Nechama Through Change in Perspecrive

he Talmud in Makkot tells us that Rabban Gamliel, Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah, Rabbi Yehoshua, and Rabbi Akiva were walking in Jerusalem. Upon reaching Mount Scopus, they saw a fox emerging from the Kodesh Ha-Kodashim. The rabbis were crying while Rabbi Akiva laughed. They asked him, “Akiva! How can you laugh at a time like this? The Beit HaMikdash is in ruins!”

Rabbi Akiva replied, “How can I laugh?! How can you cry?”

They countered, “The Holy of Holies - that could never be entered except by the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur - is now a fox’s den. How can we not weep?”

“That is exactly why I laugh,” answered Rabbi Akiva. “If Uriah’s prophecy of a destroyed and barren Jerusalem can be fulfilled, then I am confident that so, too, Zechariah’s vision of a restored Jerusalem will also be fulfilled.”

The rabbis then declared, “Akiva nichamtanu, Akiva nichamtanu – Akiva, you have comforted us.”

Rabbi Akiva laughed in the face of tragedy because he realizes that consolation will ultimately come. What is difficult to understand is why the rabbis are comforted. What kind of solace is there, when the pain is so intense and so deep, to know that there will be a redemption? For that matter, how does nechama work? We read this morning, “Nachamu, nachamu ami – be comforted, my people.” So begins the shiva d’n’chemta – the seven Haftorahs of consolation that we will read until Rosh Hashanah. They are eloquent and powerful words of encouragement, and they come to strengthen our belief in an ultimate redemption, but how is this supposed to provide comfort?

Nechama is an important concept for Jews. Nichum aveilim, comforting mourners,  is a very important mitzvah. There is an organization called Nechama which is dedicated to sending volunteers to trouble spots to help those who are suffering. But what exactly is Nechama?

A look at the term throughout Tanach and in the story of Rabbi Akiva offers us guidance as to what a Jew can hope for in times of sadness, tragedy, or pain. The very first time it is used is in Parshat Bereishit (6:6):

וינחם ה' כי עשה את האדם בארץ, ויתעצב אל לבו.

If we were to translate this using the word comfort, it would read that God was consoled by the fact that He created man, and His heart was saddened. Rather, we should translate the verse as, “And God reconsidered having made man on earth, and He had heartfelt sadness.”

Nechama is not necessarily about feeling better. Even our usage of the traditional expression of consolation, “HaMakom yenachem eschem besoch she’ar avaylei Tzion vi’Yerishalayim,” which we often translate as, “May God comfort and console you among all of us who mourn for Zion and Jerusalem,” is not only about comfort.

Nechama is about a change in perspective. It represents reaching a place, mentally or emotionally, where the individual recognizes that the current reality cannot be the permanent one. God recognized that his initial creation of mankind required adjustment. We encourage the mourner that she or he should, and hopefully will, find perspective in the aftermath of the loss of their loved one. And Rabbi Akiva did not make the Sages feel jovial. He instead gave them a new perspective on their tragic situation. The Temple may be in ruins, but there is a next chapter still to come. And if there is a next chapter then there is a future, one in which redemption can and will take place. 

In Tribute to Chalutzim

In Parshat Devarim Moshe recalls the agreement he made with the Tribes of Gad and Reuven. These two tribes wanted to settle on the land west of the Jordan. Moshe agreed, with some conditions. One condition was that a part of the tribe of Menashe must also settle there. This was to ensure that there would be ongoing communication and connections between the tribes on both sides of the Jordan (as I discussed in my Dvar Torah last week). Another condition is expressed in 3:18

ה אֱ-לֹֽהֵיכֶ֗ם נָתַ֨ן לָכֶ֜ם אֶת־הָאָ֤רֶץ הַזֹּאת֙ לְרִשְׁתָּ֔הּ חֲלוּצִ֣ים תַּֽעַבְר֗וּ לִפְנֵ֛י אֲחֵיכֶ֥ם בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל כָּל־בְּנֵי־חָֽיִל

"The Lord, your God, has given you this land to possess it; pass over, armed, before your brothers, the children of Israel, all who are warriors.”

Moshe is teaching two important lessons in this verse. First, Moshe makes clear that Hashem is the one that has given the land to the Jewish People. This was the Divine plan, already promised to Avraham. Whether the tribes of Gad and Reuven participate in the battles will not determine whether the conquest is successful. Second, Moshe teaches that even though the outcome is ultimately up to God, the tribes are not exempt from putting in the effort and doing their utmost to be successful in battle. Furthermore, it was important for the tribes of Gad and Reuven to show their enthusiasm by leading the charge in these battles. On one level, Moshe is teaching the need to balance Divine assistance with our own efforts, a lesson that is relevant in all areas of life. At the same time this lesson is especially poignant and relevant as it relates to the Jewish presence in the Land of Israel. Our initial, and ongoing, presence in Eretz Yisrael, requires both Divine assistance and self-sufficiency, while never considering this paradox to be a contradiction.

Moshe refers to those who will engage in battle for the Land of Israel as “Chalutzim”. Here in the pasuk the word is understood to mean “to take up arms”, ie to make the necessary preparations to enter the land. In the 19^th century the term was used to refer to different types of preparations necessary for the return of Jews to Israel. After the Russian pogroms of 1881, a movement arose encouraging young people to move to what was then Palestine to cultivate the land and prepare the way for the less robust populations to make aliyah later on. This movement was called Hechalutz, the pioneer.

Prof. Nechama Leibowitz explains that a chalutz is someone who acts out of idealism, and not for personal gain. Moshe calls Bnei Gad and Reuven Chalutzim because they were being called upon to help conquer land east of the Jordan that they would ultimately not settle.

The modern State of Israel has been developed by multiple waves of pioneers. First chalutzim drained the swamps. Other chalutzim made the desert bloom. During my recent trip to Israel we went to Lod and met a number of idealistic Israelis who want to enhance the Jewish presence in the city while improving it for all of its citizens. Even in the aftermath of the recent riots in Lod, these people remain committed to their vision. They too are chalutzim, engaging in a form of 21^st century pioneering through rehabilitating cities in Israel that have existed for a long time (Lod has been inhabited for over 5,000 years)

The Nine Days leading up to Tisha Bav is a time to recognize that Israel needs to be rebuilt. Let us take a moment to appreciate the role of the Chalutzim that have idealistically worked to develop Israel in the past and those who continue to do so today. 

Nedarim and Aha! Moments

 One of the great mysteries of human growth is why some moments change us forever while others disappear almost as quickly as they arrive.

Scientists have long been fascinated by what they call the "aha!" moment—that sudden flash of insight when something clicks into place. Recent research suggests that these breakthroughs are not random. They are more likely to occur when we step away from a problem, change our environment, encounter new people, or find ourselves in settings where we feel safe, relaxed, and open to new ideas.

In other words, breakthrough moments do not happen only because of what we think. They also happen because of the environments we create.

As I read about this research, I could not help but think of an idea attributed to the Chiddushei HaRim. He explained that the purpose of a neder, taught in Parshat Matot, is to take a moment of inspiration and ensure that it remains potent and finds expression in action. A person experiences a spiritual awakening, a desire to improve, a commitment to grow. The challenge is that inspiration fades. A neder takes a fleeting feeling and translates it into lasting impact. The laws of nedarim teach us that the goal is not merely to be inspired, it is to capture that inspiration before it disappears. Perhaps that is why Judaism places great emphasis on community, sacred time, and sacred spaces. We often assume that growth comes from hearing the right idea. Certainly that matters. But growth also depends on creating the conditions in which those transformative moments can occur. Sometimes an "aha!" moment happens during a shiur. Maybe while participating in a chesed project. Or maybe you feel it at a Shalosh Seudos or Kabbalas Shabbos at shul. Suddenly something clicks. A new appreciation. A deeper understanding. A fresh perspective. Or a clearer vision of the person we want to become. Those moments are precious gifts. But they are also fragile. Those moments need to be validated, nurtured and concretized. When we speak about growth, we are not simply talking about offering more programs. We are trying to create what I would call a "matrix of growth"—multiple pathways through which people can encounter meaningful Jewish experiences and, hopefully, those life-changing "aha!" moments. Each creates another opportunity for a spark of inspiration. But that is only the first step. The next step is helping people leverage those moments into something lasting. If someone discovers a passion for learning, how do we connect them to ongoing Torah study? If someone is inspired by a chesed opportunity, how do we help them make chesed part of their life? If someone experiences a deeper connection to tefillah, how do we help them continue that journey? Inspiration is the spark. Growth is what happens when we build something from that spark. A neder is not all there is to inspiration. There must also be a follow-up decision to ensure that the fleeting moment becomes a lasting reality. The most important question is not whether we will experience moments of inSpiration. Surely we all do. The real question is what we do next. Will we transform an "Aha!" moment into a life of continued growth?

The Legacy of Entebbe

 Today marks the fiftieth anniversary of one of the most daring rescue missions in modern history: Operation Entebbe. On June 27, 1976, an Air France flight traveling from Tel Aviv to Paris was hijacked after a stopover in Athens and diverted to Entebbe, Uganda. The passengers were held hostage by terrorists from a breakaway faction of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Soon after arriving in Uganda, the non-Israeli passengers were separated from the Israelis and eventually released. Besides the Israelis and the crew, all other Jews on the plane were also kept hostage, even if they were not Israeli citizens. The images were chilling: Jews singled out and held captive simply because they were Jews.

Back in Israel, plans for a rescue mission were being devised. The military officer overseeing the planning was Ehud Barak, who would later become Prime Minister. Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin faced enormous pressure to secure the release of the hostages, even if it meant negotiating with terrorists. Ultimately, he gave the order to proceed with the rescue.

The mission itself has become the stuff of legend. Learning that Ugandan dictator Idi Amin would be out of the country, Israeli planners devised an audacious strategy. Four Hercules transport planes would fly more than 2,500 miles to Uganda. One of them would unload a motorcade designed to resemble Amin's own entourage returning from abroad. A black Mercedes was needed to imitate the dictator's vehicle. The Israelis found one—but it was the wrong color. They quickly spray-painted it black.

On Saturday afternoon, a force of more than 200 Israeli soldiers took off for Entebbe under the command of 30-year-old Yoni Netanyahu. Flying extraordinarily low to avoid radar detection, they endured an eight-hour journey into the heart of enemy territory.

The rescue mission succeeded beyond anyone's expectations. All of the hijackers were killed and 102 hostages were freed. Tragically, one Israeli soldier was killed during the operation: Yoni Netanyahu.

The impact of Entebbe extended far beyond that single night. The PLO largely abandoned airline hijackings. Idi Amin would eventually be overthrown. The American commander who oversaw the mission to eliminate Osama bin Laden, Admiral William McRaven, later authored a detailed study of the Entebbe raid. The operation became a model of courage, planning, and determination.

There are many lessons that emerge from Operation Entebbe. Two stand out.

First, Entebbe reminds us that enemies of the Jewish people may be able to hurt us and impede us, but they cannot prevent Jewish destiny from being realized. Reflecting on the rescue shortly afterward, the Lubavitcher Rebbe noted the extraordinary contrast between the ease with which the terrorists succeeded in hijacking the plane and the extraordinary success of the rescue operation itself. Both the crisis and the salvation, he suggested, pointed to the Hand of God.

As David Ben-Gurion famously remarked, "In Israel, in order to be a realist, you must believe in miracles." The same can be said about the ongoing continuity of the Jewish people. The story of Entebbe is a powerful reminder that there is a dimension of Jewish history that cannot be explained by military strength, politics, or demographics alone.

Second, the Entebbe rescue demonstrated the importance of initiative and courageous leadership. As one military analyst observed, the success of the operation itself was not necessarily surprising; the Ugandan forces were outmatched in virtually every respect. What was remarkable was the willingness of Israeli leaders to take the risk, to act decisively, and to do what needed to be done.

Too often we wait for certainty before acting. We hesitate because outcomes are unclear or risks are real. Entebbe reminds us that meaningful achievements often require courage, initiative, and a willingness to move forward despite uncertainty.

As we mark the fiftieth anniversary of Operation Entebbe, we remember not only a remarkable military achievement but also the enduring lessons it teaches. We must never underestimate the role of God in the unfolding Jewish story. At the same time, we must be prepared to act boldly, take responsibility, and do what needs to be done. If the Jewish cause sometimes seems more complicated and the Jewish dream more distant, Entebbe reminds us that nothing can stop Jewish destiny from being realized

Who Will Tell Us?

 One of the challenges of childhood is that adults are constantly telling you what to do. Parents, teachers, coaches, and rabbis all seem to have opinions about how you should behave and what you should change.  One of the challenges of adulthood is that very few people tell you what you need to hear.As children, we often resist correction. As adults, we rarely receive it. Most people are understandably reluctant to point out someone else's mistakes. Nobody wants to appear judgmental, intrusive, or condescending. And most of us are not particularly eager to hear criticism. We become defensive. We explain. We justify. We tell ourselves that everything is fine. As a result, adults can spend years moving in the wrong direction without anyone, or anything, successfully getting them to stop and reconsider.

I think this is one of the powerful lessons of Bilam's story in Parshat Balak. When Balak's messengers arrive and invite Bilam to curse the Jewish people, God does not immediately force Bilam to abandon the idea. Instead, God asks what appears to be a simple question: "Who are these men with you?" Of course, God already knows the answer. The question is not for information. It is an invitation to reflection. We find this pattern elsewhere in the Torah. After Adam and Chava sin, God asks Adam, "Where are you?" After Kayin murders Hevel, God asks, "Where is Hevel, your brother?" In each case, God knows exactly what happened. The question is not meant to uncover facts; it is meant to create self-awareness. It is a final opportunity for the person to stop, reflect, and choose a different path. God's questions sound remarkably similar to the way people who care about us sometimes speak. "Are you sure you want to do that?" "Have you thought this through?" "Is this really the direction you want to be heading?" God preserves human dignity and free will. But He requires the listener to be willing to hear what is being said. Bilam is unable to do this. Even after warning signs begin appearing, he refuses to see them. The irony of the story is that Bilam, the great prophet, cannot see what his donkey sees clearly. His ambitions and desires blind him. He becomes so committed to his course of action that he loses the ability to recognize that he is headed in the wrong direction. Eventually, Bilam finds himself trapped on a narrow road with nowhere to turn. That image is not only Bilam's story; it is often ours as well.

Poor choices rarely trap us overnight. More often, they slowly narrow our options. A bad habit becomes harder to break. A strained relationship becomes harder to repair. A spiritual weakness becomes more deeply ingrained. The road becomes narrower and narrower until we wonder how we got there. Parshat Balak challenges us to ask: Who are the people in our lives who can ask us the difficult questions? Who has permission to tell us what we need to hear, not merely what we want to hear? And perhaps even more importantly, are we willing to listen? The greatest tragedy in Bilam's story is not that he received warnings. It is that he ignored them. The Torah reminds us that growth begins with the humility to hear a question that challenges us. And no matter how narrow the road may seem, as long as we are willing to listen, it is never too late to change course.

There’s No Chazakah When It Comes to Machloket

 It doesn't take long for many of us to form opinions about people. After enough interactions, we convince ourselves that we know exactly who someone is. We know who is generous and who is selfish. Who is easygoing and who is difficult. Who is reliable and who is not. And once those impressions become firmly established, they can be remarkably difficult to shake. Sometimes those assessments are accurate. Patterns of behavior and our experiences matter. If someone has acted a certain way for years, it is reasonable to expect that they will continue to do so. However, Parshat Korach reminds us that while Judaism recognizes patterns, it cautions us against turning them into permanent irreversible verdicts. As Korach's rebellion reached its climax, Moshe made one final attempt to reconcile and restore. The Torah tells us that he sent for Datan and Aviram, two of the instigators, hoping to engage them in dialogue. Their response was unequivocal: "We will not come" (Bamidbar 16:12). Rashi comments that Moshe's actions teach us an important principle: ein machzikin b'machloket”, we should not perpetuate conflict. Even when a dispute appears hopeless, one should make every effort to pursue peace. The Chasam Sofer suggests that the word machzikin can be understood through the halachic concept of chazakah. A chazakah is an established presumption. When something has consistently been true in the past, we assume it will continue to be true until proven otherwise. According to the Chasam Sofer, ein machzikin b'machlokes means that we must never create a chazakah of conflict. No matter how long-running ill will may be, we should never assume that discord is the permanent reality of their relationship. What makes this lesson so powerful is the identity of the people involved. This was not the first conflict for Datan and Aviram. Chazal portray them as long standing rabble rousers whose opposition to Moshe stretched back years. Time and again they challenged, complained, tried to start trouble and unrest. If any pair could be assumed to never change from their cantankerous and argumentative ways it would be Datan and Aviram.  Yet Moshe refused to make that assumption. He approaches them with the hopes of reconciliation. Moshe's efforts ultimately fail. Datan and Aviram do not reconsider. They do not accept his overture. Instead, they double down on their rebellion and ultimately suffer a tragic fate. Had they changed their minds, the lesson would have been clear: Don’t give up on people because people can change. But perhaps the Torah is teaching us here something more profound: Judaism does not require us to believe that people will change. It requires us to believe that they can change. Life teaches us that change is difficult. Yet unlike in the natural world, human beings are endowed with free will and the capacity to change. A person can reflect, mature, and choose differently tomorrow than they chose yesterday. That possibility may not always be realized. But as long as it exists, we are not allowed to dismiss another person's capacity for change. That is the meaning of ein machzikin b'machloket. We never assume we know with certainty what a person will do. We can be realistic about human behavior without losing faith in human potential. While it is true that Datan and Aviram never changed, Moshe refused to assume that they couldn't. And perhaps that is one of the Torah's most enduring lessons: never confuse a person's past performance with their future potential.

Believing Is Seeing

 Parshat Shelach begins and ends on the topic of sight. The Parsha opens with the episode of the spies. Moshe sends ten distinguished Jewish leaders to tour the Land of Israel (perhaps the first Jewish leadership mission to Israel): ַיִּשְׁלַ֤ח אֹתָם֙ משֶׁ֔ה לָת֖וּר אֶת־אֶ֣רֶץ כְּנָ֑עַן  “Moses sent them to scout the Land of Canaan.” The mandate was clear: go and see the land firsthand and report back to the people 1) the beauty/bounty of the land and 2) strategies for victory in the anticipated wars with the current inhabitants. Moshe continues: “וּרְאִיתֶ֥ם אֶת־הָאָ֖רֶץ מַה־הִ֑וא וְאֶת־הָעָם֙ הַיּשֵׁ֣ב עָלֶ֔יהָ הֶֽחָזָ֥ק הוּא֙ הֲרָפֶ֔ה הַמְעַ֥ט ה֖וּא אִם־רָֽב: “You shall see what [kind of] land it is, and the people who inhabit it; are they strong or weak? Are there few or many? The plan here is in line with the expression “seeing is believing”. Moshe’s hope was that by seeing the land, the spies would believe in the goodness of Hashem’s plan. The power of seeing something is well documented within Jewish tradition. At Har Sinai the nation saw a manifestation of God unlike anything in history. Right after the Ten Commandments, Hashem says:

אַתֶּ֣ם רְאִיתֶ֔ם כִּ֚י מִן־הַשָּׁמַ֔יִם דִּבַּ֖רְתִּי עִמָּכֶֽם: “You have seen that from the heavens I have spoken with you.”

According to the Talmud, only eyewitness testimony can be accepted by Beit Din. As to why hearsay cannot be accepted by a court, the Talmud explains: “Eino Domeh Shemiya L’Re’iya”, seeing is much better than hearing. My family and I will, please God, be going to Israel this summer. I am excited about our itinerary, and the potential it has to foster in us an enhanced Chibat HaAretz, a love for the Land of Israel, through the sites that we see. As much as we read an hear about it, nothing beats being in Israel and seeing the Land firsthand.

And yet we all know that our eyes can deceive us. Obi-Wan Kenobi was right when he told young Luke Skywalker, “Your eyes can deceive you, don’t trust them.” Neuroscience has shown that “People rely on their eyes for most tasks, yet the information provided by our visual sensing system is often distorted, unreliable and subject to illusion.”  This is what actually happened with the spies. Because of their fears/ low self-esteem/ ulterior agendas, the spies twisted what they saw into an evil report- leading to catastrophic results.

At the very end of the Parsha; we find a phrase that we read as part of the third paragraph of Shema. In it we are warned: וְלֹֽא־תָת֜וּרוּ אַֽחֲרֵ֤י לְבַבְכֶם֙ וְאַֽחֲרֵ֣י עֵֽינֵיכֶ֔ם אֲשֶׁר־אַתֶּ֥ם זֹנִ֖ים אַֽחֲרֵיהֶֽם “and you shall not wander after your hearts and after your eyes after which you are going astray.”

Rashi notes that the same word is used here and by the spies, hinting at the fact that the sin of the spies, like many other sins, occurred by allowing our eyes to deceive us.

Seeing is not always believing. However, I think the inverse is true much more often: Believing is indeed seeing. What we believe, our assumptions, perspectives and disposition, will greatly impact how we perceive people and relate to events around us. Barry Neil Kaufman in his book Happiness is a Choice tells the story of a young girl named Katie. Katie had severe disabilities, and after years of medical testing had been brought by her parents to Kaufman’s institute in a last-ditch effort for help.  Instead of discussing Katie’s history with his staff or showing them her thick file, Kaufman told the staff to make their own assessment and recommendation, basing themselves primarily on their first-hand interactions with Katie.  At the end of the day, one of the staff members was reviewing her notes with Katie’s parents. She mentioned that she had held one of Katie’s favorite puppets at arm’s length, and encouraged the child to come and get it. “She took almost five steps to reach me,” the staff member said. “She’s a real plugger.” Katie’s father leaned forward aghast and said, ‘But my daughter doesn’t walk.” ‘Oh,’ the staff member said respectfully, ‘I didn’t know…..”

While we should never judge someone until we’ve been in their shoes, it appears that this man viewed his daughter’s limitations as an unalterable fact. The father’s limited perspective became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and it did not reflect reality. Katie had the ability to walk, but her father had difficulty seeing this on his own, because he was unable to perceive that possibility. Believing profoundly impacts what we see. Let us develop the necessary attitudes that will enable us to see the good and great blessings and potential in our lives, in our community, and all around us.

The Fire-Cloud Model of Life

 In Parshat Behaalotecha we learn about the DPS that guided the Jewish People through their journey in the Midbar. Not a Global Positioning System, but a Divine Positioning System. The Torah tells us: "On the day the Mishkan was erected, the cloud covered the Mishkan... and in the evening there was over the Mishkan the appearance of fire until morning." In order to know when to travel and where to travel, Bnei Yisrael followed a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. Whenever the cloud / fire moved, they moved. Whenever it rested, they camped. Interestingly, the Torah highlights this Divine Guidance System at three pivotal moments: at Yetziat Mitzrayim, at the inauguration of the Mishkan, and here in Behaalotecha as the nation embarks upon its journey toward Eretz Yisrael. The cloud and the fire accompany the Jewish People throughout their nation-building journey from Egypt to Israel. What is the significance of these two elements, fire and cloud, as the Jewish People’s navigation system? First, both clouds and fire possess a duality. On the one hand, they are life-giving. Fire provides warmth, light, and energy. Clouds provide shade and rain. Civilization could not exist without either of them. Yet both can also be destructive. Uncontrolled fires devastate communities. Torrential rains and flash floods can bring damage and loss. Utilizing these two elements to guide us through the Midbar was Hashem’s way of teaching us that growth requires the courage to confront and engage with powerful forces. Follow the cloud. Follow the fire. Learn to harness their energy and their potential for good. Yes, powerful forces can be dangerous. But that is true not only of fire and clouds. It is true of religion. It is true of business. It is true of leadership. It is true of love. Anything powerful has the potential to create and to destroy. The challenge of life is not to avoid powerful forces. Our task is to respect them, channel them, and maximize their positive impact while hedging against their destructive potential. The cloud and the fire taught Bnei Yisrael not to fear greatness, but to follow it responsibly. But there is a second lesson. You cannot touch fire because it burns. You cannot touch a cloud because it is ethereal and elusive. Fire represents passion, inspiration, and idealism. It reaches upward. It excites. It energizes. Clouds provide shade, comfort, and protection. They create a sense of security. The Jewish People had recently stood at Sinai. They had witnessed revelation. They understood the importance of fire. They knew what it meant to be inspired. But Hashem reminds them that inspiration alone is not enough. A person cannot live forever on spiritual highs. We cannot sustain passion without also feeling safe. We cannot remain inspired without also feeling loved.

Many years ago, someone approached Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook with a painful question. He had raised his son with a strong Jewish education and a committed Jewish home. Yet the son had drifted far from Judaism. He no longer observed the commandments and barely identified as a Jew. "What should I do?" the father asked. Rav Kook responded with a question of his own. "Did you love him when he was religious?" "Of course," answered the father. "Then now," Rav Kook replied, "love him even more." Rav Kook understood that fire alone is not enough. Conviction, ideals, and inspiration matter. But they can only endure when accompanied by the cloud; the experience of protection, acceptance, and unconditional love. Hashem did not guide us with fire alone. The journey to the Promised Land required the cloud alongside the fire. The same is true of our own journeys. We all need fire in our lives: passion, purpose, ambition, and spiritual aspiration. But we also need clouds: relationships that sustain us, communities that embrace us, and families that make us feel safe. The lesson of Behaalotecha is that the Divine Positioning System consists of both. Fire may inspire us to move forward, but it is the cloud that allows us to keep going. Fire can lead us, but only when it travels together with the cloud.

The Blessing of Encouragement

 In Parshat Nasso, before Birkat Kohanim is introduced, the Torah uses an unusual phrase: “דַּבֵּר אֶל־אַהֲרֹן וְאֶל־בָּנָיו לֵאמֹר… אָמוֹר לָהֶם” — “Speak to Aharon and his sons saying… say to them.” The words “Amor Lahem” seem unnecessary. The Torah already told Moshe to speak to Aharon. Why repeat the command to “say”? Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev explains that the word “amor” does not only mean “say.” In another context, the Torah uses the same root in the pasuk: “אֶת־ה׳ הֶאֱמַרְתָּ הַיּוֹם” “You have exalted Hashem today.” The word can mean to uplift, distinguish, or make something special. By repeating the word “Amo”r Hashem was not merely instructing the Kohanim to recite words of blessing. He was commanding them to elevate the people, to make them feel valued, cherished, and uplifted. The role of leaders is not only to teach and guide, but to instill confidence and hope. It is not surprising that this lesson of the importance of encouragement is taught specifically to the sons of Aharon. Before Birkat Kohanim, the Kohanim recite a blessing referring to “קדושתו של אהרן” the sanctity of Aharon. What was unique about Aharon? Chazal describe him as someone who loved people, pursued peace, and helped others grow. He strengthened relationships and encouraged people to put past ill will behind them to become better versions of themselves. The Kohanim bless the nation in the spirit of Aharon because true blessing begins with encouraging people, and making people feel valued. Everybody needs encouragement. The Smithsonian Institute has on display the items President Abraham Lincoln was carrying on him the night he was assassinated. Among those items is a worn newspaper clipping praising his accomplishments and calling him one of the greatest statesmen of all time. Even the United States President, arguably the most powerful human on the planet, held onto words of encouragement. A psychology professor once observed that discouragement may be the hardest emotion to deal with alone. Anger and fear contain energy and can rile a person up. While discouragement drains away one’s energy and leaves us deflated. When someone is discouraged, they may need to “borrow” strength from an encouraging friend. The very words themselves tell the story:

“Dis-courage” means to take courage out of someone.
“En-courage” means to place courage into someone.

Most of us can remember years later a casual comment that deflated us and took the wind out of our sails, even if it was a remark that the person barely remembered making. Most of us can also remember a simple word of kindness or belief that restored us when we felt empty. John C. Maxwell once recounted a conversation with the founder of a national restaurant chain. During dinner, the man asked him, “Do you know how to tell when someone needs encouragement?” Maxwell said no. The man answered, “They’re breathing.”  As a Mamlechet Kohanim, a kingdom of priests, this responsibility to encourage and lift others up does not belong only to Kohanim. It is incumbent upon each of us. There are plenty of people in the world prepared to criticize, diminish, and point out faults. The Torah calls upon us to counter that negativity by actively encouraging one another. Mark Twain once said, “I can live for two months on a good compliment.” Words have the ability to carry a person farther than we can imagine. Parshat Naso reminds us that blessings are not only things we receive from Hashem. Sometimes blessings begin with the way we speak to one another. When we choose to uplift rather than discourage, to strengthen rather than diminish, we fulfill our potential as a Kingdom of Kohanim. In so doing we become worthy partners in the Priestly blessing and in making the world a better place.

BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA A PROCLAMATION

This year’s Presidential Proclamation for Jewish American Heritage Month is unique and noteworthy. How fortunate are we that we celebrate Shabbat every week and we celebrate our Jewish identity every single day!

~ RYW

This Jewish American Heritage Month, we honor the countless contributions of Jewish Americans throughout our Nation’s 250 glorious years of independence, and we celebrate their unwavering commitment to the values that make our country great — faith, family, and freedom.

In his letter to the Hebrew Congregation in Newport, Rhode Island, in 1790, President George Washington beautifully said, “May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other Inhabitants; while everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid.”  Since the earliest days of our Republic, Jewish Americans have helped build the cause of liberty and sustain the greatness of our Nation.  Among them was the iconic Haym Salomon, an early supporter of the war for independence.  As stories tell us, Salomon was instrumental in the success of our Continental Congress and Founding Fathers, and rallied support for freedom.  He was a zealous advocate against tyranny, and even after imprisonment by the British Crown, he continued his work in defense of freedom.  In the end, he gave everything to the success of the American Revolution.  Like so many Jewish Americans who follow in his footsteps, Salomon’s legacy stands as a testament to the unshakable belief in the American promise.  

In the same letter to the Hebrew Congregation at Newport, President Washington proclaimed that the United States “gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance.”  Under my leadership, we are aggressively fighting the violence against Jewish Americans that increased under my predecessor, prosecuting hateful criminals to the fullest extent of the law, and working to end the scourge of anti-Semitism throughout our institutions, especially on college campuses.  As President, I will never stop fighting to protect our birthright of religious freedom — a sacred right that continues to guide our Nation, drawing us closer to the Almighty each and every day.

Throughout this historic year, we rejoice in the triumph of the American spirit and rededicate ourselves to the cause of liberty and justice for all.  In special honor of 250 glorious years of American independence and on the weekend of Rededicate 250 — a national jubilee of prayer, praise, and thanksgiving — Jewish Americans are encouraged to observe a national Sabbath.  From sundown on May 15 to nightfall on May 16, friends, families, and communities of all backgrounds may come together in gratitude for our great Nation.  This day will recognize the sacred Jewish tradition of setting aside time for rest, reflection, and gratitude to the Almighty. 

This month, we celebrate the contributions that Jewish Americans have made to our way of life, we honor their role in shaping the story of our Nation, and we remember that religious devotion, learning, and service to others are enduring pillars of a thriving culture.  Through every trial and triumph, the contributions of Jewish Americans have shaped our past, have strengthened our communities, and will continue to inspire American greatness for generations to come.

NOW, THEREFORE, I, DONALD J. TRUMP, President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim May 2026 as Jewish American Heritage Month.  I call upon Americans to celebrate the heritage and contributions of Jewish Americans and to observe this month with appropriate programs, activities, and ceremonies.  I further call on all Americans to celebrate their faith and freedom throughout this year, during this month, and especially on Shabbat to celebrate our 250th year.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this fourth day of May, in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty-six, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and fiftieth.

DONALD J. TRUMP

Blame is Not A Game - Nor is it Divine

 The Gemara in Kiddushin attempts to understand the progression of topics in Parshat Behar. Rabbi Yosi ben Chama views all of the topics as a progression of punishments for not observing the Sabbatical year, the first topic in the Parsha. One who violates Shmittah will be punished with poverty and be forced to sell his possessions. If he does not repent he will then be forced to sell his land. Then his economic situation will deteriorate such that he feels compelled to borrow on interest. The final fall for this unrepentant sinner will be that he will be sold into slavery to a non-Jew. In describing this downward spiral, the Talmud is emphasizing that if mistakes are left uncorrected they can have a snowball effect. We believe in reward and punishment, and it seems that the Talmud is blaming this person for his worsening predicament. Oscar Wilde once said: “It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you place the blame.” Blame can feel justified and satisfying. It is a convenient way to avoid responsibility. Blaming others allows a person to maintain their innocence.  Blame can feel especially satisfying in a situation where a person did something after being advised against it. Saying “I told you so” can feel very good in the moment. But in the long run, blame is very detrimental. Renowned psychologist (and Orthodox Jew) John Gottman calls blame one of the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse”. Blame is one of four behaviors that cause the most trouble in a relationship (along with criticism, contempt and stonewalling.) When we blame others, we let ourselves off the hook. Blaming gives us an excuse not to intervene with assistance. Blaming causes us to miss opportunities to use the experience to grow or to attain new skills. In a relationship (between spouses, or parents and children) blame can create this never ending cycle. Sometimes referred to as the “blame game”, but there is nothing fun about it. Back to Kiddushin, can the Talmud really be advocating that we blame the Shemitah violator for his misfortune?  The very next statement in the Talmud quotes the sage Abaye who says, “I might have said, since this person brought the situation onto himself, ‘let us push the boulder after the one who has fallen.’ The pasuk comes to tell us that we take a different tact: the person must be redeemed from his servitude.” The Talmud first prepared us to blame the sinner for his misfortune. Yet Abaye comes and teaches us not to blame, but to pity. Do not push the boulder on top of the person who has fallen. The fact that his life has spiraled downward is more of a reason to help, not less. Instead of attributing his behavior to evil intent, let us attribute it to unfortunate circumstances. Instead of blame, we must provide compassion and understanding. We are left with conflicting messages in the Talmud: To blame or not to blame, that is the question. The answer is that we need to emulate Hashem. We ask that He be kind and compassionate and forgiving, even when we do something wrong and we should have known better. Even when God has every right to tell us “It’s your fault” or “I told you so”, even in those situations we ask Him to put blame aside and focus on helping us. We must strive to act similarly. It is important to remember that actions have consequences and that good actions are rewarded and the reverse is also true. And self-blame at times might be used in a constructive, growth-oriented manner. But when real people are enduring real difficulties, blame is not an option. Our efforts must be utilized to help the person in front of us. Abaye teaches us that if we must be blamed for something, let us be blamed for being too compassionate.

Where Our Home Values Are Reinforced by “The Street”

 Parshat Emor opens with a curious redundancy: “Emor el haKohanim… v’amarta aleihem” “Speak to the Kohanim… and say to them” (Vayikra 21:1). Why the repetitive language? Chazal derive from here that adults must ensure children uphold standards. Rav Zalman Sorotzkin points out that this lesson could have been taught without such repetition as the Torah does elsewhere. So why the repetition when it comes to these rules? Rav Sorotzkin explains that there are two forces that shape a child: the home and “the street.” Parents teach, model, and try to instill values. But as children grow, they are increasingly shaped by their peers, their social circles, the subtle (and not-so-subtle) messaging of “what everyone else is doing.” When those two forces are aligned, something powerful happens. The messages a child hears at home are reinforced outside of it. There’s no friction, no confusion, no mixed signals. But when the home and the street diverge, when parents are saying one thing and the surrounding culture is saying something contrary, then the challenge of chinuch becomes much harder. With this backdrop Rav Sorotzkin explains that when a Kohen tells his child he can’t eat treif or he must keep Shabbat, it is a message that every Jewish parent conveys to their child. And when a Kohen child is told that he can’t speak lashon Harah that too is a lesson universally applicable to all Jewish children. But when a young Kohen is told he cannot become tameh so he can’t go near a cemetery, the child might protest. He might say, “But all of my friends are playing ball by the cemetery; why can’t I go too? Why can’t I be like everyone else?” In the case of the special rules of a Kohen, the “street” is not reinforcing the message emanating from home. It may even be undermining it. In response to the challenge of mixed messages that the Torah states: Emor… v’amarta. Say it, and then say it again. When the environment doesn’t support our values, we need to double down at home. It’s an honest recognition of the challenges surrounding educating our children. This Shabbat, when the Teen Minyan joins and leads the 9 AM Minyan in the Sanctuary, we remember the great gift that exists when we have “a street” that reinforces our Jewish values. Our Teen Minyan is “the street” for those teens who regularly attend. At the YIH Teen Minyan kids are influenced by, and gravitate towards, people and ideas that are not working against our values; they are reinforcing our values. Teen Minyan is a Makom Tefilah that kids choose to be at because their friends are there and they feel comfortable there. With the guidance of Rabbi Litton, the Teen Minyan is not just a place where teens attend. It’s a place that they take responsibility: They lead the davening, they lein, and they are depended on. They decide for themselves what their experience will look like. This is not something being done to them. It’s something being created by them.How appropriate it is that we recognize the Teen Minyan on this Parshat Emor because Teen Minyan is where we are fortunate that the “street” mirrors our home values and where peer-influence reinforces parental aspirations. We live in a world where many parents feel like they are fighting an uphill battle because the messages outside the home are clashing with the messages within it. Today let us pause and recognize that our shul in general, and the Teen Minyan in particular, is a space where we don’t need Emor v’amarta because the message is already being echoed, amplified and reinforced. As a parent of 2 Teen Minyan participants, the rabbi assigned to Teen Minyan in my early years in Hollywood, and the current Senior Rabbi of YIH I am grateful for the Teen Minyan. It is a program and a space that has benefited our community for decades and it is worth continuing to nurture, support, and celebrate.

Winn Dixie: A Tribute

 Imagine the scene. It’s Friday afternoon, an hour before Shabbat. You’ve had a busy week, and Shabbat preparations are extending closer to candle lighting than you expected. You check your menu for dinner: you still need to make that salad. It should not be a problem until you realize that you forgot to buy the kosher-brand croutons. All the kosher-supervised grocery stores close 2 hours before Shabbat. Are you going to have to change your menu? Will your Shabbat guests be deprived of enjoying your favorite salad? But then you remember: Winn Dixie! Our neighborhood grocery store, right in the heart of Emerald Hills with an extensive selection of kosher products, including many varieties of kosher croutons. Once you’re going to Winn Dixie for the croutons, you quickly review what else you might need for Shabbat at this late hour.  You decide to buy one more package of glatt kosher chicken to grill for dinner and some Pas Yisrael cookies so that you’ll have some extra treats on hand for your lunch guests’ kids. We are all familiar with some version of this scenario. I have seen many of you anxiously waiting to check out at Winn Dixie (why didn’t they ever install self-checkout?)  on a Friday afternoon as shkiya approached. Years ago I had an idea to set “office hours” at Winn Dixie. It seems that some people are reluctant to “bother the Rabbi” in his office, even if they have something to discuss. Each of the YIH Rabbis have offices on the shul campus in order to be accessible and to make it as easy as possible for community members to engage with us.  My thinking was that catching up after bumping into me at Winn Dixie was a lower barrier of entry than making an appointment to meet me in my office or for coffee. This idea was conceived before Walmart delivery, Instacart, DoorDash, Amazon etc and you had to leave your house to purchase your groceries. Even now, none of these delivery options would help when it’s 30 minutes before Yom Tov and you ran out of yahrzeit candles, forgot to buy flowers, or you need Cholov Yisrael milk. That’s why I could always count on finding a minyan of people at Winn Dixie late Friday afternoons. Alas, this Erev Shabbat saving grace is no longer available to us. Our Winn Dixie has permanently closed. This week we read the double Torah portion of Acharei Mot and Kedoshim, and next week we will read Emor. The literal translation of the first words of these three Parshiyot is “After death we say they were holy”. This idiom has been utilized as a commentary on the human tendency to only appreciate something or someone after they are gone. We should be more appreciative of what we have while we still have it. Nonetheless, as Winn Dixie sits empty it is an appropriate time to reminisce and reflect on this neighborhood institution. Yes, I know that we still have Publix. But for this Emerald Hills resident, going to Publix feels like an excursion while going to Winn Dixie always felt like a quick stop. Not to mention the fact that Publix (so far) has far fewer kosher products compared to Winn Dixie. For our family, Winn Dixie was the store that our children could walk to without crossing any streets. And it was the first store to stop in after Pesach to buy our post-Pesach Entenmanns donuts.  Many of us became friendly with the employees at Winn Dixie: we knew their names and they knew the products that we liked. I enjoyed the “Shabbat Shalom” salutation I would receive, along with my receipt, from the cashier on Fridays. Word on the street is that a new, fully kosher supermarket will be taking over the space. This could potentially benefit kosher consumers in many ways. However it does mark the end of an era. At fully kosher stores we might be less likely to run into and to interact with non-Jewish or non-observant neighbors, acquaintances and strangers. At a fully kosher store parents will never have the experience of telling their child that they can’t buy something because it’s not kosher. And at a fully kosher store you can’t buy non-dairy whipped topping for your Shabbat dessert trifle - 10 minutes before Candle lighting. 

The Sounds of Sirens -The Sounds of Silence

 The practice of sounding a siren for two minutes of silence has its roots in South Africa. During World War I, a businessman in Cape Town suggested that his church observe a silent pause in memory of those who fell in battle. This custom later spread throughout the British Empire, and eventually to many different nations and cultures. The tradition was imported to pre-state Israel. The British installed air-raid sirens across the country at the outset of World War II. At first, the new State of Israel used the sirens for ceremonial purposes only sparingly: when Zionist leader Theodor Herzl’s remains were flown in from Austria in 1949, and after a 1948 massacre on a kibbutz. After the War of Independence, the Rabbinate of Israel decided to designate Memorial Day on the day before Independence Day. The newly installed national system of air-raid sirens provided a means to simultaneously alert everyone in Israel to observe the silence at the same time. In 1959, the Knesset established Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. Both have been marked by the sounding of sirens ever since. In Israel, a minute-long siren marks the beginning of Yom Hazikaron. The siren is heard all over the country and lasts for one minute, during which Israelis stop everything, including driving on highways, and stand in silence, commemorating the fallen and showing respect. People cry openly in the streets and radios play a constant stream of sad songs. Yom Hazikaron is a national day of mourning, and many restaurants and movie theaters are closed. The next morning, a two-minute siren is sounded at 11:00 am, which marks the opening of the official memorial ceremonies and private remembrance gatherings at each cemetery where soldiers are buried. As families head to military ceremonies to visit the graves of loved ones, there is a heaviness in the air. Last year, before Yom Hazikaron, Miriam Lock wrote, “Sadly, sirens are a part of life in Israel, and during times of war they become all too common. There are the ambulance sirens that mean someone is seriously ill or has been injured in an accident or, God forbid, a terrorist attack, and is being rushed to the hospital. There are the red alert sirens we have been hearing so often during this never-ending war, an eerie sound telling us to run to our shelter or safe room. People often jump at any noise that resembles the red alert siren signifying an imminent missile attack. So, after the Swords of Iron War began and missile attacks became a daily occurrence, the ambulance sirens in Israel were changed to avoid confusion.” Miriam notes that all of these different sirens can be confusing for young children. She gives the example of her grandson Yoav, four years old, who heard the Yom HaShoah siren while in kindergarten and was frightened, thinking at first that it was a missile alert siren and that he had to run to the shelter. He was comforted and assured by his teacher, and when he came home, he told his father, Miriam’s son, that he felt scared that day. These days the IDF Home Front produces videos explaining the different sirens and how they sound. A siren is poignant, because while it is loud, it also affords a moment of silence and stillness to remember and reflect. Our Yom Hazikaron- Yom Haatzmaut program will begin on Tuesday night at 6:30 PM in the Sanctuary, with the sounding of a siren. I urge you all to attend. There will be special youth programming taking place in the Tent and upstairs. Be a part of this powerful moment of communal silence; a silence of reflection, remembrance and gratitude, which will segue into an evening of celebration (music, dancing and refreshments) as we mark the gift of Medinat Yisrael on its 78^th birthday. 

Grateful To Be Here

Rabbi Yehoshu Greenwald was the Rav of Chust, Hungary, during the Holocaust. He prefaced his sefer, Chesed Yehoshua, with an essay that describes his experiences during the Holocaust. In that essay, he recalled the Drasha that he told his community during the last Pesach in Chust. He quoted the paragraph of Ha Lachma Anya, the opening section of Magid. There we declare: הָשַּׁתָּא הָכָא, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּאַרְעָא דְיִשְׂרָאֵל “Now we are here; next year in the land of Israel.” The Chuster Rav asked: What does the first clause of this sentence come to teach us? It seems extraneous and unnecessary. Of course we are here! Where else would we be? Rav Greenwald explained that the author of the Haggadah is teaching us to be grateful that we are here- wherever “here” may be. If the Jews of Chust are here celebrating Pesach even as millions of other European Jews had already been murdered or enslaved, then it means that Hashem is not done with us. We can be grateful that Hashem allowed us to be here. And we can be hopeful that just as we are here now, so too will we merit to reach the Promised Land. This year, on Pesach, there are lots of reasons to feel sad or anxious or vulnerable. However, the Seder experience is meant to overshadow these valid and reasonable feelings with feelings of purpose and hope. The fact that we are still here after all that we have endured (and by “we” I mean each of us individually, and the State of Israel, and the Jewish People) is reason to express gratitude to Hashem and to firmly believe that God still has good things in store for us. The Talmud in Shabbat (31a) quotes Rabba, who taught that after our lives are concluded, we will be asked in heaven, “Did you eagerly await the Redemption?” The Smak explains this to mean that we will be asked whether we remain committed to the notion that just as we were redeemed from Egypt, so too will we be redeemed in the future. In essence, the Talmud is saying that we will be asked whether we remain committed to the idea that if we are still here, then it means God must have a plan for us. The Tur (OC 417) writes in regard to Rosh Chodesh, that it was originally a minor holiday for everyone, but after the Chet HaEgel, it became primarily a holiday associated with Jewish women. Shemen HaTov writes that women throughout the early years of Klal Yisrael, in Egypt and at the Egel incident, were always encouraging the men to look forward to better days. Their positivity is emblematic of Rosh Chodesh, because even when it is dark out and the moon is small, we can have a positive outlook. Later in the Haggadah we read about the Rabbis’ Seder in Bnei Brak. Many commentators wonder why the Seder was convened at that location, since the rabbis were from different hometowns.  The Torah Temimah notes that Rabbi Akiva was from Bnei Brak. As we know from many Talmudic anecdotes, Rabbi Akiva stood for optimism. He was hopeful that at age 40 he could start learning Torah. He was hopeful that within the images of destruction on the Temple Mount, one could actually see the fulfillment of Divine promises of renewal. Due to the Roman persecution at that time these rabbis were despondent, so they went to Rabbi Akiva for chizuk and for a pep talk. This year, at the Seder, let us linger over the words, “Hashata Hacha”, even with all that there is to worry about. Let us be grateful that we are still here. Through that gratitude and that hope in the here and now, we will pave the way to our future of “Next year in the Land of Israel”.

Cultivating and Maintaining Our Fire

 It’s striking how often we find ourselves waiting to be inspired. We look for the right speaker, the right environment or the right moment that will lift us up and carry us forward. And when those moments come, they can be powerful and even transformative. But Parshat Tzav reminds us that if we wait for inspiration to come from the outside, we are missing something essential about how Avodat Hashem is meant to work. At the beginning of the Parsha there is a simple, but profound, command: “אש תמיד תוקד על המזבח לא תכבה” a constant fire must burn on the Mizbeiach, and it may not be extinguished. While on a literal level the Torah here is talking about the fire burning on the altar, the Sefer HaChinuch explains that this commandment alludes to the inner fire within each of us. Each of us accesses that internal fire at certain moments; a tefilah that feels more focused, a piece of Torah that lands just right, a Shabbat or Yom Tov that feels elevated. The Torah, however, is telling us that this fire is not meant to appear only occasionally. It must be constant. And for such inspiration to be constant it must be maintained. The Sefer HaChinuch adds that a person needs a balanced fire. Too little inspiration leads to apathy and disengagement. Too much passion, unregulated and ungrounded, can become unfocused and even destructive. This was the sin of Aharon’s sons Nadav and Avihu. Their failing was not a lack of passion, but an excess of it. The Parsha describes three stages as it relates to the fire on the Mizbeiach. First, the fire would burn on the Mizbeiach, then the ashes were placed beside it, and finally the ashes were carried outside the camp to a pure place. Rav Kook explains that this process is a model for how inspiration is meant to function in our lives. The fire itself represents those peak moments, the times when we feel most elevated and connected. Those moments are, by definition, fleeting. If we do nothing with them they cannot shape our identity. The Torah, therefore, introduces the next step: The ashes are gathered and preserved and then carried outward to a pure location. The question is: what do we do with moments of inspiration that are fleeting? Do we preserve something of that moment? Do we carry it with us beyond its original setting? Do we translate it into something that can shape our daily lives? The Sefas Emes develops this idea further. He notes that the Torah commands the Kohen to add wood to the fire every single morning. Even if a fire descends from Heaven, human beings are still required to contribute their own fire. There may be a spark within each of us, something God-given, but it will not sustain itself without our effort. We have to feed and nurture it. We have to actively look for ways to strengthen and renew it. Instead of asking, “Where will my next moment of inspiration come from?” the Torah challenges us to ask, “What am I doing to sustain the fire  that already burns inside me?” Lastly, the Maggid of Mezeritch, interprets “לא תכבה” not only as “do not extinguish the fire,” but as a call to extinguish the “לא”, the negativity, that can quietly creep in and dampen our spiritual energy. Maintaining a fire is not only about adding fuel; it is also about removing what gets in the way of the continued existence of that fire. Taken together these ideas offer a different model of growth. Inspiration matters, but it is not enough to wait for it. It is not even enough to experience it. We are meant to generate it, to regulate it, and to sustain it. This is how a life of Avodat Hashem is built; not merely through moments that inspire us, but through the quiet, ongoing work of tending to our fire within.

In Defense of Chametz

 The Book of Vayikra opens with the requirements and restrictions associated with the various korbanot. When it comes to flour offerings, the Torah is adamant that the “bread offerings” may not be chametz (2:11): כׇּל־הַמִּנְחָה אֲשֶׁר תַּקְרִיבוּ לַיהֹוָה לֹא תֵעָשֶׂה חָמֵץ- No grain offering that you offer to Hashem shall be made with leaven”. The Talmud Brachot Rabbi Alexandri equates chametz with the yetzer harah, our evil inclination. The Baalei Mussar took note of the physical characteristics of chametz and related them to negative character traits. For example, dough will only begin to rise after a period of time. This corresponds to the trait of sloth and laziness. Similarly, with the help of yeast, dough rises more robustly; a phenomenon that the Mussar Movement related to the attribute of ego and haughtiness. Anthropologists and food historians add to the chametz-bashing, albeit indirectly. The origins of yeast, used for both bread and beer, can be traced to ancient Egypt before Yaakov and his family arrived. Chametz can now be representative of Egyptian culture, and our avoidance of leaven can be seen as a rejection of Egyptian culture as we celebrate our redemption from Egypt. But if chametz is so bad, then why do we eat it all year? Throughout history bread has been a staple of nourishment. In addition, it is elevated as an offering to Hashem. The Sefirat HaOmer count culminates with Shavuot, at which time two beautiful loaves of fresh fluffy bread were offered in the Beit Hamikdash. If chametz is so wrong, how can it be the central offering on the holiday of Shavuot? The answer is that Chametz is not really evil. During the course of our lives bread, as a food and as a symbol, is appropriate and necessary. It is only on the Mizbeiach and on Pesach that chametz is inappropriate. Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Berlin, the Netziv, writes, “Chametz is a human invention used to modify through ingenuity the world that God created.” An encounter with Hashem at the Mizbeaich is not the setting to demonstrate human ingenuity. Rather, bringing a Korban is a time to reflect on Hashem as Creator and the Cause of all human ingenuity. Chametz represents our ability to use our intellect to control our surroundings. While this is an appropriate and necessary perspective on life, it does not belong on the altar as we submit before Hashem through the offering of a flour korban. Chametz is also inappropriate on Pesach because during the Exodus we were passive, as Hashem tells Moshe at the Splitting of the Sea: “Hashem will fight for you, and you shall remain silent.” Our celebration of Pesach focuses on what Hashem did for us. Matzah, the natural product of bread and water without any human ingenuity, is aptly suited to be that national symbol. It turns out that eating chametz the rest of the year is not a concession to our weak and sinful natures. As we will say in less than two weeks at the Seder in Mah Nishtana “Shebechol Haleilot Anu Ochlim Chametz U’Matzah”. During the rest of the year I am a chametz eater, and I am proud to say that I like it. Chametz represents the crucial mandate that we have to be creative and to improve the world. Chametz reminds us that we must appreciate that goals can only be accomplished through human ingenuity and hard work. On Pesach however we continue and state, “Halayla Hazeh Kulo Matzah”. Chametz conveys crucial lessons, but on Pesach we need to focus on different lessons. On Pesach we remember that our creativity and our accomplishments must ultimately be attributed to Hashem. It is easy to extol the virtues of matzah by critiquing chametz and associating it with negative symbolism. But by understanding how chametz plays a vital role in our lives the rest of the year, we can better appreciate the unique and exalted lessons of matzah on the Mizbeaich and on Pesach.  

Connect – Grow – Together on Shabbat

 Moshe must have gathered Bnai Yisrael numerous times throughout their journey in the Midbar in order to teach them Torah and Mitzvot. Yet it is only at the beginning of Parshat Vayakhel that the Torah specifically tells us וַיַּקְהֵ֣ל משֶׁ֗ה אֶת־כָּל־עֲדַ֛ת בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל “Moshe gathered the entire congregation of Israelites”. While Parshat Vayakhel primarily discusses the Mishkan construction project, the Parsha begins with a couple of pesukim about Shabbat: “Six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have sanctity, a day of complete rest to the Lord….” Rashi suggests that this Shabbat reference serves to set parameters for the construction of the Mishkan. Moshe here is informing the Jews that as important as building the Tabernacle may be, nevertheless its construction may not be performed on Shabbat. Others suggest a common theme that connects Shabbat and the Mishkan. Just as the Mishkan is a holy and special space, so too Shabbat is meant to be a holy and special time. Yalkut Shimoni (408) explains the connection between gathering the people and teaching about Shabbat: “The Holy One, blessed be He said: ‘Make for yourself great assemblies, and expound before them publicly the laws of Shabbat, so that future generations will learn from you to gather assemblies each and every Shabbat, and to enter the study halls to teach and instruct Israel in words of Torah; what is forbidden and what is permitted, so that My great Name will be praised among My children.” The Midrash understands this Vayakhel as the origin of the practice of public Torah teaching and communal gatherings on Shabbat. While some people may not not fans of the Shabbat morning Drasha / sermon and subscribe to the mantra that “there’s no sermon like no sermon”, this Midrash teaches us that public Torah study, especially in large audiences, is integral to the weekly Shabbat experience. It is the spirit of this Midrash that our shul offers many learning opportunities on Shabbat. From weekly and monthly shiurim, to Guest Speakers and Scholars in Residence, our most robust and varied Torah offerings are on Shabbat. I encourage you to take advantage of the Torah learning opportunities offered at shul, all week long and especially on Shabbat. At the very least I urge you to pay attention and take to heart the weekly Dvar Torah that is presented at each Shabbat morning minyan by one of the YIH Rabbis. When you listen to the Shabbat morning Dvar Torah (and discuss it at your Shabbat table) you are engaged in an endeavor of Biblical proportions: you are recreating the experience described at the beginning of Parshat Vayakhel. I will conclude with a timely Dvar Halacha related to Shabbat. Recently the City of Hollywood completed construction of a splash pad at the Mara Berman Giulianti Park. It is a wonderful addition to our Emerald Hills neighborhood, and I am sure that children will enjoy using it especially as the weather gets warmer. Although there is now a splash pad at “The Shabbos Park”, using the splash pad is not an appropriate Shabbos activity. In addition to the many actual and potential halachic problems involved, water activities are not consistent with the uniqueness, spirit and sanctity of Shabbat. Some parents have raised concerns about the presence of the splash pad at the Shabbos Park, but I believe that it can be viewed as a true gift - 7 days a week. Six days a week our children and grandchildren have another option for play and enjoyment at the park. And on Shabbat, by enjoying the park in other ways but avoiding the splash pad we will have the opportunity to teach our children a valuable lesson. Through our words and through our actions (what we do and what we avoid doing) we can educate and model to our children how special, unique and holy Shabbat is to us.

Bad Masks and Good Masks

 Parshat Ki Tisa contains the episode of the golden calf. The Torah refers to the golden calf as (32:4) “egel masecha”. The Stone Chumash translates this as “a molten calf”.  “Masecha” could be a type of metal, and if so, the “Egel Masecha” would be a metal calf, or more precisely, a calf that had undergone the process of melting, since it was made out of many pieces of gold that needed to be fused together. Masecha” can also be interpreted as deriving from the word “Masach”, an object used to conceal other objects. This is also the meaning of the “Masecha” we wear on Purim, which covers the face. This is not the only appearance of a mask in our Parsha. After Moshe prays and Hashem forgives the Jews for the golden calf, Moshe is called upon to receive the second set of tablets. When Moshe comes down from the mountain, the Torah describes how Moshe’s face glowed as a result of his exposure to an intense Divine manifestation. Moshe resorted to wearing a “masveh” (34:33) which is a veil or mask. In two episodes in Ki Tisa Moshe ascends Mt Sinai to receive luchot from Hashem. In both cases, this act causes the need for a mask of some sort. The mask of the golden calf is one of the greatest mistakes in Jewish history. The mask that Moshe wears after descending with the second luchot is viewed as having a positive purpose. How do we understand the vast difference between these two masks? Our world is full of masks, hiding the perception of God’s role in our lives. The Hebrew word for world “Olam” is related to the word “hidden” (“he’elem”) because nature is a force that masks God’s handiwork. Political history is another mask that obstructs our appreciation for God’s role in unfolding events. We will celebrate Purim in less than a month. The story of Purim (like the story of the 6 Day War) can be read as a fascinating tale of political (or military) intrigue. But really those events are masking the Prime Cause of it all- Hashem. Idolatry can also be understood as a mask. It hides inconvenient truths, such as reward and punishment, and the need to submit to a Higher Being. This type of mask leads to destruction. Sometimes a mask hides the truth. But sometimes a mask is needed to allow the truth to come forth. Rav Saadiah Gaon explains that the masveh was intended to make disputants less afraid to approach Moshe for assistance. Others suggest that Moshe wore the masveh as a sign of modesty. In effect the masveh allowed Moshe to express his true self, and not hide in any way. There’s a difference of opinion as to when exactly Moshe wore the masveh. Everyone agrees that Moshe did not wear it when he was communicating with Hashem. Everyone also agrees that he did wear the masveh when he was in the Israelite camp not engaged in teaching Torah. There’s a difference of opinion whether Moshe wore the mask when he was teaching Torah to the people. It would seem based on the pesukim at the end of Ki Tisa that Moshe would not wear the masveh while he was engaged in teaching Torah. Rabbi Akiva Eiger, however, suggests that Moshe in fact wore the masveh even while teaching Torah to the people. Rabbi Eiger explains that Moshe wore the masveh to hide his humility. As teacher and prophet, Moshe had to “hide” this innate quality of humility, for the benefit of his role as leader. When a mask is used to obscure God’s role in our lives, then it’s a bad mask. When a mask is used to bring out our true selves or to hide some of our innate qualities that interfere with maximizing our potential, then it’s a good mask. As we put away our Purim costumes, and read Parshat Ki Tisa, let’s be on guard to avoid the bad masks and find ways to utilize the good masks.