Insight of the Week

The spies were sent to Eretz Yisrael to find out about the land and then report their findings to the people. And this is exactly what they did. They told the people about the extraordinary quality of the land's produce, how it is a land "flowing with milk and honey." And they also told the people about the nations who lived in the land – about their very large, well-trained militaries, and about the enormous, fortified walls protecting their cities. So why were the spies punished? If they saw that the nations in Eretz Yisrael were too powerful, that they could not be defeated, then why were they wrong for sharing this information? Wasn't this exactly their job? A number of commentators explain that the very purpose of this scouting mission was for the meragelim (spies) to see that it was humanly impossible to conquer Eretz Yisrael , that the inhabitants were too powerful, that Beneh Yisrael could not prevail without Hashem's help. The goal was to enhance the people's bitahon , their trust in Hashem, to reinforce their awareness of their reliance of G-d's assistance. The meragelim were to come back with greater bitahon , not less. They were to come back with greater enthusiasm, with greater positivity, not with negativity and discouragement. The point of this mission was to make the people feel vulnerable – because moments of vulnerability are powerful moments, moments when a person can reinforce his faith and trust in Hashem, and feel closer to Him than ever before. Tragically, the meraglim did just the opposite. This is why Hashem punished the people for their sin – listening to the spies and deciding that they could not enter the land – by spending forty years in the desert. For forty years, they lived in an area where naturally a person is incapable of living. For forty years, they lived under Hashem's miraculous care and protection – to build their bitahon . When we confront a difficult reality, when we feel hopeless, when we feel lost, when our lives or the world seems completely out of control and upside-down – this is a powerful moment of vulnerability. This is a time for us to let go, to reaffirm our belief that Hashem controls the world, that nothing is random, that everything is under His control. We read in Sefer Bereshit (21:14) that after Abraham Abinu sent away Hagar, ותלך ותתע במדבר באר שבע – she got lost in the desert. Rashi explains this pasuk to mean that Hagar worshipped idols. The pasuk does not seem to say anything about idol-worship, but somehow, Rashi understood that this is what it means. The explanation is that when a person feels "lost," this shows a deficiency in his emunah , in his faith in Hashem. If we truly believed that Hashem controls everything, then we will never feel "lost" under any circumstances. No matter how chaotic the world seems, no matter what life throws at us, no matter how uncertain the future appears – we will feel calm and reassured, recognizing that everything is under control. We must try to live with this sense of calmness and serenity. We should not be wasting our time or emotional energy trying to figure out what is going to happen, what the future will bring, how events will unfold. The future is G-d's problem, not our problem. Our responsibility is to do our best in the present, and to leave the rest to Him.

King Shlomo teaches us in Mishleh (14:27): יראת ה' מקור חיים לסור ממקשי מות – "Fear of G-d is the source of life; turning one away from the traps of death." I believe that this pasuk , if understood properly, is exceedingly powerful, and conveys one of the most important lessons for young people today who struggle with the temptations of modern life. Whenever a person is faced with temptation, he is being offered two contracts, and he needs to choose one. The first contract says: Enjoy now, and ruin the rest of your life. Most of what tempts young people really is enjoyable and fun. Drugs…alcohol…gambling… In the moment, it makes the person happy. He enjoys it. He feels really good. He's excited. But in the long-term – it ruins his life. Once a person starts, it becomes difficult – and sometimes all but impossible – to stop. As the Gemara says about temptation: משביעו – רעב, מרעיבו – שבע . If one satiates his desire – it becomes hungrier for more; if he starves it – it feels satiated. The more a person indulges, the more he wants and the more he needs. This is what we might call the "contract of death." The terms are: You have a great time now, and in the very near future, but you will then pay for this enjoyment the rest of your life, which will be turned upside-down. The other contract says just the opposite: Struggle now, and then enjoy the happiest, most fulfilling life you can have. Yes, there are struggles. But מרעיבו – שבע . If a person accustoms himself to saying "no," to winning the struggle, to resisting temptation, he will find it so much easier for the rest of his life to live a disciplined, accomplished and fulfilling Torah life, which is, undoubtedly, the best life a person could possibly live. This is what King Shlomo is teaching us. יראת ה' – overpowering temptation with the fear of Hashem – is מקור חיים , the source of a rich, happy and fulfilling life. It is what pulls a person away from מוקשי מוות , from the dangerous pitfalls that can literally ruin his life. In our parashah , Parashat Behaalotecha, we learn more about this struggle and how it works. The Torah tells of how Hashem punished Beneh Yisrael for complaining about the conditions in the desert, for objecting to the manna that He provided for them, demanding more. But if we look carefully, we see that they did more than complain. The Torah says, התאוו תאווה – which literally means, "they desired a desire." They weren't faced with temptation. They decided to bring a desire upon themselves. They imagined to themselves that there must be more out there that they were not enjoying. They wanted to have this temptation, because they felt there were missing out. This is what happens to so many young people today. Nobody comes into the world with a natural desire for drugs, alcohol or gambling. But התאוו תאווה – they feel that there must be something rewarding in these activities, that they need to try it, they need to "get it out of their system." But then the תאווה takes over, and threatens to ruin their life. משביעו - רעב . By bringing the desire upon themselves and then feeding it, they make it stronger, resulting in a vicious and catastrophic cycle. When faced with these struggles, one needs to remember the two contracts. There is no third option. By overcoming these challenges, one accesses the מקור חיים – the source to a truly rewarding and beautiful life. This does not mean everything will be easy. No person's life is without difficulty. But if one avoids the מוקשי מוות , the pitfalls that threaten to destroy life, he finds his way to happiness and fulfillment, to the unparalleled joy of following Hashem's will and living a life of meaning and purpose.

A certain young man whom I was very close with, and whom I helped a great deal, was getting married. Before the wedding he asked me if I could be an עד קידושין , one of the two witnesses to the kiddushin under the huppah . Now among Ashkenazim, serving as an עד קידושין is considered a great honor, but here in our community, being invited to recite one of the berachot under the huppah is a far greater honor. And I have to say, in all honesty, that I felt hurt by the boy's decision to ask me to be a witness instead of reciting one of the blessings. As mentioned, I was very close with this young man. I helped him grow in his religious observance, and I even helped him in the process of dating and getting engaged. I felt slighted over not having received a berachah . Was I being petty and childish? Was this just my ego going too far? I think that the Gemara teaches us the answer. In Masechet Ketubot, the Gemara discusses the case of a person who was very wealthy, and was accustomed to a comfortable, luxurious lifestyle, until he lost his fortune and became poor. The halachah in this case, surprisingly, is that the people must not only give enough charity to provide him with his basic needs – but also provide him with the comforts and amenities that he was accustomed to. So much so, the Gemara tells, that in the time of Hillel, there was a wealthy man who used to ride in a carriage with someone running ahead of him, and after he fell into hard times, Hillel ruled that he should be provided with a runner. When the people could not find somebody willing to do it, Hillel himself ran in front of this man's carriage. It goes without saying that arrogance and conceit are exceptionally bad qualities from which a person must distance himself from. But there is a huge difference between arrogance and a sense of respect. People need to feel respected. This is a basic human need that we must all acknowledge. There is nothing arrogant or egotistical about wanting to be respected. And in some situations, failing to receive honor hurts. If a person worked very hard to plan an event, for example, and at the event, the speaker acknowledged everyone who volunteered their time except that person, that person will be hurt. This isn't because of arrogance – it's because it's embarrassing. The person feels disrespected. And this is true also of a Rabbi who is very close with the groom. There is a certain expectation of honor – and when that respect is not shown, it feels embarrassing. It hurts. Parashat Naso begins with Hashem commanding Moshe, נשא את ראש בני גרשון גם הם – to count "also" the people of Gershon, the Leviyim who descended from Levi's oldest son, Gershon. In the previous parashah , the family of Kehat – the middle of Levi's three sons – was counted. Kehat was counted first because they were in charge of the most sacred articles in the Mishkan , so they had the more distinguished job. Now, when the time came to count the family of Gershon, Hashem emphasized גם הם – that they, too, must be given honor and respect. As the children of the oldest son, they naturally expected to be treated with honor. And since that honor was not given, and instead the middle son, Kehat, was counted first, Moshe needed to find a way to compensate, to show Gershon honor and distinction so they would not feel embarrassed or disrespected. This is so important for us to realize in our relationships, and in all our interactions with people. People need to feel respected, the way they need oxygen. It's a basic human need. People need to feel respected so they can feel important, that they matter, that their lives are significant and meaningful. This isn't arrogance. It's a basic human need. In every relationship, we need to ensure to make the other person feel respected. We need to realize that their need for respect isn't childish or petty – it's normal. It's human. And we must fill that need. When we speak to people and treat them with respect, we help bring out the best in them. We remind them that they matter, that they have something beautiful and crucial to give to the world – and once they acknowledge that, they will go ahead and make sure to make that beautiful contribution.

The Gemara in Masechet Sanhedrin (91b) teaches: כל המונע הלכה מפי תלמיד כאילו גוזלו מנחלת אבותיו - "Whoever withholds a halacha from a student, it is as though he steals from his forefathers' estate." Meaning, if a teacher decides not to teach a certain student Torah, having decided that the student is either unworthy or incapable of being taught, then the teacher is guilty of "theft." He is viewed as though he stole from that youngster. To understand the meaning of the Gemara's comment, let us imagine a wealthy person who appoints someone to manage his estate and oversee its distribution after his passing. A few years later, the wealthy fellow passes away, and the appointed administrator of his estate meets with the family. He then decides that a certain child of the deceased is not worthy of a portion of the estate. Does this administrator have the right to deny that son a portion? It goes without saying that he does not. The property belongs to all the children. His role is to manage the estate – not to decide who is in and who is out. The Gemara explains the aforementioned teaching by citing the famous pasuk , תורה ציווה לנו משה, מורשה קהילת יעקב – "Moshe taught us Torah, an inheritance for the congregation of Yaakov" (Devarim 33:4). The Torah is an "inheritance" in the sense that it is given to the entire Jewish People. No teacher has the right to decide that a certain student doesn't deserve a share in Torah, to write off a student and deny him the privilege of a Torah education. The Torah doesn't belong to the teacher; it belongs to the entirety of Am Yisrael , including challenging students. The Gemara then proceeds to state: כל המונע הלכה מפי תלמיד אפילו עוברין שבמעי אמו מקללין אותו - "Whoever withholds a halacha from a student, even the fetuses in their mother's belly curse him." It seems that the Gemara here is imagining the response of an unborn child who sees a teacher decide not to teach students whom he considers incapable of learning. The fetus will begin to fear that maybe he, too, will struggle. Perhaps he will not have the sharpest mind, or will have attention issues, or will suffer from dyslexia or another learning challenge. Does he want to come into a world where only the brightest and most talented kids are given the gift of Torah? Of course not. And so the fetus curses the teacher – because he wants to come into a world where all children are given the opportunity to shine and excel, each in his own way, at his own pace, and on his own level. Rav Dovid Soloveitchik, the famous Rosh Yeshiva of the Brisk Yeshiva in Yerushalayim, was once asked if educators should give greater attention to the elite students, those with the potential to become the outstanding rabbinic leaders of the future. Should educators invest more time and effort in these students, to help ensure they maximize their potential, or should all students be given the same amount of attention? Rav Dovid replied, "Why do you assume that specifically the elite students will become gedolim ?" It was clear to him that educators must invest in all their students equally, because all students have the potential for greatness. A youngster's performance in yeshiva says nothing about who he can or will become as an adult. מורשה קהילת יעקב . The Torah is every Jew's inheritance, and every Jew has the ability to achieve in Torah. And just as we may not give up on any student, we also may never give up on ourselves. No matter what a person's background is, no matter what he has done or hasn't done in the past, no matter his circumstances in the present – the Torah belongs to him. He has a share, and he has the right, and the obligation, to receive his share. A teacher must not deny any student his share in Torah – and a person must not deny himself his share in Torah. Today, more than at any other time, there really is no excuse for not seriously engaging in Torah learning. Modern technology – with all the spiritual challenges it poses – offers every Jew endless opportunities for intensive Torah study. Classes and publications for Jews of all levels are available. And every Jew owes it to himself to avail himself of these opportunities and take his rightful share in Torah. As we celebrate זמן מתן תורתנו , our receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai, let us remember that the Torah was given to each and every one of us – to each and every child, and to each and every adult, and we all have the right and the obligation to experience the unparalleled joy and satisfaction that Torah brings.

Rabbi Joey Haber The story is told of a woman who came to a Rabbi seeking advice, explaining that she was in the process of growing in her religious observance, but her husband had been moving in the opposite direction. "Every Friday night," the woman said, with unmistakable pain in her voice, "my husband makes kiddush and then goes to watch television. It is so hard for me to handle." She asked the Rabbi if she should divorce him. "You just said that your husband recites kiddush every Friday night," the Rabbi replied. "Do you know what this means?" The woman was befuddled. She didn't know what to say. "That is such a beautiful thing," the Rabbi explained. "Every week, he pours a cup of wine, lifts it in the air, recites the verses of ויכולו , announcing that Hashem created the world in six days, and he then proclaims the sanctity of Shabbat. This is a precious mitzvah which he performs every week. Sometimes we need to see the flame and ignore the smoke." The woman was stunned. When she returned home, her anxious husband, who knew that she had gone to consult with a Rabbi, asked her what the Rabbi had said. The wife smiled and replied, "The Rabbi said you're a tzaddik ." She explained that the Rabbi emphasized the beauty of the mitzvah of kiddush that he fulfills every Shabbat, and how precious and valuable this mitzvah is. That Friday night, the husband recited kiddush more slowly then in the past, and he then went to watch television. The next Friday night, he stayed at the table for a short while after reciting kiddush before leaving to watch television. The week after that, he remained for the whole meal and only then went to watch. The next Shabbat, he didn't watch television at all. Eventually, he became a fully-committed Torah Jew. The husband went to the Rabbi and asked him about that meeting with his wife. He asked the Rabbi how he knew what to say, and how he knew that he would eventually return to observance. "Simple," the Rabbi said. "I saw what you didn't realize you had." This can be said of all of us. We don't see what we have inside us, the great potential we have, our ability to achieve greatness. And the reason we don't see this is because we're distracted by all the "noise" in our lives, by all the stuff going on, by all the things that society presents to us as important and significance but is really worthless. This "noise" grabs our attention and turns our focus away from who we really are. It draws our focus toward the "smoke" and away from the flame"; toward wasteful, unimportant matters, and away from things that have real value. The Mishnah in Pirkeh Avot (5:21) teaches: בן חמישים לעצה – once a person reaches the age of 50, he is qualified to advise other people. The Hafetz Haim explains that the average lifespan (before the modern era) was around 70 years, and each of the seven decades of life corresponds to one of the seven days of the week. Therefore, once a person reaches the age of 50, he begins his sixth decade – which corresponds to Friday, Erev Shabbat. This is the day when we start transitioning from the mundane workweek to the kedushah of Shabbat. Similarly, once a person reaches the age of 50 or so, he has a clearer sense of priorities, of what's important and what's not important. His life experience has given him a clearer perspective and greater clarity to distinguish between vanity and matters of significance. And so such a person is worth consulting and receiving advice from – because he has a clearer sense of what our priorities should be. The celebration of Shavuot, which we are currently preparing for, serves to remind us what we have and who we are. We spend this day reflecting on the fact that Hashem chose us from all other nations in the world, revealed Himself to us, established a special relationship with us, and gave us His sacred Torah which teaches us how to live a life of meaning. The Torah was given in the quiet desert, away from all the "noise," and the only noise the people heard were the sounds of Hashem's revelation. Matan Torah is about redirecting our focus and attention, about shutting out the noise so we can concentrate on our real selves, on the " kiddush ," the holiness within us, and recommit ourselves to make this our highest priority and our life's mission.

The Torah commands us at the end of Parashat Behar, לא תעשו לכם אלילים – not to make idols (26:1). This command might at first seem irrelevant to us, as we live in a time where nobody bows down to statues the way they did in the ancient world. But when we look a bit deeper, I believe this mitzvah is extremely important and presents us with a crucial lesson for our lives. Let's begin with the story of three great men who risked their lives to obey this command. During the time of the Babylonian exile, the emperor Nevuchadnetzar had a large statue built, and he ordered everyone in the kingdom to bow down to this statue. There were three righteous Jews who worked in the king's palace – Hananyah, Mishael and Azaryah – and they refused to bow to the idol, even at the threat of the death. Nevuchadnetzar ordered that they be thrown into a furnace, but they miraculously survived. The Gemara in Masechet Sanhedrin (92b) makes a remarkable comment about this story. From the pesukim in the Book of Daniel that tell this story, the Gemara notes, it appears that Hananyah, Mishael and Azaryah made a point of keeping on their official uniforms when they were being thrown into the furnace. Even during these moments, when it seemed that they were going to be killed, they did not change into simple clothes. They insisted on wearing their official garb. The Gemara learns from this that אפילו בשעת הסכנה לא ישנה אדם את עצמו מן הרבנות שלו – even when a person is in danger, he shouldn't compromise his dignity. He should remain composed and maintain a respectable demeanor even when he's under duress, when his life becomes challenging and even when it is at risk. Hananyah, Mishael and Azaryah were heroes not only for steadfastly remaining loyal to Hashem under the threat of death – but also for doing it with composure and dignity. This aspect of their story perhaps sheds light on the Gemara's comment later (93a) about the aftermath of this miracle. The Gemara states that people ridiculed the other Jews following this incident, telling them, יש לכם אלוק כזה ואתם משתחוים לצלם – "You have a G-d like this, and you're bowing to an idol?!" The people saw not only the great miracle – but also the honor and dignity displayed by Hananyah, Mishael and Azaryah. They turned to the other Jews and asked, "You have a G-d who can elevate you to such great heights – how can you lower yourselves by bowing to idols? This is how great you could become – and you choose to get involved in silly idols, instead?" "Idols" are the antithesis of the stature of greatness embodied by Hananyah, Mishael and Azaryah. They are our model of dignity, of honorability, the respect with which a Jew is supposed to live. The Torah strictly warns us, לא תעשו לכם אלילים – not to compromise our stature by getting involving in silliness, in vanity, in nonsense. One of the "idols" of our time is gossip. We so often find ourselves speaking about other people – about who might be getting engaged, who might be breaking up, who might be expecting a child, who might be buying a new house, who might be switching jobs or opening a new business, who might be getting divorced, and so on. I highly recommend when such conversations start to take a step back and ask the question that the non-Jews asked our ancestors after the miracle of Hananyah, Mishael and Azaryah: יש לכם אלוק כזה ואתם משתחוים לצלם – We have such a G-d, and we're getting involved in such pettiness? We are Hashem's special nation, and this is what interests us? We were given the Torah, the potential for kedushah , for spiritual greatness – and we waste our time talking about other people's personal affairs that have nothing to do with us, and that we know nothing about? Aren't we better than this?? Let us remember the Gemara's timeless teaching: לא ישנה אדם את עצמו מן הרבנות שלו . At all times, let's keep our dignity, our self-respect, our sense of self-worth and self-importance. We matter too much to waste our time on nonsense. Our mission is too significant for us to allow ourselves to bow to "idols," to meaningless things. Let's stay far away from the idols of vanity, from things that don't really matter, that have no value, that we have no reason to concern ourselves with – and instead devote our time, our energy, and our attention to the things that really matter, that have real value, and that really should concern us.

The first section of Parashat Emor presents the special laws that apply to the kohanim , the additional restrictions that they need to be observe because of their unique status in the nation. When Hashem tells Moshe to teach these laws to the kohanim , He says, אמור אל הכהנים...ואמרת אליהם – "Speak to the kohanim …and speak to them," indicating that there are two different "speakings." Rashi brings the Midrash's explanation of this repetition: להזהיר גדולים על הקטנים – "To warn the adults with respect to the children." Meaning, Moshe was to teach these laws to the kohanim , and also to instruct the kohanim to teach these laws to their children. The obvious question arises, is this not true about the entire Torah? Isn't there an obligation on all parents to teach their children what the Torah requires of them? Why specifically in the context of the unique laws of the kohanim must Hashem emphasize the parents' responsibility to pass these mitzvot onto their children? The answer, I believe, is very important – for all of us, and not just for the kohanim ... Kohanim have the challenge of explaining to their kids that they cannot do certain things that other people can do. Their children might likely resent having special restrictions that others don't have. And so the Torah needs to emphasize to the kohanim that they must meet this challenge. Hashem says to Moshe, אמור אל הכוהנים בני אהרון – "Speak to the kohanim , the sons of Aharon ." He was telling them to emphasize the great privilege they have to descend from Aharon, the first kohen , to excite them with the awareness that they are special. The kohanim are to speak of their status with pride, depicting it to their children as a badge of honor. This way, the youngsters will not resent the additional restrictions entailed. This idea is very personal for me. Growing up in Deal, my father was a Rabbi and my mother was a teacher. We did not have lots of money for extras like most others in the community. But not only did we not feel that we lacked anything, but to the contrary – we felt a special sense of pride. We felt proud to be a family of Torah, a family of Torah leadership and education, a family of hesed , a family that contributed so much to the community. The gap in materialism between us and others was not a factor at all. We were proud to be a family of Torah and hesed . Sadly, many people spend lots of money that they don't have, or put themselves under a great deal of pressure to afford certain things, because they're worried about their reputation, about how people will talk about them. This is unfortunate – and wrong – for several reasons. One of which is that people who will talk negatively about somebody who hosts simple affairs, who drives a simple car, or who lives in a simple house, will likely talk negatively about him no matter what he does. It is delusional to think that we can make sure everyone thinks highly of us. I know as a Rabbi that I cannot possibly expect to win everyone's respect and admiration. There will always be people who look down on us or who criticize us, for whatever reasons. But additionally, it is a terrible mistake to make material things our source of pride, what we're all about, the thing that our lives revolve around, as our "brand" and "label." Seeking fulfillment and happiness through material things is like eating pretzels when you're thirsty – rather than quenching the thirst, it makes you even thirstier. True joy and contentment are achieved when we live with meaning and purpose, when we fill our lives with things that really matter, that have real value. Of course there is nothing wrong with enjoying material blessings. The problem becomes when we turn materialism into the primary focus of our lives, into our primary goal, into our source of pride and of our sense of accomplishment. This will leave us feeling empty and unfulfilled. True fulfillment comes from making our lives primarily about Torah, spirituality, hesed , contributing to the community, helping people. This is where we should be seeking our feelings of pride and gratification, and our sense of accomplishment. להזהיר הגדולים על הקטנים . Our responsibility to our children is to fill them with pride over our identity as a Torah family, as a hesed family, as an idealistic family, as a family that lives each day the way Hashem expects His special nation to live.

Parashat Ahareh-Mot begins with a description of the עבודת יום הכיפורים – the special service performed by the kohen gadol in the Bet Ha'mikdash every Yom Kippur. Whereas in our time, without a Bet Ha'mikdash , the Yom Kippur experience is centered in the shul, in the past it was focused on the Bet Ha''mikdash , where the kohen gadol would offer a special series of sacrifices that would bring atonement for the nation. Surprisingly, though, this series of korbanot (sacrifices) began with a sacrifice that the kohen gadol would offer on behalf of himself and his family, an animal which he was required to purchase with his own money. On this day when the entire nation depended on the kohen gadol , when he represented all Am Yisrael before G-d, and acted on their behalf, he needed to first do something private, to bring a korban for himself and his family. To understand why, let us talk for a moment about celebrities. Many celebrities, despite having more money than they know what to do with, have utterly dysfunctional lives. They get a lot of attention from millions of fans, but they do not have a happy family life. The reason is, very simply, that they are entirely focused on their public lives, without giving much time or thought to their private lives. The fame they enjoy is so intoxicating, and so consuming, that they don't put in the effort needed to build a happy, stable private life. On Yom Kippur, the kohen gadol was the nation's leading public figure. Nobody was more important than him. He was taking center stage. All eyes were on him. Therefore, the Torah commanded him to begin the special service of this day as a private individual, offering a personal korban for himself and his family. He was reminded that his public persona must not overshadow his private identity, that his personal life was no less important than his public life. Indeed, the Torah concludes this section by stating, ויעש כאשר ציווה ה' את משה – that Aharon, the first kohen gadol , faithfully complied with these laws regarding the Yom Kippur service (16:34). Rashi explains: להגיד שבחו של אהרן שלא היה לובשן לגדולתו אלא כמקיים גזירת המלך . To express the praise of Aharon—that he would not wear them for his own grandeur, but rather as one fulfilling the decree of the King. The Torah emphasized that Aharon performed this service with humility, for the sake of serving Hashem and discharging his duties, and not to draw attention to himself and feel distinguished. He kept the public nature of his role in check, and ensured it didn't go to his head and lead him to see himself as more important than everyone else. A famous Mishnah in Pirkeh Avot (4:21) warns of three things that "remove a person from the world" ( מוציאין את האדם מן העולם ), meaning, that can ruin his life. These include קנאה – jealousy – and כבוד – the pursuit of fame and prestige. When a person is too preoccupied with his public image, with the way other people perceive him, with his reputation, this can lead him to neglect his private life, his family, his friends, his self-fulfillment, and his relationship with Hashem. Too many people subject themselves to unnecessary financial stress because they feel the need to "keep up," to do what other people do, to avoid the "embarrassment" of lower material standards. Luxuries turn into necessities for one reason and one reason only – because the neighbors have them. People end up doing things they know are wrong, that they know are harmful, or that they know makes their lives worse, because they are so concerned about their public image, about how they are seen by other people. We need to remember that reputation means very little if we are not living the lives that we are happy with, that we feel comfortable with, that we know is right for us. Even the kohen gadol , at his most public moment, was warned not to neglect his private life – to teach him, and to teach all of us, that what matters most is not what the public thinks about us, but what we think about ourselves, what those closest to us think about us, and, of course, what Hashem thinks about us.

I cannot tell you how many people – youngsters and adults – have told me that they have stopped praying, or have even stopped being observant, because they prayed for something and did not get what they wanted. This is a challenge that everyone faces at some point – and often many times over the course of life – and it has, unfortunately, led many people to give up on tefillah or on mitzvot generally. But this challenge is based on a fundamentally mistaken approach to prayer. People believe that prayer is about getting what we want. When we have some kind of problem, or when there is something that we're lacking, we pray to Hashem so He will solve the problem or give us what we need. But this is not what tefillah is about. The Gemara tells us this explicitly. In a passage that I wish was more famous, the Gemara in Masechet Berachot (55a) teaches: כל המאריך בתפלתו ומעיין בה סוף בא לידי כאב לב – if a person prolongs his tefillah and he "looks into it," then he will suffer heartache. Rashi explains this to mean that if a person prays for a long time with the expectation that his lengthy prayers assure that his wishes will be granted, he is setting himself up for terrible disappointment, because there is never any guarantee that one's tefillot will be answered. The Gemara then makes an even more dramatic statement, listing עיון תפילה – praying with the expectation that one's requests will be granted – among the things that cause Hashem to be especially mindful of a person's sins, making it less likely that his wishes will be granted. Prayer is not about getting what we want, for a very simple reason – we don't really know what we want. We can easily imagine Queen Ester praying fervently day after day in Ahashverosh's palace that she should be sent back home to Mordechai. If Hashem had granted her request, the Jews would not have been saved. A person may pray fervently for a certain job, for a certain shidduch , for some outcome – but in reality that thing he prays for is not the best thing for him. Only Hashem knows what is best for us, and so we have no reason to expect Him to grant us everything we ask for. Prayer, then, is not about changing Hashem's mind – because we don't want Him to change His mind! After all, He knows what we need far better than we ever will. Rather, prayer is about changing us. The experience of prayer, of standing before Hashem with a feeling of humble submission and complete dependency, recognizing our unworthiness and how much we need Him, profoundly impacts us. And this process of growth which tefillah inspires is the reason why we pray. This might be the meaning of the Mishnah in the second chapter of Pirkeh Avot that we learn this week. Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel teaches: הוי זהיר בקריאת שמע ובתפילה, וכשאתה מתפלל, אל תעש תפילתך קבע אלא רחמים ותחנונים לפני המקום ברוך הוא. Be meticulous in the recitation of Shema and prayer; and when you pray, do not make your prayer a fixed, routine obligation, but rather [let it be] mercy and supplication before the Almighty. Rabbi Shimon here perhaps addresses the problem we described – of people losing interest in prayer because their requests have not been granted. He urges us to continue praying every day, regardless of our past disappointments – and to pray not mechanically, by rote, just to discharge our obligation, but with feeling and emotion, because this is precisely the function of tefillah , to arouse our feelings of humility, of submission, of dependency, of faith, and of connection to Hashem. The Mishnah concludes, ואל תהי רשע בפני עצמך – one should not see himself as evil. At first glance, this instruction has nothing to do with the rest of the Mishnah. The explanation might be that if a person prays and does not see the results he wished for, he should not conclude that he is sinful, that Hashem does not care about him, or that Hashem think he's evil and undeserving. This is not true at all. Hashem has very valid reasons for doing what He does, for deciding to grant our wishes or to not grant our wishes. It is not that we are unworthy of His kindness – it's that His kindness is not always manifest the way we expect it to, or the way we think we want it to. Prayer is referred to as עבודה – "work," because it's exactly that – work. It's about working on ourselves, working on our relationship with Hashem. Prayer is not a vending machine, where we say words and then get what we want. It's about investing effort to grow, to draw closer to Hashem, and to reinforce our belief that He – and only He – knows what is best for us.

The second Mishna in Pirkeh Avot contains one of the most famous teachings in Pirkeh Avot : על שלשה דברים העולם עומד, על התורה ועל העבודה ועל גמילות חסדים . The world stands on three things – on Torah, on service [of Hashem], and on acts of kindness. This Mishnah establishes that the three "pillars," so-to-speak, of the world are Torah learning, serving Hashem through sacrifices and prayer, and kindness toward other people. However, a later Mishnah in this chapter (18) seems to contradict this statement: על שלשה דברים העולם קיים, על הדין ועל האמת ועל השלום . The world exists through three things – judgment, truth, and peace. This later Mishna lists three other things as the "pillars" that uphold the world. Apparently, there is a difference between the three things upon which the world "stands" ( עומד ) and the three things through which the world "exists" ( קיים ). Rabbeinu Yonah explains that the first Mishna is teaching us the purpose of the world, why we are here. The three pursuits that define our purpose as Jews is תורה , עבודה and גמילות חסדים – serious engagement in Torah study, focused service of Hashem, and looking out for other people with kindness, generosity and sensitivity. The later Mishna, on the other hand, is telling us the three things that the world needs to continue existing, that without which, society would become chaotic and life would be impossible. If there is no justice system, and if people are dishonest and are unable to live with each other peacefully, then the world cannot achieve its purpose. But these three do not define the purpose – they are rather the features that the world needs for the purpose to be realized. Rabbenu Yonah here is teaching us of the crucial need to differentiate between the essence of Jewish life, and the secondary features of Jewish life – a lesson which, I feel, is exceedingly relevant in our time. We need to be very careful not to confuse the "frills" with the core-essence; to distinguish between the "steak" and the "sizzle." There are many beautiful practices which have become common features of religious life today, but which must not be mistaken for the essence of religious life. Many people frequently travel to Israel to receive blessings from great Rabbis, and to pray at graves of tzadikim . Many people belong to Tehillim chat groups. Many people receive and watch two-minute inspiration videos. Many people give money to the Rabbi Meir Ba'al Ha'ness charity and recite a special prayer when they can't find something. I am not at all opposed to any of these; to the contrary, I fully support them and I think they are wonderful. But we need to avoid the mistake of thinking that this is what Torah life is about. Torah life is about תורה , עבודה and גמילות חסדים . תורה – spending significant amounts of time immersed in Torah study, challenging ourselves to understand difficult and intricate texts and to enhance our knowledge and understanding of Torah. עבודה – ensuring to recite all the prayers at the right time and in the right way, with concentration and emotion. גמילות חסדים – working on ourselves to be more sensitive, more generous, more compassionate, more forgiving, more respectful and more patient. Often, when people face some kind of problem – such as a health issue, or a challenge with parnasah (livelihood) – their immediate reaction is to receive a blessing for a Rabbi, say some Tehillim, and give some money to charity. And these are all wonderful things to do. However, this should not be the primary response. The primary response is to do something that is both important and difficult , something that is challenging and which makes a significant difference. Spending time engrossed in high-level Torah study. Making a real effort to recite the entire shemonah esreh with concentration three times every day. Being kind and gracious to people whom we do not feel naturally inclined to be kind and gracious to. Deciding to avoid lashon ha'ra and to instead speak positively about other people. Not getting angry even when somebody does or says something that upsets us. Joining Tehillim groups, watching two-minute inspiration videos, and visiting graves are all wonderful – but these are the "sizzle," not the "steak." The "sizzle" is important – we need the excitement and "hype" that these bring to religious life – but they must not be mistaken for religious life itself. Religious life is about working hard to learn Torah, working hard to sincerely serve Hashem, and working hard to be kind to other people. Let's try to stay focused on what really matters, and make a real effort to excel in the areas that Hashem wants us to excel in.

As we begin telling the story of Yetziat Mitzrayim at the seder , we say: מתחילה עובדי עבודה זרה היו אבותינו, ועתה קרבנו המקום לעבודתו – "Originally, our forefathers were idol-worshippers, but now, the Almighty has drawn us close to His service." In this passage, we reflect upon our nation's humble beginnings, the fact that we descend from people who worshipped idols, and we express our deep gratitude that we now have the great privilege of serving the one, true G-d. However, one of the commentators offered a deeper insight into this passage in the Haggadah . The Haggadah is teaching us that if a person lives his life in a manner of מתחילה , always looking back, then this is a form of עבודה זרה , of foreign worship. So many people fail to grow religiously because they are beset by guilt and shame over things that happened in the past. They can't get over the feeling that their mistakes five, ten, twenty or even thirty years ago define them forever. They can't let go of their regret and embarrassment. Conversely, there are people who feel so proud over great things they did long ago, so they fall into complacency. They decide that their work is done, that they are now exempt, that they no longer need to put in effort, to work hard, to achieve, or to grow in Torah, because they accomplished so much many years ago. These two attitudes are a form of עבודה זרה . This mindset, defining ourselves based on the past, is very foreign to Torah. The Torah teaches us that וע כשיו – an attitude of "now," focusing on the present, and the opportunities that are given to us right now, קרבנו המקום לעבודתו – is what brings us close to Hashem. The way we draw close to Hashem is by staying focused on the present, on the potential we have to achieve right now. We should never feel stuck in the past. What happened ten years ago, or even yesterday, does not mean that I cannot be great today, or that I don't have to be great today. This is one of the reasons why we make a point of recalling our less-than-impressive origins at the seder – to impress upon us this mindset of ועכשיו , that what matters most is not what we did in the past, but how we are choosing to live in the present. Just as Hashem brought our ancestors out of slavery to Pharaoh so they could be His servants, He is likewise prepared to take us out of our "slavery," whatever we feel is holding us back, and help us serve Him better. We aren't stuck and we aren't trapped. We just have to make the decision to be a "today" person, to focus our attention on who we can be today, irrespective of the past.

The Gemara in Masechet Megillah (6b) discusses the situation of a Jewish leap year, when there are two months of Adar. According to the accepted opinion, in such a year, the holiday of Purim is celebrated during the second Adar. The Gemara explains: מסמך גאולה לגאולה עדיף – we want to juxtapose the "redemption" of Purim with the "redemption" of Pesach. Apparently, there is some connection between the celebration of Purim and the celebration of Pesach. Perhaps we can explain this connection based on a story told elsewhere in the Gemara (Gittin 56) about one of the worst enemies of the Jewish People – the wicked Roman general Titus, who destroyed the second Bet Ha'mikdash . The Gemara relates that sometime after he destroyed the Bet Ha'mikdash , Titus arrived at a certain place and a tiny gnat flew into his nostril, and lodged itself in his brain. It started pecking inside Titus' head, causing him unbearable pain. He was able to temporarily relieve himself of this pain by having a blacksmith bang with his anvil, as the noise disrupted the gnat, making it stop pecking. Soon thereafter, however, the gnat grew accustomed to this noise, and resumed its pecking. For seven years, Titus suffered from the incessant pecking, until he finally died. The Gemara concludes that Titus' head was opened after his passing, and it was discovered that the gnat was the size of a very large bird. This story might seem strange and esoteric – but when we probe a bit deeper, we find that it describes something that each and every one of us suffers from. A little "gnat" enters our brain, and it grows – making us so uncomfortable that we can't function. That "gnat" can be a family member who doesn't treat us the way we think he should. A competitor who is taking away customers. Something our spouse does or doesn't do that drives us crazy. At any time, we have at least one "little bug" in our brain, someone or something that we allow to live there rent-free. Even worse, we allow this "bug" to grow, and to grow, and to grow some more. We turn this annoyance into a far more serious problem than it really is. And, like the overgrown gnat inside Titus' head, it "pecks" and knocks at our brains, preventing us from thinking straight, not to mention from experiencing happiness and contentment. We turn this small problem into a huge problem, one which allows us no rest. There is perhaps no clearer example of this phenomenon than Haman. Haman had all the fame and wealth that anybody could ever dream of. And yet, he turned to his family and said, וכל זה איננו שווה לי – none of his fame and wealth was worth it. None of it made him happy. Why? Because of Mordechai. Because of that one Jewish guy who refused to bow. Mordechai's refusal to bow was a tiny, insignificant "gnat," an annoyance that, rationally, should pale in comparison with all the prestige that Haman enjoyed. But he invited Mordechai to live rent-free in his brain, and he allowed this "bug" to grow and grow. So much so, that Haman could not enjoy anything in his life. He was consumed by resentment toward this one guy. Maybe this explains the connection between Purim and Pesach. Pesach is the holiday of freedom, when we are to focus on the process of extricating ourselves from that which enslaves us. In our time, the most common form of "slavery" is the slavery of obsession, the "bugs" that we allow to take over our brains and control our lives. We enjoy countless blessings that people just a century ago longed for. And yet, so many people today cannot experience happiness, they lack the freedom to feel content and fulfilled, because of the "tyrant" inside their brains, because they are subjugated to some person or some annoyance. As we prepare for Pesach, let us all strive to free ourselves from the "bugs" in our brain. Let us stop allowing the insignificant annoyances to control us. Let us give ourselves the gift of freedom by refusing to turn small problems into big problems, by appreciating and enjoying all the wonderful blessings in our lives without letting them get ruined by the little things that come up along the way.

Parashat Vayakhel begins with Moshe assembling Beneh Yisrael and conveying to them Hashem's commands regarding the construction of the Mishkan . Rashi makes a comment that might, at first glance, seem trivial – but, when we think about, is nothing short of astounding. He writes that this gathering took place the day after Yom Kippur. Rashi here isn't just giving us the timing of this assembly. He is showing us something remarkable about Moshe Rabbenu. To understand the message, we need to understand the events leading up to this day. On the 6 th of Sivan – Shavuot – Moshe went up Mount Sinai to receive the Torah. When he came down forty days later, he saw the people worshipping the golden calf. He spent the next forty days pleading with Hashem to forgive them. He then went up the mountain again on the first day of Elul to receive the second set of luhot (tablets). He spent yet another forty days on top of the mountain, coming back down for the last time on Yom Kippur. This means Moshe had spent 120 nearly consecutive days – four months! – on top of Mount Sinai with Hashem. Now he has returned, having completed that mission. And the very next day, he gets to work. He doesn't go on vacation. He doesn't take a break. He doesn't relax. He doesn't allow himself any "down time." He gets right to work, instructing the people to donate materials and to build the Mishkan . Moshe's energy and zeal had a significant impact on the people. The Torah says that after he told them Hashem's commands, ויצאו כל עדת בני ישראל מלפני משה – the people "left from Moshe's presence" (35:20). The commentaries explain this to mean that they left inspired by Moshe. They were moved by his example of commitment and hard work, of proactive and devoted effort. And they, like him, got straight to work. They right away brought all that was needed for the Mishkan – to the point where, just a couple of days later, Moshe had to tell them to stop donating. But there's also something else remarkable about this story. The people in charge of building the Mishkan worked so diligently that the project was completed on Hannukah. However, it was only months later – the beginning of the month of Nissan – when Hashem told them to start using it and offer sacrifices there. Everything was ready – but Hashem decided when it would be used. This is how we are to approach life: we need to get to work, diligently, without delay, without wasting our time – but with the understanding that the outcome depends solely on Hashem. Our job is to do the work, to put in the effort, to try our hardest. But Hashem decides what the final result will look like, how, when and where things fall into place. Life is so often overwhelming, at times even scary. We have a lot on our plate. We don't know where to start. Sometimes, we're not even sure what to do. In these situations, we need to just get to work and leave the rest to Hashem. We need to avoid escaping to our screens, procrastinating, pushing things off, overthinking, worrying, fretting, and hoping. Instead, we need to act, to get going, to do the best we can – and trust that Hashem will take care of all the rest.

How could they do such a thing??? This is the question that jumps out at us as we read the story of חטא העגל , the sin of the golden calf, in this week's parashah . Just weeks after beholding Hashem's revelation, declaring נעשה ונשמע ("We will do and we will listen!") and receiving the Torah, how could Beneh Yisrael bow to an idol? The Gemara in Masechet Shabbat (89) answers this question for us. It tells that Beneh Yisrael knew that Moshe was supposed to spend forty days atop Mount Sinai receiving the Torah from Hashem, but they miscalculated. They thought the thirty-ninth day was the fortieth day. When afternoon came and he had yet to return, they got nervous. Then the Satan stepped in and עירבב את העולם – "confounded the world," making the world dark and seem chaotic. The Satan also showed the people an image of Moshe lying dead in a coffin. Benei Yisrael thus lost their bearings and their composure. And once people get flustered and frantic, they're prone to act irrationally and to do things they know are very wrong. If we are honest with ourselves, we will notice how true this is in our lives. So many of the mistakes we make are made when we get flustered. When we're tired, when we're not feeling well, when we're disappointed, when we're anxious, when we're aggravated – it is often in these situations when we make bad decisions, and when we say things that we know we shouldn't say. This usually happens when we become "confounded," when the world becomes dark, when life seems "chaotic," when things happen that make us tense and flustered. One of the clearest examples of this phenomenon is Kayin. He took the initiative to offer a sacrifice, but it was rejected, whereas the sacrifice offered by his brother, Hevel, was accepted. Kayin was jealous and disappointed. The Midrash says that Kayin decided that "there is no judgment and no judge," that the world is just chaotic, that everything is bad, and in his rage, he killed his brother. This is something we need to know about ourselves. When we're tired, when we're hungry, when we're under pressure – we are far more likely to get angry, to lash out, to make irresponsible decisions, to do things that we will later regret. To avoid this, we need, first and foremost, to take good care of ourselves. We need to eat properly and get enough sleep. We need to be careful not to take on on more than we can handle. And we need to try to build into our schedules activities that keep us relaxed, happy, and in good spirits so we don't end up upset, tense or aggravated. But additionally, we need to make the firm decision to try not to lose our composure, to always stay calm, cool and collected. The Megillah says, ומרדכי לא יכרע ולא ישתחווה – Mordechai neither kneeled nor bowed to Haman. He didn't budge. He was so confident, so firm in his stance, that Haman's presence had no impact on him whatsoever. Mordechai remained steadfast and resolute. This is how we should aspire to live – with faith, with confidence, with resolve, and with composure. We should be the kind of people who never "kneel," who never get rattled when things get chaotic, who have the strength and self-assurance to keep calm and level-headed under all circumstances. The Satan has many tricks up its sleeve, lots of different ways to make our world seem dark and dreary so that we lose our composure. We can't let the Satan win. We need to resolve to remain strong and confident so we always act rationally, even when things get hectic and tense.

The Gemara poses the question of where in the Torah we find an allusion to Haman. It then proceeds to give a surprising answer – citing a pasuk from the story of Adam and Havah's sin in Gan Eden . Hashem said to Adam after the sin, המן העץ אשר ציויתיך לבלתי אכל ממנו אכלת – "Did you eat from the tree which I commanded you not to eat from?" (Bereshit 3:11). The word המן (" Ha'min ") is spelled the same as "Haman," and thus it is here where the Torah makes a subtle reference to the villain of the Purim story. This seems very peculiar. What connection is there between the story of Adam in Gan Eden and the story of Purim? I once saw a very powerful answer. The snake succeeded in luring Adam and Havah to sin by drawing their attention toward the one tree that was off-limits. They had a perfect life in Gan Eden – except that there was this one tree which they could not enjoy. Adam and Havah focused on this one thing that was missing, that wasn't exactly right, and this is how they were led to sin. The same happened to the Jews during Haman's time. The Gemara says that one of the reasons why Hashem brought Haman's decree is that the Jews participated in Ahashverosh's party. The Jews of Persia lived very comfortably. They had plenty of food and plenty of wine. But they couldn't stay away from Ahashverosh's feast. Instead of focusing on all that they had, and all that was good in their lives, they were lured by what was off-limits, by what they should not have been getting involved with. This is a mistake so many of us make. We complain about what's wrong in our lives, rather than seeing just how wonderful our lives are. People complain about their spouse – forgetting that marriage is a wonderful blessing. People complain about their children – forgetting that having children is a wonderful blessing. People complain about their job – forgetting that having work is a wonderful blessing. People complain about having so many weddings and other events to attend – forgetting that having lots of friends who are making semahot is a wonderful blessing. According to one view, the forbidden tree in Gan Eden was a grape vine, and the "fruit" of which Adam and Havah partook was actually wine. Wine clouds a person's judgment, and so it skewed their perspective. Every Shabbat, we correct the sin of Adam and Havah through the mitzvah of kiddush – by using wine for the exact opposite purpose. On Shabbat, we drink wine to feel content, to feel happy, to feel gratified about our lives. We rectify Adam and Havah's mistake by focusing on all that is good in our lives, on everything we have, and feeling grateful for it. The Megillah tells that it was on the seventh day of Ahashverosh's feast when he ordered Vashti to come, and she disobeyed. The pasuk says, ביום השביעי כטוב לב המלך ביין – "On the seventh day, when the king's heart was happy with wine." The Gemara interprets this pasuk to mean that this was Shabbat – the seventh day of the week – and the "king" refers to Hashem, the King of the world. On Shabbat, Hashem saw the Jews making kiddush , and in this merit, He put into place the sequence of events that would lead to Ester's rise to the throne and the foiling of Haman's plot. The mitzvah of kiddush , which is all about feeling content and happy with what one has, marked the rectification of the Jews' participation in Ahashverosh's feast. We need to stop listening to the "snake" that tries to draw our attention to the "forbidden tree," to what we're missing, to what's not right, to the "problems" in our lives. We need to instead remember that our lives are beautiful. Our lives are wonderful. No, our lives aren't perfect, but they're not meant to be. When we focus on our blessings, on all that is right about our lives, we will be so much happier, we will complain so much less, and life will be so much more enjoyable and fulfilling.

Parashat Terumah begins with Hashem commanding that donations should be collected for the construction of the Mishkan . He tells Moshe, מאת כל איש אשר ידבנו לבו תקחו את תרומתי – the donations should be taken "from every person whose heart stirs him." Hashem wanted the donations to be received only from specific kinds of people – from those אשר ידבנו לבו , who were driven to donate by sincere motivations. Many centuries later, when the Bet Ha'mikdash was to be built, we find a similar emphasis on pristine sincerity. The pasuk (Divrei Hayamim I 22:8) says that Hashem did not allow David Ha'melech to build the Bet Ha'mikdash because he fought many wars, during which he killed many people. The Mikdash was built by his son, Shlomo, during whose reign there was peace, and who thus never fought any wars. The Malbim offers a fascinating explanation for why David's fighting wars disqualified him from building the Bet Ha'mikdash . He writes that David knew that the Bet Ha'mikdash could be built only in a time of peace, when no more wars would be fought. Therefore, if he would have built the Bet Ha'mikdash , he might have been motivated to do so by a desire to once and for all end the wars. He might have thought that the presence of the Bet Ha'mikdash would itself bring an end to the wars – and this would be part of the reason why he would want to build it. When Shlomo built the Bet Ha'mikdash , he had no agenda. His intentions were purely לשם שמיים , for Hashem's sake. If David would have built it, his motives would not have been entirely agenda-free. There would have been a tinge of self-interest involved. Whenever we embark on any significant project, the most important thing we need to help us succeed, to help us overcome the challenges that will invariably stand in our way, is לשם שמיים – sincerity, pure motivations, a genuine drive to do something valuable and meaningful for Hashem. So many people underperform and underachieve. All the accumulated baggage of the past – all their disappointments, failures and painful experiences – discourage them and hold them back. This baggage is deflating, so people don't proceed with the energy, determination, passion and conviction that they need to succeed. The key to solving this problem – which plagues so many people, and which prevents so many people from building and achieving – is לשם שמיים . A person starting a business should think about all the good he could do with a successful business – how he can help people, provide jobs, make a קידוש ה' through his interaction with different kinds of people, support his family, give tzedakah , and donate to religious institutions. A person who is looking for a marriage partner should be driven by a genuine desire to build a beautiful Torah home, a home of hesed , a home where children will be raised according to our Torah values. This is true of any ambitious project that a person wishes to start. The emotional fuel he needs to succeed is לשם שמיים – a passionate desire to do what Hashem brought him into the world to do, to accomplish what Hashem brought him into the world to accomplish, to contribute what Hashem brought him into the world to contribute. If we bring this feeling with us, then we become unstoppable, and no amount of baggage can hold us back from succeeding.

Parashat Terumah begins with Hashem commanding that donations should be collected for the construction of the Mishkan . He tells Moshe, מאת כל איש אשר ידבנו לבו תקחו את תרומתי – the donations should be taken "from every person whose heart stirs him." Hashem wanted the donations to be received only from specific kinds of people – from those אשר ידבנו לבו , who were driven to donate by sincere motivations. Many centuries later, when the Bet Ha'mikdash was to be built, we find a similar emphasis on pristine sincerity. The pasuk (Divrei Hayamim I 22:8) says that Hashem did not allow David Ha'melech to build the Bet Ha'mikdash because he fought many wars, during which he killed many people. The Mikdash was built by his son, Shlomo, during whose reign there was peace, and who thus never fought any wars. The Malbim offers a fascinating explanation for why David's fighting wars disqualified him from building the Bet Ha'mikdash . He writes that David knew that the Bet Ha'mikdash could be built only in a time of peace, when no more wars would be fought. Therefore, if he would have built the Bet Ha'mikdash , he might have been motivated to do so by a desire to once and for all end the wars. He might have thought that the presence of the Bet Ha'mikdash would itself bring an end to the wars – and this would be part of the reason why he would want to build it. When Shlomo built the Bet Ha'mikdash , he had no agenda. His intentions were purely לשם שמיים , for Hashem's sake. If David would have built it, his motives would not have been entirely agenda-free. There would have been a tinge of self-interest involved. Whenever we embark on any significant project, the most important thing we need to help us succeed, to help us overcome the challenges that will invariably stand in our way, is לשם שמיים – sincerity, pure motivations, a genuine drive to do something valuable and meaningful for Hashem. So many people underperform and underachieve. All the accumulated baggage of the past – all their disappointments, failures and painful experiences – discourage them and hold them back. This baggage is deflating, so people don't proceed with the energy, determination, passion and conviction that they need to succeed. The key to solving this problem – which plagues so many people, and which prevents so many people from building and achieving – is לשם שמיים . A person starting a business should think about all the good he could do with a successful business – how he can help people, provide jobs, make a קידוש ה' through his interaction with different kinds of people, support his family, give tzedakah , and donate to religious institutions. A person who is looking for a marriage partner should be driven by a genuine desire to build a beautiful Torah home, a home of hesed , a home where children will be raised according to our Torah values. This is true of any ambitious project that a person wishes to start. The emotional fuel he needs to succeed is לשם שמיים – a passionate desire to do what Hashem brought him into the world to do, to accomplish what Hashem brought him into the world to accomplish, to contribute what Hashem brought him into the world to contribute. If we bring this feeling with us, then we become unstoppable, and no amount of baggage can hold us back from succeeding.

Parashat Mishpatim begins with the law of the עבד עברי . This refers to someone who, due to financial straits, resorted to theft, and was caught, but could not repay his victim. In order to obtain the money he needed, he would sell himself as a servant. After six years, his master was required to release him. If, however, the servant preferred staying with his master, he was allowed to do so, but only after the master pierced his ear as a sign of his servitude. Rashi explains that the servant's ear would be pierced as a punishment. His ear heard Hashem proclaim at Mount Sinai, עבדי הם – that the Jewish People are Hashem's servants, and not the servants of their fellow human beings. This servant was now betraying this pronouncement, and so his ear would be pierced. Many Rabbis addressed the question of why the servant's ear would be pierced only at that point, when he chose to remain with his master, and not right when he was caught stealing. After all, at Mount Sinai we heard the command of לא תגנוב , that it is forbidden to steal, and he violated this command. Why, then, was the ear pierced for transgressing עבדי הם but not for transgressing לא תגנוב ? The answer is that ear doesn't represent simply obedience and compliance. It symbolizes something deeper – the "listening" to understand and internalize what was being said. The עבד עברי understood that it is forbidden to steal. He stole out of desperation, not because he thought it was moral. But when he chose to remain in his master's service, he showed a lack of understanding of what עבדי הם means. The servant decided to remain with his master because he looked to his master as the one responsible for his rehabilitation, for his recovery, for his getting back on his feet – thus losing sight of Hashem. Of course, he owed a debt of gratitude to his master who took him in, treated him well, and helped him regain his footing. But he made the mistake of feeling dependent entirely on the master, feeling that he needed to continue this arrangement and couldn't live without it. He forgot that עבדי הם , that even the master was just a human, a servant of Hashem, that Hashem controls everything, that we are dependent on Him and on nobody else. This is a mistake that we must ensure to avoid. We must not become fully dependent on any human being, to the point where we feel we cannot manage without that person. Not on an employer, not on a client, not on a customer, not on a friend, and not even on a Rabbi. Perhaps most of all, we must not feel fully dependent on any political figure. Every human being is just a human being, and thus is, by definition, limited and flawed. Only Hashem is perfect, and only Hashem has complete power and control. And just as we cannot place our trust in any other human being, neither can we feel fully confident in ourselves and our own abilities. Toward the end of our parashah , we read of our ancestors' famous proclamation at Mount Sinai, נעשה ונשמע – "We will do and we will hear." This might mean that they committed to hearing the "sound" that goes forth from Mount Sinai to this very day. The Torah (Devarim 5:18) says about the sound of Matan Torah , קול גדול ולא יסף – it was a great sound that never ended. Rashi explains that since the day the Torah was given, Hashem is calling to us from Mount Sinai, as it were, continuing to command us to observe the Torah. נעשה ונשמע might be understood to mean that even when נעשה , when we are acting and doing, as we go about our affairs, נשמע – we will continue to hear the sound of Sinai, we will be aware of the message of Matan Torah , that everything depends on Hashem and not on our own efforts. The עבד עברי failed to hear this sound, and so he pinned all his hopes for his future and his success on his master. We must ensure never to make this mistake, to always hear this sound, and never place too must trust in any human being, including ourselves.

Parashat Mishpatim begins with the law of the עבד עברי . This refers to someone who, due to financial straits, resorted to theft, and was caught, but could not repay his victim. In order to obtain the money he needed, he would sell himself as a servant. After six years, his master was required to release him. If, however, the servant preferred staying with his master, he was allowed to do so, but only after the master pierced his ear as a sign of his servitude. Rashi explains that the servant's ear would be pierced as a punishment. His ear heard Hashem proclaim at Mount Sinai, עבדי הם – that the Jewish People are Hashem's servants, and not the servants of their fellow human beings. This servant was now betraying this pronouncement, and so his ear would be pierced. Many Rabbis addressed the question of why the servant's ear would be pierced only at that point, when he chose to remain with his master, and not right when he was caught stealing. After all, at Mount Sinai we heard the command of לא תגנוב , that it is forbidden to steal, and he violated this command. Why, then, was the ear pierced for transgressing עבדי הם but not for transgressing לא תגנוב ? The answer is that ear doesn't represent simply obedience and compliance. It symbolizes something deeper – the "listening" to understand and internalize what was being said. The עבד עברי understood that it is forbidden to steal. He stole out of desperation, not because he thought it was moral. But when he chose to remain in his master's service, he showed a lack of understanding of what עבדי הם means. The servant decided to remain with his master because he looked to his master as the one responsible for his rehabilitation, for his recovery, for his getting back on his feet – thus losing sight of Hashem. Of course, he owed a debt of gratitude to his master who took him in, treated him well, and helped him regain his footing. But he made the mistake of feeling dependent entirely on the master, feeling that he needed to continue this arrangement and couldn't live without it. He forgot that עבדי הם , that even the master was just a human, a servant of Hashem, that Hashem controls everything, that we are dependent on Him and on nobody else. This is a mistake that we must ensure to avoid. We must not become fully dependent on any human being, to the point where we feel we cannot manage without that person. Not on an employer, not on a client, not on a customer, not on a friend, and not even on a Rabbi. Perhaps most of all, we must not feel fully dependent on any political figure. Every human being is just a human being, and thus is, by definition, limited and flawed. Only Hashem is perfect, and only Hashem has complete power and control. And just as we cannot place our trust in any other human being, neither can we feel fully confident in ourselves and our own abilities. Toward the end of our parashah , we read of our ancestors' famous proclamation at Mount Sinai, נעשה ונשמע – "We will do and we will hear." This might mean that they committed to hearing the "sound" that goes forth from Mount Sinai to this very day. The Torah (Devarim 5:18) says about the sound of Matan Torah , קול גדול ולא יסף – it was a great sound that never ended. Rashi explains that since the day the Torah was given, Hashem is calling to us from Mount Sinai, as it were, continuing to command us to observe the Torah. נעשה ונשמע might be understood to mean that even when נעשה , when we are acting and doing, as we go about our affairs, נשמע – we will continue to hear the sound of Sinai, we will be aware of the message of Matan Torah , that everything depends on Hashem and not on our own efforts. The עבד עברי failed to hear this sound, and so he pinned all his hopes for his future and his success on his master. We must ensure never to make this mistake, to always hear this sound, and never place too must trust in any human being, including ourselves.

Parashat Yitro begins by telling us that Yitro, Moshe's father-in-law, came to join Beneh Yisrael at Mount Sinai. Yitro converted and became a full-fledged Jew. Rashi makes a famous comment explaining what drove Yitro to make this decision to join Beneh Yisrael . He writes that Yitro heard about two events – keri'at Yam Suf (the splitting of the sea) and the war against Amalek. What is it about these particular events that inspired Yitro? After the miracle of the sea, the people sang the שירת הים , the song of praise to Hashem that we include in our morning prayers each day. This song includes a description of how the entire world heard about the miracle and was overcome by fear of Beneh Yisrael . שמעו עמים ירגזון – all the nations heard and were frightened. Yitro was struck by the fact that just several weeks later, Amalek came along and launched an attack on Beneh Yisrael , the nation that they were terrified of. Amalek's attack showed Yitro how quickly people can change, how people can be so inspired and motivated to do the right thing, and then just a few weeks later do just the opposite. This led Yitro to decide to join Beneh Yisrael so he would be together with good people whose influence would keep him on the right path. The Gemara in Masechet Zevahim brings a second opinion as to what led Yitro to join Beneh Yisrael . This opinion says that Yitro came to Mount Sinai after Matan Torah , as it was this event – Hashem giving Beneh Yisrael the Torah – that inspired him. According to this opinion, Yitro was struck by the opposite phenomenon – by how people can grow so quickly. When Beneh Yisrael were slaves in Egypt, they had fallen to the lowest spiritual depths. And then, just seven weeks later, they were at the level where they could behold Hashem's revelation and receive the Torah. Yitro wanted to be part of a people that could undergo this kind of process of spiritual growth. Both opinions are rooted in reality – people have the capacity to change quickly and drastically, in both directions. Never has this been as true as in today's day and age. Technology exposes people to the worst and the best that humanity has to offer. A person can be pulled down to the lowest depths by what he sees, reads and watches online. But he can also grow. I have heard many stories of people who became religiously observant after being inspired by Torah material accessed online. This reality accounts for the diversity that we see in our community, even within families. So many families today have members on drastically different levels of observance. This is because today, more than ever, it is so easy to change in every which direction. In one of the most famous passages in Rashi's commentary to the Humash, he observes that the Torah in our parashah speaks of Beneh Yisrael encamping at Mount Sinai in the singular form – ויחן שם ישראל (19:2). Instead of saying, "They encamped" ( ויחנו ), the Torah says, ויחן , as though speaking of one person. Rashi explains that the people came to Mount Sinai כאיש בלב אחד – "as one person, with one heart." In order to receive the Torah, they needed to be unified and together. The diversity in our community challenges us to find unity despite our differences. Nobody should feel the need to change who he is or how he lives for the sake of family members or other people in the community who are very different from him. At the same time, however, we must find a way to make it work, a way to be together כאיש אחד בלב אחד , to care for, love and respect others even though they are drastically different than us. Each of us is on a journey, and no two people's journeys are identical. When we realize this, we will find it easier to relate to and connect with people who are different – because we will see that we really aren't that different, as we're all on a journey of discovering who we want to be and determining how we want to live. Let us each commit firmly to adhere to our beliefs, values and principles, without compromising at all, while committing also to love and respect those who are different, so we become a strong, unified nation that is worthy of the Torah and of Hashem's ongoing presence.

Parashat Yitro begins by telling us that Yitro, Moshe's father-in-law, came to join Beneh Yisrael at Mount Sinai. Yitro converted and became a full-fledged Jew. Rashi makes a famous comment explaining what drove Yitro to make this decision to join Beneh Yisrael . He writes that Yitro heard about two events – keri'at Yam Suf (the splitting of the sea) and the war against Amalek. What is it about these particular events that inspired Yitro? After the miracle of the sea, the people sang the שירת הים , the song of praise to Hashem that we include in our morning prayers each day. This song includes a description of how the entire world heard about the miracle and was overcome by fear of Beneh Yisrael . שמעו עמים ירגזון – all the nations heard and were frightened. Yitro was struck by the fact that just several weeks later, Amalek came along and launched an attack on Beneh Yisrael , the nation that they were terrified of. Amalek's attack showed Yitro how quickly people can change, how people can be so inspired and motivated to do the right thing, and then just a few weeks later do just the opposite. This led Yitro to decide to join Beneh Yisrael so he would be together with good people whose influence would keep him on the right path. The Gemara in Masechet Zevahim brings a second opinion as to what led Yitro to join Beneh Yisrael . This opinion says that Yitro came to Mount Sinai after Matan Torah , as it was this event – Hashem giving Beneh Yisrael the Torah – that inspired him. According to this opinion, Yitro was struck by the opposite phenomenon – by how people can grow so quickly. When Beneh Yisrael were slaves in Egypt, they had fallen to the lowest spiritual depths. And then, just seven weeks later, they were at the level where they could behold Hashem's revelation and receive the Torah. Yitro wanted to be part of a people that could undergo this kind of process of spiritual growth. Both opinions are rooted in reality – people have the capacity to change quickly and drastically, in both directions. Never has this been as true as in today's day and age. Technology exposes people to the worst and the best that humanity has to offer. A person can be pulled down to the lowest depths by what he sees, reads and watches online. But he can also grow. I have heard many stories of people who became religiously observant after being inspired by Torah material accessed online. This reality accounts for the diversity that we see in our community, even within families. So many families today have members on drastically different levels of observance. This is because today, more than ever, it is so easy to change in every which direction. In one of the most famous passages in Rashi's commentary to the Humash, he observes that the Torah in our parashah speaks of Beneh Yisrael encamping at Mount Sinai in the singular form – ויחן שם ישראל (19:2). Instead of saying, "They encamped" ( ויחנו ), the Torah says, ויחן , as though speaking of one person. Rashi explains that the people came to Mount Sinai כאיש בלב אחד – "as one person, with one heart." In order to receive the Torah, they needed to be unified and together. The diversity in our community challenges us to find unity despite our differences. Nobody should feel the need to change who he is or how he lives for the sake of family members or other people in the community who are very different from him. At the same time, however, we must find a way to make it work, a way to be together כאיש אחד בלב אחד , to care for, love and respect others even though they are drastically different than us. Each of us is on a journey, and no two people's journeys are identical. When we realize this, we will find it easier to relate to and connect with people who are different – because we will see that we really aren't that different, as we're all on a journey of discovering who we want to be and determining how we want to live. Let us each commit firmly to adhere to our beliefs, values and principles, without compromising at all, while committing also to love and respect those who are different, so we become a strong, unified nation that is worthy of the Torah and of Hashem's ongoing presence.

Two of the fundamental tenets of Judaism are known by the terms emunah (faith, or belief) and bitahon (trust). Much has been written about the precise meanings of these two words, and the difference between them. For our purposes, it suffices to say that the story we read in the Torah over the last two weeks – the story of the ten plagues and Yetziat Mitzrayim – establishes the tenet of emunah , and the story told in this week's parashah – the splitting of the sea – establishes the tenet of bitahon . The miraculous plagues in Egypt showed Hashem's exclusive and unlimited control over the universe. It demonstrated that He governs the world without any constraints, without any other force being able to stop Him, and that He is constantly involved. This is emunah – the core belief in Hashem as the Creator who exerts unlimited control over the earth. At the sea, Beneh Yisrael were taught about bitahon – living with the trust that Hashem can solve problems that appear to have no solution. Emunah is the theoretical belief in Hashem's power, and bitahon is the practical application of that belief, remaining calm and composed during difficult situations, trusting that Hashem is handling it for us. Let us take a closer look at what happened at the shores of the Yam Suf to learn what living with bitahon means. When Beneh Yisrael saw the Egyptians chasing after them, and they realized that they were trapped against the sea, ויצעקו בני ישראל אל ה' – they cried out to Hashem (14:10). Rashi comments that this was the proper response, that Benei Yisrael were following the example of the avot (patriarchs), who likewise cried to Hashem during times of crisis. But then Moshe Rabbenu turned to them and said, ה' ילחם לכם ואתם תחרישון – that they should remain silent while Hashem handles this for them (14:14). After that, Hashem told Moshe to tell the people ויסעו – to move forward into the sea (14:15). This is the prescription for us during times of hardship. First, ויצעקו – we should cry out. It is ok to feel upset, to feel anxious, to feel frustrated, to feel pained. We are supposed to feel these emotions, and not to try to suppress them. And it's ok to cry – certainly to Hashem, but also to those whom we feel comfortable sharing our feelings with, or with a therapist if need be. At a certain point, however, תחרישון – we have to stop crying out, recognizing that ה' ילחם לכם – Hashem is handling this crisis for us, that we are in His hands. We need to stay calm and place our trust in Hashem. And then, most importantly, ויסעו – we need to move forward. No matter what we're dealing with, we can't just give up, wallowing in our bitterness and resentment. We need to go forward and do the best we can under the circumstances Hashem put us in. Three days after Beneh Yisrael crossed the sea, they arrived in a place where they found a water source, but they could not drink the water כי מרים הם – "because they were bitter," and so they called the place מרה – "bitter" (15:23). The Rebbe of Kotzk suggested a fascinating reading of this pasuk . He explained that it wasn't the waters that were bitter, but rather the people. When people are "bitter," when they are angry and resentful, they can never quench their thirst, they can never find satisfaction, because everything they "taste" is bitter. We are all going to experience things that make us upset and get us down. But bitterness never helped anyone. The only way we help ourselves when things happen is ויסעו – by moving forward with the faith that Hashem is handling the problem. We have to move on, doing the best we can, and trust that Hashem will do the rest.

Two of the fundamental tenets of Judaism are known by the terms emunah (faith, or belief) and bitahon (trust). Much has been written about the precise meanings of these two words, and the difference between them. For our purposes, it suffices to say that the story we read in the Torah over the last two weeks – the story of the ten plagues and Yetziat Mitzrayim – establishes the tenet of emunah , and the story told in this week's parashah – the splitting of the sea – establishes the tenet of bitahon . The miraculous plagues in Egypt showed Hashem's exclusive and unlimited control over the universe. It demonstrated that He governs the world without any constraints, without any other force being able to stop Him, and that He is constantly involved. This is emunah – the core belief in Hashem as the Creator who exerts unlimited control over the earth. At the sea, Beneh Yisrael were taught about bitahon – living with the trust that Hashem can solve problems that appear to have no solution. Emunah is the theoretical belief in Hashem's power, and bitahon is the practical application of that belief, remaining calm and composed during difficult situations, trusting that Hashem is handling it for us. Let us take a closer look at what happened at the shores of the Yam Suf to learn what living with bitahon means. When Beneh Yisrael saw the Egyptians chasing after them, and they realized that they were trapped against the sea, ויצעקו בני ישראל אל ה' – they cried out to Hashem (14:10). Rashi comments that this was the proper response, that Benei Yisrael were following the example of the avot (patriarchs), who likewise cried to Hashem during times of crisis. But then Moshe Rabbenu turned to them and said, ה' ילחם לכם ואתם תחרישון – that they should remain silent while Hashem handles this for them (14:14). After that, Hashem told Moshe to tell the people ויסעו – to move forward into the sea (14:15). This is the prescription for us during times of hardship. First, ויצעקו – we should cry out. It is ok to feel upset, to feel anxious, to feel frustrated, to feel pained. We are supposed to feel these emotions, and not to try to suppress them. And it's ok to cry – certainly to Hashem, but also to those whom we feel comfortable sharing our feelings with, or with a therapist if need be. At a certain point, however, תחרישון – we have to stop crying out, recognizing that ה' ילחם לכם – Hashem is handling this crisis for us, that we are in His hands. We need to stay calm and place our trust in Hashem. And then, most importantly, ויסעו – we need to move forward. No matter what we're dealing with, we can't just give up, wallowing in our bitterness and resentment. We need to go forward and do the best we can under the circumstances Hashem put us in. Three days after Beneh Yisrael crossed the sea, they arrived in a place where they found a water source, but they could not drink the water כי מרים הם – "because they were bitter," and so they called the place מרה – "bitter" (15:23). The Rebbe of Kotzk suggested a fascinating reading of this pasuk . He explained that it wasn't the waters that were bitter, but rather the people. When people are "bitter," when they are angry and resentful, they can never quench their thirst, they can never find satisfaction, because everything they "taste" is bitter. We are all going to experience things that make us upset and get us down. But bitterness never helped anyone. The only way we help ourselves when things happen is ויסעו – by moving forward with the faith that Hashem is handling the problem. We have to move on, doing the best we can, and trust that Hashem will do the rest.

We read in Parashat Bo of how Hashem told Moshe and Aharon the detailed laws of the korban pesach (Pesach sacrifice) which they were to teach Beneh Yisrael in preparation for Yetziat Mitzrayim . The people were to prepare a sheep for the sacrifice already several days before, and then sacrifice it on the 14th of Nissan, the afternoon before Hashem brought the plague of the firstborn which led to the people's departure from Egypt. The Torah concludes this section by saying: וילכו ויעשו בני ישראל כאשר ציווה ה' את משה ואהרון כן עשו – " Beneh Yisrael went ahead and did as G-d commanded Moshe and Aharon; so they did" (12:28). Rashi points out that the last two words of this pasuk – כן עשו ("so they did") – seem unnecessary. After telling us that the people did as they instructed, why did the Torah then repeat, "so they did"? Rashi writes that this refers to Moshe and Aharon. They, too, fulfilled Hashem's commands and prepared the sheep for the korban pesach . We must wonder, does this really answer the question? Would any of us have thought that Moshe and Aharon, who received these instructions from Hashem and conveyed them to the people, would not have obeyed them? Did this need to be said? The Brisker Rav explained that often, people who are involved in things excuse themselves from other things. When a person runs an organization or project, he thinks that this is enough to discharge his duties, and he does not have to do the "little things" that everyone else has to do. People involved in fundraising for a yeshiva, for example, might feel exempt from learning Torah, since they are doing very important work helping other people learn Torah. People who donate money to a synagogue, or who volunteer on one of the shul's committees, might feel that they don't have to actually show up to the tefillot on a regular basis, since they are making sure that other people can come to pray. This is why the Torah needed to emphasize כן עשו – that Moshe and Aharon prepared their own sheep for the korban pesach . They didn't exempt themselves, figuring that since they were responsible for getting the people to perform the mitzvah they did not need to perform it themselves. They understood that just like everyone else needed to prepare a sacrifice, so did they. Many adults find it difficult to feel inspired, to feel religiously motivated. When they were young, especially if they learned in yeshiva or seminary, it was relatively easy to get fired up, to be excited about Torah and to want to connect to Hashem. But when people get older and have families that they need to take care of and support, this becomes much more difficult. But we can't make excuses. We need to do the best we can at all stages of life. Even when we're doing very important things, such as raising a family and getting involved in all kinds of programs and projects, we can't forget about our own religious growth. Even when we're busy with other people, we have to be busy also with ourselves. Moshe and Aharon weren't too important to prepare their own korban pesach . None of us are too important to worry about our own mitzvah obligations and our relationship with Hashem.

We read in Parashat Bo of how Hashem told Moshe and Aharon the detailed laws of the korban pesach (Pesach sacrifice) which they were to teach Beneh Yisrael in preparation for Yetziat Mitzrayim . The people were to prepare a sheep for the sacrifice already several days before, and then sacrifice it on the 14th of Nissan, the afternoon before Hashem brought the plague of the firstborn which led to the people's departure from Egypt. The Torah concludes this section by saying: וילכו ויעשו בני ישראל כאשר ציווה ה' את משה ואהרון כן עשו – " Beneh Yisrael went ahead and did as G-d commanded Moshe and Aharon; so they did" (12:28). Rashi points out that the last two words of this pasuk – כן עשו ("so they did") – seem unnecessary. After telling us that the people did as they instructed, why did the Torah then repeat, "so they did"? Rashi writes that this refers to Moshe and Aharon. They, too, fulfilled Hashem's commands and prepared the sheep for the korban pesach . We must wonder, does this really answer the question? Would any of us have thought that Moshe and Aharon, who received these instructions from Hashem and conveyed them to the people, would not have obeyed them? Did this need to be said? The Brisker Rav explained that often, people who are involved in things excuse themselves from other things. When a person runs an organization or project, he thinks that this is enough to discharge his duties, and he does not have to do the "little things" that everyone else has to do. People involved in fundraising for a yeshiva, for example, might feel exempt from learning Torah, since they are doing very important work helping other people learn Torah. People who donate money to a synagogue, or who volunteer on one of the shul's committees, might feel that they don't have to actually show up to the tefillot on a regular basis, since they are making sure that other people can come to pray. This is why the Torah needed to emphasize כן עשו – that Moshe and Aharon prepared their own sheep for the korban pesach . They didn't exempt themselves, figuring that since they were responsible for getting the people to perform the mitzvah they did not need to perform it themselves. They understood that just like everyone else needed to prepare a sacrifice, so did they. Many adults find it difficult to feel inspired, to feel religiously motivated. When they were young, especially if they learned in yeshiva or seminary, it was relatively easy to get fired up, to be excited about Torah and to want to connect to Hashem. But when people get older and have families that they need to take care of and support, this becomes much more difficult. But we can't make excuses. We need to do the best we can at all stages of life. Even when we're doing very important things, such as raising a family and getting involved in all kinds of programs and projects, we can't forget about our own religious growth. Even when we're busy with other people, we have to be busy also with ourselves. Moshe and Aharon weren't too important to prepare their own korban pesach . None of us are too important to worry about our own mitzvah obligations and our relationship with Hashem.

Three times every weekday, we recite in the Amidah prayer the berachah of ראה נא בענינו . We begin by asking Hashem to "see our torment," and to "wage our battles" ( וריבה ריבנו ). We then conclude, מהר לגאלנו גאולה שלמה – to quickly bring us our final redemption. At first glance, it seems that this berachah is a prayer for our final redemption. This is also the implication of the Gemara (Megilah 17b), which explains that this is the seventh berachah of the Amidah prayer because the redemption will arrive with the onset of the seventh millennium after creation. Interestingly, however, Rashi understood this berachah differently. Commenting to this Gemara, Rashi writes that this berachah is actually a prayer to Hashem to "redeem" us from our day-to-day problems, from the hardships and challenges that we face in our lives. Rashi proves this approach by noting that there are other blessings in the Amidah in which we pray for the final redemption, and so this berachah cannot be a prayer for the final redemption. The question becomes how to reconcile Rashi's comments with the simple reading of the Gemara, which indicates that this berachah prays for the final redemption. And, the text of this berachah states explicitly מהר לגאלנו גאולה שלמה – praying for the ultimate redemption, and not just for the resolution of our day-to-day problems. To answer this question, let's go back to a well-known piece of trivia about New York City. The island of Manhattan, as we were all taught, was purchased from the Indians in 1626 for $24. Today, Manhattan is worth countless trillions of dollars. How did that happen? How did this land go in 400 years from being worth $24 to being worth many trillions? The answer is, very simply, one brick at a time. One piece of pavement at a time. One sidewalk at a time. One window at a time. One subway car at a time. Every small act of construction contributed to the city's growth. Day by day, hour by hour, one little bit of effort after another – this is how a $24 piece of land becomes worth trillions upon trillions of dollars. The same is true of redemption. We pray and yearn for the final redemption, but each small "redemption" that we experience brings us closer to that day. There is no contradiction at all between the Gemara's indication that ראה נא בענינו speaks of our final redemption, and Rashi's understanding that it refers to the solving of our everyday problems. These are one and the same. Redemption happens on a small scale every single day, with every problem we solve, every obstacle we overcome, every bit of success we achieve. Eventually, all these will combine to form the ultimate redemption for which we pray and yearn. Which brings us to our parashah , which tells about the unfolding of Yetziat Mitzrayim , the Exodus from Egypt. The Zohar teaches that the redemption from Egypt was not a one-time event. It was the beginning of a process of redemption – a process that is still continuing, even today. The process will be completed only at the time of our final redemption. We might say that Yetziat Mitzrayim was the $24 purchase, and ever since then, we've been building, one "brick" at a time, working towards our final redemption, when the world will reach its state of perfection. This is a very empowering message. It reminds us that every small accomplishment is significant, and contributes toward the world's ultimate redemption. We can either sit around and complain about all the problems in the world, or we can go ahead and make things better. And the way we make things better is by doing good things – one act at a time. Every tefillah . Every mitzvah . Every kind word. Every compliment and word of encouragement. Every favor we do for someone. Everything we do for one of our children or grandchildren. Everyone we positively influence is some way. A guy who laid a few bricks for a building in Manhattan 200 years ago might not have realized he was doing something significant – but he was part of the process of transforming a $24 piece of land into a multi-trillion-dollar piece of land. This is how we need to look at our mitzvot . Every small act is vitally important and extremely valuable. Let's stay focused and stay determined to use our time and our capabilities to build our redemption – one good deed at a time.

Three times every weekday, we recite in the Amidah prayer the berachah of ראה נא בענינו . We begin by asking Hashem to "see our torment," and to "wage our battles" ( וריבה ריבנו ). We then conclude, מהר לגאלנו גאולה שלמה – to quickly bring us our final redemption. At first glance, it seems that this berachah is a prayer for our final redemption. This is also the implication of the Gemara (Megilah 17b), which explains that this is the seventh berachah of the Amidah prayer because the redemption will arrive with the onset of the seventh millennium after creation. Interestingly, however, Rashi understood this berachah differently. Commenting to this Gemara, Rashi writes that this berachah is actually a prayer to Hashem to "redeem" us from our day-to-day problems, from the hardships and challenges that we face in our lives. Rashi proves this approach by noting that there are other blessings in the Amidah in which we pray for the final redemption, and so this berachah cannot be a prayer for the final redemption. The question becomes how to reconcile Rashi's comments with the simple reading of the Gemara, which indicates that this berachah prays for the final redemption. And, the text of this berachah states explicitly מהר לגאלנו גאולה שלמה – praying for the ultimate redemption, and not just for the resolution of our day-to-day problems. To answer this question, let's go back to a well-known piece of trivia about New York City. The island of Manhattan, as we were all taught, was purchased from the Indians in 1626 for $24. Today, Manhattan is worth countless trillions of dollars. How did that happen? How did this land go in 400 years from being worth $24 to being worth many trillions? The answer is, very simply, one brick at a time. One piece of pavement at a time. One sidewalk at a time. One window at a time. One subway car at a time. Every small act of construction contributed to the city's growth. Day by day, hour by hour, one little bit of effort after another – this is how a $24 piece of land becomes worth trillions upon trillions of dollars. The same is true of redemption. We pray and yearn for the final redemption, but each small "redemption" that we experience brings us closer to that day. There is no contradiction at all between the Gemara's indication that ראה נא בענינו speaks of our final redemption, and Rashi's understanding that it refers to the solving of our everyday problems. These are one and the same. Redemption happens on a small scale every single day, with every problem we solve, every obstacle we overcome, every bit of success we achieve. Eventually, all these will combine to form the ultimate redemption for which we pray and yearn. Which brings us to our parashah , which tells about the unfolding of Yetziat Mitzrayim , the Exodus from Egypt. The Zohar teaches that the redemption from Egypt was not a one-time event. It was the beginning of a process of redemption – a process that is still continuing, even today. The process will be completed only at the time of our final redemption. We might say that Yetziat Mitzrayim was the $24 purchase, and ever since then, we've been building, one "brick" at a time, working towards our final redemption, when the world will reach its state of perfection. This is a very empowering message. It reminds us that every small accomplishment is significant, and contributes toward the world's ultimate redemption. We can either sit around and complain about all the problems in the world, or we can go ahead and make things better. And the way we make things better is by doing good things – one act at a time. Every tefillah . Every mitzvah . Every kind word. Every compliment and word of encouragement. Every favor we do for someone. Everything we do for one of our children or grandchildren. Everyone we positively influence is some way. A guy who laid a few bricks for a building in Manhattan 200 years ago might not have realized he was doing something significant – but he was part of the process of transforming a $24 piece of land into a multi-trillion-dollar piece of land. This is how we need to look at our mitzvot . Every small act is vitally important and extremely valuable. Let's stay focused and stay determined to use our time and our capabilities to build our redemption – one good deed at a time.

In Parashat Shemot, Hashem speaks to Moshe for the very first time. As we know, Moshe's initial prophecy takes place at a unique site – in a burning bush in the desert. Moshe saw that a bush was on fire, but it wasn't being consumed. And it was from there that Hashem spoke to him. His first words to Moshe were, "Take off your shoes." Hashem informed Moshe that the place where he was standing was אדמת קודש , sacred ground, and so he needed to remove his shoes. He then proceeded to command Moshe to return to Egypt and lead Beneh Yisrael out of bondage. What is this all about? What is the meaning of the burning bush? And why was it important for Moshe to remove his shoes to show deference to this "sacred ground"? For years, Moshe Rabbenu did not believe that there was any chance of Beneh Yisrael leaving Egypt. For two reasons. The more obvious reason is that they were enslaved and oppressed by the powerful Egyptian empire. They had no power at all. There seemed to be no hope at all of leaving. But secondly, Moshe did not think the people could ever be worthy of redemption. As we quote each year at the seder , the prophet Yehezkel (16:7) described how Beneh Yisrael in Egypt were ערום ועריה – "bare," bereft of merit. They were not performing mitzvot . They fought with one another. They were in spiritual decline. Moshe did not see how they could ever reach the point where they deserved to be brought out of Egypt. Hashem's initial prophecy to Moshe addressed both these mistaken assumptions. First, he showed Moshe that a bush on fire could survive. Even though Beneh Yisrael were "ablaze," subjected to oppression and persecution, they would still remain intact. They would never be "consumed," no matter how many times their enemies try to destroy them. Secondly, Hashem drew Moshe's attention to the אדמת קודש , the "sacred ground" on which Beneh Yisrael tread. They were the descendants of Avraham Yitzhak and Yaakov. They were bound to Hashem by an eternal covenant. Their capacity for kedushah cannot ever be lost. Moshe didn't see this potential for spiritual greatness, but Hashem did. And so Hashem assured Moshe that Beneh Yisrael were still sacred, even though they seemed "bare" without any merits and without any kedushah . Each morning, as soon as we open our eyes, we recite the famous prayer of מודה אני , thanking Hashem for restoring our souls. Every night when we go to bed, we entrust our soul to Hashem, and each morning, He returns it to us. He returns it to us despite the fact that, very often, we give it back to Him "damaged," tainted by our sins. If a fellow borrows his friend's car and returns it to him with a scratch – and then he borrows it again and returns it the next day with a huge dent – the friend is not likely to continue lending him the car. Yet, Hashem continues "lending" us soul every morning, without fail, no matter how many times we "dented" it, no matter how many mistakes we've made. We make many mistakes – but Hashem keeps giving us another day, then another, and another, and another. The reason is that, as the מודה אני prayer concludes, רבה אמונתך – Hashem has great faith. He has faith in us. He believes in us. He sees our potential for greatness, even if we don't. He restores our soul every morning because He knows how great we can be, how much we can achieve, how much we can contribute, how much we can give to the world. Sometimes we forget that we are standing on אדמת קודש , on sacred ground, at every moment of our lives. If we are alive, this means that Hashem believes in our potential for kedushah , for spiritual greatness. Having this awareness should change the way we live. It should change the way we see ourselves, and it should change the way we look at our day. No matter what is happening, and no matter what happened yesterday or the day before, we are standing on "sacred ground," we have the potential to do something great. If we didn't, then Hashem would not have restored our souls this morning. Hashem sees what we don't. He sees our potential. He sees our abilities. He sees the holiness inside us. He sees how much we can give. We should never doubt ourselves – because Hashem never doubts us, not for a moment, ever.

In Parashat Shemot, Hashem speaks to Moshe for the very first time. As we know, Moshe's initial prophecy takes place at a unique site – in a burning bush in the desert. Moshe saw that a bush was on fire, but it wasn't being consumed. And it was from there that Hashem spoke to him. His first words to Moshe were, "Take off your shoes." Hashem informed Moshe that the place where he was standing was אדמת קודש , sacred ground, and so he needed to remove his shoes. He then proceeded to command Moshe to return to Egypt and lead Beneh Yisrael out of bondage. What is this all about? What is the meaning of the burning bush? And why was it important for Moshe to remove his shoes to show deference to this "sacred ground"? For years, Moshe Rabbenu did not believe that there was any chance of Beneh Yisrael leaving Egypt. For two reasons. The more obvious reason is that they were enslaved and oppressed by the powerful Egyptian empire. They had no power at all. There seemed to be no hope at all of leaving. But secondly, Moshe did not think the people could ever be worthy of redemption. As we quote each year at the seder , the prophet Yehezkel (16:7) described how Beneh Yisrael in Egypt were ערום ועריה – "bare," bereft of merit. They were not performing mitzvot . They fought with one another. They were in spiritual decline. Moshe did not see how they could ever reach the point where they deserved to be brought out of Egypt. Hashem's initial prophecy to Moshe addressed both these mistaken assumptions. First, he showed Moshe that a bush on fire could survive. Even though Beneh Yisrael were "ablaze," subjected to oppression and persecution, they would still remain intact. They would never be "consumed," no matter how many times their enemies try to destroy them. Secondly, Hashem drew Moshe's attention to the אדמת קודש , the "sacred ground" on which Beneh Yisrael tread. They were the descendants of Avraham Yitzhak and Yaakov. They were bound to Hashem by an eternal covenant. Their capacity for kedushah cannot ever be lost. Moshe didn't see this potential for spiritual greatness, but Hashem did. And so Hashem assured Moshe that Beneh Yisrael were still sacred, even though they seemed "bare" without any merits and without any kedushah . Each morning, as soon as we open our eyes, we recite the famous prayer of מודה אני , thanking Hashem for restoring our souls. Every night when we go to bed, we entrust our soul to Hashem, and each morning, He returns it to us. He returns it to us despite the fact that, very often, we give it back to Him "damaged," tainted by our sins. If a fellow borrows his friend's car and returns it to him with a scratch – and then he borrows it again and returns it the next day with a huge dent – the friend is not likely to continue lending him the car. Yet, Hashem continues "lending" us soul every morning, without fail, no matter how many times we "dented" it, no matter how many mistakes we've made. We make many mistakes – but Hashem keeps giving us another day, then another, and another, and another. The reason is that, as the מודה אני prayer concludes, רבה אמונתך – Hashem has great faith. He has faith in us. He believes in us. He sees our potential for greatness, even if we don't. He restores our soul every morning because He knows how great we can be, how much we can achieve, how much we can contribute, how much we can give to the world. Sometimes we forget that we are standing on אדמת קודש , on sacred ground, at every moment of our lives. If we are alive, this means that Hashem believes in our potential for kedushah , for spiritual greatness. Having this awareness should change the way we live. It should change the way we see ourselves, and it should change the way we look at our day. No matter what is happening, and no matter what happened yesterday or the day before, we are standing on "sacred ground," we have the potential to do something great. If we didn't, then Hashem would not have restored our souls this morning. Hashem sees what we don't. He sees our potential. He sees our abilities. He sees the holiness inside us. He sees how much we can give. We should never doubt ourselves – because Hashem never doubts us, not for a moment, ever.

The Gemara (Eruvin 65b) teaches that a person's true nature can be determined בכוסו ובכיסו ובכעסו – "through his cup, his pocket, and his anger." This means that a person's essence comes to the fore when he drinks a little too much, or when he is tested – either in his "pocket," when he loses money, or when his angered. It is easy to be a nice, good-natured, kind person when things are going well. But when a person is challenged, when he is out of his element, when something goes wrong, when he encounters some unexpected bump in the road, when something in his life goes a little out-of-a-whack – we see who he really is. I recall once speaking on the phone with a wonderful, refined, and conscientiously-religious individual, while he was in the airport. He suddenly realized that something went wrong – if I recall correctly, he suddenly noticed that one of his documents was missing. He blurted out a word that should never be used – and that this man would never even imagine using under normal circumstances. When people are traveling, they out of their element. They're not comfortable. They're anxious, they're uptight, and so they're more vulnerable. This is true spiritually, as well. When we're home, we have our framework and routine. It is relatively easy to keep kosher, to properly observe Shabbat, and to attend minyan . Maintaining our religious standards is not complicated under normal conditions because our lives are – to our credit – set up that way. But when we travel, when we leave, when we're out of our element, we are tested. Out of our familiar environment, out of our routine – we are more vulnerable. This might explain Yaakov Avinu's timeless pronouncement in Parashat Vayehi about the way parents bless their children. He declared that forever more, parents will bless their children that they should be like Yosef's sons, Efrayim and Menashe – ישימך אלוקים כאפרים וכמנשה (48:20). Why? Efrayim and Menashe were born and raised "out of their element," in Egypt, in a foreign society, away from Eretz Yisrael and the rest of the family. The greatest wish we have for our children is that they should maintain their values and adhere to their faith and principles even in "Egypt," on the road, when they are tested, when circumstances thrust them out of their routine. And so parents bless their children that they should be like Efrayim and Menashe, who remained loyal to Hashem even in Egypt, in a foreign environment. How do we do this? What is our strategy to strictly maintaining our standards even when we travel, when we're out of our routine? The answer is taught to us by the person who embodied this ideal better than anyone – Yosef. As a teenager, Yosef was cruelly torn away from his family and his country, and brought to Egypt as a slave. Even while working as a slave, and even after being sent to prison due to a false accusation, he remained steadfastly devoted to Hashem and to his father's values. There is one word that the Torah says about Yosef which reveals to us the secret of how he did this. When Yosef was tempted by his master's wife, the Torah tells, וימאן – Yosef refused (39:8). A young man thrust far out of his element, Yosef was vulnerable – but there were things which were non-negotiable, that he would firmly refuse to do no matter how great the challenge was. And this is what we need to do when we're on the road – וימאן . We need to set our inviolable red lines. We have to draw very clear boundaries, and remind ourselves of what is absolutely non-negotiable, of which lines we are never crossing, not under any circumstances. We have to make the decision in our minds that there are things which we just refuse to do. וימאן . When we are out of our routine, out of our familiar framework, we have a precious opportunity to make a clear, resounding statement of who we are, where our loyalties lie. This is our chance to show our essence, to show that our commitment the rest of the time is not just a matter of habit or convenience, but a matter of conviction, the result of our firm belief in Hashem and our genuine desire to obey Him.

The Gemara (Eruvin 65b) teaches that a person's true nature can be determined בכוסו ובכיסו ובכעסו – "through his cup, his pocket, and his anger." This means that a person's essence comes to the fore when he drinks a little too much, or when he is tested – either in his "pocket," when he loses money, or when his angered. It is easy to be a nice, good-natured, kind person when things are going well. But when a person is challenged, when he is out of his element, when something goes wrong, when he encounters some unexpected bump in the road, when something in his life goes a little out-of-a-whack – we see who he really is. I recall once speaking on the phone with a wonderful, refined, and conscientiously-religious individual, while he was in the airport. He suddenly realized that something went wrong – if I recall correctly, he suddenly noticed that one of his documents was missing. He blurted out a word that should never be used – and that this man would never even imagine using under normal circumstances. When people are traveling, they out of their element. They're not comfortable. They're anxious, they're uptight, and so they're more vulnerable. This is true spiritually, as well. When we're home, we have our framework and routine. It is relatively easy to keep kosher, to properly observe Shabbat, and to attend minyan . Maintaining our religious standards is not complicated under normal conditions because our lives are – to our credit – set up that way. But when we travel, when we leave, when we're out of our element, we are tested. Out of our familiar environment, out of our routine – we are more vulnerable. This might explain Yaakov Avinu's timeless pronouncement in Parashat Vayehi about the way parents bless their children. He declared that forever more, parents will bless their children that they should be like Yosef's sons, Efrayim and Menashe – ישימך אלוקים כאפרים וכמנשה (48:20). Why? Efrayim and Menashe were born and raised "out of their element," in Egypt, in a foreign society, away from Eretz Yisrael and the rest of the family. The greatest wish we have for our children is that they should maintain their values and adhere to their faith and principles even in "Egypt," on the road, when they are tested, when circumstances thrust them out of their routine. And so parents bless their children that they should be like Efrayim and Menashe, who remained loyal to Hashem even in Egypt, in a foreign environment. How do we do this? What is our strategy to strictly maintaining our standards even when we travel, when we're out of our routine? The answer is taught to us by the person who embodied this ideal better than anyone – Yosef. As a teenager, Yosef was cruelly torn away from his family and his country, and brought to Egypt as a slave. Even while working as a slave, and even after being sent to prison due to a false accusation, he remained steadfastly devoted to Hashem and to his father's values. There is one word that the Torah says about Yosef which reveals to us the secret of how he did this. When Yosef was tempted by his master's wife, the Torah tells, וימאן – Yosef refused (39:8). A young man thrust far out of his element, Yosef was vulnerable – but there were things which were non-negotiable, that he would firmly refuse to do no matter how great the challenge was. And this is what we need to do when we're on the road – וימאן . We need to set our inviolable red lines. We have to draw very clear boundaries, and remind ourselves of what is absolutely non-negotiable, of which lines we are never crossing, not under any circumstances. We have to make the decision in our minds that there are things which we just refuse to do. וימאן . When we are out of our routine, out of our familiar framework, we have a precious opportunity to make a clear, resounding statement of who we are, where our loyalties lie. This is our chance to show our essence, to show that our commitment the rest of the time is not just a matter of habit or convenience, but a matter of conviction, the result of our firm belief in Hashem and our genuine desire to obey Him.

I have never met anyone who likes being told what to do, who likes when his behavior is critiqued and is told to change. Yet, this is something we all do to others. Spouses are often telling each other what they should and shouldn't do. And of course parents have the responsibility to educate their children so they can learn the right way to live. The problem becomes how we can expect the behavior to change if they – like us! – don't like to be corrected or criticized. If a child's instinct when hearing criticism is to defend himself or herself, then what should a parent do? Perhaps we can learn the answer from an example of effective communication found in the beginning of Parashat Vayigash. The parashah begins with Yehuda's famous plea to Yosef, the vizier of Egypt. Binyamin, the youngest of the brothers was framed as a thief, and when Yosef's royal goblet was found in his bag, Yosef ordered that he remain in Egypt as his slave, while the other brothers return home. Yehuda, however, had made a solemn promise to their father, Yaakov, that he would personally guarantee Binyamin's safe return home. And so Yehuda came before Yosef and made an impassioned speech, begging Yosef to allow him to remain in Binyamin's stead. In this speech, Yehuda reviewed all the events that led to the current crisis, recalling how he and his brothers came to purchase grain, how Yosef demanded that they bring their youngest brother, how their father at first refused, due to his fear that something might happen to Binyamin, and how Yehuda had personally assured Yaakov that he would bring Binyamin home. Finally, the Torah says, at the end of Yehuda's speech, Yosef could no longer control himself – לא יכול יוסף להתאפק – and he revealed his identity to his brothers. He then told them to go back and bring their father and their families to Egypt where he would support them during the harsh famine. What changed Yosef's heart? What was the "trigger" that led him to relent? The answer, it seems, is that he was affected mainly by Yehuda's final words: כי איך אעלה אבי והנער איננו אתי – "For how can I go back to my father if the youngster is not with me?" Yehuda made a lengthy speech, but this had no effect. He was effective in changing Yosef's heart only when he asked a pointed question: "What should I do? What options do I have?" Let us try to apply this to a typical parent/child conflict. A girl wants to go out with her friends, but she has a test the next day and needs to study. Her parents want her to stay home and prepare for the exam. They could give a long speech about how irresponsible it is to go out the night before a test, how she needs to be more organized, how she should have studied days earlier but didn't, how she'll have other opportunities to get together with her friends, and so on. But a speech is not going to work. A far more effective approach would be to ask the pointed question, "What do you want?" They could acknowledge her predicament, express understanding of her legitimate desire to be with her friends, validate her feelings of disappointment, and then ask, "So what do you suggest? Do you want to fail the test? Do you want to study first and then go to spend a few minutes with them? What do you want to do?" Lecturing is not effective. Posing simple questions often can be. The mistake so many parents make is that they think they can give speeches, or they can harshly criticize bad behavior at the heat of the moment, and this will somehow have an effect on the child's behavior. Parents need to remember that angry rants make things worse, not better. They only lead to more defiance. Yehuda's lengthy speech didn't help. He succeeded only when he framed the situation in clear, concise and practical terms. כי איך אעלה אל אבי והנער איננו איתי . As we said, nobody likes to be reprimanded or told what to do. So instead of criticizing and expressing anger, let's keep it short, to the point, and with practicality, so that our children, or whoever it is we're speaking to, will react the way we want them to.

I have never met anyone who likes being told what to do, who likes when his behavior is critiqued and is told to change. Yet, this is something we all do to others. Spouses are often telling each other what they should and shouldn't do. And of course parents have the responsibility to educate their children so they can learn the right way to live. The problem becomes how we can expect the behavior to change if they – like us! – don't like to be corrected or criticized. If a child's instinct when hearing criticism is to defend himself or herself, then what should a parent do? Perhaps we can learn the answer from an example of effective communication found in the beginning of Parashat Vayigash. The parashah begins with Yehuda's famous plea to Yosef, the vizier of Egypt. Binyamin, the youngest of the brothers was framed as a thief, and when Yosef's royal goblet was found in his bag, Yosef ordered that he remain in Egypt as his slave, while the other brothers return home. Yehuda, however, had made a solemn promise to their father, Yaakov, that he would personally guarantee Binyamin's safe return home. And so Yehuda came before Yosef and made an impassioned speech, begging Yosef to allow him to remain in Binyamin's stead. In this speech, Yehuda reviewed all the events that led to the current crisis, recalling how he and his brothers came to purchase grain, how Yosef demanded that they bring their youngest brother, how their father at first refused, due to his fear that something might happen to Binyamin, and how Yehuda had personally assured Yaakov that he would bring Binyamin home. Finally, the Torah says, at the end of Yehuda's speech, Yosef could no longer control himself – לא יכול יוסף להתאפק – and he revealed his identity to his brothers. He then told them to go back and bring their father and their families to Egypt where he would support them during the harsh famine. What changed Yosef's heart? What was the "trigger" that led him to relent? The answer, it seems, is that he was affected mainly by Yehuda's final words: כי איך אעלה אבי והנער איננו אתי – "For how can I go back to my father if the youngster is not with me?" Yehuda made a lengthy speech, but this had no effect. He was effective in changing Yosef's heart only when he asked a pointed question: "What should I do? What options do I have?" Let us try to apply this to a typical parent/child conflict. A girl wants to go out with her friends, but she has a test the next day and needs to study. Her parents want her to stay home and prepare for the exam. They could give a long speech about how irresponsible it is to go out the night before a test, how she needs to be more organized, how she should have studied days earlier but didn't, how she'll have other opportunities to get together with her friends, and so on. But a speech is not going to work. A far more effective approach would be to ask the pointed question, "What do you want?" They could acknowledge her predicament, express understanding of her legitimate desire to be with her friends, validate her feelings of disappointment, and then ask, "So what do you suggest? Do you want to fail the test? Do you want to study first and then go to spend a few minutes with them? What do you want to do?" Lecturing is not effective. Posing simple questions often can be. The mistake so many parents make is that they think they can give speeches, or they can harshly criticize bad behavior at the heat of the moment, and this will somehow have an effect on the child's behavior. Parents need to remember that angry rants make things worse, not better. They only lead to more defiance. Yehuda's lengthy speech didn't help. He succeeded only when he framed the situation in clear, concise and practical terms. כי איך אעלה אל אבי והנער איננו איתי . As we said, nobody likes to be reprimanded or told what to do. So instead of criticizing and expressing anger, let's keep it short, to the point, and with practicality, so that our children, or whoever it is we're speaking to, will react the way we want them to.

One of the famous questions asked about the holiday of Hanukah involves a passage that appears right in the middle of the Gemara's discussion of the laws of the Hanukah candles. The Gemara suddenly interjects with what appears to be a totally unrelated comment about the story of Yosef. The Torah says about the pit into which Yosef's brothers threw him: והבור רק אין בו מים – "and the pit was empty; there was no water in it" (37:24). The Gemara explains this to mean that the pit was "empty" only in the sense that it contained no water. It did, however, contain נחשים ועקרבים – snakes and scorpions. Miraculously, Yosef survived. Many Rabbis asked the question of why this comment is introduced amidst the Gemara's discussion of Hanukah. The simple answer, seemingly, is that the same Rabbi who made this comment taught the halacha which the Gemara quoted previously. The Gemara will often tangentially quote other teachings of a Rabbi after bringing his statement about the topic under discussion, so it could be that here, too, the Gemara just happened to bring a second teaching by the same Rabbi. It seems reasonable to assume, however, that there is a deeper connection between Hanukah and the pit that Yosef was thrown into. Let's take a closer look at the Gemara's statement: מים אין בו, אבל נחשים ועקרבים יש בו – "There was no water in it, but there were snakes and scorpions in it." The Gemara here is making a profound observation about human beings. Every person is a "pit" that needs to be filled. People do not remain "empty." Their time, their minds, and their souls will be filled with something. And if it is not filled with "water" – with Torah, with holiness, with spirituality, with meaning and purpose – then it will be filled with "snakes and scorpions" – with destructive activities. This is especially true about youngsters. There is hardly any young man or woman who is just average, who is "neutral," who is "empty." Either they are "filled" with Torah, with a yearning for meaning and a connection to Hashem, or they are "filled" with נחשים ועקרבים , with harmful or destructive behaviors. And this might be the connection between the statement about Yosef's pit and the mitzvah of Hanukah candles. Hanukah is the celebration of the triumph of the "light" of Torah over the "darkness." Torah life is sometimes difficult, but it is filled with "light," with joy, with beauty, with meaningfulness. The alternative to Torah life, as appealing as it may seem, is "dark," a place of נחשים ועקרבים , snakes and scorpions – because if a person does not "fill" himself with Torah, he will fill himself with other things which are "dark" and harmful. Our job on Hanukah when lighting the candles is to reflect on, and rejoice over, the privilege we have to live joyous Torah lives, lives of meaning and purpose, lives of yearning and striving for a relationship with Hashem. We should celebrate our choosing light over darkness, the beauty of Torah life over the "darkness" of other lifestyles. And we should recommit to constantly radiate joy and enthusiasm in our Torah observance so our children will see the "light" and beauty of Torah, and will not look to "fill" their lives with anything else.

One of the famous questions asked about the holiday of Hanukah involves a passage that appears right in the middle of the Gemara's discussion of the laws of the Hanukah candles. The Gemara suddenly interjects with what appears to be a totally unrelated comment about the story of Yosef. The Torah says about the pit into which Yosef's brothers threw him: והבור רק אין בו מים – "and the pit was empty; there was no water in it" (37:24). The Gemara explains this to mean that the pit was "empty" only in the sense that it contained no water. It did, however, contain נחשים ועקרבים – snakes and scorpions. Miraculously, Yosef survived. Many Rabbis asked the question of why this comment is introduced amidst the Gemara's discussion of Hanukah. The simple answer, seemingly, is that the same Rabbi who made this comment taught the halacha which the Gemara quoted previously. The Gemara will often tangentially quote other teachings of a Rabbi after bringing his statement about the topic under discussion, so it could be that here, too, the Gemara just happened to bring a second teaching by the same Rabbi. It seems reasonable to assume, however, that there is a deeper connection between Hanukah and the pit that Yosef was thrown into. Let's take a closer look at the Gemara's statement: מים אין בו, אבל נחשים ועקרבים יש בו – "There was no water in it, but there were snakes and scorpions in it." The Gemara here is making a profound observation about human beings. Every person is a "pit" that needs to be filled. People do not remain "empty." Their time, their minds, and their souls will be filled with something. And if it is not filled with "water" – with Torah, with holiness, with spirituality, with meaning and purpose – then it will be filled with "snakes and scorpions" – with destructive activities. This is especially true about youngsters. There is hardly any young man or woman who is just average, who is "neutral," who is "empty." Either they are "filled" with Torah, with a yearning for meaning and a connection to Hashem, or they are "filled" with נחשים ועקרבים , with harmful or destructive behaviors. And this might be the connection between the statement about Yosef's pit and the mitzvah of Hanukah candles. Hanukah is the celebration of the triumph of the "light" of Torah over the "darkness." Torah life is sometimes difficult, but it is filled with "light," with joy, with beauty, with meaningfulness. The alternative to Torah life, as appealing as it may seem, is "dark," a place of נחשים ועקרבים , snakes and scorpions – because if a person does not "fill" himself with Torah, he will fill himself with other things which are "dark" and harmful. Our job on Hanukah when lighting the candles is to reflect on, and rejoice over, the privilege we have to live joyous Torah lives, lives of meaning and purpose, lives of yearning and striving for a relationship with Hashem. We should celebrate our choosing light over darkness, the beauty of Torah life over the "darkness" of other lifestyles. And we should recommit to constantly radiate joy and enthusiasm in our Torah observance so our children will see the "light" and beauty of Torah, and will not look to "fill" their lives with anything else.

Parashat Vayeshev tells the story of Yosef and his brothers, and it introduces this story by stating, אלה תולדות יעקב, יוסף – "These are the offspring of Yaakov: Yosef…" Although Yaakov had many children – twelve sons and a daughter – the Torah identifies specifically Yosef as Yaakov's תולדות – "offspring." Rashi brings several explanations for why Yosef is presented as Yaakov's only child, one of which is שהיה זיו אקונין של יוסף דומה לו – Yosef's appearance resembled Yaakov's appearance. Why would this resemblance justify describing Yosef as תולדות יעקב ? Why is it so significant that Yosef looked like Yaakov? The Bat Ayin explains that Rashi actually does not refer to physical appearance. Rather, Rashi means that Yosef aspired to be like Yaakov. Yosef was considered Yaakov's primary child because of Yosef's unique level of humility, recognizing how far he had to go to be like his father, how much he had to learn from his father, how much greater he needed to become so he could approach his father's level. More than any of Yaakov's other children, Yosef wanted to be like Yaakov. Later, the Torah describes Yosef as Yaakov's בן זקונים , which seems to mean that he was born when Yaakov was already an older man. The ancient Targum Onkelos translation, however, translates this phrase as בר חכימא ("a wise son"). The Bat Ayin writes that the word חכימא is related to the verb חכה – "wait," or yearn, and anticipate. Yosef yearned to be like Yaakov. He aspired to follow Yaakov's example and rise to his level of greatness. The Bat Ayin adds that this is why Yaakov made a special coat for Yosef called the כתונת פסים . The word פסים is related to the word אפס – "nothingness," an allusion to Yosef's exceptional humility, how he regarded himself as "nothing" in comparison to his father. Later, when Yosef went to his brothers, they removed this special coat before throwing him into a pit and then selling him as a slave. The Bat Ayin explains that this hints to something more than simply the physical act of removing the garment. As long as Yosef was in his father's presence, he remained humble, recognizing how much more he had to grow. But when he was with his brothers, who were not as great as he was, he lost his sense of אפס , he started feeling more complacent – and this led to his downfall. Indeed, humility is the key to everything, to every form of success. When a person learns Torah, he can succeed and become a scholar only if he recognizes that there is still so much Torah that he needs to learn. If a person pursues a profession or starts a job, he will succeed only if he realizes how little he knows about the field and how much he needs to learn and discover. A person's relationships – with friends, children, spouse, and everyone else – are so much better if he is humble, if he can respect other people and acknowledge that he has what to learn from them. And a person will be so much more accomplished, and contribute so much more to the world, if he puts his ego to the side and focuses on achieving rather than impressing people, getting credit, and making a name for himself. This is one of the lessons we learn from the story of Yosef. A person's downfall begins when he loses his כתונת הפסים , his awareness of אפס , that everything he knows is nothing compared to what he still has to learn, and everything he has accomplished is nothing compared to what he can still accomplish. The moment we stop living with ambition, with a drive to reach the level of Yaakov Avinu, with a desire to grow and achieve more and more – we begin to fall. Conversely, when we live with ambition, when we realize that we can be so much greater, then our lives becomes incredible. We then live with energy and enthusiasm, with zeal and passion, and we take full advantage of every day that Hashem graciously gives us here in this world.

JH1094 Rabbi Joey Haber Parashat Vayishlah begins with the words, וישלח יעקב מלאכים לפניו אל עשו אחיו – "Yaakov sent ahead angels to his brother, Esav. " Rashi clarifies that the word מלאכים in this pasuk should be understood as a reference to מלאכים ממש – actual angels. These weren't human messengers whom the Torah describes with the term מלאכים , but rather were actual angels. This explanation is supported by the fact that in the preceding pesukim , we read that as Yaakov left Haran and made his way to Eretz Yisrael , he encountered מלאכי אלוקים – "angels of G-d." It seems that Yaakov sent them to his brother. It is interesting to note that angels play a very significant role in the story of Yaakov Avinu. When he set out from his hometown to live in Haran, he dreamt of angels going up and down a ladder that extended from the ground to the heavens. While in Haran, as he struggled working for his corrupt uncle, Lavan, an angel appeared to him in a dream. As mentioned, he encountered angels on his way back home. And, our parashah tells that he was later attacked by a mysterious assailant, identified by the Rabbis as שרו של עשו – the angel of his brother, Esav. What are we to make of this aspect of Yaakov's life? Why were angels such a big part of his story? We can perhaps answer this question in light of the Gemara's teaching (Shabbat 119b) about what happens in our homes every week on Friday night. The Gemara says that when a person walks home from shul on Friday night, he is accompanied by two angels – one "good" angel and one "bad" angel. If his home is properly set up for Shabbat, then the "good" angel gives the person a berachah that his home should be that way the next Shabbat, too, and the "bad" angel has no choice but to answer " amen ." But if the house is not properly arranged for Shabbat, then the "bad" angel wishes the person that this should happen the next Shabbat, too, and the "good" angel is forced to answer " amen ." I want to ask a simple question about this teaching. Why can't I have two good angels with me when I come home from shul on Friday night??? Why does there have to be a "bad" angel? The answer is that these "angels" reflect our experiences during the previous week, what's happening in our lives. Life is full of surprising twists and turns. So many unexpected things happen in our lives – some good, and some bed. At every step of the way, Hashem sends us "angels," people and circumstances. Sometimes they are wonderful, and sometimes they are challenging. This is life. Nobody has a perfectly good life, and nobody has an entirely bad life. Every one of us has a life with both "good" angels and "bad" angels, with both blessings and hardships. When we begin Shabbat, we carry with us both sides of the equation, the good and the bad. The question is how we handle this combination of good and bad. If we succeed in properly preparing for Shabbat, in creating a beautiful, upbeat atmosphere in our home despite whatever challenges we're dealing with, then our lives are truly blessed – by both the "good" angel and the "bad" angel. If we can think positively and experience joy and contentment despite our struggles, then our lives are beautiful – with both the good and the bad. There is perhaps nobody in our history who dealt with more unexpected twists and turns than Yaakov Avinu. On the one hand, he was very blessed – he had a large family, children who were all tzadikim , and a large fortune. On the other hand, he dealt with so many harsh challenges. He was pursued by his brother. He was deceived by Lavan for twenty years. His daughter was abducted and violated. His beloved son was sold into slavery by his brothers. Yaakov encountered numerous different "angels" over the course of his life. He had angels that helped and protected him. And he had an angel that violently attacked him and that he struggled to overcome, ultimately succeeding. The key to a happy life is not to wait until all the "bad" angels disappear. That will never happen. The key to a happy life is to do what we do every Shabbat – make our homes and our lives beautiful despite what we're dealing with. If we do this, then we will have defeated the "bad" angels that we encounter along the way, by not allowing them to get in the way of our efforts to live a happy, fulfilling life.

Parashat Vayeseh begins with Yaakov's journey from Eretz Yisrael to Haran, where he would spend twenty years with his uncle, Lavan. The Torah tells, ויפגע במקום – that Yaakov "encountered the place" – which the Gemara explains as a reference to the site where Avraham Avinu bound Yitzhak upon the altar, and which would become the site of the Bet Ha'mikdash . Yaakov prayed at this site, and he then went to sleep and beheld his famous dream of a ladder extending to the heavens. Rashi, based on the Gemara, fills in some more details about Yaakov's journey. Yaakov had traveled all the way to Haran, but then realized that he had passed the holy site without stopping to pray there. He said to himself, "How could I have passed there without praying?!" He immediately turned around and started making his way back toward Yerushalayim. Hashem made a miracle, so as not to inconvenience Yaakov, and the mountain in Yerushalayim where the Bet Ha'mikdash would be built was uprooted from its place and brought to Yaakov, so he could pray there without having to travel all the way back. One of my Rabbis once posed a very good question about this story. If Hashem wanted to help Yaakov Avinu pray at the site of the Bet Ha'mikdash – which He obviously did, so much so that He brought the mountain to Yaakov!!! – then why didn't He find a way to remind Yaakov to pray there when Yaakov passed through that area? Why was it only when Yaakov reached Haran that Hashem helped him by bringing the sacred site to him? The Rabbi answered, very simply, that Hashem doesn't decide for us. We need to make the decision of what to do, how to act, and how to build our lives. Once we make the decision, then Hashem comes in and helps us do what we set out to do. But the decision needs to be ours. As children, we have few decisions to make. They are pretty much all made for us. But as we grow older, we gradually need to start making our own decisions. There are some really, really big decisions – like whom to marry, which profession to pursue, where to live, which school to send our children to. There are also smaller decisions that we need to make almost every day, like how to handle different situations that arise, how to react to people, and so on. Making decisions can often be scary. Or annoying. Often, we prefer that other people make these decisions for us. We need to remember that making decisions is the way we build our lives into what they're meant to be. We are not supposed to be anybody else but ourselves. And so while it is of course helpful and important to seek advice, to consult with people whom we respect and admire – ultimately, we need to make the decision that is right for us, that will allow us to create the unique life that Hashem brought us here to create. We can't let anyone else decide for us – because decisions are the way we self-actualize and chart the path that we need to take, the path that's right for us, even if others are following a different path. And once we make whatever decision it is that we needed to make, we should trust that Hashem will bring the sacred site to us, so-to-speak, that He will help us going forward. Once we decide what we want to do, which path we want to follow – we need to rely on His help and support. In the end, our lives are shaped not by the circumstances we encounter, but by the choices we courageously make. When we take ownership of those choices, Hashem meets us on the path and guides our steps forward. May we always have the clarity to decide, and the faith to trust that He will help us follow through.

Parashat Toledot tells us about Yishak and Rivka, and their experiences with their two children, Yaakob and Esav. One of the intriguing things about Rivka – which is striking especially after having just read Parashat Hayeh-Sara – is that the Torah never tells us about her passing. The Torah devotes a special section at the beginning of Parashat Hayeh-Sara to the death of our first matriarch, Sara, telling us how many years she lived, where she died, that her husband wept and eulogized her, and how he secured a burial plot for her final resting place. Rivka's death, however, is not mentioned – at least not explicitly. Later in the Book of Bereshit (35:8), we read of the passing of Devorah, who was Rivka's nurse when she was younger. Rashi explains that at that time, when Devorah died, Yaakov learned of the passing of his beloved mother, Rivka. The Torah told us about Devorah's passing, Rashi explains, to subtly allude to us that Rivka had died. And so whereas Sara's death received a whole section in the Torah, Rivka's death is concealed within the death of a different person. Why? Rashi writes: ולפיכך העלימו את יום מותה – שלא יקללו הבריות כרס שיצא ממנו עשו . This means that the Torah hid Rivka's death, rather than mention it openly, so that people would not say bad things about her. One of her two sons was Esav, who grew to become a very evil man. If the Torah would speak of Rivka's passing out in the open, people might right away associate her with Esav, and denigrate her. Rashi here is teaching us a very profound truth that emerges when we contrast Sara with Rivka. Both were righteous women who endured a considerable amount of hardship during their lives, but with a very significant difference. Sara's troubles were out in the open, and known to everyone. She was twice abducted by kings, she was childless until old age, and she was forced to move to different places many times during her life. There was no shame or embarrassment in these hardships. Rivka's struggle, however, was more private, and caused her humiliation. She had a son who became sinful, causing her a great deal of grief – but grief that she could not easily share with others, because this kind of challenge is painful and embarrassing. Some hardships turn people into heroes. Of course, we don't wish these challenges upon ourselves or upon anyone else. But when somebody goes through a major crisis, or a devastating loss, the community does its magic – coming together to help in every way, and to offer a strong support system. The person receives help and support, and also well-deserved admiration and respect for the way he or she dealt with this crisis. But so many people endure hidden hardships, that they cannot tell anybody about. It may be problems in marriage, with finances, with a child or several children, a mental health challenge, or an addiction. These are very personal and very embarrassing, and so the person suffers silently, feeling unable to confide, to seek help, to find a shoulder to lean on. These people can be sitting next to you in shul, or at your table at a wedding or other affair. For that matter, they might be at your Shabbat table. They could be your own family members. So many people are struggling with issues that they're understandably too embarrassed to share even with their siblings or closest friends. This is why we need to change the way we see people and speak about them. We need to stop categorizing people as "successful" and "unsuccessful," as though they are two groups – those who "made it" and those who didn't. We have to stop talking this way and thinking this way. We need to instead realize that we're all the same, we're all in the same boat. We all have things in our lives that are going well, and things in our lives that aren't. This is how we need to look at ourselves and at all people. If we do, then people with hidden hardships will feel comfortable and at ease around us. If we think of ourselves as better, as more stable, as more accomplished, as more successful, then without any intention of doing so, we exacerbate the pain of those suffering in silence. We need to instead give off the "vibe" that we're all equal, we're all struggling with something, so people who need comfort and friendship can find it with us. Those familiar with my lectures know that I often share things about me and my family that are less than flattering. I don't do this simply for entertainment. I do this because I want my audience to feel that I see myself as not that different from them, that we're all in this together, we all have our issues, our struggles, our challenges, and our disappointments. If we live with this mindset, then we all become an amazing team – a team whose members are always there for each other, always supporting each other, and always comforting each other, even when we have no idea why the support and comfort is needed.

Avraham Avinu sent his trusted servant, Eliezer, to his homeland, where was born – Aram Naharayim – in order to find there a suitable match for Yitzhak. The Torah tells that Eliezer went to Aram Naharayim with כל טוב אדוניו בידו – "all his master's goodness in his hand" (24:10). The commentaries explain this to mean that Eliezer took with him the official document in which Avraham promised to bequeath his enormous fortune to Yitzhak. Eliezer took this in order to convince the girl and her family to agree to the match. However, the Shelah Ha'kadosh takes note of a slight but important nuance in this pasuk . The word טוב is punctuated not as it usually is, with the dot on top of the ו , such that it would be pronounced tov , but rather with the dot in the middle of the letter ו , resulting in the pronunciation tuv . This raises the question as to the difference between the Hebrew words tov and tuv , and why this might matter in the context of Eliezer's mission to find a wife for Yitzhak. The Shelah Ha'kadosh explains the difference. The word tov refers to goodness that can be easily seen, that is clear, that is unmistakable. Avraham's legacy, which he passed onto Yitzhak – and to all of us – includes many wonderful blessings and precious gifts that are very clear to us. There is no mistaking the great blessing of Shabbat, of family, of Torah learning, and of the many joys that we are privileged to experience by being part of the Jewish Nation. But Avraham also bequeathed to us tuv – a hidden goodness, blessings which are more difficult for people on the outside to perceive and understand. This hidden goodness is the faith that accompanies a person during times of hardship. When an heir of Avraham Avinu is struggling, or in pain, people see the hardship – but they probably don't see the faith and hope that is sustaining that person and helping him carry on. This gift of emunah , the knowledge that Hashem is with us even in life's most difficult moments, is incredible. It provides a person with the "wings" he needs to rise and soar when life might otherwise pull him down and shatter his spirit. Before Hashem brought the seventh plague upon Egypt, He commanded Moshe to come before Pharaoh and warn about the plague – בא אל פרעה . Literally, this means "Come to Pharaoh." Instead of saying "Go to Pharaoh," Hashem said "Come to Pharaoh" – emphasizing that He would be there, too. Moshe knew that Pharaoh would be furious with him after six plagues had already befallen the country. For good reason, Moshe felt hesitant and uneasy about confronting Pharaoh yet again. And so Hashem assured him that he wasn't going alone, that He would be there holding his hand. Whenever we're going through a hard time, whenever we're dealing with a very difficult problem – either big or small – feeling Hashem holding our hand can make all the difference in the world. There is nothing like the feeling of knowing that we're not dealing with this alone, that Hashem is helping is through this situation, every step of the way. This is the tuv – the precious gift – that Avraham Avinu bequeathed to each and every one of us.

People sometimes ask me for advice on how to give speeches. Whenever I'm asked this, I give the same three pieces of advice: Remember that nobody cares what you have to say. Just because I have a nice devar Torah to share, or some story that I find interesting – this doesn't mean that they care about it. My job when giving a speech is to find something to say that's relevant to them , that's interesting to them , that's of value to them . Not what's relevant, interesting, or of value to me . Never, ever, ever, ever speak to an audience that you don't respect. Each and every word should be spoken in a manner that expresses respect for the people you're speaking to. If they feel you're talking down to them, in a condescending way, they won't pay attention to anything you say. Be vulnerable. Be prepared to share stories about yourself that aren't especially flattering. There's a clear common denominator between all three pieces of advice – making the audience feel that you're with them, not above them, that you're not standing and talking to them from a different place, but rather speaking to them as an equal. This, I believe, is the key element of hesed – which is one of the important themes of Parashat Vayera. The story told at the beginning of the parashah , describing how Avraham Avino hosted three angels who appeared to him as weary nomads, provides us with a paradigm of hesed . And we read that after Avraham brought them food and served them, והוא עומד עליהם תחת העץ ויאכלו – he stood with them as they ate in the shade (18:8). This is a critically important part of the story. Avraham didn't just give them food and then get back to his affairs. He stayed with them. He showed them respect. He gave them his full attention. He made it clear that he really and truly cared about them, that they were important to him. The Gemara teaches in Masechet Baba Batra (9b) that one who gives money to a poor person receives six blessings in reward, but המפייסו בדברים – somebody who speaks kindly to a poor person, giving him encouragement and emotional support, receives 11 blessings. A poor person of course needs money – but there's something he needs even more than money, and that is respect and concern, the feeling that somebody truly cares about them and considers them important. Most patients prefer doctors with a good bedside manner than a doctor who's the best in the field – precisely for this reason. They need not just good medical care – but somebody who is really concerned about them, who can provide them emotional support and comfort during this crisis. Moshe Rabbenu was given his name, משה , because Pharaoh's daughter drew him from the water when she found him floating in a basket in the river – כי מן המים משיתיהו (Shemot 2:10). Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch noted that seemingly, Moshe should have been named משוי , which means "drawn" – as he was drawn from the water. But instead, he was called משה , which means not "drawn," but "draw." Rav Hirsch explains that because Moshe was "drawn," because his life was saved through hesed , he was to devote his entire life to "drawing," to saving and helping other people. This is true not only of Moshe Rabbenu, but of every one us. There isn't anybody alive who is not the beneficiary of hesed . We are here only because we had people who took care of us, and so much of the good fortune that we enjoy is because of kindness that people do for us even today. Our family, our friends, our community, our society – we owe so much to so many people, without whom we wouldn't have the blessings that we enjoy. If we understand this, then we will be able to do hesed the right way – as equals, without condescension, and without ego. If we understand that we are dependent on people's hesed , then we will give respect to the people who need our hesed . We will realize that we are all in the same boat, that we all depend on one another, and so we all need to help one another. We will then be able to meet other people where they are, and treat them as equals, giving them the feelings of dignity and self-worth that they so desperately need. Avraham is the paragon of hesed not only because of his generosity, but because הוא עומד עליהם תחת העץ – because he treated his guests as equals, because he came to where they were standing, without arrogance and without feeling more important than them. This is the example of hesed that we must aspire to follow.

We read in Parashat Lech-Lecha of the war that Avraham Avinu waged against the kings who had captured his nephew, Lot. After winning this war, Avraham was greeted by a man named Malkitzedek, who brought him food and wine to celebrate this victory. The Midrash quotes two opinions regarding the real purpose of Malkitzedek's meeting with Avraham. According to one opinion, Malkitzedek was revealing to Avraham סוד כהונה גדולה – the "secret" of the position of the kohen gadol who served in the Bet Ha'midash . According to the other opinion, Malkitzedek was revealing to Avraham סוד תורה – the "secret" of Torah. This entire discussion seems very mysterious. What are these "secrets" being shown to Avraham Avinu? The Kedushat Levi explains that the Midrash here is actually telling us about the two ways in which a person is to serve Hashem, depending on the situation, which the Kedushat Levi calls יש and אין . יש means "there is," and refers to serving Hashem when a person who has a lot going on, a lot of mitzvot to do. Let's imagine a person who is blessed with a large family, children and grandchildren, a successful business, and friends. He is busy serving Hashem in a state of יש – caring for and spending time with his wife, children and grandchildren, giving charity, helping people, involving himself in important community affairs, and so on. Unfortunately, however, some people are in a state of אין , "without," lacking all these blessings. It could be somebody who is getting older but has yet to find a marriage partner, or somebody in a troubled family situation. It could be somebody who hasn't had a job in several years and faces dire financial straits. It could be somebody who is going through a medical crisis, or a mental health crisis, and cannot function properly – or the family member of such a person. These situations do not lend themselves to the kind of flurry of mitzvah activity that characterizes the fellow in a situation of יש . The Kedushat Levi explains that the יש person has many wonderful opportunities to serve Hashem – but there's a disadvantage to this service of Hashem, in that there is some ego and pride involved. The person feels accomplished and successful. He looks at his wealth, his beautiful family, and all the mitzvot he is able to do, and he feels proud and takes credit – sometimes forgetting to give Hashem the credit for all his accomplishments. The אין person, however, has no such challenge. He is able to build a true, genuine connection with Hashem, because he recognizes that he is entirely dependent on Him. The אין person turns to Hashem and says, "I can't do all that much, but I want to build my relationship with You. I have no family to care for, I have no enterprise or charity organizations to run, I don't have so many opportunities to do amazing things – but I'm serving You by praying, by connecting, by turning to You, by believing in You." Avraham Avinu, for many years, faced the quintessential אין reality. I imagine that if I were in Avraham's shoes, I would have just given up. His father brought him to the authorities to have him executed. He miraculously survived, and many years later, at the age of 75, he was told to leave to an unknown land. When he got there, he faced a dire famine, forcing him to go to Egypt, where his wife was abducted. Not long thereafter he needed to fight a war to rescue his nephew. Meanwhile, his wife could not conceive. In the end, of course, Avraham becomes fabulously wealthy, well-respected, and the father of G-d's chosen nation. For decades, Avraham served Hashem in a situation of אין , until he was ultimately able to serve Hashem in a situation of יש . The Kedushat Levi explains that this is what the Midrash is alluding to. Avraham was shown the "secret" of the kohen gadol , who did the service in the Bet Ha'mikdash , representing self-sacrifice. The kohen gadol had no land or property, but he devoted himself entirely to Hashem. He symbolizes serving Hashem with "nothing." But Avraham was also shown that his life would become one of סוד תורה , a life of outstanding spiritual achievement, of יש , where he is able to serve Hashem with a great number of blessings and good fortune. In the beginning of our parashah , the Torah makes a point of informing us that Avraham was 75 years old when he left his homeland to live in Eretz Yisrael . This perhaps alludes to the fact that all Avraham had at that point in his life was his בטחון , his trust in Hashem, which in gematria equals 75 (2+9+8+6+50). He was in a position of אין , and he served Hashem in that state, by building a strong connection with Him. There is a young woman in our community who, after several years of dating, was still not married, and she asked to meet with me to speak about her situation. She expressed her anguish and how she just didn't know what to do. I advised her to give this problem over to Hashem. I said she needed to tell Hashem, "I don't know what to do, so I'm leaving this in Your infinitely capable hands. I will, of course, continue to recite Tehillim each day, and to reach out to matchmakers, because I need to make an effort, but I'm giving this over to You." Baruch Hashem , around a year later, she got married. She told me before the wedding that she felt so much better when she came out of our meeting, being able to let go of this challenge. And a week later, her hatan showed up... We hope and pray that we are always blessed with יש , with an abundance of happiness, prosperity and success in all our endeavors. But if we ever find ourselves in a situation of אין , let us draw strength and inspiration from our ancestor, from Avraham Avinu, who served Hashem even when he had nothing, with his בטחון , by developing his faith in Hashem and his connection with Him. When we face challenges, we must try to acknowledge that now Hashem wants us to serve Him in this way, by focusing on our בטחון , on our unwavering faith and trust in His goodness, and working to build a stronger relationship with Him.

Noah is one of three people in the Humash who are described as having "found favor" – מצא חן . The final pasuk of Parashat Bereshit says that Noah מצא חן בעיני ה' – "found favor in G-d's eyes." Later in the Book of Bereshit, we read that Yosef "found favor" in the eyes of his master, Potifar, for whom he worked as a slave ( וימצא יוסף חן בעיניו ). And in the Book of Shemot, Hashem tells Moshe Rabbenu that he "found favor" in His eyes ( כי מצאת חן בעיני ). Some commentaries added that, in fact, Yosef and Moshe are subtly mentioned in the beginning of Parashat Noah. The first pasuk of this parashah describes Noah with two adjectives – צדיק ("righteous") and תמים ("complete"). The word צדיק is associated with Yosef, who is often referred to as יוסף הצדיק , and the word תמים alludes to Moshe Rabbenu, who lived with perfect faith and devotion to Hashem. What is the connection between these three figures – Noah, Yosef and Moshe? The answer is that Yosef and Moshe together corrected Noah's mistake. Noah was, on the one hand, a great man, thanks to whom the world was literally saved, but at the same time, he was guilty of a serious flaw. This is indicated by a pasuk in Yeshayahu which refers to the flood as מי נח – "Noah's waters," suggesting that Noah was somehow to blame for the flood. The Zohar explains that Noah was informed long before the flood of Hashem's intention to destroy the earth – and he did nothing to stop it. He just heeded Hashem's command to build an ark for himself and his family. He had 120 years' notice – but he did not pray for his generation. He did not try to come to their defense, and plead to Hashem to spare them. And so he was, in a certain sense, responsible for the catastrophic flood. Yosef and Moshe exhibited the precise opposite quality. Yosef was betrayed by his brothers, who threw him into a pit to kill him, and then sold him as a slave to a foreign country. But Yosef did not seek revenge. His response was not to get back at them. Instead, he forgave them and even took care of them, providing them food during a severe famine. Yosef, the great צדיק , looked for the good instead of focusing on the bad. He continued loving his brothers despite what they did to him. This quality was continued by Moshe Rabbenu, who repeatedly prayed to Hashem's on behalf of Beneh Yisrael , even when they committed very serious sins. When Hashem decided to annihilate the nation after they worshipped the golden calf, Moshe did not just say "ok" like Noah did. Instead, he petitioned Hashem on their behalf, going so far as to demand that if Hashem destroys the people, he should be destroyed with them. He declared that if Hashem did not forgive the people, then מחני נא – he wanted to be "erased." The word מחני contains the same letters as the phrase מי נח – alluding to the fact that Moshe here corrected Noah's grave mistake. Instead of accepting Hashem's decree against the people of his time, Moshe interceded and prayed that they be saved. The difference between these two attitudes – that of Noah, and that of Yosef and Moshe – is the difference between judging and reserving judgment. Noah looked at the people of his generation, saw everything they did wrong, and decided they deserved to be punished. But Yosef and Moshe didn't rush to judge. Yosef's brothers, and Beneh Yisrael in Moshe's time, acted wrongly, but Yosef and Moshe didn't right away condemn them. They understood that there's so much more than what meets the eye. There's so much going on beneath the surface. No one can ever understand what other people are going through, what kind of struggles they're dealing with, what kind of challenges they face, what kind of pressure they're under. So many things contribute to the way a person acts – and nobody knows any of it. So we cannot judge. And when we don't judge, we wish people well and pray for their wellbeing. We don't get angry and look down at them – we do just the opposite. We look at them the way Yosef looked at his brothers and the way Moshe looked at the people. We look at them kindly and lovingly, even though they did or do things wrong. I cannot tell you how many times it happened that a couple who seemed so happy together, who seemed to have such a wonderful marriage, ended up getting divorced, or turned out to be having a very hard time in marriage. None of us know what other couples are going through. None of us know what kind of struggles other parents are having with their kids. None of us know all the details of our fellow's background and upbringing that could have caused his wrong behaviors. In short, none of us know practically anything about other people, about why they do what they do. Everyone, without exception, is struggling with something that we know absolutely nothing about. So let's stop judging, and start loving. Let's learn from Noah's mistake, and follow the examples set by Yosef and Moshe. Let's give people the benefit of the doubt, try hard to see all the good they do instead of focusing on the bad, and show them lots of love, friendship, and support.

Noah is one of three people in the Humash who are described as having "found favor" – מצא חן . The final pasuk of Parashat Bereshit says that Noah מצא חן בעיני ה' – "found favor in G-d's eyes." Later in the Book of Bereshit, we read that Yosef "found favor" in the eyes of his master, Potifar, for whom he worked as a slave ( וימצא יוסף חן בעיניו ). And in the Book of Shemot, Hashem tells Moshe Rabbenu that he "found favor" in His eyes ( כי מצאת חן בעיני ). Some commentaries added that, in fact, Yosef and Moshe are subtly mentioned in the beginning of Parashat Noah. The first pasuk of this parashah describes Noah with two adjectives – צדיק ("righteous") and תמים ("complete"). The word צדיק is associated with Yosef, who is often referred to as יוסף הצדיק , and the word תמים alludes to Moshe Rabbenu, who lived with perfect faith and devotion to Hashem. What is the connection between these three figures – Noah, Yosef and Moshe? The answer is that Yosef and Moshe together corrected Noah's mistake. Noah was, on the one hand, a great man, thanks to whom the world was literally saved, but at the same time, he was guilty of a serious flaw. This is indicated by a pasuk in Yeshayahu which refers to the flood as מי נח – "Noah's waters," suggesting that Noah was somehow to blame for the flood. The Zohar explains that Noah was informed long before the flood of Hashem's intention to destroy the earth – and he did nothing to stop it. He just heeded Hashem's command to build an ark for himself and his family. He had 120 years' notice – but he did not pray for his generation. He did not try to come to their defense, and plead to Hashem to spare them. And so he was, in a certain sense, responsible for the catastrophic flood. Yosef and Moshe exhibited the precise opposite quality. Yosef was betrayed by his brothers, who threw him into a pit to kill him, and then sold him as a slave to a foreign country. But Yosef did not seek revenge. His response was not to get back at them. Instead, he forgave them and even took care of them, providing them food during a severe famine. Yosef, the great צדיק , looked for the good instead of focusing on the bad. He continued loving his brothers despite what they did to him. This quality was continued by Moshe Rabbenu, who repeatedly prayed to Hashem's on behalf of Beneh Yisrael , even when they committed very serious sins. When Hashem decided to annihilate the nation after they worshipped the golden calf, Moshe did not just say "ok" like Noah did. Instead, he petitioned Hashem on their behalf, going so far as to demand that if Hashem destroys the people, he should be destroyed with them. He declared that if Hashem did not forgive the people, then מחני נא – he wanted to be "erased." The word מחני contains the same letters as the phrase מי נח – alluding to the fact that Moshe here corrected Noah's grave mistake. Instead of accepting Hashem's decree against the people of his time, Moshe interceded and prayed that they be saved. The difference between these two attitudes – that of Noah, and that of Yosef and Moshe – is the difference between judging and reserving judgment. Noah looked at the people of his generation, saw everything they did wrong, and decided they deserved to be punished. But Yosef and Moshe didn't rush to judge. Yosef's brothers, and Beneh Yisrael in Moshe's time, acted wrongly, but Yosef and Moshe didn't right away condemn them. They understood that there's so much more than what meets the eye. There's so much going on beneath the surface. No one can ever understand what other people are going through, what kind of struggles they're dealing with, what kind of challenges they face, what kind of pressure they're under. So many things contribute to the way a person acts – and nobody knows any of it. So we cannot judge. And when we don't judge, we wish people well and pray for their wellbeing. We don't get angry and look down at them – we do just the opposite. We look at them the way Yosef looked at his brothers and the way Moshe looked at the people. We look at them kindly and lovingly, even though they did or do things wrong. I cannot tell you how many times it happened that a couple who seemed so happy together, who seemed to have such a wonderful marriage, ended up getting divorced, or turned out to be having a very hard time in marriage. None of us know what other couples are going through. None of us know what kind of struggles other parents are having with their kids. None of us know all the details of our fellow's background and upbringing that could have caused his wrong behaviors. In short, none of us know practically anything about other people, about why they do what they do. Everyone, without exception, is struggling with something that we know absolutely nothing about. So let's stop judging, and start loving. Let's learn from Noah's mistake, and follow the examples set by Yosef and Moshe. Let's give people the benefit of the doubt, try hard to see all the good they do instead of focusing on the bad, and show them lots of love, friendship, and support.

The Midrash tells us something fascinating about the snake that lured Adam and Havah to sin, encouraging Havah to eat fruit from the forbidden tree, after which she shared some of the fruit with Adam. This snake, the Midrash relates, was previously the greatest servant man ever had. It would go to distant lands, find beautiful gems, and bring them to Adam. Meaning, the same snake that enticed Adam and Havah to sin was also their greatest helper, who brought them precious diamonds! How do we explain these two sides of the snake – how on the one hand, it helped Adam and Havah, but on the other hand, it brought about their downfall? We might find the answer in another source that talks about snakes and diamonds. The Gemara, in Masechet Baba Batra (74b), tells the story of people traveling on a ship who saw a precious diamond surrounded by a snake. A diver brought the diamond onto the ship, but the snake then came to devour the entire ship. A bird flew down and bit the serpent's head. Then another snake came to devour the ship, but it, too, was killed. This repeated itself several times. The Malbim explains the symbolism of this story. We are created as "diamonds." We are created with a soul that is pure and pristine, with which we are to live a pure and pristine life. The problem is the "snake" that comes and ruins everything, by attacking our pure minds. And each time we manage to defeat the "snake," it comes again, and again. This "snake" is our imagination. As the Midrash tells us, the imagination is our most valuable asset, which brings us precious "gems." Nothing was ever built, created or innovated without imagination. Our imagination is what enables us to see what can be made, to see what we can become, to see what we can create, which is the first critical step toward achievement. Because of our imagination, we have dreams and ambitions that propel us forward and drive us to work and accomplish great things. But like the snake, our imagination can also bring about our downfall. Here's a simple example. We hear about a friend's son or daughter who is about to get engaged, and we feel overjoyed for that friend. But days and weeks go by, and we don't receive an invitation. Our imagination starts running wild. We start thinking that this friend is upset because of this or that, or just plain forgot about us, even though we made a point of inviting that friend to all our events. This invitation that doesn't arrive becomes like a serpent, a monster in our minds, that devours us and takes all the "diamonds," all our purity and goodness. We are consumed by resentment and hostility – all because of our imagination – for in truth, that young man or woman did not get engaged… The entire field of advertising is based on this realization of how the human imagination works. Colorful billboards put images in our minds that fester. We see a model wearing certain clothes – and we think of ourselves looking just as good. We see an advertisement for a blissful vacation spot – and we imagine ourselves experiencing that bliss. We see an advertisement for a car – and we imagine ourselves driving that car while our neighbors look on with envy. This is how the snake succeeded in luring Adam and Havah. It made them imagine unbridled bliss that they would experience if they ate the forbidden fruit. Most human vices work the same way. We are tempted not by the thing itself, but by our imagination, which deceives us into thinking that we will experience unparalleled joy and contentment if we do whatever it is we feel tempted to do. Our imagination can bring us precious diamonds – helping us rise to great heights and accomplish amazing things, but it can also ruin us by fooling us into looking for joy and satisfaction in the wrong places. The story of Adam and Havah teaches us that we need to keep our "snake" in check. Our imagination is both our best friend and our worst enemy. We must use it wisely – to dream, to aspire, to set bold and ambitious goals, to strive for greatness, but not to feel jealous, angry, embittered, or greedy. Let's imagine ourselves doing great things and becoming great – and then focus our attention on getting there.

The Midrash tells us something fascinating about the snake that lured Adam and Havah to sin, encouraging Havah to eat fruit from the forbidden tree, after which she shared some of the fruit with Adam. This snake, the Midrash relates, was previously the greatest servant man ever had. It would go to distant lands, find beautiful gems, and bring them to Adam. Meaning, the same snake that enticed Adam and Havah to sin was also their greatest helper, who brought them precious diamonds! How do we explain these two sides of the snake – how on the one hand, it helped Adam and Havah, but on the other hand, it brought about their downfall? We might find the answer in another source that talks about snakes and diamonds. The Gemara, in Masechet Baba Batra (74b), tells the story of people traveling on a ship who saw a precious diamond surrounded by a snake. A diver brought the diamond onto the ship, but the snake then came to devour the entire ship. A bird flew down and bit the serpent's head. Then another snake came to devour the ship, but it, too, was killed. This repeated itself several times. The Malbim explains the symbolism of this story. We are created as "diamonds." We are created with a soul that is pure and pristine, with which we are to live a pure and pristine life. The problem is the "snake" that comes and ruins everything, by attacking our pure minds. And each time we manage to defeat the "snake," it comes again, and again. This "snake" is our imagination. As the Midrash tells us, the imagination is our most valuable asset, which brings us precious "gems." Nothing was ever built, created or innovated without imagination. Our imagination is what enables us to see what can be made, to see what we can become, to see what we can create, which is the first critical step toward achievement. Because of our imagination, we have dreams and ambitions that propel us forward and drive us to work and accomplish great things. But like the snake, our imagination can also bring about our downfall. Here's a simple example. We hear about a friend's son or daughter who is about to get engaged, and we feel overjoyed for that friend. But days and weeks go by, and we don't receive an invitation. Our imagination starts running wild. We start thinking that this friend is upset because of this or that, or just plain forgot about us, even though we made a point of inviting that friend to all our events. This invitation that doesn't arrive becomes like a serpent, a monster in our minds, that devours us and takes all the "diamonds," all our purity and goodness. We are consumed by resentment and hostility – all because of our imagination – for in truth, that young man or woman did not get engaged… The entire field of advertising is based on this realization of how the human imagination works. Colorful billboards put images in our minds that fester. We see a model wearing certain clothes – and we think of ourselves looking just as good. We see an advertisement for a blissful vacation spot – and we imagine ourselves experiencing that bliss. We see an advertisement for a car – and we imagine ourselves driving that car while our neighbors look on with envy. This is how the snake succeeded in luring Adam and Havah. It made them imagine unbridled bliss that they would experience if they ate the forbidden fruit. Most human vices work the same way. We are tempted not by the thing itself, but by our imagination, which deceives us into thinking that we will experience unparalleled joy and contentment if we do whatever it is we feel tempted to do. Our imagination can bring us precious diamonds – helping us rise to great heights and accomplish amazing things, but it can also ruin us by fooling us into looking for joy and satisfaction in the wrong places. The story of Adam and Havah teaches us that we need to keep our "snake" in check. Our imagination is both our best friend and our worst enemy. We must use it wisely – to dream, to aspire, to set bold and ambitious goals, to strive for greatness, but not to feel jealous, angry, embittered, or greedy. Let's imagine ourselves doing great things and becoming great – and then focus our attention on getting there.

Sukkot is called זמן שמחתנו – "the time of our joy," and indeed, the dominant theme of this holiday is simchah – joy. In the times of the Bet Ha'mikdash , a festive celebration called the שמחת בית השואבה was held each night of Sukkot in the courtyard of the Bet Ha'mikdash with music and dancing. Today, שמחה בית השואבה celebrations are held in many communities during Sukkot to commemorate the festivities in the Bet Ha'mikdash . There is a certain irony in the fact that specifically on this זמן שמחתנו , we are commanded to leave our comfortable homes and reside in a sukkah . The sukkah is a crude, temporary structure, and it is often cramped, chilly, and at times damp. How are these uncomfortable living quarters conducive to the experience of simchah ? The answer might be that this is precisely the point – to teach us that simchah does not depend on perfect circumstances. If we cannot experience joy under less-than-ideal conditions, then we will never experience simchah , because life is hardly ever ideal. And so specifically on זמן שמחתנו , on the holiday of the greatest joy, we leave our homes and reside in the sukkah . In the first pasuk of Tehillim, King David warns us about מושב ליצים – "the company of scoffers." The ליצים – scoffers – are exceedingly dangerous. They can destroy everything, and they can do it very quickly. These are the people who sit around the Shabbat table criticizing, mocking and ridiculing. It's usually the Rabbi, or the entire shul, or the school... They find fault in something, and then paint the whole thing as bad, igniting a flame of negativity that can spread like wildfire. ליצנות – mockery – is so destructive, and it is oh so easy. If I wanted to, I could in a split-second ruin the reputation of any rabbi, lay leader or institution in our community – including myself. I could find more than a couple of mistakes I made and then start talking about them to people to make myself look bad. And I could do this about anyone and anything. No person is perfect, and no institution is perfect. There is always what to complain about – and so many people love complaining, focusing on the flaws and making something or someone good look very bad. The scoffers appear to enjoy doing this, but, as the Sukkot celebration teaches us, joy is achieved by doing just the opposite. If we always focus on what's imperfect, we will be very unhappy. A happy life is a life when we can enjoy the sukkah , when we feel content and happy even with things that aren't perfect. A well-known story is told about a man who approached his Rabbi in anguish, asking him to speak to his son, who was going to marry a non-Jewish girl. Nothing the father said could convince the boy to change his mind, so he wanted the Rabbi to try. After meeting with the young man for an hour, the Rabbi soberly reported to the father that there was nothing he could do. "Sorry, but you made me useless," the Rabbi said. "You would sit around the table every Shabbat complaining about me, making fun of my speeches and the way I ran the shul. Your son has no respect for me." This is what negativity does. When we always focus on what's wrong, instead of appreciating and praising what's right, we make everything look miserable – and our children, understandably, are not going to want to have any part of it. Sukkot teaches us to find joy and satisfaction even in the imperfect, to direct our attention to all that is good about life and about the people around us, so we can live with genuine happiness under all circumstances, and thereby spread joy instead of negativity.

Sukkot is called זמן שמחתנו – "the time of our joy," and indeed, the dominant theme of this holiday is simchah – joy. In the times of the Bet Ha'mikdash , a festive celebration called the שמחת בית השואבה was held each night of Sukkot in the courtyard of the Bet Ha'mikdash with music and dancing. Today, שמחה בית השואבה celebrations are held in many communities during Sukkot to commemorate the festivities in the Bet Ha'mikdash . There is a certain irony in the fact that specifically on this זמן שמחתנו , we are commanded to leave our comfortable homes and reside in a sukkah . The sukkah is a crude, temporary structure, and it is often cramped, chilly, and at times damp. How are these uncomfortable living quarters conducive to the experience of simchah ? The answer might be that this is precisely the point – to teach us that simchah does not depend on perfect circumstances. If we cannot experience joy under less-than-ideal conditions, then we will never experience simchah , because life is hardly ever ideal. And so specifically on זמן שמחתנו , on the holiday of the greatest joy, we leave our homes and reside in the sukkah . In the first pasuk of Tehillim, King David warns us about מושב ליצים – "the company of scoffers." The ליצים – scoffers – are exceedingly dangerous. They can destroy everything, and they can do it very quickly. These are the people who sit around the Shabbat table criticizing, mocking and ridiculing. It's usually the Rabbi, or the entire shul, or the school... They find fault in something, and then paint the whole thing as bad, igniting a flame of negativity that can spread like wildfire. ליצנות – mockery – is so destructive, and it is oh so easy. If I wanted to, I could in a split-second ruin the reputation of any rabbi, lay leader or institution in our community – including myself. I could find more than a couple of mistakes I made and then start talking about them to people to make myself look bad. And I could do this about anyone and anything. No person is perfect, and no institution is perfect. There is always what to complain about – and so many people love complaining, focusing on the flaws and making something or someone good look very bad. The scoffers appear to enjoy doing this, but, as the Sukkot celebration teaches us, joy is achieved by doing just the opposite. If we always focus on what's imperfect, we will be very unhappy. A happy life is a life when we can enjoy the sukkah , when we feel content and happy even with things that aren't perfect. A well-known story is told about a man who approached his Rabbi in anguish, asking him to speak to his son, who was going to marry a non-Jewish girl. Nothing the father said could convince the boy to change his mind, so he wanted the Rabbi to try. After meeting with the young man for an hour, the Rabbi soberly reported to the father that there was nothing he could do. "Sorry, but you made me useless," the Rabbi said. "You would sit around the table every Shabbat complaining about me, making fun of my speeches and the way I ran the shul. Your son has no respect for me." This is what negativity does. When we always focus on what's wrong, instead of appreciating and praising what's right, we make everything look miserable – and our children, understandably, are not going to want to have any part of it. Sukkot teaches us to find joy and satisfaction even in the imperfect, to direct our attention to all that is good about life and about the people around us, so we can live with genuine happiness under all circumstances, and thereby spread joy instead of negativity.

I once witnessed the following scene in a busy shul in Brookyln with lots of minyanim . A young man approached someone to ask for tzedakah , explaining that he was getting married and needed help. The man handed him his credit card and told him to charge $52. Just then, someone else passed by, and this fellow asked him if he could help. The guy pulled out a $1 bill and handed it to him. He said, "Thank you." He then turned to the first fellow, who had given him his card, and said, "Look, I need a pair of nice shoes for the wedding. Maybe you can give a little more?" At first I was astonished. That second guy gave him $1 and got a "thank you," but the first, who offered him $52, got a request for more. How could that be? Very quickly, though, I understood why this happened. The "$1 guy" isn't going to do much more, but the "$52 guy" is capable of more. Someone who gave just one dollar cannot be expected to give anything beyond that, but someone who is able and willing to give $52 is likely to be able and willing to give even more than that. Sure enough, the first guy told the fellow to charge the card for an additional $50. I believe this is the mistake that so many of us make – especially this time of year – which hinders our growth, which stops us from becoming better. We all see ourselves as pretty good people, or even very good people – and we are right. We are good people. The problem is that although we give $52, we want to be left alone like the guy who gave $1. Specifically because we feel good about who we are – as we certainly should!!! – we feel that it's enough, that we don't need to try any harder. I imagine that if I had accomplished by the age of 20 all that Rav Ovadia Yosef zt"l accomplished by that age, I would feel pretty content. He was already an outstanding scholar who had mastered pretty much all of Torah. But he was not content. Not at all. He went on to not only write dozens of important books of halachah and answer untold numbers of halachic questions, but to devote himself tirelessly to the Jewish People, uplifting the entirety of Sephardic Jewry. He didn't think what he accomplished was enough – because he knew how much more he could do, and he was prepared to work as hard as was necessary to do it. The story is told of a man who bought his son an antique car for his college graduation. He told him to go find out how much the car was worth. The son came back and told his father that he brought the car to a dealership, and they said that it could hardly drive. It was worth at most $500. "Bring it to a pawn shop," the father instructed. The boy came back and reported that the guy at the pawn shop said it might be worth as much as $1000. The father then told his son to bring the car to a classic car club. The owners of the club were so excited by the car. They offered the young man $100,000 for it. "This is the lesson I want you to learn," the father said. "Some people will see how much value you have, other people won't. Always know just how valuable you are." Our problem is that we don't know our value. We see ourselves as $52 people, and so this is all we give. We need to understand that we have so much more to give, so much more to contribute, and so much more to achieve. We were not brought to this world to be just ok. We were brought here to be everything we are capable of being. There is also a second obstacle that stops many of us from growing. In the Book of Devarim (10:12), Moshe turns to the people and says to them, ועתה ישראל מה ה' אלוקיך שואל מעמך, כי אם ליראה את ה' אלוקיך – "And now, Israel, what does Hashem your G-d ask of you, other than that you fear Hashem your G-d…" The Midrash teaches that the word ועתה is a reference to teshuvah , repentance. This means that the key to teshuvah is ועתה – "now," a sense of urgency, the decision to change right now, without delaying any more. Even when we realize that we can and should do better, we often delay change. We figure we'll work on it tomorrow, or next week, or next year, or after this happens or that happens. The key to change is to get started now. Even if it's just one small step – we cannot wait. ועתה . We need to start today, right now, with everything going on, with all the issues we're struggling with – because right now, today, is the time to start. As we head into Rosh Hashanah, let's not wait. Let's challenge ourselves right now to be more than we are, to be everything that we can be – because this, and nothing less, is what we need to be.

I once witnessed the following scene in a busy shul in Brookyln with lots of minyanim . A young man approached someone to ask for tzedakah , explaining that he was getting married and needed help. The man handed him his credit card and told him to charge $52. Just then, someone else passed by, and this fellow asked him if he could help. The guy pulled out a $1 bill and handed it to him. He said, "Thank you." He then turned to the first fellow, who had given him his card, and said, "Look, I need a pair of nice shoes for the wedding. Maybe you can give a little more?" At first I was astonished. That second guy gave him $1 and got a "thank you," but the first, who offered him $52, got a request for more. How could that be? Very quickly, though, I understood why this happened. The "$1 guy" isn't going to do much more, but the "$52 guy" is capable of more. Someone who gave just one dollar cannot be expected to give anything beyond that, but someone who is able and willing to give $52 is likely to be able and willing to give even more than that. Sure enough, the first guy told the fellow to charge the card for an additional $50. I believe this is the mistake that so many of us make – especially this time of year – which hinders our growth, which stops us from becoming better. We all see ourselves as pretty good people, or even very good people – and we are right. We are good people. The problem is that although we give $52, we want to be left alone like the guy who gave $1. Specifically because we feel good about who we are – as we certainly should!!! – we feel that it's enough, that we don't need to try any harder. I imagine that if I had accomplished by the age of 20 all that Rav Ovadia Yosef zt"l accomplished by that age, I would feel pretty content. He was already an outstanding scholar who had mastered pretty much all of Torah. But he was not content. Not at all. He went on to not only write dozens of important books of halachah and answer untold numbers of halachic questions, but to devote himself tirelessly to the Jewish People, uplifting the entirety of Sephardic Jewry. He didn't think what he accomplished was enough – because he knew how much more he could do, and he was prepared to work as hard as was necessary to do it. The story is told of a man who bought his son an antique car for his college graduation. He told him to go find out how much the car was worth. The son came back and told his father that he brought the car to a dealership, and they said that it could hardly drive. It was worth at most $500. "Bring it to a pawn shop," the father instructed. The boy came back and reported that the guy at the pawn shop said it might be worth as much as $1000. The father then told his son to bring the car to a classic car club. The owners of the club were so excited by the car. They offered the young man $100,000 for it. "This is the lesson I want you to learn," the father said. "Some people will see how much value you have, other people won't. Always know just how valuable you are." Our problem is that we don't know our value. We see ourselves as $52 people, and so this is all we give. We need to understand that we have so much more to give, so much more to contribute, and so much more to achieve. We were not brought to this world to be just ok. We were brought here to be everything we are capable of being. There is also a second obstacle that stops many of us from growing. In the Book of Devarim (10:12), Moshe turns to the people and says to them, ועתה ישראל מה ה' אלוקיך שואל מעמך, כי אם ליראה את ה' אלוקיך – "And now, Israel, what does Hashem your G-d ask of you, other than that you fear Hashem your G-d…" The Midrash teaches that the word ועתה is a reference to teshuvah , repentance. This means that the key to teshuvah is ועתה – "now," a sense of urgency, the decision to change right now, without delaying any more. Even when we realize that we can and should do better, we often delay change. We figure we'll work on it tomorrow, or next week, or next year, or after this happens or that happens. The key to change is to get started now. Even if it's just one small step – we cannot wait. ועתה . We need to start today, right now, with everything going on, with all the issues we're struggling with – because right now, today, is the time to start. As we head into Rosh Hashanah, let's not wait. Let's challenge ourselves right now to be more than we are, to be everything that we can be – because this, and nothing less, is what we need to be.

The "highlight," so-to-speak, of the Rosh Hashanah prayers is the sounding of the shofar. In all, 100 sounds are blown over the course of the prayer service on Rosh Hashanah. What is the meaning and significance of this mitzvah , and what should we be thinking and feeling when we hear the shofar sound? To introduce the answer, let's consider an analogy to a very common situation: a mother comes home and sees a big mess in the house. She turns to her kids and asks them to spend a few minutes straightening up. She goes upstairs to change. When she comes back down, she sees the exact same mess, and the kids sitting in the exact same places where they were beforehand. They completely ignored her request, as though she did not even exist. This simple scenario helps us understand the concept of teshuvah , repentance, which is what the shofar blowing is all about. Whenever we sin, whenever we do something wrong, we are, in effect, ignoring Hashem. We're acting as though Hashem is not here with us, as though He is not part of our lives. After all, if we made Him part of our lives, if we were aware of His presence, then we would never have dared to do something He told us not to do. So each time we commit a sin, we are pushing Hashem out of our lives a little more. Teshuvah is the desire to bring Hashem back into our lives. It is a fierce, desperate longing to restore that relationship, the feeling that we cannot live without Him, that we need Him with us. This explains the Gemara's famous teaching that when a person performs teshuvah sincerely, his sins are not just erased, but transformed into merits. This is astonishing – our sins can become mitzvot if we perform teshuvah properly. We actually receive reward for the sins! How does this work? The answer is that when we perform teshuvah , the distance created by the sin makes us long for closeness with Hashem even more. We feel disconnected from Him, and this makes our yearning much stronger. It thus turns out that the sin led to a strengthening of the person's bond with Hashem, and so it is transformed into a mitzvah . The sound of the shofar has no words. It is a cry from the innermost depths of our souls. We are crying out for closeness with Hashem. We are yearning for a stronger relationship. When we hear the shofar sound, we should be thinking about how much we want and need Hashem in our lives, and how much we regret driving Him out of our lives through our mistaken behavior. This isn't about being sad; it's about longing and yearning, a desperate feeling of needing someone whom we had pushed away. If we can experience this longing on Rosh Hashanah, then we will transform our misdeeds into great sources of merit, and, no less importantly, we will put ourselves in a position to make this coming year much better than the previous year, a year when we avoid many of the mistakes we've made in the past, and when we truly live with Hashem each and every day.