Insight of the Week

Shavuot- Being G-d's Servants The Mechilta famously tells that before G-d gave the Torah to Beneh Yisrael, He offered it to other nations. He first asked the descendants of Esav if they wanted the Torah, and they replied by questioning what the Torah demanded. G-d said that the Torah forbids murder – whereupon the people of Esav said they could not possibly abide by such a command. G-d then offered the Torah to the nation of Moab, and they, too, asked what it entailed. He said that it forbids immorality, illicit intimate relationships – and the people of Moab refused. G-d then offered the Torah to the nation of Yishmael. When they heard that the Torah forbids stealing, they declined. One of the commentators to the Mishna – the Mirkebet Ha'mishneh (Rav David Moshe Abraham Ashkenazi, 1680-1745) – explains the meaning and significance of this story. The Mechilta here is teaching us that accepting the Torah requires accepting the parts of the Torah that we find difficult, that force us to go against our natural instincts and inclinations. Hashem first told the people of Esav about the prohibition of murder – because they were violent by nature, and in order to accept the Torah, they needed to commit to restraining their violent impulse. This is something they were not prepared to do. And the same is true of Moab and immorality, and Yishmael and theft. The first thing G-d told each of them was the command which they would find most difficult – because this is precisely what accepting the Torah requires: that we be prepared to break our nature, to act in opposition to our instinctive tendencies. Rav Yisrael Salanter, in one of his more famous letters ( Or Yisrael , 17), elaborates on this concept, on the need to observe the Torah even when this is difficult, when this requires struggle. He writes that even if a person observes many Misvot, and generally follows a religious lifestyle, he might still not earn the title "Ebed Hashem" – a servant of Hashem. An "Ebed," a servant, is somebody who works ("Obed"). If a person fulfills Misvot only when he finds it convenient, what it does not entail hardship or difficulty, then he is not working, and so he is not actually serving Hashem. We become Hashem's servants only when we commit to observe even those Misvot which we find challenging, to abide by Hashem's rules even when this demands a great deal of struggle. There is a famous Yiddish expression among Ashkenazi Jews, "Shver tsu zayn a Yid" – "It is difficult to be a Jew." This expression is commonly viewed with disdain, as something one should never say, as it reflects a cynical, negative attitude toward Judaism. We are to be proud of Jewish life and always emphasize – to ourselves, to our children, and to others – the unparalleled joy and beauty of Torah life. I would suggest, however, a different perspective on this expression, that it makes an important and powerful comment about what Judaism is all about. Being a Jew means remaining committed even when this is difficult. Of course, Jewish life is, generally, beautiful. But often, it requires struggling to overcome difficult challenges. And accepting the Torah means committing ourselves to follow the Torah even when this requires struggle. Thus, indeed, "it is difficult to be a Jew" – being a Jew means accepting that it will sometimes be difficult. When Hashem came to Beneh Yisrael to offer them the Torah, they immediately responded with the resounding declaration, "Na'aseh Ve'nishma" – "We will perform and we will hear" (Shemot 24:7). Curiously, however, the Gemara (Shabbat 88a) tells that Hashem suspended the mountain over Beneh Yisrael and threatened to drop it on them if they did not accept the Torah. Many commentators raised the question of why Hashem needed to threaten Beneh Yisrael after they had enthusiastically expressed their commitment by declaring "Na'aseh Ve'nishma." One answer is that Hashem sought to impress upon them the obligation to observe the Torah under all circumstances, even when it is difficult and inconvenient. It was easy to announce "Na'aseh Ve'nishma" – but there would be many times in the future when they would be far less enthusiastic, when Torah observance would be a challenge, when they would need to struggle. G-d therefore held the mountain over them – to make it clear that they were becoming His servants, and this means serving Him even when this requires hard work. We must serve Hashem not only when we are "in the mood," when we feel like it, but even when we don't. Every person has his own set of struggles in Torah observance. What comes easy for one person is a struggle for somebody else. We need to each find our own weaknesses, our own areas of struggle, the parts of Torah observance which pose a special challenge for us. We must then make the commitment to accept this struggle, to work hard, to put in the effort, to do the best we can, to serve Hashem to the very best of our ability even when we find it difficult.

Parashat Behar begins with the Misva of Shemita, which requires farmers to refrain from agricultural activity for an entire year every seven years. The Torah refers to this year as "Shabbat L'Hashem" – "A sabbath to God" (25:2), and as "Shabbat Shabbaton" (25:4), a phrase whose meaning is not, at first glance, clear. The Seforno (Rav Ovadia Seforno, Italy, 1475-1549) explains the first expression, "Shabbat L'Hashem," to mean that this year is to be devoted to Hashem. G-d commands farmers to refrain from agricultural work so that they can spend this year involved in Torah learning and prayer. Just as we refrain from work one day a week, Shabbat, in order to spend a day engrossed in spirituality, similarly, once in seven years, farmers are to spend a year devoted to the nurturing of their soul. As for the term "Shabbat Shabbaton," the Seforno writes that this instructs farmers to refrain also from certain activities related to agriculture that are not technically forbidden by the formal laws of Shemita. To understand the Seforno's intent, we must take a step back and examine the notion of the "Takanot" – the laws enacted by the Sages to safeguard the Torah. It goes without saying that the Torah is perfect, and does not and will never require any amending. The purpose of the Rabbis' "Takanot" was most certainly not to "improve" the already perfect Torah. Rather, they were intended to uphold the spirit of the law. It is possible, for example, for a person to avoid all the activities forbidden by the Torah on Shabbat, while treating the day not much different than a weekday. A businessman can run his business on Shabbat without performing any acts that constitute Biblical acts of Shabbat desecration. He can go to his office with a non-Jewish taxi service, manage his employees, and even write with a "Shinui" – a deviation, like with his weaker hand – such that he has a pretty typical business day without transgressing any Torah violations. A person can also spend Shabbat cleaning his garage and washing his car without desecrating Shabbat on the level of Torah law. Clearly, however, this is not how the Torah wants us to spend Shabbat. In addition to the letter of the law, there is the spirit of the law, the purpose for which the law exists. The Shabbat prohibitions are intended to create a certain atmosphere, an aura of serenity, joy, calm, holiness, and spiritual growth. The Rabbis saw that people were observing the letter of the law without observing the spirit of the law. In many areas, they were able to abide by the strict letter of the Torah's commands, but while missing the entire point of these commands. And so the Sages enacted many laws in order to ensure that we not only technically observe the Torah's commands, but also achieve the goals which these commands are meant to lead us to. According to the Seforno, this is the meaning of "Shabbat Shabbaton." The Torah indicates to us that besides refraining from the specific forms of agricultural activity forbidden by the laws of Shemita, farmers must also maintain a certain aura during this year, an aura of spiritual engagement and holiness. To that end, they are to refrain from even technically permissible forms of work, so that the Shemita year will be spent in a fundamentally different way than the other six years. What is true about Shabbat and Shemita is true also of our relationships. In a good marriage, the husband and wife do not need to be told what to do for one another, and what not to do. They understand what the other wants, and they try to fulfill those wishes to the best of their ability. I am reminded of the time when a fellow called me to ask if it was acceptable to miss his evening Torah study in order to go out with his wife for their anniversary. I told him that I don't have time for questions such as these. This should not even be asked. It should be obvious that one owes it to his wife to spend time with her on their anniversary. One does not need to ask a Rabbi to authorize his going out with his wife on their anniversary. This is something that he should not need to be told. The fellow went home and said, "The Rabbi said we can go out tonight." This is now how it is done. A man does not spend time with his wife because the Rabbi said so. He spends time with his wife because he knows that this is what she wants and what she expects. He should not wait to be told – by her or by a Rabbi – that this is what he should do. In our relationship with Hashem and in our relationships with other people, we are to extend beyond the technical "dos" and "don'ts," the strict letter of the law, and try as much as possible to do what we intuitively know they want us to do.

The famous second Mishna of Pirkeh Abot teaches that the world stands on three "pillars": Torah, Aboda (service of G-d), and Gemilut Hasadim (dispensing kindness). These three "pillars" are embodied by our three patriarchs – Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob. Abraham was the paragon of kindness, devoting his life to helping others. Even after undergoing Berit Mila at an advanced age, he sat outside in the scorching heat looking for people who needed hospitality. He spared no efforts in seeking to help any person who required assistance. Yishak, who was placed on an altar and nearly sacrificed, represents the highest standards of "Aboda," serving Hashem, living one's life in complete subservience to the Almighty and being prepared to make whatever sacrifices He demands. Finally, Yaakob Abinu embodies the quality of diligent Torah study, having spent the first decades of his life fully immersed in Torah learning. In light of this parallel, it seems that the Mishna's list of three "pillars" is presented out of order. We would have perhaps expected the Mishna to list the "pillars" in the order of the three Abot (patriarchs) – beginning with Hesed, followed by Aboda, and culminating with Torah, corresponding to the order of the Abot – Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob. The answer, perhaps, is that the Mishna wanted to emphasize that we need to learn Torah in order to achieve the other two pillars. Without Torah knowledge, we will not have the information we need to serve Hashem. A person who does not learn Torah will decide on his own how to pray, and how to perform Misvot. He will just make up his service of Hashem. We need to learn Torah in order to know how to perform "Aboda," how to serve Hashem in the right way. This is true also of Hesed. We might think that Hesed is instinctive and intuitive, that we can figure out on our own when and how to help other people. But this, too, is mistaken. The Torah guides us not only with regard to our service of Hashem, but also with regard to Hesed, explaining to us the right way to help people. We need to learn what our responsibilities and obligations are, when we are supposed to help, and what kind of help we are to offer. We find an example in the beginning of Parashat Emor, where the Torah presents a series of laws relevant to the Kohanim. A Kohen is not permitted to come in contact with a dead body, except in the case of the death of an immediate family member. Of course, we know that tending to the burial of the deceased is a precious Misva. But without learning Torah, we would not have known that for a Kohen, this is actually a sin, unless he is dealing with the remains of a family member. Moreover, a Kohen Gadol is not permitted to come in contact with a dead body even in the case of a deceased family member – but he is allowed, and even required, to tend to the burial of a Met Misva, a body that has nobody else to bury it. This is just one example of how we need the Torah to give us the guidelines of when and how to perform kindness. Torah knowledge is indispensable for living a life of Aboda and of Hesed. The "pillar" of Torah is therefore mentioned by the Mishna first – because without it, we can never reach the other two "pillars."

We find in Parashat Kedoshim (19:17) the command "Hochi'ah Tochi'ah Et Amitecha" – to reprimand one's fellow who acts improperly, so that he will improve his behavior. King Shlomo, in the Book of Mishleh (9:8), offers advice regarding the proper approach to the delicate topic of Tocheha – reprimanding and rebuking. He teaches, "Al Tochah Letz Pen Yisna'eka, Hochah Le'hacham Ve'ye'ehaveka" – "Do not reprimand the scoffer, lest he despise you; reprimand the wise, and he will love you." The simple meaning of this verse is that King Shlomo is telling us whom to criticize and whom not to criticize. The "Letz," the "scoffer," should not be expected to accept criticism, and so it is best not to criticize him. Many people are simply not receptive to criticism, as they assume they are always correct, and have little interest in hearing what others have to say. Their instinctive reaction to criticism is something to the effect of, "Who are you to talk?" "What do you know?" "Don't tell me what to do." The wise person, by contrast, understands that he has something to learn from all people, even those who are not necessarily as smart as he is. With wisdom comes the humility to recognize that all people, even the brightest and most successful, make mistakes and have more to learn. And so the wise person is open to constructive criticism, and willing to accept rebuke. Therefore, Shlomo tells us not to bother reprimanding the "Letz," the arrogant cynic, but to offer criticism to the wise person who is open to being corrected and advised. Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky (1891-1986) offered an additional explanation of this verse – suggesting that King Shlomo here teaches us not whom to reprimand, but how to reprimand. He is telling us that when we offer criticism, we should do so in a manner that makes the person feel like a wise person, and not like an evil "scoffer." Unfortunately, our instinct when giving criticism is to emphasize the severity of the misdeed, and how ashamed the person should feel for having committed such an act. This approach, while instinctive, is not only ineffective, but counterproductive. If we emphasize to the person the gravity of his wrongdoing, he is likely to either reject the criticism altogether, or simply despair. He will either not want to own up to the fact that he did something terrible, and thus dismiss the criticism, or he will acknowledge the severity of his bad behavior and decide that he's just bad and so there is no reason for him to try to improve. King Shlomo thus advises us, "Do not reprimand the scoffer" – do not criticize in a way that makes the person feel lowly. Instead, "…reprimand the wise" – make him feel important, wise and capable. The right way to criticize is by emphasizing to the individual his greatness, his vast potential, how much Hashem loves him and wants him to do the right thing, how much he is capable of achieving. If we criticize in a manner that makes the person feel "wise" and capable of greatness, then he will embrace the criticism, rather than reject it. This perhaps sheds new light on the continuation of the verse here in Parashat Kedoshim. After commanding, "Hochi'ah Tochi'ah Et Amitecha," the Torah adds, "Ve'lo Tisa Alav Het." This is commonly understood to mean, "and do not bear sin on his account," that is to say, if we fail to criticize, then we are held partially accountable for the person's continued misconduct. Alternatively, however, this could be read to mean, "Do not elevate the sin." When we reprimand, we should not emphasize the severity of the act, which will cause the person to despair. Rather than "elevate" the sin, we should instead elevate the person. We should emphasize not how bad the person behaved, but rather how good he is capable of behaving, how great he can become. This is a critical lesson relevant to education. When raising children or teaching students, the focus must be on building the child's self-esteem, making the child feel capable and helping him realize his potential. Rather than "elevate" the child's inevitable mistakes and failings, we must instead "elevate" his sense of self-worth, so he recognizes how great he can be and sets out to achieve that greatness.

Most of Parashiyot Tazria and Mesora deals with the intricate laws of Sara'at – a kind of infection which would surface on people's skin, garments, or homes. The Torah outlines specific requirements that must be obeyed by a person who sees a suspicious discoloration that might signify the presence of Sara'at, as well as the procedures to be followed should a discoloration be confirmed as Sara'at. A person confirmed to be stricken with bodily Sara'at would be banished from his city until he is cured. A garment with Sara'at, in certain situations, needed to be burned, and a home stricken with Sara'at would, in some instances, be dismantled. The Rabbis explained that Sara'at would befall a person as a punishment for certain sins. Even Sara'at on the body was not a medical condition, some sort of dermatological disorder. It was rather a punishment that G-d would bring upon a person on account of his misdeeds. In light of this, Rav Moshe Alshich (Sefat, 1508-1593) raised the question of why the Torah begins its discussion of Sara'at by addressing the situation of "Adam Ki Yiheyeh Be'or Besaro Se'et O Sapahat…" – where an "Adam" has a discoloration on his skin. "Adam" is one of several different words used by the Torah in reference to the human being, and the Alshich writes that this word refers specifically to "Shelomeh Emuneh Yisrael" – the faithfully observant among the Jewish people. It signifies a high level of obedience to Hashem, and is thus reserved for those who are religiously committed. The question naturally arises, then, as to why it is used here, in Parashat Tazria, in reference to a person stricken by Sara'at. If Sara'at would befall somebody who was guilty of grave misdeeds, then why is he called "Adam" – a title of distinction reserved for the spiritually devoted? The Alshich answers that to the contrary, it is only those who are generally righteous and pure whose bodies are impacted by the impurity of sin. If a person is entirely impure, then the sins he commits do not affect him to such an extent that he would be stricken by Sara'at because of them. It is only if a person is otherwise pure that an occasional misdeed would result in a Sara'at infection. A stain is noticeable only on an otherwise clean garment; if a garment is already covered with mud, a drop of food that falls on it will not be discernible. Likewise, it is only in a generally "clean" soul that the "stain" of sin causes a Sara'at infection. For this reason, the Alshich writes, Sara'at does not occur nowadays – because we are not on a high enough level of purity that the contamination of an occasional sin would leave an impression in the form of Sara'at. The Alshich explains on this basis a word used by the Torah later in this introductory verse: "VE'HAYA Be'or Besaro Le'nega Sara'at" ("And it shall be in the skin of his flesh a Sara'at affliction"). Ironically, the word "Ve'haya" is understood by our Sages as an allusion to joy. When this word is used, the Gemara (Megilla 10) teaches, it indicates an element of celebration. Seemingly, then, the word "Ve'haya" has no place here in the context of Sara'at infections. The Alshich explains that while the manifestation of Sara'at is, of course, very unfortunate, a harsh punishment brought upon a sinner, at the same time, it is a cause for joy, as it shows the person's overall stature of greatness. The fact that his "stain" is discernible proves that his soul is otherwise "clean." The onset of Sara'at thus brings the joy of knowing that one is generally pure and can retain his state of pristine purity through the process of Teshuba, by correcting the misdeeds for which he was punished with Sara'at.

The Torah in Parashat Shemini introduces the subject of "Ma'achalot Asurot" – the forbidden foods, outlining the general principles that govern which foods are permissible for consumption and which are not. In its conclusion of this topic, the Torah connects these laws to the concept of Kedusha, the sanctity of Beneh Yisrael: "Ve'hitkadishtem Vi'hyitem Kedoshim Ki Kadosh Ani" – "You shall sanctify yourselves and be sacred, for I am sacred…" (11:44). This association between "Ma'achalot Asurot" and the concept of Kedusha is underscored by the Rambam, who includes these laws in the "Kedusha" section of his halachic code. To explain this connection, Rav Eliyahu Bakshi-Doron (1941-2020), former Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel, draws our attention to an important passage in the Midrash Tanhuma (Shemini, 6), which offers an analogy to a doctor who visited two ailing patients. He noticed that the first patient was gravely ill with little chance of surviving, whereas the second was likely to recover. The doctor told the first patient's family member to feed him whichever foods he wanted, whereas the family of the second patient were given very strict instructions regarding the patient's diet. Since the first patient in any event was not likely to live, the doctor explained, he could be allowed to enjoy whichever foods he wished. The second, however, had the potential to live, and so he needed to care for his health so that he could recover. The Midrash explains that the same is true of Am Yisrael and the other nations of the world. While there is no physical difference between us, and our bodies are no different than the bodies of other peoples, we are destined to "live," as the verse says in the Book of Debarim (4:4), "Ve'atem Ha'debekim B'Hashem Elokechem Haim Kulechem" – "And you, who are attached to Hashem your G-d, are living." Rav Bakshi-Doron explains that we are destined to receive a portion in the next world, in the eternal afterlife, where our souls will exist together with Hashem, and this is the "life" to which we are uniquely destined. We are "sacred" in the sense that we are given the potential to build a special connection with the Almighty. Therefore, we are given a special "diet" that we must follow. We of course do not understand the spiritual effects of kosher food and non-kosher food, but Hashem Himself – the greatest "doctor" – informed us of which foods we must abstain from in order to preserve our spiritual health so we can build a unique connection with Him and become the holy people that we are meant to become. Rav Bakshi-Doron adds that this explains why the laws of "Ma'achalot Asurot" appear here in Parashat Shemini, which also tells of the events that took place when the Mishkan was inaugurated. The purpose of the Mishkan, as Hashem famously told Moshe back in Parashat Teruma (Shemot 25:8), is "Ve'shachanti Be'tocham" – that Hashem would reside among His people. Through the Mishkan, Hashem came to live intimately with us, to dwell within each and every member of our nation. The Mishkan, then, signifies the special relationship that we are to build with our Creator, the unique spiritual potential that we have been given. This is the connection between the Mishkan – the most powerful symbol of our unique spiritual potential – and "Ma'achalot Asurot," the laws we must observe in order to bring that potential into fruition. Hashem chose us to become a special nation – and to that end, He equipped us with special potential and abilities. This does not mean we are naturally better than others – rather, it means that we are given the responsibility and the challenge to rise to greater heights, and we are guaranteed the ability to meet this challenge if we truly strive to. Once we recognize our unique spiritual mission, and the unique potential we have to complete this mission, we will feel more confident and more driven to pursue spiritual greatness, to maximize our potential, and become the great people that we are expected to become.

* This week's Derasha is dedicated in memory of Avraham ben Gemilah* Toward the end of Maggid – the main section of the Haggadah, when we discuss Yesiat Misrayim in fulfillment of the obligation to speak about the miraculous Exodus from Egypt on this night – we cite a Halachic ruling of Rabban Gamliel regarding the obligation of the Seder. Rabban Gamliel stated that one must discuss at the Seder the meaning of the Korban Pesach (paschal sacrifice), the Masa, and the Marror, and if one does not, then he does not fulfill his obligation. At my Seder, when we reach this point, I make sure that everyone who had left the table – such as the women arranging the food in the kitchen – returns to the table, and that this passage is read in both in Hebrew and English, so that it will be clearly understood by all. One of the questions that arise regarding this section is its sequence. Rabban Gamliel lists the three Misvot which must be discussed in the order of Pesach, Masa and Marror. Seemingly, this order is incorrect; the Marror should be discussed first. After all, the Marror commemorates the bitterness of slavery, whereas the Korban Pesach commemorates the miraculous plague of the firstborn on the night of Yesiat Misrayim, and the Masa commemorates our ancestors' hasty, frantic departure from Egypt. Quite obviously, Beneh Yisrael first experienced the bitterness of slavery, and then the miracle of the plague of the firstborn. The correct order, therefore, should be Marror, Pesach, Masa. Why did Rabban Gamliel move the Marror to the end of the list? To answer this question, we need to revisit the meaning and significance of the Marror. The Gemara instructs that the best option for Marror is "Hasa," which we call Romaine lettuce. Although this lettuce is not particularly bitter, it is the preferred choice because of its name – "Hasa" which alludes to the fact that "Has Ha'Kadosh Baruch Hu Alenu" – Hashem had mercy and compassion upon us. This seems very strange. If the entire purpose of the Marror is to remind us of the "bitterness," the pain and suffering that our ancestors endured, then why would we associate the Marror with compassion? Hashem's compassion was shown at the time of Yesiat Misrayim, not during the years of bitterness. Why, then, do we want the name of the vegetable used for Marror to allude to Hashem's mercy? The answer is that, indeed, the "bitterness" of slavery was an expression of Hashem's mercy and compassion. To understand how, let us consider an analogy to mortgage payments. A person with a mortgage can choose different payment plans. One possibility is to pay small, relatively easy sums each month, for a lengthy period of time. But he could also choose to "tighten his belt,", cutting back on other expenses so he can afford to pay more of his debt each month. This way, he is able to get out of debt faster. For reasons we do not fully understand, Hashem had told Abraham Abinu that his descendants would endure a 400-year period of slavery. However, Hashem saw that Beneh Yisrael would not survive such a lengthy period of exile. Beneh Yisrael were submerged in the impurity of Egypt, and had they remained there for 400 years, they would have plummeted to the lowest depths, from which they could not recover. Hashem therefore decided to increase the "monthly payments," so-to-speak, by intensifying the workload, so they could leave 190 years early – after just 210 years of slavery. The suffering the people endured during those 210 years amounted to the suffering they were to have experienced over the course of 400 years of bondage. It turns out, then, that the "bitterness" was a crucial component of the redemption from Egypt. Beneh Yisrael were able to leave Egypt only because they suffered not only exile, but "bitterness," such that 400 years' worth of exile was condensed into 210 years. Had this not happened, they could never have been redeemed. This easily explains why we eat "Hasa" as our Marror – because the bitterness commemorated by the Marror was indeed a manifestation of Hashem's boundless kindness and compassion for His beloved nation. With this in mind, we can return to Rabban Gamliel's statement. He listed "Pesach, Masa, Marror" in this sequence because it was only after the "Pesach" and the "Masa" that Beneh Yisrael understood the nature of the "Marror." While they were suffering, everything appeared "bitter." But later, in retrospect, after they left Egypt, they understood that the bitterness of those 210 years allowed them to "pay" their "debt" more quickly, which was critical for their survival as a people. We therefore discuss first the Korban Pesach and Masa, the redemption from Egypt, and then we are in a position to properly understand the Marror, the indispensable role played by the "bitterness" of slavery in the process of redemption. This might also be the reason why we dip the Marror in the sweet Haroset – to symbolize the fact that the bitterness of slavery was actually "sweet," as it ensured our ancestors' survival and eventual redemption. This is something we must remember during our own "bitter" periods, when we face challenges and hardship. At the moment, we see nothing "sweet" or beneficial about the difficult situation that we are experiencing. But we must trust that this "Marror," as "bitter" as it feels, is actually to our benefit. As regarding our ancestors' bondage in Egypt, Hashem is acting kindly toward us even when we endure hardship. This belief helps us remain strong and confident even in life's more challenging moments, as we will trust that everything we are going through is, in truth, to our benefit.

On the first night of Pesach, we begin the Arbit prayer with the recitation of the 107 th chapter of Tehillim. This chapter opens with the exclamation, "Hodu L'Hashem Ki Tob, Ki Le'olam Hasdo" – "Thank G-d, for He is good, for His kindness is eternal." The selection of this chapter as the introduction to the night of the seder is very significant, because it encapsulates the essence of this night. The seder is what we might call the Jewish "thanksgiving dinner," as it revolves around the theme of gratitude, thanking Hashem for all He has done for us. In fact, this chapter of Tehillim proceeds to describe the four situations which require a person to bring a Korban Toda – a thanksgiving sacrifice in the Bet Ha'mikdash, or, nowadays, to recite Birkat Ha'gomel, thanking Hashem for saving him. These four situations are a sea voyage, a trip through the desert, imprisonment, and serious illness. A person who emerges from any of these four perilous situations is required to bring a Korban Toda to express his gratitude to Hashem. Our ancestors experienced all four situations. They were released from bondage, from their "imprisonment" in Egypt, and the Sages teach that when they departed Egypt, all their physical ailments from which they suffered as a result of slavery were cured. They then crossed the sea and the desert. This is one of the reasons given for the obligation to drink four cups of wine at the seder. We drink one cup to express gratitude for each of these dangerous conditions from which our forefathers were rescued. Appropriately, therefore, we begin the Arbit service on this night with the chapter of Tehillim that speaks of the obligation to express gratitude to Hashem for these four forms of redemption, all of which are celebrated on the night of the seder. The Maharal of Prague (Rav Yehuda Loew, 1512-1609) asserted that this theme of the seder explains why we refer to the text read on this night with the term "Haggadah." The source of this term, the Maharal writes, is a Misva which has a surprising connection to the seder experience – the Misva of Bikkurim, which requires a farmer to bring the first of his orchard's fruits that ripen to the Bet Ha'mikdash and give them to a Kohen. When he arrived in the Bet Ha'mikdash, the farmer was to pronounce a special text dictated in the Torah (Debarim 26), a text commonly referred to as "Mikra Bikkurim." In this proclamation, the farmer would briefly recall his ancestors' period of slavery in Egypt, how they cried to Hashem, and how He miraculously brought them to freedom. The four verses of Mikra Bikkurim comprise the text that we use at the seder as the focal point of our discussion of Yesiat Misrayim (the Exodus from Egypt). Rather than go through the entire narrative of the Egyptian bondage and the Exodus, we go through the brief account of Mikra Bikkurim, carefully analyzing each phrase of this short text. The Maharal notes that the first words the Torah requires the farmer to declare upon arriving in the Bet Ha'mikdash with his fruits are "Higadeti Hayom L'Hashem Elokecha." The Aramaic Targum Yerushalmi translation of the Torah renders this verse as, "I give thanks and praise to Hashem your G-d." It thus turns out that the word "Higadeti," which we would normally translate as "I have told," actually means expressing praise and gratitude. And it is for this reason, the Maharal writes, that we refer to the text of the Pesach seder as the "Haggadah" – because this is the text we use to express our gratitude to Hashem, which is what the seder experience is all about. In the introduction to the Maggid section of the Haggadah, we announce, "Ve'chol Ha'marbeh Hareh Zeh Meshubah" – the more one speaks about Yesiat Misrayim on this night, the more praiseworthy he is. The Maharal writes that when it comes to expressing gratitude, the more the better. Saying "thank you" to someone who did us a favor might be enough to discharge our obligation, but we can and should do better than that. When expressing appreciation, we should be detailed and specific, and not hold back. The more gratitude we show, the better. There is so much negativity and cynicism all around us. There are so many people who criticize and complain about everything, who focus on what's wrong and then constantly talk about it. Let us counter this negativity with positivity, by indulging in gratitude, in appreciation, by regularly praising and being thankful for all the good there is. Of course, we live in an imperfect world, where there is always something to complain about. But we also live in a wonderful world with so much to be grateful for. And this should be our focus. May the upcoming night of gratitude motivate us to always see and direct our attention toward the goodness all around us and all that is right in our world, so we will live with joy and contentment even as we do our small part to address the world's imperfections in an effort to correct them.

We read in Parashat Pekudeh (40:2) of G-d's command to Moshe that the completed Mishkan should be erected on Rosh Hodesh Nissan, the first day of the month of Nissan. The Midrash tells that in truth, the artisans built the various parts of the Mishkan very quickly, and the Mishkan was ready to be assembled already earlier, on the 25 th of Kislev, a little over two months after the work began. However, Hashem decided to postpone the assembly of the Mishkan until the month of Nissan, due to the unique significance of this month. The Midrash continues that the 25 th of Kislev "protested," as it were, objecting to its having been denied the privilege of being a special day, the day of the Mishkan's inauguration. Hashem assured this day that it will be compensated – and, sure enough, many centuries later, the 25 th of Kislev became the first day of the joyous holiday of Hanukah, celebrating the Jews' miraculous triumph over the Greeks and the rededication of the Bet Ha'mikdash, which the Greeks had defiled. The day of 25 Kislev was at first denied its holiday – but it was later compensated with "interest." Whereas the first of Nissan, commemorating the inauguration of the temporary Mishkan, is not marked by a great deal of fanfare, the 25 th of Kislev became a day of great festivity observed by Jews around the world for millennia. The Midrash's comments bring to mind a different Midrashic account, regarding the fish in the Yam Suf (Sea of Reeds). When Hashem drowned the 600 Egyptian horsemen who had pursued Beneh Yisrael into the sea, the fish were overjoyed, and prepared to indulge in the robust feast that had just been presented to them. But just as they were set to eat, the bodies of the Egyptian horsemen were sent ashore. Beneh Yisrael feared that the soldiers had not drowned, but rather came ashore, and thus still posed a threat. In order to allay the people's concerns, Hashem had the sea expel the remains of the Egyptian warriors onto the shore where they were standing, so they would see them and know that their pursuers were indeed dead, and they were thus no longer in danger. The fish were, naturally, disappointed over the sudden loss of the large amounts of food that they thought they would soon be enjoying. Hashem repaid the fish years later, during the battle waged by Beneh Yisrael in the times of the prophetess Deborah against the army of Sisera. During this war, Hashem drowned the enemy's 900 chariots in the Kishon River. As compensation for having lost the 600 Egyptian horsemen – the fish were given 900 Canaanite soldiers. This is a reason given for the custom that many have to ensure to eat fish on Shabbat. Many people might have serious misgivings about closing their businesses on Shabbat, or about taking off from work, worrying about the loss of income. The fish reminds them that Hashem always repays in full – and with "interest" – for the sacrifices we make for Misvot. Whatever expense or loss we incur for the sake of a Misva is more than worth it – because we are guaranteed to receive much more than we've lost. The Gemara (Besa 15b) teaches that Hashem tells us: "My children! Borrow on My account to make the day [of Shabbat] sacred, and trust Me that I will repay." Hashem guarantees that all the money we spend for Shabbat and holidays is being charged to His account, and He will repay us in full. And, as we have seen, He not only repays the money we spend, but also gives us much more. Performing Misvot is always the greatest investment we can ever make, one which guarantees to bring us the most profitable returns.

In the beginning of Parashat Vayakhel, we read that Moshe assembled Beneh Yisrael and conveyed to them Hashem's command to observe the Shabbat. He singled out in particular the prohibition against kindling a fire on Shabbat: "Lo Teba'aru Esh Be'chol Moshebotechem Be'yom Ha'Shabbat" – "Do not kindle fire in all your residences on the day of Shabbat" (35:3). Different explanations have been given for why Moshe singled out this prohibition, which is but one of numerous restrictions by which we are bound on Shabbat. Rav Moshe Alshich (Sefat, 1508-1593) offers a unique interpretation of this verse, explaining that it speaks of kindling fire as part of the process of building the Mishkan. Moshe reiterated the command of Shabbat observance here as an introduction to the command to build the Mishkan, which appears immediately following this brief section regarding Shabbat. He was telling the people that although Hashem required them to build the Mishkan, the site of His residence among them, a project that was of paramount importance to the nation, nevertheless, this undertaking did not override the Shabbat prohibitions. Meaning, the work to build the Mishkan was to be suspended during Shabbat. Now the people might have wondered why this was the case. After all, once the Mishkan was built, sacrifices were offered there seven days a week, even on Shabbat, despite the fact that this entailed the suspension of several Shabbat prohibitions, such as slaughtering animals, and burning the various parts of the animal on the altar. We would have thus reasoned that if the service in the Mishkan was important enough to override the Shabbat restrictions, then the construction of the Mishkan, too, should warrant suspending these prohibitions, due to the singular importance of the service of Hashem in this site. Moshe responded to this question in this verse, by commanding, "Do not kindle fire in all your residences on the day of Shabbat." He emphasized that burning is forbidden on Shabbat in "your residences," and is allowed on Shabbat only in Hashem's "residence." Once the Mishkan was erected, it was considered the Almighty's residence, where the Shabbat laws were not binding. During the process of the Mishkan's construction, however, the Mishkan was not yet Hashem's residence. Until its completion, it was still considered the people's residence. As such, kindling fire was not allowed, even for the sake of building G-d's residence. It was only in the completed structure, once the Shechina (divine presence) descended and dwelled within it, that burning was permitted in the service of Hashem. Before that point, however, when the building site was still the people's residence, and not G-d's, burning was forbidden.

**This week's essay is dedicated in memory of Rosa bat Shafia** Parashat Ki-Tisa begins by completing the Torah's discussion of the construction of the Mishkan. In the previous Parashiyot, we read of the building and its furnishings, as well as the special garments worn by the Kohanim and the procedure required for their consecration. The Torah now completes its discussion by presenting a number of additional laws, such as the mandatory annual half-shekel tax ("Mahasit Ha'shekel"), the washing basin at the entrance of the Mishkan (Kiyor), the Ketoret (incense), the anointing oil (Shemen Ha'mish'ha), and the designation of Besalel as the chief artisan who would oversee the project. Having concluded its discussion of the Mishkan, the Torah then speaks of Shabbat, and the strict prohibition against its desecration. Rashi (31:13) explains that the command of Shabbat appears here to indicate that the construction of the Mishkan did not override the Shabbat prohibitions. Hashem was telling the people that as important as it was to build the Mishkan, the place where the Shechina (divine presence) would reside, this project did not supersede the laws of Shabbat, and so the work was to be discontinued on Shabbat. The Klausenberger Rebbe (Rav Yekutiel Yehuda Halberstam, 1905-1994) finds specific significance in the juxtaposition between the command of Shabbat and the immediately preceding verses. Just before the command of Shabbat in our Parasha, Hashem instructs that Besalel should lead the project to construct the Mishkan, and He lists all the various items which Besalel and his team were responsible for making. Near the end this list we find "Bigdeh Ha'kodesh Le'Aharon Ahicha, Ve'et Bigdeh Banav Le'chahen" – the priestly garments (31:10). The juxtaposition between these verses, the Rebbe explained, alludes to the importance of Bigdeh Shabbat – the special garments to be worn on Shabbat. Just as the Kohanim were required to wear special garments when they served in the holiest place – the Mishkan – so must we all wear special garments on the holiest day, Shabbat. Our special Shabbat clothes are our "Bigdeh Kehuna," our "priestly garments," that we are obligated to wear in order to properly respect the sacred day of Shabbat. The Klausenberger Rebbe notes in this context the famous tradition (Talmud Yerushalmi, Ta'anit 1:1) that if the Jewish People would properly observe one Shabbat, we would then be worthy of Mashiah's arrival. The reason, the Rebbe explains, is based on a passage in the Midrash (Bereshit Rabba 65:16) in which Rabban Shimon Ben Gamliel extols the extraordinary lengths that Esav went to for the sake of honoring his father, Yishak Abinu. While Esav was, in general, sinful, he excelled in the area of Kibbud Ab (honoring his father). Rabban Shimon mentions that Esav would prepare food for his father, and would then change into his fine garments before serving him, so he would look respectable. He ensured to wear special clothing when serving his father in order to show honor and respect. By the same token, the Klausenberger Rebbe writes, on Shabbat, Hashem comes into our homes, and we are spending the day with Him. It is only fitting, then, that we wear special, fine clothing in His honor. The merit through which Esav's descendants have been able to succeed and prosper, and keep us in exile, is his outstanding devotion to Kibbud Ab, his showing great honor to his father. The way we end this exile, then, is by showing this same level of honor to Hashem – and we do this through our Bigdeh Shabbat, by dressing in honor of Shabbat the way Esav dressed in honor of his father. "Dressing down" has become the norm in our society. People are no longer encouraged to dress formally for work, or for other events. While this policy may have merit in the context of the workplace, we must ensure not to embrace it with regard to Shabbat. On Shabbat, we become like Kohanim, as we are in the Shechina's presence, like the Kohanim in the Bet Ha'mikdash. Thus, like the Kohanim, we are obliged to wear our "Bigdeh Kehuna," our special garments through which we show our honor and reverence for the Almighty.

The Megilla tells us that Ester, the heroine of the Purim story, had another name – Hadasa. What might be the significance of this second name? We should perhaps assume that if the Megilla found it necessary to inform us of Ester's other name, this detail must be important. What does the name "Hadasa" represent, and what does it tell us about Ester's role in the Purim story? The historical backdrop to the Purim story is the destruction of the Bet Ha'mikdash and the Jewish People's banishment to exile. It was during this period, after the Jews had spent over half a century in Babylonia – which was taken over by Persia – that the story told in the Megilla unfolded. We can easily imagine what was going through the Jews' minds at this time. They must have assumed that their special relationship with G-d was over. After all, G-d had sent the Babylonian marauders to set His Bet Ha'mikdash ablaze, and to bring the nation into exile. Decades passed, and they remained far from their homeland. They naturally thought that they were no longer Hashem's special nation, and there was thus no longer any reason to learn Torah, to perform Misvot, or to live a religious lifestyle. Indeed, the Gemara teaches that at Ahashverosh's feast, he came dressed in the special garments of the Kohen Gadol, and used the utensils of the Bet Ha'mikdash. He was celebrating the fact that the Jews' exile was permanent, that they would never be returning to the Land of Israel and would never rebuild the Bet Ha'mikdash. The Jews participated in this feast, showing that they shared this belief. Of course, this was a grave mistake. King Shlomo, the wisest of all men, writes in the Book of Kohelet (4:12), "Ve'ha'hut Ha'meshulash Lo Bi'mhera Yinatek" – "The triple thread will not easily be snapped." A single thread can easily be torn, but if three threads are woven together, this becomes a rope, which is far more difficult to cut. The Jewish Nation is a "triple thread," having been built by three patriarchs – Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob. Had our nation been created by just a single founder, or even two founders, this would not have established a strong enough foundation to withstand the many challenges and upheavals that would occur over the course of Jewish history. But our nation was built by three "threads," three outstanding figures, laying for us a foundation that can never be broken. For this reason, the verse in the Book of Debarim (32:9) says, "Yaakob Hebel Nahalato" – Yaakob is the "rope" of G-d's "lot," the Jewish Nation. Yaakob was the third patriarch, and thus he turned the "threads" of his two predecessors into a "Hebel," a rope, that can never be broken. The Jewish Nation is eternal, and its special relationship with Hashem is eternal. A child might anger his parents, and this relationship might at times be strained, even, perhaps, under drastic circumstances, to the point where the parent must send the child out of the home for a period of time, but he will always be their child, and their love for him will always remain. Similarly, even when Hashem punishes Am Yisrael, and even when He drives us into exile, His love for His treasured nation is everlasting. This was Ester's message to the Jewish People when they faced the threat of annihilation. They had despaired, figuring that G-d had abandoned them, but she reminded them that their bond with Hashem is everlasting and unconditional. She therefore decreed a three-day fast – to remind them of the "Hut Ha'meshulash," the "triple thread" that forms the foundation of Am Yisrael, which cannot ever be broken. Ester was therefore called "Hadasa," an allusion to the "Hadas," the myrtle branch, one of the four species we take on Sukkot. The Torah calls the Hadas "Anaf Etz Abot" (Vayikra 23:40) – a branch with a thick covering of leaves – and Rashi explains this to mean "Kelu'im Ke'hebel" – "braided like a rope." The leaves of the Hadas branch grow in groups of three, with every three leaves emerging from the same spot on the stem. The Hadas' thick covering of leaves is thus likened to a rope, three threads woven together, and it symbolizes the concept of "Yaakob Hebel Nahalato," G-d's eternal bond with the Jewish Nation. In fact, the word "Hut" (thread) in Gematria equals 23, such that three threads are represented by the number 69 (23 X 3) – which is the Gematria of "Hadas." Ester was called "Hadasa" because this was precisely the message she conveyed to the Jews in exile – that Hashem's love for them was everlasting, that this bond could never be broken. We all recognize the numerous spiritual problems that plague the Jewish People in our day and age. It is clear to all of us that there is so much to improve, so many difficult problems to address. But we must never feel discouraged or fall into despair. At no point may we ever think, as the Jews in Persia thought, that Hashem no longer loves us or cares about us, that our special relationship with Him has ended. We must remember that our special bond can never be broken, that Hashem loves us under all circumstances, even when we aren't acting as we should. Sometimes this love is more evident, and sometimes less, but we must believe that it is always present. This awareness should give us the encouragement and resolve we need to work toward growth and improvement, to strive to elevate ourselves as well as our fellow Jews, and thereby strengthen the eternal bond between us and our Creator.

This Week's Parasha Essay is dedicated in memory of RACHEL Bat SARAH The Torah in Parashat Teruma presents the laws for the construction of the Mishkan, which is where sacrifices were offered until the building of the Bet Ha'mikdash in Jerusalem. Later, in Parashat Vayakhel, we read of the fulfillment of these commands, how the Mishkan and its furnishings were built. Already the Gemara (Berachot 55a) notes the glaring discrepancy between the sequence of the commands presented here in Parashat Teruma, and the execution of these commands in Parashat Vayakhel. When G-d presented the instructions for building the Mishkan, He began with the furnishings, detailing the instructions regarding the ark, the table, the Menorah, and the altar, before proceeding to the instructions regarding the structure of the Mishkan. In Parashat Vayakhel, however, we read that the artisans first constructed the Mishkan, and only then built the furnishings. The Gemara tells that when Moshe relayed G-d's instructions – in the sequence they were given – to Besalel, the chief artisan, Besalel pointed out that the sequence was backward. He noted that the building must be constructed first, before the furnishings, as otherwise there will be nowhere to store the furnishings in the interim. Moshe confirmed to Besalel that he was correct. The question remains, however, why did Hashem present the commands regarding the furnishings before presenting the requirements for building the structure, if He in fact wanted the building to be constructed first? Rav Yehoshua Heller (1814-1880), in his Dibreh Yehoshua, offers an approach to answer this question (which also explains a number of other discrepancies between the commands in Parashat Teruma and the execution of these instructions in Parashat Vayakhel). He attributes the change in sequence to the event of Het Ha'egel – the sin of the golden calf – which transpired in between. Hashem presented these commands before the sin of the golden calf, and thus the instructions reflect the reality before Beneh Yisrael worshipped the calf, when they were still on the pristine spiritual level that they had attained at the time of Matan Torah. The building of the Mishkan, however, occurred after Het Ha'egel, when the people had fallen from that level. The structure of the Mishkan, Rav Heller explains, represents the human body, our limbs, the actions we perform, whereas the furnishings housed in the Mishkan symbolize our interior, our emotions, our feelings. Ideally, our feelings and our actions should be fully in synch with one another. We should always feel motivated to serve Hashem, to fulfill His will, to perform the Misvot, to live the way we are supposed to live, such that our actions – our Misva observance – are a natural outgrowth of our emotions. Indeed, the great Sadikim live with ongoing, consistent passion, and are constantly driven to perform Misvot. Most of us, however, often do not feel this passion. Sometimes we feel motivated and driven to achieve and excel, but sometimes we don't. And the Ramhal (Rav Moshe Haim Luzzato, Italy, 1707-1746), in his classic work Mesilat Yesharim, writes that when a person feels unmotivated, he should push himself to perform Misvot anyway – and his actions will then awaken his motivation. Once we get started, once we accustom ourselves to doing the right thing even when we don't feel like it, the feelings will come. Hence, Rav Heller explains, before Het Ha'egel, when Beneh Yisrael were on a high spiritual level, the furnishings preceded the structure. The people felt the strong drive and desire to serve Hashem, and this passion led them to action. After the sin of the golden calf, however, this passion was not always present. And so at this point, it was necessary for the structure to precede the interior. We often need to perform the actions even when we lack motivation and enthusiasm, and this will gradually ignite our passion for Misvot. This insight, I am certain, resonates with each and every one of us. We have all had occasions when we feel unmotivated, when we were simply "not in the mood," when we had little or no desire to get out of bed on time for shul, to attend a Shiur, to learn, to donate money to charity, or to do other Misvot. The important thing when this happens is to push ourselves do to it anyway, even without motivation, and trust that our efforts will, with time, arouse our emotion and kindle our enthusiasm for Misvot. Although ideally our passion for Misvot should lead us to perform Misvot, sometimes we need to reverse the sequence, to go "outside-in," by first performing the deeds which will have the effect of arousing our enthusiasm.

As part of the event of Matan Torah, when G-d revealed Himself to Beneh Yisrael and gave the Torah, Moshe constructed an altar and had sacrifices offered. We read that Moshe placed half the blood in basins, from which he later sprinkled blood on the people, and he poured the other half on the altar (Shemot 24:6). Rashi, surprisingly, comments that the division of the blood into two halves was done by an angel. It would be impossible for a human being to divide the blood in two precisely equal halves, and so an angel was sent from the heavens to do this. We must wonder, why did Hashem find it necessary to dispatch an angel for this purpose? Why was it so critical for the halves to be precisely equal? Would these sacrifices have been in any way deficient if one portion of blood was slightly larger than the other? Rav Yitzchak Hutner (1906-1980) answered this question by exploring the symbolism of the division of the blood at the time of Matan Torah. If we would ask most Jews to define the term "religious Jew," to describe the defining characteristics of people referred to with this term, most would likely mention things like Shabbat observance, modest dress, eating kosher, synagogue attendance and daily Tefilot. People generally tend to define "religious" as ritual observance. In truth, however, these rituals are only half the story. Ethical conduct, integrity, kindness and sensitivity to others are no less a part of Torah than praying three times a day, Shabbat, Kashrut, and Seniut (modesty). In fact, Rashi begins his comments to our Parasha, Parashat Mishpatim, by noting the significance of the first letter of this Parasha: "VE'eleh Ha'mishpatim" – "AND these are the statutes…" Rashi writes that this letter – the conjunction "Ve-" ("And") – indicates a connection between the end of the previous Parasha, which tells of the Revelation and the Ten Commandments, and the civil laws presented in Parashat Mishpatim. Just as the Ten Commandments were proclaimed at Mount Sinai, so were the laws of Parashat Mishpatim given at Mount Sinai. We can never draw a wedge between Torah and ethical interpersonal conduct. The laws of Parashat Mishpatim, which govern the way we treat our fellow, are no less a part of the Torah as any of the other Misvot. So crucial is this message, Rav Hutner explained, that Hashem sent an angel to divide the sacrificial blood at the time of Matan Torah into two precisely equal parts. It was critical to convey the message that neither half of Torah carries even slightly more weight than the other. The two areas of Torah life – our obligations to Hashem, and our obligations to other people – are of exactly the same level of importance, and we must never allow ourselves to prioritize or emphasize one over the other to even the slightest degree. It is likely no coincidence that Parashat Mishpatim, the section in which this point is expressed, is always read around the time of 25 Shevat, the Yahrtzeit of Rav Yisrael Salanter (1809-1883), founder of the Mussar movement. Rav Yisrael placed very strong emphasis on maintaining this balance, on not allowing our pursuit of spiritual excellence to result in compromises in our Middot (character traits). One famous example is the time when his students approached him before they went to bake Masot in preparation for Pesach, to ask which stringencies are proper for them to observe when baking Masot. "Be very careful not to yell at the woman in charge of cleaning the factory," Rav Yisrael replied. "She's a widow. Concern for her feelings is the most important stringency you should observe." Rav Yisrael feared that in the students' concern to maintain the strictest Halachic standards for the Masot, they might neglect the more basic religious obligation to speak to widows with sensitivity and respect. As we approach his Yahrtzeit, let us internalize this vitally important lesson, and ensure to ascribe the same degree importance to both parts of the Torah, because this is what being a complete Jew means.

Parashat Yitro recounts one of the most pivotal events, if not the most pivotal event, in Jewish history—the giving of the Torah at Har Sinai. The Midrash famously teaches that before giving the Torah to Beneh Yisrael, Hashem first offered it to the other nations. He approached the descendants of Esav, who inquired about its contents. When Hashem told them that the Torah includes the command, "Lo Tirsah"—"You shall not murder," they declined, as violence was ingrained in their way of life. Next, Hashem turned to Yishmael's descendants. Upon hearing that the Torah forbids theft—"Lo Tignob"—they, too, rejected it, unable to commit to such a moral standard, refraining from theft. Hashem then went to Amon and Moav. When they asked what the Torah commanded, Hashem told them, "Lo Tinaf"—"You shall not commit adultery." They, too, refused, unwilling to accept such a limitation, as they were accustomed to engaging freely in illicit relationships. Hashem then offered the Torah to Beneh Yisrael, who unlike the other nations, accepted the Torah unconditionally, without asking any questions. The Midrash's account requires explanation. The prohibitions of murder, theft, and adultery are not unique to the Torah. They are already included in the Sheva Misvot Beneh Noach – the seven "Noachide Laws," universal commandments given to all of humanity. Whether or not Esav, Yishmael, Amon, and Moav accepted the Torah, they were still bound by these prohibitions. If so, why does it matter that they rejected the Torah? The answer lies in the profound difference between observing these basic moral prohibitions and fully embracing the Torah's rigorous ethical and spiritual expectations. The command of "Lo Tirsah" does not only prohibit taking a life. It also forbids embarrassing someone in public, which is akin to murder. It means we must not "kill" our time by engaging in wasteful, vain activities. It even extends to preserving objects of value and not destroying them unnecessarily, because destruction is, in a sense, a form of "killing." Similarly, "Lo Tignob" is not just about theft of money or possessions. Wasting another person's time is a form of theft. Depriving someone of sleep by making noise at night is also stealing. Even redistributing wealth unjustly—such as in the story of Robin Hood, or in the style of communism—constitutes a violation of this prohibition in Torah law. Finally, "Lo Tinaf" likewise extends beyond the specific prohibition against forbidden intimate relationships. The Torah demands a higher level of modesty (Seniut), governing the way we dress, the way we speak, and even what we choose to see or expose ourselves to. This is what distinguished Beneh Yisrael from the other nations. Even if the other nations were willing to abide by basic moral codes, they would never commit to the all-encompassing ethical and spiritual framework that the Torah demands. Beneh Yisrael, however, accepted these lofty expectations without hesitation, embracing not just the specific prohibitions, but the especially high standards of sanctity and self-discipline that Torah life requires. As the Jewish people, we are held to a higher standard. Accepting the Torah means committing ourselves to a life of holiness and moral refinement. This is both a privilege and a responsibility. As Hashem's beloved nation, we must always remember that our actions reflect the divine mission entrusted to us. Whether in business, in speech, in dress, or in our treatment of others, we must uphold the elevated standards of Am Yisrael – and feel honored and privileged to conduct ourselves in a special manner befitting Hashem's beloved people.

Parashat Beshalah tells the famous story of Keri'at Yam Suf – the miraculous splitting of the sea. The Egyptians pursued Beneh Yisrael after they left Egypt, trapping them against the sea. G-d had the waters of the sea split, forming two walls on either side of the sea floor, allowing Beneh Yisrael to safely cross. When the Egyptians then ran after them into the sea, the water fell onto them, drowning the Egyptian warriors, their horsemen and their chariots. We find in the Midrash an astounding statement that underscores the centrality of this miracle in Jewish life. The Midrash teaches that the Jewish People are known as "Ibrim" ("Hebrews") to allude to the fact that "Abar Yam" – our nation "crossed the sea." This event is not simply something that our ancestors experienced, an extraordinary chapter in our history, but part of the very definition of our nation. Why? The answer can be understood in light of an insight by the Maharal of Prague (Rav Yehuda Loew, 1512-1609) regarding the name of Moshe Rabbenu. The Rabbis teach that Moshe had seven different names, each of which alludes to a different element of his character or his role as our leader and prophet. The name that we commonly use, of course, is "Moshe" – the name given to him by Pharaoh's daughter, commemorating that "Min Ha'mayim Mishitihu" – she "drew him from the water" (Shemot 2:10). The Maharal raises the question of why this name was chosen as the name with which we refer to Moshe. Of all of Moshe's names, why is this considered the most significant? The Maharal answers by examining the symbolism of water. Unlike solids, he notes, water has no independent shape. It flows naturally, assuming the shape of whichever receptacle is holding it at the present moment. We human beings, the Maharal writes, are expected to be the polar opposite of water. We are not to "go with the flow," blindly and randomly following our natural instincts and impulses. Instead, we are to consciously create a "shape" and "form" to our lives. We are to exercise discipline and self-restraint, molding for ourselves a life of meaning and purposefulness in the service of Hashem. Fittingly, the Mahara explains, Moshe Rabbenu – the greatest human being who ever lived – is named "Moshe," which means "drawn from the water." Moshe embodied the notion of going out of the water, creating a life of spirituality rather than "flowing" naturally like animals, which follow their instincts without exercising any restraint. This is also the symbolism of the miracle of Keri'at Yam Suf. The waters of the sea suddenly went against their natural flow, forming two walls on either side of Beneh Yisrael. This was not just a miracle performed for the purpose of rescuing Beneh Yisrael – it was also a timeless lesson about how we are expected to live our lives. We are to follow the example of the waters of the Yam Suf – creating a proper "shape" of our lives, lives of spiritual meaning, rather than just flowing naturally. This also explains the famous comment of the Midrash that the sea split when it saw Yosef's coffin, which Moshe brought with him out of Egypt. Yosef embodies the value of discipline and self-restraint, having resisted the advances of Potifar's wife as a seventeen-year-old slave in Egypt. He went against his natural instincts and impulses for the sake of spirituality. Rather than "go with the flow," following his instincts and impulses, he created for his life a "shape" of spiritual greatness. We are called "Ibrim" because "Abar Yam" – we have been shown the importance of living with discipline and self-restraint, conscientiously, following our religious principles and values rather than allow ourselves to be led and guided by our natural instincts and drives.

Parashat Bo tells of the final three plagues that Hashem brought upon Egypt, culminating with the final plague, the plague of the firstborn, which led Pharaoh to permit Beneh Yisrael to leave Egypt. Already before the eighth plague, the plague of locusts, Pharaoh's servants urged him to yield, to allow Beneh Yisrael to leave and thereby avoid further devastation in the country. Pharaoh summoned Moshe, and expressed his willingness to let the people leave. But when Moshe insisted that the entire nation leave, Pharaoh angrily sent him away, insisting that only the adult males would be permitted to go. Later, after the plague of darkness, Pharaoh summoned Moshe and said he would allow all Beneh Yisrael to leave – but demanded that the animals remain in Egypt. Moshe replied, "Even you will place in our hands sacrifices and offerings for us to prepare for Hashem our G-d, and also our own cattle with come with us, not a single hoof will remain, for we will take from it to serve Hashem our G-d" (10:25-26). In response to Pharaoh's demand that Beneh Yisrael leave behind their cattle, Moshe declared that "not a single hoof" would stay behind, and, moreover, Pharaoh would even give Beneh Yisrael his own animals for them to offer as sacrifices for Hashem. The Malbim (Rav Meir Leibush, 1809-1879) makes an insightful observation regarding the words chosen by Moshe in this response to Pharaoh. Moshe said about Beneh Yisrael's cattle, "Yelech Imenu" – that the animals "will go with us." The implication is that the animals would not need to be taken, but would rather join the people on their own. The Malbim explains this nuance by noting the story told in the Book of Melachim I (chapter 18) of the prophet Eliyahu. Eliyahu challenged the prophets of the pagan god Ba'al to a "contest" on Mount Carmel, whereby they would each offer a bull as a sacrifice – the prophets would sacrifice to Ba'al, and Eliyahu, of course, to G-d. The sacrifice that would receive a response would prove which of them is correct. G-d responded to Eliyahu's sacrifice with a fire that descended from the heavens, thus demonstrating the truth of Hashem and the fallacy of idol-worship. The Midrash teaches that at the beginning of this process, the prophets of Ba'al chose one of the two bulls as their sacrifice, but the bull did not want to go with them. It refused to be used as a sacrifice for idolatry. Eliyahu approached the animal and explained that it would be helping to create a Kiddush Hashem (glorification of Hashem's Name), as this sacrifice would receive no response, whereas Eliyahu's sacrifice would be responded to with a heavenly fire. The bull then agreed, assured that its role was indeed valuable and significant. The other bull, by contrast, needed no convincing, and went happily and enthusiastically to be sacrificed by Eliyahu for the purpose of bringing honor and glory to Hashem. Similarly, the Malbim explains, Moshe told Pharaoh that Beneh Yisrael's animals would go on their own out of Egypt, eager to be offered as sacrifices to Hashem. They would not need to be taken – they would just go, driven by the desire to serve G-d. The Malbim writes that this is indicated by the text for us to learn from the animals' example. Religious observance often demands sacrifices, requiring us to refrain from things which we want to do, and to give of our time, money and energy, for the sake of serving the Almighty. Moshe's description of Beneh Yisrael's cattle is meant to teach us to make these sacrifices enthusiastically, recognizing the great value of serving Hashem. There is no greater privilege than living as Hashem's servants, bringing Hashem honor and glory, and it is with this mindset, with this spirit and enthusiasm, that we are to make the sacrifices – however difficult – that Torah life often requires.

In the opening verses of Parashat Vaera, we find Hashem's pronouncement of the "Arba Leshonot Geula" – "four expressions of redemption." He told Moshe to convey to Beneh Yisrael His promise that He will "take you from the suffering of Egypt" ("Ve'hoseti"), He will "save you from their labor" ("Ve'hisalti"), He will "redeem you with an outstretched arm" ("Ve'ga'alti"), and He will "take you to Me as a nation" ("Ve'lakahti"). The Gemara famously teaches that the four cups of wine we drink at the Seder on the night of Pesach correspond to these four promises. One of the approaches taken to explain the significance of these four expressions was presented by the Shem Mi'Shmuel (Rav Shmuel Borenstein of Sochatchov, 1855-1926), who writes that Hashem here refers to the redemptions from the subsequent exiles. Already then, during the Egyptian exile, Hashem informed Beneh Yisrael that just as He was bringing them out of this exile, and extricating them from persecution and suffering, He would also deliver them from the exiles they would endure in the future. The first of the four expressions, "Ve'hoseti," which speaks of Hashem bringing the nation out of a foreign land, alludes to the Babylonian exile, at the conclusion of which Hashem brought the Jews back from exile to the Land of Israel. The second expression foresees Hashem rescuing Beneh Yisrael from danger – "Ve'histalti," and thus refers to the rule of Persia, when Beneh Yisrael were saved from Haman's decree of annihilation. The third of the subsequent exiles was the period of Greek persecution, when Beneh Yisrael faced a grave spiritual threat, as the Greeks forbade them from practicing their religion. Hashem thus promised, "Ve'ga'alti" – that He would redeem them from this spiritual danger. Finally, Hashem promises to deliver us from our current exile, the fourth and final exile, assuring us that He would take us as His nation for all eternity ("Ve'lakahti"). The question, however, arises, why do we commemorate these four promises through the drinking of four cups on the night of Pesach, as we celebrate the Exodus from Egypt? The answer emerges from a discussion in the work Torat Haim (Rav Abraham Haim Schorr, d. 1632) regarding a different question, relating to the duration of the Egyptian exile. The Torah in Parashat Bo (Shemot 12:40) states that the Egyptian exile lasted a total of 430 years. In truth, Beneh Yisrael spent just 210 years in Egypt. Many commentators explain that the 430-year period began from the time Abraham was informed that his descendants would be enslaved. The Torat Haim, however, advances a different theory. He claims that indeed, Hashem decreed a lengthy period of suffering, but He mercifully ended the exile earlier. Tradition teaches that the period of harsh labor began at the time of the birth of Miriam, Moshe Rabbenu's sister, who was 86 at the time of the Exodus. Thus, Beneh Yisrael endured only 86 years of slave labor – one-fifth of the 430 years of slavery that were decreed upon them. The remaining four-fifths were delayed to the future. The four subsequent exiles, the Torat Haim explains, took the place of the missing years of the Egyptian exile. The amount of suffering that would have been experienced in 86 years of grueling slavery and degradation in Egypt were transferred to each of these four periods, and this is how the period of 430 years was completed. The Torat Haim explains that this is why we drink four cups of wine on Pesach night. The word "Kos" in Gematria equals 86, and thus the four cups of wine signify the redemptions from the four subsequent exiles – consistent with the Shem Mi'Shmuel's understanding of the four promises made by Hashem in our Parasha. As we celebrate the redemption from Egypt, we reflect on the fact that Hashem shortened the period of bondage in Egypt, delaying them to the future. He then delivered us from the first three of those four exiles, and we eagerly anticipate the imminent redemption from our fourth and current exile, may it unfold speedily and in our times, Amen.

Parashat Shemot tells of the Egyptians' enslavement of Beneh Yisrael. We read that as Beneh Yisrael rapidly reproduced, and their population grew, Pharaoh feared that they would turn against the empire, and join with Egypt's enemies. He thus decided to enslave them, so they would not endanger the country. Pharaoh later decreed that all newborn boys among Beneh Yisrael should be murdered. The Gemara in Masechet Sota (11a) tells that Pharaoh actually consulted with his three advisors, all of whom are known to us from other contexts: Bilam, Yitro and Iyob. Bilam, the Gemara relates, made the suggestion to oppress Beneh Yisrael, and so he was killed in battle by Beneh Yisrael many years later. Iyob remained silent, without agreeing or objecting, and he was punished for his inaction by enduring harsh afflictions. Yitro fled, unwilling to take part in the inhumane treatment of Beneh Yisrael, and he was thus rewarded. If we think about it, the reactions of all three men are nothing short of baffling. Bilam, as the Mishna in Pirkeh Avot (5:19) describes, was exceedingly arrogant. He felt overly confident and secure. We would have expected him to dismiss Pharaoh's fears, to remind Pharaoh that Egypt was powerful enough not to feel threatened by Beneh Yisrael's rapid growth. Iyob, as we know, was an exceptionally righteous man. He is the last person we would expect to sit by idly as the panel of which he was part devised an evil plan to persecute an innocent sector of the population. And Yitro is described by the Rabbis as a profound thinker and philosopher, who studied and pondered all the different faiths in the world until arriving at the truth of monotheism. Surely a man with such brilliance could have shown Pharaoh the absurdity of his fears, that there was no reason to suspect that Beneh Yisrael, who had shown no signs of disloyalty, would turn against the country. Yet, Yitro did not speak up, and instead ran away. This shows us quite clearly how the Egyptian bondage unfolded in a way that nobody could have ever predicted. Beneh Yisrael lived peacefully in Egypt, without causing any trouble or inviting enmity, and yet, through a series of circumstances which they would never have foreseen, they found themselves brutally enslaved, and their infants put to death. However, this Parasha tells us also how the redemption from Egypt unfolded in no less an unpredictable fashion. A woman named Yochebed decided to hide her child from the Egyptian authorities, and placed him in a basket on the Nile River. The baby was discovered by none other than the princess – the daughter of the evil king who decreed that all infants among Beneh Yisrael should be put to death. We would have expected the princess – who immediately identified the child as a Jew – to comply with her father's edict, and kill the baby, or at least leave him to die on his own. But she not only saved the baby, in direct defiance of her father's decree – she brought him to the palace and raised him there, giving him the name "Moshe" which alluded to his having been drawn from the water ("Meshitihu") – loudly broadcasting the fact that she acted against her father! Remarkably, Pharaoh's own palace became the home in which the redeemer was raised. The Rabbis teach that Pharaoh decreed the murder of the infants because his astrologers warned that the one who would redeem Beneh Yisrael was about to be born. And yet, it turned out that Pharaoh himself raised this baby who would lead Beneh Yisrael to freedom. Just as the exile began as a result of a sequence of events that nobody could have possibly predicted, the redemption, too, unfolded in a likewise unpredictable manner. The Egyptian exile is viewed by our tradition as the prototype of all subsequent exiles, and the redemption from Egyptian bondage is viewed as the prototype for all subsequent redemptions. Just as the Egyptian exile began and ended in ways which nobody could have predicted – so will all our nation's exiles began and end in unpredictable ways. The current war being waged in Eretz Yisrael began in a way that no one could have possibly foreseen. No one could have imagined that a barbaric, primitive terror group could succeed in breaching Israel's state-of-the-art barrier, using the most advanced technology on earth, secured by what is likely the world's greatest intelligence apparatus. Hamas' success in attacking Israel on October 7, 2023 was something none of us could have predicted, and even now, it still boggles the mind how such a thing could have happened. It is clear beyond a doubt that this was Hashem's doing, that, just as Hashem brought about Beneh Yisrael's enslavement through a peculiar, mysterious sequence of events, He brought upon us the current crisis, as well. But we find comfort and encouragement in the knowledge that the resolution of this crisis, and our nation's redemption, will likewise occur in ways that we cannot possibly imagine. It is futile to try predicting what will happen and how this will end. And G-d certainly does not need our ideas. The only thing about the outcome that we know for certain is that it will be something which nobody can foresee right now. We must maintain our faith and fervently pray on behalf of our brothers and sisters in Israel, recognizing that the outcome will be determined solely by Hashem.

he Torah in Parashat Vayechi tells us of the special blessings that Yaakob Abinu pronounced to each of his sons just before his passing. In his blessing to Yosef, Yaakob declared, "Me'Kel Avicha Ve'yazreka" – literally, "From the G-d of your father, and He shall help you" (49:25). Rav Moshe Alshich (Safed, 1508-1593) noted two difficulties in the text of this phrase. First, instead of blessing Yosef simply that "the G-d of your father" should assist him, Yaakob said, "Me'Kel Avicha" – "FROM" the G-d of Yosef's father should help him. Secondly, Yaakob added the letter "Vav," which means "and," before the word "Yazreka," such that he said, "and He should help you," rather than just wishing that G-d should help Yosef. To explain Yaakob's intent, Rav Moshe Alshich cites the Gemara's teaching in Masechet Sukka (52) that a person's Yeser Ha'ra (evil inclination) rises against him each and every day, in an attempt to cause him to sin, as indicated by the verse (Tehillim 37:32), "Sofeh Rasha La'sadik U'mebakesh La'hamito" – "The evil one eyes the righteous person and seeks to have him killed." The "evil one" is the Yeser Ha'ra, that endeavors to bring about the righteous person's spiritual demise by luring him to sin. The Gemara then says that if not for Hashem's help, we would be unable to withstand the challenges posed by our evil inclination. This is inferred from the next verse, which states, "Hashem Lo Ya'azbenu Be'yado, Ve'lo Yarshi'enu Be'hushafeto" – "G-d does not leave him in its hands, and He will not convict him when he is judged." Rav Moshe Alshich raises the question as to the meaning of the end of this second verse – "He will not convict him when he is judged." Why does this need to be said? If the individual refrains from sin, and does not succumb to the lures of his evil inclination, then why would we have thought that he would be "convicted"? The answer, the Alshich explains, is that since the person abstains from wrongdoing only through G-d's help, we would think that he should be held responsible as though he committed the forbidden act. As it was G-d who gave him the strength and wherewithal to resist temptation, logic seems to dictate that he should receive no credit for abstaining. The verse therefore teaches that Hashem, in His infinite love and compassion, gives us all the credit for our spiritual successes, even though they were made possible only because of His gracious assistance. Despite the fact that we depend on His help to withstand our Yeser Ha'ra, Hashem rewards us as though we did it all ourselves. Rav Moshe Alshich explains Yaakob's blessing to Yosef on this basis. He writes that Yaakob was referring to the test that Yosef withstood – the test posed by Potifar's wife, who tried luring him to have an inappropriate relationship. The Gemara (Sota 36b) tells that Yosef nearly succumbed to her advances, but then his father, Yaakob, appeared to him and implored him to abstain. It thus emerges that Yosef refrained from sin only thanks to Yaakob's assistance. Rav Moshe Alshich explains that this is the meaning of the phrase, "Me'Kel Avicha" – that Yosef's success in resisting temptation came "from" Yaakob, who intervened to rescue him. Yaakob then added, "Ve'yazreka" – that G-d would nevertheless continue granting Yosef assistance. Yosef would not be punished, and would not be denied Hashem's love and grace, despite the fact that he needed his father's help to refrain from wrongdoing. Whenever we confront any sort of spiritual challenge, we must remember that religious life is fraught with such challenges, that we are supposed to confront these tests, and that Hashem is always helping us. Moreover, we must remember that Hashem values and cherishes the efforts we make to overcome these challenges and do the right thing. He is there to help us – but this does not in any way diminish from the greatness of the work we put in to stay on course and refrain from improper behavior.

When Yaakob's sons returned to Egypt and informed him that his beloved son, Yosef, was still alive, he at first didn't believe them (45:26). But Yaakob then saw the wagons that Yosef had sent with his brothers to use for carrying Yaakob to Egypt. At that point, Yaakob's "spirit was revived," and he realized that Yosef was, indeed, alive. The Midrash famously explains that the "wagons" contained a "coded message" of sorts to Yaakob. The Hebrew word "Agalot" ("wagons") reminded Yaakob of the last subject which he taught to Yosef, the law of "Egla Arufa." This law applies in a situation where a murder occurred near a city, and the killer was not found. The city's leaders must perform a special ceremony, killing a young calf – "Egla" – in an area which cannot be cultivated, and this atoned for the crime which was committed. Yosef wanted to show Yaakob that he still remembered the Torah which Yaakob had taught him. And so when Yaakob saw the wagons, which alluded to the Torah which he taught Yosef, and which Yosef remembered, Yaakob knew that his son was indeed alive. Why did Yaakob not initially believe his sons? And what changed once he saw the wagons? Some commentators answered these questions by taking a closer look at what Yaakob's sons told him. They said, "Yosef is still alive – and he is in fact ruler over the land of Egypt." True "life," for a Jew, is a life of Torah commitment. The brothers were telling Yaakob that Yosef was spiritually "alive," dedicated to Hashem, even as he served as leader over Egypt. This is what Yaakob could not believe. He found it inconceivable that Yosef retained his spirituality, his religious commitment, while serving in a powerful position in a pagan country. Once Yaakob saw Yosef's hidden message, that he still remembered and felt connected to the Torah that Yaakob had taught him, he realized that it was true, that against all odds, Yosef was still "alive" in the truest sense of the word, full of spiritual life. The same can be said of all of us, the entire Jewish People. Like Yosef, we were driven from our homeland, and were forced to live among foreign cultures. And, like Yosef, we endured a great number of hardships and difficulties. It would seem almost impossible for the Jewish Nation to remain "alive" through the centuries of exile and persecution, for us to retain our firm commitment to Torah and Misvot. And yet, to our nation's credit, we have remained spiritually "alive," we have persisted in our devotion to our faith and our traditions. There is no doubt that each day, our Father, Hashem, looks down from the heavens and jubilantly exclaims, as Yaakob Abinu did, "Od… Beni Hai" – "My child is still alive!" Hashem takes great pride in the fact that despite all we've been through, even with all the spiritual challenges we have faced and continue to face, with all the lures and temptations that we confront, we nevertheless remain fervently committed to Him. We, Hashem's children, are still "alive," and we must continue to steadfastly adhere to our sacred traditions until this exile finally ends and we are prepared for the final redemption, may it come speedily and in our time, Amen.

What is it about Yosef that made such an impression on Pharaoh? Yosef was brought to Egypt from a foreign country as a slave. He was then falsely accused of a heinous crime – assaulting his master's wife – for which he was cast into a dungeon, where he languished for years together with other convicted offenders. Suddenly, a former inmate in the prison recommended him as an interpreter to explain Pharaoh's dreams, and Yosef was then rushed to Pharaoh. His interpretation dazzled Pharaoh to such an extent that Pharaoh on the spot decided to not only free Yosef from the dungeon – but to appoint him as viceroy, the second-in-command over the kingdom. Just because Yosef gave a satisfactory interpretation of Pharaoh's dream, Pharaoh decided to entrust the country in Yosef's hands, and to put him in charge over the entire economy. Why? The answer lies in one word which Yosef spoke to Pharaoh. When Yosef was brought before the king, Pharaoh explained that he had heard of Yosef's abilities to interpret dreams. Yosef replied, "Bil'adai" – "It is not me" (41:16). Yosef emphatically denied any credit for his skills. He attributed this wisdom to Hashem. Several decades ago, a religious Jewish couple delivered Siamese twins, and the doctors determined that unless they were separated, both would die, but one would have to die for the other to live. The doctor who would perform the surgery, and who would later become the Surgeon General of the United States, consulted with Rav Moshe Feinstein (1895-1986), the leading Halachic authority in the United States at that time, to determine whether this procedure was permissible, as it necessitated taking a life to save another life. Leaving aside Rav Moshe's ruling and the halachic reasoning behind it, what is important for our purposes is the doctor's reaction after spending several hours with Rav Moshe Feinstein. He said that he had never before seen such a combination of brilliance and humility. Throughout his years of schooling and working in the field, anyone he encountered who had a brilliant mind had at least a tinge of arrogance. Rav Moshe, however, was unique both in the scope and depth of his scholarship, and in his humble character. This is what impressed Pharaoh, as well. He described Yosef as a "Nabon Ve'hacham" (41:39) – uniquely wise, but this was not all. Pharaoh marveled at the fact that as smart as Yosef was, his intellectual prowess did not go to his head, he did not let it inflate his ego. He humbly recognized that all his abilities were a gift from Hashem. Because of this humility, Pharaoh felt confident in Yosef. He realized that he could trust him, because he wasn't looking out for his own egotistical interests. Another example of this rare combination is King Shlomo. As we read in the Book of Melachim I (chapter 3), G-d appeared to Shlomo in a dream and told him that He was granting him unmatched wisdom. When Shlomo awoke in the morning, he was the wisest man who had ever lived and ever would live. And yet, the first thing he did was to go to the Bet Ha'mikdash to offer sacrifices to Hashem, and to host a lavish feast for his servants (Melachim I 3:15). He immediately acknowledged Hashem as the source of his great stature, that his talents were granted to him as a precious gift, such that he had no reason to gloat or to pride himself. G-d has granted every person different sets of talents and capabilities – and also different sets of limitations and struggles. If a person feels that he is brighter or more skilled than his fellow, even if his estimation is correct, it is entirely illogical for him to feel superior to that other individual. If he truly possesses special skills and abilities, this is only because Hashem has equipped him with these talents so he could use them constructively, for the service of G-d and for the benefit of the world. None of us should ever feel that we are better just because Hashem gave us certain capabilities that others lack. We are to use our skills for the right purposes, and respect other people who use the skills that Hashem granted them, regardless of how they compare with our skills. If we all live with this kind of humility, crediting Hashem – rather than ourselves – for our talents, we will find it mush easier to respect all people, and to thus build strong, stable relationships with the people around us.

The Gemara in Masechet Shabbat (21b) tells the story of the Hanukah miracle, and then adds that "Le'shana Aheret" – the next year – the Rabbis established Hanukah as an annual celebration. The clear implication is that the Rabbis did not institute the holiday of Hanukah immediately after the miraculous triumph over the Greeks and the miracle of the oil of the Menorah. The decision to establish this holiday was made only the next year. Why? Rav Moshe Yechiel Epstein of Ozorov (1889-1971), in his Be'er Moshe, explains that the Rabbis waited to see if the spiritual powers that existed during the time of the miracles returned the following year. Hashem has performed and continues to perform many miracles for Am Yisrael, but special holidays are instituted to commemorate only a small number of these miracles. A holiday is instituted only if the Rabbis sensed that each year, on the date when the miracle occurred, the spiritual forces that facilitated the miracle return, empowering us to achieve what our ancestors achieved at the time of the original story. During the Hanukah story, the Be'er Moshe writes, the Jews were blessed with a special element of divine compassion and grace. The vast majority of the nation had assimilated, succumbing to the immense pressure placed on them by the Greeks to abandon their faith and embrace Greek culture. Only a very small group of Jews retained their commitment to Torah. Hashem showered the people with exceptional mercy and grace, providing them with miraculous assistance that they did not deserve. Despite having assimilated almost completely, Hashem enabled them to defeat the Greeks and then sustained the lamps of the Menorah in miraculous fashion. The following year, the Rabbis sensed that this unique grace and compassion returned, that Hashem brought us this special gift, the opportunity to receive undeserved kindness and assistance, once again. At that point, the Rabbis instituted the annual celebration of Hanukah. Indeed, the Arizal (Rav Yishak Luria, 1534-1572) taught that the thirteen words that comprise the first Beracha recited over the Hanukah candle lighting (according to Sephardic custom) correspond to Hashem's thirteen Middot Rahamim – attributes of mercy. Each word of the Beracha is associated with a different Midda. On each of the first seven days of Hanukah, we receive an especially large measure of one of the thirteen attributes, and on the eighth and final day of Hanukah, we are showered with an abundance of all the remaining attributes, from the eighth through the thirteenth. (This is why the eighth day of Hanukah is an especially significant and sacred day in Kabbalistic tradition.) The days of Hanukah are not just a time to commemorate and express gratitude for the miracles that Hashem performed for our ancestors. This is, of course, the basic purpose of Hanukah, but in addition, this is a time of great compassion, when Hashem bestows upon us undeserved grace and kindness. This is a precious time to beseech G-d for all that we need, for the assistance that we require. Just as Hashem graced our ancestors with undeserved kindness, granting them a miraculous victory, so is He prepared to shower us with this same element of kindness. Let us take advantage of this special opportunity by turning to Hashem in sincere, heartfelt prayer, and humbly beseeching Him for undeserved kindness and compassion, that we be blessed with all that we need, even if we are unworthy of it.

The Torah in Parashat Vayishlah tells the famous story of the mysterious man who attacked Yaakob Abinu as he was making his way back to Eretz Yisrael from Haran. Yaakob and his assailant wrestled throughout the night, with Yaakob ultimately emerging victorious, though with an injury to his thigh which made him limp. The Rabbis teach us that this assailant was actually not a man, but an angel. Specifically, it was Satan, who came to attempt to block Yaakob Abinu, to prevent him from continuing his journey and the process of building Am Yisrael. The question arises, though, why did Satan attack only Yaakob? Why did he not try to obstruct the path of Abraham or Yishak? These three patriarchs built the foundations of Am Yisrael – and yet, for some reason, Satan waited until the emergence of the third patriarch, Yaakob, to launch his assault and try to prevent the rise of Hashem's special nation. Why? Rav Elhanan Wasserman (1874-1941) answered this question by taking a closer look at the unique characteristics embodied by Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob. Abraham, of course, embodied the attribute of Hesed, kindness, extending himself generously and selflessly for the sake of others. Even after undergoing the painful procedure of Berit Mila at an advanced age, he sat outside hoping to find weary travelers in need of hospitality whom he could invite and help. Yishak is associated with the quality of "Aboda," serving G-d through sacrifice and prayer. This quality is best exemplified by his having been placed on an altar as a sacrifice to Hashem. He embodied the devoted service of Hashem, which nowadays, in the absence of the Bet Ha'mikdash, is done primarily through prayer. Finally, Yaakob represents the value of intensive Torah study. He is described as a "dweller of tents" (Bereshit 25:27), referring to the halls of Torah learning. And even when he was forced to leave because of Esav's threat to kill him, he first went to the yeshiva of Eber, where he spent fourteen years diligently learning, without even taking time to sleep (Rashi, Bereshit 28:11). Rav Elhanan explained that whereas all three qualities are vitally important components of Jewish life, it is the third of these qualities that guarantees our survival as a nation. A Jew must, of course, act with kindness, but this attribute is not unique to our nation. Other nations also recognize the great value of Hesed, and many non-Jews are wonderfully kind and generous. In fact, we are privileged to live in a country that guarantees the rights of all its citizens, and even has welfare systems in place to help the underprivileged. Clearly, Hesed is not a strictly Jewish value. The same is true of "Aboda." Followers of all religions pray, and perform rituals in the service of their deity. And there are, unfortunately, many Jews who pray to Hashem, but without accepting the core beliefs of Judaism, or living a Torah lifestyle. The value that sets us apart from everyone else, and which thus ensures our continuity and survival as a distinct nation, is Torah. Immersing ourselves in our sacred texts, absorbing our ancient wisdom, is what enables us to resist the lures and pressures that abound, to withstand the powerful cultural influences that are all around us, and to preserve our faith. This is why the Satan felt threatened specifically by Yaakob, and not by Abraham or Yishak. He was not worried about the Jewish People's extraordinary devotion to Hesed, or about our filled-to-capacity houses of worship. Neither of these guarantee our eternity, because other nations are also kind and also have houses of prayer. Satan sprang into action only when he saw Yaakob Abinu, the bastion of Torah learning, because it is the devotion to intensive Torah study that ensures Am Yisrael's survival throughout the generations. As mentioned, although the Satan was unable to eliminate Yaakob, he did succeed in crippling Yaakob, by dealing a blow to his thigh. The Zohar comments that the thigh symbolizes the supporters of Torah. Just as the legs hold up the body, the generous donors who fund Torah education are the ones who maintain the Jewish People. When the Satan realized that it was unable to destroy Yaakob, it dealt a debilitating blow to the thigh, to the support of Torah. Indeed, there has never been a shortage of Jews interested in learning Torah, but there is often difficulty in funding Torah learning. Parents are reluctant to incur the significant costs of providing their children with a Torah education, and yeshivot and kollelim struggle to raise enough money for their institutions to operate. We must remember that Torah learning is the best "insurance policy" we have for Jewish survival. In a time when we face unprecedented spiritual challenges, when we are, sadly, witnessing assimilation on a mass scale, the best way to ensure our continuity is intensive, rigorous Torah learning. Hesed and prayer are critically important, but not sufficient. In order for us to withstand the relentless attacks of today's "Satan," the challenges it has put in our way, we must make time for our own Torah learning and also allocate the resources needed to support our Torah institutions.

Parashat Vayeseh begins: "Yaakob left from Be'er Sheba, and he went to Haran." Many commentators addressed the question of why the Torah needs to tell us here that Yaakob left from Be'er Sheba, his hometown. The ensuing verses tell of his experiences along the road as he journeyed to Haran, and upon arriving in Haran. The important point here is where Yaakob was going, not where he was leaving from. Moreover, this entire verse seems unnecessary, as we are already told at the end of the previous Parasha, Parashat Toldot (28:7), that Yaakob, obeying his parents' instructions, left home and made his way to Haran to live with his uncle. Why, then, did the Torah need to repeat now that he left his hometown and headed to Haran? An especially fascinating answer to this question is offered by Rav Azariah Figo (Italy, d. 1647), in his Bina Le'ittim, where he closely analyzes the events that unfolded after Yaakob's departure. As Yaakob traveled to Haran, he slept along the roadside, and beheld his famous vision of a ladder that extended to the heavens. During this vision, G-d spoke to Yaakob, and promised to care for him and to bring him safely back to Eretz Yisrael. Yet, when Yaakob arose, he made a pledge, promising to give one-tenth of his possessions to G-d if G-d would protect him, care for him, and bring him back to his homeland. Surprisingly, Yaakob was uncertain whether Hashem would care for him and return him safely home – despite having just received an explicit promise to this effect. Why? Furthermore, we read in next week's Parasha, Parashat Vayishlah, that when Yaakob was making his way back to Eretz Yisrael, he received a report that Esav was approaching with an army, and he was overcome by fear (32:8). Once again, we must wonder why Yaakob did not trust the explicit guarantee Hashem gave him that he would be protected and would return safely to his homeland. Rav Figo answers all these questions by positing that Yaakob questioned whether the dream he dreamt truly constituted a prophecy. For several reasons, he had reason to suspect that this was simply a dream, and not a prophetic message from the Almighty. For one thing, the Rambam writes that one of the prerequisites for prophecy is a joyful spirit, and Yaakob's current condition – fleeing penniless from his brother who wanted to kill him – did not lend itself to the necessary feelings of joy. Secondly, when a prophet receives prophecy, Hashem normally brings sleep upon him, and he then awakens immediately after the vision. Yaakob, however, did not wake up immediately after his dream. Rav Figo explains on this basis why the Torah tells that in the morning, Yaakob arose "Mi'shenato" – "from his sleep" (28:16). At first glance, this seems unnecessary; when somebody wakes up, he obviously wakes up "from his sleep." Rav Figo writes that the Torah here is telling us that Yaakob did not wake up immediately after beholding his vision, but rather continued sleeping until he woke up in the morning – and this led to his uncertainty as to whether what he saw was just a dream, or in fact a prophetic vision. Rav Figo applies this same approach to explain the first verse of the Parasha. Normally, with rare exceptions, prophecy is given only in Eretz Yisrael, and not outside the land. As Yaakob had left his home in Be'er Sheba, and was heading outside the land, to Haran, he was, in a sense, considered to have already left the Holy Land. This, too, contributed to his doubts regarding the nocturnal vision that he beheld. The Torah told us that Yaakob was making his way to Haran, leaving the Land of Israel, as an introduction to the story of Yaakob's dream, explaining why Yaakob was unsure whether this was a prophecy or an ordinary dream. In the end, of course, it became clear that Yaakob's dream was, in fact, a full-fledged prophecy, and Hashem fulfilled all the promises He had made during that prophetic vision. This understanding of the verses shows how Yaakob serves for us as an inspiring example of humility. Although he beheld a clear vision, during which G-d promised to protect him, and named him as heir to the covenant with Abraham and Yishak, Yaakob remained uncertain about his standing. He did not jump to conclusions, or rush to assume that he had earned G-d's blessings. We have much to learn from Yaakob Abinu's example about avoiding overconfidence. While we must of course take pride in our accomplishments and in all the good that we do, we must also ensure not to take this pride too far, to remain ever cognizant of our deficiencies. We should never feel too spiritually confident, certain that we do everything correctly, that we know better, that we always get it right. We are to live with the humility to acknowledge our imperfections, so that we are always working to correct them and continuing to grow and improve.

Parashat Toldot tells the story of the blessings that Yishak Abinu decided to give to Esav, but ended up conferring upon Yaakob, who, at his mother's behest, disguised as Esav and came before Yishak to receive the blessing. The Torah relates that when Esav came, and Yishak then told him that his brother had deceived him and received the blessings in his place, Esav cried bitterly ("Va'yiz'ak Ze'aka Gedola U'mara Ad Me'od" – 27:34). The Midrash (Yalkut Shimoni 115) comments that Esav actually shed only three tears. One fell from his right eye, another from his left eye, and a third remained stuck inside his eye. This third tear, the Midrash concludes, is what has caused the Jewish Nation to shed rivers of tears throughout the ages. Rav Solomon Breuer (Germany, 1850-1926), son-in-law of Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch (1808-1888), offered a meaningful explanation of the Midrash's description. The two tears that fell from Esav's eyes correspond to the two "wrongs" that Yaakob committed against him. The first was Yaakob's purchasing the birthright from Esav in exchange for food when Esav came into the home weary and famished. And the second, of course, was Yaakob's seizing the blessings which Yishak had intended to grant to Esav. These two tears, Rav Breuer explained, were what we would call today "crocodile tears." Esav was not really upset over losing the birthright and Yishak's blessings. The birthright entailed performing the special service in the Bet Ha'mikdash, which Esav surely had no desire at all to participate in. And as for the blessings, the Midrash elsewhere (Bereshit Rabba 66:3) comments that in these blessings there are allusions to all the different areas of Torah – the Tanach, Mishna, Gemara, etc. These blessings of success, prosperity and dominance were not given "for free"; they were promised only on condition, in exchange for serious commitment to Torah learning and observance. This is certainly not something that Esav had any interest in. Esav's only real tear, Rav Breuer explained, was the tear that remained in his eye, and could not be seen. Meaning, what really troubled Esav, what really pained him, was not the birthright or the blessings, but rather the knowledge that Yaakob was the worthier brother, that he truly earned the right to bear the legacy of Abraham and Yishak, to be a patriarch of Hashem's special nation. And it is this hidden pain that has caused Am Yisrael so much pain and so many tears throughout the ages. The enemies of the Jewish Nation outwardly shed different kinds of fake "tears," they give different reasons for why their hostility toward us is justified, why they feel they have the right to cause us harm and to seek our destruction. But the real reason is the hidden "tear," the resentment over Am Yisrael's status as G-d's special nation. When Yaakob first came before Yishak disguised as Esav, Yishak heard what sounded like Yaakob's voice, but when he felt Yaakob's arms, they felt hairy, like Esav, because Ribka had wrapped goatskins around his arms. Yishak then proclaimed, "Ha'kol Kol Ya'akob, Ve'ha'yadayim Yedeh Esav" – "The voice is the voice of Yaakob, but the hands are the hands of Esav" (27:22). The Midrash uncovers for us the deeper message of Yishak's pronouncement, explaining that he was saying, "When the voice of Yaakov is heard in the synagogues, the hands are not the hands of Esav; otherwise, the hands are the hands of Esav." The way we protect ourselves against the threat of Esav, from the hostility and animosity of the enemy nations, is through heartfelt prayer. And so in our times, when there are so many who are trying to inflict harm upon Am Yisrael, both in Israel and around the world, let us commit ourselves to increasing the "voice of Yaakob," to pray and beseech G-d for His protection and assistance. We must raise our voices and pour our hearts before Hashem, and ask that He shield us from those who seek our destruction, and grant our nation the peace and serenity that we long for.

The Torah in Parashat Hayeh-Sara tells the story of Eliezer, the trusted servant of Abraham Abinu, who was sent to find a suitable wife for Abraham's son, Yishak. Abraham told Eliezer to go to his homeland, Aram Naharayim, and choose a girl from there. Upon arriving at the well outside the town, Eliezer prayed to G-d for assistance, asking Him to arrange that the chosen girl would be the one whom he would ask for water, and who would then respond by offering water to him and also to his camels. Sure enough, Ribka – the daughter of Abraham's cousin, Betuel – came to the well, and after Eliezer approached her to ask for water, she drew water also for his camels. Ribka brought Eliezer home, and he explained to her family why he had come. He related to them his experiences at the well, and they had no choice but to conclude that this was Hashem's doing, and Ribka was destined to marry Yishak. Rav Meir Simcha Ha'kohen of Dvinsk (843-1926), in his Meshech Hochma, notes a subtle discrepancy between the Torah's account of Abraham's charge to Eliezer, and the way Eliezer reported it to Ribka's family. Abraham told Eliezer not to bring a girl from the peoples in Canaan, and to instead go bring a girl from Abraham's homeland (24:3-4). Apparently, Abraham sensed that the girls in Aram were worthier than the girls in Canaan. In speaking with Ribka's family, however, Eliezer said that Abraham told him to go to "my father's home" and "my family" (24:38). Rav Meir Simcha explains that Abraham did not actually care whether or not the girl was from his family; he cared only that she came from Aram, as the people of Aram were of a better character than the people of Canaan. Eliezer therefore decided to choose the girl who showed that she was kind and generous, worthy of marrying Abraham's daughter. His concern was only the girl's character, and not whether or not she belonged to Abraham's family. But when he arrived at Ribka's home and spoke with her family, he feared they might feel offended if they realized that Abraham was not looking specifically to choose someone from their family for Yishak. Eliezer therefore said that Abraham instructed him to go to "my father's home" and "my family," so they would feel honored by Abraham's wish to have someone from their family marry his son, and would not take offense. The Meshech Hochma notes that this explanation answers a number of other questions, as well, including the question of how to reconcile Eliezer's actions with the prohibition of "Kishuf" – sorcery. It seems that Eliezer made a random test to find the right girl, which is prohibited, as the Torah does not allow making decisions in this manner, saying "If X happens then I'll do Y." The Meshech Hochma explains that this prohibition applies only if there is no logical connection between "X" and "Y," in which case this constitutes a form of witchcraft. In Eliezer's case, however, a clear, logical system was arranged, as he wanted to find a girl who excelled in the area of kindness and generosity, and who was thus worthy of marrying into the family of Abraham Abinu. When we study this story, and we see the thought and effort that Eliezer invested in order to ensure to find the right match for Yishak, we come away awed and inspired. The Sages teach that Eliezer had a daughter whom he very much wished would marry Yishak. As such, he had vested interest in the failure of his mission. If he would not find the right girl, or if the girl's family would not allow her to go to Canaan to marry Yishak, this would leave open the possibility of his daughter marrying Yishak. And yet, Eliezer did everything he could to ensure the success of his mission, to find the right girl and see to it that her family would agree to the match. We learn from here that under all circumstances, we are to do the right thing, even when this seems to entail considerable sacrifice, and trust in Hashem to make everything work out. When Torah observance appears to not be in our best interests, we must learn from Eliezer's example, and have the faith and conviction to do the right thing anyway. Fulfilling Hashem's commands is always the most beneficial thing we can do, even when it seems detrimental, and so we must be prepared to obey despite the sacrifices entailed, trusting that Hashem will bring the most favorable outcome.

The Torah in Parashat Vayera tells the story of Hashem's destruction of the wicked city of Sedom and its neighboring towns. Before annihilating the region, Hashem informed Abraham Abinu of what He was planning to do. Abraham, the paragon of loving kindness and compassion, pleaded on Sedom's behalf, asking G-d to spare the city if He would find fifty righteous residents. G-d agreed, whereupon Abraham went further, pleading that the city be spared if there were even just forty-five worthy inhabitants. Hashem again consented, and Abraham then continued, begging for the city to be saved in the merit of even just thirty righteous people – and then twenty, and then ten. In the end, not even ten righteous people were found in Sedom, and so it and four other cities in the region were destroyed. The question arises as to why Hashem allowed Abraham to continue praying after presenting his initial request that the city should be spared in the merit of fifty righteous residents. Quite obviously, Hashem knew from the outset that there were not even ten people in Sedom worthy of being saved, not to mention twenty, thirty, forty, or forty-five. And yet, He allowed Abraham to continue pleading on the city's behalf, lowering the number all the way down to ten. Knowing that there were not enough righteous people in Sedom to spare the city, shouldn't Hashem have told Abraham to stop at the very beginning? Didn't He know that Abraham was wasting his time by continuing to pray for Sedom? The answer is that this question is predicated on a woefully mistaken assumption about the value and significance of prayer. It presumes that the value of prayer lies solely in its effectiveness in bringing the desired result. If the person will not attain that which he prays for, according to this logic, the prayer is a waste of time. But this is a grave mistake. When we pray for somebody else, we exercise our sensitivity muscle, so-to-speak. We become kinder, more compassionate, more caring, and more empathetic. By beseeching G-d on our fellow's behalf, we build our characters, as we develop within ourselves greater sensitivity for the needs of other people. Hashem therefore allowed Abraham to continue praying – not for Sedom's benefit, as the city was going to be destroyed anyway, but for Abraham's benefit, as the experience of praying made him even greater than he already was. So often we are called upon to pray for an ill patient, for those struggling to find a marriage partner or to have children, for the IDF soldiers, for the Israeli hostages, or for other beloved Jews in need. Painfully, our prayers do not always yield the results we wish for. We have all had the agonizing experience of praying regularly and passionately for an ill patient, and then finding out that the patient did not make it, Heaven forbid. Naturally, we feel very disappointed. And, some people become discouraged by these experiences, and begin questioning the value of their Tefilot. We must remember that prayer is always precious and significant, even if our request was not granted – not only because of how it builds our connection to Hashem, but also because how it builds our character, helping us develop into kinder and more compassionate people, who are sensitive to the needs and concern of others.

We read in Parashat Lech-Lecha of Hagar, an Egyptian woman who become the maidservant of Sara Imenu. The Midrash teaches that Sara was actually a princess, Pharaoh's daughter, and Pharaoh gave her as a maidservant to Sara upon seeing Avraham and Sara's greatness, and realizing what a privilege it would be for his daughter to work in their home. Later, after Avraham and Sara lived together for many years without children, Sara had Avraham marry Hagar. Hagar immediately conceived, resulting in tensions between her and Sara. Sara mistreated Hagar, and Hagar fled. She ended up meeting an angel, who urged her to return to Avraham and Sara's home, despite the hardships she would face there. Hagar complied. Hagar's return to Sara conveys a powerful lesson to each and every one of us. She understood the immense value and benefit of joining Avraham and Sara, even when this entailed a degree of hardship. It was difficult for Hagar to live in the home, given the tensions that arose between her and Sara, but she nevertheless accepted the angel's advice, coming to realize that it is worth enduring this unpleasantness for the sake of the great privilege of living with Avraham and Sara. The Gemara in Masechet Shabbat (31a) tells the famous story of a non-Jew who came before Shammai and said that he would convert to Judaism if Shammai could teach him the entire Torah in just a few moments, within the amount of time he could stand on one foot. Shammai sent the man away, figuring that he could not possibly be serious about embracing Judaism if he demanded to learn the entire Torah in just a few seconds. The gentile then came to Hillel, and said the same thing – that he would convert if Hillel could teach him the entire Torah while he stood on one foot. Hillel warmly embraced him, and said, "That which you dislike – do not do to your fellow." He explained that this concept encapsulates the entire Torah. This story is often understood as contrasting the approaches of Hillel and Shammai, showing how Shammai followed a stricter policy, whereas Hillel was more patient and tolerant. However, I would like to suggest an additional angle to this story. Perhaps, the gentile's experience with Shammai is told not as a point of contrast with his experience with Hillel, but rather as the background to his experience to Hillel. Meaning, Hillel quite possibly accepted this prospective convert as sincere and well-meaning precisely because he continued in his quest even after being rejected by Shammai. The fact that the man did not relent, and persisted in his attempt to join the Jewish Nation, even after a rejection, demonstrated how highly he regarded the privilege of being a Jew. His perseverance testified to his sincerity, showing that he was prepared to go through a lengthy process for the priceless opportunity to join Am Yisrael. He in fact was not just looking for an easy route; like Hagar, he was prepared to do whatever it took to become part of the Jewish People. We declare each morning during the Shaharit service, "Ashrenu Ma Tob Helkenu, U'ma Na'im Goralenu, U'ma Yafa Me'od Yerushatenu" – "We are fortunate, how good is our portion, and how pleasant is our lot, and how exceedingly beautiful is our inheritance!" At the beginning of every day, we are to remind ourselves of how privileged we are to belong to Hashem's special nation, to be able to devote our lives to His service. We remind ourselves that no matter what we will have to do deal with over the course of the day, we've won the lottery of life, we have received a precious gift. Yes, throughout any given day, a Jew is going to confront challenges. He might struggle with a challenge to his faith, a challenge posed by his sinful inclinations, the hardships that arise when seeking to meticulously observe the Misvot, or the hostility so often shown to us by other peoples. Belonging to Am Yisrael is not always going to be easy. But we can and must look to Hagar for inspiration, to be reminded that we are truly fortunate, that any difficulties that we endure are a small price to pay for the great privilege that we have been given to serve the Almighty.

Why did Noah have to build an ark? Clearly, this was a very difficult and complicated way for Hashem to save Noah and his family from the flood. Not only did Noah have the go through the trouble of building this enormous edifice – a project which, according to tradition, took over 100 years to complete! – but it also subjected Noah and his family to grueling hardship. They lived together with all the animals, enduring great suffering. For one thing, we cannot even imagine the stench in the ark from all the waste produced by the animals. And, Noah was responsible for feeding every animal – such that he could never rest, as he needed to ensure that every animal was fed on time, and the different species all have different feeding schedules. This was an unfathomably challenging experience for Noah and his family. So why did Hashem save them this way? Hashem had an infinite number of ways to rescue Noah and his family. Why did He choose to have them live on an ark? The Meshech Hochma (Rav Meir Simcha Ha'kohen of Dvinsk, 1843-1926) answers that the ark was necessary in order for Noah and his family to experience what we might call "detox." As the Torah describes, the people of Noah's time were sinful, corrupt and degenerate. The society was overrun by greed, immorality and violence. People were concerned exclusively with the pursuit of self-gratification, completely disregarding the needs of others. And although Noah and his family were righteous, they were undoubtedly affected by their surroundings. Living in a society makes it all but impossible to avoid the influences of that society's value system, beliefs and culture. To some small extent, Noah and his family were influenced by their society's culture of selfishness, wanton indulgence, and cruelty. In order for this culture to be completely eliminated, Noah and his family – who would rebuild the world after the flood – needed to be purged of this influence. And for this reason, the Meshech Hochma explains, Hashem commanded them to spend a year in the ark. During this year, they were compelled to act precisely opposite of their contemporaries. They had no possibility of indulging in food, as their food supply was limited without ever being replenished. They could not live in comfort. And, they spent the entire year caring for animals, extending themselves on behalf of other creatures. For an entire year, Noah and his family were completely immersed in selflessness – thereby purging themselves of all traces of influence from the immoral society in which they had lived. Sadly, we, too, are living in a degenerate society. Our generation has embraced corrupt ideas, and inverts right and wrong. Throughout the last year, Israel has consistently been depicted as the villain, while the Hamas terrorists are seen as the helpless victims. Good is turned into bad and bad is turned into good. Basic morality is ridiculed and shunned, as are the values of self-discipline, self-restraint, and dignity. Wanton pleasure-seeking is encouraged as an ideal, and any limitations are frowned upon. Like Noah, we need to build an "ark" for ourselves – and, far more importantly, we need to make the most of this "ark." Our modern-day "ark" is our community institutions – our yeshivot, Bateh Midrash, synagogues, and communal learning programs. In this "ark," we immerse ourselves in Torah values, in morality, in spirituality. We "detox," reminding ourselves of what's right and what's wrong, of which lifestyles are appropriate and which are inappropriate, of which relationships are proper and which are improper, of how a family should look like, and of how we are to live our lives. Of course, we cannot spend our lives in the "ark." Just as Noah and his family were eventually told to exit the ark, we, too, need to spend time outside our "ark" and interact and engage with the world around us. Therefore, we need to make the most of the time spent in the "ark." Youngsters in our community's educational institutions need to be encouraged to maximize their learning and their participation in educational programming. Adults need to be fully engaged when they come to synagogue and Torah classes, recognizing the great importance of this "detox" process, of inoculating themselves against the pervasive influences of our society. Only this way can we hope to protect ourselves and our families, to retain our loyalty and devotion to Torah values, and successfully maintain our precious Torah tradition and transmit it to the next generation.

The Midrash (Midrash Tehillim, 92) relates that Adam and Hava committed their sin of partaking from the forbidden tree late on Ereb Shabbat, and then, when Shabbat began, G-d was going to punish them. He had warned Adam when He first placed him in Gan Eden that eating the forbidden fruit would be punishable by death (Bereshit 2:17), and so now that Adam violated this command, G-d was prepared to kill him. But then Shabbat came before Hashem to advocate on Adam's behalf. Shabbat pleaded, "Master of the world! During the six days of the week, no person in the world was punished. And You're going to begin [punishing] with me? This is my sanctity?! This is my rest?!" Hashem accepted Shabbat's plea, and let Adam and Hava live. The Midrash concludes that once Adam realized that his life was saved because of Shabbat, he composed a special song for Shabbat. This song is known to us as "Mizmor Shir Le'yom Ha'Shabbat," the 92 nd chapter of Tehillim, which we – and many communities – have the custom of reciting at the onset of Shabbat. Just as Shabbat served as Adam's advocate, saving his life, it serves as our greatest advocate, as well. The Maggid of Duvna (Rav Yaakov Kranz, 1741-1804) drew an analogy to a king who had a brilliant, beautiful daughter whom he loved and cherished more than anything in the world. He held her in very high esteem, and would occasionally consult with her on important matters. He treated her like a queen. One day, she got married and moved away. Sometime later, the king went to visit his daughter. He was stunned to see her face bruised and scarred. He realized that her husband had been beating her. The king turned to her husband and reminded him of his criminal past. He explained that he had decided to pardon him for his past misdeeds because he trusted that he would care for the king's beloved daughter. But now that he was mistreating the princess, he lost the king's favor. Shabbat, the Maggid of Duvna explained, is Hashem's beloved "princess." As long as we properly treat the princess, and observe Shabbat the way it is meant to be observed, we earn Hashem's favor and grace. Although we might occasionally err and stumble, Shabbat will advocate on our behalf before G-d, and save us from punishment. How does this work? Why does Shabbat serve as our advocate? One explanation emerges from a fascinating teaching in the Gemara (Shabbat 119b) about the recitation of the verses of "Va'yechulu" on Friday night. These verses tell of the conclusion of the world's creation after six days, and the designation of Shabbat as a special, sacred day (Bereshit 2:1-3). The Gemara states that one who recites these verses as part of his prayers on Friday "becomes G-d's partner in the creation of the world." Through the proper observance of Shabbat, we become Hashem's "partners." We might suggest a comparison to a fellow who opens and runs a store, but needs a partner to promote the store and bring in customers. A store won't be profitable without customers, and so both partners are indispensable to the success of the enterprise. Likewise, Hashem created and runs the world, but nobody knows about it. We become His partners by observing Shabbat, through which we announce that He created the world, we publicize Hashem's "enterprise," so-to-speak. And once we've become Hashem's partners, we become indispensable. Shabbat advocates on our behalf because through our commitment to Shabbat, we show that we are needed in order to disseminate the faith in Hashem throughout the world. Just as Shabbat protected Adam and Hava, it can protect us, as well. By reaffirming our devotion to proper Shabbat observance, by treating it with the respect and reverence that it deserves, we become worthy of Hashem's special care and grace, and elevate ourselves to the status of His partners.

The Gemara in Masechet Sukka (11b) brings two views as to whether the Misva of Sukka commemorates "Sukkot Mamash" – the actual huts in which our ancestors dwelled during the years of travel in the wilderness, or the "Ananeh Ha'kabod" – the miraculous "clouds of glory" which encircled them and granted them protection during this period. The Shulhan Aruch (Orah Haim 625) follows the second opinion, that our Sukkot commemorate the "Ananeh Ha'kabod." The Gaon of Vilna (1720-1797) famously clarified that the Misva of Sukka commemorates not the "Ananeh Ha'kabod" themselves, but rather the return of the "Ananeh Ha'kabod" after they had been taken away. Following the sin of the golden calf, Hashem decreed that Beneh Yisrael would be annihilated, but then rescinded the decree in response to Moshe's heartfelt pleas on the nation's behalf. However, the Gaon writes, even though Hashem rescinded this decree, He removed the "Ananeh Ha'kabod," the special clouds which expressed His special affection for the people and close relationship with them. But Beneh Yisrael then repented, and Moshe persisted in his prayers. Ultimately, on Yom Kippur, G-d announced His complete forgiveness, and the following day, Moshe relayed to the people G-d's instruction to donate materials for the construction of the Mishkan. The people generously donated over the course of the next several days, and then, on the 15 th of Tishri, when the artisans began constructing the Mishkan, G-d restored the "Ananeh Ha'kabod." It is this restoration of the clouds, the Gaon writes, that we celebrate on Sukkot. We celebrate the fact that even after the sin of the golden calf, G-d mercifully forgave us and even fully restored His relationship with us, to the extent that He returned to us the special clouds of glory. The Gaon answers on this basis the question of why Sukkot is celebrated specifically at this time of year. The "Ananeh Ha'kabod" encircled Beneh Yisrael and protected them throughout the year, and they were first given these clouds immediately after the Exodus from Egypt. Seemingly, then, there is no particular significance to the middle of Tishri as far as these clouds are concerned. Why, then, do we celebrate this Yom Tob at this time? The answer, the Gaon explains, is that on Sukkot we celebrate the return of the "Ananeh Ha'kabod" on the 15 th of Tishri. Rav Eliezer Waldenberg (Jerusalem, 1915-2006), in his Sitz Eliezer (vol. 15), raises the question of how to reconcile the Gaon's theory with a verse in the Book of Nehemya (9:19) which clearly states that the "Ananeh Ha'kabod" never left: "And You, in Your abundant compassion, never abandoned them in the desert; the pillar of cloud was never removed from them during the day to guide them along the path…" How can the Gaon claim that Hashem took away the clouds of glory following the sin of the golden calf, if the verse in Nehemya says explicitly that the clouds were never removed? Rav Waldenberg answered by noting that the verse in Nehemya speaks specifically of one particular function of the "Ananeh Ha'kabod" – to guide the people through the desert. The clouds served numerous other purposes, as well, protecting the people from the harsh elements, from wild animals and from enemies, and also making the ground comfortable and the terrain easily traversable. Accordingly, Rav Waldenberg writes, we may distinguish between the different clouds. As the verse in Nehemya says, the clouds that guided Beneh Yisrael through the desert never left, and it was only the other clouds which were taken from them and then returned once they began building the Mishkan. This insight shows us that Hashem will never forsake His beloved nation. Even after the sin of the golden calf, He did not leave them alone in the desert; He continued showing them the path forward, and allowed them to return to Him. We can never permanently sever our relationship with G-d, just as a child can never permanently sever His relationship with His parents. G-d is our father, and He will always remain with us, no matter what mistakes we have made. None of us have ever done anything as bad as the worship of the golden calf several weeks after beholding Hashem's revelation. If G-d did not forsake the people after that sin, we can rest assured that He will never forsake us, no matter what we have done, no matter how far we have strayed. Hashem will never reject any one of His precious children; He instead patiently waits for that Jew to return. This concept should inform the way we look at ourselves, and also the way we look at our fellow Jews. When we see someone who does not properly observe the Misvot, we must not reject him, or look upon him with disdain – because Hashem does not reject that person or look upon him with disdain. Hashem loves that individual and trusts in his capacity to improve – and so we should, as well. Just as G-d's love for us is unconditional, so must our love for all our fellow Jews be unconditional. Rather than focus on their faults and shortcomings, we should focus instead on their inner spark, on their potential for greatness, and shower them with love and compassion – just as Hashem does.

During the times of the Bet Ha'mikdash, the Kohen Gadol would offer a special series of sacrifices on Yom Kippur to bring atonement for the people. Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of the Yom Kippur service was a pair of goats, which were sacrificed in two very different ways. The Kohen Gadol would cast lots, picking out of a box two pieces of wood, one of which bore the inscription "L'Hashem" ("for G-d"), and the other "La'azazel." He would then place one piece of wood on each goat, determining their fates. The goat designated "L'Hashem" was sacrificed, and its blood was sprinkled in the Kodesh Ha'kodashim – the inner chamber of the Bet Ha'mikdash, where nobody was allowed to enter, except the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur. The other goat, which was designated "La'azazel," was brought several miles outside Jerusalem into the desert, where it was thrown from a cliff. What is the meaning behind these two goats? Why were two separate goats needed for atonement, and why was one goat "sacrificed" by being killed in the desert? One answer might be that the two goats correspond to the two basic categories of Misvot in the Torah – our obligations toward Hashem ("Ben Adam La'Makom"), and our obligations to our fellow man ("Ben Adam La'habero"). One goat atoned for sins committed against the Almighty, whereas the other atoned for interpersonal offenses. Indeed, the Talmud teaches that the two goats were to be precisely identical to one another – alluding to the fact that these two areas of Torah are of equal importance. One cannot be considered a devoted Torah Jew if he observes only the ritual laws, between man and G-d, without concern for other people, or if he is kind and generous toward others but neglects his obligations to Hashem. Both elements are equally vital components of Torah life. The Sa'ir L'Hashem – the goat sacrificed in the Bet Ha'mikdash – clearly corresponds to the area of "Ben Adam La'Makom." Its blood is brought into the Kodesh Ha'kodashim, where no people are present, and the Kohen Gadol stands alone with Hashem. This chamber represents a person's relationship to Hashem, and so this sacrifice atones for sins committed against the Almighty. The second goat, which was brought out into the desert, atones for the wrongs committed against other people. The explanation might be that this unusual sacrifice alludes to the first incident of fraternal strife among the Jewish Nation – the story of Yosef and his brothers. It was in the desert where the brothers threw Yosef into a pit, essentially casting him from the family ("Ha'bor Ha'zeh Asher Ba'midbar" – Bereshit 37:22). Throwing the goat off the cliff perhaps symbolizes the casting of Yosef into the pit, the first sin "Ben Adam La'habero" that our nation committed, which forms the origin and basis of all subsequent interpersonal offenses. This association between the Sa'ir La'azazel and the story of Yosef might explain another aspect of the Yom Kippur service. Before the goat was sent out to the desert, a piece of red string was taken and cut into two pieces – one which was then placed between the goat's horns, while the other was hung in the Bet Ha'mikdash. After the goat was thrown off the cliff, the piece of string in the Bet Ha'mikdash would miraculously turn white, symbolizing G-d's forgiveness of the people's sins. The Gemara comments that this string was to have a very specific value – precisely two silver coins. Not coincidentally, the Gemara elsewhere teaches that Yosef's brothers grew jealous, to the point where they sold him as a slave, because of the special garment that their father made for him, which contained two silver coins' worth of material more than the garments he made for them. The string that was attached to the horns of the "Sair La'azazel" thus reminds us of the pettiness that leads to jealousy and hostility, and can ultimately tear apart families and relationships. As part of our repentance on Yom Kippur, we are called upon to examine our conduct in both areas of religious life. Alongside our efforts to improve our service of Hashem, we must also consider the way we treat the people around us, in our family, in our school, yeshiva or workplace, in our community, and wherever we interact with other people. Honesty, humility, respect, courtesy, patience and courteousness are no less crucial a part of Torah life than prayer, Torah study, Shabbat, Sisit and Tefillin. It is through the combination of "Ben Adam La'Makom" and "Ben Adam La'habero" that we live complete Torah lives and become worthy of Hashem's unlimited blessings.

Kabbalistic tradition teaches that everything which happens here in our world has its origins in the upper worlds. By the time an event unfolds here on earth, something had already occurred in the heavens that set this process into motion. It occurred to me that this teaching may be applied to an event which we witness here in New York City each year – not coincidentally, in September, shortly before Rosh Hashanah, or around the time of Rosh Hashanah. I refer to the United Nations' General Assembly. Leaders of countries around the world come here and take the stage to rail against the world's only Jewish state. They stand up to fabricate lies and portray Israel as the cause of the world's problems. The "heavenly" backdrop of this annual disgrace can be understood based on a teaching of Rav Shlomo Kluger (1785-1869) regarding the judgment that takes place on Rosh Hashanah. He writes that on Rosh Hashanah, not only is each individual judged for the coming year, but the entire Jewish Nation, too, is brought to trial as a single entity. Rav Kluger explains that when Hashem disrupted the building of Migdal Babel, dividing mankind into seventy nations, he assigned an angel to each nation. Every nation that was formed came under the supervision of an angel in the heavens. There is, however, one exception. As we read this Shabbat in Parashat Haazinu (32:9), "Ki Helek Hashem Amo, Yaakob Hebel Nahalato" – "His nation is G-d's portion; Yaakob is the territory apportioned to Him." Am Yisrael is under Hashem's direct protection and supervision. There is no angel assigned to the Jewish People, because G-d cares for us directly, as His "personal" portion. However, this special status needs to be earned. Following the sin of the golden calf, even after G-d accepted Moshe's plea not to annihilate Beneh Yisrael, He was not prepared to continue keeping them under His direct care. He told Moshe, "I am hereby sending an angel before you to guard you along the way and to bring you to the land I have prepared" (Shemot 23:20). The people had forfeited the privilege of G-d's direct care through their wrongdoing. Even then, though, Moshe successfully interceded on the people's behalf, and Hashem agreed to care for the nation directly. Rav Kluger writes that each year, on Rosh Hashanah, the angels in heaven call for a new "election," for reassessing Am Yisrael's special stature. They question and challenge the Jewish Nation's right to Hashem's special care and protection. Like the speakers in the UN, they stand up and cast aspersions against us. They claim that we are not worthy of our unique relationship with Hashem. And the critical moment when we successfully refute this challenge is during the recitation of "Alenu Le'shabe'ah" during Musaf on Rosh Hashanah. In this prayer, we express our boundless gratitude for not having been made like the other nations, "for they bow to vanity and nothingness, and pray to a god that does not deliver, whereas we kneel and bow before the King of the kings of kings…" We loudly, proudly, and confidently avow that we do not follow the other nations' customs and practices, that we do not embrace their beliefs, that we are fully and unwaveringly committed to Hashem, and resist the lures of the "vanity and nothingness" to which other peoples devote their time and attention. It is by resolutely proclaiming our loyalty to Hashem, and our refusal to go along with the beliefs, values, customs and lifestyles of the people around us, that we earn a renewal of our contract, so-to-speak, the continuation of our special relationship with Hashem. If we steadfastly commit to refrain from the "vanity and nothingness," from the practices of other peoples, then we earn our nation's special stature, our unique relationship with the King of the universe.

The very last of the 613 Misvot in the Torah is the command to write a Sefer Torah. The Torah instructs in Parashat Vayelech (31:19), "Ve'ata Kitbu Lachem Et Ha'shira Ha'zot" – literally, "And now, write down for yourselves this song," referring to the text of the Torah. Why is the Torah referred to as a "Shira" – song? Why aren't we commanded simply to write a Torah? And what does it tell us about the Torah that it is described this way? Several different answers have been given to this question. The Netziv (Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin of Volozhin, 1816-1893), in his Torah commentary, explains that the word "Shira" actually means "poem." The Torah is referred to as a "poem," the Netziv writes, because a poem is not to be taken at face value. When writing a poem, the poet utilizes numerous literary devices to convey a deep message. The true meaning of the poem cannot be understood through a simple, straightforward reading of the text; the words need to be carefully studied and analyzed. Similarly, the text of the Torah requires in-depth study. The plain meaning does not convey the full message of the Torah. This is why we have the Torah She'be'al Peh – the oral tradition – which teaches us how to understood the deep meaning of the Torah text. The conventional understanding, however, is that "Shira" indeed means song, and that the Torah is compared to a song. Why? One reason is that a song speaks to the heart, not the mind. Learning is an intellectual exercise, whereas listening to music arouses the soul, stirring one's emotions. Torah is called a "Shira" because the experience of Torah learning is both intellectual and emotional. On the one hand, of course, learning is an intellectual exercise, as we use our minds to absorb and understand the profound wisdom of the Torah. But additionally, the experience of Torah learning touches our souls. Through the study of Torah, we connect with Hashem, and strengthen our bond with Him. And so learning Torah is not only intellectual, but also spiritual. Like music, Torah affects our inner beings, our soul and our spirit. This is why we should endeavor to learn Torah even when our minds aren't working as well as we want them to, when we find it difficult to focus, when we are distracted, when we are fatigued, or otherwise unable to absorb and understand to the best of our ability. Even under less-than-ideal intellectual conditions, there is still great spiritual value to Torah learning. If a person's mind is not currently able to understand an intricate passage in the Talmud, there are lighter texts that he can and should learn. Once we recognize the spiritual value of Torah learning, the impact it has upon our hearts and upon our souls, we will want to learn under all conditions, even when they aren't ideal. There is also an additional ramification of the emotional impact of Torah learning. King David proclaims in Tehillim (119:54), "Zemirot Hayu Li Hukecha" – "Your statutes were songs for me," emphasizing this emotional, spiritual dimension of Torah learning. He spent many years on the run, fleeing from those who tried to kill him. He also led may wars against enemy armies. During those periods of hardship, Torah learning was his "song," his source of calm and serenity. Torah study touches the heart and connects us to Hashem, bringing us comfort and peace of mind during life's difficult moments. Let us utilize this precious gift that we have been given, and take advantage of every opportunity we are given to immerse ourselves in Torah learning and reap the invaluable emotional and spiritual benefits that it offers us.

The Torah in Parashat Ki-Tabo describes the great rewards that G-d promises to bestow upon our nation if we faithfully observe the Misvot. The Or Ha'haim (Rav Haim Ben-Attar, 1696-1743) explains that the first series of blessings mentioned in this section are promised as rewards specifically for the Misva of Torah study. The first reward promised is, "U'netancha Hashem Elokecha Elyon Al Kol Goyeh Ha'aretz" – "Hashem your G-d will make you elevated above all nations in the land" (28:1). The Or Ha'haim explains that through the study of Torah, "Yishtanu Le'ma'ala Mi'kol Ha'umot She'enam Beneh Torah" – we are positively impacted, and lifted above those who do not learn Torah. Learning Torah spiritually refines us, making us better people. When we learn Torah, we do not only gain knowledge, but we also experience spiritual elevation, and are transformed. Two verses later, the Torah promises, "You will be blessed in the city, and you will be blessed in the field." This promise, of course, refers to material success. Whether one works "in the city," in commerce, or if he works "in the field," in agriculture, he earns success and prosperity through the merit of Torah learning. The Or Ha'haim cites the Gemara's teaching in Masechet Aboda Zara (19b), "Kol Ha'osek Be'Talmud Torah, Nechasav Muslahim" – anyone who learns Torah is blessed with material success. The next promise is the blessing of children – "Baruch Peri Bitnecha" ("Blessed will be the fruit of your belly"). The Or Ha'haim draws our attention to the story of Obed Edom Ha'Gitti, who, as we read in the Book of Shemuel II (6:10), housed the Aron (ark) in his home for a brief period, before King David brought it to its permanent site. The Gemara (Berachot 63b) teaches that the Aron's presence brought great blessing to the family, and Obed Edom Ha'Gitti's wife and daughters-in-law all delivered sextuplets. Certainly, then, one who studies Torah, bringing the Torah not only into his home, but into his being, will likewise be blessed with fertility. We are then promised, "Baruch Ata Be'bo'echa, U'baruch Ata Be'setecha" – "You will be blessed when you come, and you will be blessed when you leave." The Gemara (Baba Mesia 107a) explains this to mean that we will leave this world free of sin just as we entered the world free of sin. The Or Ha'haim writes that this, too, is a reward for Torah learning – that we are protected from sin. Torah learning brings us spiritual protection, helping us overcome our negative inclinations and resist temptation. By allocating time to immerse ourselves in the study of the sacred Torah, we empower ourselves to overcome the spiritual obstacles that we encounter, and to remain on the path of faithful devotion to Hashem throughout our lives.

The Torah in Parashat Ki-Teseh introduces the obligation of "Malkut" – the lashes given to sinners who are found guilty of certain transgressions. In the times of the Sanhedrin (highest Rabbinical court in Jerusalem), there were courts with the authority to administer corporal punishment, and those who were convicted of certain Biblical violations were given "Malkut." The Torah states explicitly that an individual deserving of this punishment receives forty lashes – "Arba'im Yakenu" (25:3). The Sages, however, understood that the Torah's intent is that the sinner receives thirty-nine lashes, and not forty. The Gemara (Makkot 22b) inferred this reduction from the juxtaposition between this verse and the preceding verse, which concludes with the words "Be'mispar" (literally, "in the number"). This word, together with the words "Arba'im Yakenu," form the phrase "Be'mispar Arba'im Yakenu," which can be read to mean "he shall strike him in the number that leads to forty," referring to thirty-nine. The question, however, obviously arises as to why the Torah did not simply write that the sinner receives thirty-nine lashes. Why did it formulate this law in a manner which clearly indicates forty lashes, and only through a subtle allusion instructs reducing this number to thirty-nine? An insightful answer to this question is given by the Maharal of Prague (d. 1609), in his Gur Aryeh. He explains that it is appropriate for a sinner to receive forty lashes, because sin contaminates a person's being, which was formed in forty days. The fetus takes form over the course of the forty-day period following conception, and thus forty is associated with the human being's creation. As sin undermines the very purpose for why we were created, a sinner must be punished once for each day of his formation, for a total of forty lashes. However, the Maharal writes, a person's essence is comprised of two elements – the body and the soul. A person's physical properties take form during the thirty-nine days after conception, whereas the soul enters at the very end of this process, on the fortieth day. Now each morning, in the "Elokai Neshama" blessing, we proclaim that the soul which Hashem has given us is pristinely pure ("…Neshama She'natata Bi Tehora Hi"). Even if a person commits the gravest sins, his soul remains perfectly pure. It is the body that commits the sin; the soul is merely an unwilling participant, so-to-speak, "dragged" into the act of sin due to its being bound together with the body. Fundamentally, the soul needs to be punished, too, because of its involvement in the process of wrongdoing, by virtue of its connection to the body. However, after the sinner receives thirty-nine lashes, his entire physical being is cleansed. These thirty-nine lashes atone for the contamination of his body which was formed during the thirty-nine days after conception. And thus, at this point, there is no reason for the soul to be punished. The soul deserved punishment only due to its association with the body that had committed the wrongful act, and so once the body has been renewed through the thirty-nine lashes, there is no longer a need for the fortieth lash, which would serve to atone for the soul. This is why, the Maharal explains, the Torah writes that the sinner receives forty lashes, whereas in truth he receives only thirty-nine. At the outset, he requires forty lashes, because even the soul deserves punishment due to its connection to the body, which committed the act. But in practice, once the sinner receives thirty-nine lashes, there is no longer any reason to administer the fortieth, which corresponds to the soul, since the thirty-nine lashes had cleansed the body, and it was only on account of the body's guilt that the fortieth lash was needed. I believe there is a critical message being conveyed by this Halacha, as understood by the Maharal. When the sinner is brought to the court to receive his punishment, he is shown that his soul remains pure despite his wrongdoing. His sentence is reduced by one because his pure, sacred soul was not tainted by his mistake. The purpose of the Torah's punishments is not to destroy the sinner, but to the contrary – to motivate him to grow and change. To this end, he is told that he will not receive any lashes corresponding to his soul, because no matter what he did wrong, his soul remains holy and untarnished. Knowing that he still possesses a sacred soul, the sinner will be encouraged to change and refrain from wrongdoing in the future. One of the greatest obstacles to Teshuba is the feeling that it's too late, that we're too tainted, that we've fallen too low to recover. The thirty-nine lashes show us that there's a part of us that can never be tainted, a spark of goodness and holiness within our beings that will always remain pristinely pure no matter what mistakes we have made. Although we at times fail, we must feel confident in our inherent G-dliness, in the element of Kedusha within our beings that assures our ability to improve and return to Hashem.

Toward the beginning of Parashat Shoftim, the Torah famously commands, "Sedek Sedek Tirdof" – "Justice, justice shall you pursue" (16:20). The plain meaning of this verse is that the Torah commands judges to reach their decisions honestly and fairly, with the objective of pursuing justice for all litigants who come before them. The Midrash Tanhuma, however, adds a deeper layer of meaning, explaining that the Torah here commands leaders to advocate on behalf of the Jewish Nation. In the Midrash's words, "She'yiheyu…Melamdin Alehem Zechut Lifneh Ha'Kadosh Baruch Hu" – "That they should speak of their merits before the Almighty." According to this reading, "Sedek Sedek Tirdof" means that leaders should "pursue" the piety of Am Yisrael, searching for their merits, and then plead on their behalf before Hashem. Interestingly enough, the Midrash proceeds to state that the greatest example of this quality is Gidon, one of the judges, who led Beneh Yisrael to victory over the nation of Midyan, as we read in the Book of Shoftim (6). During Gidon's time, the Midrash comments, the people had few Misvot to their credit, through which they could earn G-d's salvation from the nation of Midyan which was oppressing them. Gidon, however, advocated on their behalf before G-d, and for this reason, an angel appeared to him and appointed him leader. The Midrash adds that, as we read in the Book of Shoftim (6:14), the angel assigned Gidon his mission by charging, "Lech Be'chohacha Zeh" – "Go forth with this strength." Gidon's "strength," the Midrash explains, was the power of his finding merit in Am Yisrael during that time. Despite the people's low spiritual stature, and their failure to observe the Misvot, Gidon nevertheless saw their inner goodness and advocated on their behalf before G-d. It was in this merit that he succeeded in leading Beneh Yisrael to victory over the nation of Midyan. This was the "Koah" – the strength – with which he was able to save the people. The question arises, however, as to where and how Gidon advocated on Beneh Yisrael's behalf. Nowhere in the text of the Book of Shoftim do we find Gidon speaking of the people's merits. To what, then, does the Midrash refer? The answer is found in Rashi's commentary to the Book of Shoftim (6:13), where he explains Gidon's response to the angel. The angel's first words to Gidon were "Hashem Imecha" – "G-d is with you!" Gidon then asked, "If, indeed, G-d is with us, then why has all this befallen us? And where are all His wonders which our forefathers told us about…" Based on the Midrash, Rashi writes that the angel appeared to Gidon on the first day of Pesach, and Gidon was referring to the story of Yesiat Misrayim (the Exodus from Egypt) which he heard his father relate the night before. Gidon noted that G-d brought Beneh Yisrael out of Egypt despite the fact that they were steeped in Egyptian paganism, and were not serving G-d properly. Hashem understood their plight and saw their inner, inherent goodness despite their wrongdoing, and redeemed them. Gidon thus argued that in his time, too, Hashem should save the nation despite their low spiritual level, because their core essence was still pure. He pointed to the generation of the Exodus as an example of how Beneh Yisrael are worthy of Hashem's miraculous assistance even when they act wrongly, because deep in the inner recesses of their hearts. they are devoted to Him. Gidon thus insisted that Hashem assist His beloved nation also then, as they suffered under the oppression of Midyan. The Hafetz Haim taught that the best way to earn a favorable judgment on Rosh Hashanah is to judge our fellow Jews favorably. If we want Hashem to tilt the scales in our favor, despite our many misdeeds and deficiencies, then we should tilt the scales in other people's favor, despite their mistakes, flaws and failings. If we view other people critically, looking to find fault, searching for reasons to complain about them and disrespect them, then, Heaven forbid, we will be viewed the same way as we stand trial on Rosh Hashanah. If we want to be judged favorably, then we must follow the example set by Gidon, who insisted on finding the good in Am Yisrael even in their state of spiritual lowliness. During this month of Elul, in preparation for Rosh Hashanah, let us accustom ourselves to seeing only what is good about all our fellow Jews, and about the Jewish Nation as a whole. Instead of criticizing and complaining about Am Yisrael, let us indulge in the singing of their praises, and focus our attention on the countless merits that Am Yisrael have. We will then, please G-d, be worthy of a favorable judgment for ourselves and for the entire Jewish Nation, Amen.

arashat Re'eh concludes with the command to celebrate the festival of Sukkot. The Torah instructs: "You shall rejoice on your festival… For seven days, you shall celebrate for Hashem your G-d…for Hashem your G-d will bless you with all your grain, and in all your endeavors; and you shall only be joyous" (16:14-15). Twice in these verses the Torah appears to command us to rejoice on Sukkot. It first commands, "Ve'samahta Be'hagecha" ("You shall rejoice on your festival"), and then says, "Ve'hayita Ach Samei'ah" ("you shall only be joyous"). What is the meaning of this dual imperative? Rashi brings two interpretations of these verse. First, he suggests, the Torah adds "Ve'hayita Ach Same'ah" not as a command, but rather as a promise. If we properly fulfill the Misva of Simha (rejoicing) on Sukkot, then we will be assured to experience genuine happiness and joy throughout the coming year. Secondly, Rashi cites the Gemara's understanding of the phrase "Ve'hayita Ach Same'ah," as extending this obligation to the eighth day, the day of Shemini Aseret. The Torah first introduces the Misva to rejoice during the seven days of Sukkot, and then adds that we must joyously celebrate also on the eighth day. Rav Meir Simha of Dvinsk, in his Meshech Hochma, suggests a different explanation of "Ve'hayita Ach Same'ah." He notes that in the first verse, the Torah commands celebrating the year's crop, which is gathered into the warehouses around the time of Sukkot – "You shall rejoice…for Hashem your G-d will bless you with all your grain…" The celebration of Sukkot is integrally linked to the harvest, to the farmer's joy upon completing that year's agricultural cycle, having just now brought all his produce into storage for the winter. However, Rav Meir Simha notes, there are some years when no produce is collected. Every seven years, farmers must observe Shemita, refraining from agricultural work for an entire year, and granting all people free access to their fields. At the end of the Shemita year, the farmer does not harvest anything, because he had not worked the fields, and anything that grew was taken by other people. Rav Meir Simha thus suggests that the additional command "Ve'hayita Ach Same'ah" refers to Sukkot after the Shemita year. The Torah emphasizes that even during this year, when there is no harvest to be thankful for, the farmer must still observe a festive Yom Tob, and celebrate his relationship with Hashem. Baruch Hashem, most of us have "filled warehouses" for which to be grateful to Hashem. The vast majority of us have an income, a home, and the ability to purchase all that we need, and much more. But the Torah here teaches us that even when our "warehouses" are not "filled," even in times of financial uncertainty, we can and must still retain our joy. We must be able to celebrate our relationship with Hashem, and the privilege we have to serve Him, under all conditions, even in times of hardship. No matter what we are going through, we can find comfort and joy in the knowledge that we are Hashem's beloved children, and that He has chosen us as His servants. The command "Ve'hayita Ach Same'ah" calls upon us to experience joy in our connection to Hashem at all times and under all circumstances, even during life's more challenging moments.

The Torah in Parashat Ekeb (8:10) introduces the Misva of Birkat Ha'mazon – the obligation to recite a series of special Berachot after eating a certain quantity of bread. The Gemara in Masechet Berachot (48b) teaches us the origin of the four blessings that comprise the text of Birkat Ha'mazon. The first Beracha, the Gemara states, was instituted by Moshe Rabbenu, after the manna began falling in the desert. The second Beracha, which focuses on the gift of Eretz Yisrael, was composed by Yehoshua after he led Beneh Yisrael into the land. The third Beracha, which prays for the building of Jerusalem and the Bet Ha'mikdash, was written by King David and his son, King Shlomo. The recitation of these three Berachot, the Gemara establishes, is required on the level of Torah obligation ("Mi'de'Orayta"). There is, however, a fourth Beracha – called "Ha'tob Ve'ha'metib") – which was introduced later by the Rabbis. The Gemara explains that this Beracha was composed following the Roman government's decision to allow the Jews to bury the remains of the inhabitants of Betar. The city of Betar had been a large, bustling metropolis, home to tens of thousands – and perhaps even hundreds of thousands – of Jews, who enjoyed wealth and prosperity. When the Romans quashed the Jews' revolt led by Shimon Bar-Kochba, the city of Betar was the rebels' final stronghold. The Romans finally captured the city, and massacred all its inhabitants. For a number of years thereafter, the Roman authorities refused to allow the bodies to be buried. When they ultimately granted the surviving Jews permission to bury the people of Betar, those who came to perform the burials were astonished to see that the bodies had not decomposed, and were still intact. To commemorate both the opportunity that had been given to bury these remains, and the miracle of their having been preserved, the Rabbis instituted the recitation of the Beracha of "Ha'tob Ve'ha'metib" in Birkat Ha'mazon. The question that needs to be asked is why the Rabbis chose to commemorate the burial of the people of Betar specifically in Birkat Ha'mazon. Why did they not institute the recitation of this Beracha in some other context? What connection is there between the story of Betar and the recitation of Birkat Ha'mazon? The Meshech Hochma (Rav Meir Simcha of Dvinsk, 1843-1926) offers an explanation based on an analysis of the fundamental concept underlying the Misva of Birkat Ha'mazon. Moshe mentions this Misva in Parashat Ekeb amidst his warning to Beneh Yisrael against feelings of arrogance of self-sufficiency. He says that once the people leave their miraculous existence in the wilderness, and enter the Land of Israel, where they will produce their own food and accumulate wealth, they might begin thinking to themselves, "Kohi Ve'osem Yadi Asa Li Et Ha'hayil Ha'zeh" – "My strength and the power of my hand made for me all this wealth" (8:17). In this context, Moshe relays the Misva of Birkat Ha'mazon, instructing, "You will eat and be satiated, and you will bless Hashem your G-d." The natural tendency after eating and feeling satiated is to pride oneself, to feel confident and secure in one's abilities. We are therefore commanded after eating and experiencing satiation to turn to Hashem, to attribute all our success and all our blessings to Him, recognizing that everything we have, and everything we are able to accomplish, is because of His grace and kindness. With this in mind, the Meshech Hochma writes, we can understand the connection between Birkat Ha'mazon and the story of Betar. The residents of this city, as mentioned, were affluent. They felt secure and confident. Tragically, however, their sense of security proved to be delusional, and they suffered a bitter, devastating fate. We bring to mind this calamity as we recite Birkat Ha'mazon as part of the effort to offset the natural effects of satiation, to protect ourselves from overconfidence in our abilities and our efforts, so that we always remember our absolute dependence on Hashem for all our needs. The story is told of a Rabbi who was at the Kotel (Western Wall in Jerusalem) and heard someone praying to Hashem that he should have a flat tire. The Rabbi turned to the fellow and asked why he wanted a flat tire. "We are all familiar with the 'wheel of fortune' that is always turning," the man explained. "People who are on the bottom eventually rise to the top, and the people on top eventually fall to the bottom. I am enjoying great success right now – so I'm asking Hashem for a 'flat tire,' that the 'wheel' should stop turning…" Of course, this man is incorrect. The "wheel of fortune" never gets "flat," it never stops turning. We must always remain keenly aware of our vulnerability even in times of great prosperity and security. Many stories are told of people who went to bed wealthy and woke up poor. When we are blessed with success, we must never lose sight of our dependence on Hashem, and continually pray to Him for ongoing blessing.

arashat Va'et'hanan begins with Moshe's impassioned plea to G-d that he be allowed to enter the Land of Israel. Speaking to Beneh Yisrael before his passing, Moshe recalled how "I beseeched G-d at that time, saying" – how he begged for the privilege of entering the land together with Beneh Yisrael. The Or Ha'haim Ha'kadosh (Rav Haim Ben-Attar, 1696-1743) comments that in this verse, with which Moshe introduces his prayer, he alludes to us four principles regarding prayer, the ways to maximize its effectiveness and help ensure that our prayers are accepted. The first principle is expressed in the word "Va'et'hanan" – "I beseeched." This particular verb refers not simply to prayer, but to prayer with humility and submission, like a poor person begging for charity. The Or Ha'haim cites in this context the verse in the Book of Mishleh (18:23), "Tahanunim Yedaber Rash" – "A pauper speaks words of supplication." The word "Va'e'thanan," then, denotes prayer recited like a pauper who humbly begs for help, recognizing our complete dependence on G-d for our needs. Secondly, the Or Ha'haim continues, Moshe says that he prayed to "Hashem" – referring to G-d with the Name of "Havaya," which signifies G-d's attribute of compassion. While praying, we must intend to appeal to what the Or Ha'haim calls "Mekor Ha'rahamim" – "the source of compassion," G-d's attribute of mercy, trusting in His infinite compassion, that He is prepared to provide us with our needs and grant our requests even if we are undeserving. Moshe then emphasizes that he uttered this prayer "Ba'et Ha'hi" – "at that time." The Or Ha'haim explains that although prayer is, of course, valuable and beneficial at any time, certain occasions are considered an "Et Rason" (literally, "a time of goodwill"), an especially propitious time for having our prayers answered. Moshe Rabbenu, of course, knew precisely which times were an "Et Rason," and so he uttered his prayer then. The Or Ha'haim cites the Sages' interpretation that the phrase "Ba'et Hahi" refers to the time of Beneh Yisrael's successful battle against the kingdoms of Sihon and Og, which effectively began the process of conquering Eretz Yisrael. As Hashem had begun this process, Moshe perhaps felt that this was an auspicious time to pray for the privilege of seeing the completion of this process across the river, in the Land of Israel. The final word in this verse – "L'emor" ("saying") – implies that Moshe chose his words carefully when he prayed. When one prays to G-d, he must ensure to use the right words, to express himself clearly, to articulate very specifically what it is that he requests. Proper and precise formulation of one's words is critical for the efficacy of his prayer. May we follow Moshe's example of prayer, praying in the right way, with the right intentions, and at the right times, so that we will be worthy of having all our prayers answered in full, Amen.

n Tisha B'Ab, as we know, we observe a fast and mourn the destruction of the Bet Ha'mikdash. Although this calamity occurred many generations after the Torah was given, nevertheless, the day of Tisha B'Ab – like everything else – has a source in the Torah. This source is revealed to us by the Zohar, in Parashat Vayishlach, where it teaches that the 365 days of the solar year correspond to the 365 Misvot Lo Ta'aseh – prohibitions introduced by the Torah. Each day of the solar calendar is associated with a different Biblical prohibition. And the day of Tisha B'Ab, the Zohar writes, corresponds to the prohibition of "Gid Ha'nasheh," which forbids partaking of a certain sinew of animals. This prohibition commemorates the incident that occurred when Yaakob Abinu was on his way back to Eretz Yisrael after having spent twenty years with his uncle. On the night before he crossed the river into the Land of Israel, he was attacked by a mysterious assailant, identified by the Sages as the Satan, the angel of Esav. Yaakob ultimately prevailed, but suffered an injury in his Gid Ha'nasheh. In commemoration of this struggle, we refrain from eating the Gid Ha'nasheh of animals. The Zohar teaches us that this prohibition corresponds with Tisha B'Ab. Just as this command requires us to refrain from eating something to commemorate a foreigner's attack that caused Yaakob a painful injury, on Tisha B'Ab we refrain from eating to commemorate the pain and suffering caused by our enemies on this day. The Hatam Sofer (Rav Moshe Sofer, Pressburg, 1762-1839) develops the Zohar's teaching further, establishing that this fight between Yaakob and Esav's angel actually took place on the night of Tisha B'Ab. That night set the precedent for what would happen many centuries later, when, like then, our enemy would come and deal a painful blow. If so, then we can perhaps understand an otherwise peculiar aspect of the Torah's description of the events of that night when the angel attacked Yaakob. The Torah relates that on this night, Yaakob brought all his belongings across the river, to the other side ("Va'ya'aber Et Asher Lo" – Bereshit 32:24). Afterward, he was left alone on his side, and he came under attack. Rashi explains this verse to mean, "He made himself like a bridge, taking from here and placing it here." We must wonder, why is this important? Why did the Torah find it necessary to inform us that Yaakob formed a "bridge" over the river, bringing his possessions from one side to the next? The answer is that this "bridge" is the secret for how we defeat "Esav" and recover from the destruction and exile that he brings upon us. In Yaakob's famous dream, he saw a ladder extending from the ground – from the site of the Bet Ha'mikdash – to the heavens. This is what the Bet Ha'mikdash represents – connecting the earth to the heavens, infusing our physical world and our physical reality with sanctity, with spiritual meaning. Offering an animal as a sacrifice means taking a physical entity and making it sacred, which is precisely the way we are supposed to live. This is what the Bet Ha'mikdash represented, and this is the symbolic meaning of Yaakob forming a "bridge" for his material possessions. When he brought his assets across the river to Eretz Yisrael, he was showing us what religious life means – infusing our physical, worldly existence with holiness. This is the significance of Yaakob's "bridge" – bridging the gap between heaven and earth, between the sacred and the mundane, between the spiritual and the physical. On that night of Tisha B'Ab, which established this occasion as a time of exile, suffering and calamity, Yaakob showed us how we can bring an end to our troubles and earn redemption. In order to be worthy of the Bet Ha'mikdash, we need to work to make this connection between heaven and earth, between our physical reality and Kedusha. We need to infuse our mundane activities with spiritual meaning, by directing everything we do toward Torah and Misvot. We do this by going about all our activities in strict adherence to Halacha, and by devoting time and resources for sacred purposes. By elevating our worldly existence, and injecting it with holiness, we form the "bridge" that will lead us to the rebuilding of the Bet Ha'mikdash, speedily and in our times, Amen.

e read in Parashat Matot of the war that G-d commanded Beneh Yisrael to wage against the nation of Midyan to avenge the tragedy of Ba'al Pe'or. Midyan, together Moav, conspired to lure Beneh Yisrael to sins of immorality and idol-worship. The scheme, unfortunately, succeeded, and G-d punished Beneh Yisrael by sending a plague that killed 24,000 members of the nation. Hashem instructed Beneh Yisrael to wage war against Midyan in order to take revenge. The Torah relates that this battle was led by Pinhas, the son of the Kohen Gadol, Elazar (31:6). Rashi gives two reasons for why specifically Pinhas was chosen to lead the war. First, he was the one who saved Beneh Yisrael from annihilation during the calamity of Ba'al Pe'or, by killing a man and woman who committed a public sinful act. Once Pinhas avenged G-d's honor, G-d ended the plague. Rashi writes that since Pinhas began the Misva by killing these two violators, he was chosen to complete the Misva by leading the war against Midyan. But then Rashi adds a second explanation. He writes that Pinhas led the war against Midyan to avenge that nation's role in the sale of his ancestor, Yosef, as a slave. Pinhas' mother was a descendant of Yosef, and merchants from Midyan were the ones who, after purchasing Yosef from his brothers, brought him to Egypt and sold him to Potifar, an Egyptian nobleman. It was thus appropriate for Yosef's descendant, Pinhas, to lead Beneh Yisrael's war against the people of Midyan. Rashi's comments seem puzzling. Why should Midyan be blamed for Mechirat Yosef (the sale of Yosef as a slave)? It was Yosef's brothers who turned on him; the Midyanim simply accepted the offer and paid for Yosef, after which they sold him for a profit. Why did their role in Mechirat Yosef need to be avenged? Yosef excelled particularly in the area of Kedusha, maintaining his sanctity and purity even in the face of overwhelming temptation. As a teenager, he was lured to sin by Potifar's wife, and he resisted. The Midyanim, it appeared, had sinister intentions when they brought Yosef to Egypt, a society which at that time was steeped in decadence and immorality. They wanted to ruin Yosef by compromising his Kedusha, by putting him in a place where – they incorrectly assumed – he would be unable to withstand temptation and would be lured to sin. This is precisely what Midyan did several generations later, at Ba'al Pe'or. They tried destroying Beneh Yisrael by luring them to immorality, which would undermine their spirituality. Appropriately, then, Pinhas – a descendant of Yosef – led the war against Midyan, because this war avenged Midyan's devious scheme both at Ba'al Pe'or and with Mechirat Yosef. Our nation's struggle against Midyan continues to this very day, with greater intensity than ever. Contemporary society champions values that directly oppose the Torah's values of Kedusha and purity, and we are exposed at all times to lures that threaten to divest us of our sanctity. Hashem commanded Beneh Yisrael to wage war against Midyan – because we need to proactively reject and oppose the efforts made to undermine our Kedusha. We must continue waging this vitally important battle that began with Yosef and then proceeded with Pinhas, and work to oppose the sinful influences and lures that we face on a daily basis.

Parashat Pinhas is almost always read on the first Shabbat of the period known as “Ben Ha'mesarim,” the three weeks between Shiba Asar Be'Tammuz and Tisha B'Ab, when we mourn the destruction of the Bet Ha'mikdash. With very rare exceptions, the first Shabbat after the fast of Shiba Asar Be'Tammuz is the Shabbat when we read Parashat Pinhas. We might therefore expect to find some connection between this Parasha and the period of mourning for the loss of our Mikdash and our banishment into exile. I would like to suggest a possible point of connection, by way of a concept that emerges from a halachic discussion in the Gemara concerning our three daily prayers. The Gemara in Masechet Berachot (27b) brings a debate among the Tanna'im regarding the status of the evening Arbit prayer, whether it is obligatory or optional. According to Rabbi Yehoshua, “Tefilat Arbit Reshut” – Arbit is optional. Whereas the recitation of Shaharit in the morning and Minha in the afternoon constitutes an outright Halachic obligation, one is not required to recite Arbit. Halacha actually follows this opinion, in principle, though in practice, the Jewish Nation has accepted the Arbit prayer as an obligation. What is the difference between the Arbit prayer and the other two daily prayers? Why would Arbit be optional, while the others are obligatory? Earlier (26b), the Gemara brings a different dispute, as to the origin of the daily prayers. According to one opinion, “Tefilot Abot Tiknum” – the prayers were instituted already by our patriarchs. Abraham Abinu established the morning Shaharit prayer; Yishak introduced the afternoon Minha prayer; and Yaakob instituted Arbit. It has been suggested that these three symbolize three different sets of circumstances. Abraham Abinu is associated with morning because he enjoyed a great deal of blessing and good fortune. And, like the morning sun, his success grew brighter with time. As he aged, he attained greater wealth and earned greater prestige. Yishak, by contrast, resembled the afternoon, as he, too, enjoyed great wealth and prosperity, but then his “light” of good fortune began declining. As he aged, he endured adversity at the hands of the Pelishtim, and lost his vision. His life thus resembles the waning afternoon sunlight. Yaakob Abinu instituted the evening Arbit prayer because his life was, to a large extent, characterized by “darkness.” He endured numerous travails, as he was pursued by his violent brother, and forced to flee and live with his wily, corrupt uncle. Later, his daughter was abducted and defiled, and one of his sons was sent away as a slave by his other sons. His family then suffered terrible famine. The Arbit prayer, established by Yaakob Abinu, represents the prayers recited during the “night,” in periods of darkness and hardship. And precisely for this reason, some have explained, this prayer is (in principle) optional. We believe that all periods of darkness are temporary and fleeting. Halacha does not, strictly speaking, require reciting the nighttime prayer because “nighttime” does not last; whatever adversity we currently face will soon give way to the light of joy and good fortune. There cannot be a strict obligation to recite Arbit because this prayer will not always be needed; any darkness that we and the world experience is temporary. With this in mind, let us return to Parashat Pinhas. The latter part of this Parasha is devoted to the special sacrifices required during the holidays in the Bet Ha'mikdash. The Torah here goes through all special occasions – Shabbat, Rosh Hodesh, Pesach, Shabuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot and Shemini Aseret – detailing the sacrifices that are to be offered on each occasion. Of course, the occasion of Tisha B'Ab does not appear in the Torah, because this occasion was not supposed to be established; we were expected to always be worthy of the Bet Ha'mikdash, such that it would never be destroyed. Perhaps, we read this Parasha during the period of Ben Ha'mesarim to remind ourselves that although we observe Tisha B'Ab every year, this observance is temporary. We read this Parasha specifically so we take note of the fact that Tisha B'Ab is “missing,” that this day is not meant to be an annual occasion. This reading thus assures us that the darkness of our current exile will soon give way to light, that the adversity that we and our nation face will end, and we will experience the joy and elation of our final redemption, may it arrive speedily and in our times, Amen.

Many years ago, I was learning with a peer in the Deal Synagogue, and we were having an argument regarding the laws of Mukseh on Shabbat. Suddenly, one of the leading Halachic scholars of our time, Rav Shmuel Pinhasi, walked in. We were thrilled to have the opportunity to approach him to resolve our disagreement. And so we reverently came to the sage, posed our question, and listened attentively to his response. When he finished speaking, we went back to our place, and we both said to one another, “You see, I'm right!” This incident showed me in the clearest possible way how we have a natural tendency to hear what we want hear, to confirm our ideas and biases, rather than allow them to be challenged and questioned. We don't want to be shown that we've been wrong, that our decisions or opinions are incorrect. And so we always hear what we always thought to be correct. A dramatic example of this phenomenon, of hearing what one wants to hear, is Bilam, about whom we read in our Parasha, Parashat Balak. Balak, the king of Moab, sent messengers to Bilam, a gentile prophet, asking him to come to Moab and place a curse upon Beneh Yisrael. After the messengers arrived and submitted their request, G-d appeared to Bilam in a dream and said, “Lo Telech Imahem” – “Do not go with them” (22:12). The next morning, Bilam said to Balak's men that he could not accept the mission, “because G-d refused to let me go with you” (22:13). Rashi explains that Bilam was telling the messengers, “I cannot go with you – but I can go with more distinguished dignitaries!” Bilam was an arrogant man, who craved honor and prestige. And, he despised Beneh Yisrael even more than Balak did, and very much wanted to place a curse upon them. Therefore, when Hashem told him, “Don't go with them,” Bilam heard, “Don't go with these men whom Balak sent to you, but go with more distinguished figures when he sends them to you!” Bilam heard not what Hashem actually told him, but rather what he wanted Hashem to tell him. The Gemara in Masechet Gittin (45a) tells the story of Rabbi Ilish, who was being held captive together with another man. One day, a raven came and began chirping. Rabbi Ilish turned to his fellow captive and asked if he understood the language of the birds. The man answered in the affirmative, and explained that the bird was saying, “Ilish – escape!” Rabbi Ilish realized that the bird was informing him that it was safe for him to run away from captivity. However, he knew that ravens cannot be trusted, and so he did not try to escape. Sometime later, a dove came and began chirping. Once again, the Rabbi's fellow inmate told him that the bird was urging him to escape. Rabbi Ilish followed the dove's advice, and safely escaped. A number of commentators noted that undoubtedly, Rabbi Ilish also understood the language of the birds. It is inconceivable, these commentators write, that this random inmate had more wisdom than the great Rabbi Ilish. The question, then, arises, why did Rabbi Ilish ask the other fellow to interpret the birds' chirping? If he understood what the birds were saying, then why did he consult with his cellmate? Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz (1902-1979) explained that Rabbi Ilish didn't trust his own interpretation. He very much wanted to hear the bird telling him that this was an auspicious time to escape from captivity. And so he feared that he would hear what he wanted to hear, and not what the bird was actually saying. He therefore consulted with his fellow inmate to get an objective explanation of the bird's chirping. This is an important lesson about honesty and objectivity. The only way we will grow is if we live with the openness to hear the truth – even when it makes us uncomfortable, when it challenges our previous opinions and beliefs. Refusing to accept the truth is a quality associated with the wicked Bilam, whose passionate hatred for Beneh Yisrael prevented him from properly understanding G-d's message. We are to do just the opposite – live with the humility and honesty to hear what Hashem tells us and to surrender to His will.

The opening section of Parashat Hukat introduces and discusses the Misva of Para Aduma, a special cow which was required for the process of purifying people or utensils who had become Tameh (impure) through contact with a human corpse. The cow would be burned, and its ashes would be mixed with water. This water would be sprinkled on people and objects that had become impure, and they would then become pure once again. Surprisingly, the Shulhan Aruch (Orah Haim 685:7) brings a view (which appears first in Tosafot in Masechet Berachot 13a) that the annual reading of this section constitutes a Torah obligation. We read this section each year not only this Shabbat as part of the yearly Torah reading cycle, but also on a special Shabbat in between Purim and Pesach, which we call “Shabbat Para.” According to this view cited by the Shulhan Aruch, reading this Parasha each year is required on the level of Torah law, as opposed to virtually all other Torah readings, which are required Mi'de'rabbanan (by force of the Rabbis' enactment). The question naturally arises as to the source and reason of this requirement. There is no Biblical obligation to read about other Misvot. Why – and where – does the Torah require reading about the Para Aduma? Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky (1891-1986), in his Emet La'Yaakov (Parashat Ekeb) answers that the source of this obligation is a verse in Parashat Ekeb (Debarim 9:7), where the Torah commands us to remember “how you angered Hashem your G-d in the wilderness.” The Malbim (Rav Meir Leibush Weiser, 1809-1879), in his work Arsot Ha'haim, claims that this refers to the sin of the golden calf, but Rav Kamenetsky disagrees, noting that the golden calf is mentioned separately in the next verse (“U'b'Horeb Hiksaftem Et Hashem”). Therefore, Rav Kamenetsky suggests that this command refers to the events that transpired in Mara, shortly after Beneh Yisrael crossed the sea. As we read in Parashat Beshalah (Shemot 15:22-26), Beneh Yisrael found themselves without water until finally arriving in Mara, where they encountered a body of water, but the water was bitter and foul-tasting. They angrily complained to Moshe, demanding water. G-d responded by commanding Moshe to cast a piece of wood into the water, whereupon it miraculously transformed into sweet drinking water. After this miracle, G-d had Moshe present to the people “Hok U'mishpat,” which Rashi explains as referring to several Misvot, including the Misva of Para Aduma. Thus, Rav Kamenetsky writes, by reading the Misva of Para Aduma, which was first presented at Mara, we fulfill the Biblical command to remember Beneh Yisrael's angry complaints at Mara, where they challenged Moshe rather than placing their trust in Hashem. Rav Kamenetsky explains further the connection between the Para Aduma and Beneh Yisrael's sin at Mara. The Para Aduma shows that by following Hashem's rules, an impure person can be transformed, and regain his purity. We do not and cannot understand how sprinkling the Para Aduma waters brings a person purity, but Hashem said that this is how purity is regained. Likewise, at Mara, Hashem determined that a piece of wood should transform bitter water into sweet water. According to natural law, there is no reason whatsoever for why this should happen. Wood does not change foul-tasting water into fresh drinking water. But Hashem has he power to change any “bitter” situation into “sweetness,” in ways which we can never expect or understand. This was the people's mistake at Mara – failing to recognize that the bitter water can be made sweet. The Torah commands us to remember this incident in order that we strengthen our Emuna, our faith in G-d's unlimited ability to “sweeten” any form of “bitterness,” so that instead of complaining and bemoaning our circumstances, like our ancestors did in Mara, we turn to Hashem and ask for help. We fulfill this Misva through the reading of Parashat Para, which reminds us that Hashem can bring purity to the impure in ways which we do not understand. Just as an impure person can regain his purity through the mysterious process of the Para Aduma waters, so can any “bitter” situation be transformed to “sweetness” through G-d's unlimited power and capabilities.

Korah & Sisit Rashi, commenting to the opening verse of Parashat Korah, explains the connection between this Parasha and the immediately preceding section – the final verses of Parashat Shelah, which introduce the Misva of Sisit. Korah led a brazen uprising against Moshe and Aharon, and Rashi writes that when he and his followers confronted and challenged Moshe, they appeared before him wearing Tallitot which were colored entirely with Techelet (a type of blue dye). The Torah commands coloring one Sisit string on each of the four corners of the Tallit with Techelet, and Korah and his cohorts asked Moshe whether their Tallitot – which were entirely colored Techelet – required a Techelet thread. Moshe responded that Halacha draws no distinction in this regard, and a Techelet thread is needed even if the garment is dyed entirely in Techelet. Korach and his men then began ridiculing Moshe, arguing that if a single Techelet thread suffices for a white garment, then a garment that is entirely colored Techelet certainly does not require a Techelet thread. This account might explain not only the connection between the end of Parashat Shelah and Parashat Korah, but also the entire background to Korah's grave mistake. In presenting the Misva of Sisit, the Torah states, “Ve'lo Taturu Ahareh Lebabchem Ve'ahareh Enechem” – “so that you shall not stray after your heart and your eyes” (Bamidbar 15:39). The purpose of the Misva of Sisit is to help us avoid “straying.” Notably, the Torah mentions the heart before the eyes in this verse – “after your heart and your eyes.” Intuitively, we would have thought that the process of “straying” begins with our eyes, as we see something enticing, which our hearts then desire. In truth, however, it's just the opposite. Our hearts, our thoughts, our attitudes and our biases, profoundly affect our perception. Two people can see the same thing and react in two polar opposite ways, because each looks through a different lens, from a different perspective. We wear Sisit so that we will not be led astray by what our hearts cause our eyes to see, by how our minds perceive things. Indeed, the Kabbalists explain that the word “Sisit” stems from the word that means “glance” (“Le'hasitz,” as in the verse, “Mesitz Min Ha'harakim” – Shir Hashirim 2:9), because this Misva helps us to “see” clearly, to perceive things the right way, so that we are not led astray. One of the most dramatic examples of somebody being misled by what his heart and eyes saw is Korach. Rashi (16:7) cites the Midrash as teaching that Korach's “eye” led him astray, to foolishly launch this uprising against Moshe Rabbenu. He saw through Ru'ah Ha'kodesh (a level of prophetic vision) that he would have descendants who would rise to prominence, such as the prophet Shemuel. He thus concluded that he should demand the honor and prestige of the high priesthood. Remarkably, and tragically, Korah saw ahead many generations – but he failed to see the situation right in front of him, the obvious reality that G-d had chosen Aharon to serve as Kohen Gadol. Korah saw what he wanted to see – that he and his progeny were destined for greatness, and that he must therefore vie for the position of Kohen Gadol. His heart led his eyes to see that he deserved this exalted post – and he was thus led astray, resulting in his tragic downfall. We might explain that since Korah abused the Misva of Sisit, utilizing it to ridicule Moshe, he forfeited this Misva's spiritual benefits. The Sisit strings are meant to protect us from the lures of what our hearts and eyes see – but they did not do this for Korah, because he misused them as part of his effort to undermine the authority of Moshe Rabbenu. This resembles the Gemara's teaching (Berachot 62b) that David Ha'melech was punished for cutting Shaul's garment (Shemuel I 24:5). David showed disrespect to a garment, and so later in life, as an elderly man, he was unable to warm himself with garments (Melachim I 1:1). As he disrespected a garment, he lost the benefits that garments normally offer. By the same token, Korah lost the precious benefits of the Misva of Sisit the moment he used Sisit to ridicule Moshe. In the merit of our observance of this precious Misva, may we be worthy of being protected from misperceptions, so we will always see things clearly and make the right decisions each day of our lives.

Toward the end of Parashat Shelah (15:32-36), we read the disturbing story of the “Mekoshesh Esim,” the man who publicly desecrated Shabbat by collecting wood. The Torah tells that it was not known what punishment this man deserved for violating Shabbat, and so he was detained until G-d informed Moshe that he should be killed through stoning. Rashi, commenting on this section (15:32), writes that this story is told as criticism of Beneh Yisrael, who observed only one Shabbat properly in the desert before neglecting Shabbat. Already on the second Shabbat, the “Mekoshesh Esim” publicly desecrated Shabbat. The Torah tells of this incident to bemoan the fact that already on the second Shabbat in the wilderness, Beneh Yisrael failed to preserve the sanctity of this special day. The Maharal of Prague (Rav Yehuda Loew, d. 1609), in his Gur Aryeh, explains that Rashi refers here to the first and second Shabbatot after the manna began to fall. As we read in Parashat Beshalah, G-d commanded Beneh Yisrael at that time to observe Shabbat. The Torah there relates, “Va'yishbetu Ha'am Ba'yom Ha'shebi'i” – the people observed the command to rest on Shabbat (Shemot 16:30). Already on the next Shabbat, the Maharal writes, the “Mekosheh Esim” desecrated Shabbat by gathering wood. It emerges, then, that, according to Rashi, the story of the “Mekoshesh Esim” occurred even before Beneh Yisrael arrived at Mount Sinai to receive the Torah, shortly after the manna began falling. Rashi's comments here seem difficult to explain in light of his remarks elsewhere, toward the end of Parashat Emor (Vayikra 24:12). There Rashi writes that the “Mekoshesh Esim” was imprisoned at the same time as the “Megadef” – the public blasphemer, who was likewise kept in custody until G-d informed Moshe how he should be punished. Now several verses earlier (Vayikra 24:10), Rashi cites a view that the “Megadef' blasphemed G-d in response to the law of the “Lehem Ha'panim” – the showbread in the Mishkan. He did not understand how G-d could command that the bread should remain on the table in the Mishkan for an entire week before being eaten, as the “Megadef” deemed it disrespectful for there to be stale bread in Hashem's abode. It is clear, then, that the story of the “Megadef” occurred only after the commands regarding the Mishkan – which of course included the Misva of the “Lehem Ha'panim” – were given, meaning, at Mount Sinai, after Matan Torah. We need to understand, then, how it was possible for the “Megadef” and the “Mekosesh Esim” to be imprisoned at the same time. The “Mekoshesh Esim” committed his offense much earlier, before Beneh Yisrael arrived at Mount Sinai, whereas the “Megadef” blasphemed only after Matan Torah! The Maharal (Gur Aryeh, Parashat Emor) answers that the “Mekoshesh Esim” was not put to death immediately, because G-d did not want him killed during Beneh Yisrael's encampment at Sinai. The period from Beneh Yisrael's departure from Egypt through their stay at Mount Sinai, the Maharal explains, was a time of joy, and it was thus inappropriate to, in the Maharal's words, “be involved in death.” The Maharal draws a comparison to the Misva of “Shana Rishona,” which requires a groom to remain home and not travel during the first year of marriage, in order to bring joy to his new wife. Similarly, during this period of Hashem's “wedding” with Beneh Yisrael, they were not to put violators to death. Hence, the “Mekoshesh Esim” was still in prison when the “Megadef” was detained. We might add a deeper insight. The Gemara in Masechet Ta'anit (5b) famously states, “Yaakob Abinu Lo Met” – Yaakob Abinu never died. The Hatam Sofer (Rav Moshe Sofer, 1762-1839) explains that “death” signifies transience, the impermanence of this world. The teaching “Yaakob Abinu Lo Met” means that Yaakob Abinu paid no attention to “death,” to that which is temporary. He was focused entirely on Torah and Misvot, which yield everlasting rewards. By saying that Yaakob “never died,” the Sages are teaching us that Yaakob did not involve himself in matters that “die,” which bring temporary benefit, as he was invested solely in the pursuit of the eternal blessings of Torah and Misvot. On the basis of the Hatam Sofer's comment, we might arrive at a deeper understanding of why Hashem did not want Beneh Yisrael, in the Maharal's words, to “involve themselves in death” at Sinai. The purpose of Matan Torah was precisely to draw our attention to eternity, to allow us the opportunity to transcend the transience of this world and achieve immortality through our engagement in Torah. Our ancestors' encampment at Sinai was all about the antithesis of “death,” of impermanence, as it gave us the key to immortality. And for this reason, G-d did not want the people to put violators to death – because this period was all about eternal life through the study and observance of Torah. Our world is full of lures and enticements. Wherever we turn, we are misled to think that physical pleasures and material luxuries are what matter most, that we should devote our lives to the pursuit of these delights. We must remember that whereas all material assets and worldly pleasures are temporary, our spiritual achievements are everlasting. The Torah we learn and the Misvot we perform remain with us for all eternity. These, then, should be our primary points of focus. Like Yaakob Abinu, we should direct our attention not to “death” – to that which is fleeting and temporary – but rather to “life,” to the eternal benefits of Torah and Misvot.

The final section of Parashat Behaalotecha tells the story of the inappropriate remarks made by Miriam and Aharon about their brother, Moshe Rabbenu. They criticized Moshe's decision to separate from his wife, claiming that this was unnecessary, as they, too, were prophets, and yet did not find it necessary to separate from their spouses. The Torah relates that as punishment for this Lashon Ha'ra (negative speech), Miriam was stricken with Sara'at (leprosy). The Midrash teaches that Aharon, too, received Sara'at because of this misdeed. We read that Aharon turned to Moshe and pleaded, “Al Na Tashet Alenu Hatat Asher Noa'lnu Va'asher Hatanu” – “Please, do not cast upon us the sin which we foolishly committed, and which we transgressed” (12:11). Moshe immediately turned to G-d and prayed. The Or Ha'haim (Rav Haim Ben-Attar, 1696-1743) notes that Aharon begged Moshe to forgive him and Miriam for the wrong that they committed – implying that Moshe felt offended and was angered by their words. In truth, however, Moshe was not affected at all by what Aharon and Miriam said. Immediately after telling us about the Lashon Ha'ra spoken about Moshe, the Torah adds, “And the man Moshe was exceedingly humble, more so than any other man on the face of the earth” (12:3). The Or Ha'haim explains this verse as informing us that Moshe paid no attention whatsoever to his siblings' disparaging remarks about him. In his extraordinary humility, their words did not affect him in any way. He simply ignored it; he did not feel hurt or angered. The Or Ha'haim thus understood that Aharon mistakenly concluded that he and Miriam were punished because they angered Moshe. He assumed that he and his sister were stricken with Sara'at because of the anguish they caused Moshe with their words, and so to cure the Sara'at, they needed Moshe's forgiveness. But Moshe in truth did not feel upset by what they said. The reason why they were punished, the Or Ha'haim explains, is because Moshe had the Halachic status of a king, and there is a rule that a king does not have the authority to waive the honor owed to him (“Melech She'mahal Al Kebodo En Kebodo Mahul”). Even though Moshe did not mind that Aharon and Miriam spoke about him disrespectfully, they were nevertheless guilty of the sin of dishonoring a king. The Or Ha'haim adds a second explanation for why Aharon and Miriam were punished despite not having offended Moshe, noting that their remarks were also disrespectful to Hashem, who had approved of Moshe's decision to separate from his wife. The Or Ha'haim proves this point from the fact that Moshe responded to Aharon's plea by turning to G-d in prayer. Rather than simply announcing that he forgave Miriam and Aharon, he petitioned G-d on Miriam's behalf (Aharon had already been cured). Had Miriam been punished because she offended Moshe, he could have simply forgiven her. But since she was punished for a different reason, Moshe turned to G-d and begged that He cure his sister. Additionally, the Or Ha'haim notes, if Miriam were punished for the anguish caused to Moshe, she would have been cured immediately after Moshe forgave her. But as Moshe was not hurt by her remarks, and she was punished for a different reason, Miriam's Sara'at lasted for seven days, and did not disappear right when Moshe forgave her. Let us learn from the example set for us by Moshe Rabbenu – the example of true humility, of the strength and self-confidence to disregard and ignore people's insults, to avoid anger and grudges, and to forgive rather than resent and fight back.

The final section of Parashat Behaalotecha tells the story of the inappropriate remarks made by Miriam and Aharon about their brother, Moshe Rabbenu. They criticized Moshe's decision to separate from his wife, claiming that this was unnecessary, as they, too, were prophets, and yet did not find it necessary to separate from their spouses. The Torah relates that as punishment for this Lashon Ha'ra (negative speech), Miriam was stricken with Sara'at (leprosy). The Midrash teaches that Aharon, too, received Sara'at because of this misdeed. We read that Aharon turned to Moshe and pleaded, “Al Na Tashet Alenu Hatat Asher Noa'lnu Va'asher Hatanu” – “Please, do not cast upon us the sin which we foolishly committed, and which we transgressed” (12:11). Moshe immediately turned to G-d and prayed. The Or Ha'haim (Rav Haim Ben-Attar, 1696-1743) notes that Aharon begged Moshe to forgive him and Miriam for the wrong that they committed – implying that Moshe felt offended and was angered by their words. In truth, however, Moshe was not affected at all by what Aharon and Miriam said. Immediately after telling us about the Lashon Ha'ra spoken about Moshe, the Torah adds, “And the man Moshe was exceedingly humble, more so than any other man on the face of the earth” (12:3). The Or Ha'haim explains this verse as informing us that Moshe paid no attention whatsoever to his siblings' disparaging remarks about him. In his extraordinary humility, their words did not affect him in any way. He simply ignored it; he did not feel hurt or angered. The Or Ha'haim thus understood that Aharon mistakenly concluded that he and Miriam were punished because they angered Moshe. He assumed that he and his sister were stricken with Sara'at because of the anguish they caused Moshe with their words, and so to cure the Sara'at, they needed Moshe's forgiveness. But Moshe in truth did not feel upset by what they said. The reason why they were punished, the Or Ha'haim explains, is because Moshe had the Halachic status of a king, and there is a rule that a king does not have the authority to waive the honor owed to him (“Melech She'mahal Al Kebodo En Kebodo Mahul”). Even though Moshe did not mind that Aharon and Miriam spoke about him disrespectfully, they were nevertheless guilty of the sin of dishonoring a king. The Or Ha'haim adds a second explanation for why Aharon and Miriam were punished despite not having offended Moshe, noting that their remarks were also disrespectful to Hashem, who had approved of Moshe's decision to separate from his wife. The Or Ha'haim proves this point from the fact that Moshe responded to Aharon's plea by turning to G-d in prayer. Rather than simply announcing that he forgave Miriam and Aharon, he petitioned G-d on Miriam's behalf (Aharon had already been cured). Had Miriam been punished because she offended Moshe, he could have simply forgiven her. But since she was punished for a different reason, Moshe turned to G-d and begged that He cure his sister. Additionally, the Or Ha'haim notes, if Miriam were punished for the anguish caused to Moshe, she would have been cured immediately after Moshe forgave her. But as Moshe was not hurt by her remarks, and she was punished for a different reason, Miriam's Sara'at lasted for seven days, and did not disappear right when Moshe forgave her. Let us learn from the example set for us by Moshe Rabbenu – the example of true humility, of the strength and self-confidence to disregard and ignore people's insults, to avoid anger and grudges, and to forgive rather than resent and fight back.

Parashat Naso begins in the middle of the section that tells of the census taken of the tribe of Levi. This tribe was assigned special roles, including the role of transporting the Mishkan when Beneh Yisrael traveled in the wilderness. Last week's Parasha, Parashat Bamidbar, concluded with the counting of Kehat, one of the three families of Levi. The people of Kehat were assigned the task of carrying the sacred articles of the Mishkan, including the most sacred of the articles – the Aron (ark), which contained the stone tablets upon which G-d engraved the Ten Commandments. Our Parasha continues with the counting of the other two families of Leviyim – Gershon and Merari. G-d begins by commanding Moshe, “Naso Et Rosh Beneh Gershon Gam Hem” – “Conduct a headcount of the people of Gershon, too.” A number of commentators noted the words “Gam Hem” (literally, “them, too”), which imply that G-d had to emphasize that the people of Gershon were indeed to be counted. It seems that Moshe might have intuitively thought to count only the people of Kehat, but not the families of Gershon and Merari, and so G-d clarified that they, too, were worthy of being counted. Rav Moshe Feinstein (1895-1986) explained that Moshe might have assumed that only the people of Kehat, who were given the special privilege of carrying the Aron and other sacred articles, were deemed important enough to be counted. The other two families transported the other parts of the Mishkan, such as the planks, the pillars, the ropes, the cloths, and so on, and not the furnishings which were actually used in the service of Hashem. As such, Moshe might have thought that they did not earn the distinction of a special census like the people of Kehat did, because their job was less important. G-d therefore emphasized that “Gam Hem” – even the other two families were to be counted. Everyone who faithfully and competently fulfills his role, no matter what that role is, deserves respect and admiration. We should not reserve our respect for great Rabbis, prominent lay leaders, or public officials. Every individual has an important job to do, a crucial role to fulfill. Only a small group of people are like “Kehat,” fulfilling prestigious roles. The vast majority of people have roles which do not bring them fame or distinction, but their roles are not one iota less important than anybody else's. Anyone who does what they need to do is worthy of great respect. We are now in graduation season, when some students are named valedictorian. Certainly, outstanding academic achievements should be recognized, and students who excelled deserve to be recognized for their unique accomplishments. At the same time, however, it is crucial that we convey the message that all students are worthy of admiration for their achievements, however modest they may be. All that is expected of any student – or any adult – is to exert effort, to work hard, to do the best her or she can. As long as we put in the work and do our best, we are doing our job, which is no less important than anybody else's job.