Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

Growing up, I was blessed to have more than enough of everything I needed; clothes, food and school supplies. This statement alone puts me into a category shared with very few humans in history. It's a fact for which I am incredibly grateful.

But while it is true that my family lacked nothing, we lived with very little luxury. Almost nothing I owned was fancy or expensive. This was partially due to the much higher cost of luxury items in South Africa, and partially due to the fact that we didn't have much expendable income.

I didn't really resent not having luxury, though, there were times that I wanted something that we simply couldn't afford. Not having those things was not terribly disruptive to my life, and I don't believe I am worse off for having worn the knock-off “Mike” shoes rather than Nikes. This was my life in South Africa, and afterwards in Kerem B'Yavneh.

All of that changed when I came to the USA to learn in YU. For the first time in my life, items that were prohibitively expensive in South Africa were affordable. And there were sales every week!

I didn't go crazy – I still couldn't afford to, and I didn't want to. But there were a few things I was excited to own: specifically, three white Brooks Brothers shirts for Shabbos (bought on sale, of course). For me, these shirts were a revelation; they felt great, were high quality, and most importantly, non-iron. I could wash and dry them myself in the laundry machines in the basement of the Morgenstern dormitory and be assured that I would look good for Shabbos.

My old shirts were quickly relegated to the back of my dorm closet, permanently retired, but kept in case of emergency.

All was going well, until Erev Shabbos of finals week, a few minutes before Mincha, when I realized I had not washed anything in the past week and none of my new shirts were clean. I did what any Yeshiva guy would do – the sniff check. Tragically, I concluded that none of my shirts were passable, and with no time to do laundry, I reached into the back of the closet to retrieve one of my old shirts.

As I put it on, I was sure that the fabric was more uncomfortable than before. The fit felt awkward, and the color was noticeably less white. At least that's what it seemed to me. It didn't feel good. I blamed myself for failing to plan ahead and resolved to make Motzei Shabbos laundry a firm habit. I walked down the stairs onto Amsterdam Ave., feeling self conscious.

Naturally, I justified my negativity by explaining to myself that I loved my new shirts because they allowed me to better fulfill the mitzvos of Kavod Shabbos.

Moments later, however, as I entered the Beis Medrash, my feelings of self-consciousness and self-righteousness were replaced all at once with feelings of intense shame and disappointment. But not because of my shirt. This new embarrassment was overwhelming. It suddenly dawned upon me that I had become materialistic in the truest sense of the word, and I did not like to admit it.

How could it be that that a shirt which was once perfectly fine for Shabbos in Yeshiva was somehow beneath me to wear? How could I have deluded myself into thinking that Kavod Shabbos was synonymous with fashion? Clothing is worn on the outside. But shabbos shines on the inside.

That Shabbos awakened within me the understanding that our relationship with the Ribono Shel Olam needs to be deeper than the clothes we wear, the items we own and the money we earn.

Of course, I still enjoy the feeling of quality products and the taste of delicious food. But I cannot shake the question at every turn: Is this for me or for Hashem? Is this in service of Torah and mitzvos or ego and social standing?

At this point, I must confess that I have quietly asked this question about many of the upgraded Jewish experiences of our Kehilla and life. I am not convinced that the resources we pour into our shuls, schools, mikvas, Pesach programs and summer camps are always strictly in the service of the Ribono Shel Olam. This does not mean that there is anything wrong – but perhaps we are blurring the line between the essentials of Yiddishkeit and the niceties of modern living.

Baruch Hashem, our community has been blessed with such abundance, and we should certainly use it for Avodas Hashem. To be clear: I am not nostalgic for the centuries of poverty that were suffered by generations of our ancestors. But I wonder if perhaps we have unreasonably redefined the parameters of acceptable Halachik living. Have we raised our expectations of materialism to a point that Shabbos cannot be observed and enjoyed with less? Does our generation remember how to raise children without iPads, STEM labs and trips to Israel? Can couples still get married without spending the cost of a small home on the simcha?

Please don't misunderstand me. I love all of these things, and I'm grateful to Hashem that I live in a world were all of this exists. But what if we didn't have it all for a minute? Do we know how to be Avdei Hashem with less pampering?

Of course, you are welcome to respond that all of this fits into the category of Hidur Mitzvah – the obligation to beautify the observance of Mitzvos. And you would be correct. Indeed, it is praiseworthy to spend above the minimum for Torah and Mitvos. We should have a gorgeous Shabbos table with incredible food. We should have state of the art day schools and Yeshivos.

But we dare not lose the greater perspective that our mitzvos should deepen our connection to Hashem and Klal Yisrael; that all the external trappings are meaningless if we cannot live without them.

This notion is the basic premise of Parshas Shekalim. Everyone is obligated to donate the same amount – a single half Shekel.

הֶעָשִׁיר לֹא יַרְבֶּה וְהַדַּל לֹא יַמְעִיט מִמַּחֲצִית הַשָּׁקֶל The rich shall not give more and the poor shall not give less than the half shekel...

Rabbi Moshe Wolfson (אמונת עתיך ח״א ע׳ רנד) makes the astounding observation that the Mitzvah of Machatzitz HaShekel does not give the option of Hidur Mitzvah. Indeed, the Torah prohibits it! “The rich cannot give more,” means that there is no way to add to this Mitzvah (ע׳ רמב״ן שם).

The Chasam Sofer (תורת משה שמות תרומה ד״ה מאת כל איש) explains this limitation:

כי אין העיקר סכום המעות רק נדיבת לבו מאהבתו הגדולה It's not about the amount of money, but the generosity inspired by the greatness of his love.

In this singular instance, which is our focus this Shabbos Shekalim, Hashem tells us that He is setting the record straight: Yiddishkeit is about emotional attachment to Hashem, His People and His Torah. We should express this connection with joy and generosity, but the we should never confuse love of Hashem with love of the stuff that we enjoy.

Hashem should bless us to merit continued Brachos of abundance for us to use in His service, together with the serenity and humility to know that even if was all stripped away, our love of Torah, Mitzvos, Klal Yisrael and Hashem would never waver.