#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.

#Vayetzei #תשפא

Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, the brilliant and renowned founder of the mussar movement, once found himself in a wagon traveling to a speaking engagement with a group of jews, who did not recognize him.

As the journey began, he took out sefer and began to learn. But he became distracted by the conversation around him.

“Did you hear about so-and-so?!” One man asked. “No! What happened?” “Well he and his wife...”

Rav Yisrael Salanter, who did not enjoy talking about other people, noticed that one of the horses drawing the wagon was particularly fine. He pointed it out to his companions, who agreed with his estimation, and the conversation quickly moved from one to another – each man telling his best and worst horse stories.

As the wagon arrived in the city, throngs of people gathered to meet Rav Yisrael Salanter. When the travelers realized who their companion was, they turned to him in shock. “Holy Rabbi, for the last two hours we have been talking, laughing and telling stories about horses – surely their was a better use for your time?!”

“Indeed,” said Rav Yisrael, “but just after I took out a sefer, you began to talk about other people. And Chazal teach out that one speaking Lashon Hara is likened to killing a person. I decided that it'd be rather be guilty of to killing horses, than people.”

Many might argue that the sensitivity and dedication of Rabbi Yisrael Salanter belongs to a bygone era of tzadikim. We can tell the story, maybe even aspire to such lofty heights, but we understand that there are levels beyond us, reserved for only the most transcendent and cautious.

But I disagree wholeheartedly.

I think we all currently exhibit this kind of sensitivity. Each and every one us is not only capable of such Shmiras HaLashon; we are all actively practicing it. But with one fatal flaw. We only do so selectively.

Consider for a moment the last time someone decided to talk badly about your favorite politician. Consider how unwilling you were to engage in even light hearted character assassination. Consider how readily we shut out the haters, ignore the critics, and profess our loyalty to our candidates, sports teams, players, celebrities and talking heads. How quickly do we rise in their defense?

It seems to me that our lack of sensitive speech is less about our capacity and kedusha, and much more about how we identify. It is our emotional connection to a person that makes us so unwilling to speak badly about them. And the inverse is certainly true as well: Our emotional distance from a person is what permits us to speak evil of them. Of course, US politics has trained us to view “other side” as so blatantly evil that it’s not only permissible to speak evil about them. It’s a mitzvah!

But where does it end? When does the identity/distance rubric taper off? Does everyone who identifies with Person-X now not identify with me? What about friends of friends? How far are we willing to permit Lashon Hara in defense of our ideology?

Allow me to suggest that we have drawn lines in the sand a little too deep, a little more often than perhaps we should. Because each and every one of us knows that after ten minutes of conversation, there is far more middle ground than battle ground. But, especially this year, we don’t have those conversations in person. If politics has given us the license to speak badly, technology has given us the perfect vehicle.

If only the starting point was that “we identify with each other”. (This, of course, is what ואהבת לרעך כמוך means.) Perhaps then elevated and nuanced conversations would take the place of flame wars. Perhaps we would feel more guilt than righteousness when we “take someone down” online.

And there is immense personal cost when we talk about others so freely...

Leah's Plight

The Torah tells us of the two daughters of Lavan, Leah and Rachel; both of whom would eventually marry Yaakov Avinu and become mothers of the Jewish nation. But in introducing these two women, the Torah describes them as being very different: > וּלְלָבָן שְׁתֵּי בָנוֹת שֵׁם הַגְּדֹלָה לֵאָה וְשֵׁם הַקְּטַנָּה רָחֵל. וְעֵינֵי לֵאָה רַכּוֹת וְרָחֵל הָיְתָה יְפַת תֹּאַר וִיפַת מַרְאֶה > Now Lavan had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. And Leah's eyes were sensitive; but Rachel was beautiful and fair to look upon.

There's a well known explanation of Rashi in our parsha, addressing Leah's eyes:

רכות – לפי שהיתה בוכה, שהיתה סבורה לעלות בגורלו של עשו שהיו הכל אומרים שני בנים לרבקה ושתי בנות ללבן גדולה לגדול וקטנה לקטן.

She thought she would have to fall to the lot of Esav and she therefore wept continually, because everyone said, “Rivka has two sons, Lavan has two daughters — the elder daughter for the elder son, the younger daughter for the younger son” (Genesis Rabbah 70:16).

It always struck me as odd. Why should that be the deal? Who decided that it should be so? But a careful reading of Rashi reveals to us that their might never have been such a deal. Why did Leah assume that she would marry Esav? הכל אומרים – Everyone said so.

That's the power of speech, of words. Everyone said so, so it became her reality, and she cried over it. So much so that it became her defining characteristic.

Yaakov's Hesitancy

But it’s not just the words that we say. The way we speak, more often than not, says even more.

The Torah tells us of the challenges Yaakov faces in Lavan's home. He is tricked into marrying Leah instead of Rachel and pushed into working an additional seven years. When it comes time to leave, Yaakov is pressured to stay, and work for Lavan. They come to a deal where the spotted sheep would go to Yaakov, and the plain sheep to Lavan. But when Yaakov's flocks begin to increase, Lavan switches the deal. Again Yaakov is successful. The children of Lavan begin to berate Yaakov for stealing their inheritance. All the while, Yaakov remains calm, cool and collected.

This continues for years, until Hashem appears to Him in a dream and tells him it is time to leave and return to Eretz Yisrael. So Yaakov and his family leave in the dead of night to return home. But Lavan is not done. He pursues them, catching up to them and accuses Yaakov of theft and dishonesty.

At this point, Yaakov cracks:

וַיִּחַר לְיַעֲקֹב וַיָּרֶב בְּלָבָן וַיַּעַן יַעֲקֹב וַיֹּאמֶר לְלָבָן מַה פִּשְׁעִי מַה חַטָּאתִי כִּי דָלַקְתָּ אַחֲרָי. And Yaakov got angry, and fought with Lavan. And Yaakov answered and said to Lavan: 'What is my trespass? what is my sin, that you have hotly pursued after me? ..

And indeed, Yaakov deserved to get angry. After two decades of abuse, bullying and persecution, he was well within his rights to get upset. But even in this moment, the Torah reveals to us the majesty of Yaakov: וַיִּחַר לְיַעֲקֹב וַיָּרֶב בְּלָבָן וַיַּעַן יַעֲקֹב וַיֹּאמֶר לְלָבָן – Yaakov got angry, וַיֹּאמֶר, and he spoke to Lavan.

Chazal tell us that there are two ways to communicate: ויאמר and וידבר. The word וידבר connotes a harshness of tone, ויאמר is gentle.

Reb Mendel of Rimanov explains that this is the secret of being a descendent of Yaakov Avinu: Even in the moment when you are most passionate, most angry, most right; in that moment, we speak to other people: ויאמר. We don't yell, we don't degrade ourselves by putting others down.

Chazal teach us that דברי חכמים בנחת נשמעין – the words of the wise are only accepted when spoken with care. No one has ever won an argument by belittling anyone else, by berating anyone else or by shouting them down.

In general, it’s not my derech to give mussar. And דברי חכמים בנחת נשמעין, also means “No one want to listen unless you're giving them nachas.” But Rav Yisrael Salanter would often say it is worth saying Mussar, even if there is only person who listens, even if that person is me.