We Should All Be Students of Life

 Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twerski recounts that once the Chasidic master Reb Meir Premishlan met the great sage Rav Shlomo Kluger. Reb Meir Took leave of Rav Kluger by sharing the following Dvar Torah based on a pasuk in Parshat Lech Lecha: After Avraham helps the four kings defeat the five kings, we are introduced to Malkitzedek, a priest (14:18):  וּמַלְכִּי־צֶ֨דֶק֙ מֶ֣לֶךְ שָׁלֵ֔ם הוֹצִ֖יא לֶ֣חֶם וָיָ֑יִן וְה֥וּא כֹהֵ֖ן לְאֵ֣-ל עֶלְיֽוֹן" “ “And Malkizedek the king of Salem brought out bread and wine, and he was a priest to the Most High God.” The Talmud teaches (Nedarim 32) that Malkitzedek was Shem, the son of Noach. He founded the yeshiva of Shem & Ever, where Yaakov studied for 14 years. Malkitzedek / Shem was a great scholar. Avraham was known for his exemplary chesed, especially excelling in the area of hospitality. When these giants met, as great as each one was in their area of expertise, they tried to learn something from the other one. Malkitzedek was looking to learn from Avraham’s kindness and Avraham wanted to learn from Malkitzedek’s piety. This is how Reb Meir explained the above referenced verse. “Malkitzedek brought out bread and wine” means that he learned hospitality from Avraham. “And he was a priest to the Most High God” alludes to the fact that Avraham sought to learn Torah and piety from Malkitzedek. The point Reb Meir Premishlan was making is that even the smartest and pious person can learn from others. In fact, it is very possible that they became learned and pious because they looked for opportunities and ways to learn from everyone and every situation. As Ben Zoma teaches (Pirkei Avot 4:1) “Who is wise? One who learns from every person.” While we normally assume that students learn from teachers, Rav Nachman Bar Yitzchak encourages us to think more broadly about the opportunities that even teachers have for continuing education. Quoting the pasuk  עֵץ חַיִּים הִיא לַמַּחֲזִיקִים בָּהּ he notes that the Torah is compared to a tree because just as a small piece of wood can ignite a large piece, so too, minor Torah scholars can sharpen great Torah scholars and enable them to advance in their studies. This idea led the Talmud (Taanit 7a) to quote the famous words of Rabbi Chanina: “I have learned much from my teachers and even more from my friends, but from my students I have learned more than from all of them.” וּמִתַּלְמִידַי יוֹתֵר מִכּוּלָּן. There are opportunities to learn from not just people. In Pirkei Avot (5:20) Rabbi Yehuda Ben Teima taught “Be strong like a leopard, and swift like an eagle, agile like a gazelle, and brave like a lion.” And in Eiruvin 100b Rabbi Yochanan makes the case for natural morality by noting that we can learn modesty from the cat, industry from the ant, and fidelity from the dove. To be a student of life means not just learning from teachers or those who are universally considered to be wise. The true student finds something to learn from every person, every situation, and every natural phenomenon. And when there seems to be nothing positive to learn from a person, then there’s always the option of learning what not to do. Tanach, the Talmud and Jewish history are full of stories and anecdotes that are meant to serve as cautionary tales. The Torah itself makes this point explicit when at the end of the Korach debacle it states (Bamidbar 17:5) “Do not be like Korach and his group.” There are lessons to be learned all the time and all around us. We just need to keep our eyes open and be committed to always gleaning as many life lessons as we can. 

Judging Others Favorably: The Deeper Lesson Learned from Rashi

 Why are we so quick to judge others, often assuming the worst before we know the facts? The answer may lie, at least in part, in our evolutionary history. For our ancestors, encountering a stranger could be a matter of survival. Was this person a friend or a foe? Could they be trusted, or did they pose a threat? Making that determination quickly could mean the difference between life and death. Over generations, our brains developed the ability to form impressions almost instantaneously, using cues such as appearance, behavior, and facial expressions. These mental shortcuts remain useful, but they also lead us to draw conclusions before we have enough information to judge accurately. Psychologists have also observed that we tend to give greater weight to negative possibilities than positive ones. From an evolutionary perspective, this makes sense: mistakenly trusting someone who posed a genuine threat could have devastating consequences, while mistakenly suspecting someone who meant no harm might simply cost us an opportunity. When the stakes were high, it was safer to err on the side of caution. Yet the instincts that once protected us can now lead us to misjudge others, attributing negative motives to ambiguous behavior and allowing first impressions to shape our perceptions. Our initial judgment may be instinctive, but it need not be our final one. Sometimes, the greater challenge is not recognizing danger, but giving another person the benefit of the doubt. Jewish tradition challenges us to overcome this instinct. As Rabbi Yehoshua ben Perachya teaches in the first chapter of Pirkei Avot: וֶהֱוֵי דָן אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם לְכַף זְכוּת, “Judge everyone favorably.” Rabbi J. Simcha Cohen suggests that this lesson is embedded in a famous comment of Rashi’s at the beginning of Parshat Noach. The Torah describes Noach as נֹחַ אִישׁ צַדִּיק תָּמִים הָיָה בְּדֹרֹתָיו, “Noah was a righteous man, perfect in his generations.” On the final word, בְּדֹרֹתָיו, “in his generations,” Rashi cites a debate among the Sages over how to assess Noach’s righteousness:

יֵשׁ מֵרַבּוֹתֵינוּ דּוֹרְשִׁים אוֹתוֹ לְשֶׁבַח, כָּל שֶׁכֵּן אִלּוּ הָיָה בְדוֹר צַדִּיקִים הָיָה צַדִּיק יוֹתֵר; וְיֵשׁ שֶׁדּוֹרְשִׁים אוֹתוֹ לִגְנַאי, לְפִי דוֹרוֹ הָיָה צַדִּיק וְאִלּוּ הָיָה בְדוֹרוֹ שֶׁל אַבְרָהָם לֹא הָיָה נֶחְשָׁב לִכְלוּם.

“Some of our Sages interpret this favorably: How much more righteous would Noach have been had he lived in a generation of righteous people! Others interpret it disparagingly: He was righteous only in comparison with his generation, but had he lived in Abraham’s generation, he would not have been considered of any importance.”

Rabbi Cohen identifies two lessons in Rashi’s wording. First, the favorable interpretation appears before the critical one. This reflects the teaching of Pirkei Avot: our instinct should be to judge favorably, even when suspicion comes more naturally. Second, Rashi introduces the favorable interpretation with the words yesh me-rabboteinu, “some of our Sages,” while introducing the critical interpretation simply as yesh, “others.” Rabbi Cohen suggests that this distinction reflects a hallmark of Torah wisdom: the ability to restrain our instinct to suspect and allow a favorable interpretation to prevail. We live in an era that gives us plenty of reasons to be skeptical. Yet the Torah reminds us, both explicitly and through the subtle language of its commentators, that we must consciously cultivate the Jewish instinct to judge others favorably, even when our natural instinct is to do otherwise.

Starting Anew — From Bet

The Torah begins with the letter bet. Many have asked: Why not begin the Torah with an alef, the first letter in the Hebrew alphabet? One popular answer is that starting with bet is an expression of humility. There are certain things about God that are beyond our human comprehension. Just as the letter bet is closed on three sides and open only toward the left, the direction in which Hebrew is written, so too we approach the Creation story with an awareness that we cannot comprehend what came “before the bet,” before Bereishit. A second explanation is that the Torah begins with bet as a reminder that we should always build our Torah knowledge upon some precedent, and never begin from absolute alef. Our understanding of Torah should be built upon what we learn from our teachers, earlier commentators, and traditional sources. While it is appropriate to seek out new and personal relevance in the Torah, these efforts cannot begin from scratch. Our new understandings must start from bet, remaining loyal to the traditional understandings of Torah that have been incorporated into our Mesorah. Lastly, the Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 1:10) suggests that the Torah begins with bet because the word bracha, blessing, begins with a bet. The Ibn Ezra asks: We find many negative words that begin with a bet. What exactly is the Midrash trying to tell us? The Maharal explains that bet symbolizes blessing, not simply because it begins the word bracha, but because of the nature of the letter itself. Bet is the second letter in the alef-bet. Its gematria is two. Whereas alef represents the singular, bet represents multiplicity. When you add to a single entity, you create the possibility of blessing. Throughout Parshat Bereishit, we see how blessing can be found in multiplicity. Hashem says, “Lo tov heyot ha-adam levado — It is not good for man to be alone.” This is the first lo tov in the Torah. Light is good. The heavens are good. The earth is good. The animals are good. What is not good? Being alone. So God says, “E’eseh lo ezer k’negdo — I will make for him a helper opposite him.” It is a seemingly contradictory phrase. Which is it? Ezer — someone who helps me? Or k’negdo — someone who stands opposite me? Rashi quotes the Gemara: Zacha — ezer; lo zacha — k’negdo. If a person merits it, his spouse is a help. If not, she is against him. The Izbitzer Rebbe offers a powerful way to understand these words: Maybe the opposition is the help. Think about learning Torah. Imagine a Beit Midrash where everyone always agreed. “I think the Gemara means this.” “Absolutely.” “I Couldn't agree more.” You wouldn't get very far. Torah is learned with someone opposite you, literally and figuratively. The person arguing with you isn't necessarily interfering with your learning. He may be helping you learn. According to the Izbitzer, k’negdo becomes the ezer. Sometimes the person who helps us most is the one who pushes back against our assumptions: the spouse who sees things differently, the friend who tells us what we don't want to hear, the child who forces us to discover patience we didn't know we had. Not all opposition is good. Cruelty and destructive conflict are not growth opportunities to be romanticized. But a life without resistance doesn't make us stronger. It leaves us untested. This is true of a community as well. We need the people who say, “Let's do it!” and the people who ask, “How exactly are we paying for it?” We need dreamers and skeptics, those who dream big and those who bring us back to reality. We need to stop assuming that every person who sees things differently is getting in the way. Sometimes they're showing us the way. That is the deeper meaning of the bet. The blessing is not simply that there are two of us. It is that there can be another perspective, another personality, another way of seeing the world. We don't have to agree with everyone. But we should be willing to listen, to learn, and to recognize that sometimes the person standing k’negdo may actually be the ezer we need. The Torah could have begun with alef, with one. Instead, it begins with bet, with multiplicity. The blessing of bet is found in the richness of different perspectives, in the strength that comes from people who see things differently, and in the growth that takes place when we encounter ideas and people who challenge us. Bet reminds us that a multitude of opinions and perspectives  is not simply something we tolerate. It is something that can make us stronger. 

Miracle in the Clouds

 On Wednesday Flydubai Flight 1073 was flying from Dubai to Tel Aviv when an ordinary flight suddenly became a miraculous salvation brought about by humble, human heroes. About two and a half hours into the flight, the co-pilot allegedly attacked and stabbed the captain, Smit Machchhar, sending the plane into a terrifying descent. The Boeing 737 plunged thousands of feet in a matter of minutes while the passengers had no idea what was happening. Despite being seriously wounded, Captain Machchhar managed to open the cockpit door, allowing passengers to rush forward and help. Among them was Yaniv Hayun, an Israeli plumber. Hayun had never flown a plane, but he knew that something had to be done. He helped subdue the attacker and then helped pull the plane out of its dive. Hayun later explained that he had watched the television program “Air Crash Investigation,” which dramatizes real-life aviation disasters. From watching the program, he remembered what to do when a plane goes into a dangerous descent.  Other Israeli passengers also stepped forward. Asaf Rajuan helped restrain the attacker, while Dr. Shota Musaev, a dentist, treated the wounded captain. And then came another remarkable / miraculous piece of good fortune: two off-duty pilots were among the passengers. They were able to take over the controls and help bring the plane safely to the ground. The flight ultimately made an emergency landing in Saudi Arabia, and all 174 passengers and crew survived. It is difficult not to look at this story and see a miracle that occurred in the clouds. The Torah tells us about another miracle in the clouds: the Jewish people were protected in the wilderness by the Ananei HaKavod, the Clouds of Glory. But why do we specifically commemorate this miracle? Bnai Ysirael also received the miraculous mann every day and drank from Miriam’s well. Why is a Yom Tov only built around remembering the Clouds of Glory? The mann and the water were miracles provided to the nation but experienced by individuals. Every Jew benefited from them, but each person gathered the portion of mann he needed and drank the water he needed. The miracle sustained the individual Jew, one person at a time. The Clouds of Glory were fundamentally different. They were a miracle that could only be experienced collectively. There was not one cloud protecting Reuven and another protecting Shimon. There was one Divine cloud over the entire camp. It protected everyone equally. When it moved, everyone moved. That is why the Clouds of Glory are the appropriate miracle to commemorate through Sukkot. The sukkah recreates not simply the protection that Hashem gave each Jew, but the experience of living together beneath one shelter, sharing one journey and moving toward one destination. The unique, shared journey and destiny of the Jewish People is a theme tied to today, Shemini Atzeret. Throughout Sukkot, seventy bulls were offered, corresponding to the seventy nations of the world. Sukkot reminds us that we are part of a larger human family and that we live in a world shared with many nations. But then comes Shemini Atzeret when we offer just one bull. After seven days in which the offerings represent the seventy nations, we remain behind alone with Hashem as one people. We may live in different communities and different circumstances, but ultimately we are all in the same boat (or plane), beneath the same Clouds of Glory. Our security, our destiny and our future are bound together. The more deeply we recognize that reality, the more deeply we can celebrate the unity and uniqueness that sits at the heart of Shemini Atzeret.