May 13, 2016 | Torat Devorah
You shall not hate your brother in your heart; rebuke, rebuke your fellow, but do not incur a sin on his account (19:17) If a person is wronged by another, he should not hate him and remain silent, as is said in regard to the wicked, “And Absalom did not speak to Amnon, neither good nor evil, for Absalom hated Amnon” (II Samuel 13:22). Rather, it is a mitzvah for him to make this known to him, and say to him, “Why did you do this-and-this to me? Why did you offend me in this way?”, as it is written: “Rebuke, rebuke your fellow.” And if that person expresses regret and asks him for forgiveness, he should forgive him…
In the Mishneh Torah, the Rambam explains that one who sees that his fellow has sinned, or is following an improper path, it is a mitzvah to bring him back to the proper path and to inform him that he sins by his bad actions, as it is written: “Rebuke, rebuke your fellow.” When one rebukes one’s fellow, whether it is regarding matters between the two of them or regarding matters between that person and G‑d, he should rebuke him in private. He should speak to him gently and softly, and should tell him that he is doing this for his own good, so that he may merit the World to Come. If that person accepts [the rebuke], good; if not, he should rebuke him a second time and a third time. He should continue to rebuke him to the point that the sinner strikes him and says to him, “I refuse to listen.” Whoever has the ability to rebuke and does not do so shares in the guilt for the sin, since he could have prevented it…One who is wronged by his fellow but does not desire to rebuke him or speak to him about it at all because the offender is a very coarse person, or a disturbed person, but chooses instead to forgive him in his heart, bearing him no grudge nor rebuking him, this is the manner of the pious. The Torah’s objection [to remaining silent] is only when he harbors animosity.
Love your fellow as yourself (19:18) Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi asks: Why did Hillel say that this is “the entire Torah”? Granted that it is the essence of all mitzvot governing our behavior “between man and man”; but the Torah also includes many mitzvot that are in the realm of “between man and G‑d.” In what way is the mitzvah to “Love your fellow as yourself” the essence of mitzvot such as praying, or ceasing work on Shabbat? The explanation can be found in the answer to another question: How is it possible to love another “as yourself”? Are not self and fellow two distinct entities, so that however closely they may be bound, the other will always be other, and never wholly as the self? As physical beings, one’s self and one’s fellow are indeed two distinct entities. As spiritual beings, however, they are ultimately one, for all souls are of a single essence, united in their source in G‑d. As long as one regards the physical self as the true “I” and the soul as something this I “has”, one will never truly love the other “as oneself.” But if the soul is the “I” and the body but its tool and extension, one can come to recognize that “self” and “fellow” are but two expressions of a singular essence, so that all that one desires for oneself, one equally desires for one’s fellow. Otherwise stated, the endeavor to love one’s fellow as oneself is the endeavor to cultivate one’s own spiritual identity; to see the soul and spirit as the true and ultimate reality, and the body and the material as extraneous and subservient to it. This is the entire Torah.
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
May 5, 2016 | Torat Devorah
The reiterated poignant tragedy of Nadav and Avihu (Leviticus 10:1-3 and 16:1) reveals deep paradox and unanswered question. Why would God punish with death the well- intentioned sacrifice of his priestly servants, however ‘strange’ that offering? Why would religious practice that seeks God’s pleasure expose you to mortal danger?
- Shimshon Rafael Hirsch (1808-88) following Midrash Vayikra Rabba (traditional rabbinic narrative) found unbearable hubris in the need of Nadav and Avihu to seek personal attention and offer something unasked, a hubris so dangerous it brought their destruction. For Biblical Jewish leadership demanded self abnegating acceptance of the prescribed authority of God. The people’s urgent needs would not be met by even the most insistent charismatic personality, but by disciplined adherence to divine command. God struck them dead lest their charisma go unchallenged. But after they were struck down, we read: “” and (their father) Aharon was silent?!” (Leviticus 10:3). Rabbi Levi Lauer of Jerusalem comments: ‘The following is told of the Kotzker Rebbe (Menahem Mendel 1787-1859) which offers an appreciation of paradox and unanswerable question. Recall it’s the Kotzker who declared, maybe with Aharon in mind, “Nothing is as whole as a broken heart nor cries out more compellingly than silence.” Once, a hasid broke into the years long, self imposed [perhaps manic-depressive] isolation of the Kotzker, for he had deeply troubling thoughts. “What are these thoughts?” asked the Rebbe. “Woe is me, Rebbe. I hesitate to express them. Even in Gehinom there will be no forgiveness for them. They come [from my subconscious] against my will.” “What are they?” impatiently insisted the Kotzker. “Rebbe, sometimes I think, Heaven forefend, there is neither Judge nor justice in the world.” “And what do you care?” [Imagine that response from your therapist to a “breakthrough” moment.] “Rebbe, if there’s neither Judge nor justice, there can be no meaning to creation.” “And what do you care [and anyhow, who are you to worry] whether there’s meaning in creation?” “But Rebbe, if there’s no meaning to creation, there can be no meaning to the words of Torah.” “So what do you care if there’s no meaning to the words of Torah?” “Rebbe, if there’s no meaning to the words of Torah there can be no meaning to life and that matters to me a great deal. [Imagine a devotion to Torah so complete you really feel meaningful life and the words of Torah are inseparable.] Responded the Kotzker: “If that’s truly what’s disturbing you, then you are a kosher Yid/Yehudi kasher, a fit and appropriate Jew, and for a kosher Yid are permitted the most disturbing thoughts.”May we learn well enough to appreciate both questions without adequate answer and the power of paradox, and thus save ourselves from a religious arrogance that imperils all within our reach.’
You shall not go about as a talebearer amongst your people; you shall not stand by your fellow’s blood (19:16) The Talmud , Erachim 15a, states that: “Evil talk kills three people: the speaker, the listener, and the one who is spoken of.” The Lubavitcher rebbe explains: The speaker obviously commits a grave sin by speaking negatively of his fellow. The listener, too, is a partner to this evil. But why is the one who is spoken of affected by their deed? Are his negative traits worsened by the fact that they are spoken of? Indeed they are. A person may possess an evil trait or tendency, but his quintessential goodness, intrinsic to every soul, strives to control it, conquer it, and ultimately eradicate its negative expressions and redirect it as a positive force. But when this evil is spoken of, it is made that much more manifest and real. By speaking negatively of the person’s trait or deed, the evil speakers are, in effect, defining it as such; with their words, they grant substance and validity to its negative potential. But the same applies in the reverse: speaking favorably of another, accentuating his or her positive side, will aid him to realize himself in the manner that you have defined him.
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
Apr 26, 2016 | Torat Devorah
As we all know, starting on the second day of Pesach, we began the counting of the Omer, aka “Sfiras HaOmer”. Each night, for forty-nine days, we make a counting, “Day One”, “Day Two”, etc… all leading up to Shavous.
Several questions arise concerning Sfiras HaOmer, such as why do we count upwards, instead of down? Why is it called “Sfiras HaOmer”? If anything, should it not be called “Sfiras HaShavous”, since we are counting towards Shavous? And finally, why is it the Torah commands us to count fifty days, and we only count forty-nine (Shavous is the fiftieth)? Rabbi Tatz of Sourh Africa gives us some insight to the concept of Sfiras HaOmer: “Sefiras HaOmer is not a simple ‘counting down’ to some big event. We count down to things such as birthdays or anniversaries, but that is because they are dates where something is commemorative. Shavous on the other hand, isn’t a simple holiday where we celebrate the giving of the Torah. It is a day where we actually receive the Torah once again. Of course, in order to properly receive the Torah, we must prepare ourselves for it. Sfiras HaOmer is such a time of preparation, and that is why we are counting upwards. When an accountant counts money, he counts, “One dollar, two dollars, three dollars…”, always building upwards. So too, Sfiras HaOmer is time for building, hence we count, “Day One, Day Two…”. Each day is adding on to the work of previous days.”
Rabbi Tatz continues and compares Sfiras HaOmer to music. Music is comprised of several notes that are strung together. These notes, when played individually, mean and sound like nothing. Yet, when they are placed with other notes in a song, these same notes take on a whole new meaning. Day One of Sfiras HaOmer is the first note. Day two, is the second. This continues for forty-nine days. Finally, we hit Shavous. When we turn around, we notice a song comprised of forty-nine different notes. So what is the note for Shavous? The answer is: it’s not a note. Shavous is a compilation of all forty-nine notes. Shavous IS the song! By slowly and meticulously building each note day by day, we finally complete an entire song on Shavous. That is why we do not count the fiftieth day! Because there is no fiftieth note! That day exists not by itself, but rather as a compilation of the previous forty-nine days! We started to build a path on the second day of Pesach when the Korban Omer was brought. For the next six and a half weeks, we are to continue to build that path. Yet, their is a difference between this path and other paths. Other paths lead towards a destination. Sfiras HaOmer creates one!
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
Apr 20, 2016 | Torat Devorah
On the first day of Passover we read from the book of Exodus (12: 21-51) of the bringing of the Passover offering in Egypt, the Plague of the Firstborn at the stroke of midnight, and how “On this very day, G‑d took the Children of Israel “out of Egypt.”
In order to fully understand the 10th plague we must appreciate the hierarchy within Egyptian civilization. It was a society ruled by primogeniture. The first born had absolute power within the family unit. Pharaoh was the firstborn of the firstborn of the firstborn. It was from his birthright that he exercised his power.The attack against the first born was therefore a powerful polemic against the entire culture of Egypt. The eldest ruled the younger siblings. This is why having slaves was so important to the Egyptians. This gave the lower classes someone else to control and dominate. Pharaoh controlled the first born as first born of the firstborn; the firstborn controlled the other Egyptians, and the “plain” ordinary Egyptians controlled the slaves. The Netziv (Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin) in his commentary to Exodus explains this idea based on a fascinating observation concerning the song that was sung after the splitting of the sea. The verse reads: Then sang Moses and the people of Israel this song to the Lord, and spoke, saying, “I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider has he thrown into the sea.” (Exodus 15:1) …And Miriam answered them, “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider has he thrown into the sea.” (Exodus 15:21) The main part of the song seems to be this idea of the “horse and the rider.” The Netziv explains that this verse encapsulates the defeat of Egypt: the philosophy of the “horse and the rider.”
Rabbi Ari Kahn elaborates: “As the rider rides on the subjugated horse, so must the rider listen to the officer, and that officer listen to the general, and that general listen to the commander in chief. According to the Netziv, this describes the horrors of the Egyptian society, a series of horse and riders, where the Jewish slaves became the bottom of the proverbial “totem pole” – the lowest horse supporting the entire structure. This is why the Egyptians were loath to release the slaves – the entire society would crumble without them. We now understand why the death of the firstborn was so essential to the Exodus, and why the splitting of the sea evoked such a powerful response. The horse and rider philosophy had sunk at sea, they were free. The death of the firstborn was the beginning of this final chapter, of the liberation. The leading “riders” were to die” … In Judaism the firstborn also has a special role – but it means added responsibility, not a privilege. The lineage of the Jewish people is the antithesis of Pharaoh, instead of firstborn after firstborn after firstborn, the spiritual legacy which we carry is of those who chose to serve God regardless of station, and at times despite modest ancestry. This is the significance of God’s resounding declaration that we are His firstborn. Others willing to serve in the future will likewise merit this status: Rabbi Natan said: “The Holy One, blessed be He, told Moses: ‘Just as I have made Jacob a firstborn, for it says: Israel is My son, My firstborn, so will I make the King Messiah a firstborn, as it says: I also will appoint him firstborn (Psalms 89:28). (Midrash Rabbah – Exodus 19:7) One day the Messiah himself will merit to be called a firstborn. He will help teach the world that being a child of God transcends lineage. And that being a firstborn of God is about how we lead our lives, it is the manifestation of the image of God within,not a question of sequence of birth. ”
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
Apr 14, 2016 | Torat Devorah
This shall be the law of the metzora… he shall be brought to the Kohen (14:2)
The Lubavitcher Rebbe explains: Both the onset and the termination of the state of tzaraat are effected only by the proclamation of a Kohen. If suspect markings appear on a person, they are examined by an expert on the complex laws of tzaraat–usually, but not necessarily, a Kohen; but even after a diagnosis of tzaraat had been made, the state of ritual impurity does not take effect, and the metzora’s banishment is not carried out, until a Kohen pronounces him “impure.” This is why even after all physical signs of tzaraathave departed, the removal of the state of impurity and the metzora’s re-admission into the community is achieved only by the Kohen’s declaration. The Kohen’s function as a condemner and ostracizer runs contrary to his most basic nature and role. The Kohen is commanded by G‑d to “bless His people Israel with love”; our sages describe a “disciple of Aaron” as one who “loves peace, pursues peace, loves G‑ds creatures and brings them close to Torah.” But this is precisely the reason that the Torah entrusts to the Kohen the task of condemning the metzora. There is nothing more hateful to G‑d than division between His children. The metzora must be ostracized because, through his slander and tale-bearing, he is himself a source of divisiveness; nevertheless, the Torah is loath to separate him from the community. So it is not enough that the technical experts say that he marked by tzaraat. It is only when the Kohen–whose very being shudders at the thought of banishing a member of the community–is convinced that there is no escaping a verdict of tzaraat, that the metzora is separated from his people. And it is only when the one doing the banishing is suffused with loving concern for the banished person, that the penalty will yield a positive result–the repentance and rehabilitation of the metzora. There is another lesson here as well: it is not the fact of the tzaraat that renders the metzora impure, but the Kohen’s declaration of his impurity. In other words, no matter how terrible a persons state may be, to speak ill of him is more terrible still. The Kohen’s saying that he is impure affects his spiritual state far more profoundly than the actual fact of his tzaraat.
The Midrash (Vayikra Rabba 16:2) informs us that the word metzora is derived from motzi shaim ra (the Hebrew words for a slanderer), since the disease of tzora’as is a punishment for speaking against others. Because of the relationship between tzora’as and loshon hora, the Midrash on our verse relates the following incident: A peddler traveled from village to village in the area of Tzipori (in the Land of Israel) calling out, “Who wants to buy an elixir of life?” Rabbi Yanai heard the peddler and told him that he was interested in purchasing his wares. The peddler, however, told him, “You and people like you do not need what I am selling.” Rabbi Yanai, however, insisted that the peddler sell him the special elixir. Taking out a book of Tehillim (Psalms), the peddler showed Rabbi Yanai the verse: “Who is the person who desires life and loves days that he may see the good? Guard your tongue from evil and your lips from speaking deceit.” (Psalms 34) Rabbi Yanai exclaimed, “My entire life I have been reading this verse and never knew its full meaning until this peddler came and told me, ‘Who is the man who desire life…’ ” A question on this Midrash arises: What novel idea did Rabbi Yanai learn from the peddler? The peddler merely recited a familiar verse from Psalms without adding any new interpretations. The Ksav Sofer explained thus: Rabbi Yanai noted the peddler’s method of announcing he was selling something that would give a person long life. This aroused the interest and curiosity of people, and quickly a large crowd would gather around him. Only then did the peddler cite the verse, “Guard your tongue from evil.” From the peddler’s method, Rabbi Yanai concluded that King David, the author of Psalms, must have also gone from person to person posing the question, “Do you want long life?” Anyone asked this question would invariably reply. “Yes.” Then King David would say, “Guard your tongue.” Rabbi Yanai learned that it is not sufficient for a person to be careful with his own speech. He must also impress upon others the importance of refraining from loshon hora.
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
Apr 7, 2016 | Torat Devorah
The focus of this portion is upon tzora’as, a supernatural physical affliction sent to warn someone to refrain from speaking badly about others. The disease progressively afflicted home, clothes and then one’s skin — unless the individual corrected his ways and followed the purification process stated in the Torah.
“And it will be in the skin of his flesh the plague of tzora’as” (Lev. 12:2). In this verse the term vehaya (“And it will”) is used which denotes joy. Tzora’as is a very painful affliction, what possible joy can there be in having it? Rabbi Zelig Pliskin explains that pain can be viewed as meaningful or random. If pain has meaning — like the pain that accompanies giving birth — the pain is more bearable. If one appreciates that pain can be a wake up call to examine one’s life, an atonement for something one has done wrong or a challenge and opportunity to grow, then one can appreciate the pain and value its benefit. A person may wish he did not have the pain. He may hate the pain. However, with focus one can have an element of joy in appreciating its meaningfulness.
The sages taught that tzara’at was not a bodily disease, but a physical manifestation of a spiritual disease. They believed that it was a punishment for saying bad or untrue things about others. They said that the Hebrew word Metzora is a contraction of the words motzi rah which means “one who spreads slander.” The “treatment” or punishment for the metzorah (the one afflicted with tzara’at ) was being outcast for a period of time. During this time of isolation, the metzorah could reflect on the damage done by his or her words. Once the condition had been cured, the metzorah then offered a sacrifice including two birds: one to slaughter and one to set free. Rashi says that God wanted the metzorah to sacrifice birds in order to remind the person about the sin of chattering like a bird. The Midrash Shocher Tov says “The damage done by evil talk is compared to the piercing, irreparable destruction of an arrow. Why is the tongue compared to an arrow? An arrow cannot be called back once it has been shot, even if the marksman wishes to do so. Just as the victim does not know about it until it actually reaches him, so the effects of evil talk are not felt until the arrows of a wicked person pierce him.”
A story is told of the Chofetz Chaim who readily agreed when another prominent rabbi requested his help with a communal matter in another city in Poland. In the course of their trip the two rabbis stopped at a roadside inn to partake of a meal. They were happy to eat at this establishment as a Jewish woman who was well respected for her high standards of kashrut ran it. The two rabbis were seated at a special table and accorded every mark of honor. After they had finished the meal the proprietress came to their table to inquire how they had enjoyed the food. The Chofetz Chaim smiled politely and replied: “It was very tasty, and I enjoyed it very much. Thank you.” The other rabbi answered: “The meal was very good, thank you. Only, if I might say, the soup might have used a bit more salt.” When the owner left the table the Chofetz Chaim turned to his companion, and in an anguished voice said: “Unbelievable! All my life I have avoided speaking or listening to
lashon hara and here I am, going on a trip to perform a mitzva, and I have been put into a situation of having to hear you speak lashon hara! I deeply regret my involvement in this mission, for it cannot be a true mitzva. If it were, such a terrible thing would never have happened to me!” The other rabbi was shocked and upset by the Chofetz Chaim’s reaction. To him it seemed to be a perfectly innocent remark. “What was so terrible about my comment? I only mentioned that a little salt would help the food, which was otherwise very good.” The Chofetz Chaim began to explain himself. “You certainly don’t understand the power that words possess! Just see what a chain reaction your words have set off: I’m sure that the woman who owns the inn doesn’t do her own cooking; she probably employs some poor person to do it, maybe even a widow who depends upon this job for her living.
“Because of your thoughtless comment the employee will be reprimanded for not adding enough salt to the food. She will try to defend herself before replying that she certainly did put in enough salt, which will be a lie. Then the owner will accuse her of lying, since she will certainly take your word over that of the poor cook. This exchange will lead to an argument and the owner will, in her anger, fire the poor cook, who will then have no income with which to support herself and her family. The rabbi, who had listened closely to the Chofetz Chaim’s explanation, replied respectfully: “Reb Yisrael Meir, I simply can’t help but feel that you are overreacting to the whole incident. My few casual words couldn’t have created all that damage. I think that your scenario just isn’t realistic.” The Chofetz Chaim rose from his seat, still in an agitated state, and said: “If you don’t believe me, then follow me into the kitchen and you will see with your own eyes what has happened!” The two rabbis quietly entered the kitchen, and a sorry sight met their eyes. The proprietress was standing before an elderly woman and giving her a sharp tongue-lashing; while the woman stood there with tears streaming down her face. The shocked rabbi ran up to the cook and begged her to forgive him for all the pain she was suffering. He then turned to the owner of the inn and pleaded with her to forgive him and to forget that he had ever made a comment. He had never intended that it be taken so seriously. The proprietress of the inn, who was really a kind person by nature, had never actually intended to dismiss her elderly employee and was happy to accede to the rabbi’s request. She explained that she had merely wanted to impress upon the cook her responsibility to be more careful in the future. She assured the rabbi that the woman’s job was secured and he had no grounds for worry. The rabbi turned to the Chofetz Chaim with an understanding look. He had certainly acquired a new profound respect for the awesome power of words.
Prepared by Devorah Abenhaim
