Feb 23, 2018 | Torat Devorah
Parshat Tetzaveh usually precedes Purim, when we read the “maftir”portion describing how Amalek attacked the Jewish people as they left Egypt – even though Amalek lived in a distant land and was under no imminent threat. So why did Amalek attack?
Rabbi Shraga Simmons explains: ‘The Torah says that Amalek attacked the Jews “karcha” – which literally means by way of happenstance. Amalek’s entire philosophy is that there is no design or providence in the world. Everything is haphazard, dictated by chance, luck and fate. That’s why Haman, a direct descendent of Amalek, decided to kill the Jews based on a lottery, from which the name “Purim” is derived. Philosophically, Amalek and the Jewish people stand at opposite ends of the spectrum. Judaism believes that the world has purpose and meaning, and that God is intimately involved in our lives. Indeed, that is the very lesson of Purim: Even when things seems bleak, God is there, guiding events. With Haman’s decree, it seemed that the Jews were doomed. But then there was a dramatic turnabout. In our own lives, to the extent we may doubt God’s involvement, is the extent that Amalek’s philosophy of randomness is part of us.
The Kabbalists point out the numerical value of Amalek — 240 — is the same as safek, meaning “doubt.” The energy of Amalek is to create doubts about what is true and real in this world, and of God’s role in directing events in the best possible way. This concept is so important that one of 613 mitzvot is to remember what Amalek did. And that’s what we do, every year, on the Shabbat before Purim. So let’s take this message to heart, and do our part – to fight Amalek’s idea of a random world.’
But Rashi offers other explanations, one of which is quite fascinating. Rashi suggests that “asher karcha” can mean “he who cooled you off,” and he offers the metaphor of a seething cauldron or tub of boiling water, which Amalek cooled off by jumping into it. Rabbi Weinrib elaborates: ‘The seething cauldron can be a metaphor for either the fear with which the other witnessing nations were overcome, which was dissipated by Amalek’s precedent. Alternatively, it can be a metaphor for the bubbling enthusiasm of the triumphant Jewish people, which was diminished, perhaps permanently, by the effects of Amalek’s attack.
Rabbi Isaac Hutner, in his posthumously published essays on Purim, takes the latter approach. “The Jewish people,” he writes, “were full of a spiritual energy and optimism that was dimmed by the scoffer Amalek.” The scoffing cynic has the ability to burst the bubble of enthusiasm with a shrug and a “so what?” or “big deal!” Amalek rained on our parade…It would be instructive to remember Amalek as the cynical scoffer who would diminish our fervor and spirit. In remembering him in this manner, we would also do well to resolve that we ourselves are never guilty of mocking the accomplishments of others. We must be careful not to rain on the parade of other human beings, but rather to appreciate their accomplishments with neither envy nor disparagement.’
Feb 16, 2018 | Torat Devorah
Betzalel was given the task of constructing all the pieces of the Tabernacle in the desert. In making the Aron – the box that held the Tablets of the Law – he used wood and gold. It would seem to have been sufficient to cover the wooden box with gold, but actually God required it to be also covered inside with gold. So it was a gold box inside a wood box inside a gold box. Why all the unnecessary gold?
Rabbi Max Weiman answers: ‘WYSIWYG stands for “what you see is what you get.” This concept has many ramifications. When you can tell what you’re getting you have trust and confidence in the producer of the goods. The fakers of the world cause us to mistrust everyone. They not only damage their own credibility, but they ruin things for the rest…Who is God? Does He put on a fake exterior? Does He pretend to be what He’s not?
God is infinite. He does not change. He is through and through the same. A oneness that has no equal. Therefore any hint of falsehood or fake exterior is the opposite of Godliness. The Talmud says that one of the telltale signs of a true scholar is that his “outside reflect his inside.” Someone who wants to be an example and a representative of holiness in the world must aspire to this trait. And in fact it’s something that each of us, on whatever level we’re on, should strive for. One of the most important commandments in the Torah is to emulate the Almighty. Since truth, honesty, and integrity are part of God’s definition, we need to emulate those traits. That’s what the Aron represents: the quality of the inside and the outside being one.’
Rabbi Ron Jawary offers his insight into the Parshah and the concept of giving and taking with regard to the ‘terumah’: ‘One of the main misconceptions people have about Judaism is that they feel they are doing God a favor by doing mitzvot. However, since God is Infinite and complete, there isn’t anything we can do for the Divine. This week the Torah teaches us that what would seem like the most altruistic gift of all time — the giving of our assets to build God’s home — is not really giving at all. It is an opportunity to open ourselves to a relationship with the Divine. “Build for Me a temple and I will dwell amongst you.” Perhaps that is why the giving of our resources to build the temple is referred to as “taking” – “Speak to the Children of Israel and let them take for Me a portion…” (Exodus, 25:2). Every time we do a mitzvah, we create an eternal connection between ourselves and the Divine. Doing something for God is really doing something for ourselves. We can become a little bit kinder and a little more understanding. The attitude we need to nurture is that everything in life is one big opportunity to connect with God. He is the ultimate giver in the world, and we can choose to be His conduit or partner — the medium of connection between this world and the Divine. That’s one of the reasons why the Torah is called a “tree of life:” it teaches us how to plant seeds that can blossom for eternity.’
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
Feb 9, 2018 | Torat Devorah
The Torah states: “You shall not curse a judge, and a ruler among your people you shall not curse.” (Exodus 22:27) Even though you might think that a judge has erred in rendering a decision against you, you are forbidden to curse him. It is very possible that he is correct and you are wrong, but you are unaware of the justice because a person often overlooks his own guilt. However, even if a judge has erred, you nonethelss have no right to curse him.
Rabbi Zelig Pliskin relates the following story: “In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s Rabbi Yosef Chaim Sonnenfeld lived in the Old City of Jerusalem. He was an exemplary talmud chacham (scholar) full of knowledge, wisdom and refined character. Before Rosh Hashana, someone who lost a court case over which Rav Yosef Chaim presided, approached Rabbi Sonnenfeld and cursed him for what he felt was a distortion of justice. Rabbi Sonnenfeld was grieved to see the man behave in such a manner, especially right before Rosh Hashanah. With an outward appearance of anger, he said to him, “Listen to me! If you are right, I will pray to God to forgive me, because a judge is not infallible and can only decide a case in the manner which he thinks correct. But if I am right…” The person was in a very nervous state as Rabbi Sonnenfeld continued, “If I am right, God should forgive you.” Upon hearing this, the man calmed down and asked forgiveness from Rabbi Sonnenfeld. When the man left, Rav Yosef Chaim explained to those who were in the room with him, “This man is really a fine person. I knew that when he would calm down, he would definitely regret his behavior and he would surely want to repent for what he has done. However, knowing that for his repentance to be accepted he would have to ask me for forgiveness, he might have been embarrassed to approach me and wouldn’t repent at all. I therefore decided to make it easier for him to repent.”
The Torah states: “Do not go after the majority to do evil” (Exodus 23:2). Rabainu Bachya explains that the plain meaning of our verse is that if you see many people doing something that is wrong, you should not follow their example.It is natural for a person to imitate the behavior of others and say, “So many other people are doing this, it can’t be so wrong if I do it also.” The Torah is telling us that every person is responsible for his own behavior and that Truth is not legislated by majority rule. It takes courage and strength of character to be different from other people and to live your life by your ideals. If you appreciate that the most important thing in the world is to do the will of the Almighty, you will be able to withstand social pressure.
Before Moses ascended Mt. Sinai to receive the stone Tablets, he and seventy elders were at the foot of the mountain. There: “They saw a vision of the God of Israel, and under His feet was something like a sapphire brick, like the essence of a clear sky” (Exodus 24:10). What can we learn from their vision? Rashi comments that the brick was in the presence of the Almighty during the time the Israelites were enslaved in Egypt to remind Him of their suffering since they were forced to build with bricks in their slavery. “The essence of a clear sky” is a reminder that once they were liberated there was light and joy before the Almighty. Rabbi Yeruchem Levovitz comments that whenever the Torah tells us about the attributes of the Almighty, the purpose is to teach us how we should strive to emulate Him. When someone else suffers, it is not sufficient for us just to try to feel his suffering in the abstract, we should try to ease his suffering if we can. We should also do some concrete action that will clearly remind us of the person’s suffering – rather than just forgetting it and continuing on with our lives. Even at the time of redemption and joy, it is important to recall the previous suffering that one experienced. This adds an entire dimension to the joy. Many people would just like to forget all their suffering when it is over. The proper attitude is to remember it, and this will give a person an even greater appreciation for the good that he experiences.
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
Feb 2, 2018 | Torat Devorah
“And Yitro, the priest of Midian” (18:1)
In this weeks Torah portion, the central and culminating event of Jewish nationhood takes place. G-d gives the Torah to the Jewish People on Mount Sinai. One would think that of all the possible names for this weeks Parsha, the least likely would be that of a non-Jewish priest who had tried every form of idol worship in the world. And yet there it is in black and white: “Yitro priest of Midian.”
Why was this central Parsha of the Torah named after Yitro?
When Yitro heard of the Exodus and the miracles that were performed for the Jewish People his happiness was so great that he felt physically elated, like someone who weeps or faints through being overwhelmed with the emotion of unexpected joy. Literally, his flesh started to prickle. He had gooseflesh. (18:9) No such extreme reaction characterizes the response of the Jewish People. They believed in G-d and Moshe, His servant, sure, but there is no mention of a similar visceral reaction like that of Yitro.
Our nature is to take what we have for granted. Sometimes we need an outsiders view to get us to appreciate with what we have been blessed.
Rabbi Sinclair relates the following true story: “I come from a totally secular Israeli home. By secular I mean atheist. We held no religious beliefs at all, and no Jewish traditions and practices were kept. Yom Kippur was ignored, and I didn’t even celebrate my bar mitzvah.
When I was 16 I began to search for some kind of meaning to life, although at the time I didn’t call it that since I didn’t realize what I was doing. I liked rebels and I started hanging out with all kinds of different people. I dressed and acted like a kind of hippie, and caused no end of embarrassment to my parents. I didn’t believe in anything. I roamed around the country with all the strange characters who were my friends. I could fill a book with my adventures from then.At the age of 21, I packed my bags and set off for India to look for truth. In my quest for meaning, there was no commune or ashram that I did not visit. I got to know many gurus personally. Only someone who has spent time in India can really understand the magnetic force of these communes.My roaming and searching continued and eventually I went to visit the Dalai Lama himself. I was captivated by the Dalai Lama’s personality, by his wisdom and intelligence. I would rise early each morning and attend his daily sermon at 4:30am. As far as I was concerned, he was a human being without any blemishes. Back home in Israel, my parents were worried about me. My father sent me a letter saying he had heard that I had “freaked out,” afraid that I’d really gone crazy. I sent a polite letter back assuring him that I wasn’t crazy but that I was now at a major crossroads in my life. As I mailed the letter I realized that the very wording of my letter would convince my father that I had indeed gone crazy! The same evening I approached one of the Dalai Lama’s assistants and asked for a private audience with the Dalai Lama the next morning after his sermon. The following morning I entered his chambers. He was a gentleman who greeted everyone who came to see him. He bowed to me and offered me a seat. My words poured forth as I told him that I saw truth and meaning in his religion and that I decided to adopt it if he would accept me.”Where are you from,” he asked me. “Israel.” He looked at me. “Are you Jewish?””Yes,” I replied.
His reaction surprised me. His expression turned from friendly to puzzled, with even a tinge of anger. He told me that he did not understand my decision, and that he would not permit me to carry it out. I was stunned. What did he mean? “All religions are an imitation of Judaism,” he stated. “I am sure that when you lived in Israel, your eyes were closed. Please take the first plane back to Israel and open your eyes. Why settle for an imitation when you can have the real thing?”His words spun around in my head the whole day. I thought to myself: I am a Jew and an Israeli, but I know nothing about my own religion. Did I have to search and wander the whole world only to be told that I was blind and that the answers I was seeking were to be found on my own doorstep? I did what the Dalai Lama told me to do. I immediately flew back to Israel and entered a yeshiva. And, as he told me to do, I opened my eyes. I began to see the Dalai Lama had indeed been correct. I discovered Judaism and its vitality, and that it encompassed everything in life. I embraced its laws and found many reasons to live at least 613 reasons! And I found joy. Two years later someone suggested a shidduch. Anat was a young woman of my age who was also a ba’alat teshuvah, a returnee to traditional Judaism. She too had been to Goa and other places in India to search for answers, and she too had found them back in Israel, in the religion of Israel. We clicked immediately. We had gone through the same search for meaning, and the same return to our roots. Eventually, Anat and I got engaged. When I went to offer a gift to the matchmaker, she refused to accept anything, saying that she didn’t deserve it.”But it’s customary to give the matchmaker a gift — and I want to do it.” “You are quite right, but in this case I am not the matchmaker,” she replied simply.”What do you mean?” “I’ll tell you. Anat came to me and showed me a piece of paper with a name in it. She asked me to introduce her to the person whose name was written there. She knew nothing at all about that person, but said that she had been given his name by someone she trusts completely… It was your name.” After the engagement party, Anat and I went for a walk. “Tell me,” I said, “how did this shidduch come about? I want to know who gave you my name, so that I can pay him.” Anat said “I haven’t told you yet that at the end of my wandering, I went to the Dalai Lama. I was very impressed by him and all he embodied and I decided to join his religion. When I told him he said, ‘Anat, since you are Jewish you should not settle for silver if you can have gold.’ He told me to return to my roots and then in a whisper, he asked one of his assistants to bring him a piece of paper. The Dalai Lama then copied the name that was there onto another piece of paper, and handed it to me. ‘This is your soul mate,’ he told me. With a smile, Anat said to me, “So you will have to travel to India to pay the shadchan.”
Sometimes it takes a priest of Midian to remind us that we have the gold.”
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
Jan 26, 2018 | Torat Devorah
G‑d did not lead them through the way of the land of the Philistines (13:17)
The Midrash Rabbah explains: The tribe of Ephraim had erred and departed from Egypt 30 years before the destined time, with the result that three hundred thousand of them were slain by the Philistines . . . and their bones lay in heaps on the road. . . . G‑d therefore said: If Israel sees the bones of the sons of Ephraim strewn in the road, they will return to Egypt . . .Thus the verse says, v’lo nacham Elokim (“G‑d did not lead them,” which can also be translated as “G‑d was not comforted”). This is comparable to a king whose sons were carried off as captives, and some of them died in captivity. The king afterwards came and saved those that were left. While he rejoiced over those who survived, he was never comforted for those who had died.
G‑d said to Moses: “Why do you cry out to Me? Speak to the children of Israel, that they should go forward” (14:15) As they stood at the shore of the sea, the people of Israel split into four factions. The Mechilta relates the following: One faction said: “Let us cast ourselves into the sea.” A second faction said, “Let us return to Egypt.” A third said, “Let us wage war against the Egyptians.” A fourth said, “Let us cry out to G‑d.” Thus Moses said to the people: “Fear not; stand by and see the salvation of G‑d, which He will show you today. For as you have seen Egypt this day, you shall not see them again anymore, forever. G‑d shall fight for you, and you shall be silent” (14:13–14). To those who said, “Let us cast ourselves into the sea,” he said: “Fear not; stand by and see the salvation of G‑d.” To those who said, “Let us return to Egypt,” he said: “As you have seen Egypt this day, you shall not see them again anymore, forever.” To those who said, “Let us wage war against them,” he said: “G‑d shall fight for you.” And to those who said, “Let us cry out to G‑d,” he said: “And you shall be silent.”
The Lubavitcher Rebbe expands on this idea: ‘ These “four factions” represent four possible reactions to a situation in which one’s divinely ordained mission in life is challenged by the prevalent reality. One possible reaction is: “Let us cast ourselves into the sea.” Let us submerge ourselves within the living waters of Torah; let us plunge into the “sea of the Talmud,” the sea of piety, the sea of religious life. Let us create our own insular communities, protecting us and ours from the G‑dless world out there. At the other extreme is the reaction, “Let us return to Egypt.” Let us accept “reality,” recognizing that it is the Pharaohs who wield the power in the real world. We’ll do whatever we can under the circumstances to do what G‑d expects from us, but it is futile to imagine that we can resist, much less change, the way things are. A third reaction is to “wage war against them”—to assume a confrontational stance against the hostile reality, battling the “unG‑dly” world despite all odds. A fourth reaction is to say: It’s wrong to abandon the world, it’s wrong to succumb to it and it’s wrong to fight it. The answer lies in dealing with it on a wholly spiritual level. A single prayer can achieve more than the most secure fortress, the most flattering diplomat or the most powerful army. G‑d rejected all four approaches. While each of them has their time and place (it’s important to create inviolable sancta of holiness in a mundane world; it’s also necessary to appreciate the nature of the prevalent reality and deal with it on its own terms; it’s also necessary to wage an all-out war against evil; and it’s always important to recognize that one cannot do it on one’s own and to appeal to G‑d for help)—none of them is the vision to guide our lives and define our relationship with the world we inhabit. Rather, when the Jew is headed toward Sinai and is confronted with a hostile or indifferent world, his most basic response must be to go forward. Not to escape reality, not to submit to it, not to wage war on it, not to deal with it only on a spiritual level, but to go forward. Do another mitzvah, ignite another soul, take one more step toward your goal. And when you move forward, you will see that insurmountable barrier yield and that ominous threat fade away. You will see that the prevalent “reality” is not so real after all, and that you have it within your power to reach your goal. Even if you have to split some seas to get there.’
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
Jan 19, 2018 | Torat Devorah
We read two puzzling statements as God prepares to exact the plagues in this week’s parasha. “And I will pass through Egypt … and I will smite every first-born … and I will exact judgments against all the gods of Egypt. I am God” (Exodus 12:12). Moreover, on that night, “[T]here will be a great cry throughout all Egypt, the like of which never before has been and never again will be. [But] against the Children of Israel no dog shall sharpen its tongue, [not at] a man and [not at] an animal” (Exodus 11:6-7).
Two questions arise: First, if there are no other gods besides Him, how can Hashem say he will “exact judgments” against gods that do not exist? Second, what’s with the dogs?
Rabbi Dov Fischer explains: ‘The god of all life in Egypt was the Nile River, and God Almighty began the plagues by smiting the Nile. The goddess of childbirth in the Egyptian pantheon, the frog goddess Heqet, stood as matron saint of fertility and protector of newborns. So Hashem directed the second plague at frogs. Other Egyptian gods were assigned to protect the fertility of the land, the animals, the environment. Consequently, one by one, each such god was “smitten,” rendered “powerless” as all natural order fell before Egyptian eyes. Lice from the ground. Wild animals from out of nowhere. There were Egyptian gods conceived as multianimal amalgams. Setekh, for example, had a long snout, pointy ears, a greyhound’s body and an upright tail. But God Almighty rendered judgment over such gods during the fourth plague (arov: mixed animals). Likewise, there was a goddess depicted with a cow’s head, Hathor. The fifth plague nullified cattle. And so it went. Osiris, the vegetation goddess, could not protect vegetables and fruit from the hail and locust plagues. One by one, every Egyptian god and goddess was eviscerated. Thus, Hashem “exacted judgments” against the “gods of Egypt. And then came the ninth plague. Through those three days of darkness, Ra ostensibly had been vanquished, leaving Egyptians to rationalize, consistent with their theology, that the dog-gods of death and darkness perhaps now held sway…
Perhaps it might have been tempting to attribute sun god Ra’s defeat in this catastrophic war of the gods to the powers of darkness, the gods of the necropolis, who finally had defeated him. Indeed, with the next plague — mass death, delivered with stunning accuracy only to first-born males — it may have seemed certain that the dog-gods of death had conquered, vanquishing all others. It was their night of death to demonstrate their awesome power, their control of everything and their victory over the other gods.
Only one thing: Not a dog whetted its tongue at a Jew. No barking. No growling. The dogs were eerily silent throughout the night, as Moses had prophesied. The Egyptians were left with no further explanation. The Ten Plagues had been the hand of God, who had “exacted judgments” against their gods and had silenced their dogs. Now His people, the Children of Israel, had to be freed.’
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
