find the “eye-patch” for whichever senses need the protection; with the tefillah that we should get a little closer to each other, and a little better at feeling Hashem in our lives.

I am not a prophet, and I’d like to believe that I am an optimist. But I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t worried about the next few months in the USA.

Mind you, I’m not concerned about who will or wont end up running for president. I am also not so concerned about who will or who not be found guilty of whatever crimes they are accused of. These details are certainly not in my control, and I must confess that I don’t find them particularly interesting.

That said, I am not trying to dissuade you from playing an active role in politics. We owe it to ourselves to get involved in politics in whatever way will be most beneficial to our families, communities and to the USA.

The cause for concern, however, is what US politics have done, and might continue to do, to the unity of Klal Yisrael.

The most recent election cycles have revealed deep divides in the American public, perhaps even irreconcilable differences. Naturally, the Jews on either side of the divide feel strongly about the correctness of their opinions, and feel equally strongly about the incorrectness of those who disagree.

I am well aware that there is little that I, or anyone else, can say or do to change these facts. But I’d like to offer a little perspective, and a few thoughts that might help to preserve Jewish unity in a world that is ever more fragmented.

On Disagreements

In the introduction to Chidushei Sridei Aish, the editor – Rabbi Avraham Abba Weingrot – tells a personal story of his visit to the Bostoner Rebbe, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Horowitz. The Rebbe occupied a unique space in Jewish life. On the one hand he was a staunch traditionalist, but on the other, he opened his heart and home to Jews from all walks of life; providing comfort, advice and conversation without judgment.

Rabbi Weingtot's question was simple: How do we bring Jews back to Yiddishkeit? The Rebbe replied: There is no singular way… But I can offer you the following perspective to building connections:

When the Torah introduces us to Korach, we are treated to his entire Yichus – his family tree. Or rather, almost his entire Yichus, a fact about which Rashi is sensitive.

וַיִּקַּח קֹרַח בֶּן־יִצְהָר בֶּן־קְהָת בֶּן־לֵוִי – Now Korah, son of Izhar son of Kohath son of Levi, took himself…

The missing link, of course, is the next generation: “…The son of Yaakov.”

Rashi explains: The pasuk does not make mention of Levi being “the son of Yaakov”, because he (Yaakov) prayed that his name should not be mentioned in connection with their machlokes.

At first gloss, it appears that Rashi is teaching us that Yaakov Avinu took care to disassociate himself from Korach. He wished to disown this troublesome personality. But removing his name from the list seems performative at best. Everyone knows that Yaakov is the father of Levi; and indeed, Rashi himself notes that in Divrei Hayamim, Yaakov is listed as Korach’s ancestor. What then is the point of the omission here?

The Bostoner Rebbe explained: Yaakov knew that there would be many “Korachs” in the future of Klal Yisrael. There would be many Baalei Machlokes – some with legitimate arguments, and others with egotistical and even nefarious intent. There would be those who would rebel against the Torah, the authority of the Chazal, and even against Moshe Rabbeinu himself. But Yaakov davened that no matter how deep the rebellion might be, it should never reach the core; it should never rip apart the identity of a “Ben Yaakov/Yisrael”.

If we can see beyond the points of disagreements to understand that a Jew is a Jew, no matter what, then we stand a chance at not devolving into resentment and contempt.

How to Stay Ahead

It's important to know what we're fighting against. Animosity is contagious and rage is profitable… so long as you’re a news network or a social media company. If you’re a Yid trying to be an Eved Hashem, it’s worth noting that we are and will be encouraged to be outraged. We will be tempted to view other Jews as working against the best interests of Klal Yisrael, and we will feel charged to fight against this destruction at all costs. It is encumbered upon us to resist these urges.

Resisting emotional urges, however, is insufficient. So I’m going to recommend taking proactive steps now to inoculate yourself and your family from the waves of hatred that are coming our way. Here are a few suggestions:

1. Practice empathy and humility actively. We should take the time to upgrade our Ahavas Yisrael. To see the good in others is not always easy or obvious; but it is a skill that we can get better at. Mori V’Rabbi, Rav Blachman told me that Rav Simcha Zissel Brodie once gave him the assignment to get onto a Jerusalem bus at rush hour, and sit there until he had observed and learned something from each and every passenger. When we train ourselves to think of others as sources of wisdom, we are far less likely to act dismissively and disparagingly.

2. Make time to Learn and work on Mussar and Middos. The goal of mussar work is ultimately to train our character to become sensitive to needs to of others and vehicles through which Hashem’s transcendent presence can be felt in the world. It’s the process of practicing “doing right” rather than “being right.” In this vein, the rage and rhetoric of politics should be seen as a training ground for honing our Middos; specifically, holding onto the dialectic of “this is my opinion”, and “I still love you, even though you disagree.”Specifically, whenever we feel the urge to get upset with someone else, we could pause and ask “is this emotion truly the best expression of the person I am trying to become.”

3. Tell the Right Stories to Yourself and Your Children. There’s a well known practice to tell stories of Tzadikim on Motzei Shabbos. This is not exclusively a Chaddishe minhag – the custom prevailed in Brisk and in the home of the Chasam Sofer as well. In our family, it’s become a staple every week following Havdalah, and my kids look forward to it. There are many mystical reasons for telling stories of tzadikim, but perhaps the most profound purpose is to establish firmly: Who are our heroes? What are our values? Politics has a way of making some or another candidate the central focus of our lives – and that’s a tragedy. We have far better stories to tell, far more important values to inculcate into ourselves and educate to our children.

All of this is to say, that we can and should resist the urge to become enraged. We should fight the urge to follow every detail of every story, and consider putting that time and attention into the more consequential pursuits of our lives. At the very least, we need to avoid the temptation to view other Jews are anything other than our brothers and sisters.

The Tefillah of Yaakov – ever for Korach! – should certainly apply to each other. That Hashem should help us to see how each and every Jew is infinitely connected, every Jew is a child of Yaakov Avinu.

“Rabbi, where am I going wrong?” That was the beginning of our second follow-up conversation. (Shared here with permission.)

It all began when he came to speak about his struggles with food. He described all of the usual suspects: over-eating, guilt, indulgence, Shabbos and Yom Tov.

For better or worse, I have some experience in these areas. Baruch Hashem, I've had some success, and this fellow wanted to understand what had worked for me.

We began by discussing the nature of this Yetzer Hara, noting that all such desires are similar. The same principles that enable us to control of our desire to overeat can also be used to make progress in other areas. Ultimately the mental-muscle that we are trying to develop is self-control. But that's never the whole story, because, as we all know will power can only get us so far.

The major work comes in learning about ourselves, and creating healthy habits. We need to start noting our triggers (stress, anxiety, exhaustion etc...) and actively making changes so as to avoid the spaces, places and circumstances where we fall into our most negative habits.

We spoke about personal accountability and the importance of resisting the urge to blame others for our failures.

Most importantly, we spoke about how to contend with failure, and the need to practice forgiveness. Long term, this is the area in which we are most likely to trip up. Everyone is convinced that they will be able to conquer their Yetzer Hara – until the first time that we fail.

In that moment, all bets are off. We risk spiraling into patterns of guilt, hopelessness and negativity. All of this leads to further diminishing of our will-power and self confidence. The more we fail, the more difficult it is to get up again.

To this end, as much as we are working on our challenges, we need to be working just as hard on self-compassion and forgiveness. Shlomo HaMelech in his wisdom summarizes the roller coaster of growth and failure in one Pasuk (משלי כד:טו):

כִּי שֶׁבַע יִפּוֹל צַדִּיק וָקָם -Tzadikim fall seven times, and (still) get up.

The Jew that I was speaking to was well aware of all of these points. He was ready to do the work, and ready to pick himself up again when he failed...

But weeks has gone by; weeks of struggling, ups and downs, and yet, he felt that no progress had been made. The numbers on the scale showed little change, and more importantly, he felt that he had not developed any greater self control.

He told me that he had begun to track his caloric intake. He pulled out his phone and showed me the app. His records were detailed and accurate, which is when he looked at me exasperated and said “Rabbi, where am I going wrong?”

It was then that I noticed something curious. Every few days, there was nothing recorded in his app. I asked him what that was about. He told me with a strange mix of sheepishness and pride that those were the days that he had failed; “but” he added quickly “I never let it get me down! The next day, I made sure to get back on track!”

That was the missing link. In that moment we both knew that he was suffering from toxic positivity.

A positive mindset ensures that we can get over failure and recommit ourselves to our goals. Toxic positivity, on the other hand, is an attempt to pretend that failure never happened. In fear and concern for getting trapped in our failures, there is a Yetzer Hara that convinces us not to think about it at all. “Hashem loves me no matter what! I'll do better next time.”

This attitude is as admirable as it is destructive. Forgiving ourselves is essential to growth; but we can only forgive ourselves if we acknowledge our shortcomings, analyze the causes and commit to implementing meaningful change.

Toxic positivity is a new(ish) term, but the challenge of dealing with the deep discomfort that we feel when working through our problems is as old as humanity. Indeed, it plays a central role in our Parsha.

In the aftermath of the Meraglim, Moshe announces that tragically, the entire generation is doomed to perish in the desert. The had spurned the Land of Israel, and in turn, they would not be able to enter it.

As they heard the news the nation wept. They could not accept that their dream since Yetzias Mitzraim would never be realized. A group of soldiers arose early the next morning, they scaled the cliff overlooking the Land of Israel and declared:

הִנֶּנּוּ וְעָלִינוּ אֶל־הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר־אָמַר ה' כִּי חָטָאנוּ -“We are prepared to go up to the place that Hashem has spoken of, for we have sinned!”

But Moshe cautioned them:

וְהִוא לֹא תִצְלָח. אַל־תַּעֲלוּ כִּי אֵין ה׳ בְּקִרְבְּכֶם... -This will not succeed. Do not go up, Hashem is not in your midst.

The endeavor did end well. Those Jews went defiantly to battle, while Moshe and the rest of Klal Yisrael remained in the camp. The armies of Amelek descended upon the fighters and crushed them. Forever more, they are known as the Ma'apilim – the defiant ones.

But there is something strange about this story. These Jews should be viewed as heroes and role models! Once they heard the terrible and devastating curse of the Meraglim, they committed to fixing it. “We do want to enter Eretz Yisrael! We will fight for it with Mesiras Nefesh!” Not only were they willing to charge into battle, but they did Teshuva: כִּי חָטָאנוּ – we were wrong!

Why did Hashem not accept the Teshuva of these brave souls? Why did Moshe not advocate for them? Why did Hashem abandon them to the enemies?

Thirty-eight years later, when Moshe Rabbeinu relates this story to the next generation, the Alshich (דברים א׳:מ״א) explains the depth of the issue:

You imagined that it would be simple to fix the problem. You should have cried, and prayed, and pleaded with Hashem. But instead, you said simple declared כִּי חָטָאנוּ – we messed up. This is not Teshuva. There was no humbling, no acquiescence nor acknowledgement as would be fitting for one who is doing Teshuva in earnest.

This “Teshuva” was the ancient equivalent of the modern fake-apology: “My bad.” It's the Teshuva of a one kid yelling “I said I was sorry!”, while still holding their sibling's toy (and the sibling is crying on the floor.) This is the Teshuva of “I don't really want to deal with it or even think about it. I'm annoyed that this has gotten in the way of life, and I wish it would all go away.”

There is no room for real growth without real regret.

The Sfas Emes (שלח תרנ”ג) explains even deeper, that toxic positivity hinders our capacity for actual positivity. These Ma'apilim didn't want to face the root of their failure, and thus powered on with an attitude of “we'll succeed or we'll die trying,” which is tragically, exactly what happened.

At this point we should ask what was the root cause of all the failure in the desert? Each event seems so different, yet there is a single thread that connects them all from the Misonnenim to the Meraglim and the Ma'apilim. The Chidushei HaRim explains: רק כל החטא הי' מה שחשבו שהוא לרעתם – Their sin was in thinking that the entire process was to their detriment; that Hashem wasn't doing this for their ultimate benefit.

Perhaps, we could argue, they never fully recovered from the abuse of their Egyptians overlords. They never graduated from slaves to children; and could never offer themselves compassion when they struggled. In turn, they never granted Hashem the benefit of the doubt when He challenged them.

In their pain and anguish, they thought Hashem was being cruel to them. They imagined that when life got tough, it was because they deserved to be punished. Thus, the root of their sins was ultimately their inability to see that all of their challenges were really Chasdei Hashem.

If we look at the pesukim carefully, we find that the Ma'apilim didn't ever do Teshuva for thinking that Hashem hated them. They simply dug in deeper and said “we must try harder to impress Him! We must convince Him that even if Eretz Yisrael is terrifying, we will fight for it!” There is no greater recipe for failure. When Moshe Rabbeinu told them not to go, they saw this too as further encouragement: “We must prove ourselves!”

There is profundity and nuance in the tragedies of our parsha. The Torah is teaching us that the resilience offered by toxic positivity is barely even a thin veil for the negativity it tries to conceal. In truth, Hashem wants us to be able to face our failures bravely, and know that the challenges that we have are part of the process of growth. Of course, we should never get stuck in them, but we ignore them at our own great peril.

There is, however, a very simple fix to all of this, and I suggested it to the Yid with the food journalling app: Simply begin recording everything – the good days and the challenging ones. Take note of them. Ask the tough questions: Why did I fail today? What can I do better next time? Ask Hashem to help you understand and succeed. And then try again.

“Baruch Hashem”, he tells me, “things are going a lot better.”

That's all Hashem is looking for from us: To face our failures head on, know that it's all part of His process, and ask Him for help.

No doubt, some of you have you experimented with ChatGPT. If you haven't yet, I'd recommend it. It's exhilarating, terrifying, impressive, confusing and humbling all at the same time. These emotions and reactions will no doubt increase as our Artificial Intelligence technology careens forwards into an unknown future.

With all of the hype and hysteria, it's hard to know how far this will go. It's hard to know whether this is the beginning of a new era of prosperity for humanity, or perhaps the beginning of our demise. Or maybe, the hype is entirely unwarranted, and AI will soon reveal itself to be little more than an impressive party-trick.

However it might turn out, the questions it raises now are worth considering. A few weeks ago, one of my Talmidim asked if I thought that there was still any reason to practice English composition. “Now that ChatGPT can write better than I can, why should I have to write essays in schools?!”

This question is more than a student trying to get out of doing homework; the question is meaningful, and the consequences of our approaches here will have major ramifications. I personally wondered if AI will be able to replace me in answering Halchik questions.

This week, I asked ChatGPT: “Could you act as a Rabbi and offer a halachik response?” It took less than five seconds to produce the following reply:

Yes, I can provide general information and explanations of halachic principles based on the knowledge I have been trained on. However, please keep in mind that I am an AI language model and should not be considered a substitute for a qualified human authority, such as a rabbi, when it comes to making halachic decisions. Halachic rulings require consideration of specific circumstances, personal factors, and the application of nuanced legal reasoning, which are best addressed by a knowledgeable and experienced human rabbi. If you have a specific halachic question, I can try my best to provide relevant information, but I strongly encourage you to consult with a trusted rabbi for a comprehensive and authoritative response.

I followed up with a classic Kashrus question, and asked if I could put cheese on pasta which was cooked in a meat pot, to which the AI responded:

In the specific scenario you described, where you cooked pasta in a meat pot, it would generally be advisable to refrain from adding cheese to that pasta. Since the pot was used for cooking meat, it is considered to have absorbed meat flavors, and adding cheese to the pasta could be seen as mixing meat and dairy.

However, there are some leniencies and exceptions in certain cases. One such exception is the concept of “nat bar nat” (lit. “the taste of the taste”). According to this concept, if the pot was completely clean and the pasta was cooked in water without any meat residue or flavor, some authorities allow adding cheese to the cooked pasta. This is because the taste of the meat that may have been absorbed by the pot would be considered so diluted and minimal that it is deemed insignificant.

It's important to note that individual practices and customs may vary within Jewish communities, and some individuals may follow stricter guidelines regarding the separation of meat and dairy. To obtain a definitive halachic ruling for your specific situation, I recommend consulting with a qualified rabbi who is familiar with your personal circumstances and can provide guidance based on your specific dietary practices and community norms.

That’s pretty good. But let’s take a step back, and a deep breath, and realize that ChatGPT is still in its infancy. This particular AI has been extensively trained and censured to ensure that it does not impersonate human beings, or take any level of responsibility for human decisions. Of course, that might not always be the case for future AI's in the coming months and years.

Even so, what might our world look like if everyone had instantaneous access to supremely accurate information about everything? What happens if (or when) a perfectly accurate AI is available on phones, in our ears and embedded into our glasses? What would that do to human achievements and accomplishments?

This all seems so new and daunting, until we realize that we've already dealt with this situation – on a national level. Back then, the superhuman intelligence was not a computer plugged into all of human knowledge. It was Moshe Rabbeinu, plugged into a direct line with the Creator of the Universe. Moshe Rabbeinu who was somewhere between man and angel; not requiring food, drink or sleep.

Imagine having any question about Hashem, Halacha, or the nature of reality, and being able to ask it, and get a verified response from Hashem! This literally occurs in our parsha:

As the second Pesach in Jewish history approached, A group of Jews who were impure approached Moshe asking: לָמָּה נִגָּרַע לְבִלְתִּי הַקְרִב אֶת־קָרְבַּן ה׳ בְּמֹעֲדוֹ בְּתוֹךְ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל׃ – Why must we be excluded from bringing Hashem's Korban (Pesach) at its set time with the rest of the nation?”

Moshe's response: עִמְדוּ וְאֶשְׁמְעָה מַה־יְצַוֶּה ה׳ לָכֶם – “Stand by, and let me hear what instructions Hashem gives about you.”

That's incredible. Instantaneous Divine response.

For forty years in the Midbar, there were no Roshei Yeshiva. There was no Mashgiach. There were no Chiddushim and no machlokes in Halacha. All we had was Moshe Rabbeinu with the clearest prophetic vision in all of human history. We had access to everything.

With this in mind, we might ask: What was the point of our lives in the Midbar? We lived in a world where all of our material needs were provided miraculously – food, water, clothing, shelter and protection – all granted freely by Hashem. Surely life was not simply an endeavor to learn more Torah? Moshe Rabbeinu provided all the answers.

At this point, we must concede that our assumption of purpose is flawed. If we conflate human purpose with human utility, then we might indeed find ourselves outpaced by AI and technology in the near future. But we're not here to be useful for the sake of being useful – we're here to elevate ourselves.

The Torah tells us that Hashem places Adam in Gan Eden לעבדה ולשמרה – To work and guard it. What is this “it” that is the object of this work and safeguarding?

The Seforno (בראשית ב׳:ט״ו) explains:

לעבדה – לעבוד את נשמת חיים To work it: ie. To perfect his own personality.

Self improvement is not a drasha. It's the P'shat of the purpose of humanity since our Creation. The world that Hashem has placed us in is the training ground for this personal perfection.

The Ohr HaChaim Hakadosh (שם) elaborates:

The entire description of Gan Eden is to serve as an example of a spiritual environment. The Torah wanted to illustrate that just as a physical environment such as earth requires “Avoda” – toil, planting, irrigation, etc. in order to produce man's food supply, and “Shmira” – protection against harmful substances that damage the plants, the same applies to our spiritual development.

No amount of access to knowledge can do the work of transforming ourselves into Godly people. No external intelligence – artificial, supernatural or biological can make a mensch out of person who isn't working on themselves.

All of this is to say that our technology might well be moving us towards a world that has more in common with Adam and Chava in Gan Eden, or Moshe and the Dor HaMidbar, than it does with the shtetl of our great-grandparents. Now, in this arena, Hashem is asking us the question: “If I gave you access to infinite wisdom, unmatched physical comforts and the ability to know right from wrong with the press of button, what will you do with that knowledge and those abilities? What will you do with your life and time?”

Were we to ask this question to Moshe Rabbeinu, I know what he would tell us. Indeed, he tells us this Shabbos:

וּמִי יִתֵּן כָּל־עַם ה' נְבִיאִים כִּי־יִתֵּן ה' אֶת־רוּחוֹ עֲלֵיהֶם

If only all of Hashem's people could become prophets, that Hashem would place his Ruach on them.

Moshe's greatest desire was: “If only I was not the only one... If only every Jew could know, understand and speak to Hashem as I do... What a world that would be!”

The advent of AI might soon force us to reconsider our lives and purpose. But the truth is that we should be doing it already; and if we're not, perhaps it's time we begin.

The Sfas Emes (בהעלותך תרמ״ג) makes the point sharply and succinctly:

וכי הרצון לבוא לעלמא דקשוט בכרס מליאה מש”ס ופוסקים?! רק להיות הלימוד בדחילו ורחימו.

Do you really think that Hashem wants you to arrive at the World of Truth with a belly filled with Shas and Poskim?! He wants our life and learning to be with Love and Fear of Hashem.

In the final week of Halacha Shiur this year, I asked my talmidim for some feedback on which topics they enjoyed, what they felt they learned and what we could've done better.

One of the guys, with perhaps a little too much honesty, told me that he loved all of our discussions. He enjoyed our philosophical conversations, our side tangents and debates. But learning Halacha itself? “Rebbe, it's just a lot of rules. That's so boring.”

It's not a very Rabbinic thing to say, but I empathize with his sentiment. The truth is, there are many parts of Torah and Yiddishkeit that are boring. Though, we should note, boring is a relative emotion. We feel most bored when there is a more exciting alternative activity. The obligation to Daven the same text multiple times daily is boring; and it's made more so by the ever present draw of our screens. Yom Tov is boring, when compared flashy cruises and vacations, and learning Chumash is boring when compared with reading Harry Potter.

Rabbis, Teachers and parents are well aware of this truth: It's getting harder and harder to motivate people to do anything important, meaningful or productive in a world where sitting on a couch doing nothing is designed and engineered to be more exciting.

Our natural instinct here is to attempt to compete, and by all standards we are doing pretty well, all things considered. We prepare and produce exciting Torah programs and classes, leibedik musical Tefillah, and themed shiurim paired with food and drink. We'll try almost anything to enable a temporary escape from the reverie of an entertainment induced semi-coma.

All of this has worked with a modicum of success; a series of incentives that (hopefully) works its way up to more serious commitments.

But it's getting harder. Our attention spans are steadily shrinking as we doom-scroll through social media, and content creators and online algorithms are becoming ever more adept at tailoring our experience to ensure that we stay hooked on their platforms.

Long term, it's hard to imagine that learning Halacha will continue to compete – or even rank as exciting in the coming days and years.

Is there a way to solve the issue? I believe so. But it doesn't involve upping the ante of Torah excitement. Nor does it require draconian measures to withhold technology.

The simplest solution is to realize that to some extent, we've been going about this a little backwards. Sure, there is a purpose in learning and teaching in an enjoyable and engaging manner. Were it not for the love, attention, and excitement of our own teachers and Rabbeim, none of us would want to engage in Torah any further. But perhaps the greatest lesson that we've been failing to educate and practice is that boring is not bad. In many ways, “boring” is the point.

Our culture spends a lot of time promoting excellence, creativity and excitement; but in any endeavor, it's simple, boring competency that is far more accessible, useful and compelling.

In some ways, the single most valuable skill for living a meaningful life is the ability to stick with “boring”, rather than giving up. Consider the road to success in business, art, music, marriage or raising children. The vast majority of the things that we do to create the lives we wish to enjoy, are not exciting. Professional musicians play thousands of hours of chords and scales long before fame and fortune. Athletes drill repetitive skills for years, and Talmidei Chachamim study Halacha.

Rather than viewing boredom as something to cure, perhaps we should be teaching it, encouraging it and practicing it as a skill-set to learn. This is not simply to force people into embracing suffering – far from it. When we focus all of our attention on ensuring that Torah is interesting and exciting, we miss out on developing the skills necessary for competency. There are many teens and adults caught in this trap: Their enjoyment and excitement has resulted in a deep love of Torah, but they cannot make sense of a text independently. Many people love davening, but struggle to navigate through the siddur or the machzor unaided. It's a profoundly frustrating place to be.

But it's not all about dry skills. Sure, embracing the boring is the only way to gain competency and expertise, but paradoxically, it's also the surest way to achieve creativity and meaning.

This point is made clear in the our parsha in the most unambiguous manner: Almost without parallel, parshas Naso is the most repetitive and “boring” parsha in Chumash. On each of the days of the inauguration of the Mishkan, a different Nasi, a Prince, from a different tribe brought their contribution. Each one literally identical to the day before. But rather than listing the gifts of the Nesi'im as “this is what they each brought,” the Torah copies-and-pastes the same paragraph twelve times. Aside from the names of the Nasi and tribe, there is no difference at all in the text.

This seemingly unnecessary repetition is discussed by the Medrashim and Rishonim. The Ramban explains:

כי לכל אחד מהנשיאים עלה במחשבה להביא חנוכה למזבח ושתהיה בזה השיעור Each of the Nesiim brought their offering with a different thought and idea.

Each of them brought exactly the same thing – but their thoughts were quite different.

The Medrash Rabba offers an incredible array of intentions for each part of the gifts. Consider the pasuk: כַּף אַחַת עֲשָׂרָה זָהָב – “one gold ladle of ten golden shekelim.”

Yehuda, the lineage of royalty, brought this gift to symbolize the ten generations from Peretz until David, who were all tzadikim: Ten people in one category. Yissachar who championed the study of Torah thought of the כף (which also means a “hand”) as the “Hand” of Hashem writing the Ten Commandments. Zevulun, the sea-faring tradesmen imbued their gift with thoughts of נהרות ימחאו כף – the rivers clapping their hands (תהילים צ״ח:ח) in awesome celebration of the Presence of Hashem. Reuven's כף harkened back to his moment of bravery; when he saved Yosef's life by telling his brothers “Don't lay a hand on him.”

The Medrash continues in this fashion, and explains each and every detail of each of the gifts.

Rav Simcha Zissel Broide (שם דרך נשא, הביורים יא) writes that the fundamental, underlying principle of the Medrash and the Ramban is that the same act, with a different intention is, in fact, a completely different action: “כל המעשה נחשב מעשה אחר, והמעשים הם כשתי מצוות נפרדות”.

In other words, when the action is identical and boring, the meaning and significance is generated by the person, and not the action alone. Perhaps the highest forms of creativity are found within the limitations rather than by attempting to escape them.

To the casual reader of the Pesukim, the Parsha seems exceedingly repetitive. But to the Nasi and tribe that was actually there, bringing that offering to the Mishkan on their designated day; nothing could be more elevated, exciting or creative. It's the feeling of creating a brand new dish from the same ingredients.

This is the secret sauce to a meaningful existence: Most of life is as boring and as limiting as a blank canvas. But it is specifically from within the boring confines of a blank canvas that the greatest creativity, beauty and purpose arises.

Halacha might well be boring from the outside. But learning it, practicing it, and embracing it is effectively building the foundation upon which we move from being consumers of Jewish life to being producers. Within the confines of rules, restrictions and laws we are obligated to achieve competency, and invited to experience and enjoy creativity.

This is out great Tefillah for the Shabbos after Kabblas HaTorah: ותן חלקנו בתורתך – that Hashem should help each one of us to find our unique place in His Torah.

A number of years ago, there was a boy in Bnei Brak, who unfortunately, left Yiddishkeit and moved in with an irreligious cousin somewhere else in Israel.

As he drifted, his relationship with Torah strained further, and he became engaged to a non-Jewish girl. His irreligious cousin was quite upset, but was unable to convince him to break up the engagement. However, he did convince him that knowing intermarriage would be cutting ties with the Jewish people and with his family, he should at least go home, and tell his parents face to face. He agreed and invited himself home for a Shabbos on “his terms.” His broken hearted parents agreed.

Friday night was spent smoking on the porch and on Shabbos day he left the table to smoke, scrolling on his phone. That Shabbos afternoon his father approached him wistfully, and invited him to join a shiur he was going to, given by Rav Aron Leib Shteinman zt”l.

Much to his father's surprise, the son agreed to go. After the shiur, his father brought him over to Rav Shteinman to say good Shabbos and informed the gadol that unfortunately his son is no longer shomer shabbos. Rav Shteinman looked at him and asked, “How long are you not keeping Shabbos?” The boy answered “Two years”. “And during that time did you ever have a thought of Teshuva? A hirhur teshuva?” “Yes, about four times.” “And how long did the hihur teshuva last each time?” “Approximately 10 minutes.” “Oh, so it comes out that for 40 minutes during the last two years you were in the category of of מָקוֹם שֶׁבַּעֲלֵי תְשׁוּבָה עוֹמְדִין — צַדִּיקִים גְּמוּרִים אֵינָם עוֹמְדִין – In the place where Baalei Teshuva stand, even the tzadkim do not stand.

Rav Shteinman looked into the eyes of the young man and said: “For that kind of Teshuva, I am jealous. Gut Shabbos.”

The boy went home and returned to his cousins house. Rav Shteinman's words left him no peace. Slowly, he began to reconsider his life and decisions. Weeks later, the engagement was broken and from there, his life turned around, finally retuning to Torah, Mitzvos and his family.

Months later, his father asked him: I understand your journey back came from Rav Shteinman's incredible insight and sensitivity. But I still don't understand; you spend all Shabbos refusing to do anything. Why did you agree to come to the Shiur?

He replied that when he was in kitah daled in cheder, his class went to be tested by Rav Aron Leib Shteinman. The rebbi had obviously requested an easy test and the boys were asked very simple questions. Each boy, upon answering a question received a candy from Rav Aron Leib.

When this boy's turn came he did not know the answer to the question. So Rav Aron Leib asked him an easier question. Again he did not know. So the Gadol asked him an even easier question which again he did not know. When the quiz was over, everyone had a candy besides him.

As the boys were respectfully filing out, Rav Aron Leib motioned for him to come over. He told the boy, “In Torah and Yiddishkeit we reward for effort, not results. All the other boys put in an effort for one question so I gave them one candy; you put in the effort for three questions so you are getting three candies.” And with a smile, he handed him three.

“I might've rejected Yiddishkeit, but how could I reject Rav Shteinman?”

It appears that there are different relationships that we can have with Torah. Sometimes, when our education fails, we can find the most profound connection to Torah in the personalities that convey it.

To this end, there are two Brachos that we make on learning Torah each morning:

The first is addressing Hashem as the Melamed: המלמד תורה לעמו ישראל – He who teaches Torah to the Jewish people. Hashem is the ultimate Rebbe and Teacher of the Jewish people. We are fortunate to be granted the greatest education, from the greatest Educator.

But there is another Bracha, which has nothing to do with education: נותן התורה – He who gives us the Torah.

Aside from the learning of Torah, which is vital and essential to life as a Jew, apparently, the mere having of the Torah is a gift for which we should be grateful.

But what exactly do we have, if we haven't even cracked open the book? What is the value of a נותן התורה without a מלמד תורה?

To explain this, we should examine a devastating Gemara in Nedarim, which asks a tragic question:

וּמִפְּנֵי מָה אֵין מְצוּיִין תַּלְמִידֵי חֲכָמִים לָצֵאת תַּלְמִידֵי חֲכָמִים מִבְּנֵיהֶן? ...רָבִינָא אוֹמֵר: שֶׁאֵין מְבָרְכִין בַּתּוֹרָה תְּחִלָּה

For what reason is it not common for Talmidei Chachamim have children who are Talmidei Chachamim? Ravina says: They are punished because they do not first recite a bracha over the Torah before commencing their studies.

The answer seems bizarre. Why would Talmidei Chachamim not make a Birkas haTorah? The Maharal (הקדמה לתפארת ישראל) explains the intention of the Gemara:

כי אף אם היו מברכין בפה, מכל מקום דבר הזה – שהוא נתינת התורה – צריך לברך השם יתברך בכל לבו, ובזה יש לו האהבה הגמורה אל השם יתברך. ואף אם הוא תלמיד חכם והוא צדיק גמור, רחוק הדבר הזה שיברך השם יתברך בכל לבו על נתינת התורה כפי הראוי.

Even if they are making the Bracha physically, that is not the purpose of the Bracha. Rather, the purpose is to bless Hashem, the Giver of the Torah with a full heart, and in this way one feels overwhelming love to Hashem. And even for those who are Talmidei Chachamim and those who are complete Tzadidim, it is rare that they bless Hashem with a full heart for giving us the Torah.

Addressing Hashem as the Giver of Torah recognizes that, Hashem is not simply trying to convey a lesson, but a relationship. When Hashem came down to Har Sinai and gave us the Torah, He began with the word אנכי. Chazal (שבת קה א׳) tell us that אנכי is an acronym for אנא נפשי כתיבת יהבית – I wrote and gave Myself.

Rav Shlomo Zalman was once asked how he could allow bachurim to dance in the Beis Medrash on Shavuos: “Doesn't the Shulchan Aruch say that dancing on Yom Tov is assur?!” “Yes”, the Gadol replied “Of course it's assur; but this is not the dancing that the Shulchan speaks of. But more importantly, do you want people to dance at your wedding one day?” “Yes,” the young man replied. “Well then, maybe you should dance at Hashem's wedding as well?”

The purpose of our Avoda on Shavuos is not to learn as much as we possibly can. It's not a Yom Tov of cramming in or catching up on Torah. Quite the opposite; we stay up to learn because it's a gift, and we're excited to receive it. This Yom Tov is זמן מתן תורתינו – the time of the Giving of the Torah. Our goal is not simply to learn it, but to receive it. And along with the Torah, we receive a deeper, greater relationship with the Giver.

That's the point. That Hashem should open our minds, hearts and souls to receive Him. That when He comes to wake us up this year, He finds us ready and waiting.

A few months ago I had the privilege of visiting Eretz Yisrael to celebrate my nieces Bas Mitzvah. Aside from the pleasure of being back in Eretz Yisrael and the simcha of seeing family and reconnecting with friends, there was another detail which made trip so meaningful. Aliza and I decided that I would take our daughter Ayelet along for a week of Abba-daughter time.

The last time that Ayelet had been in Israel was almost nine years ago, so we were both excited to share the joy and wonder of experiencing Eretz Yisrael as if for the first time.

Naturally, we set aside a full day to visit the Old City and the Kotel.

As we walked through Shaar Yafo, I pointed out the bullet holes from 1967. We discussed the centrality and eternal importance of this place to our nation. We spoke about Yerushalayim from the days of David and Shlomo, and the tragedies of the First and Second Destructions at the hands of the Babylonians and the Romans.

We walked through the Rova, discussing the slow return of our people in the past thousand years. The yearnings and returning of our greatest teachers and leaders: The stories of the Rambam and the Ramban, Rabbi Yehuda HaLevi, the Shelah HaKadosh, the talmidim of the Vilna Gaon and the Chassidim of the Maggid of Mezritch.

We spoke about the miracles of Yom Yerushalayim, and our need to be grateful to Hashem that we are alive today see the rebirth of our ancient capital city, and the fulfillment of the words of the Nevi'im.

Truth be told, I probably over did it. (I guess that at this stage of my life I'm a bigger nerd than Ayelet is. Then again, she's only eleven. I still have high hopes that all my kids will join me in my nerdy interests.)

Despite her father's ramblings, Ayelet was taken by the sights, sounds and smells of Yerushalayim. (And of course, Golda's Ice Cream makes every experience amazing.)

As we got closer to the stairs leading down to the Kotel, we took out our Kriyah shirts. It's such a stark contrast – the hustle and bustle of the Old City, contrasted with tearing Kriyah. The duality of these emotions are new to Klal Yisrael. The Rishonim who visited Eretz Yisrael only saw destruction. We have merited resurrection as well.

We rounded the corner and took in the magnificent view of the Kotel and Har HaBayis; and made sure to FaceTime Aliza so we could both be part of Ayelet's excitement.

Slowly we made our way down the stairs. (Abba, there's a lot of stairs here... We're not coming back up this way right? Right?!)

We walked through security, and entered the Kotel plaza.

Then something happened, which I never expected to happen to me.

Suddenly, I very much wished that there was a place next to the Wall where I could stand next to my daughter. I didn't want her to be alone having her first experience at the Kotel.

In that moment, I realized that the debates and fights about the Kotel are far deeper and more complex than I had ever imagined.

I began to wonder about the single mothers who might not be able to see their sons putting on Tefillin, and the young couples who cannot stand together when coming to beg Hashem to bless them with children.

Now, before we get ahead of ourselves, it important to understand that the Kotel has the Kedusha of a Beis Knesses – at minimum. As Jews who understand the value, importance and eternal nature of Halacha, there is no valid halachik argument in favor of removing the Mechitza at the Kotel. The Kedusha of that space demands that we set our own wants and needs aside and recognize that we approach the Palace of the King with trepidation; abiding by His rules.

This had never been a problem for me before. But that day I realized that if I wanted to speak to Hashem in that place of great connection, I would have to overcome my own emotional needs as well as those of my daughter. For the first time, my coming to the Kotel demanded a Korban – a sacrifice of my own needs and agendas.

I don't have a solution to the intractable problems of observing Halacha while also making the Kotel accessible to all forms of Jewish services. But I do have a renewed appreciation for the challenge.

Perhaps, beneath the anger, rhetoric and resentment, we could stand to appreciate how even those Jews who are so distant from observing Torah and Mitzvos are still inexplicably drawn to the Makom HaMikdash. Is it so hard to imagine that somewhere, far beyond the sectarianism and political chess, every Jew just wants to feel at home in the presence of Hashem?

Seeing the world through this lens might make our next visit to the Kotel a little different.

On Erev Rosh Chodesh Sivan, many have the custom of saying the Tefillah of the Shelah for our children. But the Shelah HaKadosh (עשרת הדברות, מסכת יומא, דרך חיים) tells us that in addition to davening for ourselves and our children there is another group of Jews which we need to daven for:

וכשם שחייב האדם להתפלל על עצמו, כך חייב להתפלל על פושעי ישראל, כדאיתא בסוף פ”ק דסוטה (יד, א) ולפושעים יפגיע (ישעיה נג, יב), מלמד שהיה משה רבינו מבקש רחמים על פושעי ישראל שישובו בתשובה, ושבו.

The same way that each person is obligated to daven for themselves, so too, they are obligated to daven for the sinners amongst the Jewish people... that Hashem should be merciful to them that they should return in Teshuva.

This Yom Yerushalayim, the fights for control over Yerushalayim continue. And of course, we should still continue to fight for Halacha. But with a little empathy we might merit to shift our goals. Rather than hoping and davening for Frum Jews to win, we might begin to daven for Hashem to help all of His people return to Him.

Perhaps that's the piece that we're still missing; the reason we are still tearing Kriyah. Perhaps by committing to see each other with a new set of eyes, Hashem will bless us to see His complete return to Yerushalayim as well.

No, this title is not click bait. It might seems strange, but in a few moments, I'm going to present you with the Torah's step-by-step guide to abandoning Torah and Mitzvos and denying the existence of Hashem.

If this appears bizarre, rest assured that I'm not trying to convince you to go off the Derech. However, understanding the process might give us some insight into how to strengthen ourselves and our families, and how to help those who are struggling with their connection to Yiddishkeit.

Before we begin, it's worth examining our intuitions and experiences.

How does the journey away from Hashem begin? If we ask people who are “off the Derech” what drove them there, we might hear a wide array of responses. Anything and everything – from tragic stories of loss or abuse as children, to series of bullying and negative experiences in school. From teens we might hear about social pressures or the yetzer hara that just couldn't be overcome. Perhaps an insincere or hurtful encounter in Yeshiva? Adults might share the challenges of earning a living or stories of heartbreak and failed relationships.

In many of these cases, the road to coming back often begins with an honest, nonjudgmental invitation. Many of those who have left observant Judaism are not antagonistic, and they are open to reengagement. It might be a long process, but with time, love, empathy and validation, the doors to return are certainly still open.

But what about those who are hardened and bitter; those who are angry with Hashem and His Torah? How does one become so intolerant of Yiddishkeit?

If we were to ask them this question, invariably, these Jews will explain that they have qualms of a more painful and philosophical nature. We might hear a litany of questions about the nature of Hashem, divine (in)justice, morality and corrupt rabbinic authority.

These are the Jews who are not open to sharing a Shabbos meal, discussing the Parsha or supporting Torah causes, because they view all of Torah as inherently broken, fault or manipulative.

As the debates and demonstrations in the past few weeks in Israel indicate, there are Jews who not simply irreligious, they are decidedly anti-religious.

But despite all of the complex reasoning that a Jew might offer to explain their personal hostility towards Yiddishkeit, there is a far simpler story: They have followed the step-by-step guide to going off the Derech. It's explicit in the Pesukim of our Parsha.

How to Leave Yiddishkeit

This Shabbos, the Torah describes the actions and processes that Klal Yisrael will need to adhere to in order to achieve lives of happiness, success and Avodas Hashem:

If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments, I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit...

The pesukim continue to enumerate the blessings of healthy families, a secure homeland and meaningful relationships with Hashem.

But the Torah (ויקרא כו:יא) also describes the opposite:

And if you do not listen to Me and do not observe all these commandments, if you reject My laws and spurn My rules, so that you do not observe all My commandments and you break My covenant...

The ramifications of such a life are details in a series of curses and punishment.

But this description of transgressions is far lengthier and far more detailed than the positive pesukim above, prompting Chazal to analyze each of these steps. Rashi (כו:טו), quoting the Sifra notes that there are seven steps here. (Rashi's comments are italicized.)

1. ואם לא תשמעו לי – And if you do not listen to Me : to study the Torah diligently...

2. ולא תעשו – and do not observe all these commandments – Because you will not learn you will not practice the commandments.

3. אם בחקתי תמאסו – מואס באחרים העושים. – if you reject My laws: mocking those who practice them.

4. משפטיי תגעל נפשכם – שונא החכמים. – and despise My rules: This hating the Sages.

5. לבלתי עשות – מונע את אחרים מעשות. – so that you do not observe: preventing others from practicing them.

6. את כל מצותי – כופר שלא צויתים, לכך נאמר: את כל מצותי, ולא נאמר: את כל המצות. – all My commandments: Denying the Divine origin of the commandments, asserting that Hashem has not commanded them.

7. להפרכם את בריתי – כופר בעיקר. – and you break My covenant: denying the great principle of the existence of God.

Rashi then concludes by explaining the connections between each of these stages:

Heresy begins humbly, with a lack of education. If you don't know your way around Jewish life, you can't and don't participate. You feel left out, unable to enjoy the social, cultural and spiritual connection that Torah offer. This pain invites questions to those around you: “Why do you do these ridiculous, archaic things?” You will then question the motives and authority of the Rabbis who promote and enable this system. Slowly, as an outsider, you see it as your mission to prevent others from falling prey to this “religious nonsense”, ultimately resolving that none of it can by true.

By presenting this “curriculum” Chazal are essentially teaching us that denial of Hashem does not cause non-observance. Quite the opposite: Atheism is an intellectual justification for a life devoid of Torah, Mitzvos, community and relationships.

But it is equally important to understand that along the way there are powerful and painful emotions of worthlessness, loneliness, confusion, hostility, animosity and scorn. It is this set of negative experiences and emotions which coalesce together, driving a person to the intellectual conclusions of heresy.

How to Come Back

The Medrash (ויקרא רבה ל״ה:ב) notes that in order to merit the Brachos of the Torah, we need to be in fulfillment of all of the requirements of the Parsha – לִכְשֶׁתְּקַיְּמוּ כָּל הַתְּנָאִים הַלָּלוּ שֶׁהִתְנֵיתִי עִמָּכֶם.

Rabbi Raphael Moshe Boleh in his Sefer Chayei Olam (ע׳ פח) writes that the same must be true of the punishments and curses as well. Only a person who is in fulfillment of such total hostility to everything Jewish is liable for the curses of the Parsha. This is to say, even a Jew who is totally non-observant, but respects Talmidei Chachamim (thus missing stage four, for example) will not suffer the pain of foreign conquest and exile.

It's an incredible insight: Every Jew is redeemable so long as they learn something or do something, however small. Every Jew can be rescued by breaking out from even a minuscule part of this cycle.

This truth presents an opportunity for all who are able to help. Can we find a cause in Torah and Mitzvos to which this Jew might feel drawn? Can we find a way to connect them to a Talmid Chacham or to a Tzaddik? Can we find the space inside our own hearts and minds to love even this Jew, so that they are inspired by our mitzvos?

Quite literally, any tiny point of connection qualifies.

Our Most Effective Defense

This week, yet again, Eretz Yisrael is facing the deadly threat of rockets from murderous terrorists who are trying to destroy our lives, our country and our homeland. Tragically, this is no surprise.

But there is something we can do to help. Thousands of years of Jewish history has shown us that national unity is our greatest weapon of defense. This too is a Pasuk in our Parsha:

וְנָתַתִּי שָׁלוֹם בָּאָרֶץ ... וְחֶרֶב לֹא־תַעֲבֹר בְּאַרְצְכֶם I will grant peace in the land... and no sword shall cross your land.

The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh defines “peace” as:

שלא יהיה להם פירוד הלבבות – that our hearts should not be divided.

Such unity is the precursor to וְחֶרֶב לֹא־תַעֲבֹר בְּאַרְצְכֶם – no sword shall cross your land.

In the past few weeks and months, many of us have witnessed and even participated in some of the hateful rhetoric and vitriol sweeping across observant and non-observant communities in the fierce battles for judicial and political power. The debates are important, but the hatred is poison.

As Bnei Torah, it is our obligation is to act with Ahavas Yisrael, even to those who are far from Torah and Mitzvos. Or perhaps, especially to those who appear most distant. The Torah gave us the tools to notice people going off the Derech so that we might be able to step in and help each other.

As we enter the final weeks of Sefiras HaOmer, Hashem should help us to fix the failures of the students of Rebbe Akiva. He should help us to cultivate the capacity of treating each other with respect and dignity, so that we can all merit receiving the Torah this Shavuos.

Participation Trophies are amongst the things that the internet loves to hate the most. A quick search reveals masses of people with a deep loathing of these tacky plastic awards that have been cluttering up bedroom shelves and mantelpieces for decades.

Perusing op-eds, blogs and memes, I have learned that there is no greater symbol of narcissism. In the hive-mind of the internet, these trophies are an over-hyped, misguided attempt at inflating self importance, all of which has slowly engineered a generation of entitled, whiny millennials. Reading all of this, I must concur – these things are so terrible, one wonders how anyone ever thought it was a good idea. What's not to hate?

I must confess, however, that I don't have much first hand experience. Growing up, I did not get many participation trophies. This is not because my team always won, or because South African sports leagues were so well grounded and down-to-earth.

The reason that I didn't get participation trophies is because I didn't participate. I was an overweight kid and I struggled athletically. My friends would get together to play, and I didn't want to because I wasn't good at it.

Sure, there was that one season of soccer in second grade when my mom begged me to play, hoping (praying?) that somehow I would start to enjoy it. Spoiler alert: I still hated it. But I did get a participation trophy, which I knew I did not deserve. I hated looking at it, and it was quickly shoved to the back of the closet.

In recent years, however, I have some experience from my kids, who are blessedly more athletic than I was. Conclusion: Anyone who has even been given a participation award will know that the entire discussion, all the loathing and rhetoric is silly, for one simple reason:

There's a tiny window of time in which a child is naive enough to appreciate a participation trophy. But the moment they know how to compete, the participation trophy quickly becomes, as one writer called it, “an exquisite shame.” Kids aren't idiots. They know the difference between winning and losing, and we're not fooling anyone.

We might try to trick our kids; telling them “it's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.” But they all know, only losers say that. Winners know it's all about winning, and losers know that their parents are being disingenuous. As my kids have clearly told me “Abba, everyone knows that winning and losing are not the same, and I wanted to win...”

Critics often note that awarding mere participation is encouraging mediocrity and complacency. They make the leap from little league to academics and from academics to professional careers. I don't buy it. No one has ever met a kid who said “I'm not going to try to win because we're all getting a trophy anyway...”

The opposite, however, is far more common and far more destructive. I have met many children and teens who have given up on a sport, a musical instrument or an academic interest because they didn't feel like their achievements would be meaningful or successful enough.

Even more concerning, I have listened to countless talmidim (and adults) telling me how their history of religious failure has demotivated them into disinterest and disengagement. I've had students tell me that they put on Tefillin everyday since their bar-mitzvah, only to miss one day on vacation, and since then they've missed dozens. “Rebbe, once you break the streak, it's over.”

Let's hone in to an acute example which happened in my Halacha shiur this week. We were reviewing the halachos of Sefiras Ha'Omer; specifically, what to do when you've missed a day of counting. The Shulchan Aruch (אורח חיים תפ״ט) writes that on the subsequent days of Sefira, you should continuing counting, but without a bracha.

All of my students knew that you are no longer able to count with a bracha. None of them, however, knew that they are still obligated to continue counting. We then proceeded to learn that the rationale of the Shulchan Aruch centers around an understanding that all the days of Sefiras HaOmer might be one big mitzvah, in which case, missing a single day means that we've missed out on the whole mitzvah. That's the reason not make a bracha.

But there is another paradigm to consider. Perhaps the Omer is 49 separate mitzvos, and each day has its own independent obligation. In such a case, we should absolutely still be counting the subsequent days.

This second understanding (that every day is a separate mitzvah) is the majority opinion of the Geonim and Rishonim. At the very least, all of the Poskim agree that we should be all counting every day – all be it without a bracha if we missed a day.

I paused the shiur for that thought to sink in. One of the kids raised his hand and said, “So, what you're saying is that everyone agrees that just because I missed a day, it does not mean that I should miss every other day.” “Exactly.”

At this point, one of the guys threw his hands in the air and said “Rebbe! I missed the 5th day and I thought I was out! Now you tell me that I should still be counting?! It's not fair! How come no one ever told this to us before?”

It's a good question, and it's an inditement against our parental and educational systems. Not this specific Halacha, but the general sentiment. We are excellent at conveying the ideal, but we struggle to give appropriate meaning to anything other than total success. Our schools and communities have great programs for smart, successful and motivated kids. What do we offer for children whose skills are just average? How do we ensure that they continue to strive when first place is not a reasonable expectation?

Our problem is not that we award participation trophies. Quite the opposite; we all know that they are shameful and insufficient, and our kids quickly mature to understand that they are meaningless. The real issue that we have no system to appropriately educate the importance of continued participation and engagement when we fall short of the ideal.

This problem is wide reaching. Consider the Yeshiva bochur who loves learning and who can learn a great morning seder, but doesn't have the zitsfleysh to sit for more than those four hours a day. Rather than wasting his time in the Beis Medrash, he skips afternoon and night seder, spending his time on his side hustles, making money and volunteering for a local chessed organization. Is there any value to his being able to sit and learn for four hours? Absolutely. As an adult, learning four hours a day makes you a tzadik, and a schedule of learning, working and volunteering makes you an enviably serious and dedicated Baal HaBayis. But in Yeshivas across the world, that kid is a bum, and will be labeled as such.

We exhibit the same broken mindset when we dismiss opportunities to give tzedaka. We tell ourselves “I'm not the guy. I'm simply not wealthy enough make any real difference”. Of course, $18 is not going to solve anyone's financial crisis. It's not going to build a shul or support a Kollel. But it absolutely makes a difference to the individual who is learning the habit of giving, and it makes a difference to Hashem. Moreover, even tiny contributions from many people will add up over time.

The truth is that an action can be both small and meaningful. But the Yetzer Hara pervades our thoughts at every turn, convincing us to quit unless we're sure that we'll win.

The voices echo in our heads: “I'm not so close to them, they probably won't even notice if I don't pay a shiva call.” “They already got a minyan, no need for me to rush to shul.” “I'm not a doctor, Bikur Cholim is not my thing...” “I've never really been into learning Gemara...” “There's no ways we're ever going to be friends again, no use trying...”

We've noted before, that in order to fight this Yetzer Hara during Sefira, Rabbi Eizikel Safrin (חומש היכל הברכה ג עמ׳ רכ) writes that the custom of Komarna was to continue counting with a bracha even after missing a day. He explains: The drive to give up when you've missed a day is so strong, that we should rule like the majority opinion (against the Shulchan Aruch) and keep counting with a bracha. Recently, I discovered that this was also the opinion of the Divrei Chaim of Tzanz, and possibly the Beis HaLevi as well! (ע׳ מודעים וזמנים ס׳ רפט בשם בעל התורה תמיתה)

It's clear that these Tzadikim were far more concerned with the dangers of non-performance than mediocrity.

All of this is to say that perhaps our paradigm is skewed. We have already successfully created a culture of excellence. We know how to celebrate the winners in sports and in schools, and the kids who have surpassed their are recognized and are motivated to continuing acheieving. We now need to rethink how to encourage those who do not excel. How do we keep ourselves and our kids in the game when we know we are not going to win?

I'd like to suggest that we take a lesson from another sport – one that seems to get it right, at least for me. In the past few years, I have amassed a respectable collection of road running medals. I have never won a race, not even close, but I am proud of each and every one. But those medals are not for participation, they are for perseverance and completion. You only get it if you keep trying. Regardless of your speed, stamina or level of fitness, irrespective of whether you are sprinting or walking, every finisher is awarded a medal, because everyone crossing the finish line has fought their own battle and won. No one is ever ashamed of that victory.

These are kinds of trophies that Hashem awards. The ones that say “This was my struggle, this is where I succeeded.”

As we finished the week of Sefira dedicated to Netzach (victory), Hashem should help us to continue the fight; to win whenever we can, but more importantly, to find the motivation to continue even when we've failed.

No doubt you've seen this story somewhere:

It was 7:51 a.m. on Friday, January 12, 2007, in the middle of the morning rush hour. A youngish white man in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a Washington Nationals baseball cap emerged from the Metro L’Enfant Plaza in Washington. From a small case, he removed a violin; placing the open case at his feet. In the next 43 minutes, as the violinist performed six classical pieces while 1,097 people passed by.

No one knew it, but the fiddler standing against a bare wall outside the Metro in an indoor arcade at the top of the escalators was Joshua Bell, one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable violins ever made. His performance was arranged by The Washington Post as an experiment in context, perception and priorities — as well as an unblinking assessment of public taste: In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?

Bell always performs on the same instrument, and he ruled out using another for this gig. Called the Gibson ex Huberman, it was handcrafted in 1713 by Antonio Stradivari during the Italian master’s “golden period,” toward the end of his career, when he had access to the finest spruce, maple and willow, and when his technique had been refined to perfection. It costs around $3.5 million.

In the three-quarters of an hour that Joshua Bell played, seven people stopped what they were doing to hang around and take in the performance, at least for a minute. Twenty-seven gave money, most of them on the run — for a total of $32 and change. That leaves the 1,070 people who hurried by, oblivious, many only three feet away, few even turning to look.

This story has been around the internet for the past two decades. You have probably heard it before. People have utilized it to highlight the importance of being present, aware, and learning to see the beauty all around us. But what most do not know, is that there is a sequel:

In 2014, seven years later, Bell returned to that same station, only this time, people were informed ahead of time.

This time, more than 1,000 fans and curious onlookers packed half of the station's cavernous main hall for the free 30-minute concert, which included selections by Bach and Mendelssohn.

It was the same virtuoso, the same violin, similar music, and yet this time, people paid attention. This time, it was precious. This time it was meaningful, this time it was beautiful.

What Changed?

This phenomenon exists in our own lives. Sometimes, we come to shul, come home from work, call our mothers, and we feel as if we are gaining nothing from it. It’s routine, rote, required. By all standards, it’s meaningless.

Yet from time to time, those same activities are transformative and transcendent. And I’d like to know why. What differentiates these two experiences, the two concerts, these two lifestyles?

Rav Moshe Feinstein in Drash Moshe (ד״ה בזאת) explains that it this question that the Torah is addressing in our parsha. The Torah details the process by which Aharon HaKohen would prepare to enter the Kodesh Kodashim – once a year, on Yom Kippur. But strangely, a full 29 pesukim go by before telling us that the day upon which all of this occurs is Yom Kippur!

Rav Moshe explains: the secret to entry into all Kedusha, meaning and purpose is in the preparation. Without the 28 pesukim explaining why this is important, it can never be experienced as such. Once Aharon is prepared, only then can his enter be meaningful.

The idea is echoed by the Seforno (16:12):

כִּי תֵּיכֶף שֶׁנִּשְׁחַט חַטָּאת וְהִתְוַדָּה וְסָר עֲוֹנוֹ, נַעֲשָׂה מוּכָן לֵיאוֹר בְּאוֹר פְּנֵי מֶלֶךְ. וְהִנֵּה הַמֶּלֶךְ יֵרָאֶה לַכֹּל מוּכָן לְאוֹרוֹ

As soon as the sin offering had been slaughtered and he had previously recited his confession so that his sins had been removed, he was now ready to face the “King,” who would look upon him with favor.

The difference between Joshua Bell’s first concert, and his second, was not his skill, or the inherent value of the music, it was whether or not people were ready to hear it.

Preparations and Priorities

The Chofetz Chaim teaches that the one can discern how important something is from how much time and effort one spends preparing for it. Something unimportant requires little serious preparation. If one wants to make a cup of tea, this takes very little effort because a cup of tea is not that important in the big scheme of things. Planning a vacation, a simcha, a wedding takes a lot longer because these are important events.

But preparing for a moment or event is not part of our daily routine. We “fall into” moments, rushing between netflix, work and obligations. We go through the motions, but we are not prepared for them. Our lives seem to be a constant stream of events, that we scroll through like a social media feed – with little time to prepare, connect or reflect.

My Rebbe, Rav Blachman told us once of a young man who called to say he had just had a son, and wanted parenting advice. Rav Blachman later told me, if that’s when you’re asking, you’re at least nine months too late.

Couples sometime complain that a few years after getting married, it feels like the spark is gone. What changed? We stop planning. We stop anticipating. We stop preparing, so the time we spend together feels just like a virtuoso playing masterpieces for harried commuters. She’s the same girl; he’s the same guy, but without the effort of preparation, we demonstrate a lack of importance.

The same is true in our Avodas Hashem. Are we ready for shul? Are we ready for Shabbos? Or do we arrive as if by accident?

Ready for Something...

Shavuos, more than any other Chag is characterized by this Hachana, this preparation. By applying the Chafetz Chaim’s idea: if the preparations for Shavuos and our acceptance of the Torah are more extensive than they are for any other holiday, it demonstrates that Shavuos has a unique importance not shared by any other day of the year. If Hashem commands us to count toward and long for the arrival of Shavuos for forty-nine days, it shows that we should value the Torah more than anything else. This preparation and the value we place on the Torah is therefore part and parcel of how we receive the Torah.

There is a profound depth to Minhagei Yisrael – the customs of our people. Somehow, despite omitting this text from the performance of most mitzvos, the official nussach of counting the Omer includes הנני מוכן ומזומן – I’m ready, I’m prepared. During Sefirah, more than any other time, we're trying to live lives that are not scrolling by.

The Beis Yaakov of Izbitz writes that the definition of Kedusha is ההפך של מה בכך – the opposite of 'whatever'. That's the goal for these weeks – living lives of planned importance.

Hashem should help us become מוכן ומזומן people – ready, prepared, anticipating that we too can achieve Kedusha.