Insight of the Week

Parashat Shelah is famous for the story of Het Ha'meragelim – the sin of the spies. Moshe sent twelve men – one representative from each tribe – to survey the Land of Israel and report back to the people, and when the spies returned, they persuaded Beneh Yisrael that they could not conquer the land, for which thy were severely punished. The Torah makes a point of mentioning that before Moshe sent the spies, he renamed one of them – his faithful disciple, Hoshea – changing his name from "Hoshea" to "Yehoshua" ( 13:16). Rashi explains that Moshe gave Yehoshua this new name as a prayer that he would be protected from the sinister plot of the other spies. The name "Yehoshua" can be read as a combination of the words "Y-ah Yoshi'acha" – "G-d shall save you." This was Moshe's prayer that Yehoshua would not be influenced by his peers who would decide to speak negatively about the Land of Israel and sow despair among the nation. We must ask, why did Moshe pray on behalf of only Yehoshua? If he anticipated the likelihood that the spies would betray their mission, and seek to dissuade the people from entering into the land, then why didn't he pray that they should all be protected from this grave mistake? The Lubavitcher Rebbe (Rav Menachem Mendel Schneerson, 1902-1994) answered this question by noting Targum Yonatan Ben Uziel's translation of this verse. Targum Yonatan writes that Moshe changed Yehoshua's name because he noticed "Invatanuteh" – Yehoshua's unique humility. Somehow, Yehoshua's especially humble character necessitated this prayer, that he should be protected from sin as he embarked on this mission. The Rebbe explained that normally, one cannot pray for another's Yir'at Shamayim (fear of Heaven), that the person should do the right thing and avoid wrongdoing. The Sages famously taught us, "Ha'kol Bi'ydeh Shamayim Hutz Mi'yir'at Shamayim" – "Everything is in the hand of Heaven, except the fear of Heaven." We can and should ask Hashem for that which lies beyond our control. Religious observance, however, is our responsibility. We cannot ask Hashem to make somebody religiously committed – because he needs to motivate himself to be committed. But if so, then Moshe's prayer for his disciple is very difficult to understand. How could Moshe pray that Yehoshua do the right thing, if one cannot pray for somebody else to avoid sin? The Rebbe answered that we can pray for somebody's spiritual success if that person is already investing effort to achieve spiritual success. For example, we cannot pray to Hashem to help somebody wake up in time for Shaharit if he goes to sleep late and doesn't bother to set an alarm clock. If, however, a person who has this weakness – often failing to get up on time – makes an effort to improve, such as by going to sleep at a reasonable hour and setting an alarm clock, then it is certainly appropriate to pray that his efforts should succeed. And this is true of all areas of religious life – once a person is making a genuine effort to succeed, then he – and others – can pray that those efforts should bring the desired results. With this in mind, we can return to Yehoshua and the spies. The Rebbe explains that Moshe sent the spies on a fact-finding mission. Their job was to objectively report the information, to tell what they saw, without giving any interpretation or offering an opinion based on that information. It was their job to determine the facts – and it was Moshe's job, and only Moshe's job, to reach decisions based on those facts. The spies' sin was arrogantly usurping Moshe's role. After they reported the facts, they gave their assessment about the prospects of capturing Eretz Yisrael – an assessment which wasn't theirs to make. They decided that their opinion was more important and more authoritative than that of Moshe Rabbenu – and this was their sin. Before Moshe sent the spies, he was well aware of this danger. He knew of the natural tendency that people have to form opinions about things which are for the experts to decide, to assume they know better, to feel overly confident in their perspectives, their ideas and their impressions. But he could pray only for Yehoshua – because he saw that Yehoshua worked on his quality of humility. Upon seeing how Yehoshua made a conscious effort to remain humble, Moshe prayed that these efforts should succeed, that Yehoshua would remain humble and not overstep his bounds. Moshe could not pray for the other spies, because he did not see them working on their Midda (quality) of humility. He therefore prayed only for Yehoshua, his student who worked to live humbly, asking that these efforts should protect him from the arrogant tendency to give opinions that shouldn't be given.

The Torah commands in Parashat Beha'alotecha (10:9) that when Beneh Yisrael are compelled to fight a war against an enemy, "Va'hare'otem Ba'hasoserot" – they must sound trumpets. The Rambam, in the beginning of Hilchot Ta'aniyot, understands this verse as a more general command to pray to G-d during times of crisis. The Torah speaks of a war against "Ha'sar Ha'sorer Etchem" ("the enemy who terrorizes you"), and the Rambam interprets the word "Sar" to mean any form of "Sara" – trouble, or crisis. Whenever we face some kind of danger, we are obligated to turn to Hashem in prayer. Nowadays, when we do not have the special "Hasoserot," the Misva to turn to G-d in prayer remains. It must be emphasized that the Rambam here does not merely advise us – or even urge us – to turn to Hashem in times of crisis. Rather, he presents this as an outright obligation, as Misvat Aseh – a Biblical command. The Torah requires us to pray to G-d for help when crisis befalls us. The reason for this obligation is that Hashem brings us crises specifically to draw our minds and hearts toward Him. Over the course of our busy lives, with all the countless responsibilities and pressures that we have, we can very easily forget about G-d. We might not be as mindful as we should be of how He is caring for us at all times, of how He is providing us with all our needs, of our obligations towards Him, and of the importance of cultivating a deep bond with Him. When crisis strikes, we must realize that Hashem is knocking on our doors, so-to-speak, calling for our attention, asking us to devote more attention to Him. The Hebrew word for "world" is "Olam," which is derived from the word "Ne'elam" – "concealed," or "hidden." G-d created the world as a place where His presence is not always apparent, where He remains concealed, where things appear to run randomly according to the laws of nature. Our challenge is to look beyond the "concealment" and to recognize that He is governing all events – both globally and individually, from behind the veil of the natural order. During times of hardship, the Rambam is telling us, our obligation is to look behind the veil, to turn our attention to Hashem. If we focus only on the practical measures that we must take to address the problem, without turning to G-d in heartfelt prayer, then we are missing the point. On the national level, too, when the Jewish People are in crisis, this is Hashem calling for our attention. We of course owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the courageous soldiers and all those working to protect us from our bitter enemies, who are G-d's messengers sent to safeguard His beloved children. But alongside our appreciation for the messengers – we mustn't forget the One who sent them. In times of crisis – personal or national – let's ensure not to miss the point, and to direct our attention toward Hashem in prayer and repentance.

Parashat Naso is famous for being the longest Parasha in the entire Torah, as it consists of 176 verses. Not coincidentally, this is also the number of verses in the longest chapter of Tehillim (119), and the number of pages in the longest Masechet in the Talmud, Masechet Baba Batra. The unique significance of this number is revealed to us by the Maharal of Prague (Rav Yehuda Loew, d. 1609). He begins by establishing what has become a well-known principle regarding the number 8 – namely, that it signifies the notion of extending beyond the confines of nature. The world was created in seven days – and, in the teachings of Kabbalah, through the process of the seven Sefirot, spiritual energies – and so the number 7 represents the natural order. The number 8, then, alludes to that which is beyond the limits of nature. Thus, for example, the Berit Mila is performed on a child's eighth day, indicating that we are expected to restrain our natural impulses, to live on a higher plane, where our sacred soul controls our natural body. Likewise, the Maharal explains, the seven lamps of the Menorah in the Bet Ha'mikdash symbolize the natural world – and behind the curtain in the Mikdash there was the eighth "light," the Torah. The sacred Aron (ark) contained the Torah, and it was thus called "Aron," a derivative of the word "Or" – "light." The Torah shines its own form of light – not a natural light that enables us to see with our eyes, but a spiritual light that reaches our souls, and uplifts and inspires us. The Torah is written with the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet, the Maharal writes, and when we multiply 22 by 8, we arrive at 176. This number, then, is associated with Torah's supernatural quality, its having originated outside our world, reminding us that it is through the study of Torah that we can extend beyond the confines of our world and connect ourselves to Hashem and to all the powers that lie outside our world. For this reason, the longest Parasha, the longest chapter of Tehillim, and the long section of the Gemara are all connected with this number, as they embody the great power of Torah. This unique power, which is associated with the number 176, also enables us to overcome our foes. Kabbalah teaches that the greatest spiritual force that threatens Beneh Yisrael is represented by one of the grandsons of Esav, a man named Sefo (Tzadi, Peh, Vav), whose name is listed among the twelve chieftains of Edom, the nation that descended from Esav (Bereshit 36:15). The Ramban cites the historian Josephus as relating that Sefo was a fierce enemy of Yaakob Abinu and his family, and when Yaakob's sons brought his remains from Egypt to Hebron for burial in Me'arat Ha'machpela, Sefo and his men waged war against them. However, Yaakob's sons prevailed, captured Sefo, and brought him as a prisoner to Egypt. Sefo would later escape and make his way to what would become Rome, and he is thus the founder of the kingdom of Rome, the bitter enemy of the Jewish People. According to the wisdom of Kabbalah, Sefo represents the spiritual force of our wicked enemies who wage war against us and seek our demise. The Ben Ish Hai (Rav Yosef Haim of Baghdad, 1833-1909) taught that the way we defeat the power of Sefo is through the power of Torah. Indeed, the name "Sefo" in Gematria equals 176 – and we thus overcome his force through the power of Torah, which is represented by that same number. This is why Sefo waged war at that time of Yaakob Abinu's funeral – because he knew that the greatest power Beneh Yisrael possess is the power of Torah, which was embodied by Yaakob. Sefo sought to fight Beneh Yisrael at that time to neutralize this power so he could defeat them – but the power of Yaakob, the power of Torah, prevailed. The Shabbat when we read Parashat Naso – especially coming on the heels of Shabuot, when we renewed our acceptance of the Torah – is an appropriate occasion to remind ourselves of the unique power of Torah learning. As we see the alarming rise of antisemitism around the world, and as the Jewish State finds itself in the midst of a difficult war against its fierce, evil enemies, let us recommit ourselves to Torah learning. Let us all ensure that we are devoting the time and effort that we should to learn, so that we can harness the great power of Torah with which to overcome our nation's bitter foes.

Numerous reasons have been given for the time-honored, cherished custom to eat dairy foods on Shabuot. One of the lesser-known explanations is that offered by the Rama (Rav Moshe Isserles, Poland, 1530-1572), in his glosses to the Shulhan Aruch (Orah Haim 494). Interestingly enough, the custom the Rama describes is to eat a dairy meal followed by a meat meal. As Halacha forbids using the same loaf of bread for a dairy meal and a meat meal, eating these two meals necessitates the use of two separate loaves. These two loaves, the Rama writes, commemorate the special Shabuot sacrifice, which, as the Torah commands in the Book of Vayikra ( 23:17), consisted of two loaves of bread, and was thus named Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem (the "two-breads sacrifice"). We might wonder why, according to the Rama, no such commemoration is made for a similar sacrifice brought on the second day of Pesach. The Korban Ha'omer was offered from the newly-harvested barley on the 16 th of Nissan, and it paralleled the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem brought on Shabuot. The Mishna (Menahot 68b) teaches that each of these two sacrifices functioned as a "Matir" – meaning, it made something permissible. The Korban Ha'omer made it permissible to eat from the newly-harvested crops, and the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem made it permissible to offer Menahot (grain offerings) in the Bet Ha'mikdash from the newly-harvested crop. Meaning, although it was permissible to eat from the new grain after the offering of the Korban Ha'omer on the 16 th of Nissan, it remained forbidden to bring a meal-offering in the Temple from the new grain until the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem was brought on Shabuot. Seemingly, if – as the Rama writes – we make a commemoration on Shabuot for the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem, then we should also make a commemoration on the second day of Pesach for the Korban Ha'omer. Why don't we? The answer lies is a fundamental distinction between these two sacrifices. This distinction is expressed in a comment by the Sefat Emet (Rav Yehuda Aryeh Leib of Ger, Poland, 1847-1905) discussing a situation where, for whatever reason, the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem was not brought on Shabuot. When it comes to the Korban Ha'omer on Pesach, the Sages inferred from a verse that the new grain becomes permissible for consumption after the 16 th of Nissan even if the sacrifice was not offered. Although the sacrifice is what permits the new grain, if there was no sacrifice, the grain becomes permissible after that day. One might have thought that since no such textual inference was made in regard to the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem, the new grain remains forbidden for use with Menahot if this sacrifice is not offered. (This is, indeed, the view taken by the Minhat Hinuch, Siman 307.) The Sefat Emet, however, writes that this is not so. He explains that the Torah does not actually forbid using the new grain for sacrifices before the offering of the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem. Rather, it requires that the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem must be the first sacrifice brought from the new crop. This sacrifice is called a "Minha Hadasha" – "a new grain offering," because it was the first grain offering prepared with the newly-harvested wheat. This is the only reason why sacrifices may not be brought from the new crop before Shabuot – because the special Shabuot offering must be the first sacrifice brought from the new grain. Naturally, then, if – for whatever reason – this sacrifice was not brought, sacrifices may nevertheless be brought from the new crop after Shavuot. This understanding of the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem points to a fundamental distinction between this sacrifice and the Korban Ha'omer on Pesach. The Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem is not actually a "Matir." Its function is not to permit wheat for use with sacrifices. It is offered as part of the celebration of Shabuot, which is called "Yom Ha'bikkurim" (Bamidbar 28:26) – the day of the new produce, when the first portion of newly-harvested wheat is brought as a sacrifice. The Korban Ha'omer, by contrast, is not inherently linked to Pesach. It happens to coincide with Pesach, but it has nothing inherently to do with this holiday. The Torah commanded offering this sacrifice on the 16 th of Nissan to permit eating the new crop, but this offering is not part of the observance of Pesach. This is seen clearly in the Rambam's rulings regarding the distribution of these sacrifices among the Kohanim. Generally speaking, the portions of a sacrifice given to the Kohanim were distributed only among the Kohanim who were "on duty" when the sacrifice was offered. However, the special Yom Tov sacrifices were distributed among any Kohen who wanted a portion, even if the Yom Tov was not during his "shift." In Hilchot Temidin U'musafin, the Rambam writes that the Korban Ha'omer was treated like a regular sacrifice – given only to the Kohanim who were "on duty" that day – but the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem was distributed among all the Kohanim, as it is a Yom Tov sacrifice. This clearly shows that the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem is part of the celebration of Shabuot, whereas the Korban Ha'omer is not part of the celebration of Pesach. This easily explains why, according to the Rama, we make a commemoration of the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem on Shabuot, but make no similar commemoration of the Korban Ha'omer on Pesach. Since the Korban Sheteh Ha'lehem was an integral part of the Yom Tob of Shabuot in the times of the Bet Ha'mikdash, it warrants a commemoration now, when we cannot offer the sacrifice. The Korban Ha'omer, by contrast, was not an integral part of the Pesach celebration, and so it does not warrant a commemoration nowadays.

The Midrash teaches that the five Humashim – the books that comprise the Torah – are alluded to in the opening verses of the Torah, which tell of the creation of light on the first day of the world's creation. The word "Or" (light) appears five times in these verses, and they parallel the five Humashim. It follows, then, that the fourth Humash – the Book of Bamidbar, which we begin reading this Shabbat – corresponds to the fourth instance of the word "Or" in these verses: "Va'yabdel Elokim Beh Ha'or U'ben Ha'hoshech" – "G-d separated between light and the darkness" (1:4). What might be the connection between the Book of Bamidbar and the "separation" between light and darkness? The Netziv (Rav Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin of Volozhin, 1816-1893) offers a fascinating answer, by explaining the primary theme of Sefer Bamidbar. This book, he writes, traces Beneh Yisrael's transition from a miraculous existence to a natural existence. The book begins at Mount Sinai, in the desert, where Beneh Yisrael relied on G-d's miracles in order to survive. They received the manna from the heavens, and water from a supernatural well that accompanied them as they traveled. The Ananeh Ha'kabod ("clouds of glory") protected them from the elements and from enemy attack. Beneh Yisrael journeyed for forty years in a region that was ordinarily uninhabitable, under Hashem's miraculous care and protection. At the end of Sefer Bamidbar, Beneh Yisrael find themselves on the border of the Land of Israel, nearly ready to cross into the land. There they would live a natural existence – fighting wars against enemies, growing crops, building cities, and developing an economy. Of course, this natural existence would require G-d's intervention; even when leading a natural lifestyle, nothing can succeed without Hashem's help. But once they crossed into the land, Beneh Yisrael were no longer cared for miraculously; they lived in accordance with the laws of nature. This is why at the end of the Book of Bamidbar, Beneh Yisrael take up arms and fight wars. They begin preparations for the battles to conquer the land, and for the division of the land. After living a miraculous existence for forty years, they now needed to transition to a natural mode of existence. The Netziv explains that this is why Sefer Bamidbar is associated with the "separation" between light and darkness. Light symbolizes G-d's open miracles, which make His control of the world unmistakably clear and evident. By contrast, darkness symbolizes the veil of the natural world, which conceals the Hand of Providence. When nature follows its course, we do not see Hashem, though we must firmly believe that He controls all events, random and natural as they might outwardly seem. Just as darkness makes it difficult to see that which we know exists, nature makes it difficult to see Hashem's control and governance, but we know that He is behind everything and orchestrating everything that happens. Hence, Sefer Bamidbar is associated with the distinction between light and darkness – because it signifies Beneh Yisrael's transition from a supernatural existence to a natural one. The Netziv explains on this basis why the Sages calls Sefer Bamidbar "Humash Ha'pekduim" – the "Book of Countings," which later evolved into the name, "Numbers." This name refers to two censuses of Beneh Yisrael that were taken in Sefer Bamidbar. We might wonder, why are these events viewed as the primary theme and essence of this book? So much happens in the Book of Bamidbar – why would the Sages focus on the two occasions when the people were counted when choosing a name for this book? The answer, the Netziv writes, is that the two censuses signify the transition that Beneh Yisrael underwent over the course of this Sefer. The first census was conducted for the purpose of arranging Beneh Yisrael's camp around the Mishkan in the desert, whereas the second was conducted to prepare for the apportioning of the territory of Eretz Yisrael among the tribes. The difference between these two censuses reflects the difference between the "light" and the "darkness," between the miraculous existence in the desert, and the natural existence in Eretz Yisrael. Therefore, this Sefer is indeed "Humash Ha'pekudim," a book of "countings," because the two countings demonstrate the transition that constitutes the essence of this book, the transition from the miracles of the desert to life in Eretz Yisrael, where G-d cares for and protects us not overly, but behind the veil of the laws of nature.

In the opening verses of Parashat Behukotai, the Torah promises great reward "Im Be'hukotai Telechu" – "If you follow My statutes." Rashi, in one of the more famous passages in his Torah commentary, writes that this phrase does not actually refer to Misva observance. After all, the very next words of the verse are "Ve'et Misvotai Tishmeru" – "and you observe My commands." Necessarily, then, the phrase "Im Be'hukotai Telechu" must denote something other than the performance of Misvot. Rashi therefore explains that it means "She'tiheyu Amelim Ba'Torah" – "that you are toiling in Torah." Many have noted that Rashi speaks here not of the study of Torah, but rather of "Amelut" – toil, hard work and exertion, investing a great deal of effort to learn. The importance of "Amelut" can be seen already in the events surrounding Matan Torah, the giving of the Torah at Sinai, which we will soon commemorate on the festival of Shabuot. The Gemara (Shabbat 88a) teaches that "Kafa Alehem Har Ke'gigit" – G-d lifted Mount Sinai and suspended it over Beneh Yisrael, threatening to annihilate them if they did not accept the Torah. They were not given a choice; they were coerced into accepting G-d's will. Many have raised the question of how to reconcile the Gemara's teaching with the Torah's account of Matan Torah, which tells that Beneh Yisrael willingly and excitedly accepted the Torah even before being informed of what it entails, enthusiastically pronouncing, "Na'aseh Ve'nishma" – "We will do and we will hear" (Shemot 24:7). If they happily announced their commitment to the Torah, then why did G-d need to threaten them and force the Torah upon them? A number of commentators answered that Beneh Yisrael committed willingly to the Torah She'bi'chtab – the written Torah, but not to the Torah She'be'al Peh – the oral law, which was eventually written into what we know as the Mishna. Coercion was necessary to force them to accept even the Torah She'be'al Peh. Why would Beneh Yisrael agree to the written Torah, but not to the oral halachic tradition? We might draw a comparison to a person who wants to stay fit and keep healthy without having to exercise. Instead of working out in the gym, he just wants a pill that he could take that would keep him thin and in shape no matter what or how much he eats, or how little he moves... Similarly, Beneh Yisrael were excited about accepting the Torah – but they didn't want to have to work for it. They wanted to be given a simple, straightforward, easy-to-read text that explained to them very clearly and succinctly what they needed to do. They wanted the instructions spoon-fed to them, presented to them in a lucid, organized fashion. But this is not how the Torah is meant to be learned. The Gemara (Kiddushin 30b) teaches that Torah study is the "antidote" to the Yeser Ha'ra (evil inclination). We overcome our negative tendencies and sinful impulses by immersing ourselves in Torah, by intensively applying ourselves and exerting effort to learn. If the Torah would be spoon-fed, it would not have this effect of empowering us against the Yeser Ha'ra. This requires "Amelut" – hard work and struggle. In fact, even when Rabbi Yehuda Ha'nasi wrote down the Oral Law, seeing that this was necessary to ensure its survival, he intentionally made the text ambiguous and difficult to understand. He maintained the delicate balance between making the material accessible and necessitating effort to comprehend it. "Amelut" is crucial to the process of Torah learning, as it is only through hard work that we achieve the spiritual benefits of Torah study, the strength to defeat the Yeser Ha'ra in its various forms. As we saw, Rashi explains the phrase "Im Be'hukotai Telechu" as a reference to exertion in Torah study. He perhaps read the word "Be'hukotai" ("My statutes") as alluding to the rules of interpreting the Torah text, the thirteen "Middot She'ha'Torah Nidreshet Bahem" – methods by which the Sages extracted Halachot from the written Torah, as listed by Rabbi Yishmael, and as we recite in our prayers each morning. These thirteen rules of interpretation represent the difference between a clear, lucid body of text, and a difficult text that can be understood only with rigorous study and analysis. We are promised reward not for simply learning Torah – but for investing the effort to learn "Be'hukotai," to study the Sages' intricate, complex discussions of the Torah text and their derivation of Halacha from its words. As we prepare for the celebration of Shabuot, let us commit to not only learn Torah – but to toil in Torah, to invest effort, so we can reap all the precious spiritual benefits that it offers us.

Parashat Emor concludes with the disturbing story of the "Megadef," the individual who publicly blasphemed G-d. The man was brought before Moshe, and Hashem informed Moshe that blasphemy is a capital crime, and this individual must therefore be put to death. Rashi (24:10) brings different explanations for what drove the "Megadef" to blaspheme G-d. One approach is that he had found himself on the losing side of an unfortunate legal dispute. The background to this dispute dates back to Beneh Yisrael's period of slavery in Egypt, when this man's mother was desired by an Egyptian man, and he schemed to have an illicit relationship with her. The "Megadef" was the product of this forbidden union. As such, he did not legally belong to his mother's tribe, the tribe of Dan. When he tried pitching his tent in Dan's territory, he was taken to court, and he lost the case. Since his father was an Egyptian, he did not have legal rights to territory among the people of Dan. This background to the story perhaps explains a subtle nuance in Hashem's instructions to Moshe. After commanding that the "Megadef" must be given capital punishment, G-d told Moshe that this is the law for all blasphemers. He said: "Ish Ish Ki Yekalel Elokav Ve'nasa Het'o" – "Any person who blasphemes his G-d shall bear his sin" (24:15). Curiously, G-d here repeats the word "Ish" ("person"), perhaps suggesting that He refers to two different people. The explanation might be that Hashem was alluding to the two guilty parties in this tragic story. True, the "Megadef" himself committed a grievous offense for which he needed to be severely punished, but the other party, the person who fought against him, also shared a not-insignificant share of the guilt. Certainly, his insensitivity and decision to pursue legal action in no way justified the blasphemy spoken by the "Megadef," because even when we endure hardship and suffer hostility, we are expected to maintain our composure and our faith in Hashem. Nevertheless, the other party to this dispute cannot be excused for angering the "Megadef" and leading him to this grave sin. Hashem thus told Moshe, "Ish Ish Ki Yekalel Elokav Ve'nasa Het'o" – both parties bear a degree of guilt in the case of blasphemy, because provoking a person and turning a resolvable situation into a fight – even if this does not justify the other party's extreme reaction – is wrong. Not every fight that can be fought should be fought. In fact, in the vast majority of situations, fights should not be fought. Being right does not make fighting the right decision. And so very often, both parties are guilty, because even the party that is technically correct was wrong for pursuing the matter and fighting about it.

In one of the most famous – and most misquoted – verses in the Torah, we are commanded in Parashat Kedoshim (19:18), "Ve'ahabta Le're'acha Kamocha' – "You shall love your fellow as yourself." I say "misquoted" because the command does not conclude with the word "Kamocha" ("as yourself"). The verse continues, "Ani Hashem" – "I am G-d." It stands to reason that the pronouncement "Ani Hashem" constitutes part of the definition of this command, and informs us about the kind of love that we are to feel toward our fellow. The Meshech Hochma (Rav Meir Simcha Ha'kohen of Dvinsk, 1843-1926) offers several explanations of this command, and for why the Torah adds, "Ani Hashem." One approach he suggests is that we are to love our fellow in the same manner that we are commanded to love Hashem. It goes without saying that we cannot see G-d, and we cannot perceive Him directly with any of our senses. Nevertheless, we are to strive to love Hashem, knowing that He is infinitely great, compassionate, kind and merciful. We are to long for a relationship with Him and to understand Him even though we cannot see Him with our eyes. This is true also of the love we are to feel and show to our fellow Jews. This love must not be dependent upon our experiences with them, or upon what we know about them. Just as we believe in Hashem's greatness even though we cannot see Him directly, similarly, we are to firmly believe in the greatness of Am Yisrael, in the precious value of our fellow Jew, even if we cannot see it. The Torah therefore adds, "Ani Hashem" – indicating that we must love our fellow Jews the way we love Hashem. This requires us, first and foremost, to feel love and concern even for Jews whom we've never met, and whom we know nothing about. When we hear that a Jew is in need in a different part of the world, then we must do what we can to help, and pray for that person, even though we know nothing about him or her. But additionally, this means that we are to love our fellow Jews whom we know but are not particularly impressed with, or don't particularly like. Just as we must love Hashem even though He occasionally does things which appear harsh and to our detriment, firmly believing in His goodness, we must similarly believe in the goodness of all our fellow Jews, even if we cannot see it. We are to recognize that although all people are flawed, every person has a precious soul and is worthy of our genuine love and respect. The Misva of "Ve'ahabta Le're'acha Kamocha," then, requires us to believe in the greatness of each of our fellow Jews irrespective of our experiences with them, and to thereby arouse our feelings of love toward them.

Much of Parashiyot Tazria-Mesora is devoted to the topic of Sara'at – the affliction that would befall a person on account of certain misdeeds, primarily, the grievous sin of Lashon Ha'ra, negative speech about other people. King David, in a famous verse in Tehillim (34:14), instructs us, "Nesor Leshoncha Me'ra" – "Guard your tongue from evil," urging us to refrain from Lashon Ha'ra. Curiously, this verse continues, "U'sfatecha Mi'daber Mirma" – "and your lips from speaking deceit." At first glance, this means that we are to refrain from both negative speech about other people, and also from misleading others through dishonesty. We must wonder, however, why the verse combines these two admonitions. Seemingly, these are two completely distinct ills – Lashon Ha'ra, and deceit. Why would David combine them into a single warning, urging us to restrain our mouths from both negative talk about people and from dishonesty? We might perhaps arrive at a new understanding of this verse by exploring the psychological underpinnings of the desire to speak Lashon Ha'ra, why we are so often and so naturally inclined to hear and share negative information about other people, and why we find it so difficult to refrain from such speech. The most common reason people enjoy speaking Lashon Ha'ra, I think, is to feel good about themselves. We are all human, and human beings, by definition, are flawed and imperfect. A person's flaws and imperfections make him uncomfortable, bringing feelings of shame, inadequacy and insecurity. Speaking of other people's failings works like a drug to alleviate this discomfort. Focusing one's attention on another person's inadequacies brings a sense of superiority, thereby allowing him to feel good about himself. This is the lure of Lashon Ha'ra, and why nearly every person feels tempted to speak negatively about others. Since every person has faults which make him uncomfortable, every person feels a natural impulse to alleviate this discomfort the easy way – by looking down on other people, by talking about what they do wrong. However, like with all "drugs," this is the wrong way to handle uncomfortable feelings. When the fleeting rush of excitement fades, the person is still left with his deficiencies, and thus with his feelings of insecurity. Looking down on other people temporarily blinds a person to his own faults, but those faults remain, and will continue to make him feel uneasy and insecure. This might be the meaning of the verse in Tehillim cited earlier. "Guard your tongue from evil, and your lips from speaking deceit." The "deceit" mentioned in this verse perhaps refers to the self-deception of Lashon Ha'ra. When one speaks Lashon Ha'ra, he deceives himself, pretending that he is more impressive and accomplished than he really is. Lashon Ha'ra is all about fooling oneself into thinking that he is great by pointing out the failings of other people. What, then, is the proper way to deal with our feelings of insecurity? How, as imperfect people, can we feel good about ourselves and our lives? The answer is found in the very next verse in Tehillim: "Sur Me'ra Va'aseh Tob" – "Turn away from evil, and do goodness." Quite simply, the way to feel good about ourselves is by trying to be better. Rather than deceiving ourselves, we should instead honestly acknowledge our faults, admit to ourselves that we – like all people – are imperfect and are meant to be imperfect, and try to be better. If we want to live in peace with ourselves, we need to stop fooling ourselves and to instead work hard to address our faults and improve. No, this will not bring the same excitement as hearing or sharing "juicy," unflattering gossip about the people around us. But it will have the long-term effect of making us feel good about ourselves, of bringing us peace of mind and real fulfillment, as we know that we are genuinely making an effort to live our best lives and be the best version of ourselves.

The Torah in Parashat Shemini tells the tragic story of Nadab and Abihu – two of Aharon's sons, who perished on the very first day they began serving as Kohanim in the Mishkan. After a special series of sacrifices were offered, with Aharon's sons performing the service for the first time, a fire descended from the heavens onto the altar and consumed the sacrifices, signalling the arrival of the Shechina (divine presence) into the Mishkan. Thereafter, Nadab and Abihu brought an incense offering, whereupon a fire came and consumed them. Rashi (10:2) brings different opinions as to the precise sin committed by Aharon's sons. One view – which appears in the Gemara (Erubin 63a) – is that of Rabbi Eliezer, who explains that "Horu Halacha Bi'fneh Moshe Rabban" – Nadab and Abihu were guilty of determining the Halacha without consulting with their Rabbi, Moshe. They reasoned that although a supernatural fire came down onto the altar from the heavens, there was nevertheless a requirement for the Kohanim to kindle a fire of their own on the altar, and this is the reason why they brought their offering. In truth, this conclusion was correct; there was, in fact, such a requirement. Nevertheless, Nadab and Abihu committed a grave offense by acting independently on their line of reasoning without first receiving guidance from Moshe. In Moshe's presence, they did not have the authority to establish Halachic norms on their own. Therefore, although their reasoning was entirely correct, they were guilty of a grievous sin in that they did not submit to Moshe Rabbenu's authority. The Lebush Ha'ora (Rav Mordechai Yoffe, c. 1530-1612) noted that Rabbi Eliezer's understanding of this episode is rooted in a careful reading of the text. In telling of Nadab and Abihu's offering, the Torah writes that they offered an "Esh Zara Asher Lo Siva Otam" – "a foreign fire which He did not command them." If the problem with the Nadab and Abihu's act was the offering itself, then the Torah should have simply stated that they brought an "Esh Zara" – an offering that was foreign, that was unwarranted and hence forbidden. But the Torah added "Asher Lo Siva Otam" – that Nadab and Abihu did not receive the command to bring this offering, suggesting that this was the essence of their sin. Hashem had taught Moshe the rule that the Kohanim were to produce their own fire on the altar, but this information had not yet been communicated to Aharon's sons. Moshe had been commanded to place fire on the altar – but Nadab and Abihu's hadn't. And thus the Torah emphasizes that this was an offering about which Moshe was commanded, but they weren't – and they were therefore punished for acting independently. This tragedy presents us with a crucial lesson in humility. Namely, even when we are confident that we are correct, we must still consult with those wiser and more knowledgeable than us. We must have the humility to recognize our limits, to realize that even things which seem obvious and intuitive to us might not necessarily be correct. We need to acknowledge that there are people with greater knowledge and wisdom whose advice is valuable and even indispensable. We should never feel too confident to ask, to seek guidance, to double check, to consult, to request advice. Even when we are certain, we must humbly question our conclusion and receive instruction and insight from those who know more than we do.

Toward the end of the Maggid section, we read the famous teaching of Rabban Gamliel: "Whoever did not say the following three things on Pesach has not fulfilled his obligation: Pesach, Masa, and Marror." Rabban Gamliel then proceeds to explain the meaning and significance of these three Misvot. The Pesach sacrifice was offered in the times of the Bet Ha'mikdash to commemorate the miracle of the plague of the firstborn, when Hashem "skipped" ("Pasach") over Beneh Yisrael's homes on the night of the Exodus, protecting them from the plague. The Masa commemorates the fact that Beneh Yisrael left Egypt hastily, without having had time to prepare and to allow their dough to rise. And the Marror symbolizes the "bitterness" of slavery from which our ancestors were saved. At the Seder, we are obligated to discuss the meaning of these three Misvot. Many commentators noted that this passage is stated out of chronological sequence. The "bitterness" of slavery, quite obviously, preceded the plague of the firstborn and Beneh Yisrael's frantic departure from Egypt. Yet, surprisingly, Rabban Gamliel first discusses the Pesach sacrifice and Masa – which commemorate the events of the Exodus – and only then mentions the Marror, which represents the slavery that our ancestors endured prior to their redemption. Why is the Marror mentioned last? Numerous answers have been given to this question, one of which emerges from a deeper understanding of Rabban Gamliel's teaching. Many years ago, as a young Rabbi, I was approached by a group of young men in the community who asked me to deliver a weekly class, which they would host on a rotational basis. These fellows were not particularly observant, and I was very pleased that they expressed interest in a weekly Shiur (Torah class). But when I showed up for the first class, I was aghast. The table was set up for a card game, with chips, cigarettes and beer bottles. I felt very uncomfortable, and I asked the host what this was all about. He explained that this group meets every week for a card game, so they figured they would begin the evening with a Torah class. After that first class, I consulted with a certain great Rabbi to receive guidance. I did not think it was appropriate for me to give a Shiur to these people under these conditions. I'll never forget what the Rabbi told me. "What they do after the Shiur is none of your business," he said. "Your job is to teach them Torah. And the light of Torah will change them." I accepted the advice, and he proved correct. Gradually, all these young men discontinued their improper behavior. It did not happen immediately, but it happened. On another occasion, I was asked to deliver a weekly Torah class to a group of men on Shabbat. Every week, the man who hosted the Shiur in his home would get up and leave in the middle. I later found out that he left for work. Once again, I consulted with a great Rabbi in the community, asking if it was appropriate for me to continue teaching a Torah class in the home of a Shabbat desecrator who gets up to leave in the middle to go to work. "Are you going to wait for him to stop working on Shabbat before teaching him Torah?" the Rabbi told me. Now this man is fully observant, learns Torah for two hours every day, and gives large amounts of money to Sedaka. Three times every weekday, in the Amida prayer, we ask Hashem to help us repent. We ask, "Hashibenu Abinu Le'Toratecha Ve'korbenu Malkenu La'abodatecha" – "Bring us back, our Father, to Your Torah, and draw us close, our King, to Your service." We ask that we be returned to Torah even before our service is complete. We do not wait until our behavior is perfect, until we have fully performed Teshuba, before learning Torah and trying to draw close to Hashem. To the contrary – we are to take the first steps even in our state of imperfection, as these steps will help us improve. This might be the deeper meaning of Rabban Gamliel's teaching about "Pesach, Masa, U'marror." The word "Pesach" means to skip. Rabban Gamliel is teaching us to "skip" right to the "Masa." In a different context, the Sages commented that the word "Masa" is associated with the word "Misva," for we must observe Misvot with zeal and alacrity just as the dough must be handled quickly and rigorously to avoid becoming Hametz. We are to skip to the stage of "Masa," of Misva observance, even before addressing the "Marror" – the "bitterness" of sin and religious failings. Theoretically, we should first cleanse ourselves of wrongdoing before coming to serve G-d. In practice, however, this does not work. If we refrain from Misvot until we fully repent from our misdeeds, we will likely never feel ready to begin our service of Hashem. Rabban Gamliel therefore urges us to skip the stage of "Marror," to begin performing Misvot even if our behavior is far from perfect – as the light of Misvot will help us improve. We begin the Seder with the words "Kadesh U'rhatz" – referring to Kiddush and hand-washing. The message here is that we should strive for "Kadesh" – for holiness, even before we have "washed" ourselves, before we are fully "cleansed" of wrongdoing. Hashem wants us to begin learning Torah and performing Misvot even if we are currently far from perfect, and to trust that the good habits we develop, and the spiritual power of Torah and Misva observance, will impact our souls and our behavior, and lead us to greater purity.

Several different explanations have been given for why the Shabbat preceding Pesach is given the name "Shabbat Ha'gadol" – literally, "the Great Shabbat." One of the lesser-known reasons is a fascinating connection between this Shabbat and Abraham Abinu. The Gemara in Masechet Rosh Hashanah (11) brings a debate between Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua as to the month in which the Abot (patriarchs) passed away. Rabbi Yehoshua maintained that the three Abot – Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob – died during the month of Nissan, whereas Rabbi Eliezer was of the opinion that they passed away during Tishri. However, a different source – the Yalkut Reubeni (in Parashat Lech-Lecha) – states that Abraham Abinu died during the month of Tebet. This is alluded to in G-d's promise to Abraham, "Tikaber Be'seba Toba" – that he would be buried at an advanced age (Bereshit 15:15). The first letters of these three words (Tav, Bet, Tet) are the three letters of the word "Tebet," and the word "Toba" resembles "Tebet." This is mentioned also in the work Seder Ha'dorot (Rav Yehiel Heilprin, 1660-1746). The obvious question arises as to how to reconcile this theory with the Gemara, which indicates that Abraham died either in Nissan or in Tishri. The Hida (Rav Haim Yosef David Azulai, 1724-1806) answers this question by citing a Kabbalistic source about the unique nature of the month of Nissan. The Torah designates Nissan as the first month of the year, and according to the teachings of Kabbalah, this month contains within it an element of all other months. Each of the first days of Nissan corresponds to a different month of the year. Rosh Hodesh Nissan is associated with Nissan itself, whereas the 2 nd of Nissan is associated with Iyar, the 3 rd is connected to Sivan, the 4 th to Tammuz, and so on. Accordingly, the sources that say that Abraham died in Tebet could be understood to mean that he died on the day of Nissan – following Rabbi Yehoshua's opinion – corresponding to the month of Tebet. As Tebet is the tenth month, this would mean that Abraham Abinu died on the 10 th of Nissan. As we know, the 10 th of Nissan is a very significant date – as it was on this day when, just before the Exodus from Egypt, Beneh Yisrael prepared the sheep for the Pesach sacrifice which they offered on the afternoon of the 14 th of Nissan (Shemot 12:3) in preparation for their departure from Egypt. Now in the year of the Exodus, the 15 th of Nissan – the day Beneh Yisrael left Egypt – fell on Thursday, such that the 10 th of Nissan fell on Shabbat. It emerges, then, that Shabbat Ha'gadol marks the Yahrtzeit of Abraham Abinu. On this basis, it has been explained why this Shabbat is given the name "Shabbat Ha'gadol." A verse in the Book of Yehoshua (14:15) speaks of a great man – "Ha'adam Ha'gadol Ba'anakim" – who lived in Hebron, and our Sages teach that this refers to Abraham Abinu. As he is the "Ha'adam Ha'gadol," the Shabbat before Pesach, which commemorates his Yahrtzeit, is called "Shabbat Ha'gadol."

The Mishna in Pirkeh Abot (3:16) teaches: "The shop is open, the shopkeeper gives on credit, the ledger is open, the hand writes, and whoever wishes to borrow may come and borrow." Meaning, G-d invited us to come and enjoy the blessings of the world, "on credit," even before we deserve them, though with the expectation that repay our "debt" through the performance of Misvot. The Megaleh Amukot (Rav Natan Neta Spira, Poland, 1584-1633) offers a deeper explanation of the Mishna's teaching, noting that the word "Hanut" ("shop") may be read as an acrostic for "Hodesh Nissan Ve'hodesh Tishri" – "the month of Nissan and the month of Tishri." During these two months in particular we are invited to "borrow," to receive great blessings from the Almighty that we do not necessarily deserve. These two months – Tishri, when we observe the Yamim Noraim, and Nissan, when we observe Pesach – are especially auspicious times when we are able to turn to Hashem in sincere prayer and have our wishes fulfilled. This connection between the months of Nissan and Tishri is discussed also by Rav Baruch of Medzhybizh (1753–1811), in explaining a verse in Parashat Bo ( 13:5) regarding the Pesach sacrifice: "Ve'abateta Et Ha'aboda Ha'zot Ba'hodesh Ha'zeh" – "You shall perform this service in this month." Rav Baruch explains that the word "Zot" ("this") refers to Yom Kippur, when the Kohen Gadol would perform the special Aboda (service) in the Bet Ha'mikdash, which the Torah describes with the word "Zot": "Be'zot Yabo Aharon El Ha'kodesh" ("With this shall Aharon enter the Sanctuary" – Vayikra 16:3). The word "Zeh" (the masculine form of "Zot"), Rav Baruch says, refers to the month of Nissan, of which G-d declared, "Ha'hodesh Ha'zeh Lachem Rosh Hodashim" – "This month is for you the first of the months" (Shemot 12:2). Hence, when the Torah tells us, "Ve'abateta Et Ha'aboda Ha'zot Ba'hodesh Ha'zeh," it means that we should perform the service of "Ha'zot" – of Yom Kippur – during "Ha'hodesh Ha'zeh" – the month of Nissan. Just as the period of the High Holidays is a time for repentance and spiritual growth, so is the month of Nissan. Rav Baruch adds that the difference between the words "Zot" and "Zeh" shows us the difference between the Teshuba (repentance) of Tishri and the Teshuba of Nissan. In Kabbalistic teaching, the feminine form is associated with passivity and timidness, whereas the masculine form connotes assertiveness. Tishri is referred to with the feminine form, "Zot," because this is a time of fear and intimidation, when we repent because we are being judged. Nissan, however, is a time for "Teshuba Me'ahaba" – repentance out of love. This is a joyous, vigorous Teshuba, when we seek to grow out of a sense of excitement and enthusiasm, out of deep love for Hashem and a desire to draw closer to Him. The Abneh Nezer (Rav Avraham Borenstein of Sochatchov, Poland, 1838-1910) writes that the days of Nissan are especially precious, and every hour during this month is as valuable as an entire day in a different month. This is a month in which we can achieve greatness, and it behooves to take full advantage of this opportunity, and utilize our time during Nissan for intensive Torah learning, prayer, and spiritual growth.

After describing in great detail the construction of the Mishkan and its furnishings, the Torah tells: "All the work for the Mishkan…was completed; Beneh Yisrael did in accordance with all that G-d had commanded Moshe; so did they do" (39:32). Rav Moshe Alshich (Safed, 1508-1593) observes that the sequence in this verse seems difficult. We would have expected the Torah to first tell us that Beneh Yisrael followed G-d's commands and built the Mishkan as He had instructed, and to then state that "the work…was completed." Instead, the Torah first writes that the work was completed, and then tells that Beneh Yisrael did as G-d had commanded them. Rav Moshe Alshich answers this question by postulating that in truth, the Mishkan was built miraculously. Beneh Yisrael, he explains, did not have the capabilities needed to complete such a large, complex project. However, when a person exerts maximum effort into the performance of a Misva, he is credited with the Misva's fulfillment regardless of the outcome. As long as a person does his best, he is credited with completing the job, even if the job was not actually completed. In the case of the Mishkan, then, the people were credited with building the Mishkan even though it was, in the end, built on its own, by Hashem. Since they exerted maximum effort in this undertaking, they are considered as though they actually built it – even though it was built by Hashem. The Alshich thus explains that the Torah first tells us, "All the work…was completed" – on its own, through Hashem's supernatural intervention. Nevertheless, "Beneh Yisrael did in accordance with all that G-d had commanded" – the people were credited with the fulfillment of Hashem's command to construct a Mishkan. The Alshich notes that the Torah here says that the people did not "Kol Asher Siva Hashem" – "all that G-d had commanded," but rather "Ke'chol Asher Siva Hashem," which could be read as, "similar to all that G-d had commanded." They did not actually perform what Hashem told them to do, because this was beyond their capabilities. But they were regarded as though they did, because they invested the greatest effort that they could, and therefore, "Ken Asu" – "so did they do," meaning, they were credited with the completion of the Mishkan. This insight denies us the ability to tell ourselves, "Why bother?" or "There's no point in even trying." Too often, people find Torah study and observance difficult, and so they just give up. They feel that since they can't do everything right, and since they've failed so many times, there's no point in trying. This is not true. The Torah was given to each and every one of us, with all our flaws and all our limitations, and we are each meant to do the best we can. We are not always going to succeed. We are going to make mistakes. We won't always get it right. But this reality does not in any way absolve us of the obligation to do the best we can, to make an effort to "build" the "Mishkan" within our beings. There is no excuse to stop trying. And the more we try, the more divine assistance we receive, and the greater success Hashem will grant us in all our spiritual endeavors.

Hashem commands in Parashat Ki-Tisa, "Ach Et Shabetotai Tishmoru" – "However, you shall observe my Shabbatot" (31:13). Rashi explains that after Hashem presented the commands regarding the construction of the Mishkan, He emphasized that the work on the Mishkan must be discontinued on Shabbat. The question arises, however, as to why Hashem here commands observing "Shabetotai" – His "Shabbatot." Instead of simply telling us to observe "Shabbat," He uses the plural form, referring to Shabbat as "Shabbatot." Why? A fascinating explanation is offered by the Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala (Rav Yaakov Tzvi Mecklenberg, 1785-1865). He writes that etymologically, the word "Shabbat" has two meanings. First, it denotes "Shebita" – cessation from work. Additionally, the word "Shabbat" refers to "Yishub Ha'da'at" – peace of mind, and clarity. Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala explains that we are commanded to "observe Shabbat" in two senses: by refraining from Melacha (forbidden activity), and by attaining "Yishub Ha'da'at" by experiencing he special Kedusha of Shabbat. The first Shabbat is intended to bring us to the second; we are to refrain from forbidden work for the purpose of reprogramming our minds, resetting our priorities, and refreshing our perspective on life. Throughout the week, we are busy tending to our needs, occupied with our careers, our businesses, and all the many other important things that we need to deal with. With all the frenzy of the workweek, we can so easily forget what this is all about, what the purpose of all this is. On Shabbat, there is an obligation of "Shebita" – to desist from Melacha – so that we can achieve "Yishub Ha'da'at," peace of mind, a clearer perspective on what life is all about, what our priorities ought to be. We spend more time in the synagogue, more time with our families, more time singing Pizmonim and learning Torah, so we can refresh our minds and remind ourselves of what's truly important. On this basis, Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala suggests a novel reading of the Gemara's famous teaching (Shabbat 118b) that if the Jewish People would properly observe "Sheteh Shabbatot" – two Shabbatot – we would be worthy of redemption. This is commonly understood to mean that we would be redeemed if we all observe Shabbat for two weeks. Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala, however, offers a different interpretation, explaining that the Gemara speaks of the two different dimensions of Shabbat observance. We become worthy of redemption if we not only refrain from the forbidden activities on Shabbat, but also experience the weekly "reset," gaining a new perspective on life by redirecting our focus onto spirituality and the service of Hashem. This concept might also shed light on a different teaching in the Gemara – that whoever enjoys delights on Shabbat, "the desires of his hearts are granted to him." At first glance, this means that by enjoying fine foods and delicacies on Shabbat, one guarantees that all his wishes are fulfilled. We might, however, understand this passage differently. If we observe Shabbat properly, then "Notenin Lo Mish'alot Libo" – he is given new wishes, new desires. Proper observance of Shabbat gives us a new perspective, and resets our priorities. Thus, if during the week our primary aspirations were about wealth and material luxuries, on Shabbat our aspirations are spiritual. Shabbat refreshes our perspective such that our primary goals are a greater connection with Hashem, more Torah knowledge, more Misvot, more religious engagement. The ultimate purpose of Shabbat is not the cessation of work itself – but rather the renewed perspective that this brings, which leads us to reset our priorities and redirect our focus onto that which really matters.

Numerous sources point to a connection between the celebration of Purim and the story of Yosef. For example, Rav Levi Yishak of Berditchev (1740-1809) taught that each of the twelve months corresponds to one of the twelve sons of Yaakob Abinu, and the month of Adar – the month when Purim is celebrated – corresponds to Yosef. And already the Gemara (Megilla 16a-b) draws an association between the Purim story and the story of Yosef, explaining that Yosef gave Binyamin five changes of clothing (Bereshit 45:22) as an allusion to Binyamin's descendant, Mordechai, who received five royal garments upon being appointed Ahashverosh's vizier (Ester 8:15). Another early source for this connection sheds light on one of the fundamental lessons of the Purim miracle. The Midrash comments that the Jews were deserving of annihilation because of the sin of Mechirat Yosef – the sale of Yosef as a slave by his brothers. Right after the brothers thew Yosef into a pit, they sat down to eat a meal ("Va'yeshbu Le'echol Lehem" – Bereshit 37:25). G-d responded very harshly, the Midrash states, warning that in the future, Haman and Ahashverosh would sit down together for a banquet immediately after condemning the Jews to death ("Ve'ha'melech Ve'Haman Yashebu Li'shtot" – Ester 3:15). Just as the brothers callously ate after acting to kill Yosef, so did Ahashverosh and Haman enjoy a feast after issuing the edict ordering the murder of all the Jews in the kingdom. It seems that the plague of jealousy and strife that led the brothers to eliminate Yosef was prevalent also during the time of the Purim story. Then, too, the Jews were not getting along with one another. They envied, resented, competed with and fought with one another, rather than working together in harmony despite their differences. This is why Ester, after hearing of Haman's edict, instructed Mordechai, "Lech Kenos Et Kol Ha'Yehudim" – to bring all the Jews together (Ester 4:16). She understood full well the reason for this harsh decree – the fraternal strife among the Jews. In order to earn salvation, the Jews would need to cure this ill through Ahdut, unity, by joining together with mutual love, respect and concern. This is also why Mordechai and Ester later established that the commemoration of the Purim miracle must include efforts to strengthen the bonds between Jews. The Misva of Mishloah Manot requires sending gifts, and the obligation of Matanot La'ebyonim requires lending assistance to the needy. Moreover, the Purim feast is traditionally eaten in large gatherings, with friends and families coming together in love and joy, thereby increasing the Ahdut among the Jewish People. The celebration of the Purim miracle must include a reenactment of "Lech Kenos Et Kol Ha'Yehudim" – of the Jews' efforts to create greater unity and a greater sense of togetherness. This might explain an otherwise perplexing aspect of the story of Yosef and his brothers. When the brothers arrived in Egypt with Binyamin, Yosef had a feast prepared for them, and the Torah tells, "Va'yishtu Va'yishkeru Imo" – Yosef and brothers drank and even became inebriated (43:34). Why was this an occasion for drinking? The answer might be found in the previous words – which tell that Yosef gave Binyamin five times the amount of food that he gave the other brothers. Despite this display of favoritism, the other brothers felt no jealousy toward Binyamin. They were not bothered by the fact that he received special treatment. Years earlier, they resented their father's preferential treatment toward Yosef, to the extent that they drove Yosef from the family, but they had now rectified this failing. They had reached the point where they felt no jealousy toward one another. This feast, then, laid the foundations for the story of Purim, when the Jews rectified the ill of baseless hatred and petty jealousy, resulting in their salvation which is celebrated through festive drinking. One of the central, overarching obligations on this day is to work to strengthen our Ahdut, the unity among the Jewish People. And our models for this process are Yosef's brothers, who learned from their mistake and grew to the point where they no longer harbored feelings of resentment and jealousy toward each other. We need to follow their example, and make the decision to look lovingly at our fellow Jews, to stop feeling jealous of those who seem to have more, to stop resenting those who do things differently than we do, to stop disliking people for silly reasons. Purim is the time to rise above the pettiness, the childishness and the competitiveness, to see the good in our fellow Jews instead of looking for reasons to look down at them. We will then be worthy of great miracles like those performed for our ancestors in Persia, Amen.

Parashat Teruma begins with G-d's command, "Ve'yikhu Li Teruma" – that Beneh Yisrael should donate materials toward the construction of the Mishkan. Surprisingly, Hashem here commands that the people donate toward this project with the word "Ve'yikhu," which means "They shall take." Instead of saying that the people should give, that they should donate, Hashem commands them to "take" a donation. This highlights a basic truism about charity – that by giving, we receive. When we give charity, when we donate toward a worthy cause, we receive far more than we give. We lose nothing, and we gain an incalculable amount. The merits earned through charitable donations are worth far more, and are infinitely more secure, than any financial asset. The rewards are both inestimable and guaranteed. But this understanding of the word "Ve'yikhu" actually runs even deeper. The Gemara in Masechet Kiddushin speaks of an exceptional case where a bride can be betrothed by giving, instead of receiving. The Halachic mechanism of Kiddushin, whereby a woman becomes formally betrothed to a man, requires the man to give the woman something of value. Of course, this is commonly done by giving the bride a ring. Normally, Kiddushin cannot be effectuated in the opposite manner, through the bride giving something to the groom. If the bride wishes to give the groom a gift, this must not be done as part of the Huppa ceremony, because it must be perfectly clear that the betrothal takes effect through the groom giving the ring to the bride. However, the Gemara establishes that if the groom is a distinguished person, such as a member of the royal court, then his bride can become betrothed to him through her giving him a gift. The reason, the Gemara explains, is that when an ordinary person gives a gift to a person of distinction, the giver derives great benefit by the recipient's acceptance of the gift. The satisfaction that comes from the distinguished person's consent to receive the gift outweighs the value of the gift. Therefore, if the groom is a man of distinction, the bride can become betrothed through the benefit she receives by the groom's acceptance of her gift, because by giving, the bride is actually receiving. This Halacha sheds new light on the command "Ve'yikhu Li Teruma." When we donate for a Misva purpose, we are, in essence, donating to Hashem, as it were. We are so-to-speak giving something to Hashem. Whether it's assisting a family in need, contributing to a charity fund, or supporting a synagogue of yeshiva, we are giving a gift to Hashem – who is, quite obviously, far more "distinguished" than any dignitary or prominent figure. And in this sense, we receive when we give. Anytime we have the opportunity to donate, we are given the privilege of giving a gift to Hashem. This is a privilege we should celebrate – and an opportunity that we should eagerly and enthusiastically seize as often as we can.

Parashat Teruma begins with G-d's command, "Ve'yikhu Li Teruma" – that Beneh Yisrael should donate materials toward the construction of the Mishkan. Surprisingly, Hashem here commands that the people donate toward this project with the word "Ve'yikhu," which means "They shall take." Instead of saying that the people should give, that they should donate, Hashem commands them to "take" a donation. This highlights a basic truism about charity – that by giving, we receive. When we give charity, when we donate toward a worthy cause, we receive far more than we give. We lose nothing, and we gain an incalculable amount. The merits earned through charitable donations are worth far more, and are infinitely more secure, than any financial asset. The rewards are both inestimable and guaranteed. But this understanding of the word "Ve'yikhu" actually runs even deeper. The Gemara in Masechet Kiddushin speaks of an exceptional case where a bride can be betrothed by giving, instead of receiving. The Halachic mechanism of Kiddushin, whereby a woman becomes formally betrothed to a man, requires the man to give the woman something of value. Of course, this is commonly done by giving the bride a ring. Normally, Kiddushin cannot be effectuated in the opposite manner, through the bride giving something to the groom. If the bride wishes to give the groom a gift, this must not be done as part of the Huppa ceremony, because it must be perfectly clear that the betrothal takes effect through the groom giving the ring to the bride. However, the Gemara establishes that if the groom is a distinguished person, such as a member of the royal court, then his bride can become betrothed to him through her giving him a gift. The reason, the Gemara explains, is that when an ordinary person gives a gift to a person of distinction, the giver derives great benefit by the recipient's acceptance of the gift. The satisfaction that comes from the distinguished person's consent to receive the gift outweighs the value of the gift. Therefore, if the groom is a man of distinction, the bride can become betrothed through the benefit she receives by the groom's acceptance of her gift, because by giving, the bride is actually receiving. This Halacha sheds new light on the command "Ve'yikhu Li Teruma." When we donate for a Misva purpose, we are, in essence, donating to Hashem, as it were. We are so-to-speak giving something to Hashem. Whether it's assisting a family in need, contributing to a charity fund, or supporting a synagogue of yeshiva, we are giving a gift to Hashem – who is, quite obviously, far more "distinguished" than any dignitary or prominent figure. And in this sense, we receive when we give. Anytime we have the opportunity to donate, we are given the privilege of giving a gift to Hashem. This is a privilege we should celebrate – and an opportunity that we should eagerly and enthusiastically seize as often as we can.

Parashat Mishpatim is well known for its presentation of a series of civil laws. These laws govern interpersonal relations, mainly matters related to conflicts over money or property. Speaking to Moshe, Hashem introduces this series of laws by saying, "Ve'eleh Ha'mishpatim Asher Tasim Lifnehem" – "And these are the statutes that you shall place before them." Rashi, citing the Gemara, comments that the word "Lifnehem" ("before them") implies "Lifnehem Ve'lo Lifneh Goyim" – these laws were to be presented specifically to Beneh Yisrael, and not to other peoples. Of course, we know that all the Torah's laws were given specifically to Beneh Yisrael, and not to the other nations. It seems that Rashi seeks to emphasize the fundamental difference between the Torah's system of civil law and that of the other nations. Although all civilized societies devise and implement an effective judicial system, there is something distinct about our system of law, and this is the implication of the word "Lifnehem" – that the special code of law presented in this Parasha is unique to the Jewish People. Among the unique features of the Torah legal system is the standardization and uniformity of its penal code. In other systems, the judge is authorized to determine the punishment for a convicted offender, and to take into account the offender's condition and the circumstances surrounding his crime. Thus, for example, if an impoverished man who had been out of work for years was caught stealing, the judge will issue a much lighter sentence than he would if a multimillionaire stole the same amount. When a person commits an offense, there might be mitigating circumstances that lessen its severity, or circumstances that make the act especially cruel. Most legal systems empower the judge to take all these factors into account when deciding the appropriate punishment. The Torah, however, establishes punishments that must be administered equally to all people convicted of the given crime. The financial condition of neither the perpetrator nor the victim affects the sentencing. The punishments assigned by the Torah for particular crimes are applied without considering the broader context of the act. The reason is that no human being can truly determine the severity of another person's behavior. Even if we know the background, the context, and the circumstances surrounding the incident, there is so much more that we do not know. We will never know what kind of pressures and lures contributed to an offender's decision to commit the act, nor can we know the full scope of a criminal's malicious intent. Only Hashem can determine the true extent of a crime, and the precise punishment that the offender deserves. For this reason, the verse says in Tehillim (82:1), "Elokim Nisav Ba'adat Kel, Be'kereb Elohim Yishpot" – Hashem is present in the courtroom when the judges try a case. Hashem is present because He is needed to determine what the judges are incapable of determining. The Torah establishes guidelines for the judges to follow, but we know that their decision will not necessarily result in the defendant receiving precisely what he deserves. Hashem's presence assures that He will make this happen, that He will do what the judges cannot do, that after the judges rule in accordance with Torah law, Hashem will see to it that justice is flawlessly and perfectly served. We must always remember how limited our vision and knowledge are, how little we know about other people. We might think we have the "whole story," but the truth is that we always know a very small part of the story. It is therefore foolish – not to mention unproductive – to cast judgment and reach conclusions about other people's conduct. This should be left to G-d, while we devote our attention to our own behavior, constantly striving to grow and improve.

Parashat Mishpatim is well known for its presentation of a series of civil laws. These laws govern interpersonal relations, mainly matters related to conflicts over money or property. Speaking to Moshe, Hashem introduces this series of laws by saying, "Ve'eleh Ha'mishpatim Asher Tasim Lifnehem" – "And these are the statutes that you shall place before them." Rashi, citing the Gemara, comments that the word "Lifnehem" ("before them") implies "Lifnehem Ve'lo Lifneh Goyim" – these laws were to be presented specifically to Beneh Yisrael, and not to other peoples. Of course, we know that all the Torah's laws were given specifically to Beneh Yisrael, and not to the other nations. It seems that Rashi seeks to emphasize the fundamental difference between the Torah's system of civil law and that of the other nations. Although all civilized societies devise and implement an effective judicial system, there is something distinct about our system of law, and this is the implication of the word "Lifnehem" – that the special code of law presented in this Parasha is unique to the Jewish People. Among the unique features of the Torah legal system is the standardization and uniformity of its penal code. In other systems, the judge is authorized to determine the punishment for a convicted offender, and to take into account the offender's condition and the circumstances surrounding his crime. Thus, for example, if an impoverished man who had been out of work for years was caught stealing, the judge will issue a much lighter sentence than he would if a multimillionaire stole the same amount. When a person commits an offense, there might be mitigating circumstances that lessen its severity, or circumstances that make the act especially cruel. Most legal systems empower the judge to take all these factors into account when deciding the appropriate punishment. The Torah, however, establishes punishments that must be administered equally to all people convicted of the given crime. The financial condition of neither the perpetrator nor the victim affects the sentencing. The punishments assigned by the Torah for particular crimes are applied without considering the broader context of the act. The reason is that no human being can truly determine the severity of another person's behavior. Even if we know the background, the context, and the circumstances surrounding the incident, there is so much more that we do not know. We will never know what kind of pressures and lures contributed to an offender's decision to commit the act, nor can we know the full scope of a criminal's malicious intent. Only Hashem can determine the true extent of a crime, and the precise punishment that the offender deserves. For this reason, the verse says in Tehillim (82:1), "Elokim Nisav Ba'adat Kel, Be'kereb Elohim Yishpot" – Hashem is present in the courtroom when the judges try a case. Hashem is present because He is needed to determine what the judges are incapable of determining. The Torah establishes guidelines for the judges to follow, but we know that their decision will not necessarily result in the defendant receiving precisely what he deserves. Hashem's presence assures that He will make this happen, that He will do what the judges cannot do, that after the judges rule in accordance with Torah law, Hashem will see to it that justice is flawlessly and perfectly served. We must always remember how limited our vision and knowledge are, how little we know about other people. We might think we have the "whole story," but the truth is that we always know a very small part of the story. It is therefore foolish – not to mention unproductive – to cast judgment and reach conclusions about other people's conduct. This should be left to G-d, while we devote our attention to our own behavior, constantly striving to grow and improve.

The opening verses of Parashat Yitro tell of Yitro's arrival at Beneh Yisrael's camp. Yitro, Moshe's father-in-law, had been a pagan priest, but then recognized the truth of monotheism. He now took the next step, and joined Beneh Yisrael as they encamped at the foot of Mount Sinai. Rashi comments that Yitro was motivated to join the nation upon hearing of two events: Keri'at Yam Suf (the splitting of the sea), and the war against Amalek. It seems difficult to understand why the war with Amalek contributed to Yitro's decision. The splitting of the sea was, of course, an extraordinary miracle, an event that was heard throughout the ancient world and led all the nations to look at Beneh Yisrael with awe. It is understandable that this miracle inspired Yitro to come and join Beneh Yisrael. But how did the war against Amalek have this kind of effect? What about this event inspired Yitro? One answer is that Yitro was struck by the drastic decline that Beneh Yisrael experienced from the event of Keri'at Yan Suf to the war against Amalek. The Sages teach that at the time of Keri'a Yam Suf, every member of the nation, even the most unlearned among them, reached a certain level of prophecy. The nation at that moment rose to the greatest heights. Just several weeks later, however, when they found themselves without water, their faith was shaken, and they started asking, "Is G-d in our midst or not?" (Shemot 17:7). It was in response to this lack of faith that Hashem led Amalek to attack Beneh Yisrael. Yitro saw how the people so quickly fell from the stature of prophets to the point where they could actually question whether Hashem was with them. This rapid decline is what prompted Yitro to join Beneh Yisrael. The Gemara teaches that Torah is the "antidote" to the Yeser Ha'ra (evil inclination). Sinful tendencies are part of the human condition; as long as a person is alive, he is going to tempted by some lure, by some human weakness, by one or several of the many negative traits with which people are created. And in order to withstand these inclinations, we need to immerse ourselves in Torah. Therefore, when Yitro saw how fast people are capable of falling, he made the decision to join Beneh Yisrael, so he can access the Torah, the "antidote" to the Yeser Ha'ra and protect himself from spiritual decline. Rav Yosef Salant (Jerusalem, 1885-1981) offers a different explanation of Rashi's comment. He writes that after the miracle of the sea, many people throughout the world attributed this event to Moshe Rabbenu. Rather than recognize the existence of a single, omnipotent Creator, they instead concluded that Moshe was a superior sorcerer who succeeded in defeating the Egyptians through his magical prowess. Yitro, who was well-versed in all the various forms of ancient paganism, including sorcery, likewise suspected that it was Moshe who split the sea by lifting his staff over the water. Beneh Yisrael's miraculous victory against Amalek, however, was clearly not brought about by Moshe. At the time of the battle, Moshe stood at a distance, on a hill overlooking the battlefield. And when the people looked heavenward, they received Hashem's assistance and defeated the Amalekites. This event showed that the splitting of the sea was wrought not by Moshe, but by an all-powerful G-d, and this motivated Yitro to come join Beneh Yisrael. There might also be a third interpretation. In the Book of Debarim (25:18), Moshe describes Amalek's attack with the word "Karecha." The Sages explained this term as a derivative of the word "Kar" – "cool." After the miracle of the sea, Beneh Yisrael were feared throughout the world. The Rabbis drew a comparison to a tub filled with scalding hot water, that nobody dared touch. When Amalek launched their attack, they were like a person who jumped into the tub of boiling hot water – he suffered bad burns, but cooled the water for anyone else who wished to bathe afterward. Amalek was defeated, but this battle had the effect of "cooling" Beneh Yisrael, of exposing their vulnerability. Beneh Yisrael now appeared far less fearsome, and no longer seemed invincible. Yitro saw the grave Hillul Hashem – defamation of Hashem's Name – caused by Amalek's attack. The awe and admiration that the world felt toward Beneh Yisrael after the splitting of the sea were now gone. And Yitro understood that the only way to rectify a Hillul Hashem is by creating a Kiddush Hashem – a glorification of Hashem's Name. He therefore decided to join Beneh Yisrael. As a respected and wealthy public figure, his arrival would "make the news," and become widely known. People all over would hear that a prominent former pagan cleric had recognized the truth of the Jewish faith and decided to join Beneh Yisrael's ranks. This would repair, at least somewhat, the damage caused by Amalek's attack. And thus Yitro's decision was driven by these two events – the splitting of the sea and Amalek's attack, as he sought to restore the respect for Beneh Yisrael that was achieved by the miracle of Keri'at Yam Suf.

The opening verses of Parashat Yitro tell of Yitro's arrival at Beneh Yisrael's camp. Yitro, Moshe's father-in-law, had been a pagan priest, but then recognized the truth of monotheism. He now took the next step, and joined Beneh Yisrael as they encamped at the foot of Mount Sinai. Rashi comments that Yitro was motivated to join the nation upon hearing of two events: Keri'at Yam Suf (the splitting of the sea), and the war against Amalek. It seems difficult to understand why the war with Amalek contributed to Yitro's decision. The splitting of the sea was, of course, an extraordinary miracle, an event that was heard throughout the ancient world and led all the nations to look at Beneh Yisrael with awe. It is understandable that this miracle inspired Yitro to come and join Beneh Yisrael. But how did the war against Amalek have this kind of effect? What about this event inspired Yitro? One answer is that Yitro was struck by the drastic decline that Beneh Yisrael experienced from the event of Keri'at Yan Suf to the war against Amalek. The Sages teach that at the time of Keri'a Yam Suf, every member of the nation, even the most unlearned among them, reached a certain level of prophecy. The nation at that moment rose to the greatest heights. Just several weeks later, however, when they found themselves without water, their faith was shaken, and they started asking, "Is G-d in our midst or not?" (Shemot 17:7). It was in response to this lack of faith that Hashem led Amalek to attack Beneh Yisrael. Yitro saw how the people so quickly fell from the stature of prophets to the point where they could actually question whether Hashem was with them. This rapid decline is what prompted Yitro to join Beneh Yisrael. The Gemara teaches that Torah is the "antidote" to the Yeser Ha'ra (evil inclination). Sinful tendencies are part of the human condition; as long as a person is alive, he is going to tempted by some lure, by some human weakness, by one or several of the many negative traits with which people are created. And in order to withstand these inclinations, we need to immerse ourselves in Torah. Therefore, when Yitro saw how fast people are capable of falling, he made the decision to join Beneh Yisrael, so he can access the Torah, the "antidote" to the Yeser Ha'ra and protect himself from spiritual decline. Rav Yosef Salant (Jerusalem, 1885-1981) offers a different explanation of Rashi's comment. He writes that after the miracle of the sea, many people throughout the world attributed this event to Moshe Rabbenu. Rather than recognize the existence of a single, omnipotent Creator, they instead concluded that Moshe was a superior sorcerer who succeeded in defeating the Egyptians through his magical prowess. Yitro, who was well-versed in all the various forms of ancient paganism, including sorcery, likewise suspected that it was Moshe who split the sea by lifting his staff over the water. Beneh Yisrael's miraculous victory against Amalek, however, was clearly not brought about by Moshe. At the time of the battle, Moshe stood at a distance, on a hill overlooking the battlefield. And when the people looked heavenward, they received Hashem's assistance and defeated the Amalekites. This event showed that the splitting of the sea was wrought not by Moshe, but by an all-powerful G-d, and this motivated Yitro to come join Beneh Yisrael. There might also be a third interpretation. In the Book of Debarim (25:18), Moshe describes Amalek's attack with the word "Karecha." The Sages explained this term as a derivative of the word "Kar" – "cool." After the miracle of the sea, Beneh Yisrael were feared throughout the world. The Rabbis drew a comparison to a tub filled with scalding hot water, that nobody dared touch. When Amalek launched their attack, they were like a person who jumped into the tub of boiling hot water – he suffered bad burns, but cooled the water for anyone else who wished to bathe afterward. Amalek was defeated, but this battle had the effect of "cooling" Beneh Yisrael, of exposing their vulnerability. Beneh Yisrael now appeared far less fearsome, and no longer seemed invincible. Yitro saw the grave Hillul Hashem – defamation of Hashem's Name – caused by Amalek's attack. The awe and admiration that the world felt toward Beneh Yisrael after the splitting of the sea were now gone. And Yitro understood that the only way to rectify a Hillul Hashem is by creating a Kiddush Hashem – a glorification of Hashem's Name. He therefore decided to join Beneh Yisrael. As a respected and wealthy public figure, his arrival would "make the news," and become widely known. People all over would hear that a prominent former pagan cleric had recognized the truth of the Jewish faith and decided to join Beneh Yisrael's ranks. This would repair, at least somewhat, the damage caused by Amalek's attack. And thus Yitro's decision was driven by these two events – the splitting of the sea and Amalek's attack, as he sought to restore the respect for Beneh Yisrael that was achieved by the miracle of Keri'at Yam Suf.

REM-SS85-08 The Torah tells that as Beneh Yisrael stood at the shores of the sea, and they saw the Egyptian army pursuing them, they cried out to G-d – "Va'yis'aku Beneh Yisrael El Hashem" (14:10). Rashi comments: "Tafesu Umanut Abotam" – "They took hold of their forefathers' craft." Meaning, Beneh Yisrael here followed the example set for them by the patriarchs, who likewise prayed to G-d. Rashi then proceeds to cite verses from the Book of Bereshit showing that the three patriarchs – Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob – prayed. When reading Rashi's brief remark, we must wonder what point he wishes to make, which difficulty in the text he is trying to resolve. Why must we be informed that Beneh Yisrael's prayers at the shores of the sea followed the patriarchs' example? How does this enhance our understanding of the text? Probing a bit deeper, Rashi's comments become even more perplexing. As mentioned, Rashi cites verses that speak of the patriarchs praying. Surprisingly, however, Rashi specifically does not cite the more obvious sources of the patriarchs' prayers. Instead of pointing to Abraham's prayer on behalf of the city of Sedom, Rashi instead brings the verse that tells of Abraham returning the next day to the spot where he had prayed for Sedom (Bereshit 19:27). Instead of noting Yishak's prayer for a child, Rashi instead cites the Torah's vague description of Yishak "conversing" in the field (Bereshit 24:63), which the Sages interpret as a reference to prayer. And instead of mentioning Yaakob's plea for help when Esav was approaching with an army, Rashi brings the verse that tells of Yaakob's evening "encounter" ("Va'yifga" – 28:11), which is understood to mean that he prayed. Why did Rashi not cite the clearest references to the patriarchs' prayers? More generally, why did Rashi need to bring textual proof to the fact that our righteous Abot (patriarchs) prayed? Do we not already know this? The Lubavitcher Rebbe (Rav Menachem Mendel Schneerson, 1902-1994) answered all these questions by establishing that Beneh Yisrael's cries were not actual cries for help. We must remember that these events transpired after G-d had brought the powerful Egyptian Empire to its knees with ten miraculous plagues, after Moshe had informed the people that G-d was bringing them to their homeland, and after they had taken the Egyptians' possessions with them to bring to the Holy Land. They knew that G-d would help them and save them from the pursuing Egyptian army. They did not have a doubt. (Although the Torah relates that the people turned to Moshe in panic, asking why he had taken them out of Egypt to perish, Rashi explains that this was a different group than the group who responded by praying.) They had complete faith in G-d. This was the point that Rashi wished to clarify – that the people prayed even though they were confident that they would be saved. These prayers were not a prayer for help, for rather "Umanut Abotam" – the "craft" taught to them by their forebears. A person with a profession goes to work every day. He doesn't show up only when he runs out of money; he knows that he needs to tend to his profession consistently. The same is true of our connection to Hashem. We cannot build this connection only by turning to him when we face some kind of problem. We need to practice the "craft," or "profession," of prayer each and every day, even when we have no particular, pressing issue that concerns us. This is what Rashi is teaching us. Beneh Yisrael turned to Hashem in prayer not because they were frightened, but rather because prayer was an "Umanut" – a "profession," something that they knew they must consistently do. And they learned this "profession" from the patriarchs. Abraham prayed even after Sedom was destroyed, when he could no longer save the city. Yishak prayed in the field regularly. And Yaakob prayed before going to sleep. These weren't prayers for help, but rather part of the Abot's ongoing, persistent efforts to build their relationship with Hashem. This is the "profession" that they taught us, and that we must follow. The Lubavitcher Rebbe applied this idea to the Misva of Torah study. This obligation is not limited to practical knowledge. It goes without saying that in order to practice Judaism properly, we must learn and familiarize ourselves with Halacha, and practical Halacha must certainly take priority in our Torah curricula. However, this is not the sole objective of Torah study. We are required to learn as much as we can even about subjects that are not practically applicable. Torah learning is not only about knowledge, but also about our connection to Hashem who gave us the Torah. When we pray and learn Torah not only in moments of need, but with constancy and devotion, we cultivate a living, daily bond with Hashem – and this is the lifelong, sacred "profession" which we've inherited from our righteous forebears.

REM-SS85-08 The Torah tells that as Beneh Yisrael stood at the shores of the sea, and they saw the Egyptian army pursuing them, they cried out to G-d – "Va'yis'aku Beneh Yisrael El Hashem" (14:10). Rashi comments: "Tafesu Umanut Abotam" – "They took hold of their forefathers' craft." Meaning, Beneh Yisrael here followed the example set for them by the patriarchs, who likewise prayed to G-d. Rashi then proceeds to cite verses from the Book of Bereshit showing that the three patriarchs – Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob – prayed. When reading Rashi's brief remark, we must wonder what point he wishes to make, which difficulty in the text he is trying to resolve. Why must we be informed that Beneh Yisrael's prayers at the shores of the sea followed the patriarchs' example? How does this enhance our understanding of the text? Probing a bit deeper, Rashi's comments become even more perplexing. As mentioned, Rashi cites verses that speak of the patriarchs praying. Surprisingly, however, Rashi specifically does not cite the more obvious sources of the patriarchs' prayers. Instead of pointing to Abraham's prayer on behalf of the city of Sedom, Rashi instead brings the verse that tells of Abraham returning the next day to the spot where he had prayed for Sedom (Bereshit 19:27). Instead of noting Yishak's prayer for a child, Rashi instead cites the Torah's vague description of Yishak "conversing" in the field (Bereshit 24:63), which the Sages interpret as a reference to prayer. And instead of mentioning Yaakob's plea for help when Esav was approaching with an army, Rashi brings the verse that tells of Yaakob's evening "encounter" ("Va'yifga" – 28:11), which is understood to mean that he prayed. Why did Rashi not cite the clearest references to the patriarchs' prayers? More generally, why did Rashi need to bring textual proof to the fact that our righteous Abot (patriarchs) prayed? Do we not already know this? The Lubavitcher Rebbe (Rav Menachem Mendel Schneerson, 1902-1994) answered all these questions by establishing that Beneh Yisrael's cries were not actual cries for help. We must remember that these events transpired after G-d had brought the powerful Egyptian Empire to its knees with ten miraculous plagues, after Moshe had informed the people that G-d was bringing them to their homeland, and after they had taken the Egyptians' possessions with them to bring to the Holy Land. They knew that G-d would help them and save them from the pursuing Egyptian army. They did not have a doubt. (Although the Torah relates that the people turned to Moshe in panic, asking why he had taken them out of Egypt to perish, Rashi explains that this was a different group than the group who responded by praying.) They had complete faith in G-d. This was the point that Rashi wished to clarify – that the people prayed even though they were confident that they would be saved. These prayers were not a prayer for help, for rather "Umanut Abotam" – the "craft" taught to them by their forebears. A person with a profession goes to work every day. He doesn't show up only when he runs out of money; he knows that he needs to tend to his profession consistently. The same is true of our connection to Hashem. We cannot build this connection only by turning to him when we face some kind of problem. We need to practice the "craft," or "profession," of prayer each and every day, even when we have no particular, pressing issue that concerns us. This is what Rashi is teaching us. Beneh Yisrael turned to Hashem in prayer not because they were frightened, but rather because prayer was an "Umanut" – a "profession," something that they knew they must consistently do. And they learned this "profession" from the patriarchs. Abraham prayed even after Sedom was destroyed, when he could no longer save the city. Yishak prayed in the field regularly. And Yaakob prayed before going to sleep. These weren't prayers for help, but rather part of the Abot's ongoing, persistent efforts to build their relationship with Hashem. This is the "profession" that they taught us, and that we must follow. The Lubavitcher Rebbe applied this idea to the Misva of Torah study. This obligation is not limited to practical knowledge. It goes without saying that in order to practice Judaism properly, we must learn and familiarize ourselves with Halacha, and practical Halacha must certainly take priority in our Torah curricula. However, this is not the sole objective of Torah study. We are required to learn as much as we can even about subjects that are not practically applicable. Torah learning is not only about knowledge, but also about our connection to Hashem who gave us the Torah. When we pray and learn Torah not only in moments of need, but with constancy and devotion, we cultivate a living, daily bond with Hashem – and this is the lifelong, sacred "profession" which we've inherited from our righteous forebears.

The Torah in Parashat Bo (12:40) states that Beneh Yisrael spent a total of 430 years in Egypt. Already Rashi notes the seeming contradiction between this verse and G-d's prophecy to Abraham Abinu that his descendants would endure a 400-year period of exile and oppression (Bereshit 15:13). Why did G-d predict a period of 400 years, if Beneh Yisrael were going to spend 430 years in exile? Rashi explains that the number depends on the starting point. The period from the birth of Yishak until the Exodus was 400 years, but Abraham received this prophecy thirty years prior to Yishak's birth, for a total of 430 years. The Shela Ha'kadosh (Rav Yeshaya Horowitz, d. 1630) offered a different answer, boldly asserting that G-d added thirty years to the period of exile. G-d informed Abraham that his descendants would live as foreigners for 400 years – but as a result of Mechirat Yosef, the sale of Yosef as a slave by his brothers, thirty years were added. The Shela explains that Yosef was brought out of the dungeon in Egypt and appointed the country's vizier at the age of thirty (Bereshit 41:46). In a sense, then, his first thirty years were stolen from him because of his brothers' cruelty. Therefore, it was decreed that Beneh Yisrael would endure an additional thirty years of oppression. The Shela's theory sheds light on the Gemara's comments in Masechet Sanhedrin (92) regarding the mistake made by the tribe of Efrayim. The Gemara says about the people of Efrayim, "Manu Le'ketz Ve'ta'u" – they miscalculated the end of the Egyptian exile. When they erroneously thought that the time for redemption had arrived, they left Egypt. But when they reached the Philistine region of Gat, they were attacked by the Philistines, and many were killed, while some managed to escape back to Egypt. The Gemara says that the remains of those people from Efrayim were the "dry bones" that were miraculously brought back to life in Yehezkel's famous prophecy. On the basis of the Shela's analysis, we can understand more clearly why the tribe of Efrayim made this mistake. If, indeed, an extra thirty years were added on account of the sin of Mechirat Yosef, then it stands to reason that the tribe of Efrayim – who descended from Yosef – assumed that they did not need to wait the additional thirty years. Since this period was a punishment for the crime committed against Yosef, they figured, it did not affect them, the descendants of Yosef. They therefore left Egypt thirty years early, at the end of the period of exile that was initially decreed. The question then becomes, why were the people of Efrayim wrong? Why were they killed for leaving Egypt early? The answer emerges from a passage in the Zohar regarding another consequence of Mechirat Yosef. Each year, on Tisha B'Ab, we recite a special Kinna (dirge) about the "Asara Harugeh Malchut" – the ten great Rabbis who were brutally murdered by the Romans. The Zohar teaches that these great Rabbis were Gilgulim (reincarnations) of the brothers, and they were killed to atone for the sin of Mechirat Yosef. Now in truth, only nine of the twelve brothers participated in Mechirat Yosef: Yosef, of course, was the victim; Binyamin, the youngest, was home and not involved; and Reuben was not present when the other brothers decided to sell Yosef, and in fact tried to rescue him. Why, then, were ten Rabbis killed to atone for the sin committed by only nine brothers? The answer is that Yosef himself bore a degree of guilt. While his brothers of course acted wrongly by selling him as a slave, he was partially responsible for their hostility. He reported to Yaakob about their alleged wrongdoing, and provoked them, arousing their hatred. Therefore, he, too, was accountable. This, then, was the tribe of Efrayim's mistake. The additional thirty years were decreed also for them, the descendants of Yosef, because he was partially responsible for what happened. Their decision to leave Egypt was thus a mistake, as they, too, were required to spend an additional thirty years in Egypt.

The Torah in Parashat Bo (12:40) states that Beneh Yisrael spent a total of 430 years in Egypt. Already Rashi notes the seeming contradiction between this verse and G-d's prophecy to Abraham Abinu that his descendants would endure a 400-year period of exile and oppression (Bereshit 15:13). Why did G-d predict a period of 400 years, if Beneh Yisrael were going to spend 430 years in exile? Rashi explains that the number depends on the starting point. The period from the birth of Yishak until the Exodus was 400 years, but Abraham received this prophecy thirty years prior to Yishak's birth, for a total of 430 years. The Shela Ha'kadosh (Rav Yeshaya Horowitz, d. 1630) offered a different answer, boldly asserting that G-d added thirty years to the period of exile. G-d informed Abraham that his descendants would live as foreigners for 400 years – but as a result of Mechirat Yosef, the sale of Yosef as a slave by his brothers, thirty years were added. The Shela explains that Yosef was brought out of the dungeon in Egypt and appointed the country's vizier at the age of thirty (Bereshit 41:46). In a sense, then, his first thirty years were stolen from him because of his brothers' cruelty. Therefore, it was decreed that Beneh Yisrael would endure an additional thirty years of oppression. The Shela's theory sheds light on the Gemara's comments in Masechet Sanhedrin (92) regarding the mistake made by the tribe of Efrayim. The Gemara says about the people of Efrayim, "Manu Le'ketz Ve'ta'u" – they miscalculated the end of the Egyptian exile. When they erroneously thought that the time for redemption had arrived, they left Egypt. But when they reached the Philistine region of Gat, they were attacked by the Philistines, and many were killed, while some managed to escape back to Egypt. The Gemara says that the remains of those people from Efrayim were the "dry bones" that were miraculously brought back to life in Yehezkel's famous prophecy. On the basis of the Shela's analysis, we can understand more clearly why the tribe of Efrayim made this mistake. If, indeed, an extra thirty years were added on account of the sin of Mechirat Yosef, then it stands to reason that the tribe of Efrayim – who descended from Yosef – assumed that they did not need to wait the additional thirty years. Since this period was a punishment for the crime committed against Yosef, they figured, it did not affect them, the descendants of Yosef. They therefore left Egypt thirty years early, at the end of the period of exile that was initially decreed. The question then becomes, why were the people of Efrayim wrong? Why were they killed for leaving Egypt early? The answer emerges from a passage in the Zohar regarding another consequence of Mechirat Yosef. Each year, on Tisha B'Ab, we recite a special Kinna (dirge) about the "Asara Harugeh Malchut" – the ten great Rabbis who were brutally murdered by the Romans. The Zohar teaches that these great Rabbis were Gilgulim (reincarnations) of the brothers, and they were killed to atone for the sin of Mechirat Yosef. Now in truth, only nine of the twelve brothers participated in Mechirat Yosef: Yosef, of course, was the victim; Binyamin, the youngest, was home and not involved; and Reuben was not present when the other brothers decided to sell Yosef, and in fact tried to rescue him. Why, then, were ten Rabbis killed to atone for the sin committed by only nine brothers? The answer is that Yosef himself bore a degree of guilt. While his brothers of course acted wrongly by selling him as a slave, he was partially responsible for their hostility. He reported to Yaakob about their alleged wrongdoing, and provoked them, arousing their hatred. Therefore, he, too, was accountable. This, then, was the tribe of Efrayim's mistake. The additional thirty years were decreed also for them, the descendants of Yosef, because he was partially responsible for what happened. Their decision to leave Egypt was thus a mistake, as they, too, were required to spend an additional thirty years in Egypt.

The Torah in Parashat Vaera traces the lineage of Moshe Rabbenu, informing us that he was son of Amram and Yochebed. Amram was a grandson of Yakaob Abinu's third son, Levi – specifically, he was the son of Levi's son, Kehat. Astonishingly, the Torah relates, Yochebed was Amram's aunt – she was the daughter of Levi, the sister of Kehat. The commentaries explain that Yochebed and Kehat had different mothers, and thus they were half-siblings. As such, the marriage between Amram and Yochebed was not forbidden by the Noachide laws, which apply to all mankind. These laws forbid marrying one's parent's full sister, but not a parent's half-sister. This union would, however, be proscribed by the Torah given to Beneh Yisrael. It turns out, then, that Moshe – the greatest leader and prophet in our nation's history, who brought us the Torah – was the product of a marriage that Torah law forbids. Moshe is not the only great leader with less-than-pristine origins. The Davidic line, which began with David and Shlomo and will – we pray very soon – culminate with Mashiah, also has its origins in problematic relationships. David descended from Peretz – the product of the relationship between Yehuda and his daughter-in-law, Tamar. David's great-grandmother was Rut, a convert from the nation of Moab, and although it was ultimately concluded that this marriage was permissible, there was considerable controversy as to whether a man may marry a woman from Moab. And the founder of the nation of Moab, Rut's ancestor, was conceived when Lot's daughter gave her father wine and had a relationship with him, thinking they this was needed in order to maintain the earth's population. Rav Menahem Recanti (Italy, 1223-1290) offers an explanation for this phenomenon, for why the great leaders emerged from less-than-ideal origins. The Satan, he writes, is always seeking to sabotage the rise of these righteous figures, to block these holy souls from descending into the world. Moshe brought us the Torah, which is the "antidote" to the Yeser Ha'ra (evil inclination), the greatest weapon we have in our struggle to overcome the Satan's efforts to lure us away from the service of G-d. And the Gemara teaches that when Mashiah arrives, he will destroy the Satan so it could no longer hurt the Jewish People. Therefore, the Satan will do everything in its power to obstruct the transmission of Torah, and to prevent the arrival of Mashiah. For this reason, Hashem arranged that Moshe and David would be produced from unions that the Satan would never bother to disrupt. The Satan welcomes problematic relationships such as those of Lot and his daughters, Yehuda and Tamar, and Amram and Yochebed. He would never try to interfere with them, because this is precisely what he wants – relationships that are from the Torah's ideal marriage. Moshe and David needed to be produced this way for the purpose of avoiding the Satan's interference. This reminds us never to be discouraged by the challenges that we face in the pursuit of greatness. Whenever we try to achieve something significant, we are going to confront obstacles. Whether it's in the process of finding a spouse and raising a family, the process of learning Torah and spiritual growth, starting a new organization or project – the Satan is always going to try to interfere. Rather than be surprised and discouraged by the problems that arise, we should expect them, stay strong, and proceed with confidence, trusting that Hashem is always helping us in our efforts to defeat the Satan and achieve to the very best of our ability.

The Torah in Parashat Vaera traces the lineage of Moshe Rabbenu, informing us that he was son of Amram and Yochebed. Amram was a grandson of Yakaob Abinu's third son, Levi – specifically, he was the son of Levi's son, Kehat. Astonishingly, the Torah relates, Yochebed was Amram's aunt – she was the daughter of Levi, the sister of Kehat. The commentaries explain that Yochebed and Kehat had different mothers, and thus they were half-siblings. As such, the marriage between Amram and Yochebed was not forbidden by the Noachide laws, which apply to all mankind. These laws forbid marrying one's parent's full sister, but not a parent's half-sister. This union would, however, be proscribed by the Torah given to Beneh Yisrael. It turns out, then, that Moshe – the greatest leader and prophet in our nation's history, who brought us the Torah – was the product of a marriage that Torah law forbids. Moshe is not the only great leader with less-than-pristine origins. The Davidic line, which began with David and Shlomo and will – we pray very soon – culminate with Mashiah, also has its origins in problematic relationships. David descended from Peretz – the product of the relationship between Yehuda and his daughter-in-law, Tamar. David's great-grandmother was Rut, a convert from the nation of Moab, and although it was ultimately concluded that this marriage was permissible, there was considerable controversy as to whether a man may marry a woman from Moab. And the founder of the nation of Moab, Rut's ancestor, was conceived when Lot's daughter gave her father wine and had a relationship with him, thinking they this was needed in order to maintain the earth's population. Rav Menahem Recanti (Italy, 1223-1290) offers an explanation for this phenomenon, for why the great leaders emerged from less-than-ideal origins. The Satan, he writes, is always seeking to sabotage the rise of these righteous figures, to block these holy souls from descending into the world. Moshe brought us the Torah, which is the "antidote" to the Yeser Ha'ra (evil inclination), the greatest weapon we have in our struggle to overcome the Satan's efforts to lure us away from the service of G-d. And the Gemara teaches that when Mashiah arrives, he will destroy the Satan so it could no longer hurt the Jewish People. Therefore, the Satan will do everything in its power to obstruct the transmission of Torah, and to prevent the arrival of Mashiah. For this reason, Hashem arranged that Moshe and David would be produced from unions that the Satan would never bother to disrupt. The Satan welcomes problematic relationships such as those of Lot and his daughters, Yehuda and Tamar, and Amram and Yochebed. He would never try to interfere with them, because this is precisely what he wants – relationships that are from the Torah's ideal marriage. Moshe and David needed to be produced this way for the purpose of avoiding the Satan's interference. This reminds us never to be discouraged by the challenges that we face in the pursuit of greatness. Whenever we try to achieve something significant, we are going to confront obstacles. Whether it's in the process of finding a spouse and raising a family, the process of learning Torah and spiritual growth, starting a new organization or project – the Satan is always going to try to interfere. Rather than be surprised and discouraged by the problems that arise, we should expect them, stay strong, and proceed with confidence, trusting that Hashem is always helping us in our efforts to defeat the Satan and achieve to the very best of our ability.

Parashat Shemot tells about the enslavement of Beneh Yisrael in Egypt, a policy enacted by the king about whom the Torah writes: "A new king arose in Egypt, who did not know Yosef" (1:8). Rashi brings a debate among the Amoraim regarding this verse. One view accepts the simple meaning, that a new king came to power. According to the other view, however, this Pharaoh who decided to persecute Beneh Yisrael was the same king who ruled Egypt previously, but he is called "new" because "Nit'hadeshu Gezerotav" – he issued new decrees. This second opinion cited by Rashi requires some explanation. The phrase "Nit'hadeshu Gezerotav" does not actually denote "new" decrees. Its precise translation is "his decrees were renewed." There is, of course, a significant difference between a "new" decree and a "renewed" decree. A "new" decree is one which never existed before, whereas a "renewed decree" is a policy that was once in place and is now restored. We must ask, then, which old policy did Pharaoh "renew" in Egypt? Rav Yosef Salant (Jerusalem, 1885-1981), in his Be'er Yosef, answers this question by examining Onkelos' translation of this verse, which concludes: "De'la Mekayem Gezerat Yosef" – "who did not uphold Yosef's decree." According to Onkelos, Pharaoh annulled the policy that Yosef had put into place. This likely refers to the measures Yosef had enacted in order to feed the population of Egypt during the famine. As we read toward the end of Parashat Vayigash, once the famine struck, Yosef began selling the vast quantities of grain that had been stored during the seven years of surplus. At first, he sold grain to the people in exchange for money, and then, after they had spent all their money, he sold them grain in exchange for their animals and their land. Eventually, the people were left with nothing with which to purchase grain. Yosef therefore turned the entire population into Pharaoh's servants, giving them land to till, in exchange for which they gave Pharaoh a percentage of their crops. The Torah writes that the Egyptians were happy with this arrangement, as it ensured their survival during the devastating famine that ravaged the country. Many years later, Rav Salant explains, Pharaoh changed this policy and brought back the conditions that had been in place before Yosef came along. And thus he "renewed" the old decrees. Rav Salant writes that once the famine ended, Pharaoh used the arrangement established by Yosef as a means of provoking resentment and hostility toward Beneh Yisrael. As politicians often do, Pharaoh sought to win the people's support by convincing them that they were victims of an evil scheme from which he would heroically rescue them. He thus charged that Beneh Yisrael – who were living comfortably in the Goshen region – were responsible for the Egyptian people's lack of freedom, for their status as Pharaoh's servants, because it was Yosef who enacted this policy. And thus the arrangement that saved Egypt from widespread starvation was turned into an evil, malicious scheme to subjugate the people. The Egyptians who were previously grateful for this arrangement now resented it, blaming Yosef – and, by extension, all Beneh Yisrael – for the injustice that they were told they now experienced. One contemporary Rabbi added that this might shed light on Rav Yosef's comment in the Gemara (Pesahim 68b) expressing the great importance of the holiday of Shabuot. Rav Yosef remarked that if not for the event of Matan Torah, which is celebrated on Shabuot, "Kama Yosef Ika Be'shuka" – "There are several 'Yosef's' in the marketplace. Meaning, it is only because of the Torah that Rav Yosef was able to achieve and to distinguish himself through his outstanding scholarship. On a deeper level, however, Rav Yosef was perhaps lamenting the fact that the phenomenon of Yosef, of a Jew who was unfairly maligned and scapegoated after having helped and contributed to a country – has recurred many times. There are, unfortunately, many examples of "Yosef," occasions when Jews were viewed with suspicion and treated with hostility despite their having been hard-working, law-abiding, contributing members of society. This observation is, on the one hand, sobering, but on the other hand, it should give us hope and encouragement at this time of rising antisemitism. This phenomenon is upsetting, but not new. It has happened before – and, each time, we've prevailed. Hashem has always helped us in the past, and he will help us now, as well. We will continue to proudly carry the legacy of Yosef Ha'sadik, passionately adhering to our values and traditions while contributing to the society around us, and placing our trust in Hashem at all times.

Parashat Shemot tells about the enslavement of Beneh Yisrael in Egypt, a policy enacted by the king about whom the Torah writes: "A new king arose in Egypt, who did not know Yosef" (1:8). Rashi brings a debate among the Amoraim regarding this verse. One view accepts the simple meaning, that a new king came to power. According to the other view, however, this Pharaoh who decided to persecute Beneh Yisrael was the same king who ruled Egypt previously, but he is called "new" because "Nit'hadeshu Gezerotav" – he issued new decrees. This second opinion cited by Rashi requires some explanation. The phrase "Nit'hadeshu Gezerotav" does not actually denote "new" decrees. Its precise translation is "his decrees were renewed." There is, of course, a significant difference between a "new" decree and a "renewed" decree. A "new" decree is one which never existed before, whereas a "renewed decree" is a policy that was once in place and is now restored. We must ask, then, which old policy did Pharaoh "renew" in Egypt? Rav Yosef Salant (Jerusalem, 1885-1981), in his Be'er Yosef, answers this question by examining Onkelos' translation of this verse, which concludes: "De'la Mekayem Gezerat Yosef" – "who did not uphold Yosef's decree." According to Onkelos, Pharaoh annulled the policy that Yosef had put into place. This likely refers to the measures Yosef had enacted in order to feed the population of Egypt during the famine. As we read toward the end of Parashat Vayigash, once the famine struck, Yosef began selling the vast quantities of grain that had been stored during the seven years of surplus. At first, he sold grain to the people in exchange for money, and then, after they had spent all their money, he sold them grain in exchange for their animals and their land. Eventually, the people were left with nothing with which to purchase grain. Yosef therefore turned the entire population into Pharaoh's servants, giving them land to till, in exchange for which they gave Pharaoh a percentage of their crops. The Torah writes that the Egyptians were happy with this arrangement, as it ensured their survival during the devastating famine that ravaged the country. Many years later, Rav Salant explains, Pharaoh changed this policy and brought back the conditions that had been in place before Yosef came along. And thus he "renewed" the old decrees. Rav Salant writes that once the famine ended, Pharaoh used the arrangement established by Yosef as a means of provoking resentment and hostility toward Beneh Yisrael. As politicians often do, Pharaoh sought to win the people's support by convincing them that they were victims of an evil scheme from which he would heroically rescue them. He thus charged that Beneh Yisrael – who were living comfortably in the Goshen region – were responsible for the Egyptian people's lack of freedom, for their status as Pharaoh's servants, because it was Yosef who enacted this policy. And thus the arrangement that saved Egypt from widespread starvation was turned into an evil, malicious scheme to subjugate the people. The Egyptians who were previously grateful for this arrangement now resented it, blaming Yosef – and, by extension, all Beneh Yisrael – for the injustice that they were told they now experienced. One contemporary Rabbi added that this might shed light on Rav Yosef's comment in the Gemara (Pesahim 68b) expressing the great importance of the holiday of Shabuot. Rav Yosef remarked that if not for the event of Matan Torah, which is celebrated on Shabuot, "Kama Yosef Ika Be'shuka" – "There are several 'Yosef's' in the marketplace. Meaning, it is only because of the Torah that Rav Yosef was able to achieve and to distinguish himself through his outstanding scholarship. On a deeper level, however, Rav Yosef was perhaps lamenting the fact that the phenomenon of Yosef, of a Jew who was unfairly maligned and scapegoated after having helped and contributed to a country – has recurred many times. There are, unfortunately, many examples of "Yosef," occasions when Jews were viewed with suspicion and treated with hostility despite their having been hard-working, law-abiding, contributing members of society. This observation is, on the one hand, sobering, but on the other hand, it should give us hope and encouragement at this time of rising antisemitism. This phenomenon is upsetting, but not new. It has happened before – and, each time, we've prevailed. Hashem has always helped us in the past, and he will help us now, as well. We will continue to proudly carry the legacy of Yosef Ha'sadik, passionately adhering to our values and traditions while contributing to the society around us, and placing our trust in Hashem at all times.

Rashi opens his commentary to Parashat Vayehi with an observation about the "formatting" of this text in the Torah scroll. He notes that the text of Parashat Vayehi begins immediately after the text of the previous Parasha, with no space in between. Normally, the Torah indicates the beginning of a new section with empty space. Sometimes a new section begins on the next line ("Parasha Petuha"), and sometimes a new section begins nine empty spaces (meaning, the space needed to write nine letters) after the end of the previous section ("Parasha Setuma"). Parashat Vayehi, however, begins with no empty space at all separating it from the previous Parasha, appearing as though this is not actually a new Parasha at all. We know that the division of the Torah into Parashiyot was established by Ezra based on an oral tradition. The question thus arises as to why Parashat Vayehi is written immediately after the previous Parasha, without any empty space to indicate that a new Parasha begins. Rashi explains that this "closed" formatting symbolizes the fact that "once Yaakob died, the eyes and hearts of Israel were 'closed' from the distress of bondage, as they [the Egyptians] began to enslave them." The "closed" Parasha expresses the "closing" that occurred due to the slavery that began to unfold after Yaakob Abinu's passing, which the Torah tells about in this Parasha. We must ask, what exactly does Rashi mean when he speaks of the people's eyes and hearts "closing"? Additionally, tradition teaches that the Egyptians did not enslave Beneh Yisrael until all of Yaakob's sons passed away. As long as even one of the Yaakob's sons was alive, the period of slavery did not begin. How, then, can Rashi say that the Egyptians began enslaving Beneh Yisrael after Yaakob Abinu's death? One explanation I saw is that Rashi refers not to the bondage itself, but rather to the early warning signs. Even before Beneh Yisrael were enslaved, there were indications of hostility toward them. Unfortunately, the people's "eyes and hearts" were "closed," they were blinded, and failed to see what was happening before to was too late. When we learn Jewish history, and hear about the tragically numerous incidents of persecution that our nation has suffered, we often find ourselves wondering why the Jews did not just leave, why they did not see the proverbial "writing on the wall" ahead of time and escape before it was too late. The answer is found in Rashi's comments. The Jews' eyes were often closed, unable – or unwilling – to objectively assess the situation, to see where developments were leading. They dismissed hostility as a limited phenomenon, the attitudes of a negligible fringe element. Or, they would see it as a passing phase that would soon end. If a discriminatory law was passed, or a discriminatory policy decision was made, the Jews would assure themselves that it could be repealed, that a different politician will soon come in and implement a different policy, or that they would just lobby government officials. Rashi is telling us that our ancestors in Egypt made this same mistake. Their eyes and minds were "closed," unable to see what was really happening. We must always keep our eyes and minds open, and honestly acknowledge what is happening even when these truths are uncomfortable. And we must never delude ourselves into assuming that the kind of hostility that our nation has experienced in other countries cannot surface here, too. As we continue hoping and praying to Hashem to protect us wherever we are, we must, at the same time, keep our hand on the pulse of the society in which we live and keep our eyes open to potential threats to our future.

Rashi opens his commentary to Parashat Vayehi with an observation about the "formatting" of this text in the Torah scroll. He notes that the text of Parashat Vayehi begins immediately after the text of the previous Parasha, with no space in between. Normally, the Torah indicates the beginning of a new section with empty space. Sometimes a new section begins on the next line ("Parasha Petuha"), and sometimes a new section begins nine empty spaces (meaning, the space needed to write nine letters) after the end of the previous section ("Parasha Setuma"). Parashat Vayehi, however, begins with no empty space at all separating it from the previous Parasha, appearing as though this is not actually a new Parasha at all. We know that the division of the Torah into Parashiyot was established by Ezra based on an oral tradition. The question thus arises as to why Parashat Vayehi is written immediately after the previous Parasha, without any empty space to indicate that a new Parasha begins. Rashi explains that this "closed" formatting symbolizes the fact that "once Yaakob died, the eyes and hearts of Israel were 'closed' from the distress of bondage, as they [the Egyptians] began to enslave them." The "closed" Parasha expresses the "closing" that occurred due to the slavery that began to unfold after Yaakob Abinu's passing, which the Torah tells about in this Parasha. We must ask, what exactly does Rashi mean when he speaks of the people's eyes and hearts "closing"? Additionally, tradition teaches that the Egyptians did not enslave Beneh Yisrael until all of Yaakob's sons passed away. As long as even one of the Yaakob's sons was alive, the period of slavery did not begin. How, then, can Rashi say that the Egyptians began enslaving Beneh Yisrael after Yaakob Abinu's death? One explanation I saw is that Rashi refers not to the bondage itself, but rather to the early warning signs. Even before Beneh Yisrael were enslaved, there were indications of hostility toward them. Unfortunately, the people's "eyes and hearts" were "closed," they were blinded, and failed to see what was happening before to was too late. When we learn Jewish history, and hear about the tragically numerous incidents of persecution that our nation has suffered, we often find ourselves wondering why the Jews did not just leave, why they did not see the proverbial "writing on the wall" ahead of time and escape before it was too late. The answer is found in Rashi's comments. The Jews' eyes were often closed, unable – or unwilling – to objectively assess the situation, to see where developments were leading. They dismissed hostility as a limited phenomenon, the attitudes of a negligible fringe element. Or, they would see it as a passing phase that would soon end. If a discriminatory law was passed, or a discriminatory policy decision was made, the Jews would assure themselves that it could be repealed, that a different politician will soon come in and implement a different policy, or that they would just lobby government officials. Rashi is telling us that our ancestors in Egypt made this same mistake. Their eyes and minds were "closed," unable to see what was really happening. We must always keep our eyes and minds open, and honestly acknowledge what is happening even when these truths are uncomfortable. And we must never delude ourselves into assuming that the kind of hostility that our nation has experienced in other countries cannot surface here, too. As we continue hoping and praying to Hashem to protect us wherever we are, we must, at the same time, keep our hand on the pulse of the society in which we live and keep our eyes open to potential threats to our future.

The Torah in Parashat Vayigash lists the names of the members of Yaakob Abinu's family who moved with him from Canaan to Egypt. These include his granddaughter, Serah, the daughter of Asher (46:17). Targum Yonatan Ben Uziel tells us something fascinating about Serah – she was one of the very few people in world history who never died, and instead went into Gan Eden alive. Serah received this special reward because she was the one who informed Yaakob Abinu that Yosef was still alive. Yaakob had mourned and grieved for twenty-two years, thinking that Yosef, his beloved son, was devoured by an animal. When Yosef's brothers returned from Egypt with the news that Yosef was actually alive, and had risen to the position of vizier of Egypt, they were unsure how to communicate this information to Yaakob. He was an elderly, shattered man, and they needed to share with him this news in a gentle, delicate manner that wouldn't cause him shock. They turned to Serah, Asher's daughter, who was a talented musician. She took an instrument and sang beautifully to Yaakob the words that Yosef was alive. In reward for this act, Serah earned eternal life. It is not difficult to see the principle of "Midda Ke'negged Midda" – how actions are repaid "measure for measure" – at work in this story. Serah effectively restored Yaakb Abinu's soul, bringing him back to life. Throughout the twenty-two years of mourning, Yaakob was lifeless – without joy, without vitality. Serah restored Yaakob's life – and so she was rewarded with eternal life. The Zohar teaches that anytime a person shares good news with somebody, the spirit of Eliyahu Ha'nabi enters his being. Eliyahu is the one who will inform us of Mashiah's imminent arrival. In fact, Ashkenazim have the practice of adding a brief prayer to Birkat Ha'mazon asking Hashem to send us Eliyahu Ha'nabi "so that he will bring us good news, salvations and consolations." Eliyahu is the ultimate bearer of good tidings – and he is the most famous person who never died, who lives eternally, who went straight into Gan Eden without experiencing death. By sharing good news with people, we attain an element of Eliyahu Ha'nabi's eternal quality. When we tell good news, we make people happier, we revitalize them, we encourage them, we bring them more "liveliness." We are thus worthy of eternity. I recall that after my first child was born, I went from the hospital to a job I had at the time tutoring a young man in preparation for his Bar-Misva. When I came in, his mother said hello and asked how I was doing. I said I was fine, without informing her that my wife delivered a baby boy. I felt I would come across as self-absorbed by telling her about the birth. Later, the father came in and said hello, and once again I just responded to the greeting without informing him about the birth of my son. Not long after I left, both parents heard that my wife had given birth to a boy. They both called me and asked in bewilderment why I hadn't said anything about it. I acted incorrectly that day. I didn't realize at that time how important it is to share good news, as much and as often as possible. People love hearing good news. It gets them excited, it injects them with optimism and encouragement. It gives them a better feeling about the world. It reminds them that beautiful things are happening all around them, that Hashem does so many wonderful things. Sharing good news has the effect of lifting people's spirits and energizing them. This is especially important in today's day and age. The device we carry in our pocket is constantly bringing us bad news. We are greeted all day by distressing news, by all that is wrong in the world. The news feeds never tell us about couples getting engaged and married, about people working hard, accomplishing, and earning a respectable livelihood, about happy families enjoying dinner or an outing, about people doing Misvot and learning Torah. This is not reported as news because it's uninteresting. News feeds instead tell us as much negative information as it can – crime, corruption, ugly politics, "juicy" gossip about public personalities and celebrities, etc. Every piece of news we consume makes the world seem darker. The cumulative effect of news consumption is chronic negativity, and even anxiety, as we feel that everything about the world is wrong. The antidote to this gloom is positivity. We should be making a point of being as positive and upbeat as possible. We should be seizing every opportunity we have to share happy news, to point out the good things that are happening, to compliment, to praise, to express admiration and gratitude. There is more than enough negativity in our lives – and we must therefore avoid adding further negativity. Instead, let's spread positivity, talking as much as we can about all the good we see around us.

The Torah in Parashat Vayigash lists the names of the members of Yaakob Abinu's family who moved with him from Canaan to Egypt. These include his granddaughter, Serah, the daughter of Asher (46:17). Targum Yonatan Ben Uziel tells us something fascinating about Serah – she was one of the very few people in world history who never died, and instead went into Gan Eden alive. Serah received this special reward because she was the one who informed Yaakob Abinu that Yosef was still alive. Yaakob had mourned and grieved for twenty-two years, thinking that Yosef, his beloved son, was devoured by an animal. When Yosef's brothers returned from Egypt with the news that Yosef was actually alive, and had risen to the position of vizier of Egypt, they were unsure how to communicate this information to Yaakob. He was an elderly, shattered man, and they needed to share with him this news in a gentle, delicate manner that wouldn't cause him shock. They turned to Serah, Asher's daughter, who was a talented musician. She took an instrument and sang beautifully to Yaakob the words that Yosef was alive. In reward for this act, Serah earned eternal life. It is not difficult to see the principle of "Midda Ke'negged Midda" – how actions are repaid "measure for measure" – at work in this story. Serah effectively restored Yaakb Abinu's soul, bringing him back to life. Throughout the twenty-two years of mourning, Yaakob was lifeless – without joy, without vitality. Serah restored Yaakob's life – and so she was rewarded with eternal life. The Zohar teaches that anytime a person shares good news with somebody, the spirit of Eliyahu Ha'nabi enters his being. Eliyahu is the one who will inform us of Mashiah's imminent arrival. In fact, Ashkenazim have the practice of adding a brief prayer to Birkat Ha'mazon asking Hashem to send us Eliyahu Ha'nabi "so that he will bring us good news, salvations and consolations." Eliyahu is the ultimate bearer of good tidings – and he is the most famous person who never died, who lives eternally, who went straight into Gan Eden without experiencing death. By sharing good news with people, we attain an element of Eliyahu Ha'nabi's eternal quality. When we tell good news, we make people happier, we revitalize them, we encourage them, we bring them more "liveliness." We are thus worthy of eternity. I recall that after my first child was born, I went from the hospital to a job I had at the time tutoring a young man in preparation for his Bar-Misva. When I came in, his mother said hello and asked how I was doing. I said I was fine, without informing her that my wife delivered a baby boy. I felt I would come across as self-absorbed by telling her about the birth. Later, the father came in and said hello, and once again I just responded to the greeting without informing him about the birth of my son. Not long after I left, both parents heard that my wife had given birth to a boy. They both called me and asked in bewilderment why I hadn't said anything about it. I acted incorrectly that day. I didn't realize at that time how important it is to share good news, as much and as often as possible. People love hearing good news. It gets them excited, it injects them with optimism and encouragement. It gives them a better feeling about the world. It reminds them that beautiful things are happening all around them, that Hashem does so many wonderful things. Sharing good news has the effect of lifting people's spirits and energizing them. This is especially important in today's day and age. The device we carry in our pocket is constantly bringing us bad news. We are greeted all day by distressing news, by all that is wrong in the world. The news feeds never tell us about couples getting engaged and married, about people working hard, accomplishing, and earning a respectable livelihood, about happy families enjoying dinner or an outing, about people doing Misvot and learning Torah. This is not reported as news because it's uninteresting. News feeds instead tell us as much negative information as it can – crime, corruption, ugly politics, "juicy" gossip about public personalities and celebrities, etc. Every piece of news we consume makes the world seem darker. The cumulative effect of news consumption is chronic negativity, and even anxiety, as we feel that everything about the world is wrong. The antidote to this gloom is positivity. We should be making a point of being as positive and upbeat as possible. We should be seizing every opportunity we have to share happy news, to point out the good things that are happening, to compliment, to praise, to express admiration and gratitude. There is more than enough negativity in our lives – and we must therefore avoid adding further negativity. Instead, let's spread positivity, talking as much as we can about all the good we see around us.

Parashat Miketz begins with the famous story of Yosef being brought from the Egyptian prison to interpret Pharaoh's unusual dreams. Yosef informed Pharoh that his visions of seven lean cows devouring seven large cows, and seven lean sheaves devouring seven large sheaves, foretold a seven-year period of agricultural surplus that would be immediately followed by seven years of harsh famine. After explaining the meaning of Pharaoh's dreams, Yosef proceeded to urge the king to appoint somebody to oversee the storage of grain during the next seven years to prepare for the drought years which would follow. Pharaoh promptly assigned Yosef to this role. Yosef adds a curious phrase in his remarks to Pharaoh, one which is often overlooked. In urging the king to set up a mechanism for the storage of grain, Yosef says, "Ya'aseh Pharaoh Ve'yafked Pekidim Al Ha'aretz" – "Pharaoh shall act and appoint officers over the land" (41:34). Yosef does not just advise Pharaoh to appoint officials – he says, "Ya'aseh Pharaoh," that "Pharaoh shall act." What is meant by these words? Why did Yosef emphasize that Pharaoh should "act"? Some suggest that Yosef here expressed a fundamental principle of leadership and education – the importance of setting a personal example. Yosef anticipated that there would be opposition among the Egyptian population to his plan to store large amounts of grain. During years of economic prosperity, few people have the foresight to consider the possibility of a shortage down the road. It would be hard for the Egyptians to envision a devastating famine while they were busy harvesting unprecedentedly large amounts of produce. They would not be so quick to put the surplus grain into storage to prepare for something that the government claimed would happen years later. They would need some convincing. This is why Yosef said, "Ya'aseh Pharaoh." The best way for Pharoah to convince the people to store grain was for him to set an example. Before he could appoint officials to enforce a policy of storage, he would have to "act" – he would need to show the people that he, too, was storing his surplus, that he was not overindulging during the years of prosperity. This was critical for the success of this plan. We might add that Yosef learned this concept from his father, Yaakob. At the end of Parashat Vayeseh, we read that Yaakov made a pact with his father-in-law, Laban, and as a formal symbol of their agreement they made a special pile of stones. The Torah tells that Yaakob turned to his sons and instructed them to collect stones to make this large pile ("Liktu Abanim" – 31:46). Despite the grueling labor involved, his sons immediately obeyed, without any protest. The likely reason is because in the preceding verse, we read that Yaakob himself lifted a large stone and erected it as a monument. Before asking his sons to participate in this process, Yaakob first acted himself. He first set an example for his children, and they were then far more receptive to his request that they join. Parents, educators, and anyone looking to have an impact must realize this truism about influence. A person is not likely to inspire others by sitting comfortably and trying to convince them to act. If we want to influence and inspire, we need to act, to set an example, to model the behavior. It is only if our words are accompanied by a personal example that we can hope for them to have an impact.

The opening verse of Parashat Vayesheb introduces the story of Yosef by saying, "Vayesheb Yaakob Be'eretz Megureh Abib, Be'eretz Kena'an" – "Yaakob dwelled in the land when his father had lived, in the land of Canaan." The question arises as to why the Torah found it necessary to inform us that Yaakob lived in the Land of Israel (known then as Canaan). While it is true that Yaakob had spent twenty years outside the land, with his uncle in Haran, we already read in last week's Parasha, Parashat Vayishlah, of Yaakob's return to the Land of Israel, and of his experiences there. Why, then, do we need to be told again that he lived in Canaan? Moreover, we must ask why the Torah emphasizes here that this is the land where Yaakob's father, Yishak, had lived. We are well aware of the fact that Yishak had lived in Israel, and we know that even when famine struck the land, and he began journeying toward Egypt – just as his father, Abraham Abinu, had done in a time of famine – G-d appeared to him and commanded him to remain in the land and not to go to Egypt (Bereshit 26:2-3). Why, then, does the Torah find it necessary to mention that the Land of Israel was "Eretz Megureh Abib" – the land where Yishak had lived? The Ramban answers these questions by explaining that the word "Megureh" stems from the word "Ger" – "foreigner." The Torah isn't telling us that Yaakob lived in Canaan – but rather that he lived as a "Ger," as a foreigner, under the rule of the Canaanite tribes, just as his father had. This reality fulfilled G-d's prophecy to Abraham Abinu that his descendants would live as foreigners, in a land governed by others – "Ki Ger Yiheyeh Zar'acha Ba'aretz Lo Lahem" (Bereshit 15:13). Abraham's descendants would live as foreigners for 210 years in Egypt – but this prophecy actually began immediately with the birth of Yishak, who lived as a foreigner in the land of Canaan, as Yaakob did, until going to Egypt at the very end of his life. The reason this is emphasized here, the Ramban explains, is for the sake of contrasting Yaakob with his brother, Esav. The previous section – the end of Parashat Vayishlah – elaborates at great length on Esav's progeny, how he settled in the region of Edom and established there a large empire. Esav enjoyed all the comforts of freedom and sovereignty, establishing a kingdom swiftly and easily. Yaakob, meanwhile, remained in his homeland, in the Land of Israel, where he lived as a foreigner. It would be centuries later that Yaakob's descendants, Beneh Yisrael, would – after many difficult battles – establish their kingdom in their homeland. The Ramban writes that the Torah mentions this "to tell that they [Yishak and Yaakob] chose to live in the chosen land, and that through them [the prophecy of] 'for your offspring shall be foreigners in a land not theirs' was fulfilled." As opposed to Esav, Yaakob – like his father – preferred living in the Promised Land, in the sacred Land of Israel, even under less-than-ideal conditions, rather than enjoy the comforts and conveniences that were available elsewhere. Yaakob chose a life of meaning and purpose over a life of comfort and convenience. He understood that we are brought here to this world to live meaningfully, to pursue meaningful goals and achievements, and not to enjoy vain pleasures. And so he preferred basking in the sanctity of the Land of Israel over an easier life elsewhere. Life as a Torah Jew isn't always easy – because the goal is to live with meaning and purpose, which takes hard work and sacrifice. We, the descendants of Yaakob Abinu, must follow his example of choosing a life of Kedusha and purpose over a life of comfort and convenience.

When Yaakob heard that his brother, Esav, was approaching with a militia of 400 men, he offered an impassioned prayer to G-d, begging for help. He cried, "Hasileni Na Mi'yad Ahi Mi'yad Esav" – "Save me, please, from my brother, from Esav" (32:12). A famous insight into this verse was offered by the Bet Ha'levi (Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik of Brisk, 1820-1892), one which is worth our while to review and ponder. The Bet Ha'levi noted that Yaakob asked G-d to protect him from both "Esav" and from "my brother." Of course, these seem to be one and the same. But the Bet Ha'levi explains that this refers to two different threats that Yaakob feared. The first and more obvious threat was that posed by "Esav" – the violent, evil man who hated Yaakob for having taken his blessing, and sought to kill him. Esav's hostility and violent character posed a clear and present danger. But Yaakob also feared the opposite prospect – that Esav would come as "my brother," with love and affection. This, too, presented a danger, albeit a much different form of danger – a spiritual danger. When the gentile nations treat us as "brothers," inviting us to closely interact with them, we risk becoming like them, of exchanging our traditional beliefs, values and practices for their culture. Whereas "Esav" threatens our physical existence, "my brother" threatens our spiritual existence. The Gemara tells that King Ahashverosh despised the Jews no less than Haman. When Haman presented to the king his idea to annihilate the Jews, and offered to pay for it, Ahashverosh responded that to the contrary, he would pay Haman to do this, because he wanted the Jews killed. The Gemara draws an analogy to a person with a large mound of dirt on his property which he wanted to get rid of, and he is approached by another person who has a large hole on his property which he wished to fill. The person with the hole in the ground offers to pay the other person for his mound of dirt – but the one with the mound of dirt is prepared to pay him to remove it. Likewise, Haman was willing to pay Ahashverosh to annihilate the Jews, but Ahashverosh was prepared to pay Haman to get rid of them. But when we read the Megilla, we do not get the impression that Ahashverosh disliked the Jews. To the contrary, he invited them to his feast, and they happily participated. In truth, however, this was no less sinister a plot than Haman's plan to murder the Jews. Haman approached the Jewish People as "Esav," whereas Ahashverosh approached them as "my brother," inviting them to assimilate and embrace the Persian culture, values and lifestyle. Returning to the story of Yaakob and Esav, the Torah tells that when they finally reunited, Esav embraced Yaakob and kissed him. However, one view in the Midrash, as Rashi (33:4) cites, explains that Esav first tried to bite Yaakob's neck. Hashem performed a miracle, making Yaakob's neck hard as marble, such that Esav's teeth could not penetrate it. Esav then kissed him. He at first tried to hurt Yaakov with hostility and violence, and when this failed, he resorted to the tactic of "my brother," by showing love and affection, hoping to lure Yaakob away from his beliefs and values. We must stand guard against both dangers. In a time of growing antisemitism, we must of course remain vigilant and take appropriate measures to protect ourselves. No less importantly, however, we must protect ourselves from the lure of assimilation. The United States offers us freedom and equality, treating us no differently than any other group in this country. This is, undoubtedly, a wonderful blessing for which we must be grateful, as it has allowed us to build communities such as ours and practice our religion without fear. At the same time, however, the freedoms have wrought a spiritual catastrophe, pulling a frighteningly high percentage of Jews away from their heritage. The American Jew's freedom to fully participate in American culture and society entices him to abandon his traditions in favor of the values and lifestyle of the people around us, and too many have fallen prey to this temptation. We need to ensure that our enjoyment of the wonderful freedoms granted us by this country does not result in our rejection of our traditions. And we do this through our community institutions, through our schools, synagogues, yeshivot and programs, which help solidify our identity as Torah Jews, an identity that we continue to wear with pride and conviction even as we participate in and interact with the general society.

When Yaakov arrived at the outskirts of Haran, he saw local shepherds with their herds near the well outside the city. He asked them why they weren't giving their sheep water. The shepherds explained that they could not remove the large, heavy stone from the top of the well. They needed to wait for all the shepherds to assemble at the well so they could together roll the stone off the well. Yaakob then proceeded to the well and, by himself, pushed the stone off so the shepherds could draw water for their flocks. Rashi comments that this episode shows us that Yaakob possessed unique physical strength. We must ask, for what purpose did the Torah tells us about Yaakob Abinu's exceptional strength? What lesson are we to learn from this story? Every person, without any exceptions, has spiritual struggles. And no two people's struggles are the same. Misvot which come easily for one person is a difficult challenge for somebody else. Some people struggle to observe Kashrut, others have a hard time with Shabbat. There are those who have difficulty praying properly, and there are those who find it challenging to observe the Torah's standards of Seniut (modesty). But everyone is struggling with something. This is true even of the great Sadikim. King Shlomo teaches us in Mishleh (24:16), "Ki Sheba Yipol Sadik Ve'kam" – "For a righteous person falls seven times and gets up." Even the righteous fall – and they fall repeatedly. The difference between a righteous person and others is "Ve'kam" – that a Sadik "gets up" each and every time he falls. The wicked person, at a certain point, gives up. He decides not to bother struggling, figuring that it's just too hard for him. An example of this kind of person is Esav, about whom the Torah says, "Ve'hu Ayef" – "and he was tired" (25:29). Esav had the potential for greatness. He was no less capable of being a Sadik than Yaakob was. But he grew "tired" – he decided not to try. The Sadik doesn't get tired. He falls, often, but he keeps getting back up. How does the Sadik do this? What motivates him to keep trying, even after falling multiple times? The answer is found in one of the Birchot Ha'shahar (morning blessings), in which we thank Hashem "Ha'noten La'ya'ef Ko'ah" – "who gives strength to the weary." The Sadik keeps getting back up because he believes that Hashem is helping him and giving him strength. As long as we keep trying, Hashem gives us the abilities we need to eventually succeed. This is the difference between the wicked and the righteous: the wicked person feels powerless, and thus concludes that there is no purpose to continue trying, whereas the righteous person confidently believes that Hashem is giving him the strength he needs to improve. This is the message of the story of Yaakob Abinu's experiences at the well outside Haran. The large stone on the well symbolizes the Yeser Ha'ra, our evil inclination, the difficult – often overwhelming – spiritual challenges that we each face. Like the stone, they seem too big to move, too difficult to handle, too much for us to overcome. The shepherds, like many people, don't bother trying, because they assume they don't have the strength to succeed. Yaakob showed that when one believes in the "Noten La'ya'ef Ko'ah," he is much stronger than he thinks, and he can "remove the stone," and overcome his challenges. We are not expected to be perfect, because we are human beings, and human beings aren't perfect. We are, however, expected to try, and to try again when we don't succeed. We are expected not to grow tired, not to give up, and to instead trust that Hashem is helping us and giving us the strength we need to achieve.

Parashat Hayeh-Sara tells the famous story of Eliezer, Abraham's trusted servant, whom Abraham sent to find a suitable match for Abraham's son, Yishak. Upon arriving at the well outside Abraham's hometown, Aram Naharayim, from where Abraham instructed him to find the match, Eliezer prayed to G-d, begging for His assistance. He said that he would ask a girl at the well for some water, and he asked Hashem to arrange that the girl who not only agreed to give him water, but also offered to give water to his camels, should be the girl destined to marry Yishak. Sure enough, Eliezer saw Ribka – the daughter of Yishak's cousin, Betuel – at the well, and, not knowing who she was, he approached her and asked for water. She agreed, gave him water from her pitcher, and then said that she would draw water from the well for his camels. Ribka then proceeded to repeatedly draw water and pour it into the trough for all ten of Eliezer's camels. Surprisingly, the Torah tells that as Ribka was doing all this, Eliezer watched carefully, wondering "if G-d had made his mission successful or not" (24:21). It seems that even at this point, after Ribka offered to draw water for his camels, he was still not convinced. He needed to observe her throughout this process to determine whether or not she was indeed the right girl to marry Abraham's son. We must ask, what else did Ribka need to prove? Eliezer explicitly said that the suitable girl would be the one who responded to his request for water by offering to draw water for his camels. Why did he still need to wait while Ribka proceeded to draw the water before concluding that she was the one chosen by G-d to marry Yishak? Rav Leib Mintzberg (Jerusalem, 1943-2018), in his Ben Melech, explains that the quality of one's Hesed is not assessed merely by the practical results, by the tangible benefits that he provides. It is measured also by the way it is performed, by whether one helps his fellow graciously, warmly, with a smile, in a manner that makes the recipient feel comfortable and respected. We've all had different kinds of experiences when asking for a favor. Sometimes the person grants our request, but does so coldly, almost begrudgingly, giving us the feeling that he or she would have preferred not to have been bothered. And then there are times when the person does the favor happily, with a warm smile, asking if there's anything else we need, making us feel comfortable and at ease. This is a critically important component of Hesed. Indeed, the Gemara teaches in Masechet Baba Batra (9b) that one who gives money to somebody in need is rewarded with six blessings, whereas one who speaks words of comfort to that individual, lifting his spirits and giving him encouragement, receives eleven blessings – because making a person feel comfortable and at ease is a crucial aspect of kindness. This, Rav Mintzberg writes, is what Eliezer was watching for. Ribka already said that she would draw water for the camels – but Eliezer wanted to see if she would do it warmly and happily, which she of course did. Rav Mintzberg explains on this basis why, afterward, Eliezer gave Ribka as a gift two bracelets and a nose ring, adorning her hands and her face. This symbolizes the fact that she excelled in both aspects of Hesed – the action, and the demeanor. She exerted physical effort to draw a large amount of water for Eliezer's camels, but she also helped him with her face, by wearing a warm smile, by showing her eagerness to help. And these two elements – the act of Hesed, coupled with her warmth and graciousness – are what made Ribka worthy of marrying Yishak and becoming a matriarch of Hashem's treasured nation.

Toward the end of Parashat Vayera, we read the famous story of Akedat Yishak – where Abraham Abinu was commanded to offer his beloved son, Yishak, as a sacrifice upon the altar. At the last moment, as Abraham held the knife over Yishak, prepared to slaughter him in fulfillment of G-d's command, an angel called out to Abraham and told him to desist, explaining that the command was merely a test of Abraham's devotion to Hashem. The Zohar, in a fascinating passage, adds a remarkable component to this story – one which sheds light on one of the critical lessons that it teaches us. When Yishak saw the knife about to descend upon his neck, the Zohar tells, he, in a sense, died. His soul departed. He was then given a new soul, and came back to life. Yishak was the first to recite the Beracha of "Mehayeh Ha'metim" – praising Hashem who restores life to the dead, and for this reason the second blessing of the Amida prayer, which corresponds to Yishak – the second of patriarchs – concludes with this Beracha. This replacement of Yishak's soul laid the foundations of the emergence of the Jewish Nation. Yishak's original soul was incapable of begetting children, but this new soul was. It turns out, then, that it was only because of Akedat Yishak that Yishak was able to produce offspring. This gives us an entirely new perspective on the story of the Akeda, and its relevance to our lives. When Avraham received the command to slaughter to Yishak, he did not understand how G-d could instruct him to do such a thing. After all, G-d had earlier told him, "Ki Be'Yishak Yikareh Lecha Zara" – that his line would continue through Yishak, and not through his first son, Yishmael (21:12). How, Abraham wondered, could G-d assure him that Yishak would be heir to his covenant with G-d, and the father of the nation destined to emerge from him, and then command offering him as a sacrifice before he had a child? Abraham did not understand. It seemed that offering Yishak on the altar marked the end of G-d's promise, as it would prevent the birth of Am Yisrael. In truth, however, fulfilling this command is precisely what enabled Yishak to have children. Had Abraham refused to obey, in the interest of assuring that Yishak would father the great nation that Hashem had promised – it would not have happened. It was specifically by fulfilling G-d's command, which entailed doing something that appeared to sabotage the process of Am Yisrael's emergence, that Am Yisrael in fact emerged. The Midrash teaches that G-d implores us, "Obey Me, because nobody obeys Me and loses." We never lose by following Hashem's will, by observing the Misvot. We often find ourselves tested the way Abraham was, as a Misva appears detrimental to us. Many times, we face a situation where doing the right thing seems to work against us and our best interests. Staying in bed instead of getting up for Minyan is more comfortable and convenient. Avoiding places where we know we should not be might cost us social points. Dressing, speaking and acting the way we know we should might invite ridicule. Adhering to the Torah's strict ethical standards could cost us profitable opportunities. So often, the right thing to do seems to hurt us. But even when this is true in the short-term, it is never true in the long-term. Whatever sacrifice we need to make here in the present to remain faithful to our Torah values is more than worth it, because Hashem guarantees us that in the long run, we only benefit from obeying His commands. Rav Nachman of Breslav (1772-1810) taught that when a person feels himself becoming angry, he should imagine that Hashem is about to give him an enormous fortune – but he must earn it by restraining his anger. The person thinks that shouting and insulting is the right response to the situation – but by doing so, he will forfeit the inestimable future rewards that are promised to those who control their anger. This can be applied to all the many religious challenges that we face on a day-to-day basis. When we feel tempted to compromise our principles, we should remember the lesson of Akedat Yishak – that the short-term benefits we sacrifice to obey Hashem are far surpassed by the long-term benefits of obedience.

The Midrash (Bereshit Rabba 42) tells the story of how Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus first began learning Torah. He had worked with his brothers in the farmlands owned by their father, Hyrcanus, until Eliezer ran away in order to learn Torah under the great Rabbinic leader of that generation, Rabbi Yohanan Ben Zakai. Sometime later, his father came to inform Eliezer that he was disowning him, and removing him from his will. But when his father arrived, he saw that Rabbi Yohanan was hosting a major feast for the Rabbis, with the wealthiest men of the generation in attendance. Of all the people assembled, Rabbi Yohanan selected Eliezer – now Rabbi Eliezer – to deliver a speech. Rabbi Eliezer's words dazzled everyone in the room – including his father, Hyrcanus, who approached him afterward. "I had come here to disown you and exclude you from my fortune," he said, "but I am instead giving you everything I own." What was this speech that so impressed Hyrcanus? The Midrash says that Rabbi Eliezer spoke about an event told by the Torah in Parashat Lech-Lecha – the war waged by the four kings against the five kings. During this war, the four kings captured the city of Sedom, and took its entire population as captives, including Lot, the nephew of Abraham Abinu. When Abraham heard that his nephew was taken, he immediately mobilized a small army and boldly launched an attack against the four kings. Miraculously, Abraham's little army triumphed, and rescued all the captives, including Lot. Rabbi Eliezer, in this first speech that he ever delivered, said that this war is alluded to in a verse in Tehillim (37:14): " The wicked have drawn the sword and bent their bow, to bring down the poor and needy, to slay those who walk uprightly. " These "wicked" people, Rabbi Eliezer explained, were the four kings, who were led by Amrafel, whom Rashi (Bereshit 14:1) identifies as Nimrod, the evil king who had thrown Abraham into a furnace to kill him for denying paganism. These kings came with their armies to wage war against "the poor and the needy" – referring to Lot, and to "slay those who walk uprightly" – referring to Abraham. However, their plan backfired, as the next verse says, " Their sword shall enter their heart" – they were defeated and killed by Abraham. What was so profound about this lecture? What great insight did Rabbi Eliezer here reveal, thus earning him his father's newfound admiration and praise? Rabbi Eliezer here taught that when other nations wage wars, they are invariably, in some way, targeting us, the Jewish People. When we read the Torah's account of this war, we get the impression that Abraham's involvement was purely incidental, the result of Lot happening to be living in Sedom, which fell to the four kings. In truth, however, as Rabbi Eliezer taught, the four kings were actually coming after Abraham and Lot. They targeted Abraham because of the monotheistic belief that he disseminated, and they targeted Lot because he was the ancestor of Rut – the great-grandmother of David – and Na'ama – the wife of King Shlomo, from whom the Davidic dynasty descended, culminating in Mashiah. This conflict outwardly seemed like a struggle between different kingdoms who had strategic alliances, but in truth, it was aimed at Abraham and Lot, seeking to destroy Am Yisrael even before its emergence, and to prevent the possibility of Mashiah's arrival to redeem the Jewish People. In the next passage, the Midrash comments that these four kings represent the four empires that would later persecute the Jewish Nation – Babylonia, Persia, Greece, and Edom (associated with Rome and the Christian world). The Midrash here teaches us that just as the war waged by the four kings was driven by hostility toward Abraham Abinu and toward the nation he was creating, the subsequent wars will similarly be motivated by this ancient hatred. We are thus assured that just as G-d miraculously assisted Abraham Abinu in overcoming his enemies, we, too, will prevail over our hostile adversaries. We need to confidently place our trust in the Almighty, in the "Magen Abraham" ("Shield of Abraham"), and ask Him to protect us and deliver us from our enemies just as He helped our ancestors throughout history.

The Torah tells that after G-d commanded Noah to construct the ark, "Noah did in accordance with everything G-d had commanded him – so he did" (6:22). The final clause – "Ken Asa" ("so he did") – seems to have been added to emphasize that Noah built the ark precisely as G-d had commanded, without deviating even one iota from the specific instructions that he had received. We all know that even the most skilled and reputable contractors usually fail to complete their projects to the customer's complete satisfaction. There is always some detail, minor or major, that is not done the way the customer wanted. Noah, however, completed his project – the ark – in precise compliance with G-d's instructions, without overlooking or disregarding even a single detail. Intriguingly, a similar verse appears later in the Parasha, following G-d's command to Noah that he enter the ark with his family. The Torah writes, "Noah did in accordance with all that G-d had commanded him" (7:5). Rashi explains that this refers to his entering the ark. It is striking that in this context, the Torah does not add, "Ken Asa." In this instance, there is no emphasis on the fact that Noah complied precisely with G-d's instructions. The reason is found in Rashi's startling comments two verses later (7:7). The Torah tells that Noah and his family entered the ark "because of the waters of the flood," and Rashi explains that he did not go into the ark until he was forced to by the floodwaters. Noah, Rashi writes, was ambivalent. He did not fully believe that Hashem would bring the flood, and so he did not go into the ark immediately after he was told to. He waited until the heavy rains compelled him to seek refuge in the ark. This easily explains why the phrase "Ken Asa" is omitted in the context of Noah's entry into the ark. In this case, he did not, in fact, comply precisely with Hashem's command. Although he was, of course, a righteous man who faithfully obeyed G-d, his obedience in this instance was imperfect. The question then becomes, why was Noah ambivalent? He spent 120 years building the ark in preparation for the flood that G-d told him would come. Did he really not believe that G-d would flood the earth? Rav Yosef Salant (Jerusalem, 1885-1981), in his Be'er Yosef, explained that Noah of course did not question G-d's ability to bring the flood, or if He would tell the truth, but he thought that in His infinite mercy, G-d might rescind the decree. After all, G-d waited 120 years after issuing the decree, and then, as Rashi (7:4) brings from the Gemara, he waited an additional seven days so that the people could mourn the passing of Metushelah, a righteous man. Noah waited to see if G-d would further delay the flood in the hope that the people would repent. Nevertheless, Noah acted wrongly because he was explicitly commanded to go into the ark. We are to comply with Hashem's instructions without making our own calculations. Compelling as our own reasoning might seem to us, they can never get in the way of our strict compliance with the Torah's commands. We must strive to reach the level of "Ken Asa" – where our obedience is complete, unwavering, unhesitating and uncompromised, driven by a fierce desire to faithfully serve our Creator.

What was Adam thinking? Of course, eating the fruit from the forbidden tree was wrong, and he – along with all humankind – was punished as a result. But we would certainly expect that he had some rationale, some thgouht process that justified this action in his mind. What might have led him to eat fruit which G-d had explicitly commanded him not to eat? The Arizal explains the spiritual effects of Adam's sin, how it fundamentally transformed the human being. Before his sin, the Yeser Ha'ra (evil inclination) was external to the person, not part and parcel of his being. Adam was pure and pristine, with a natural inclination to act the right way and do the right thing. Although temptation existed, it could be avoided. A person could keep a distance from sources of temptation, and serve G-d easily, without any inner resistance or inner struggle. After the sin, however, everything became a struggle. As we all know, virtually every good deed we do requires some degree of effort, a "tug-of-war" between our desire to do the right thing and the desire to do the wrong thing. This ongoing struggle was introduced once Adam and Havah partook of the forbidden fruit. This explains Adam's rationale when he decided to eat the fruit that Havah brought him. Imagine a baseball team that shows up ready to play a game, but after the pregame workouts and batting practice, just before the first pitch, the other team decides to forfeit the game. The first team will of course be happy to be credited with a win, but it won't feel very proud of this victory. But if the game is played, and it goes into extra innings, with both teams playing hard, and the game is won in dramatic fashion in the 14 th inning – the team will go home feeling very gratified over its hard-fought win. Adam reasoned that he could draw closer to G-d by inviting the Yeser Ha'ra into his being, by accepting the challenge of perpetual spiritual struggle. Serving G-d without this inner conflict would be like winning via a forfeit, without a fight, whereas serving G-d by constantly resisting lures and temptations would be a hard-fought triumph each and every day of his life. This is what Adam wanted. He strove for greatness, and he understood that greatness is achieved only through hard work and struggle. He thus decided to subject himself to the difficult challenges of the Yeser Ha'ra so he would have to wage a lifelong battle against them. Nevertheless, Adam was wrong. This decision was sinful – so sinful, in fact, that it brought to the world numerous curses, including death itself. The reason why Adam was wrong is very simple – because Hashem told him not to eat the fruit. No human being can ever try to "outsmart" G-d, or think that he has a better idea than G-d had. And no human being can ever think that he can draw close to G-d by disobeying G-d's command. No matter how certain a person is that a certain action will propel him to great spiritual heights and enhance his relationship with Hashem – he must not commit that act if Hashem Himself proscribed it. It is impossible to serve G-d by disobeying G-d. The Gemara teaches that the "Zuhama" ("filth") of Adam's sin remained until the time of Matan Torah, when Beneh Yisrael stood at Mount Sinai and accepted the Torah. They proclaimed, "Na'aseh Ve'nishma" ("We will do and we will hear" – Shemot 24:7), committing themselves unconditionally to G-d's will. They declared their unbridled obedience, that they would observe every command without any hesitation and without rationalization. This corrected the ill that plagued mankind since the time of Adam's sin, the tendency to arrogantly subject G-d's commands to human logic and reasoning. Tragically, however, Beneh Yisrael fell once again just 40 days later, when they worshipped the golden calf. The Ramban and others explain that Beneh Yisrael did not worship they golden calf as a deity. They made a graven image not to replace the Almighty, but rather to replace Moshe, their leader and prophet through whom they served G-d – and whom they had assumed was never returning. Their intentions may have been noble – but they erred by directly disobeying the explicit command not to build an idol for religious worship. Religious observance cannot be diluted or altered to suit our own ideas, our own preferences, or our own perceptions of right and wrong. No matter how convinced we might be that a certain course action is "spiritual" or religiously beneficial, and serves to advance our relationship with G-d, it must not be followed if it violates Hashem's word, if it transgresses the Torah that He gave us. Adam's mistake reminds us that even the noblest intentions cannot justify disobedience. Real Abodat Hashem (service of Gd) begins when we humbly trust His wisdom more than our own.

The Gemara (Yoma 87a) tells that the great sage Rav was once insulted by the local butcher. Over the next several months, Rav waited for the butcher to apologize, but he never did. Finally, on Erev Yom Kippur, Rav decided to go and stand right outside the butcher shop so the butcher would see him. He hoped that if he would stand there, and make it very easy and convenient for the butcher to request forgiveness, he would. The butcher saw Rav standing outside his shop, and he shouted angrily, "I have nothing to say to you!" Not only did he refuse to ask forgiveness, he doubled down, insisting that he had nothing to apologize for. At that moment, a bone from the animal the butcherwas carving darted from the counter into his neck, killing him. The Rabbis of Mussar explain that although the butcher had offended Rav many months earlier, he was punished only now because he squandered the opportunity to apologize and make amends. All people make mistakes, and it is not easy to admit we were wrong and initiate a process of reconciliation. But what's inexcusable is avoiding reconciliation when the opportunity comes right to our doorstep. The butcher was wrong to offend Rav, and he was wrong for not going to request forgiveness – but what sealed his fate was failing to approach Rav when Rav made himself available. This story sheds light on a pronouncement by the prophet Yeshayahu about the Aseret Yemeh Teshuba – the ten-day period from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur. Yeshayahu (55:6) turns to the people and exclaims, "Dirshu Hashem Be'himase'o, Kera'uhu Bi'hyoto Karob" – "Seek out G-d when He is accessible, call upon Him when He is near." Of course, G-d is always "accessible," and He is always "near." In all seasons, at all times of year, and at any time of day, in any circumstance, we can turn to Hashem for help, we can ask Him for forgiveness, and we can ask for whatever it is we need. However, the Gemara (Rosh Hashanah 18a) explains, during the Aseret Yemeh Teshuba, Hashem is especially close, and is especially receptive to our sincere prayers. During this period, the prayers recited by an individual have the same power as prayers recited together with a Minyan during the rest of the year. We can only imagine how powerful congregational prayer is during the Aseret Yemeh Teshuba! Indeed, Rav Chaim Brim of Jerusalem (1922-2002) would say that spiritual achievements which normally take weeks to attain can be reached in just a few moments during the Aseret Yemeh Teshuba. This is a special time, when our prayers and our efforts to repent and improve are particularly effective, many times more than at other times of the year. At first glance, it seems that Yeshayahu is encouraging us and advising us by calling upon us to turn to Hashem during this period of Aseret Yemeh Teshuba. As Hashem is close, it is recommended that we seize this opportunity for prayer and repentance. But in light of the Gemara's story about Rav and the butcher, we might conclude that Yeshayahu isn't just giving advice – he's issuing a stern warning. If Hashem is close, then we must initiate a process of "reconciliation," a process of Teshuba. It's not just a good idea – it's an obligation. We are flawed human beings, and so it is understandable that we will make mistakes. We are not expected to be perfect. And, it is understandable that we will find it difficult to acknowledge our mistakes, to admit wrongdoing, to confess that we've acted improperly and have made bad choices. This is embarrassing and uncomfortable. And, change is always challenging. But even if we could be excused the rest of the year for not making an effort to improve and ask Hashem for forgiveness, we have no excuse during this week, when Hashem specifically comes to us and invites us back. During the Aseret Yemeh Teshuba, Hashem is right here next to us with His arms open. He is ready to forgive us as long as we take the first step by admitting we were wrong and committing to try harder. If we don't seize this opportunity, this period when Teshuba is especially accessible, then we have no more excuses. Let's ensure not to make the butcher's mistake. Let's take full advantage of this special opportunity, and sincerely turn to Hashem in heartfelt prayer and with a firm resolve to improve, to correct our mistakes, and to enhance our relationship with our Father in heaven.

The Gemara (Rosh Hashanah 11a) lists several events that occurred on the date of Rosh Hashanah, the first of Tishreh. These include Sara conceiving with a child at the age of 90, after decades of infertility and desperate longing for a child. For this reason, we read on the first day of Rosh Hashanah the story of the birth of Sara's son, Yishak Abinu. The Gemara also mentions that Rosh Hashanah was the day when Yosef was released from prison in Egypt. He had been imprisoned when Potifar's wife falsely charged that he assaulted her, and Yosef spent 12 years in the dungeon, until he was brought before Pharaoh to interpret the king's mysterious dreams. This led to his being named Pharaoh's vizier. It was on Rosh Hashanah, the Gemara teaches, that Yosef was brought out of prison and taken before Pharaoh. This event is alluded to in the 81 st chapter of Tehillim, which – for good reason – is the chapter we read as the "Shir Shel Yom" (daily Psalm) on Rosh Hashanah. We find in this chapter references to both the sounding of the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah ("Tik'u Ba'hodesh Shofar" – verse 4), and Yosef's emergence as the leader of Egypt ("Edut Bi'Yehosef Samo Be'seto Al Eretz Misrayim" – verse 6) – clearly indicating that Yosef left prison on Rosh Hashanah. The Maharsha (Rav Shmuel Eidels, 1555-1631), in his commentary to Masechet Rosh Hashanah, draws a curious connection between these two events – Sara's conception, and Yosef's rise to power in Egypt. In the aforementioned chapter in Tehillim, Yosef's name appears with an extra letter Heh, such that it is written "Yehosef" instead of "Yosef." The Maharsha writes that this extra letter came from Sara, whose name ended with a Heh. Additionally, the Maharsha adds, according to the wisdom of Kabbalah, the letter Heh at the end of G-d's Name (the Name of "Havaya") signifies the concept of Malchut, kingship, and it was thus added to Yosef's name when he ascended to a position of royalty in Egypt. The commentators explain further that Sara's name, as we know, was originally "Sarai," which ended with the letter Yod, and it was later changed to "Sara," which ends with Heh. The letter Yod in Gematria equals 10, and it was divided into two Hehs, as the letter Heh in Gematria equals 5. One was given to Sara, and the other was given to Yosef. The question then becomes, why did specifically these two figures receive the letter Heh? What is their particular connection to this letter, which expresses the theme of Malchut? The answer lies in the fact that both Sara and Yosef faced numerous hardships over the course of many years, and nevertheless maintained pristine faith in Hashem. Sara was childless for many years, was twice abducted by ruthless kings, and wandered from place to place for much of her life. Yosef was cruelly banished from his home, brought as a slave to Egypt, where he was tempted by his master's wife – and when he refused, she had him imprisoned. As mentioned, he remained in prison for 12 years. Neither Sara nor Yosef ever questioned or challenged G-d's judgment. They fully and wholeheartedly accepted His rule over the world without complaint. And this is the greatest expression of Malchut – unconditional and unreserved submission to, and acceptance of, Hashem's will as the ultimate good. This is why Sara and Yosef are associated with the letter Heh – which signifies Hashem's kingship – and why they are associated with Rosh Hashanah, the day we celebrate Hashem's kingship. This teaches us a crucial lesson about how we must approach Rosh Hashanah. Many people approach this day focused solely on what went wrong during the previous year, and on their hopes and aspirations for the coming year, everything they want to be better during the new year. But they forget about all that went right during the past year, all the wonderful blessings that Hashem had granted them. The Tiferet Shlomo (Rav Shlomo of Radomsk, Poland, 1801-1866) taught that if we want our prayers to be answered, we must first thank Hashem for all the good in our lives before proceeding to ask for what we want. We cannot enter Rosh Hashanah ungratefully, complaining about all that is wrong with our lives, without first acknowledging, appreciating and being thankful for all that is currently right with our lives. After all, Rosh Hashanah is the day when Hashem is crowned anew as king over the universe, an event to which only "VIP members" are invited – and we, Am Yisrael, are the "VIP members." Imagine someone receiving an invitation to attend the Presidential inauguration, and he shows up with a frown, angry and agitated. When he gets a turn to greet the President, he doesn't smile, because he's so upset about whatever it is that's bothering him. He would likely be thrown out of the party, and he certainly would not be invited the next time around... On Rosh Hashanah, we are the special guests at Hashem's "inauguration." And thus Ezra Ha'sofer told the people on Rosh Hashanah, "Hedvat Hashem Hi Ma'uzchem" – that their source of strength and success was their joy and festivity on this day (Nehemia 8:10). We must show up on Rosh Hashanah smiling, celebrating Hashem's kingship, grateful for all He had done for us. Each and every year throughout her years of infertility, Sara joyously celebrated Hashem's kingship on Rosh Hashanah – just as Yosef did each and every year he spent in the dungeon. Of course, they also prayed for what they needed – but not before they felt genuine gratitude for all that they had. Let us enter Rosh Hashanah not only with a "laundry list" of everything we want Hashem to give us, but also with sincere gratitude for all that He has already given us, and we will then be worthy of His continued grace, kindness and blessing, Amen.

Parashat Ki-Tabo begins with the Misva of Bikkkurim – the obligation upon a farmer to bring the first fruits that ripen to the Bet Ha'mikdash and present them to a Kohen. The farmer then makes a special declaration praising and expressing gratitude to Hashem for bringing our nation out of Egypt into the Land of Israel, where he was able to till the land and produce delicious, nourishing fruit. The unique significance and importance of this Misva is expressed in the special fanfare that characterized the process of bringing Bikkurim. The farmers would assemble and march with song and festivity through the roads, and the shopkeepers in Jerusalem would close their stores and come out to welcome and celebrate the visitors who were bringing their fruits to the Bet Ha'mikdash. The importance of Bikkurim is also articulated by the Midrash, which teaches that this Misva is mentioned in the very first word of the Torah: "Bereshit." The Midrash interprets this word to mean that the world was created for the sake of Bikkurim, which is called "Reshit" ("Reshit Bikkureh Admatecha" – "the first of the fruits of your land that ripen" – Shemot 23:19). Remarkably, the Midrash is telling us that the entire world was created so we can fulfill the Misva of Bikkurim! The reason is that G-d created the world so that He could shower us with goodness which we would then appreciate and be grateful for. The most elementary of all Torah values is gratitude, acknowledging and appreciating what was done for us. Hence, the Misva of Bikkurim, which revolves around the concept of gratitude, thanking Hashem for providing us with food, can be seen as the purpose of all creation. Our Sages teach that gratitude toward Hashem begins with feeling and showing appreciation for other people. The Midrash states: "Whoever denies his fellow's goodness will ultimately deny the Almighty's goodness." The classic example demonstrating this principle is Pharaoh, who is said to have "not known Yosef" (Shemot 1:8). It is inconceivable, the Rabbis explain, that a king who ascended the throne soon after Yosef's lifetime had not heard of Yosef. He was the one who saved Egypt from the devastating famine that struck the rest of the region, and thereby enriched the kingdom, as all the surrounding peoples came to purchase grain which Yosef had stored in anticipation of the looming drought. Rather, this means that the new Pharaoh did not acknowledge Yosef's role in saving the kingdom and bringing it to great heights of wealth and prestige. Because Pharaoh denied all the good that Yosef brought to the kingdom, he ultimately denied G-d Himself, brazenly and outrageously telling Moshe many years later, "Lo Yadati Et Hashem" – "I do not know G-d!" (Shemot 5:2). Translating this message into practical terms – one cannot be considered "religious" if he recites Birkat Ha'mazon after every meal with intense concentration, thanking Hashem for his food, and says "Modim" in the Amida prayer three times a day with great emotion, expressing gratitude to Hashem for all He does – but he does not show gratitude to the people in his life. Gratitude begins at home, with the people who do the most for us – first and foremost our parents, who gave us life and exerted so much hard work and made so many sacrifices for us, and then our spouse, the one closest to us, with whom we build and run our families. If we are not grateful to them and to everyone who helps us and does things for us, we will ultimately feel ungrateful also toward G-d. And, yes, this applies also to those who are paid to do things for us. Many years ago, I was hired as a private tutor for a teenage boy in the community. While we were learning, he called the family's housekeeper on the intercom system, and told her to bring him soda and some snacks. I was startled by the way he spoke, not even using the word "please." She came a minute later with the soda and snacks, and he said, "Close the door on your way out." I turned to the boy and asked, "You don't say 'thank you'??" "Rabbi," the boy replied, "she works for us. We're paying her to do this." "Now you're making me very nervous," I said. "Why?" "Because I also work for you. Your parents pay me, too. Are you going to treat me that way because I'm getting paid?" Whether it's the secretary, the cashier, the uber driver, the coworker, the delivery guy – feeling and expressing gratitude is not just required, but it is the ABC's of the Torah, our most basic obligation as Jews and as human beings. The more we appreciate all the people in our lives and all that they do for us, the more we will appreciate all that Hashem does for us – and this will, in turn, make us worthy of even more of His unlimited blessings and goodness.

The Torah in Parashat Ki-Teseh introduces the subject of the Ben Sorer U'moreh – the "wayward son." This is a delinquent 13-year-old child, whose delinquency manifests itself parituclarly in addictive indulgence. He eats and drinks so compulsively that he steals his parents' money to buy wine and meat. The Torah states that this child should be put to death, and the Gemara explains that this is because this child is set along a path to violent crime. Once he has reached this point, where he steals his parents' money to satisfy his lust for food and wine, we are certain that he will eventually mug people to steal their money, and will end up murdering. He should therefore be killed so he never grows to be a violent criminal. The Gemara further states that there has never been a child that qualified as a Ben Sorer U'moreh, and there never will be such a case. There are so many conditions that must be met for this law to take effect that it can never actually apply as a practical matter. The Torah nevertheless taught us this theoretical Halacha so we can earn reward by studying this subject. The Gemara then cites Rabbi Yochanan as testifying, "I saw him, and I sat on his grave." At first glance, it appears that there are two views in the Gemara as to whether there was a case of a Ben Sorer U'moreh. The first opinion said that it never happened, whereas Rabbi Yochanan said that it did. However, this sounds peculiar. Could the Sages have really been arguing about a historical point? Normally, debates among the Rabbis involve different rationales and different ways of understanding Torah laws. We are not accustomed to Rabbis arguing over historical facts. Perhaps we can advance a novel reading of the Gemara's discussion. We mentioned earlier that the Torah commands executing a Ben Sorer Ve'moreh because it is certain that he will grow to become a violent criminal. We must ask, why are we so certain? Do we not all know of juvenile delinquents who grew to become wonderful adults? Has there never been a child who caused a great deal of trouble as a young teenager but then put his life together and excelled? I know many outstanding Rabbis who were once troubled youths. Why are we so sure that this "wayward son" will turn out to be a criminal? The answer is that we aren't – and this is precisely why the Gemara tells us that there never was and never will be a case of a Ben Sorer U'moreh. The Torah speaks of a theoretical situation of a child who must be put to death because he will otherwise for certain become a violent killer as an adult – and the Sages tell us that this will always remain a theoretical possibility, because in actuality, every single person has the capacity to change, and to change drastically. No matter where a person is, no matter how low he has fallen, he always has the potential to achieve greatness. There are no exceptions. Rabbi Yochanan says that he saw a Ben Sorer U'moreh and went to his grave. Why do people visit graves? Mostly, people visit the graves of righteous Sadikim to pray to Hashem at the site. And this might have been what Rabbi Yohanan was doing at this grave – he was praying, because this wayward child, whom he saw in his state of rebelliousness and unbridled sinfulness, ended up becoming an outstanding Sadik, a pious and holy Jew at whose gravesite people should want to pray. Rabbi Yohanan is proving the point made earlier, that there never was and never will be a child determined to be a Ben Sorer U'moreh who must be put to death – because in reality, every child, no matter where he is currently, has the ability to turn his life around and rise to great spiritual heights. We must never give up on any Jew, because we are all the descendants of Abraham, Yishak and Yaakob, we all contain within our souls a divine spark, and we all have the potential for greatness. And just as we must never give up on another Jew, we must also never give up on ourselves. What we've done in the past does not determine who we are in the present, or who we will be in the future. We need to trust in our ability to change and in our potential to not only improve, but to achieve greatness and be worthy members of Hashem's special nation.

The Torah in Parashat Shoftim (18:15) introduces the command to obey the instructions of a prophet. Once someone has been confirmed as an authentic prophet, the Torah commands, "Elav Tishma'un" – we must heed everything he tells us to do. The Rambam discusses this command in Hilchot Yesodeh Ha'Torah (9:3), and he explains that it includes an obligation to obey a prophet in the exceptional case where he instructs doing something that the Torah forbids. Even when the prophet tells the people to transgress a Torah law – we are required to comply. However, the Rambam adds, this depends on several conditions. Firstly, and most obviously, the prophet must have previously established his credentials and been recognized as an authentic prophet of G-d. Secondly, this requirement applies only if the prophet calls for a temporary suspension of a Torah command. If, the Rambam writes, a prophet announces the permanent abolition of a Torah law, then not only should he be disobeyed – he is determined to be a false prophet, and must be put to death. The final condition is that the prophet calls for suspending a Torah law other than the prohibition against idol-worship. A prophet who calls upon the people to worship a foreign deity, even as a temporary measure, must not be obeyed. The Rambam draws our attention to a classic example of a prophet who called for a temporary suspension of a Torah command – the story of Eliyahu's confrontation with the prophets of the idol Ba'al. As we read in the Book of Melachim I (chapter 18), Eliyahu assembled the people at Mount Carmel for a "showdown" with the pagan prophets. He invited the prophets of Ba'al to offer a sacrifice to Ba'al, after which he would offer a sacrifice to Hashem, so that the sacrifice which received a response would prove who the true Deity is. The prophets of Ba'al offered their sacrifice, which of course elicited no response, whereupon Eliyahu offered a sacrifice which was miraculously consumed by a fire that descended from the heavens. The people then realized the fallacy of paganism, and the truth of Hashem's existence. Now offering a sacrifice outside the Bet Ha'mikdash constitutes a grave Torah violation, punishable by "Karet." Nevertheless, the people were required to accept Eliyahu's decision to offer a sacrifice on Mount Carmel as a temporary measure necessary for the purpose of opposing the pagan prophets. Rav Meir Simha Ha'kohen of Dvinsk (1843-1926), in his Meshech Hochma (Parashat Re'eh), offers an insight into why the Rambam pointed to this specific incident as an example of a prophet calling for the suspension of a Torah law. He notes that when the Torah introduces the prohibition against offering sacrifices outside the Bet Ha'mikdash, it explains the reason for this command – so that people will not sacrifice to foreign deities ("Ve'lo Yizbehu Od Et Zivhehem La'se'iriim Asher Hem Zonim Aharehem" – Vayikra 17:7). By requiring that all sacrifices must be brought to the Bet Ha'mikdash, the Torah helps ensure that people will not offer sacrifices to false gods. It thus emerges that this prohibition – which Eliyahu temporarily suspended at Mount Carmel – is associated with the prohibition against idolatry, as it is intended as a safeguard against foreign worship. Hence, the Meshech Hochma writes, a prophet does not actually have the authority to suspend this command. As we saw earlier, a prophet must be disobeyed if he orders the people to worship foreign deities – and presumably, this should extend also to commands intended to distance the people from idol worship, such as the prohibition against sacrificing outside the Bet Ha'mikdash. Nevertheless, the Meshech Hochma explains, Eliyahu was allowed to suspend this prohibition, because he did so for the specific purpose of leading the people away from idolatry. Seeing how the worship of Ba'al had become rampant among the nation, Eliyahu realized he needed to resort to drastic measures to convince the people to worship G-d, instead – and this necessitated offering a sacrifice outside the Bet Ha'mikdash. Therefore, although a prophet may not suspend a prohibition associated with the prohibition of idolatry, this is allowed when it serves to distance the people from idolatry. The Meshech Hochma explains on this basis why the Rambam chose specifically this example of a prophet temporarily suspending a Torah law – because this is the most extreme case of a prophet's legitimate suspension of a Torah command, a situation that we would have assumed would require the people's disobedience. Specifically this story exemplifies the extent of the prophet's authority, how he must be obeyed even when he calls for the temporary suspension of a law associated with the prohibition of idolatry when he deems this necessary to lead the people away from idolatry.

The Torah in Parashat Re'eh commands us to give charity. It instructs that when there is a person in need, "you shall surely give to him, and your heart shall not feel bad when you give to him, because on account of this matter G-d shall bless you…" (15:10). The plain meaning of the word "Biglal" ("on account of") in this verse is that Hashem rewards those who generously give charity with great material blessings. The Gemara (Shabbat 151b), however, teaches that this word can be read as an allusion to a "Galgal" – "wheel." The "wheel of fortune," the Gemara states, is always turning. Those who enjoy financial success today can lose their fortunes in an instant, and those who currently struggle can suddenly see great blessing. The Torah therefore urges us to show compassion to the needy and lend them the assistance that they so desperately need, because we never know when the tables might be turned and we will come to them for assistance. The Kabbalists add yet another interpretation of this verse, reading the word "Biglal" as an allusion to "Gilgul" – the reincarnation of souls. As we saw, this verse begins by urging us to not only give charity, but to do so wholeheartedly, with pure intentions – "and your heart shall not feel bad when you give to him." We should give not begrudgingly, because of pressure, or for the sake of our reputations, but rather because we sincerely wish to help our fellow Jew in need. The Torah thus warns that if we give with the wrong intentions, then "Biglal Ha'dabar Ha'zeh" – we will be forced to return to the world in a different "Gilgul." The Kabbalists develop this concept further based on the Mishna's teaching in Pirkeh Abot (4:11) that each Misva that a person performs creates for him a "Praklit" – an angel that advocates for him before the Heavenly Tribunal. The best thing we can do to earn G-d's protection is perform more Misvot. However, just as a human being has both a body and a soul, angels likewise have two components – a physical component and an inner, spiritual component. Kabbalah teaches that the Misva act that we perform creates the angel's physical being, whereas our pure intentions when performing the Misva create its "soul." In order for our Misva to have the effect of creating a "Praklit," it must be complete; the action must be performed properly, and with the right intention. When we perform a Misva for ulterior motives, although we are credited with the fulfillment of a Misva, it does not create a "Praklit" that can advocate on our behalf. The Kabbalists thus teach that if a person gives charity for the wrong reasons, he will return to the world in another life as a pauper. Poor people genuinely wish they had the ability to give charity and help those in need. And thus in this second "Gilgul," the person will have the thought and the desire to give Sedaka. This yearning to give charity will supply the sincere intention that was lacking during his first sojourn in this world, and will combine with the charity he gave to comprise a complete Misva that will create a complete angel who will advocate on his behalf. We now begin the month of Elul, when we prepare for the judgment of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. As we know, charity is one of the most effective means we have to ensure a favorable judgment, and it is therefore customary to increase our charitable contributions during Elul and during the days in between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. This is among the best things we can do to bring "Praklitim" – "defense lawyers" – with us to the "trial" so they could plead on our behalf. However, in order for this to work, our motives must be sincere. We need to put aside our ego, our preoccupation with fame and prestige, our concern for our reputation, our obsession with the way other people see us – and do the right thing precisely because it is the right thing. When we give Sedaka for impure motives, we fulfill a Misva – but a deficient Misva. For our charity to be whole, we need to give with sincerity, without trying to impress or be noticed. Our Sedaka will then create perfect angels who will stand before G-d and plead our case, so that we will be blessed with a year filled with joy, happiness, peace and good fortune, Amen.

Parashat Ekeb includes the second paragraph of our daily Shema recitation ("Ve'haya Im Shamo'a"), in which the Torah promises that G-d would reward our observance of the Misvot with material prosperity. Hashem says that if we observe His commands, "I will provide the rain of your land in its time" ("Ve'natati Metar Arsechem Be'ito" – 11:14). Rashi comments: "You did what is incumbent upon you, so I, too, will do what is incumbent upon Me." The question arises as to what prompted Rashi to make this remark, and how this enhances our understanding of the verse. Is it not obvious that Hashem here is promising adequate rainfall as a reward for our compliance with His commands? What does Rashi seek to clarify? A brilliant explanation of Rashi's comment was offered by the late Rebbe of Lubavitch. He suggested that Rashi was addressing a question that arises from a comparison between this verse and an earlier verse which similarly promises rainfall as a reward for Misva observance. In the beginning of Parashat Behukotai (Vayikra 26:4), G-d pronounces that if we obey His commands, "I shall grant your rainfall in its time" ("Ve'natati Gishmechem Be'ito"). There, Hashem promises to provide "Gishmechem" – "your rainfall," whereas here, in Parashat Ekeb, He promises "Metar Arsechem" – "the rain of your land." In other words, Parashat Behukotai speaks of "our rainfall," as though we are given some kind of special rain, while Parashat Ekeb speaks of the land's rain, the rain that the land naturally requires. The clue to understanding this discrepancy, the Rebbe explains, is found in Rashi's opening comments to Parashat Behukotai. There Rashi writes that the blessings described in that section are promised if "Tiheyu Amelim Ba'Torah" – the people "toil" and invest intensive efforts in Torah study. Here in Parashat Ekeb, by contrast, the Torah speaks of a time when Beneh Yisrael simply obey the Torah, but are not necessarily striving for more, applying themselves diligently to Torah learning. In Parashat Behukotai, then, the Torah refers to an exceptionally high spiritual level, in reward for which G-d promises not just rainfall, but "your rain" – a supernatural rain that is especially catered to our needs, that falls at precisely the right time and precisely the right manner that works the best for us. The rainfall promised in Parashat Ekeb, however, is a natural rainfall that will suffice to provide the food we need, but not beyond that. The Rebbe explained that this is Rashi's intent in making the comment, "You did what is incumbent upon you, so I, too, will do what is incumbent upon Me." Rashi anticipates the question of why this verse uses the expression "Metar Arsechem," as opposed to the verse in Parashat Behukotai, which uses the verse "Gishmechem." The answer, Rashi is telling us, is that the Torah speaks here of Beneh Yisrael doing "what is incumbent" upon them – without striving for more. In Parashat Behukotai, the Torah promises the special, supernatural rain that Beneh Yisrael deserve when they not only fulfill their basic obligations, but passionately pursue spiritual greatness by devoting their time and efforts to the intensive study of Torah. In Parashat Ekeb, Beneh Yisrael are described as merely satisfying their requirements, and so although they are of course worthy of significant rewards, they do not earn the special reward of "Gishmechem." In this brief remark, then, Rashi teaches us to always strive for more, to reach beyond the simple fulfillment of our religious obligations, and to pursue excellence in our service of Hashem.

The Torah in Parashat Vaet'hanan (4:2) introduces the prohibitions known as "Bal Tosif" and "Bal Tigra" – adding onto the Torah's laws, and detracting from the Torah's laws. Rashi explains that this refers to adding onto or detracting from a particular Misva. He gives the examples of wearing Tefillin with parchment containing more or fewer Parashiyot (sections of text) than the Torah requires. There are four Parashiyot which are to be inserted in the Tefillin, and if a person adds a fifth Parasha, then he transgresses the prohibition of "Bal Tosif," and if he includes only three Parashiyot, then he violates "Bal Tigra." Another example given by Rashi is waving more than four species on Sukkot, or fewer than four. The Ramban comments that the prohibition of "Bal Tosif" includes also introducing a new Misva to the Torah. If a person comes along and makes up a new law, claiming that this should be part of the Torah, he violates the prohibition of "Bal Tosif." Conversely, one who decides that a certain Biblical command is no longer part of the Torah transgresses "Bal Tigra." The Ramban clarifies that this applies only to one who introduces a new law and claims that it is obligatory as a Biblical imperative. The Sages enacted numerous obligations and prohibitions, but they made it very clear that these are not included in Torah, but are rather provisions that they saw fit to legislate to meet a particular need. And, they stipulated that the laws they enacted are treated differently than the laws of the Torah, with greater leniency. Thus, they do not violate the prohibition of "Bal Tosif." The Gaon of Vilna (1720-1797) brilliantly noted that both interpretations are correct, and rooted in the text of the Torah. The prohibition of "Bal Tosif" appears not only here, in Parashat Vaet'hanan, but also later, in Parashat Re'eh (13:1). However, the contexts of these verses reveals that they address two different commands. Here in Parashat Vaet'hanan, the command of "Bal Tosif" appears after Moshe tells the people, "Listen to the statutes and laws which I am teaching you to observe" (4:1). Moshe is telling Beneh Yisrael that he was going to present to them the Misvot, and he then warns them not to add more laws or to reject any of the laws that he was teaching them. In Parashat Re'eh, however, Moshe says, "Each thing that I am commanding you – you shall ensure to observe; do not add onto it, and do not detract from it." It seems clear that in this verse, Moshe speaks of each particular Misva, urging the people to observe every Misva precisely as he commands, without adding onto the Misva or taking anything away from it. The Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala (Rav Yaakov Tzvi Mecklenberg, 1785-1865) follows this general approach of the Vilna Gaon, but he notes a different distinction between the two verses. The command here in Parashat Vaet'hanan is formulated in the plural form – "Lo Tosifu…Ve'lo Tigre'u" – whereas the command in Parashat Re'ei appears in the singular form – "Lo Tosef…Ve'lo Tigra." The Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala thus suggests that here in Parashat Vaet'hanan, the Torah is addressing not an individual, but rather the Sanhedrin, the highest rabbinic body, which represents the entire nation. These scholars, the leading Sages of Israel, are the ones who need the warning not to change the Torah by introducing new laws or doing away with existing laws. In Parashat Re'eh, by contrast, the Torah is addressing the individual, who has no authority and would thus never think to introduce a new Misva, or eliminate a Misva. He needs the warning not to add onto or detract from specific Misvot, such as by adding an additional Parasha to the Tefillin or removing a Parasha. This command reminds us of the timelessness of the Torah, that at no point does it become "outdated" or in need of modification. Already from the outset, when the Torah was given, we are told that it and all its commands are eternal and eternally binding. Today's world is, of course, very different from the world at the time of Matan Torah, and the changing circumstances may affect the practical application of certain Misvot, based on the details of each Misva's requirements as determined by our oral halachic tradition. But never can we say that a Misva is no longer binding simply by virtue of the fact that many centuries have passed since the Torah was given. Each and every Misva is eternally relevant, and we are bound to all the Misvot no less now than our ancestors were millennia ago.