#יתרו #תשפב

In 1957, Elie Wiesel visited Disneyland in California for the first time, and commented:

“If one wants to calm his nerves and forget the bitter realities of daily life, there is no better-suited place to do so than Disneyland. In Disneyland, the land of children’s dreams, everything is simple, beautiful, good. There, no one screams at his fellow, no one is exploited by his fellow, no one’s fortune derives from his fellow’s misfortune. If children had the right to vote, they would vote Disney their president. And the whole world would look different.”

In the coming days, thousands of Jews will be visiting Disney World in Florida. It's always fun to watch as Yidden arrive in the parks with shtick. How to maximize fun, minimize waiting, enjoy glatt kosher food and spend as little money as possible doing it. (Though, who are we kidding?)

After all of this, one thing is clear: Leaving Disney World is always accompanied by tired children with bitter tears, begging to stay in Disney World forever.

Everyone wants to live in Disney. Every moment there is living the fairy tale. The entire experience is designed to ensure that we leave with the feeling of happily-ever-after.

But one may wonder if such happy endings are educationally sound. As Yarei Shamayim and Ohavei Hashem, is the Disney vision of sailing off into the sunset, reflective of reality?

Practically, we don't seem to educate this idea in any other sphere. The philosophy of our lives, as we live them, is that fairytale endings are for kids. Mature adults need to grow up and take responsibility. No pain, no gain – לפום צערא אגרא. Real life does not give us three wishes or magic wands.

Emotionally, when facing challenges, we bristle at the suggestion that “it'll all work out for the best”. Tell that to the couple struggling to have children. Tell that to the family trying to make ends meet. Tell that to the parents desperate to marry off a child.

And yet, with all that said, we as Jews believe, that no matter what, somehow, some why and from somewhere, אני מאמין באמונה שלמה בביאת המשיח – we believe in Geulah. We believe that there is a realiy beyond our reach that is better than this one.

We are not alone in this faith. In addition to our deeply rooted Jewish Emunah, it seems that much of humanity agrees to the concept of Geulah in some way. This understanding is manifest in cultures and societies across the globe, and every major work of fiction tells the same story: A broken world, that is somehow redeemed. How did this phenomenon come to be?

In a previously censored text, the Rambam (הל׳ מלכים סוף פרק יא) explains:

The Thoughts of the Creator of the World are beyond any man’s understanding. For our ways are not His Ways, and our thoughts are not His Thoughts. And all the doings of Christianity and that of that Islam are nothing but to pave the way for the Melech HaMashiach and prepare the entire world to serve Hashem together... How is this so? These religions have made people accustomed to the idea of serving God... And when Mashiach will come, they will know that He is true, and they will understand that they had been led astray.

Somehow, Hashem has made it that the world understands that redemption is possible on a global scale.

But we are now left with a conundrum. How do these completely contradictory ideas fit together? On the one hand, we are charged to take responsibility for our actions and our lives. And yet, on the other hand, we believe that Geulah will come to this broken world with broken people even if we don't figure out how to fix it?

There can be only one solution: Ultimately, we will fix ourselves, we will fix each other and we will fix the world.

Rav Kook (שבת הארץ) explains that everything in existence is drawn to live in accordance with and to express its basic nature. The basic nature of a Jew is to be connected to Hashem. Our life is defined by this connection, as Moshe Rabbeinu tells us: וְאַתֶּם הַדְּבֵקִים בַּי״י אֱלֹהֵיכֶם חַיִּים... – You who are clinging to Hashem your God are all alive this day.

Like a tree that twists and turns to poke its head above the canopy of the forest, a Jew is constantly moving upwards. It's the source of our lives. We cannot help ourselves; it is who we are.

What then is left for us to work on? What is our role, our responsibility? Hashem reveals this secret to us just before giving the Torah:

וְעַתָּה אִם שָׁמוֹעַ תִּשְׁמְעוּ בְּקֹלִי וּשְׁמַרְתֶּם אֶת בְּרִיתִי וִהְיִיתֶם לִי סְגֻלָּה מִכָל הָעַמִּים... And now, if you will listen my voice and keep my covenant, then you will be Mine uniquely, from among all peoples...

All that we need to do is begin to do that which we already know to do. We already know that we should be working on our middos and giving greater care to the mitzvos that we do. We know that we should be connected to Hashem in davening and learning, and connecting to each other with love and empathy. The moment we allow ourselves to do so, we change the world along with us.

The Koznitzer Maggid, however, notes that the pasuk does not simply say “if you listen...”. Instead, the pasuk begins “and now, if you listen...“. When is the וְעַתָּה, the now of the Pasuk?

The word “now” in the Torah means Teshuva (שמות רבה). Hashem is telling us, just before we receive the Torah that from the vantage of right now, our past mistakes are irrelevant. Our flaws and our failings are incidental to who we are. No matter how many twists the trunks of our trees have endured, it is still in our basic nature to climb upwards. When? Right now.

The Talmud (Brachos 17a) relates the various tefillos that Tanaim and Amoraim would say at the end of davening:

ר' אלכסנדרי בתר דמצלי אמר הכי רבון העולמים גלוי וידוע לפניך שרצוננו לעשות רצונך ומי מעכב שאור שבעיסה ושעבוד מלכיות יהי רצון מלפניך שתצילנו מידם ונשוב לעשות חוקי רצונך בלבב שלם.

Rav Alexandri would say: Master of the Universe, it is revealed and known before You that our will is to perform Your will, *and what prevents* us? The yeast in the dough, and the subjugation to the nations of the world. May it be Your will that You will deliver us from their hands, so that we may return to perform the edicts of Your will with a perfect heart.

That's the secret. We want to live in Hashem's world. Everyone does. All that we need to do is remove that which prevents us.

We Jews believe in a world happily-ever-after. But not because of wishes, magic, or fairy tales. We believe it is so because the fundamental nature of the world is to be good, to become great, to overcome negativity, pain and shame. That we are capable of doing so.

There is a little Geulah in each and every moment of trying again, of starting from fresh. It's the deep understanding that a happy, healthy, moral, ethical world is not only possible, but inevitable. And it starts with us, it starts with “now”.

#Beshalach #תשפב

I walked into Shiur one morning this week, to be greeted by a question, or rather, a statement from one of the guys: “Rebbe, I really don't wanna learn today, Hashem hates me.”

We certainly can't begin learning with that in the air, so I followed up. “What makes you feel that way?” He continued to explain: “Nothing seems to be going great for me in my life.”

I this point, I am trying to be cognizant that there are two distinct possibilities here. This could either be a revelation that something truly horrible is happening, or that I'm talking to an honest, if disaffected and lethargic teen.

Thankfully, it turned out to be the latter, as he continued to explain: “Nothing bad is happening, just nothing great. It feels like Hashem hates me.” A number of other students joined in to express similar sentiments.

But the jump in logic seemed unjustified. Life is normal, boring, unspectacular. COVID is annoying, Yeshiva break is so close; and yet so far. But why does that mean Hashem hates you?

I hazarded an approach, “Please correct me if I am wrong. Hashem asks us to do a bunch of things, right?” “Right.” “We don't always do those things, right?” “Right.” “He also asks us to not do a bunch of things, which we sometimes do, right?” “Right.”

I pressed a little further: “So you guys are thinking, if someone treated me the way that I treat Hashem, I probably wouldn't like them very much. With that logic, it stands to reason that Hashem doesn't like you.” I could see my students mulling that over.

This is where the jump occurs, and it doesn't only affect teens. Once I have concluded that if I was Hashem, I wouldn't like me, it's not hard to project that onto the Master of The Universe.

That projection, of course, is now the basic definition of our relationship. Which means that Talmud Torah is learning the thoughts of a Guy that doesn't like you. Davening is talking to a Guy that doesn't like you. Doing mitzvos, wearing tzitzis, putting on tefillin, keeping Shabbos and Kashrus are simply doing things that you have to do for a Guy that doesn't like you. Or he'll punch you.

From here, it's fairly easy to spiral into a world of religious apathy. Resentment quickly follows.

Now, imagine that doing things for “the Guy that doesn't like you” is also an expectation of your parents and teachers, a school rule, a standard by which you are judged, and, to top it off, a distraction from the things that you enjoy... The picture is unpleasant. I wouldn't want to learn Chumash either.

Without proper attention, there is no natural end point of this trajectory. There are adults that will begrudgingly drag themselves and their children to shul this Shabbos to fulfill some sense of religious or familial duty. Every time is a battle, and any excuse to get out of it is readily entertained.

Of course, there is something to say for the diligence and obedience on display, but I hope that we can all agree that disgruntled acquiescence it's a pretty low bar. Moreover, such diligence tends to attenuate over generations and that guy's kids will most likely drag their own children to shul with less and less regularity. In short, this is not a recipe for success.

To begin to fix this, we need to deconstruct the popular myth, that: Hashem's love, care and concern for us is dependent upon our observance of mitzvos. This is patently untrue..

But, you may protest, The Torah very clearly delineates the notions of reward and punishment! These are emphatically contingent upon our thoughts, words and deeds. Moreover, the Sefer Ha'Ikarim writes that belief in reward and punishment is one of only three axioms of Jewish faith!

Of course, this is all correct. However: Reward and punishment is not the same thing as love, care and concern.

It is easier to understand this with the eyes of a parent.

There are many times, as parents that we disapprove of our children's behavior. Sometimes, as a result, we need to withhold privileges, and risk upsetting our kids; which is (hopefully) never the intention. Despite our best efforts, there are many times that we are disappointed, and even hurt, but with all that, it takes a lot more for a parent to stop loving and caring.

This is a profound, novel and radical understanding of Hashem, that is introduced in our Parsha.

Last Shabbos, Paroah chased us out of Mitzrayim. We arrived at the Red Sea, and when paralyzed with terror at the sight of the approaching Egyptian army, we cried to Moshe that “Surely there were enough graves in Egypt!”

Chazal, and indeed, the Nevi'im are not shy to tell us that the spiritual state of the Jewish people in Egypt was dismal: We were naked of all mitzvos (וְאַת עֵרֹם וְעֶרְיָה” יחזקאל טז:ז”) and we were standing at the precipice of the most despicable and inescapable impurity (במ”ט שערי טומאה – זהר חדש ריש יתרו).

The Medrashim (מדרש תהלים א, כ; טו, ה, זוהר תרומה קע) go so far as to quote the שר של מצרים – “The Angel of Egypt” protesting Hashem saving us at Yam Suf: הללו עובדי עבודה-זרה והללו עובדי עבודה-זרה – These and those are both idol worshipers, why save the Jews and drown the Egyptians?!

How does Hashem respond to such claims? Chazal explain: He does not deny it. Instead Hashem deflects, and makes excuses on our behalf! “They only did it because they were impoverished and enslaved. They only did it because they were abandoned and tortured.”

It is instructive to question what exactly Chazal are teaching here. Of what benefit is it to us to know the mystical inner chatter of the Heavenly court?

In order to answer this, we need to understand a central idea in Medrash: Angels are הכח הצפון בלב האדם – The Voices in Our Heads (בית יעקב הכולל יוה״כ ד״ה והנה). That is to say, there is a voice in our heads that is screaming “You don't deserve to be saved! You're no better than the Egyptian slave driver! You should be drowned!”

The response to this voice is to know that we are not defined by our failures. We need to internalize Hashem's defense: It's not who we are. We didn't want to become this way. Our identity is far deeper than our flaws.

Most importantly, our sages are teaching: nothing and no-one could make Hashem stop believing in us.

(Often, when I have related these ideas, there are those who have challenged these understandings, claiming that this is some new-age, Chassidish, lovey-dovey reinterpretation of classic Judaism. To that end:)

The Rambam (הל׳ ע״ז א:ג) codifies this as the reason Hashem took us out of Mitzrayim:

וְכִמְעַט קָט הָיָה הָעִקָּר שֶׁשָּׁתַל אַבְרָהָם נֶעֱקַר וְחוֹזְרִין בְּנֵי יַעֲקֹב לְטָעוּת הָעוֹלָם וּתְעִיּוֹתָן. וּמֵאַהֲבַת ה' אוֹתָנוּ וּמִשָּׁמְרוֹ אֶת הַשְּׁבוּעָה לְאַבְרָהָם אָבִינוּ עָשָׂה משֶׁה רַבֵּנוּ רַבָּן שֶׁל כָּל הַנְּבִיאִים וּשְׁלָחוֹ.

It almost came to pass that the root (of monotheism) which Abraham had planted would have been uprooted, and the sons of Jacob would have turned to the errors of the world and their misguidedness. But because of Hashem's love for us, and because He observes the oath of covenant with Abraham our father, He appointed Moses our Master lord of all prophets, and made him His messenger to redeem us.

Rashi tells us that when our ancestors at the sea saw the Egyptian army approaching them at break-neck speeds, they saw שר של מצרים נסע מן השמים לעזור את מצריים – The guardian angel of Egypt coming from heaven to assist the Egyptians. The Avnei Nezer (שם משמואל תרפ״א) explains: They felt the voice of Egypt rising inside of themselves, and they knew that they were not yet free of it. They could still hear the voices screaming at them that they were worthless, useless failures. They still wondered if they would ever becoming anything more than enslaved pagans. But when they saw the sea split, they witnessed with their own eyes that Hashem loved them.

It's important to note: No-one did Teshuva at Yam Suf. There was no Kiruv seminar. All that happened was that they finally felt like Hashem cared about them, and they broke out in unanimous song: “Hashem is My God!”

Disgruntled Jews do not break out in song. The Egyptian voices in our heads won't let us. But Hashem didn't take Tzadikim out of Egypt. He dragged us out, broken, depressed pagans, and told us that we could be more; that He believes in us.

We begin our Haggadah with מִתְּחִלָּה עוֹבְדֵי עֲבוֹדָה זָרָה הָיוּ אֲבוֹתֵינוּ, וְעַכְשָׁיו קֵרְבָנוּ הַמָּקוֹם לַעֲבדָתוֹ – From the beginning, our ancestors were idol worshipers. And now, Hashem has brought us close to His service.

The Aish Kodesh explains that this is the ultimate lesson to ourselves and our children: You think you have issues? You think you have questions? You think you're irredeemable?! Oh boy, you have no idea what it used to be like. We were awful. No big deal, וְעַכְשָׁיו קֵרְבָנוּ הַמָּקוֹם לַעֲבדָתוֹ – now Hashem has brought us home.

Hashem should help us and children to remember: Hashem doesn't hate you. He woke you up this morning because He believes in you, because despite your despondency, He is rooting for you and me. He's standing on the sidelines, cheering us along; our Eternal, Infinite Optimist.

#Shemos #תשפב

We all thought we were done with this. Finally, we had rounded the corner, COVID was in the rear view mirror. And then there is a new wave, a new variant, a new Greek letter to learn. Israel is once again closed to the Jews of the Diaspora, and the were it not for the pain, loneliness, loss and sickness, this whole saga would seem comical.

Perhaps most frustratingly, the plans we make are scuttled, and we feel as if control over our own lives is continuously snatched away.

At its core, this deep incongruity, so profoundly amplified in the past two years, is emblematic of our world and our place within it. We are constantly trying to find balance, harmony and predictability in a world that seems antagonistic towards any attempts of orderliness.

Understanding and contending with this schism between us and our world is a deep tradition in Chazal. The resolution of it is a closely guarded secret that our sages called it the סוד העיבור – the secret of the Leap Year.

This year, is a leap year; there will be two months of Adar, and a total of 13 months in our year. The reason we have this institution is to bring together the two cycles that given our natural world – the Solar Cycle, and the Lunar Cycle. These two cycles do not line up well. There are roughly 11 days difference between them, and this discrepancy is paradigmatic of our lives. Things just don't match up well, forcing us to constantly tweak and adjust our calendar: Seven times in every nineteen year cycle, we add an additional month.

The Shelah HaKadosh (הקדמה לספר שמות) explains that the period of time from now until Adar (שובבי״ם ת״ת) is a unique opportunity for personal and universal Teshuva. Indeed, being that this is a leap year, we are actively working on restoring balance and harmony in the world. Reb Tzadok (פרי צדיק ר״ח אדר י׳) explains that our collective realignment of time in a leap year is a window into a world that will finally make sense. The Torah reading of weeks are the story of our exile and redemption, and we have the opportunity – and challenge – to experience that story ourselves in our generation.

Hidden behind our constant tweaking of time is the conviction that meaning, balance, harmony and alignment, are possible. In the deepest way, it's a testament to our understanding that the world is not random, that Hashem is taking us somewhere; that beneath the noise and madness there is a latent unity and a destination for the universe. We simply have to adjust ourselves to make it work. Even in the confusion of this world, we can achieve small moments of clarity; windows that allow us to see what could and will be when Hashem heals the world of its inconsistencies and imperfections.

In different way, we have all felt these snippets of clarity. Sometimes they hit us in the face – other times we need to look carefully to spot them. Sometimes it takes months or years to finally understand the purpose of some seemingly random or adverse event. Sometimes, we never do. But our history has shown one indisputable truth: Nothing in Jewish history is truly random.

Perhaps the greatest moment of personal clarity in the Torah was when Yosef HaTzadik finally understands the reason for his life in Egypt. Despite every overwhelming and antagonistic adversary standing in his way, Yosef rose to become the savior of Mitzrayim and the provider for his family, the nascent Jewish people. All of this, of course, was the set up for an eventual fulfillment of the promise that Hashem made to Avraham: “Your children will be strangers... and then they will leave will immense wealth.”

Anyone who knows the story of Yosef, knows that there is nothing that stands in the way of Jewish destiny. Somehow, every single event is woven into the masterful tapestry of our past, present and future, and there are simply no coincidences. With this in mind, we might understand the fatal mistake of Paroah in his attempt to destroy us:

There arose a new king over Egypt – אֲשֶׁר לֹא יָדַע אֶת יוֹסֵף – who didn’t know Yosef.

Obviously, as Chazal and all the Rishonim note, he did know Yosef. Perhaps then, what he didn't know was the story of Yosef. He didn't know how Yosef was the least likely person to ever assume leadership in Mitzrayim, and that against these awesome odds, Hashem's plans prevailed.

Were it to be the Paroah did know Yosef's story, he might have thought twice before challenging the One pulling the strings. A careful look into history would have revealed that Jewish destiny is outside of human hands.

Every now and then, if we're looking carefully, we too can see the strings being pulled as well. Sometimes in large ways, sometimes, quite small. For me, this insight of אֲשֶׁר לֹא יָדַע אֶת יוֹסֵף is a perfect example in itself.

This understanding of the Pasuk is not my own chiddush. Late on Tuesday night I stumbled across this idea quoted in the name of the Sefer Zichron Aharon – a book with which I was not familiar. I liked the idea, and did some digging online to find the original Sefer, and some information about its author. The author, I discovered, was Rabbi Aharon HaKohen Kohn, who, as the title page displayed, came from a place called נאדי־מעדיער – or Nagymegyer, which I had never heard of. Some further research revealed that he was a Hungarian born Rabbi and businessman. A student of Rabbi Yehuda Aszod, and a contemporary of the Chasam Sofer.

What struck me as incredible was the dedication offered by his children. In place of a copyright, was the request to share the Sefer far and wide in honor of their father. But reading the inscription found in the introduction to the original printing of the Sefer was tiny window into Hashem's world behind the scenes:

“We are distributing this Sefer of our father and grandfather amongst those that knew our father, and those who love his Torah. And we request of all those who receive this Sefer to remember our father – Aharon ben Genendel – on the day of his Yahrzeit. The 18th Day of the month Teves. And to learn Mishnayos in his honor...”

Tuesday night, of course, was the 18th day of the month of Teves.

I don't know if there were any other Jews learning his Torah on his Yahrzeit, but clearly, Hashem has a plan. And if the Master of All World wants something to happen, then all of Jewish history tells us there nothing that could prevent it from occurring. I am grateful that I was zocheh to that moment.

So as the news of another variant surfaces, I cannot help thinking that Hashem is taking us somewhere. We may not know the road, but we certainly know the destination. Hashem should help us to arrive there soon, safely, together.

#Vayechi #תשפב

This past Sunday, together with some holy chevra from BRS West, I ran a half marathon. It was not my best race. Far from it. I knew this going in. The heat and humidity were far higher than I had anticipated. But far more impactful was my general lack of sleep in the past few weeks of having our new baby at home.

The first few weeks after having a baby are wonderful, exhilarating, exciting, and most of all, exhausting. Despite the fact that we've done this before, nothing fully prepares you.

Aliza and I joke that our inability to remember exactly what it was like the last time we had a baby is most likely due to absolute sleep deprivation that comes along with it. It seems that Hashem, in His infinite wisdom, made it impossible for new parents to form short term memories – or no one would have kids again.

And in all of that, the rest of life must continue. How is it even possible? It seems that together with the Bracha of a new baby in the family, comes the bracha of expanded capacities. All at once, we find ourselves pushing beyond what we thought could fit into our time, schedules and emotions. With the additional responsibilities, comes additional strength, creativity and mental resources.

Not everything works out perfectly, but there is a distinct feeling of becoming more.

This expansion lies at the root of the most counter-cultural productivity advice I have encountered:

Rabbi Adin Steinzaltz zt”l was without doubt, one of the most prolific teachers of Torah in the past century. Aside from his extensive works in print, he was the founder of multiple educational institutions and organizations. A number of years ago, he addressed the challenges of attempting the accomplishments he attained:

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

Rabbi Steinzaltz commented that it's a strange thing to tell a person that feels overwhelmed – you should take on more. But that was always the Rebbe's orientation. Both for himself and his Chassidim.

This advice flies in the face of all modern thinking on productivity. We are supposed to take breaks, recharge and relax. Or we will suffer burnout. Everyone knows that our mental health depends on getting enough sleep, and creating down time and space for entertainment and enjoyment. All of this is demonstratively true. But how then do we explain the renewed ability to do more when there is more to do? Why is it that when you want something done, you ask a busy person?

I was reflecting on this idea a little while ago when trying to convince one of our children to do something they didn't want to do. I found myself falling into well worn parental tropes, telling them “You can either do this the easy way or the hard way.” It is understood that “easy way” means without fear or pain or punishment. “Hard way” means fear, pain and punishment.

And then it hit me. This is terrible Chinuch! We have, as parents, as teachers, as society, been training ourselves and our children for generations, that difficult is equivalent to negative. We are teaching them that they should aim for the easy way.

Of course, difficult is still difficult. It is unpleasant, challenging, uncomfortable, annoying and exhausting, but it's not negative. The opposite is true as well. Not everything that is enjoyable, comfortable and entertaining is necessarily good.

This is not a novel idea; it is, at least intellectually, quite palatable. But actually choosing to do difficult and worthwhile things, rather than easy and comfortable things, is a skill that needs to be honed through a life of work.

When we consider that learning to difficult things is an Avoda, we reach a disconcerting conclusion: When we are feeling overwhelmed, have we truly reached our limit, or are we just experiencing natural resistance to doing hard things?

There is only one way to find out: Try to do more. If it works, great! If not, then we have learned a little more about our limitations. That was the Rebbe's advice. If you're overwhelmed, take on more.

The goal is not burnout. It's not to sacrifice mental health for the rat race. It's about seeing difficulty and challenge as opportunities to grow, develop and expand. This as true in exercise as it is in Avodas Hashem, davening, learning, parenting, building a home, and deepening relationships. We are conditioned to look for the easy way. But we become better people when we push ourselves to do difficult and worthwhile things. This is where growth occurs.

Indeed, the Yismach Yisrael explains that this secret is hidden in our Parsha, when Rashi famously tells us:

למה פרשה זה סתומה... שבקש לגלות את הקץ לבניו ונסתם ממנו Why does this Parsha begin without a break in the Torah? Because Yaakov wished to reveal the redemption to his sons, but the it was concealed from him.

For most of our lives, and indeed, for most of the commentaries, this is understood as a surprise to Yaakov and tragedy for his children. Perhaps a necessary reality, but something upsetting, none the less. If only Hashem would have allowed Yaakov to tell us how and when Geulah would happen!

Not so, says the Yismach Yisrael:

Since Yaakov wanted to reveal to his children the world of Mashiach, of Geulah and of Redemption, by definition, he needed to demonstrate to them that light comes from darkness. If we want to experience redemption, we need to get comfortable with the darkness that precedes it.

It's interesting to note that Yaakov Avinu himself has only recently grown into this understanding. At the beginning of his time in Eretz Yisrael the Torah tells us that בקש לישב בשלוה – Yaakov desperately wanted to settle in tranquility.

But Hashem brings upon Yaakov challenge after challenge. Yosef and his brothers, Yehuda and Tamar, the abduction of Dina. The famine, and the threat of losing Binyamin. Throughout this time, Yaakov is desperate for a moment's reprieve.

How uncanny that in the final 17 years of his life, Yaakov achieves that which he never could ever before. Calm, serenity, a relationship with his children and grandchildren. Unity in the family, and the chance to enjoy his life – ויחי יעקב – Yaakov was finally alive.

What enabled Yaakov to experience life?

The Torah tells us that when Yaakov hears that Yosef is alive he prepares to move his life to Egypt. Consider how terrifying this must have been for Yaakov. Hashem has promised that the Jewish people would experience exile. And now, Yaakov was willing entering exile himself.

And in choosing to do this frightening, dark and terrifying thing is Yaakov's final message to his children. You can do this the easy way of the hard way. I beg you: Do it the hard way. Choose something difficult and enter into the challenge willingly. Don't look for the easy way out. Because ויחי is not the same as וישב – living and settling are opposites.

Some friends questioned that sanity in attempting the race at all. It's good question – one that I replayed about a billion times in the 13.1 challenging miles of the run. But by the end I discovered that life is not a sprint but it's not a marathon either. Both of these have a finish line as their goal. And life is not about getting to the end.

Yaakov is telling us that Life is Training. The goal is to engage and get better at it. Some days are fantastic. Most come with aches and pains. Fatigue and setbacks are normal parts of the growth process. The goal is to keep at it – that's how we become more.

#Vayigash #תשפב

This week we merited to bring our son into the Bris between Hashem and His people. For Aliza and I, this was a particularly emotional mitzvah – Our son is the first child born in the family since the passing of my father-in-law. As such, our boy will merit to carry (most of) his grandfather's name, as we named him Alter Yehuda Yudel. (Don't worry mom – We're calling him Yehuda.)

The night before the bris, in preparation for this mitzvah, I spend time thinking and learning while holding our new son. (Some of these ideas were shared at the Bris, some are written here for the first time.)

Bris Milah is a uniquely important mitzvah on many levels. From a cultural and historical perspective, the mitzvah of Milah was almost always outlawed by out enemies. And yet, it was almost always performed with great mesirus nefesh, even in the worst of circumstances. From a halachik perspective, Bris Milah is the only positive mitzvah that we fulfill today that would incurs kares for non-fulfillment. And from an emotional perspective, the Talmud tells us that the mitzvah of Milah is imbued with Simcha – joy – that enables this mitzvah to be performed joyfully throughout our generations.

The enduring commitment of Klal Yisrael to this mitzvah while awe-inspiring is noticeably peculiar. It is no secret that Bris Milah is an inherently painful and uncomfortable mitzvah. Despite the cries of babies and tears of mothers and fathers, the great mitzvah of Milah enjoys widespread observance – even amongst those who are not otherwise observant. Reasonably, none of us should enjoy it any more than taking our kids to the pediatrician to get their shots. The deepest desire of parents is to save our children from pain, and yet we willingly submit our infant sons to public surgery – and we celebrate it! What is it about this mitzvah that speak so deeply to the soul of our nation?

The Vilna Gaon (פירוש לס׳ יצירה פ״א מ״ח) explains that the concept of a Bris is to provide a solution to the problem of distance.

“When two people love each other, and never want to be away from each other, and yet, cannot always be together... They give each other something to which they are deeply connected. That way, even when they are apart, their thoughts and feelings will never cease to dwell on each other. To achieve this, there is a כריתה – something is removed. Each one gives over a part of themselves to the other, so that they now hold a part of each other.”

In the mitzvah of Milah, what exactly are we giving over? Nothing more and nothing less than our eternity. From the beginning of a new baby boy's life, we are connecting him to that relationship with Hashem. We place on him the sign of our personal and national Ahavas Hashem and we indicate this commitment in that place on the human body that holds the future of our people. When we give a baby a Bris Milah, we are giving Hashem our future.

In return, Hashem gives us His future. Hashem promises Avraham Avinu that He will never abandon us, never exchange us for another people. He will wait for us, and us alone to fulfill His vision and purpose for this world. No matter how many times we fail, He will ensure that we continue to rise from the ashes and try again.

Indeed, when Hashem gives the Mitzvah of Bris Milah to Avraham – וְאֶתְּנָה בְרִיתִי בֵּינִי וּבֵינֶךָ – “I will give my Bris between Me and You”, Rashi comments that this is the ברית של אהבה – the Commitment of Love.

Moshe Rabbeinu himself notes that this love is the reason that Hashem took us out of Mitzrayim (דברים ד:לט):

וְיָדַעְתָּ כִּי י״י אֱלֹקיךָ הוּא הָאֱלֹקים הָאֵל הַנֶּאֱמָן שֹׁמֵר הַבְּרִית וְהַחֶסֶד לְאֹהֲבָיו... Know that Hashem your God, He is God, the faithful God, who Keeps the Bris and does Chessed with those whom He loves...

The Maharal (נתיב העבודה ז) explains that there are two types of love, both of which we refer to in our davening: אהבה רבה (great love) which is said in the morning, and אהבת עולם (eternal love) which is said at night. Hashem's Great Love is the experience of feeling connected and loved when life is going well. But Hashem's Eternal Love is that which holds us over until the morning. (We note this in the Musaf of Rosh Chodesh: אהבת עולם תביא להם וברית אבות לבנים תזכור.) That's the feeling of never letting go.

This Shabbos, Yehuda approaches Yosef, with the faintest of hopes, in the bleakest of moments, to please for the life of Binyanim and Yaakov. He has no idea that the man before him was the brother he once sold into slavery, and his audacity to make such stand could well cost him his life. And yet he does it.

What prompted Yehuda to re-engage when everything seemed doomed to failure? The Kotzker explains: “ויגש אליו יהודה – Yehuda approached him”. The “him” in the pasuk was Yehuda himself. Yehuda, in that moment re-engaged with himself. In his moment of greatest desperation, Yehuda touched the eternity of being a Jew. In that moment he was no longer embroiled in a social-political feud, he was once again an Eved Hashem, a Yarei Shamayim, a child of Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov, doing the most Jewish thing in history: Standing up for his himself, for his brother, for his father, ensuring that not another Jew is lost.

For this Yehuda becomes the eternal leader of Klal Yisrael, the forbearer of David HaMelech.

Throughout our lives every Jew feels a little lost, a little far from home. We feel a piece of that distance, the yearning and longing to be with Hashem. We feel the confusion, the murkiness and the challenges of this world. In the deepest ways, we want to return, to be whole. But the distance as individuals and as a nation is overwhelmingly insurmountable. One lifetime is simply not long enough to fix ourselves and the the world along with us. The solution, of course, is to live forever. That way, our tiny, incremental steps, small as they may be, will eventually take us home. And if we cannot live forever personally, then we pledge our infinite, collective existence to the goal of getting just a little closer.

This is our Tefillah for our Little Yehuda. That Hashem should help him to embody the love for Torah, Tefillah and Klal Yisrael of his grandfather. That he should continue the work that was left for him to complete – to bring more of Hashem's light and love into this world, and that Aliza and I should merit to guide him on this path.

Hashem should help all of us, for all of our children in this great nation to take one more step on the road to eternity.

#Chanukah #תשפב

Late on Tuesday night, I sat in the hospital room rocking chair holding our son. He's barely a few hours old. I looked at his calm, pure face and thought about the miracle of Jewish continuity, of the immense kindness of Hashem.

I thought about the overwhelming privilege and awesome responsibility that Hashem has bestowed upon us; to help this beautiful Neshama to become an Eved Hashem and Ohev Yisrael.

I thought about the countless neshamos that Hashem brought in this world in different and far more painful times. The souls that came to illuminate and elevate the darkness. I am filled with gratitude that our generation is so blessed. It seems to me that our we and our children have not been tasked with the worlds of darkness.

Despite the obvious and plentiful challenges of our generation, it is unquestionable that our lives are far, far better than any of our ancestors. This truth certainly makes for a more comfortable existence. But I won't deny that there have been times I have wondered if perhaps our lives might be a little more meaningful if we were living in more challenging times.

Please, don't get me wrong. Of course, none of us would ever want to be the victim the murderous anti-semitism of our history. But we cannot deny that our ancestors felt the pulse of Yiddishkeit rushing through their veins in a way we might never. When someone wants to kill you because you are a Jew, you know that Yiddishkeit is something to die for; and thus, something to live for.

When the ancient Greeks outlawed the study of Torah and the observance of Shabbos, Jews felt alive every moment that they learned Torah. I would imagine that no one slept through the clandestine Halacha classes in their secret desert cave Beis Medrash.

Today, even the most hardened of our enemies couldn't care less if we learn Torah and observe Shabbos. Sure, they hate the State of Israel, and plot our national annihilation. So we feel the mesirus nefesh of young men and women serving in the IDF. But the rush of adrenaline coursing through our veins when every mitzvah is an act of defiance? That we have not felt in decades. In the big picture of Jewish history, the stakes of our observance, engagement and interest feel pitifully inconsequential. Of course, this is not true. We know that each of our mitzvos has immeasurable effects in all worlds. We just don't feel it in a palpable and tangible way.

We are not living in the darkness of Jewish history and so appears our Tafkid, the role of our generation is not to illuminate the Darkness. We are not the Jews who will be finding meaning and purpose in surviving the death camps, or giving our lives Al Kiddush Hashem rather than bowing to the cross.

On the flip side, however, we are clearly not living in a generation of serenity, peace and light. Our world is still fractured, painful and challenging in a myriad of ways, and we are a far cry from the Glory days of the Beis HaMikdash. We do not have cultural sovereignty and prophetic leadership. We feel neither able nor empowered with the mission to inspire humanity to acknowledge Hashem and His morality.

Counter intuitively, a meaningful and purposeful Jewish existence can be derived either from the world of darkness, or from the world of light. We live in neither. Our world is neither day nor night, neither darkness nor light.

All of this means that in the deepest way, our generation is the generation of Chanukah. The Eretz Tzvi of Koziglov explains that the lighting of Neros Chanukah is unique amongst the mitzvos – it is performed neither in the day, nor at night. Chanukah lights are kindled specifically and intentionally during Bein HaShmashos, between sunset and nightfall (שיטת בה״ג, ר״ן, גר״א). They are not designed to illuminate darkness, but the space between light and darkness. The place of doubt, of fading lights, of tired dreams, of chronically unfinished to-do lists.

Chanukah addresses the world of inconsequence – the tragic reality that most of our lives feel unremarkable. Of the hundreds of thousands of pictures we take, a tiny fraction are worth ever looking at again. And the same is true of our days, years, minutes and seconds. Truthfully, it is difficult to remain positive, optimistic and motivated in the face of such overwhelming meaningless. And so we don't feel the need to try – unless someone is threatening our lives. Chanukah gives light to a time when things are fine. Relentlessly and unremarkably ok.

Before we can understand this light, we should note that the timing of Neros Chanukah between day and night serves a practical purpose. Like many of the details of Chanukah, it aids in פרסומי ניסא – publicizing the miracle. No one needs a candle before nightfall; we can all make do with the last rays of the sun. By lighting a Ner before it is needed, everyone will know that it is a Ner Chanukah.

Consider for a moment the profundity of obligating Pirsumei Nisa. Every Jewish home is responsible to make sure that another Jew feels that it's Chanukah. In the hustle of the commute home from the markets and fields, Chazal insisted that we all rush home with enough time to inspire someone else to come home.

Every home is obligated to kindle a light עד שתכלה רגל מן השוק – until there is no-one left in the marketplace. Rebbe Nachman (יד:יב) explains that this is exactly the point. The goal of Chanukah is to convince us all to go home – metaphorically as well as literally.

One by one, as the lights are kindled, the Jews who are still in the marketplace will begin to wonder “What on earth am I still doing here? Everyone else is at home!” Effectively, for eight consecutive nights, our sages have instituted that we create a public display of social pressure to be at home early.

During this holiday there is no prohibition to go to work – no אסור מלאכה. But there is an obligation to create intentional distance between our careers, goals and aspirations and the reason for doing it all. Chanukah is designed to challenge us: If no one was expecting us at work right now, where do we want to be? What do we want to be doing?

The Yetzer Hara of Greece today is trying to convince us that someone else is getting ahead and eating our lunch. If we stop for a moment we'll fall behind. So we rush from moment to moment. Don't Stop. Won't Stop. Can't Stop. All the while knowing that our efforts are doomed to fail. Someone will always achieve more, earn more, get more views, likes and shares.

Chazal disagree. We don't need adversity and competition to have a beautiful and meaningful existence. We also don't need perfection. We can come home early to illuminate our streets, homes and hearts.

This is how we bridge the world of day and night, of darkness and light, of exile and redemption. This is the defiance of our generation. This is our Tafkid, our mission and purpose: living an inspired, empathetic, connected life – even without adversity.

This Chanukah, I'll ask you to daven with me, a Tefillah for our little boy and for all of us: Hashem should ensure that we never need to experience the pain and darkness of our past. And that we should never need it. These Chanukah Lights should illuminate the way home for each of us, for Klal Yisrael and the world until His light is restored to its home in Yerushalayim.

#Vayeshev #תשפב

Thanksgiving is a strange day in the Blumenthal home. Despite the past fifteen years of living in the US, Thanksgiving remains foreign to me. Of course, I enjoy a deep-fried turducken as much as the next carnivorous patriot. (Though I still struggle with eating cranberry-apple pie as anything other than dessert.)

My wife, on the other hand, has deep emotions about the day. Thanksgiving for her, conjures warm feelings of family, belonging and nostalgia.

So this year, in this divisive climate, I took some time to think about my gratitude to the USA. I certainly feel a deep sense of gratitude to this wonderful country for all the opportunities it has given me. On a communal and national level, I am grateful to this country for providing the safety and freedom that has enabled our community to flourish and our children to grow.

But more than anything, I am grateful to the Master of the World that I still feel like a stranger.

(Disclaimer: I should probably begin with an apology. I really don't want to make anyone upset, and I realize that this might hit a nerve. My intention here is to speak what is on my heart and mind. My hope is that this might share a little light, and bring us closer to each other and to Avinu SheBashamayim.)

I grew up in a tumultuous South Africa. That instability has not gotten better – and if anything, it's gotten worse. Notwithstanding, my friends and family were always proudly South African, and to this day, I am as well.

This pride manifested in our support of sports teams (which were often disappointing), our insistence that South African food was objectively superior to all other cuisine (still true). Not to mention the knowledge that our accents were far more valuable than our currency.

But despite all of that cultural pride and patriotism, I always understood that being a Jewish South African meant that my identity needed to be far deeper than my nationality. Growing up, there was a notable distance between my Jewish inner world and South African outer world. This gave me the ability to express gratitude to my county, as well as to express criticism and even cynicism without it affecting the way I looked at myself and my community. To put it succinctly: I never thought of South Africa as “mine”, and I never expected South Africa to prioritize my needs and interests.

I have found that this is not the case in US. American Jews often see this great country as “theirs”. This creates a sense of expectation that Jewish concerns will be taken seriously and be prioritized by governments and officials. There is little to no distance between the inner and outer worlds of American Jewish – regardless of levels of observance. It seems to me that many US Jews see their political affiliation as an integral part of their identity, and see political involvement as “This is how I think we should run our country....“.

As a natural result of this perspective, disagreements in the realm of government, policy and politics have become almost indistinguishable from personal attacks. My wife, a social worker, has a number of clients that needed multiple sessions to discuss strategies for how to cope with the emotional challenge of their political candidate losing the election. People react to local and national news with personal angst, and parents often view the political orientation of their children to be a success or failure of their home education.

Please note: There is no question whether or not we should get involved in politics. Those that can, most certainly should. We owe it to ourselves to be well represented, and we owe it to the United States to participate in government and democracy.

I am simply left wondering why people care so deeply, and while it is difficult for me to fully discern the source of my discomfort, it's getting more difficult to ignore.

To some extent, this discomfort is driven by my own personal experiences as an immigrant, as well as my dreams of Aliya, and a philosophy that places Eretz Yisrael as the eventual destination of every Jew.

But if you would press me to express this discomfort, I'd say that I'm bothered by just how much we've settled here – in both senses of the word. It is this challenge with which our Parsha begins:

The Torah tells us that Yaakov finally arrived back in Eretz Yisrael this Shabbos: “וַיֵּשֶׁב יַעֲקֹב בְּאֶרֶץ מְגוּרֵי אָבִיו – And Yaakov settled in the Land where his father lived.”

Rashi famously quotes the Medrash:

ביקש יעקב לישב שלוה קפץ עליו רוגזו של יוסף Yaakov wished to live at ease, but trouble in connection with Yosef suddenly came upon him.

We should be bothered by this Medrash on multiple counts. Most notably, what was Hashem's objection to Yaakov settling in the Land of Israel? What makes the Medrash assume that there was some inappropriate intention on Yaakov's part? And why should this all result in the tragedy of Yosef and his brothers?

The Kli Yakar explains: Yaakov was attempting וַיֵּשֶׁב – to settle in a place and time where he was still supposed to be a גר – a stranger like his father, Yitzchak. Hashem had already told Avraham that his children “would be strangers in a strange land.” Yaakov was trying to subvert that feeling of strangeness by settling in the Land of Israel already.

There is immense value in feeling out of place. It allows us to develop an internal world of independent self-worth. It enables us to cultivate values in contradistinction to those around us. And once we have fully incubated our identity, our strangeness gives us the unique ability to rely on Hashem alone.

Lacking that perspective, Hashem needed to bring Yaakov's children down to Mitzrayim where we would be forced to feel strange.

On the surface, feelings of strangeness and distance from the culture around us are painful. But beneath that discomfort lies the greatest superpower of our history:

Consider, for a moment, that the first Jew to be enslaved in Egypt was Yosef HaTzadik. At his lowest moment, in the most painful of places, Yosef finds himself wrongfully accused and thrown into prison. There, he meets the Chief Baker and Butler of Paroah, and asks them: מדוע פניכם רעים היום – why are you so upset today?

It's an absurd question. Imagine the response: “Why are we upset? How about the fact that we're stuck in prison until the end of time, with no hope of rescue?! Why are you not upset?!” But that's not how they respond at all, because Yosef is, against all odds, not constantly beat down and hopeless. Instead, these two men reveal to Yosef their hopes, dreams and fears.

Apparently, Yosef, who has spent a decade in prison thus far, was still able to keeps his hopes up, knowing that Hashem is in charge. This hope, serenity and joy drew in even the most depressed and despondent captives and they wanted to share a little of Yosef's light.

This is our superpower: Our identities and our moods can exist completely independently from anything and everything around us. Stepping into this mindset gives us hope, light, freedom and perspective. It also endows us with the capacity to see differences of opinion as external and incidental.

Yosef achieves status as the greatest stranger in our history. He becomes viceroy over Egypt, and yet his inner world remains unfazed and untouched by the world around him.

It is this feeling that I am clinging to, hoping for, davening for, and trying to share this Thanksgiving:

Thank you to these United States for all the kindness you have shown to my family, and my community. And Thank You, Ribono Shel Olam for allowing me to feel that no matter how good (or bad) things are here, our home is still in Eretz Yisrael, with Klal Yisrael, and with You.

#Vayishlach #תשפב

The Rebbe, Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa put down his cup one motzei shabbos and turned to his chassidim with worried eyes. “I see a time just before Moshiach will come that Jews will not be able to support themselves with a regular Parnassah. They will need to find work on the side to support their needs. I'm shivering at the thought of it...”

To the Chassidim of that generation, this vision most likely conjured images of extreme poverty and hardship. But perhaps the Rebbe was glimpsing at us – a generation of extreme consumerism and the side hustles needed to support it.

Our generation has witnessed the emergence of a new class of American holidays: Black Friday, Cyber Monday and even more recently, Prime Day. These Yamim Tovim are celebrated across the country with ever increasing participation and excitement.

And along with the celebrations and attention to the deals, sales and ads, the Yetzer Hara of frivolous spending is growing. We are working harder than ever before to pay for things that add less and less value and utility to our lives.

All of this is not resultant from our poverty. On the contrary. We live in a generation and community that overwhelmingly has far more than our ancestors. We enjoy safety, security, access to health care, and political leveraging that Jews could only have dreamed of a century ago.

And yet, we want more. Everywhere we look someone is trying to sell us something; training us to entertain thoughts of “hmmm, that new “X” looks nice.” Algorithms are constantly evolving to hack our screen habits and exploit our emotions. So we search, click and buy.

Perhaps we should take a moment to decry the wasteful hedonism of our capitalist, consumer society. Perhaps you have read books and blogs that do just that. Perhaps you have attending shiurim and watched videos that explain how our habits are creating mountains of consumer debt and destroying the planet. Perhaps you have changed your life as a result.

But if we're honest, we should concede that the guilt trips will not help. Neither you, nor me will stop buying unnecessary things because we were somehow convinced not to. Overweight people do not stop eating cake because someone explained the effect of cake on waistlines. Logical arguments only help with logical problem.

The reality is that we buy things for reasons beyond logic – most often emotional. Sure, there is always some rationalization to justify it to ourselves (or our spouses). But has an Amazon box has ever arrived at your door only to have you wonder what it was that you ordered?

Our rationalizations need only be sustained for a few moments until the “buy now” button is pressed. Online businesses are working tirelessly to shorten that time. Every fraction of a second means fewer moments for us to think between wanting and ordering.

The constant barrage of advertising is difficult to suppress. There is almost nowhere online or offline that we are not subjected to an endless parade of things to purchase. And those who make a living by selling goods and services are pressured into using – and paying for – the same emotionally exploitative mechanisms.

It all seems unrelenting and unconquerable. But understating that our drive to purchase is often all together irrational, provides us with an unlikely opening to combat the urges to spend.

It begins by acknowledging that all of our drives are ultimately an expression of a desire that Hashem wants us to have. Much like the drives for food and intimacy which are there to ensure our survival, the desire for more stuff must have deep roots in the world of Keshusha.

The Aish Kodesh explains (דרך המלך וישלח) that we desire that which we don't have. We feel a lack, an absence, an emptiness, and we wish to fill it. In a profound sense, our desires are an invitation to perceive that which is lacking in our lives and in the world.

The only question is: How will we fill in the gaps?

Rather than admonishing ourselves for being so weak willed, we should recognize that our generation has desires that no one has ever contented with in history. While we have a far greater appetite for “more”, it is not our weakness that makes us feel empty, it is our unfulfilled capacity.

Of course, the desire for more that is screaming out from the depths of our souls can never be satisfied with another iPhone, necklace or car. There is never a final, ultimate purchase after which we say “That's all I need. No need for more stuff now.”

Is there an alternative? Is there anyway to feel the lack and not dull it with meaningless consumerism? The Aish Kodesh continues: We begin by acknowledging that the reason I feel a lack is because Hashem wants me to know that I have room for more.

A deeper dive into our motivations begins to shed light on what the lack in our lives might be at that moment. Perhaps this purchase is motivated by a need for acceptance, or identification with a particular person or group? Perhaps what I am really missing are close friends? Do I want this gadget for its supposed ability to save me time? Perhaps I'm really trying to have better control over my schedule? Am I spending hours “researching” a product because I need the best, or is this simply procrastination and avoidance?

Contemplating the source of our needs is the first step to acknowledging that the holes in our lives cannot be filled by the contents of brown cardboard boxes.

Having the presence of mind to consider why we are drawn to a product, ad or sale will transform Black Friday into an exercise in Avodas Hashem. In what way is Hashem missing from my life that make me want to fill this gap with a thing?

With enough steady training, not only will our bank accounts and credit cards be better off, but we might begin to see the world through the eyes of Yaakov Avinu.

Yaakov is preparing himself for an epic encounter with his brother Esav; and the Torah tells us that he prepares in three ways: he prays, he readies for battle and he sends a gift. But Esav declines this offering, famously stating יש לי רב – I have so much. Yaakov responds by saying take it anyways – יש לי כל. I have everything.

The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh explains that that יש לי כל is not just an expression of wealth, but perspective. Yaakov is telling his brother that regardless of what you might take from me, I will always have everything I need. I simply do not fill my needs with stuff.

As our world races further and further into having, buying and consuming more, we should pause. What do we have? What do we need? Where are the holes in my life and how can fill them with meaning?

Hashem should bless with the Bracha of כל – that we should always have more than enough to give away. When we see the ads and feel the urges, that we learn to see His hand inviting us to become greater than we ever imagined.

#Vayetzei #תשפב

As our daughter Temima arrived home last Friday, I asked her what she had learned in school that day. (For reference, Temima is recently four years old.) Temima: I learned about unicorns and rainbows! Me: Really?! That's what the Morah taught you? Temima: Silly Abba. That's what I was learning about. I don't know what the Morah was doing. But Look Abba, I drew a rainbow!

There's a lot of charm to a four year old's imagination. (And I'm sure we'll hear more about this particular imagination at parent-teacher conferences...) But it dawned on me that our daughter was simply verbalizing a reality which we, as adults, experience all the time, but have conveniently forgotten about. Four year olds are always clearly living in the fuzzy space between tangible reality and their perception of it. But truthfully, so are we all, whether we like to admit it or not.

Simply put: The world that we live in is nothing more or less than a story that we are telling ourselves, about ourselves. We are the protagonists, the directors and the narrators. Everything and everyone is a supporting character in your story.

Of course, many of the events and props in our story are far beyond our control. But the way we tell the story? The genre of the narrative? That's completely up to us. We get to choose which seemingly meaningless details are crucial to the plot. We get to choose if the protagonist (ourselves) is successful in overcoming their fears, chasing their dreams and finding fulfillment. We get to determine if the villains of our story break the will of our hero – or if he or she will prevail and learn from their challenges. (Most of the time, we even get to choose if the villains are really villains at all.)

You might argue that since we can never know the end of the story, we can never fully choose the genre. Indeed, sometimes the story is a tragedy, regardless of our efforts. But even so – what kind of tragedy? It is uplifting? Inspiring? Boring? Engaging? Would you recommend the story of your life (thus far) to a friend? Is this story of your life – according to you – a good read?

Mind you, we all know that a good story doesn't need to be particularly eventful. It doesn't necessarily need fast cars and fancy vacations. Sometimes the greatest tales are told of ordinary people living ordinary lives – it all depends on the narrative being told in the minds and hearts of the characters.

I have often explained this schism to my students as the difference between the p'shat (simple meaning) and the d'rash (explanation) of our lives.

For example, consider the following story, which many of us have starred (or co-starred) in: “After dinner, dad helped his kids with their homework.”

From the outside that's all that happened. It's story, but it's boring. A good story teller, however, might embellish: “Despite his frustration with his boss, and the exhaustion of his commute, dad refused to bring his negativity home. Knowing that his family was his greatest legacy and responsibility, he resolved to be present and engaged.”

Both descriptions are true. The p'shat is the outside. The d'rash of our lives is left to us to interpret, explain and embellish. Tragically, many people today leave the meaning of their own lives to be interpreted for them by the news, social media or political parties. It's a depressingly lazy way to live, but it doesn't have to be that way. We simply have to start learning our lives like we learn the Chumash.

What Was Yaakov's Roommate Thinking?

Let's examine the story of our Parsha:

Yaakov Avinu, following his flight from his brother Esav, arrives at some place, goes to sleep and dreams of a ladder with its feet on the ground, reaching up to the heavens.

Rashi explains: The place that Yaakov slept was Har HaMoriah; the future site of the Beis HaMikdash. Hashem performed many miracles to ensure that Yaakov would sleep in this place. He made the sun set early, He made the earth contract beneath Yaakov's feet. All so that he would sleep on this desolate mountain top. Yaakov places stones around his head to protect him from wild animals, and in the morning, he finds these stones united into one stone, a preamble to the eventual unity of his yet-unborn twelve sons.

By all standards, Rashi is describing a uniquely serendipitous account of a moment that would guide Yaakov for the rest of his life.

This is the story that we are told since kindergarten. But the Seforno sees matters a little differently.

“The place” that Yaakov sleeps, is “a place known to all travelers” – some kind of road side motel, like that which exists in all towns and cities. He takes a stone, that travelers might use a table, chair or bed, and arranges himself a place to sleep.

From Seforno's account there is no magic, no miracles. Think of Yaakov, alone and afraid sleeping next to some Canaanite pagan. Trying desperately to avoid conversation or confrontation.

At this point in his life, Yaakov is lost, confused, lonely and alone. And in this place he has that lofty vision of the ladder.

Seforno is telling us the outside of the story – the p'shat. Rashi is describing Yaakov's inner world. The pagan sleeping next to Yaakov, could never have known that he was within a few feet of the greatest person he would ever encounter. He would not have understood that in that place, in that moment, his roommate was experiencing the most lofty revelation where world history was unravelled before him; past, present and future. On the outside, Yaakov looked like a simple traveler. But on the inside, he was on fire.

Heaven and Earth

The Chasam Sofer explains that this vision of Yaakov is in its essence, paradigmatic of this dual perspective: The ladder has its feet on the ground and the head reaching up to the heavens. Within this dream, Hashem is explaining to Yaakov that although he was about to wander the earth, working and engaging in a mundane world, only his feet should be planted on the ground. His head could and should be focused on Heaven.

Rashi conveys a similar sentiment when he famously tells us: עם לבן גרתי ותרי״ג מצוות שמרתי – Yaakov kept 613 mitzvos even in the house of Lavan. As far as Lavan could see, Yaakov was simply tending sheep. But in Yaakov's mind, he was wearing augmented reality goggles. Everywhere he looked was a new opportunity to deepen his connection to Hashem and the purpose of Jewish history.

The Beis Yaakov of Izbitz writes that when we look at the world with Yaakov's AR googles, Hashem reciprocates: The moment a Jew, wherever we are in this world, desires to connect to Hashem, הנה ה׳ נצב עליו – Hashem is there with him.

A number of years ago, Moreinu V'Rabbeinu, Rav Schachter was invited to speak in South Africa. Unbeknownst to him, or the organizers of the trip, South Africa has a law that you cannot enter the country without a blank page in your passport for the entry stamp. Rav Schachter's passport was full.

Shortly after landing, officials detained him at the airport. Community members in on the ground in Johannesburg arranged to pick up his passport, drive it over to the US embassy in Pretoria and get a new page inserted. But the entire process took a number of hours, and all that time Rav Schachter was in a holding room at the airport.

When he was finally released, a friend asked him if he was ok, and how the experience was. Rav Schachter related that it was Gan Eden – he was never better. He had a few hours to sit with a Gemara uninterrupted, and nothing could be greater.

This is the secret of Yaakov's ladder. We might be detained in a holding cell, tending sheep, or doing homework with our kids. But in reality, if we want to, we're deepening our relationships, connecting with Hashem, heroically changing the world and fulfilling our hopes and dreams. No one will ever see our miraculous inner lives. But so long as we tell the story to ourselves, Hashem will be there telling it along with us.

#Toldos #תשפב

Raising children is hard. Raising dedicated, observant, healthy normal, passionate Jewish children is even harder. But achieving all that as a Baal Teshuva? It often seems impossible.

Perhaps some of these sentiments resonate with you:

“I wish I had the opportunities that my children have!” “If only my parents pushed me to daven, learn and practice my Hebrew skills! Why don't my children appreciate it?” “I got connected to Yiddishkeit through the Kiruv Rabbi on campus. Should I let me children try going “Off the Derech” so that they can find meaning like I did?” “How can I deny them the experiences that lead me to become who I am today?”

This is the indisputable challenge for Baalei Teshuva in raising children to be passionately connected to Torah and mitzvos. In general, even FFB's have no perfect methods for how to do it effectively and conclusively. But Baalei Teshuva have it even harder: we have little personal role modeling to fall back on.

Many Baalei Teshuva (perhaps you, reading this) can still feel the painful and awkward feelings of not belonging. Perhaps you know the feeling of not knowing which page of the Siddur to turn to on Shabbos Rosh Chodesh. Perhaps you still feel like a faker, an imposter. Perhaps you're still nervous to ask important questions for fear of being made to feel “I can't believe you're asking something that basic.”

Along with all these feelings of inadequacy, is that deep desire for our kids to not have to experience the same frustrations. And yet, there is no denying that in raising observant kids in our insular bubble, we are denying our children precisely those experiences that gave way to the love, curiously and excitement that make us the Jews we are today.

(For those who are now wondering about my own childhood, I should note that my own family, growing up, was always deeply connected to Yiddishkeit. Strict observance, however, was far more negotiable; as was the case for many South African Jews.)

This problem is not limited to the “classic BT” alone. With the exceptional growth of the Yeshiva Day School system, summer camps, years in yeshivos and seminaries in Israel etc... most of us grew up with access to Yiddishkeit that our parents simply did not have. And thus the quandary of how to raise our religiously privileged children is shared by almost everyone, to one degree or another.

When we search for solutions, it is instructive to understand that this is not a new problem. Indeed, it is the oldest problem in Jewish history. The Ohr HaChaim Hakadosh explains: Avraham was a Baal Teshuva. Yitzchak was Frum From Birth. Both of them had kids who went off the Derech!

We are the progeny of Yaakov – the son who remained faithful to his parents' tradition. How do we emulate his journey?

When Reb Yitzchak Meir, the Chidushei HaRim, died in 1866, his grandson, Reb Yehuda Aryeh Leib, the Sfas Emes, was only 19 years old. Due his youth and reluctance to accept the position of Rebbe, the Chassidim flocked to Reb Chanoch Henoch of Aleksander. But when the Aleksander Rebbe died four years later, the chassidim pressured the now 23 year old prodigy to be their leader; indeed, the leader of the largest Chassidus in Europe at the time.

Thus it was in 1870 that the Sfas Emes assumed the mantle of Rebbe. Chassidim would ask him how he managed to provide leadership, wisdom and insight to those much older than himself.

The Sfas Emes would respond with a story:

The was once a mountain climber who dreamed of climbing the highest peaks in the world. He would train and practice, spending months climbing to ever higher and higher heights. Until the day arrived when he would begin his accent of the highest mountain known to him.

Weeks and weeks of climbing ensued, inching slowly and carefully towards the summit. As he arrived at the peak, taking in the magnificent scenery, he notices that he is not alone. A few feet away was a young child.

Bewildered, he turns to the child and asks: “How could it be that a child was able to climb this mountain? It's taken me weeks and weeks to get here!”

Says the child back to the climber: “I didn't climb this mountain; my parents did many years ago. I was born here.”

So too, explained the Sfas Emes “I was born here.”

Our children might not be born at the tops of our mountains, but they are certainly far closer than we were. All of this means one thing: Raising mountain climbers is an exercise in futility. Our kids don't need to climb our mountains.

This begs the question: What should they do instead?

The Talmud (Pesachim 88a) explains that each of the Avos had a different relationship with the place that would later become the Makom HaMikdash:

Avraham called it הר – a mountain. Yitzchak called it שדה – a field. Yaakov called it a בית – a home.

Avraham is the first Jew. He is the one who climbs the mountain. Avraham prevails through ten tests, and a life of hardship, arriving at the summit with a wealth of experience and achievement behind him.

Yizchak is born at the summit. The mountain has been conquered already. Yitzchak transforms it into a field. His life's work is to till the soil, plant the seeds and nurture that which his father began.

Yaakov takes this mission one step further: He establishes a home for Yiddishkeit; building upon the field of his father Yitzchak. The בית of Yaakov is the coalescence of all the work that came before him. Finally it is grounded and permanent. It would be Yaakov's children who would inspire humanity from a place of strength and permanence.

Esav, on the other hand, is quite content to imitate his father, and this is his downfall.

וַיְהִי עֵשָׂו אִישׁ יֹדֵעַ צַיִד אִישׁ שָׂדֶה וְיַעֲקֹב אִישׁ תָּם יֹשֵׁב אֹהָלִים Esav was a cunning hunter, a man of the field; and Yaakov was a quiet man, dwelling in tents.

Esav is the man of the field. Whose field? Yitzchak's field.

Rashi alludes to this when explaining אִישׁ שָׂדֶה:

איש שדה – אדם בטל וצודה בקשתו חיות ועופות. A man who did nothing, who hunts beasts and birds with his bow.

That doesn't sound like a person who does nothing?! But perhaps the comment of אדם בטל is implying that Esav was not interested in further developing the tradition of Avraham and Yitzchak. His lived, contently in the field at the top of the mountain – a lifelong איש שדה.

Yaakov, of course, is the opposite. While he hasn't yet built a home for Hashem in the world, he is a יֹשֵׁב אֹהָלִים – he is living in a tent. Yaakov builds upon the field of his father, Esav stagnates.

We wonder how our children will fair without having to climb the same mountain a us. Some people, as a result of this concern, will willingly place their children at the bottom of the mountain; arguing that a child cannot achieve a relationship with Hashem, Torah, or the Jewish people without fighting the same battles for themselves. People will claim that “this is how I learned – this is how you should learn.”

But the lives of the Avos teaches us something different; that each subsequent generation has a unique task, one that builds upon the lives of our parents. Not one that attempts to imitate it.

The truth is that our children could, should and must be greater than us. We need to ask ourselves how we can inspire their growth, in areas that we ourselves have not conquered. How can we assist our children in planting fields, when we are mountain climbers? How can we instruct our children to build homes, when we have only ever planted fields?

Shlomo HaMelech tells us:

חֲנֹךְ לַנַּעַר עַל־פִּי דַרְכּוֹ גַּם כִּי־יַזְקִין לֹא־יָסוּר מִמֶּנָּה Educate a child according to his way, he will not swerve from it even in old age.

The Kotzker would explain: The point of education is that a child will continue to teach themselves long into old age. It's not about the lesson. It's about the love of learning.

In the words of Antoine de Saint—Exupery, author of The Little Prince:

If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up the men to gather wood, divide the work and give orders. Instead, teach them to yearn for the vast and endless sea.

Hashem should help us all to teach our children to dream. With the hope and promise that they will achieve heights we could never imagine.