Don’t Look Back! Learning from Lot’s Wife

 “Lot’s wife looked back and she became a pillar of salt” (Vayera 19:26). What is the connection between the crime and the punishment? Why does she turn into a pillar of salt for turning around to look back? The answer lies in one of the most important attributes of salt. Salt is a preservative. It can make things last longer. It is this quality of salt that made it such a valuable commodity throughout history. Foods that spoil quickly, such as meat and vegetables, could be kept edible for a much longer time through salting. The early Chinese used coins of salt, and some Mediterranean people used cakes of salt as currency. It is widely believed that Roman soldiers were paid in salt (the word salary is related to the Latin word for salt). And this is the basis of the expression “worth your grain in salt”. Salt was used by Ancient Egyptians in the process of preserving dead bodies and making mummies. Salt is a necessary component of every Korban offered in the temple. It is described in the Torah as a covenant. It is a symbol of immutable love and preserved commitment between Hashem and the Jewish People. Salt as a preservative is an effective way of maintaining the status quo and keeping things the same. Sometimes preservation is necessary. But sometimes we need to look beyond preservation and allow for the need to change. This was Mrs. Lot’s mistake. By looking back she demonstrated her unwillingness, perhaps an inability, to change. She could not leave behind her life in Sodom, and as a result she had to be left behind. Too much salt can constrict the veins and arteries in your body. (That is the medical basis for correlating high salt intake with high blood pressure as constricted veins require more pressure to circulate the blood.) Similarly, if we are committed to preserving what we do and how we think, then we run the risk of getting constricted in our ability to think creatively and make necessary improvements. Chefs believe that salt used in the correct proportion brings the very best out of the other flavors present in a dish. The same is true of our past experiences: they should be used as a guide to help us thrive in the present. Sometimes all you need in a dish is a little salt- and no other seasoning (like a good piece of meat or corn on the cob). There are also situations in which we can directly and completely apply past experiences to present circumstances. However, more often a dish requires many layers of flavoring, salt being one of them. If you use too much salt, you ruin the dish. Similarly, we often cannot count on doing things “the way that they have always been done.” Creative thinking is necessary to evaluate the situation and utilize in the present the lessons and mistakes that were learned from the past. We are a people that like salt- not just as a seasoning but as a symbol. We are committed to preserving our traditions and remembering our rich history. In this way we resemble Mrs. Lot. However, our true role is our patriarch Avraham. Twice in this week’s parsha we read “Vayisa et einav” that Avraham lifted up his eyes. Avraham does not spend his time looking backwards. He is not stuck in the past like Lot’s wife. Rather, Avraham takes all of his past experiences and utilizes them as he looks forward. Avraham is our model of what it takes to not just survive, but to thrive in an ever-changing environment.  Let us learn from the tragic tale of Lot’s wife to use salt, and our past experiences, effectively. The present must be informed and enhanced by past experience, but we must never be paralyzed while looking back. If we keep our eyes forward- and Upward - then we can be assured of the blessing of a brighter future.

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.

Sukkot: Imagine That

 Imagination plays a critical role in the meaning and observance of Sukkot. It begins with the first time Sukkot appears in the Torah, when Yaakov builds sukkot for his animals. Ohr Hachayim suggests that Yaakov invented the idea of shelter for animals. The first sukkot in the Torah celebrate the ingenuity of our forefather Jacob. Imagination continues to play a prominent role as the Rabbis make sense of the mitzvah of sukkah. The Talmud records that Rabbi Elazar says that Sukkot commemorates the Jews dwelling under the protection of the Ananei Hakavod, the Clouds of Glory. When we eat in the sukkah, we are supposed to think about that experience. The problem is that we have never dwelled in the Clouds of Glory. According to Rabbi Elazar, we will have to use our imaginations to commemorate the Ananei Hakavod. Just as imagination is necessary when dealing with the more esoteric elements of sukkah, so too is it necessary when dealing with the nuts and bolts of sukkah construction. A sukkah does not need to be completely enclosed. It doesn’t even need to have three full walls. Two connected walls and a third piece of a wall suffice. The laws of Gud Asik, Dofen Akuma and Lavud require us to see something that is not literally there: a wall continuing upward, a roof becoming part of a wall, or empty space being treated as though schach is present. If you utilize all of these rules at one time, you may need a great deal of imagination to view that sukkah as functional protection. And yet, the halacha is that such a seemingly incomplete structure would be perfectly kosher for Sukkot use. We just need to use our imaginations. Imagination helps a person see what is possible, not only what everyone else assumes to be true. Imagination allows a person to see things as they could be. One of the recommendations suggested to help adults boost their imaginations is to change daily habits. This is exactly what we are doing this week as we dwell in the sukkah: Tzei midirat keva v’shev b’dirat arai. We leave our regular existence and hold up in a dirat arai, a change of pace whereby our imagination is given more reign.  Even the concept that our sukkahs should serve as our permanent homes for the week is framed in terminology that alludes to the need for imagination: Teishvu k’eyn taduru. We dwell in the sukkah as if we lived there. We don’t really give up our homes. The mail will still come to our permanent address, and we’re moving right back in at the end of the week. But on this holiday where imagination is the task at hand, we are instructed to imagine that our real home is the sukkah. By using our imagination while in the sukkah, we can develop skills that will serve us well for the rest of our lives. Just as the farmer would celebrate all of the bounty that Hashem had blessed him with, so too let appreciate that all of our achievements are really from Hashem. Sukkot is a time not only to strengthen the abstract notion of Emunah, that G-d is in charge, but the very personal and practical notion of Bitachon, that G-d plays a pivotal role in my own life, and that Hashem must be recognized and thanked in connection with all of my success. There is a dispute between Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai whether a Sukkah Yeshana, a sukkah built prior to 30 days before Sukkot, is permissible to use on the holiday. Rav Soloveitchik explained that even according to Beit Hillel, an old sukkah requires that an element of ingenuity be introduced into the sukkah within 30 days of the holiday. Even if the sukkah had been built a year ago specifically for the mitzvah of sukkah, something fresh needs to be added. Our relationship with the sukkah and its message must change and develop each year. We too need to consider ways to keep our sukkah experience, and our religious lives, fresh, new and relevant. The answer is as simple as it is challenging and emerges as an important theme of Sukkot: Use your imagination.

Ode to a Familiar Tune

 There are certain Jewish melodies that feel as if they have been around forever. One of them is the melody we often sing for “Etz Chaim Hi” as we return the Torah to the Aron Kodesh. Most of us probably assume that it is an old melody, passed down through generations. It isn’t. The melody was composed by Tanchum Portnoy, who passed away recently on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, at the age of 75. Portnoy composed “Etz Chaim Hi” in the early 1970s, when he was just 22 years old, and it was recorded on his 1975 album Tanchumim. Within a generation, it had become so familiar that people assumed it was a traditional melody. The music publisher Velvel Pasternak once found it identified simply as “traditional” and corrected the attribution. The story of Tanchum Portnoy is particularly meaningful because of the legacy he inherited from his father, Rabbi Eliezer Portnoy. Rabbi Eliezer came to the Mir Yeshiva as a young orphan with virtually nothing. He spoke about wanting to make a name and a lineage for himself. This was accomplished in a most unexpected manner: when he helped save the students of the Mir Yeshiva (he personally dealt with the famous Japanese diplomat Sugihara) during the Holocaust, enabling hundreds of young men to escape. Those students went on to create their own names; build families, communities and Torah institutions. Tanchum, in his own way, left a far reaching legacy. His melody became part of Jewish life beyond those who knew him personally. A tune he wrote as a young man became something that thousands of Jews would sing, decade after decade. It is particularly appropriate to talk about a familiar tune on Shabbat Shuvah, because that is what teshuvah is meant to be: a return to something familiar. The Gemara in Niddah teaches that before a child is born, an angel teaches the fetus the entire Torah. Then, just before birth, the child forgets everything it learned. Why teach us the Torah only to make us forget it? Rav Soloveitchik explained that this occurs so that when we encounter Torah during our lives, it should never feel completely foreign. On some level, we have already encountered it. Torah is familiar to us. Learning is, in a sense, always recalling and never really starting from scratch. This familiarity is true not only of Torah learning, but Torah living as well. Shabbat, davening, chesed, connection to Hashem and responsibility for other Jews are not foreign concepts that we need to introduce into our lives. They should feel natural, even familiar, because they are part of who we are. It may be possible for someone to forget and become distant. We may drift away from certain aspects of tradition or ritual, such that some elements of Jewish life may feel less familiar. But the Torah assures us that somewhere beneath that distance is something familiar. That is what makes teshuvah possible. Hashiveinu Hashem eilecha venashuvah, chadesh yameinu k’kedem. “Return us to You, Hashem, and we will return. Renew our days as of old.” Teshuvah is a return. We are not being asked to become someone entirely new. We are being asked to return to something that is familiar, something already part of our identity. That is the meaning of k’kedem, “as of old.” We may have forgotten, we may have drifted, but the Torah, the mitzvot and our relationship with Hashem are not foreign to us. They are familiar in a deep and essential way. A melody written only fifty years ago can become so familiar that we assume it has been around for generations. Perhaps familiarity is not really a measure of how old something is, but of how deeply it resonates with who we are. Hashiveinu Hashem eilecha venashuvah. Bring us back to You, Hashem, and we will return. Because deep down, we never really left.

9/11 and Aseret Ymei Teshuva: Lessons in Resilience

 As we commemorate September 11, 2001, the events of that day continue to challenge many survivors, even 25 years later. One such person is Virginia Buckingham, who was the head of Boston’s Logan Airport on 9/11, the origin of the two planes that crashed in New York City. After the terrorist attack, many people, including the media, politicians and some families of victims, looked to blame Logan Airport, and Buckingham specifically, for a “failure to prevent” the terrorists from boarding their flights. In the aftermath of an unprecedented catastrophe, people want to find a scapegoat, someone they can blame so that they can feel more secure that once that person or problem is taken care of, they do not have to worry about it ever happening again and they can go on with their lives as before. Buckingham was asked to resign and was sued by several families. She began to question herself: maybe I am guilty. Maybe I should have known about the threat and stopped it from happening. Ultimately, the 9/11 Commission found that Logan Airport was as secure as every other US airport. Both the airport and Buckingham were blameless, and the lawsuits were dismissed. But that did not lead Buckingham immediately to forgive herself and move on. In her memoir On My Watch, she describes trauma, grief, depression and resilience. As she puts it, she can never “move on,” only “move forward.” She does not expect to ever fully recover from her experience. She hopes that she can use those experiences to grow and become a better person. Buckingham lives in the coastal town of Marblehead, Massachusetts. Through her many walks along the shore, she came to see herself like a piece of sea glass. “Sea glass comes from a broken bottle that the sea has tossed about. It’s completely unrecognizable from what it started as. But it still has value. It’s still beautiful.” 9/11 tested our resilience, both as individuals and as a nation. Merriam-Webster offers two definitions of resilience: “the capability of a strained body to recover its size and shape after deformation,” and “an ability to recover from or adjust easily to misfortune or change.” The second definition is particularly important. Resilience is not simply about returning to what we were before. Sherri Mandel, the mother of Koby, wrote about this in her book on resilience. In Hebrew, the word designating resilience, chosen, means to be inoculated, impermeable. But neither of these terms describe the Jewish concept of resilience. Judaism teaches us that we always need to become greater, bigger, better. You have to expand in order to be able to contain the new you, shattered though you may feel. Resilience is about becoming, not overcoming. When we face a trauma, we are in danger of breaking apart; we may even fear that we will lose our sense of self. Yet that same sense of vulnerability and fracture can lead us toward connecting to something greater than ourselves, connecting to others and to the Divine. Mandel concludes that resilience is connected to the word for silence and also the word for salience. What silenced you, what felt beyond language, now propels you to find salience: a heightened sense of meaning and significance, a deeper conversation with God. Sometimes, after the tear, we can actually come back better. In 2006, casino owner Steve Wynn accidentally poked a hole with his elbow in Le Rêve, a 1932 Picasso painting he was in the process of selling for $139 million. The painting was restored for $90,000, and seven years later Wynn sold it for $155 million, $16 million more than he had originally been offered. While some may think that this time of year is meant for beating ourselves up over our shortcomings and our mistakes, Aseret Ymei Teshuva are really about tapping into our resilience. Let us be reminded that we can become stronger and even more valuable after the tear.

Debunking a False Choice: Jewish Survival and the Good of the World

A recent controversy in Michigan raises an important question about what it means for Jews to care about the future. Michigan Attorney General Dana Nessel, speaking to a Jewish Democratic group about the upcoming Senate election, urged Jewish voters to put the “needs of the world” above their own self-interest, and even “our own survival.” Her comments generated significant criticism, not simply because of the politics involved, but because of the philosophy behind the statement. The suggestion that Jewish survival might have to be placed on one side of a moral equation, with the good of the world on the other, struck many as deeply troubling. Parshat Nitzavim offers a very different framework. At the end of Moshe’s final speech to the Jewish people, he tells them: רְאֵה נָתַתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ הַיּוֹם אֶת הַחַיִּים וְאֶת הַטּוֹב, וְאֶת הַמָּוֶת וְאֶת הָרָע... וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים אַתָּה וְזַרְעֶךָ . “I have placed before you life and death, good and evil... choose life, you and your descendants.” Choosing life is not simply a personal decision. It is an intergenerational responsibility. We are commanded to choose a future in which the Jewish people continue to exist, to raise generations, to be ambassadors of Torah and Jewish values, and to carry our tradition forward. The argument that we must choose between Jewish survival and the good of humanity is a dangerous idea and a false choice. We must understand that being Jewish is one of the ways we make the world better. By preserving our Jewish values and teachings, we are able to contribute essential ideas to the world. For instance, the Torah teaches the sanctity of human life, the dignity of every person created in the image of God, justice, compassion, responsibility for the stranger, care for the vulnerable, and the obligation to build a society guided by morality. These are not values that the world would be better off without. They are values the world needs. For thousands of years, the Jewish people have contributed to civilization in ways that extend far beyond our own community. Those contributions can only continue if there is a strong and vibrant Jewish community going forward. We are not the first generation to face the question of whether Jewish life is worth preserving, and we will not be the last. Every generation receives Judaism as a gift and a responsibility. We inherit a tradition that survived because previous generations chose to preserve it, and we have an obligation to make sure that it remains vibrant and relevant to those who come after us. There are many things that we are willing to sacrifice for the sake of others, such as our time, our money, our comfort, and our personal interests. Judaism teaches us to look beyond ourselves and to care deeply about the broader world. But Jewish survival itself cannot be treated as something expendable. It is part of the responsibility we have been given. The world does not benefit from a weaker Judaism or from a Jewish people that is less secure, less confident, or less willing to preserve its identity. The world benefits from a Jewish people that is alive, thriving, and able to contribute its unique voice. The choice, then, is not between Jewish survival and the good of the world. The choice is whether we will have the courage to believe that the Jewish people still have a role to play in making the world better. This is what it means to choose life, for ourselves and for those who come after us.  We choose Jewish life not at the expense of the world, but because we believe that the world is better off with a living, thriving Jewish people. 

The Altalena & Bikkurim: Lessons in Jewish Unity

This week, news came from Israel of the discovery of the wreckage of the Altalena, the ship that sank off the coast of Tel Aviv in June 1948, just weeks after the establishment of the State of Israel. The ship was carrying weapons and fighters for the Irgun, and its arrival created a bitter confrontation between Menachem Begin and the new Israeli government led by David Ben-Gurion. The confrontation escalated into fighting between Jews: three IDF soldiers and sixteen Irgun members were killed. Begin ultimately ordered his followers not to retaliate, warning against allowing the confrontation to become a civil war.

The wreckage was found 1600 feet beneath the Mediterranean, nearly 80 years later. And it is hard not to notice the timing. The discovery has reopened one of the most painful chapters in Israel's history at a time when Israeli society is again deeply divided as they gear up for national elections on October 27. In the days immediately after October 7, 2023 we heard often that a lesson from that tragedy was the importance of Jewish unity- and the danger of Jewish discord. In case this lesson starts to fade with time, Parshat Ki Tavo reminds us on an annual basis. At the center of the Parsha is the mitzvah of Bikkurim. A farmer brings the first fruits of his harvest to the Beit Hamikdash and makes a declaration beginning with the words: אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי “An Aramean sought to destroy my father,” according to the familiar interpretation of Rashi. But Ibn Ezra offers a very different reading. He understands oved not as “destroyed” but as “wandering,” meaning, “My father was a wandering Aramean.” Why does the Torah ask a farmer standing in the Beit Hamikdash, surrounded by the bounty of Eretz Yisrael, to begin his declaration by remembering that Yaakov was a wandering Aramean? Yaakov's family was not simply wandering geographically. It was deeply divided internally. Yaakov's children were fighting with one another, Yosef was sold by his brothers, and the family that should have become a unified nation was fractured by jealousy, distrust and resentment. The consequence was exile. Yaakov's family descended to Egypt, and eventually the Jewish people became slaves to Pharaoh. The Bikkurim declaration therefore begins with a reminder of the internal divisions that helped set the process of exile into motion. We often think about Jewish continuity in terms of the threats that come from outside, including antisemitism. And those threats are real. By Bikkurin the Torah reminds us that there is another danger, one that is potentially even more pernicious because it comes from within. The Altalena is a sobering example. In 1948, Israel was surrounded by Arab armies determined to destroy the new Jewish state. And yet, in the midst of that existential external threat, Jews came frighteningly close to fighting a civil war against one another. The issue was weapons, authority and competing visions for the future of the State, but beneath those issues was the inability of Jews who shared the same dream to maintain their unity when they profoundly disagreed. Begin's decision not to retaliate preserved something greater than a political victory. It preserved the possibility of Jewish unity.

Jewish unity does not mean that we always agree. It does not mean that we stop caring about the issues that divide us, or that we abandon our principles. Unity means recognizing that there are disagreements that can be survived and divisions that can destroy us. By referencing the discord within Yaakov’s family, the Torah is telling us that Jewish disunity is not merely unpleasant. It is a threat to Jewish national survival. The opposite is equally true. Jewish unity is one of our greatest sources of protection and resilience. We have survived enemies far more powerful than ourselves because, at critical moments, we remembered that before we are liberals or conservatives, religious or secular, Ashkenazim or Sephardim, we are Am Yisrael, one Jewish People.

The farmer brought his first fruits to the Beit Hamikdash as an individual, but his declaration told the story of a family becoming a nation. He could enjoy the blessings of the Land only because generations before him had survived exile, slavery and division.

As the Altalena rises from the depths of the Mediterranean into our national consciousness, we should hear its message clearly. There will always be external threats. There will always be serious disagreements among us. But we must never allow those disagreements to become more powerful than the bonds that unite us.

Parenting Lessons from the Rebellious Child

 Parshat Ki Teitzei contains within it a discussion of the Ben Sorrer Umoreh the rebellious child. The Torah describes a tween-age child that is gluttonous and rebellious and does not listen to his/her parents. Exasperated, the parents together bring the rebellious child to the judges of that city. The Torah treats such a situation with the utmost of gravity, and such a young person is subject to capital punishment if found guilty.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 71) is skeptical if such a scenario ever actually occurred. According to one opinion, the Ben Sorrer Umoreh never actually existed in reality, and the Torah was aware of the impossibility of such a scenario. According to a second opinion, there is the hypothetical possibility of a Ben Sorrer Umoreh existing, but the probability of it actually occurring in real life is slim to none. According to both of these opinions, the purpose of the Torah’s introducing us to this rebellious child is “Derosh v’Kabel Sechar”, analyze the case, learn its lessons, and be rewarded for your efforts. What are the lessons of the Ben Sorrer Umoreh, from which we can learn and gain insight?

The Maharsha suggests two important lessons. According to the opinion that the Ben Sorrer Umoreh never could really happen, the reason is because there is an emphasis in the Talmud on the parity between both parents (same voice, same appearance) in order for the rebellious child to be liable. The Maharsha writes that such consistency is impossible, and the child can claim that sometimes the father would warn him and sometimes the mother would warn him, but never both of them at the same time- which is a requirement to be labeled a Ben Sorrer Umoreh.

The Maharsha continues to explain the rationale for the opinion that a Ben Sorrer Umoreh is possible but improbable. Although it is possible for both parents and child to fulfill all of the criteria laid out by the Torah/ Talmud, it is highly unlikely, writes the Maharsha, that the parents would ever tell on their child and bring the child to be punished by the judges of the city. One of the requirements is that both parents bring the child to be disciplined. The Maharsha writes, based on his own observations, that it is more likely that the parents will have an abundance of compassion and tolerance towards their child, and not bring him/her to be disciplined. According to the Maharsha, the parents’ attitude constitutes misplaced compassion and tolerance that is detrimental to both the child and society at large.

As we begin a new school year it behooves us, as parents and educators, to heed well the lessons of the Ben Sorrer Umoreh as taught to us by the Maharsha. First, we must strive to present to our children a consistent message as far as our values and our expectations. To be most effective, the message should be consistent between each parent, as well as between parents and teachers. Children get confused and opportunities are missed when our lessons and messaging lack consistency.  Second, we must understand, as the Rambam teaches, that an abundance of almost anything is dangerous.  Gluttony is one type of overindulgence.  But as the Maharsha explains, there is such a thing as overindulging our children: too much compassion and tolerance for a child’s misbehavior. When we love our children, but do not set limits, we can be doing more harm than good.

If we strive for a consistent message, and love our children while providing for them limits, then we will, B’Ezrat Hashem, be worthy of the reward that is promised to those who explore the meaning behind the Ben Sorrer Umoreh.

Spite May Not Be Nice- But it’s Human

 The Talmud (Brachot 31b) formulates an important idea: Dibra Torah B’lashon bnei adam. Although the Torah is of Divine origin, it was written in “the language of human beings,” in the way people talk.

This concept helps us understand many passages in the Torah. It explains, for example, anthropomorphic imagery, where God is described as having a yad, a hand. Some Orthodox Biblical scholars utilize this concept to show that although the Torah is timeless, it was given to Bnai Yisrael in a particular historical and cultural context. Understanding that the Torah may speak in the common language of its time can help explain certain mitzvot in their historical context of more than 3,300 years ago, such as slavery and levirate marriage. Others point to parallels between the way Hashem spoke to Bnai Yisrael when entering into a brit, such as at Mt Sinai, and the way ancient kings entered into treaties with subservient nations.

The concept of Dibra Torah B’lashon bnei adam can also help us understand an otherwise enigmatic passage in this week’s Parsha.

In Chapter 20, Parshat Shoftim focuses on the laws of Jewish warfare. The first topic addressed is the list of those exempted from the battlefield.

The Torah lists three specific exemptions followed by a more general one:

1. One who built a new house but has not yet lived in it.

2. One who planted a vineyard but has not yet enjoyed its fruits.

3. One who is engaged but has not yet gotten married.

4. Anyone who is yarei v’rach haleivav, fearful and fainthearted.

Obtaining a house, a vineyard, and a wife are important milestones in a person’s life. This becomes evident from the curses in Parshat Ki Tavo (28:30).

The exemptions are understandable. These people are more distracted; their battle instincts may be compromised, which in turn could endanger the entire army and its mission.

What is less understandable is the reason given by the Torah for these specific exemptions:

“Pen yamut b’milchama, v’ish acher yachnechenu, yechallelenu, yikachena.”

The focus of concern is not simply the possibility of death, but the fact that an ish acher, someone else, will come along and benefit from that which the deceased soldier prepared but never had a chance to enjoy. Rashi comments that such a situation causes agmat nefesh, heartbreak. But would these situations be more heartbreaking than many other military casualty? What makes these casualties more tragic than the loss of a soldier who is an only child to his parents, or a married soldier who leaves behind a widow and young children? Is the possibility of an ish acher really the concern to which the Torah should draw our attention? That someone else will get this man’s wife, house, or vineyard after he is dead?

I can’t help but be reminded of a poem by Shel Silverstein that I read as a child, “The Prayer of the Selfish Child”:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray thee Lord my soul to keep

And if I day before I wake

I pray thee Lord my toys to break

So none of the other kids can use ‘em

Amen

The poem speaks to a basic element of human nature: spite. It is the idea that if I can’t have it, then no one can. People can become upset by the prospect of someone else benefiting, even when it does not come at their expense. Spiteful people are willing to lose in order to make sure that others do not gain.

Researchers have tried to understand this phenomenon. Is it an affronted sense of fairness? Envy? Revenge? Or something more sinister? History is littered with examples of leaders who acted out of spite, often with horrendous results.

Spite is a uniquely human phenomenon, evident even among young children. Psychologist Paul Bloom conducted an experiment in which children were given the opportunity to prevent another badly behaved child from receiving a food he liked. Some children ate food that they disliked, like broccoli, simply to make sure the badly behaved child would not receive the broccoli that they loved.

Being spiteful is not something we necessarily grow out of as adults. People will sometimes work to ensure that another person gains no benefit from a situation, even though their own position will not be enhanced as a result. This seems to be the type of human emotion alluded to in our Parsha. The Torah, while at no time condoning these feelings of spite, understands human nature and recognizes that spite is a powerful emotion that needs to be considered. 

Parshat Shoftim is always read at the beginning of Chodesh Elul. One of the well-known acronyms of Elul is Ani L’Dodi V’Dodi Li. Spite can be a powerful force. We should appreciate the danger of focusing on the ish acher, on what someone else may have, receive, or enjoy, and stop defining our happiness based on other people. As we head toward a New Year, let us not focus on the other but rather on the Ani: our lives, our goals, and our blessings.

Torah Starts with Looking At Words - But Ends With Seeing Things Differently

 On August 4, 1958, Israel held the first National Bible Contest (Chidon HaTanach), followed by the first International Bible Contest two weeks later.  It was one of the signature events marking the young state's first decade and reflected David Ben-Gurion's belief that the Bible was not merely an ancient text but the foundation of Jewish identity.

Recently on the National Library of Israel website I came across the remarkable story of the contest's first champion, Amos Hakham, and the powerful lesson his life offers. Born with cerebral palsy, Amos faced significant physical challenges. His speech was difficult, his mobility was limited, and the world around him saw his limitations before perceiving his abilities. Unable to find work that reflected his intellect, he spent years in modest jobs while dedicating himself to the study of Jewish texts. His small apartment was filled with Jewish books. While outside people judged him “by his cover”, no judgement impeded his study of Torah. Torah was not only something that he knew; it was something that shaped the way he viewed the world, others, and himself.

When he appeared at the Bible Contest, few expected him to advance far. Yet his profound knowledge and passion for Tanach captivated the country. With his win, Hakham’s life changed completely. He began academic studies for the first time and eventually became an important Bible scholar. He wrote commentaries for several books of Tanachas part of the Da’at Mikra series, which are known for their clarity and thoroughness. Two years after the contest, Hakham married Devora Atas, and the couple had a son, Noah. Hakham quickly became known as a world expert on the Bible and he began receiving inquiries, from fourth graders to major corporations, research institutes and universities. He was even asked to suggest pesukim suitable for decorating the halls of Knesset. Torah did far more for Amos than fill his mind with information. Torah gave him an identity that the world would have never expected. It gave him purpose, dignity, and the sense that he possessed unique gifts that were waiting to be developed. This idea relates to the beginning of this week's Parsha. Moshe begins with a single word: "Re'eh" "See." One might have expected Moshe to begin with "listen." Torah is often transmitted through hearing. Why does Moshe command us to see instead of hear? We all look at the same world, but we do not all see the same things. Two people can experience the same circumstances and walk away with completely different understandings. One person sees an obstacle; another sees an opportunity. One person sees a weakness; another sees potential. One person sees a difficult moment as a reason to give up; another sees it as an invitation to grow. While studying Torah includes looking at words, the purpose of Torah is to teach us how to see things properly. That kind of vision does not develop simply by knowing lots of information. It develops when Torah becomes part of who we are. We live in an extraordinary age of information. Within seconds, we can search vast libraries of Torah. These are remarkable tools, and when used properly they can enhance our learning in ways previous generations could never have imagined. But they remain just tools. Artificial intelligence can help us find a pasuk. It cannot help us absorb that pasuk into our lives. It can locate all of the sources on the mitzvah to love our neighbor. It cannot create the empathy that allows us to see another person with greater compassion. AI can spit out everything ever written about the obligation to judge others favorably. It cannot transform us into people who instinctively give others the benefit of the doubt.  Today, information can be acquired instantly. But knowledge is meant to foster growth, impact and transformation, all of which take time. Torah did not simply make Amos Harkham a person who knew more. It helped him become more. It gave him the confidence to believe that his life had meaning and that his unique abilities were gifts from Hashem to develop and utilize to improve himself and the world around him. Before Moshe asks us to look at our choices, he asks us whether we our using our Torah lenses to see properly. Moshe’s charge of “Re’eh” and the Chidon HaTanach remain as relevant as ever, even in this era of AI. Because the Torah was never meant to remain merely information that we possess. It is meant to become the vision through which we see, grow and impact.

The 97th Anniversary of the Chevron Massacre

They were the first group of American Yeshiva students to go to learn in Israel, but it wasn’t exactly the experience that students seek out and anticipate today. It was the 1920s, and thirsting for an authentic Torah experience, they traveled to the ancient holy city of Chevron from cities as far away as Seattle, Memphis, Philadelphia, and Chicago. It was a difficult journey that entailed various trains, ships, and even donkeys to reach their final destination. There were several dozen of these “Yankees,” with names like Benny and Dave and Billy and Jackie who joined together with the Rebbeim and Talmidim of the Slabodka Yeshiva after it moved from Lithuania to Israel in 1924. Their European-born counterparts were impressive scholars; personalities like Reuven Trop, Yaakov Moshe Leibowitz, Mordechai Schulman, Chaim Zev Finkel, and Yitzchak Varshover (Hutner). Though the American and the European boys came from vastly different backgrounds, Torah was the great unifier and the common language that transcended other differences. So is, unfortunately, hate and destruction. Just five years later the entire Yeshivah, along with the Jewish community of Chevron, was evacuated following a horrific pogrom on Shabbat morning Parshas Eikev, the 18^th of Av (today on the Jewish calendar) 1929, in which 67 Jews were slaughtered and close to a hundred others injured. Of the 24 students of the Slabodka Yeshiva murdered in the massacre, eight of them were Americans. Historians debate the exact beginning of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Some go as far back as the conflict between Avraham’s two sons, Yitzchak and Yishmael. Others start the modern conflict with the founding of the State of Israel in 1948. One event often overlooked is the 1929 massacre of Jews in Chevron. That event is the focus of journalist Yardena Schwartz’s recent book, Ghosts of a Holy War. Schwartz opens her historical narrative with the tragic tale of David Shainberg, an idealistic, 22-year-old American Jew from a secular family who leaves a comfortable existence in his hometown of Memphis in 1928 to study in a yeshiva in Chevron. Access to an extensive set of letters Shainberg had sent home (letters that sat untouched in a family attic for decades) enables Schwartz to vividly describe life in Mandatory Palestine. She details Shainberg’s unlikely journey, his passion for Torah study and his magical time in Chevron until it all crashed down in August 1929. Schwartz spares no details in her account of the grisly Arab attacks on Chevron’s Jewish community and of the belated and poor response of British Mandate officials. She writes, “3,000 Muslim men armed with swords, axes, and daggers marched through the Jewish quarter of Hebron,” killing 67 Jews, traumatizing hundreds and causing the 800-strong Jewish community to flee to Jerusalem.

In 1931, 31 Jewish families returned to Chevron and reestablished the community. This effort was short-lived, and in April 1936, fearing another massacre, the British authorities evacuated the community. During the 1948 War of Independence, Chevron was captured by Jordan, and the ancient city remained without any Jewish residents. In 1967 Chevron was redeemed by the IDF in the Six Day War.  On April 4, 1968, a group of Jews registered at the Park Hotel in the city. The next day they announced that they had come to reestablish Hebron’s Jewish community. After an initial period of deliberation, Prime Minister Levi Eshkol temporarily moved the group into a nearby IDF compound, while a new community, Kiryat Arba, was built adjacent to Chevron. The Jewish community in Chevron itself was reestablished permanently in April 1979, when a group of Jews from Kiryat Arba moved into Beit Hadassah. Since then the Jewish community of Chevron has suffered many terror attacks, but through it all they have shown tremendous commitment to never again abandon the City of our Matriarchs and Patriarchs. We had the opportunity earlier this year to hear Yishai Fleischer speak passionately about Chevron, and I encourage everyone who visits Israel to visit Chevron. One easy way to do so is by joining the weekly tour of Chevron that leaves from Jerusalem and is organized by the Hebron Fund. Today, Shabbat Parshat Ekev, the 97^th anniversary of the Chevron massacre is a good time for us to think about how much has changed since then (Jewish State and Chevron now under Jewish sovereignty) and how much has remained the same (murderous hatred of Jews exhibited by Arabs, a world indifferent to Jewish suffering). In Sefer Devarim Moshe reminds us that the arc of Jewish history is long. It includes many detours, roadblocks and trials. But it ultimately leads to a day on which The Jewish People thrive in their homeland. We are grateful for the progress that has been made since 1929, and we pray and do our part towards the fulfillment of Hashem’s promise and of our dreams.

 

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.