#Nitzavim #RoshHaShana #תשפא

They tell a story of a soldier who was drafted into the army against his will, with his whole life and career ahead of him. Angry and frustrated, he did everything he could to avoid the draft, but his conscription was inevitable. After hugs and tears, the day arrived. He packed he bags, and reported for duty.

Training was brutal. Officers would wake him before dawn, to run and fight, and clean and lift and polish and wait. He hated every minute. Generals would lecture him on the importance of national security, of teamwork and camaraderie.

“Give me a break” he would mutter under his breath. “Our country has not seen a battle in generations. Why should I give up these years, in the prime of my life to defend a place that doesn’t need defending?!”

But the army has it way of getting results. Slowly, over many long days and weeks and months, this pampered young man became a solider. He learned discipline, agility and marksmanship. He learned how to fight, how to spy and how to disappear into the night.

But despite his training, he could never shake the feeling that time was being stolen from him.

And so it was, in the blackness of night, camping out on a training mission, this soldier packed his meager belongings, and fled from the army camp.

His departure caused quite a stir. The men in his unit spoke in hushed voices about his disgruntled mutterings. The officers and generals issued the sternest of warnings to the rest of the platoon, fearing that others, too, might consider abandoning their stations.

Posters of his face were circulated in the nearby provinces with the words “WANTED!” And “REWARD!” in bold letters. But despite the hungry opportunism of the local peasants, they stood no chance of finding the stealthy and determined young man.

As for him? He made his way to the port. Traded his weapon for a ticket abroad, and sailed into his stolen sunset. He found a wife, finally put down roots, and pursued his dreams...

Man plans and God laughs. The drums of war came to his new land. Letters were mailed. Government officials came knocking at his door. “We need to see your papers.” They said. “We have been informed that there are enemy spies amongst us.”

With little time, and fewer options, he hastily packed his bags. He kissed his wife and children goodbye, and fled into the night once more.

It seemed strange to be standing that dock once again. Flushed and anxious. Clutched tightly in his hand, this time, was the last ticket to the land of his birth.

Lost and afraid, he wondered what he might do when the waves of destiny brought him home. Would they remember him? Would they remember what he had done. Fear and shame closed in as he finally saw land in the distance in the early hours of the morning.

But something was not right. Mere minutes after setting foot on home soil, he heard the trumpets of Battle! Soldiers were marching, people were fleeing. A man turned to him and cried “What are you doing standing here! We’re under attack! This is war!” Women and children were running for cover. Middle aged men with pot bellies squeezed into old army fatigues were running through the streets.

And in front of him he saw: His unit! His old army friends, running towards the battle field. He sensed their desperation. He felt their fear and trepidation. The knowledge that they were not fighting for king and country. They were fighting for their families, their parents and children.

And so he joined them, ran and ducked and fought through the streets with them. It was surreal as he arrived at his base with them. His friends were astounded. His officers has no words.

But hugs, and tears abounded. “We don’t care anymore that you deserted us. You came back! You came home! You’re here to fight along side us!”

Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa would explain: It doesn’t matter how long you deserted your post. It doesn’t matter how far you have strayed. When war comes, all that Hashem and the Jewish people care about is that you come home.

My dear friends; the war is coming. The battle field is this year: 5782. The stakes? Our children and parents. Our wives and husbands. Our schools, shuls, families, democracies, the State of Israel, Talmud Torah, Yiras Shamayim, Ahavas Hashem- everything!

So on the final Shabbos of the year, our old commander – Moshe Rabbeinu – tells us: אַתֶּם נִצָּבִים הַיּוֹם כֻּלְּכֶם – You are all here. Baruch HaShem you are here! Thank you for coming back.

Wherever life has taken you, you are here today to fight for Hakadosh Baruch Hu and for Klal Yisrael. So we put away the insignificant difference of politics, policies and machlokes. We march together under the same banner, sounding the same battle cry: The Shofar. We've been sounding it in preparation all month.

The Torah tells us that the sounds of the the Shofar are marching orders. Tekiah calls us to gather. Teruah tells us to move and to fight. Where is this movement? What is the fight?

The Shela HaKadosh tells us the main kavanah of the Shofar is to know that in the beginning, Hashem created us whole and healthy (Tekia). Back then, it was all good. As we grew up we made mistakes. We broke ourselves into pieces (Shevarim) and then we shattered ourselves further (Teruah). We messed it all up, over and over again. But there is a Tekia at the end. That's where Hashem promises us that so long as we come home again it can be good again.

When we speak about observance of Jewish law, we have a strange phrase: “Breaking Halacha”. Breaking Shabbos, Breaking Shomer-Negiah, Breaking Yom Kippur. But the deepest way, a Jew can never break Halacha. We cannot break the Torah of Hashem, we can only break ourselves in our attempt to run away.

The Shofar tells us: We can fix ourselves.

Master of the Universe: We are sorry that we ran, we are sorry that we strayed. We are sorry that we deserted our units, our friends, and nation and put pride and ego and desire before You. But now we are back, and better than ever. You are our King! We are ready to fight for our lives, our people, our community, our family and the world. Please make us whole again. Please bring us home.

#KiSavo #תשפא

Before moving to Boca, Aliza and I spend many summers taking NCSY public school teens to Israel. It was always eye opening to witness a kid experience Yiddishkeit for the first time.

One of the activities we would do from year to year was a program called “draw a Jew.” We challenged kids to draw a picture of the best Jew they could imagine.

Take a moment, and try it for yourself, in your own mind. Imagine you were drawing a picture of your best Jewish self.

What are you doing? Who are you with? What are you wearing? What day is it? What time of day? What are you saying? What are you thinking?

Now ask yourself: Could I be that person? Is that attainable?

For many of us, the picture of “our best Jewish selves” is shrouded in unrealistic expectations. It's a picture that we conjured years ago until we learned that life is not so simple. Somehow, along the way, that picture got dusty. But we keep it around in the backs of our minds because we don't really want to let go of those aspirations. But we don't like to think about them too often. Until this Motzei Shabbos of course.

As Slichos (for Ashkenazim) begin and as Rosh Hashana gets closer, all those old and dusty dreams come out with our Slichos books and our Machzorim.

We open the machzor to those same pages as our younger selves with thoughts of guilt and regret. The words stare back at us accusingly; challenging us as to why we're back there again. Saying the same words, apologizing for the same mistakes. We reason, of course, that these are the right emotions to have this time of year. Surely, we are supposed to feel upset over our flaws and failures? So this is how we live from year to year: Unfulfilled dreams and gnawing guilt until “Thank God it's over.”

What a miserable way to live! But there is a solution: Stop being so frum.

It sounds like a strange thing for a Rabbi to say, but hear me out. Growing up in South Africa, in a community of Litvaks, the word “frum” was an insult. “Frum iz a Galach”, they used to say. (Being devout is for the priest.)

Well, if we're not supposed to be frum, then what should we be? Lithuanian Jews would often say: “A Jew is not frum – a Jew is ehrlich.”

“Frum” has no meaning in the world of Halacha or Derech Eretz. Frum is completely external and cultural. To be “ehrlich”, however, is to be real, grounded, honest and to act and speak with integrity.

Elul and the Yamim Nora'im are entirely different if you're trying to be frum vs if you're trying to be ehrlich. Frumkeit assumes that either you become the picture of your best self, or you have failed. There are no half measures, no room for partial credit, or improvement. Frumkeit demands compliance and perfection, and in its absence, guilt. Ehrlichkeit is about movement and growth.

For some absurd reason, we think of becoming a better Jew as a fundamental overhaul of our lives, habits and personalities. Consider however, what you would tell someone trying to become a better runner, swimmer, writer or musician. You would tell them to practice, to hone their craft. You would tell them that they need a balance of dedication and empathy for themselves. You would explain that success is earned in steady increments, and that no one becomes great in a day.

Yet we arrive at the Yamim Nora'im without any positivity, we carry only frustration and resignation. We come to apologize for not being good at “being Jewish” without a thought of how we might practice getting better at it.

A friend of mine told me that he was nervous about going back to the gym this week. He had been away all summer, and his trainer had told time that he needed to lose 20 pounds. He had gained eight. There was no ways to lose 28 pounds in a week.

So there are two ways of going back to the gym: with guilt, or with a plan. Plans take time and take work. Guilt takes a minute, but nothing changes.

This nuance is baked into so many of our minhagim this time of year. For example: Ashkenazi practice details that that beginning of Slichos is this Motzei Shabbos, to ensure that there are at least four days of Slichos before Rosh Hashana. Why four days? The Achronim explain that there are Ten Days of Teshuva from Rosh HaShana to Yom Kippur, but only six of them are fair game for fasting and saying Slichos. (Two days of Rosh Hashana, Shabbos Shuva and Erev Yom Kippur are days of simcha.)

What is this game of making up four days before hand? Either these are the Ten Days of Teshuva, or they are not?! Rabbi Soloveitchik explained that our minhag here is deeply rooted in the understanding that growth and change take time. How much time? At least ten days. It is true, that this is an auspicious time of year to work on ourselves. But we need to take the time to do the work. Less than Ten days of work is thus insufficient. We're not trying to pass the time, we're trying to make a change.

This Shabbos, Moshe tells us about the awesome responsibility of being the Nation of Hashem: הַסְכֵּת וּשְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה נִהְיֵיתָ לְעָם לַי״י אֱלֹקיךָ – “Hasket” and listen, Yisrael: this day you have become the people of Hashem your God.

What does “Hasket” mean? The Seforno explains: צייר במחשבתך – imagine in your minds. On this, the Shem Mishmuel writes: Moshe is telling us to imagine, consider, and plan how we could be. To conjure in our minds the best way to engage in each activity. We sound the shofar, we do teshuva and we say Slichos to prepare, practice and train ourselves for Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur. Because when we practice and train, we become better at being Jewish.

Our greatest pitfall is that our picture of our best Jewish selves exists as a picture – a snapshot. But that is not our goal. We shouldn't want to be a static image of immature perfection. We should stop trying to be so unrealistic, so fake and so “frum”.

Hashem is inviting us this year: Let's come up with a plan of action. A different set of goals. Let's take the time, do the work, and make the change.

#KiSeitzei #תשפא

In a few days time, many of our children will file into their new classroom. They'll meet their new teachers, Rabbeim and Morot. Syllabi will be distributed, schedules will be negotiated. Learning will recommence, and along with it, all of our academic anxieties will return in full force.

But for those of us engaged in Chinuch, there is a concern far deeper than grades, skills or classroom participation. We want our talmidim to emerge from this year with greater connection to Hashem and His Torah, to Mitzvos and Yiddishkeit, Eretz Yisrael and The Jewish People.

This goal is daunting and cannot be taking for granted. But it cannot be dismissed as too overwhelming to tackle. I often think about my own classmates – the guys that finished high school along side me. I invite you to do the same. Ask yourself: which of my friends are still committed, connected and passionate about their Yiddiskeit? Are there any upsets? Any surprises?

Undoubtably, things didn't work out for some of the kids in your grade. Just like they didn't all work out so well for the kids in my grade. I have friends that haven't put on Tefillin in years. Friends that are unquestionably “off the Derech”.

This is not a point we should be willing to concede. There is much work to be done. But when things don't go well, naturally, parents will blame schools and schools will blame parents. Eventually, a few years later, everyone will blame the children themselves. But those children most often tell a different and far more specific story.

For every kid that “goes off the Derech” there were pivotal moments that drove them to that point: A dismissive comment from a Rebbe, emotional neglect from a parent, or a teacher that didn't value them. (This is without mentioning the truly devastating effects of abuse, trauma and substance abuse.)

Most often, however, the exit begins slowly, with child's behavior manifesting as disrespectful and disengaged. At this stage, they are still testing the waters – their trajectory still in flux. But these experiments are usually met with more frustration. These uninspired and unmotivated kids will gradually become drawn to excitement outside of the classroom. This, in turn, inspires greater resentment on the part of parents and teachers, until it becomes difficult to discern how to unravel the complex web of emotions, behaviors and causes.

At some point, adults throw their hands in the air. Therapists are hired, and we all begin to daven for miracles, and that the summer or the “year in Israel” will save them.

Is there a better way? I think there might be.

Rav Hirsch notes that all the secrets of Chinuch are hidden in the Parsha of Ben Sorer U'Morer – the saga of the rebellious son.

“If a man has a stubborn and rebellious son who does not obey the voice of his father and the voice of his mother, and does not listen to them when they discipline him; then his father and mother shall take hold of him and bring him to the elders at the gate of his town. They shall say to the elders, ‘This son of ours is stubborn and rebellious. He does not obey our voice. He is a glutton and a drunkard.'

“Then all the men of his town shall stone him to death. You must purge the evil from among you. All Israel will hear of it and be afraid.”

The Ibn Ezra, master of P'shat notes:

והנה זה אפיקורוס, כי לא יבקש חיי העולם הזה כי אם להתענג בכל מיני מאכל ומשתה. This child is a heretic, he has no desire for this world other than to enjoy food and drink.

For the Ibn Ezra, this boy is executed for of his perverse values and unruly behavior. By all standards, he is a menace to society. The meforshim and Baalei Mussar explain the immense value of understanding this P'shat. Parents should be wary of allowing their children to engage in negative behavior. And children should ensure that they are dutiful and respectful of their parents. Any deviation could lead down a road of relentless pain and destruction.

But Chazal contend that becoming a Ben Sorer U'Moreh is almost impossible: the conditions are so difficult to produce that it could never happen. The Talmud learns a series of Drashos to explain that his parents must be the same height (familial stature). Their voices must sound the same (they should speak with unity). They should be in excellent physical heath and they must both agree to take their son to the Beis Din for judgement.

How often did such a perfect storm manifest? This is a matter of debate (סנהדרין עא):

Rabbi Shimon says: And is it simply due to the fact that the boy ate a piece of meat and drank a jug of Italian wine that his father and his mother shall take him out to stone him?! Rather, there has never been a stubborn and rebellious son and there will never be one in the future. If so, why, then, was the passage relating to a stubborn and rebellious son written in the Torah? So that you may expound upon new understandings of the Torah and receive reward for your learning.

Rabbi Yonatan says: This is not so! I saw one. I was once in a place where a stubborn and rebellious son was condemned to death, and I sat on his grave.

Much ink has been spilled explaining this peculiar discussion. It appears that Rabbi Shimon is questioning the legitimacy of the Torah's law! Moreover, how does Rabbi Shimon know that there will never be a Ben Sorer U'Moreh? And if he is correct, how could Rabbi Yonatan testify to witnessing it?!

To understand this, we need to understand the relationship between P'shat and Drash here. The simple explanation of the Pasuk (p'shat) dictates that we judge the rebellious son based on his behavior. Doing so will lead his parents and society to determine that he is irredeemable; a lost cause. But Rabbi Shimon declares that it doesn't have to be that way. We can peer deeply into the text and into the life of this boy and discover an additional level of understanding (Drash) to the Torah's law. This Drash teaches us that there is no such a thing as a completely wicked and broken child. Why does the Torah tell us these laws? דרוש וקבל שכר – if you expound upon new understandings, you will find the reward. This is a lesson for life, not just this Parsha: Don't settle for a superficial explanation.

What is the the lesson of Rabbi Shimon's drash? He explains: The adults in this child's life must be healthy, happy, talented parents and educators such that there can be no other explanation for this his rebellion. Effectively, Rabbi Shimon is challenging us: I'll accept that this kid is a Ben Sorer U'Moreh if you can prove to me that every other part of his life was perfect. Barring that, we should look at his behavior as influenced by the negativity around him and declare him innocent of his crimes. At the very least, a holistic understanding of the this boy and his story will lead to more nuanced attributions for his behavior. (Or as Rashi states: ואיכא להפוכי בזכותיה – if at all possible, we must find merit in his actions.)

Rabbi Yonatan tragically counters: “I have seen it happen that parents and schools, teachers and Rabbeim could not find it inside of themselves to find a Drasha to explain a kids life and issues. I've been to those funerals. I've cried by those graves.”

This challenge is the paradigmatic Avoda of all relationships, of parenting, education and Elul. If we are only willing to look at people on the level of P'shat, then it is easy to label people as wrong, evil, destructive and unworthy. But Chazal are telling us that there are drashos to find the good in everyone and everything. With this perspective every Jew is precious and every Jew is worth it. No one is irredeemable.

Hashem should help us to דרוש וקבל שכר – to see the world through the eyes of Rabbi Shimon so that we might learn to live in Hashem's world of Drash as well.

#Eikev #תשפא

They tell of story of the Chiddushei HaRim who was approached by an irreligious Jew. The man challenged the Rebbe: “Rebbe, I don't believe that Torah the is true. The Torah tells us in the second paragraph of Shma (in our Parsha) that:

If you listen carefully to my Mitzvos... I will give you rain and wealth... You will eat and be satisfied.

But Rebbe I don't keep any of the mitzvos! I don't keep shabbos, I don't keep kosher, no Yom tov, no Tefillah, no Tzedaka, no Massim Tovim. And look at me – I have a beautiful and successful life!”

The Chidushei HaRim looked at him with astonishment. “How do you know that this is what the Torah says in the second paragraph of the Shema?”

“Come on, Rebbe. I'm not a fool. When I was younger, they taught me the Shema in cheder. I said it for many years before learning the truth.”

“Wow,” said the Chidushei HaRim “Consider for a moment that it is the value of your Kriyas Shema that is the reason for all of your brachos. Imagine if you would choose to do more today...”

Rashi famously notes in that the Torah opens this week from the Medrash Tanchuma:

והיה עקב תשמעון – אם המצות הקלות שאדם דש בעקביו תשמעון. If you will listen to even the lighter mitzvos which a person tramples on with his heels...

Classically, we read this Rashi as a call to Yiras Shamayim and greater attention to the details of Mitzvos. On a personal level, for years this Rashi induced an overwhelming feeling of religious anxiety in me. Feelings of unworthiness and inadequacy . Of course, there is value to such feelings. Sometimes they push us to do more, to be more, to be better Jews. But not always.

Sometimes those feelings induce paralysis, frustration and hopelessness. Sometimes we feel that nothing we do could ever be good enough.

But the Tiferes Shlomo of Radomsk explains differently. The Torah here is not demanding of us to shrink in disappointment. On the contrary: Hashem is inviting us to engage in some much needed Religious Self-Care.

Indeed, there are many mitzvos that we trample with our heels. But these are not the mitzvos that we are not doing, they're the mitzvos that we are doing – but are not machshiv. We don't think of them as big things. And nothing could be further than the truth.

Rav Kook (עין איה על שבת ה:יב) writes that:

שכשם שאנו קוראים “מה גדלו מעשיך ד'” , כך אנו מרחיבים להשתומם השתוממות של הדר וזיו אורה לאמר “מה קטנו מעשיך ד'” Just like we exclaim “How great are Your works Hashem”, so too we should be so profoundly impressed with their beauty and radiance to exclaim “How small are Your works Hashem.”

Hashem cares deeply about small acts and tiny details. Perhaps the greatest disservice to ourselves is to belittle that which Hashem considers enormous.

The Gemara (Yevamos 47a) details the requirements of conversion – that a person who wishes to convert to Judaism has to be informed of מקצת מצות קלות ומקצת מצות חמורות – Some of the light mitzvos and some of the heavy mitzvos.

It's a peculiar statement that bothers many of the Rishonim. Why not obligate us to teach everything?

The Meiri (בית הבחירה (מאירי) מסכת יבמות דף מז עמוד א) explains: > מודיעין אותו מקצת מצות קלות ומקצת מצות חמורות ויראה הטעם בקלות מפני שעובדי האלילים אין להם בדרכי דתיהם ועבודת אליליהם מצות יתירות וכשישמע מצות יתירות שלנו והקלות שבהם יאמר בלבו כמה דקדוקין הם מדקדקים ללא צורך ויחזור בו > We inform him of some of the light mitzvos and some of the heavy mitzvos. We teach the light mitzvos since worshipers of idolatry do not have in their religions the concept of detailed obligations, and to ensure he knows what he is committing to, we need to teach the importance of small details.

In essence, the Meiri is teaching us that Judaism is unique in that we care about little things. Our avoda entails respecting, appreciating even the things that do not make billboards and headlines.

In this light, I'd like to reexamine Rashi's comment:

והיה עקב תשמעון – אם המצות הקלות שאדם דש בעקביו תשמעון. If you will pay careful attention to even your smallest achievements, then all of the Brachos of the Torah will be showered onto you.

Bracha belongs to those who give time and attention to appreciate their small victories in Torah, mitzvos, relationships and careers.

How many times a day do we feel like religious failures? How many times a day do we convince ourselves that we're bad Jews, bad parents, bad spouses? How often do we deem ourselves unworthy? And how often does that discourage us from trying harder?

“Oy, I'm such a terrible parent, I gave my child macaroni and cheese for the ninth meal in a row. Oy, am I a bad Jew, I haven't davened with Kavana since last Yom Kippur. Oy, I'm such an Am HaAretz, I haven't learned a piece of Gemara since high school.”

In our quiet moments, who doesn't have stereotypical and overwhelming Jewish guilt over what we're failing at?

Of course, we should feel the pressure to do better. But what about the K'rias Shma that you sang with your kid before they fell asleep after a hard day? And the phone call that you spend all too long on, cheering up a friend that needed your shoulder to cry on? What about the tzedaka you gave? And that you came to shul on Shabbos? What about the pro-Israel post that upset your co-workers?

Don't forget that you're regularly making massive life, financial and social sacrifices to be amongst the few, the proud, that don't spend Shabbos on an iPhone and binge watching Netflix while eating Ben & Jerry's.

These are the mitzvos that we trample on. And they're enormous! The most savage tactic of the Yetzer Hara is to convince us to trample upon our own mitzvos. It's even worse for our kids who grow up thinking that they're bad Jews and terrible people because they're not perfect.

And so the Tiferes Shlomo tells us from the Ari HaKadosh that “Eikev” means the “Heel of Jewish History”, the end of time before Mashiach comes. That's us, that's our generation. What was Moshe's instruction to us at the end of time? What do we need to know? He explains:

Every Jew needs to know that in the darkness of the final Galus, the most precious thing to Hashem is the tiny bit of Torah and Tefillah that we offer. In a world were there is so little illumination, every tiny light matters.

The Kotzker would say that our Parsha is Hashem's promise to us: “והיה עקב תשמעון – In the end you will listen.” If only, he continued, we might listen already now.

Hashem should help us to listen now. To value ourselves, our efforts and our successes. He should help us to see that the only thing that we're trampling beneath our feet is the road ahead.

#Vaeschanan #תשפא #AhavasYisrael

In the aftermath of Tisha B'av, the Torah begins with the most heart wrenching of pesukim:

וָאֶתְחַנַּן אֶל ה׳... אֶעְבְּרָה נָּא וְאֶרְאֶה אֶת הָאָרֶץ הַטּוֹבָה אֲשֶׁר בְּעֵבֶר הַיַּרְדֵּן

I begged Hashem at that time... Please let me go over and see the good land that is beyond the Jordan.

On this pasuk, the Medrash Rabba (ב:א) famously comments:

שהתפלל משה באותו הפרק חמש מאות וחמשה עשר פעמים

Moshe prayed five-hundred and fifteen prayers at that time (The numerical value of ואתחנן.)

We are used to the idea that Moshe Rabbeinu was not allowed into Eretz Yisrael. We are all aware of his desperate and repeated plea to be granted entry. But even a moment of consideration leaves us with the pain of Moshe's raw emotions. Surely Hashem loved him? Surely Moshe did Teshuva? Surely it was not beyond Hashem's capacity to forgive His most loyal and dedicated servant? This Parsha is theologically and emotionally challenging.

But the Medrash finds it challenging for a different and far more disturbing reason. On two occasions in Sefer Devarim, the Torah tells us that Moshe was hinting something much worse; something that his people did not understand:

אמר רבי תנחומא: שהיה משה מחבט עצמו לפניהן ואומר להם: אתם עוברים אני איני עובר, ופתח להם פתח שמא יבקשו עליו רחמים, ולא היו מבינים.

Rabbi Tanchuma says: Moshe tells the nation “Today you are crossing the Jordan River.” That is to say, “you are crossing. I am not.” He was hinting that they should daven for him, but they did not understand (דברים רבה ג).

אמר רבי שמואל בר יצחק: כיון שנטה משה למות ולא בקשו עליו רחמים שיכנס לארץ, כנס אותן והתחיל מוכיחן. א”ל: אחד פדה ס' ריבוא בעגל, וס' ריבוא לא היו יכולין לפדות אדם אחד?!

Rabbi Shmuel bar Yitzchak says: When Moshe was about to die, and the Jewish nation had not davened for him, he reproached them as if to say “I, as one person, saved you all from the sin of the golden calf. How could six-hundred-thousand of you be incapable of saving me?” (דברים רבה ז).

Chazal in these Midrashim are challenging us. Are we davening for our teachers? If if not, why not?

The Kedushas Levi (פר׳ בהעלותך), with his constant perspective on Ahavas Yisrael, tries to judge Bnei Yisrael (and us) favorably. His suggests that Bnei Yisrael trusted Moshe so completely, that if Moshe said he was not allowed to enter into Israel, then that was the truth. There was nothing that they or anyone else could've done.

But the Sfas Emes (ליקוטים פר׳ ואתחנן) explains that this was a terrible indictment against the nation. Hashem told Moshe אַל תּוֹסֶף דַּבֵּר אֵלַי עוֹד בַּדָּבָר הַזֶּה “don't daven even once more”. That is to say, if Bnei Yisrael would have davened, even once, for Moshe, he would have been allowed into Eretz Yisrael!

I think that both of these approaches are correct. Somehow, we seem to think of our teachers as if they are both more and less than human. We place them on a strange pedestal where they are too distant for us to think of them as needing us. But at the same time, their lives are public property enough to trash to our friends and neighbors.

This phenomenon has taken on a life of its own regarding our kids' teachers in the age of social media and WhatsApp groups. Kids have always viewed their teachers as “living in the classroom”, distant from their lives outside of school hours. But this feeling has now spread to parents, with devastating results.

More and more, teachers are feeling that parents are not partners in education, but adversaries.

Let's set the record straight. As far as the Halacha is concerned, the role of a teacher is to be the shaliach mitzvah (emissary/agent) of the parent in educating their child. Teachers are not disciplinary straw men so that parents can be the “good cops” to our children.

I am, as always, wary of giving mussar. We all respond to positive messaging far better than the alternative, so I'll address this with the vision of our best selves in mind: If we want our children to believe in Ahavas Yisrael, Kavod Ha'briyos and good middos, then we should model this behavior ourselves. And it starts with the people most vulnerable to disrespect – Our kids' teachers.

The COVID pandemic brought with it a pandemic of scathing Sinas Chinam to the teachers and school administrators of our community for policies that parents disagreed with. And our children are not oblivious to the way we speak of their schools and teachers. Of course, none of this is intentional. No-one thinks “I'm gonna beat up on my kids' schools and teachers.” So from where does this attitude arise?

It has become acceptable, even praiseworthy in the USA to publicly lambast and humiliate people in positions of authority. But even if we do think of criticizing educators as “punching up” and “speaking truth to power”, we should realize that these people are still our friends and neighbors. Our community is not filled with disembodied talking heads.

Make no mistake: There is not a single teacher who is not praying that we're done with masks, distancing and zooms. No one knows better than the teachers how damaging last year was to education. Teachers just want to teach, and many are choosing alternate careers rather than deal with the bullying they receive from parents.

If we believe in Menschlichkeit and Ahavas Yisrael, then it is encumbered upon us as parents to act towards others with those middos. By all means, disagree! But resorting to venting and Lashon Hara is not civil disagreement.

In a few weeks time during the Yom Kippur Vidui, we will ask Hashem to forgive us for זלזול הורים ומורים – disdain of our parents and teachers. We should take note that the Tefillah is not talking about the time you through a pencil at your fifth grade Morah. We're asking Hashem to forgive us for our lack of love and empathy for the teachers in our lives today. We're asking Hashem to forgive us for not davening for Moshe Rabbeinu then and now.

If only we would have, perhaps all of Jewish history would be different. Perhaps we would merit a deeper education, a greater partnership with those who give of their lives and time so that we and our children can reach higher.

They tell a story about a man in Bnei Brak who was debating between two shuls. One was a closer walk with more singing. One was further, with better shiurim. So he went to the Chazon Ish to ask what his priorities should be in choosing a place to daven. The Chazon Ish asked: “Do they both have Rabbis?” “No” the man replied, “Only one has a permanent Rav.” “Then go to the one with a Rav. Not because you need him to tell you the Halacha. For that, there are many options. But it is essential for your son to see you shake the Rabbi's hand at at the of davening. That way, he will grow to have Kavod HaTorah, and good Middos.”

Hashem should help us to build our children and our community with the values that we hold nearest and dearest: That our children should grow in Love of Hashem, Love of Torah and Love of the Jewish people.

#Devarim #Moshiach #תשפא

“I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Moshiach; and even though he may tarry, nevertheless, I wait each day for his coming.”

It is one of the thirteen principles of our faith. The bedrock of our belief system. We say, we sing it, we pay homage to it, and we teach it to our children. But if I'm being real with myself for a moment, I have a hard time actually believing that Moshiach might very well come at any moment.

He certainly isn't coming to the generation of My Unorthodox Life, and good Jewish boys playing Major League Baseball on Shabbos.

I suspect that you might feel the same. Most of us don't actually anticipate abandoning our homes and jobs and lives and marching off to rebuild the Beis HaMikdash. We might anticipate it in theory, but practically, we're not actually expecting Moshiach to arrive at any moment.

This is not true of all Jews throughout history. The Chafetz Chaim famously lived with faith and anticipation. Despite his poverty, he had a new suit behind his door ready for the moment when Moshiach would come.

Why don't we do the same? Because even in as much as we believe that Hashem could bring Moshiach, we don't believe that He will. We are not expecting that when we turn on our phones this Motzei Shabbos, the world might be ablaze with the news that the Beis HaMikdash is descending from Shamayim. I mean, it could be. But it won't.

The problem with our Emunah is not that we don't think Hashem can, or wants to redeem us. We simply don't think that our generation is deserving, and we all know why.

It's all because of the media. And the chilonim. Or maybe the Chareidim. For sure the Chassidim. Maybe the reform as well? Or the liberals. Or the conservatives. And don't forget the self hating Jews. Naturally, we all know that the fault lies with the Democrats, and the Republicans. Those racists that voted for Trump, and the communists that voted for Biden. And of course, it's because of the anti-semites. And the Palestinians! Who could forget them? It's certainly their fault too. And the Knesset that doesn't do the what we all know they should do.

The list goes on and on. We have no end to people we should blame.

Sarcasm aside, and with a little maturity, we all realize that it's none of these. The truth is that it's really because of us.

If we're honest with ourselves, we know that we're not the Jews that Hashem wants us to be. This is the basic premise of all the Sifrei Mussar. If we stop deluding ourselves, we should acknowledge that Moshiach isn't coming because of me, and my flaws and my inadequacies.

So of course Hashem won't bring Moshiach. Because we just don't deserve it.

This realization, more than any other, explains why we don't expect Mosiach's arrival in our lifetimes. We don't expect it, even though we wish for it. And we don't anticipate it, even as we sing Ani Ma'amin. We look at ourselves and the world around us and conclude that there is no chance that Hashem would find us more deserving than literally any generation that came before us.

This is the deepest the Yetzer Hara in the world. The one that says “I believe in Hashem with all my heart. I just don't believe in myself and my friends and my generation.”

It's a Yetzer Hara that tells us that our world is irreparably broken and that there is no way of crawling out to redemption. It's a voice that screams out “Maybe one day... but certainly not us, and certainly not now!”

The awful truth, however, is that this Yezter Hara is ultimately just another version of lack of faith in Hashem. It convinces us to stop dreaming, learning, growing and believing. It deludes us into viewing hopelessness as humility, frumkeit and realism.

Reb Tzadok Hakohen of Lublin (צדקת הצדיק קנד) writes:

כשם שצריך אדם להאמין בהש”י כך צריך אח”כ להאמין בעצמו

Just as person is required to believe in God, so too is he afterwards required to believe in himself.

After 120 when Hashem asks us “Did you anticipate redemption?” He's not asking if we think He could do it. Hashem is asking if we lived our lives believing that we could do it.

In the deepest way, the belief that we are capable and deserving of redemption is the beginnings of Geulah itself.

R' Pinchas of Koretz (הקדמה למדרש פנחס) explains:

Moshiach will find merits even in the actions of Reshaim. And by believing in them, they we return in to Hashem and do Teshuva. And through Teshuva we will be redeemed.

Small Tzadikim have the capacity to love small Reshaim. Big Tzadikim can love even Big Reshaim. Moshiach will be able to love even completely wicked people.

Anyone who is מלמד זכות (finds a positive explainations) for another Jew, is a little piece of Moshiach.

We all know this to be true of our own experiences. When our failures overwhelm us, and the fears of an unfulfilled life surface, what we need most is someone to be Melamed Zechus. We need someone to validate our struggles, to tell us that our mistakes are normal. That Hashem loves us anyways.

At our most vulnerable and honest we're not looking for excuses. We're looking for the confidence to move beyond our failure and pain. To give that love, power and confidence to another Jew is to be their Moshiach.

Perhaps a story might illustrate this best:

The Chafetz Chaim would travel from village to village selling his seforim. He was once in Vilna where he noticed a man enter a restaurant and in a gruff, insolent voice demand a piece of roast duck and a glass of whiskey. When the waitress served him, he quickly grabbed the portion. Without reciting a beracha, he gulped down his food and washed it down with his glass of whiskey. No thank you, no berachah, no menshlichkeit – whatsoever. The Chafetz Chaim was shocked at this display of uncouth behavior.

The innkeeper, seeing the Chafetz Chaim's shock, dissuaded him from saying anything to the man, claiming that he was a veteran of Czar Nikolai's Army. He had been taken from his home as a child and conscripted to Siberia and other miserable outposts for forty years. It was no wonder that he acted like such an untamed animal. He had not been in a civilized environment for most of his life. He never saw a Jew, let alone a tzaddik, such as the Chafetz Chaim. “Please Rebbe,” the innkeeper begged, “ignore him. It is not befitting the Rebbe's dignity to speak to him. He will only act with disrespect and impudence towards the Rebbe.”

“Do not worry about me,” the Chafetz Chaim smiled. “I know how to speak to such a Jew. Trust me, good will yet emerge from our encounter.”

The Chafetz Chaim approached the soldier, stuck out his hand and – in a friendly voice – said, “Shalom Aleichem, Is it true what I just heard about you: that as a young boy you were forcibly taken from your home and sent together with other youngsters to Siberia? You were raised among the gentiles, who many times had sought to estrange you from your religion. You never had the opportunity to study one word of Torah. You underwent many painful trials and tribulations. You were forced to eat non-kosher food. Indeed, you suffered the vicissitudes of Gehinom, Purgatory, on this world. Yet, you did not renege your religion. Despite all of your sufferings, you still remained a Jew. You are indeed fortunate. If I could only be worthy of your portion in Olam Habah, the World to Come. Your mesiras nefesh, self-sacrifice, for Judaism is unparalleled. To have suffered for almost forty years and to still identify with the religion of your ancestors is nothing short of incredible.”

The Chafetz Chaim finished speaking. He looked into the eyes of the soldier who was shedding bitter tears – tears that emanated from a pure heart. When he was notified who it was that was speaking to him, he grabbed hold of the saintly Chafetz Chaim and kissed him, as he wailed bitterly for forgiveness for a life that was empty of Hashem, ethics and morals.

The Chafetz Chaim turned to him and said, “Someone such as you, who has sustained so much and remained a Jew – if you would only accept upon yourself from here on to observe the Torah and mitzvos, your eternal reward would be boundless.”

This was not a religious sales pitch. The Chafetz Chaim saw within this Jew all of the hopes and dreams of a nation that is desperately holding on and holding out for redemption. Perhaps this orientation explains why the he had a Moshiach suit ready and waiting. He believed in himself. He believed in other people.

Rav Kook (ש״ק ז:ר״א) writes:

שואלים במה זכה דורנו לגאולה. התשובה פשוטה היא, הוא זכה מפני שעסק במצוה היותר גדולה שבכל המצוות, במצווה השקולה ככל התורה כולה, מפני שהוא עסק בגאולת ישראל

People ask me, how will our generation merit Geulah? It's simple, our generation busies themselves with the greatest mitzvah in the world. The Mitzvah of redeeming the Jewish people.

Hashem should help us, us unrefined, uncouth, lowly people, to believe in ourselves, that we can bring this Geulah. That just by being a Jew who still holds on, we can catapult ourselves to the world of redemption. It's not too far away. It's not too distant. With Hashem's help, we should turn on our phones this Motzei Shabbos to book our flights to Yerushalayim.

One of the deepest desires of parents is to keep our children shielded from the tragedies of life. We don't want to expose our kids to the horrors of pain, illness and death. We don't want them to think about Surfside or Meron or the worst effects of COVID.

Aliza and I certainly didn't want to tell our children that their Zeida, Aliza's dad, passed away last week.

Most of that discomfort was our own. Our children were saddened by the news. But they knew that Zeida was sick. They knew that mommy had gone to visit him two weeks ago, and they knew that he didn't recognize or remember any of us. We had not denied our children the knowledge that, despite our tefillos, his terminal illness most often ends in death.

Our kids asked a lot of questions. They wanted to know about when or why Hashem chooses to take a Neshoma back to Shamayim. They wanted to know why people die at all.

Some of our answers satisfied them, some did not. Truthfully, many do not satisfy me either. After all, even Rabbis are not God. Despite our best efforts, so many things remain mysterious. (The Vilna Gaon is quoted as saying that one must live at least three hundred years in this world before beginning to understand why bad things happen to good people.)

I think that there is great value to sharing sadness, heartbreak and the challenges of Emunah with our children. Of course, all of this in an age appropriate way. As a general disclaimer: I am not a child psychologist, and Baruch Hashem, there are many people more qualified than myself to instruct us on how best to have these conversations. But I maintain that doing so is vital.

What is the value of do so? Beyond the obvious modeling of Emunah, exposing our children to the realities of life (and death) is essential in producing well rounded, empathetic adults.

This dawned on me a number of years ago while I was teaching a tenth grade girls class. It was towards the end of the year, and most girls were fifteen or sixteen years old. I asked how many of them had ever witnessed birth or death. None of them raised their hands.

This was not particularly surprising. Our society outsources all of the most extreme moments of existence to doctors, hospitals and professionals.

I asked my students to consider that had they been born two centuries ago, they would most likely have their own children already. Without question, they would have assisted in a handful of births already – sisters, aunts, mothers or grandmothers. More than likely, they would've witnessed death more than once.

I then asked them what they might be different if they lived such experiences. One girl raised her hand: “We'd have a better perspective,” She answered. “We would probably not get as upset about things as we do now.”

I asked a group of teenage boys – who will do anything for free food – if they had ever witness Shechita. None of them had. Which means that none had ever seen the process by which their steak arrives at their plate. Undoubtably, the gain of this dissonance is the ability to enjoy a shabbos lunch without thinking of the violence that was needed to produce it. But the cost is a signifiant downgrade in the respect owed to a living being who was killed for us to enjoy.

Perhaps we could suggest that the pristine and disconnected bubble that we have attempted to engineer is not actually as utopian as we might hope.

We, as human beings, still posses an enormous range of emotions, from abject heartbreak to overwhelming elation. What we lack nowadays is the range of experiences to match our emotions. If the worst thing that has ever happened in your life is that someone was mean to you on social media, then the emotions for “the worst thing ever” will emerge there. If the greatest thing that ever happened to you was getting a free snack from the vending machine, or an “A” on a test, well, that might explain why everything today is described as “awesome!”

By shielding our children and our society from the pain of this world, we are not saving them from painful emotions. We are simply shortening the range of where those emotions are felt. Ironically, a shorter range of experiences might well cause greater pain. With these limitations, “terrible” things happen more often. There is no escape from the capacity and need to feel.

This observation was made by the Piasesna Rebbe, the Aish Kodesh in his personal spiritual diary, Tzav V'Zirus.

There, he writes (#9):

The human souls loves to feel. She does not simply desire to feel happiness, but also to feel sadness and tears. People are drawn to see terrifying visions, and to hear terrible stories that rouse them to tears, simply so that they might feel.

This is a need, and like any other need, it must be fulfilled.

(The Rebbe continues to explain that a Jew should fill their need to feel with an emotional connection to Torah, mitzvos and Klal Yisrael. If Yiddishkeit remains dry and intellectual, then the need to feel will be fulfilled through other avenues, perhaps even in the world of sin.)

Beyond the importance of developing this maturity, the Avoda of appropriately exposing ourselves and our children to real experiences and real emotions has an essential communal function. It enables us to become empathetic and caring friends.

A friend recently told me that when his six year old daughter was diagnosed with cancer, other parents would hesitate to allow to their children to play with her. God forbid, she shouldn't survive, it would be so traumatic to their children. He noted that these same people were bringing over lasagnas and picking up their dry cleaning. They're good people, they simply lacked the capacity and desire and to extend the range of their emotion experiences. But everyone knows, friends are more important than lasagna.

The desire to protect our children faces off against the need for emotional growth in yet another arena, so appropriate to this time of year: Mourning the destruction of Yerushalayim. How much should we expect our children to observe the customs of this season?

The Shulchan Aruch (תקנ״א י״ד) writes that children, just like adults, are forbidden from haircuts. The Magen Avraham there grapples with the reason for this Halacha: We do not usually educate children in painful mitzvos. Perhaps, he suggests, there is a difference between personal mourning (from which children are technically exempt) and communal mourning (where parents are obliged to educate them.)

The Aruch HaShulchan (שם ס׳ לא) explains this difference:

דבזה יש חינוך ליראת השם, שהקטן כשישאל על מה זה – יבינו לו עניין חורבן בית המקדש

The education is to teach Yiras Shamayim, Reverence of Hashem. When the child asks “why?”, the parents should use that opportunity to teach about the destruction of Yerushalayim.

We need to ensure that our children are not divorced from the pain of the community, and that they are connected to eternal purpose of our people.

So, the Halacha asks of us as adults to lean into these awkward and painful emotions, and to include our children in whatever way they can reasonably handle. Knowing what is truly painful gives us all a perspective on life that no bubble can achieve. Through it, we learn to share in each others sorrow and tragedy, and that somehow, makes it just a little less painful.

Perhaps this is what Chazal (תענית ל ב) mean when they tell us:

כׇּל הַמִּתְאַבֵּל עַל יְרוּשָׁלַיִם זוֹכֶה וְרוֹאֶה בְּשִׂמְחָתָהּ Whoever mourns for Jerusalem will merit and see her future joy.

If we can learn to feel the pain of one another, the pain of the Beis HaMikdash, we will have the tools to experience the greatest elation possible, the rebuilding of Yerushalayim.

#Pinchas #תשפא

It's a disturbing question: What, if anything, should we learn from Pinchas? How are we supposed to understand the sheer violence of this Parsha?

By all standards, Pinchas' zealotry stands as the total and complete antithesis of what we would call Jewish Values.

Of course, some might protest that my question arises from a misunderstanding of the Torah and Jewish Values. There are those who have suggested that the peace-loving pacifism that colors our perspective today is inauthentic – a veritable distortion of the Torah. Perhaps, they argue, the political orientation of Yiddishkeit is, at its core, more zealous, violent and aggressive than our modern sensitivities can stomach? Perhaps we only recoil from such acts as a result of many long years of exile?

To that, I would argue staunchly, that nothing could be further from the truth. Chazal (יבמות עט ב) famously quote from Dovid HaMelech that there are three trademark characteristics of the Jewish nation: אמר שלשה סימנים יש באומה זו הרחמנים והביישנין וגומלי חסדים – “They are merciful, they are shamefaced, and they perform acts of kindness.”

This Gemara is not an outlier. Consider the well known Mishna in Avos (5:19): עין טובה, ורוח נמוכה, ונפש שפלה, מתלמידיו של אברהם אבינו – “One who has a good eye, a humble spirit and a moderate appetite is of the disciples of Abraham Avinu.” And of course, the “Great Principle of the Torah” is to Love one's neighbor as oneself.

There are countless such examples throughout Tanach, the Talmud and the pages of Rabbinic writing advancing the reality that the Torah is a Toras Chessed. As such, Pinchas represents a violent response that must offend our sensitivities. For a Jew to rise up, take a spear in his hand and skewer a sinner – even a public sinner – is unthinkable. And yet, Pinchas does just that:

...He took a spear in his hand; and he went after the man of Israel into the tent, and thrust both of them through, the man of Israel, and the woman through her body. (Bamidbar 25:8)

Somehow, his violent outburst not only evades Heavenly retribution, but earns him eternal reward!

Therefore say: Behold, I give to him my covenant of peace and it will be to him, and to his children after him, the covenant of an everlasting priesthood.

All of this leaves us with the question: How are we supposed to understand Pinchas?

To begin, we'll consider a story from the Talmud (ברכות כח ב) which is appropriate to the three weeks. It's the account of the dying moments of Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakai, the leader of the surviving Jewish community following the destruction of the Second Beis HaMikdash.

When Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai fell ill his students entered to visit him. When he saw them, he began to cry... They asked him: Why are your crying? He said to them: I cry in fear of heavenly judgement... I have two paths before me, one of Gan Eden and one of Gehennon, and I do not know on which they are leading me; how will I not cry? Immediately before he died, he said to his students: ...Prepare a chair for Chezekiyahu, the King of Yehuda, who is coming from the upper world to accompany me.

We might wonder how it could be that Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai was so unsure as to his final destination? Surely he knew that he had lived a decent and God fearing life?! But Chazal tell us that at the time of the destruction of Yerushalayim, when Rabbi Yochanan was smuggled out of the city and presented to Vespasian, he was granted a request. In that moment of mercy from the Romans, Rabbi Yochanan famously asked תן לי יבנה וחכמיה – Please spare the city of Yavneh and its sages. Notably, he did not ask for Yerushalayim to be saved from destruction.

This decision haunted him until his dying moments. Perhaps if he would only have asked, the Beis HaMikdash would still be standing? On the other hand, perhaps such an audacious request would have left him with nothing; effectively ending all hope for Judaism forever.

It was his decision alone to determine the fate of all of Jewish history – and for the remainder of his life, he was never sure if he had chosen correctly.

But the story of his life ends with him telling his students to make way for Chezkiyahu HaMelech who would be escorting him to the upper worlds. What does this detail add to the narrative?

It's a strange epilogue, especially considering that Chezkiyahu and Rabbi Yochanan represented totally different perspectives on this exact question! When Chezkiyahu was faced with the choice of surrendering to Assyria or fighting for Yerushalayim, he chose to never surrender, and Hashem saved the city miraculously! Perhaps Chezkiyahu is coming because Rabbi Yochanan made the wrong choice?

The Vilna Gaon (אמרי נועם שם) explains on the contrary: Chezkiyahu is coming to accompany Rabbi Yochanan because both ensured the continuation of Torah.

Mori V'Rabbi, Rav Moshe Stav suggested that this is exactly the point of this whole story. Chezkiyahu and Rabbi Yochanan had completely different political strategies. But they shared a commonality of purpose. They disagreed as to the “How”, but were 100% aligned as to the “Why”.

Imagine then, that someone would tell us that we, the Jewish people should adopt the political pacifism of Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai. Or imagine that someone would argue that we should emulate the nationalistic pride of Chezkiyahu. Both would be wrong.

Chazal are teaching us that there is little of substance to learn from the political ideology of our leaders throughout history. The stories that the Tanach and Talmud tell us are written exclusively for the values system they represent.

And the same is true for Pinchas. We have nothing to learn from his actions, but plenty to gain from his motivation: He was completely devoid of any personal anger, bias or agenda. A fact to which Hashem Himself attests – בְּקַנְאוֹ אֶת קִנְאָתִי – “Pinchas did this for Me”.

The Kotzker (עמוד האמת ע׳ מב) notes that Moshe Rabbeinu was deeply concerned about the lessons our nation might learn from Pinchas. Indeed it is in the context of Pinchas slaying Zimri that Moshe davens to Hashem to appoint a successor to lead the people after him. But Moshe has known for quite some time that he would not enter the Land of Israel. Why is he demanding a succession plan now? The Kotzker explains:

The events of Pinchas disturbed Moshe. Before Pinchas killed Zimri, Moshe knew that Hashem would appoint a special person, to fill his shoes. And then Pinchas came along. He was filled with passion, with Kedusha, with Mesiras Nefesh; all of the qualities that one needs in a leader. But he was also zealot; a Kanai. And a Jewish leader needs to look at another person in the midst of doing the wrong thing, and not take revenge.

So Pinchas is written out of Jewish history, with barely another mention of him throughout the rest of Tanach. Clearly his actions should never be emulated. So why does the Torah record his story at all? Because we have a tremendous amount to learn from his motivations, even if his methodology is never to be repeated.

Perhaps the greatest lesson for us to extract from the horror and tragedy of the Pinchas saga is the value of differentiating between our political orientations and our value systems. And this is the Torah's message: פִּינְחָס בֶּן אֶלְעָזָר בֶּן אַהֲרֹן הַכֹּהֵן – Pinchas, the zealot, is the grandson of Aharon HaKohen, the great lover of peace. Grandfather and grandson believed in exactly the same value system, and their difference in methodology was simply cosmetic.

This Parsha comes as the Three Weeks enter, to remind us that the Unity of our national purpose is infinitely more important than our political opinions. With Hashem's help this will be another step forward in eradicating the Sinas Chinam within us, in fulfillment of the dream of Rav Kook (הראיה א קמ):

האהבה היא תחושת האחדות יש מי שאחד עם גופו יש מי שאחד עם משפחתו יש מי שאחד עם עמו ויש מי שאחד עם העולם כולו

Love is the feeling of unity. There are those who are one with their body, Those who are one with their family, Those who are one with their nation And then there are those Who are one with the entirely of the world.

A few days ago I was driving with my kids when the car next to me began shifting quickly into my lane, clearly failing to check their blind spot. So I honked at them to avoid the collision, only to meet up a few moments later at the red light ahead.

The gentleman in the car next to me was clearly upset that I had honked him, and proceeded to roll down his window and offer some choice commentary on the Yichus of my family.

Despite his expletives and the scene he was making, I told my kids to keep the windows closed and only look forwards – we have no need to look in his direction.

As the light turned green, he drove off in hurry, but my kids were curious and confused. “Why was that man yelling at us Abba? We didn't do anything wrong! And why didn't you tell him that it was his fault? Why did you just ignore him?!”

Truthfully, it took a good deal of restraint not to respond to his attacks. There's a powerful tug inside demanding to set the record straight, to stand up against such abuse. But we were not in danger, and there was nothing to be gained by returning his remarks or attention.

It's a fact of our very existence, however, that it's very difficult to ignore attention and acknowledgment – even when it's negative.

This drive is the Yetzer that powers the news, social media, entertainment, art and fashion. But it is not necessarily negative. In the deepest sense, our desire for attention is the need to answer the question: Do I matter?

For many of us, the months of COVID isolation proved that it's hard to get out of bed in the morning without a sure feeling that one is seen and noticed. Much like the reality that people don't enjoy coming to shul unless they feel that their presence will be felt.

Why did Hashem made us so? Why did He create us perpetually in a state of psychological and existential yearning and loneliness?

Rashi in Bereishis tells us that the world is lacking because Hashem wants us to recognize that we are in need, that we're not whole. This in turn allows us to create relationships with God, with each other, with our spouses and children. It drives ingenuity, invention and creativity. From the moment we're born, we're screaming “mommy, daddy, look at what I made.” If we didn't feel that lacking, that need for acknowledgement, it's quite possible we would never discover the beauty of a relationship with Hashem, ourselves or each other.

But displaying this vulnerability is dangerous. If you've ever posted something online only to repeatedly check how many likes and shares it has, then you know this truth intimately.

Anyone who is still replaying the words of a teacher, or Morah or Rebbe from elementary school (whether positive or negative) knows this feeling well. Anyone who has ever beamed from praise, or shrunk from an insult understands how susceptible we all are.

We define and redefine ourselves based on the observations of others. And power to build or destroy or build a person a carefully chosen word was the expertise of Bilaam the Sorcerer.

When Balak approaches Bilaam, and asks him to destroy the Jewish people the Torah is quite clear on how Bilaam is going to achieve it. He is going curse us.

What is his curse? By finding points of weakness, Bilaam is going to say exactly the thing that will leave the Jewish people feeling most exposed. He's going to take the natural human need for being seen, and use it to crush us. This is what Chazal refer to as the Evil Eye.

The Mishna in Avos teaches us:

עין רעה... מתלמידיו של בלעם הרשע – One who possesses an evil eye... is a student of Bilaam.

But Hashem doesn't allow Bilaam to curse us, and indeed, his frustrations are apparent in the words he speaks:

כִּי מֵרֹאשׁ צֻרִים אֶרְאֶנּוּ וּמִגְּבָעוֹת אֲשׁוּרֶנּוּ הֶן עָם לְבָדָד יִשְׁכֹּן וּבַגּוֹיִם לֹא יִתְחַשָּׁב – For from the top of the rocks I see him. From the hills I see him. Behold, it is a people that dwells alone, and shall not be considered among the nations.

They're all alone, and are not counted amongst the nations: that is to say, they're not interested in what I have to say about them.

But Balak persists: “try again!” So Bilaam attempts a second time, only to speak the words:

ה׳ אֱלֹהָיו עִמּוֹ וּתְרוּעַת מֶלֶךְ בּוֹ – Hashem his God is with him. The Teruah of The King is among them.

Rashi explains here: Hashem doesn't want to get upset with the Jewish people, because they have the Teruah of the King. What is this “Teruah?” It's not the sound of a Shofar, rather – לשון חיבה וריעות – Hashem is our friend.

Bilaam throws up his hands. How am I supposed to effect a people with such a strong support system? Hashem Himself is smiling on them.

But again Balak presses; with a similar result, and Bilaam exclaiming the famous words: > מַה־טֹּ֥בוּ אֹהָלֶ֖יךָ יַעֲקֹ֑ב – How goodly are your tents!

Rashi explains: > מה טובו אהליך – על שראה פתחיהם שאין מכוונין זה מול זה – He said this because he saw that the entrances of their tents were not exactly facing each other.

Bilaam is again frustrated! You can give an evil eye all you like – but if the person doesn't even look in your direction, it's completely ineffective.

It's that simcha of knowing that someone is yelling at you on the road, and you're not even looking at them.

Bilaam notices with dismay that he cannot curse a people who do not need him to feel seen by him. They have Hashem, and their own families. They're not even looking out the window.

The Bnei Yissaschar in אגרא דכלה quotes from the ספר הפליאה that:

בזמן שהאב והאם עם הבנים אין עין הרע שולטת בהם When father and mother are with the children, the evil eye cannot affect them.

He explains: While this is a deep metaphysical concept, the psychology of it is clear. This is why, when Esav comes to attack, Yaakov protects his children by sending them back with their mothers.

The job of a parent, the purpose of a home, is to ensure that children feel seen, accepted, acknowledged and appreciated at home. So that they're not looking for the Bilaams of the world to define the meaning of their lives. The greatest Chesed we can do for our love ones is ensure that they don't need social media to satisfy their needs for attention.

Simply stated, the notion of עין הרע is the exploitation of the human need to be seen, in order to make a person feel smaller. It is the greatest curse in the world. Hashem protects us from it, and urges us to protect our children, our homes and each other.

This idea animates our tefillos, especially on Shabbos and Yom Tov constantly return to these themes: אשר בחר בנו מכל העמים – You chose us! הבוחר בעמו ישראל באהבה – You choose us with love! אהבת אותנו ורצית בנו – You love us, You want us!

Why was Bilaam ineffective? Because while he was cursing and yelling on the high way of Jewish history, Klal Yisrael was dancing to music in the car. They felt רצית בנו – Hashem loves me, wants me, believes in me. Bilaam failed because no-one felt the need to look back at him.

This Motzei Shabbos begins the period of mourning for Yerushalayim. With Hashem's help, however, it should be a time of tremendous simcha and redemption. And perhaps now we can understand the great vision of Redemption of the Navi Yeshayahu (52:8): כִּי עַיִן בְּעַיִן יִרְאוּ בְּשׁוּב י״י צִיּוֹן – For they will see, eye to eye, That Hashem is returning to Tzion. On that great day Hashem will help us, once again, to know that we are seen by Him.

#Chukas #תשפא

People often ask me what the turning point was. What was it that propelled me to lose almost 100 lbs, overturn my eating habits and run marathons?

Truthfully, I didn't know at the time. It wasn't was any particular event or occasion. Certainly nothing that I could point to and say “that's why”. But it was between Parshas Korach and Parshas Chukas three summers ago that I decided to reengage in trying to change.

I say “reengage” because, like most people, I tried a little on and off for years. Mostly to convince myself that it wasn't going to work, or that it wasn't worth the effort.

So what made this time different?

Strangely, it was the absence of any reason or purpose that really got me started. Allow me to explain:

When we think of changing something in our lives, we often tether it to some point in time; an event, a milestone or an occasion. “Gotta fit into that dress”, “really have to look good in the pictures,” “don't want them to see me like this...”

Invariably, those events inspire some desire to change, but all too often, we're unsuccessful, and in the the rare cases of success, it's unsustainable.

Naturally, when the deadline has passed, whether our goals have been achieved or not, our habits return to status quo, leaving us no better than before, and perhaps more dejected.

So we wait for the next inflection point. The next simcha, graduation, or doctor's visit. Something, anything to propel us past the failures.

And three years ago, as I looked at myself in the mirror I thought “I should really do something about this before the... by the time that...” And I drew blanks. There was nothing that came to mind. There was no date in my immediate future that might serve as my reason to change.

Perhaps for the very first time, it dawned upon me that this problem was mine to own and mine to fix. Nothing and no-one was going to save me. All of this meant that in that moment, the non-choice to change, was a clear and obvious choice to not change.

The same is true regarding all of the most daunting challenges we face: paying off debt, giving up smoking, trying new business ventures, and rebuilding broken relationships. When there is no natural deadline in the distance, there are only two choices: Choose to or choose not to.

I had a similar conversation with some guys a while back about minyan attendance and regular learning. In these areas too, there are inflection points along the road of growth. “I'll get serious at my bar mitzvah” or “when I get to high school”. For many, all growth is swept under the “yeshiva year in Israel” rug. By the time we're raising families, paying tuition and building careers, there are few natural inflection points left.

If we don't make the choice to actively engage in Torah and Tefillah there is no rebbe, rabbi, yeshiva or school that will “make us” do it. Of course, that's not to say it's simple to choose to dedicate ourselves to change and growth. None of this is simple.

When the Rambam (הל׳ ת״ת א׳:ח׳) codifies the obligation of Talmud Torah he writes about our life circumstances:

Every man in Israel is obliged to study Torah, whether he is poor or rich, whether he is physically healthy or ailing, whether he is in full strength of youth or of great age and weakened vitality; even if he is dependent upon charity for his livelihood, or going around from door to door begging his daily bread, and even he who has a wife and children to support...

The magnitude of challenges is obvious: A person with a family will find Talmud Torah hardest. This doesn't absolve us. It simply means that the choice to achieve or to fail is one that we make ourselves.

No one wants to choose failure, so why don't we all simply get on with solving our issues? Welll of course, there is a third “choice”: the implicit choice to not do anything. Not to think about it. Not to consider our choices.

As we all know, this is always easier in the short term. We barely need to rationalize it. It does not take long to learn how to procrastinate and dismiss the feelings of discomfort and failure until they barely register in our conscious minds.

We becomes practiced at running and hiding from that which we don't want to face. We cover the layers of shame with blame and distraction. A little self-deprecation goes a long way in a social setting. But the pain doesn't go away when the crowd dissipates.

The things we don't want to deal with gnaw at us, making us bitter and resentful. We feel like we're deluding the world, sometimes even ourselves, pretending to be ok with it, but inwardly feeling cowardly and weak.

We all feel this way in areas small and large. You'll know exactly what I'm talking about if you're afraid to get on the scale, open that envelope, check your email, login to that account, or return that particular phone call.

If the mere reading of this is making you anxious, you're in good company. We're engaging with one of the most formidable enemies that the Jewish people have ever faced. The Torah, this shabbos, calls him Sichon, the king of Cheshbon. Before our people could enter into the Land of Israel we needed to fight and vanquish the King of Cheshbon.

Who or what is Sichon? Chazal (ב״ב עח ב) explain that inside of each of our minds is the possibility to make good educated considerations (Cheshbonos). To take stock of our present and future, and to choose the correct course of action. But the road to that Cheshbon HaNefesh is blocked by Sichon. This is true on a person level and a national one.

What's the secret weapon to thinking clearly and defeating the King of Cheshbon?

Reb Tzadok (פרי צדיק דברים ג׳) quotes from the Izbitzer that:

הישראל שמאמין שיש עוד עולם לעולם הבא כבר הוא ישראל שנושע בכל ענינו A Jew who believes that there is a future world is already a Jew who can be saved entirely.

Practically, this is not simply the belief in a future world. Rather that we believe that our world is leading to that future.

To put this in a very personal context: It means internalizing the truth that “future me” will be really happy that “present me” is dealing with this now. It means living as if this moment is important my future.

Reb Tzadok continues that perhaps this is the meaning of ״כל ישראל יש להם חלק לעולם הבא״ – Every Jew has a portion in the world to come: To be a Jew is to live with the constant realization that the present is leading to the future.

The reason that we live with shame and regret, rather than success, is because we rarely choose to put up a fight. Often we would find ourselves victorious if we actually engaged in battle. The pathway to “future us” is so often blocked by fear of failure and judgment that we retreat. But the moment that we choose to face it head on, without judging ourselves and self-loathing, is the moment we begin to defeat it.

In the words of Rav Kook (ש״ק ח:נח):

Mankind is fearful after failure and sin, Thinking that our mistakes have injured us, Rendering us hopeless. We do not understand that fear itself Is the sign that we are standing At the crossroads of our lives.

Hashem should help us this summer to face what we fear. To square off against the King of Cheshbon and emerge victorious.