Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

Years ago, when I accompanied a friend to the British Museum, I never dreamed that visit would teach me a powerful insight about the Jewish character. The famed museum housed an impressive exhibit on ancient civilizations that brought to life the grandeur of the Greeks, the Persians, and the Egyptians of yore. But what I learned about Am Yisrael came not from the artifacts displayed in the museum, but from their conspicuous absence.

How could it be, I wondered, that the vast collection of artifacts didn’t include even one from the Jewish People’s rich history? Was this glaring omission the product of anti-Semitism? After some reflection, I realized that the answer was simple yet profound. The museum didn’t feature any artifacts from our past, because there were none available to display. There are, of course, archaeological finds. But our people has never produced the commemorative items other cultures deliberately crafted for posterity.

This contrast highlights a fundamental difference between our people and the nations of the world. The nations share a common ambition: to be remembered for posterity. Painfully aware of their mortality, they strive to eternalize their greatness, lest their memory be forgotten. All ancient cultures constructed monuments, murals, and literature — enduring testaments to their victories and achievements.

Our people, on the other hand, never made monuments to memorialize our triumphs or heroes. Our ancestors made no murals of the Maccabees’ military victory, no epic poems about Dovid Hamelech. The reason is that our life focus isn’t achieving greatness, rather, it is cultivating constant personal growth. We have no interest in preserving the present, no matter how glorious. Because the moment you put an achievement behind glass, you cease developing. Even ostensibly historical accounts in Tanach are intended to guide us in our ongoing spiritual struggles, not merely to commemorate the past. Klal Yisrael’s focus is on growing, not achieving perfection.

In light of this insight, we can better understand why the Torah likens us to trees. Trees are the planet’s champion growers. Unlike any other living thing, they never cease to grow throughout their lifespans. A tree isn’t trying to achieve; it simply wants to grow. That should be the focus of a Jew’s life.

It’s not just that we don’t rest on our laurels. Our drive isn’t to achieve, but to grow, so there can be no final destination. There is no achievement worthy of framing for eternity. No matter what we accomplish or what spiritual heights we reach, we keep developing. A Jew is always a work in progress.

ITseems that to a large extent we’ve forgotten this. Contemporary society’s obsession with achievement has corrupted our Jewish character. Without realizing it, we, too, want to put ourselves behind glass. We aim to reach some lofty goal and remain there, a living monument in the Jewish museum of perfection. A massive talmid chacham with Shas at his fingertips. An eminent professional who’s also a pillar of the community. A model mom who’s always smiling and in control, whose children’s impeccable behavior is the talk of the town.

Besides the dangerous pressure these she’ifos produce, their whole approach is misinformed. We shouldn’t be focused on reaching a particular level, rather on constantly developing. A tree doesn’t have any particular destination in mind; it simply wants to grow. Carefully set goals can be helpful in helping us realize our abilities, but they’re not an end in themselves.

Even the gedolim should not be put behind glass. They aren’t just shining paragons of Jewish virtue to put on display; they, too, are constantly growing. Here as well, the non-Jewish concept of hero has influenced us.

When I was young, I heard Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky talk about his relationship with a certain gadol from the previous generation. His firsthand accounts of that gadol’s younger days painted a somewhat different portrait than the one the gadol’s recent talmidim were familiar with. I was fascinated, but to my surprise the talmidim were not. Their disappointment was visible: these were not the stories they had come to hear. They didn’t want to hear about the gadol who never stopped developing; they wanted the gadol they could put behind glass, a static hero who could be framed for eternal admiration.

Once we understand that growing, not achieving, is our life mission, our approach to growing becomes more genuine. We tend to look for growth in the heavens — in the lofty she’ifos we aspire to reach. But if we simply focus on growing, we’ll realize that we grow not from gazing at stars, but from ordinary, mundane life. A tree doesn’t get its nourishment to grow from the crisp alpine air, but from the low-altitude dirt around its roots. That’s why its roots are in the earth, not reaching toward the heavens. Our path to growth isn’t based on she’ifos, but on utilizing the countless opportunities we have to grow in our everyday lives.

IT doesn’t take too much effort to see how we can grow from simple activities and decisions. Just now, for example, I felt I needed a break after preparing shiurim for several hours. I went to make myself a cup of tea. No, not the American method of rapidly dunking the teabag in the water two or three times. I slowly made myself a proper cup of tea for a proper, refreshing break.

Afterward, I found myself walking to the bookshelf to take out a sefer I love but rarely make time to learn. Then I realized that the last few times I did that, my 15-minute break turned into an hour-long evasion of my responsibilities. I stopped myself, sat down to enjoy my tea, and went back to preparing my shiurim. That minor, seemingly inconsequential decision was a major opportunity for growth! Every day, every hour is full of such opportunities. But our preoccupation with achievement often blinds us from seeing them.

The “dirt” of our own lives gives us all the nourishment we need to grow. In everything we do, we can nurture character strengths and overcome negative tendencies. We can deepen our yiras Shamayim, or bolster our devotion to our family, friends or community. We can develop latent kochos and bring them to fruition. We sometimes feel that we need more ideal life circumstances in order to grow, but in truth our lives provide us with all the opportunities we need.

My son is a highly talented learner who left a prestigious kollel to become a third-grade rebbi. Everyone was shocked; that position, though important, was far beneath his abilities. But to me, his decision made perfect sense. He had a passion for teaching Torah and helping others grow. His dream “shteller” didn’t present itself, but why should that stop him from following his passion? In his present circumstances, others saw only dirt, but he saw plentiful nutrients to further his personal development.

We need to stop trying to make ourselves into museum exhibits. Let’s cease our pressurized obsession with achievement, and try to grow organically, from within the “dirt” of our own lives. Whether or not the results are worthy of public display, they’ll certainly be genuine and fulfilling. Life outside the glass may not feel so picture-perfect, but it’s far more rewarding.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1043)

The post Outside the Glass     first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

One sweltering day in Haifa, I sought refuge from the sun beneath a palm tree. But to my chagrin, I quickly discovered that there’s one thing the palm tree can’t provide: shade.

The reason, of course, is that the palm tree doesn’t have branches. Its trunk shoots straight up, and long fronds rest on top like a crown. If you’re looking for shade, you need a tree with branches all the way up its trunk, and the more, the merrier.

This observation reveals much more than how to stay cool outdoors. The Alter of Kelm taught that botanical growth is an allegory for spiritual growth. We can learn about growth from every blade of grass, but we have the most to learn from trees — nature’s preeminent flora. If we aim for greatness in our personal development, we should emulate the way trees grow.

In a previous column, we discussed how the qualities of a tree trunk demonstrate how to maintain a high spiritual level. Growing taller, improving ourselves, realizing our potential — that’s all integral to personal development. But standing under that palm tree, I realized there’s more to growth than vertical extension. I would like to explore how a tree’s branches teach us a new paradigm of growth: branching out.

A tree’s branches provide shade by reaching out in different directions. That creates a spacious zone of shadow for anyone standing under the tree. We, too, need to provide spiritual and emotional “shade” for others. Of all the people in our lives, our children need our shade more than anyone else. They need us to connect to them within their world, to be havens of support, stability, and guidance.

But there’s a built-in challenge. Each of our children is different from us, and from one another. How can we, with all our good intentions, provide each child with the particular shade he or she needs? To do that, we need to branch out.

It’s not enough to hone the qualities and skills that come to us naturally. Those are the building blocks of our trunk — our individual approach to life and avodas Hashem. Our trunk is certainly the center of our spiritual tree. But a trunk can’t provide shade for others. For that, we need to reach out in different directions. We have to be versatile, and be able to step outside our comfort zone to connect to others in ways that defy our nature.

We can do this in simple ways. I, for example, detest small talk. Anyone who’s ever invited me to a kiddush knows that I do my best to avoid such affairs. It’s not that I question the kashrus; it’s simply because I find small talk torturous. I feel like a hockey puck being knocked around the ice. I’m schmoozing with one person for a couple minutes, then all of a sudden, he’s pulled away by an invisible thread. Someone else comes over to talk to me about a different topic, until that conversation too comes to an abrupt, mid-sentence halt.

But when my children were young, I realized I had to learn the art of chitchat. I had to learn to chatter idly with each child and step inside his childish world, to explore his childish interests and understand what makes him tick. My children needed that shade over their heads. So I grew that branch, and learned a skill that has proven an essential tool in my bein adam l’chaveiro repertoire.

How do you learn to go against your nature? In my personal experience, the easiest way is to branch out the way trees do. The botanical reason trees branch out is that they have various layers that grow at different rates. But all the parts work together to form a cohesive whole. We all are close to people who have personalities or approaches to life different from ours. If we stick with them, despite our dissimilarities, we’ll have to occasionally veer from our preferred paths. That’s how you grow a branch.

For learning how to grow branches, there’s no greater teacher than one’s spouse. In marriage, you have to live with someone who lives and views the world differently than you do. Some people think the ideal marriage would be one with no disagreements. That’s the worst imaginable marriage! If you always saw things eye-to-eye, you’d never step out of your comfort zone, never branch out. You would stay the same, narrow self, and you would never be able to provide shade for anybody who isn’t exactly like you.

No, in an ideal marriage, you live with someone who is in certain respects your polar opposite. But you stick together as a single tree. It’s not enough to respect your spouse’s way of doing things. If you always stick to your way and your spouse sticks to his or hers, you’ll never achieve unity, and you’ll never branch out. At times you have to be willing to adopt your spouse’s approach, even if it isn’t your cup of tea.

I learned the skill of small talk from my wife. I’m always amazed how long she can carry on a polite conversation. At the beginning of our marriage, I couldn’t appreciate the value in this. But I began to see that this skill of hers allowed her to enter the world of our young children much better than I could. So I pushed myself to chat with them about whatever they wanted, and show them I was interested that they were interested in something.

Branching out doesn’t mean changing who you are. Your trunk doesn’t budge. But you learn to function even in ways you think are just plain wrong. I, for example, am a high-energy, efficient person who wants to get things done immediately. When I finish eating, I jump up to wash the dishes. My wife, on the other hand, is totally engaged in whatever conversation she’s having and doesn’t think about her lengthy to-do list. If she’s schmoozing with the grandkids, the dishes can wait till next week, as far as she’s concerned. For years, I tried to show her the error of her ways. After all, the mussar classics say you have to be a zariz and never procrastinate.

Then one Shabbos night, my eldest daughter overturned her entire bowl of soup out of sheer carelessness. I was about to yell, “Go clean that up!”

But my wife was completely unperturbed. She said serenely, “Oh, look, the soup spilled. Let’s put a towel over it, and then try that again.”

Who was right? My wife, of course. In general, I still prefer my way to hers. I still think you have to be a zariz. But I learned that I can function in a way feels completely wrong — and it can even be fruitful.

That’s how you branch out. Out of your glorious truth, your glorious approach to life. Because you’re determined to stick together with a person you believe is doing things the wrong way. Then you become broader, more versatile. You achieve greater unity with your spouse. And then you can offer shade to others, even those who are different from you.

We all strive to be good role models for our kids. We push ourselves to reach dazzling spiritual heights, and hope they will follow suit. That’s a noble aspiration, but let’s remember to grow some branches, too. Because on a hot summer day, even the finest of trunks won’t give our children the shade they need. —

—Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1036)

The post Branching Out: Part 3 of 4 first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

When we ushered in the year 5784, none of us dreamed that our hopes for a sweet new year would be shattered only three weeks later. Since the horrors of Shemini Atzeres, this year has been fraught with tzaros that stand out in their intensity and frequency. As we approach Rosh Hashanah once again, we can all see that there’s something we need to improve.

Not all suffering is due to a subpar “performance” on Rosh Hashanah. Hashem has myriad considerations when He decides what punishments a person will receive in the coming year; our spiritual state on Rosh Hashanah is only one of them. However, our avodah on Rosh Hashanah does determine how those decrees are meted out — whether they will take a gentle form or a harsh one.

What we do on Rosh Hashanah determines the tzurah, the form Hashem’s decrees will take. For example, if a teacher needs to discipline his student, he has various ways to do that. He could send him to the principal’s office or make him miss recess. He could temper discipline with affirmation by giving the child an important job, but make him do it without any help. Or if truly necessary, he could bellow at the child in a way he will never forget.

The events of this past year were executed in an exceptionally strict way; the tzurah was very harsh. This tells us that the tzurah of our last Rosh Hashanah — the way we approached our avodah — was problematic. The tzurah of Rosh Hashanah doesn’t pertain to any particular action, but rather to the underlying essence of our whole avodah. Hopefully, we performed the right actions last Rosh Hashanah. We davened, heard the shofar, and were meticulous in our middos and halachic observance.

But what was the bottom line? What were our actions all about — us or Hashem? Did we view Rosh Hashanah as a chance to get what we want, or to realize Hashem’s plans for us and the world?

The essence of our avodah on Rosh Hashanah is very simple: We are in Hashem’s world. Rosh Hashanah is devoted to malchus Shamayim, Hashem’s sovereignty over all of Creation. In our tefillos, we don’t speak about our needs or even teshuvah, but rather about Hashem’s malchus, and how we long to see His malchus manifest in the world.

The whole year round, we view the world through our own eyes. The world is our (kosher) oyster, meant to serve us and fulfill us. But on Rosh Hashanah, we should experience the entire world, including ourselves, as being Hashem’s. The purpose of all existence is to proclaim Hashem’s glory.

After World War II, Rav Shlomo Wolbe visited a girl’s DP camp for Rosh Hashanah. He davened alone, and blew the shofar for the girls who were well enough to hear it. The circumstances were grim. Disease was rife, and he met several girls on the first day of Yom Tov who had passed away by the second. We would describe it as the worst Rosh Hashanah imaginable.

Yet for the rest of his life, Rav Wolbe longed to relive that experience. He explained that when he left the camp after Rosh Hashanah, he discovered a different world: the world of the Borei Olam. Everywhere he turned, he perceived with perfect clarity that it was Hashem’s world. That’s the essence of Rosh Hashanah, to enter the world of the Borei Olam.

In truth, this is the essence of all our avodas Hashem. We don’t just serve Hashem from afar; through our mitzvos, we elevate ourselves and the world around us, and reveal that even this lowly world is Hashem’s realm. Twice a day, we recite the Shema and declare that Hashem is One — the one and only existence in the cosmos. He is the King of all Creation; everything and everyone are all part of His world.

Every mitzvah brings us into Hashem’s world. But when it comes to tefillah, entering Hashem’s world isn’t just the inner essence — it’s the very definition. We don’t make a long-distance call to Hashem with our list of requests; we enter His world and speak to Him in His palace. That’s why the main avodah of Rosh Hashanah is davening. Through davening we enter Hashem’s world and take part in the malchus Shamayim that’s revealed on this day.

Entering Hashem’s world doesn’t mean detaching ourselves from physical existence or floating up to imaginary spiritual heights. It means seeing the world through Hashem’s eyes, so to speak: how every detail in Creation expresses Hashem’s will or advances His plans. In this light, we daven for our needs, because their fulfillment is a vehicle to actualize Hashem’s benevolent will, or to bring the world closer to its purpose.

When we daven, we view the world through Hashem’s eyes. We should realize that every time we bentsh. In Bircas Hamazon, the first brachah is self-explanatory: we thank Hashem for the food we ate. But then we begin to talk about all sorts of topics: Eretz Yisrael, Yetzias Mitzrayim, bris milah, receiving the Torah, Yerushalayim, and the Beis Hamikdash. What does all that have to do with the bread we just ate?

The answer is that in Hashem’s world, the food a Jew eats has a lot more significance than his individual satiation. A Jew’s food fuels his avodah, his contribution to Klal Yisrael’s national avodah, which is headquartered is Eretz Yisrael, the land of kedushah. Through our avodah, our physical bodies are imbued with kedushah, as signified by the bris milah.

We continue the mission of the Jewish People that began in Yetzias Mitzrayim and Matan Torah, and that will reach its pinnacle when Yerushalayim’s spiritual splendor and the avodah of the Beis Hamikdash are restored. In Hashem’s terms, a slice of bread means much more than meets the eye.

Our needs are Hashem’s business. The depth behind this is that Hashem gives us the right to tell Him how to run His world, as it were. Many rulers permit their subjects to beg for their needs, but what right do they have to tell the king how to run his business? It’s truly astounding: Through tefillah, Hashem gives us a say in how He fulfills His will and plans!

This is not just hashkafah; it’s a very practical avodah. One way to work on this is to think about the topics we’re about to daven for, the way Hashem views them. Preparation is the only way to enter Hashem’s world and think in His terms. Otherwise, we’ll inevitably talk about our needs the way we perceive them: I need money; so-and-so needs a refuah. Before I begin davening, I try to mentally rehearse the topics of all the brachos in Shemoneh Esreh. Then, before I begin each brachah, I remind myself what I’m about to talk to Hashem about and what it means in His world.

Entering Hashem’s world isn’t just a better way to daven; it’s a better way to live. The drive to do teshuvah is built on a longing to be shav, to return, to Hashem and His world. Teshuvah is not merely an act of self-improvement; it’s the realization of another world, the world where Hashem’s sovereignty is absolute. That’s why Rosh Hashanah is the beginning of Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, even though we don’t confess our sins or ask for forgiveness. On this day, Hashem’s malchus is revealed in all its glory, and we realize: We have not been living in His world, but we want to come back to it.

This Rosh Hashanah, instead of pulling out our wish list for the coming year, let’s take a deep breath and step into the world of Hashem. Let’s rejoice that we have the privilege to do so, and strengthen our desire to live in His world all year round. That’s the proper tzurah of tefillah, and the beginning of teshuvah. If we do that, we have good reason to hope that the tzurah of the coming year will be a sweeter one.

—Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1031)

The post Entering Hashem’s World   first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

IF we aspire to reach great heights in our personal development, we should try to emulate the way trees grow. There are trees that have lived for thousands of years. They exist because Hashem wants us to learn something from them.

Last month, we discussed how our metaphorical roots help us take on new challenges in life. In this column, we will learn how building a solid “trunk” facilitates stable, enduring growth.

How does a tree’s trunk contribute to its growth? It doesn’t blossom with leaves or fruits like the branches, nor does it supply the nutrients like the roots, but it plays a vital role nonetheless. The trunk is the tree’s backbone, keeping it upright and stable as it grows. A majestic redwood tree stands as straight as a soldier at attention because of its trunk.

The trunk is what distinguishes trees from plants. A plant, no matter how robust, can’t maintain an erect posture. It sways, bends, and bows low with every gust of wind. It manages to grow, but would probably grow taller if it had a solid trunk. A firm, sturdy trunk is the key to lasting growth.

We all know people who grow like a plant. They work on themselves, and reach impressive heights in middos, learning, or tefillah. But when difficulties in life buffet them, they bend and flail like a sapling in a tempest. One day they’re the biggest masmid, the next day they can’t focus on the Gemara for ten seconds. One day they feel like they’re climbing to the heavens in their prayer, the next day they only know they davened Shemoneh Esreh because they found themselves taking three steps back.

A person must grow like a tree. It’s not enough to grow taller; we have to maintain our height. We must not be like a plant that constantly sways in the wind and buckles under pressure. As we grow, we need to make sure we have a solid trunk that gives us the stability to stand firm in the face of difficulty. To do that, we need to understand the secret of the trunk’s strength.

The key to the trunk’s sturdiness is surprising, even counterintuitive: Most of it is dead! The tree’s most dynamic growth occurs in its inner core, shielded by the hard outer layers of the trunk. The strong, solid wood of the trunk is mostly made up of dead cells. And because it’s mostly dead, the trunk doesn’t budge an inch, even in strong winds.

A plant, at first glance, appears to be more alive than a tree. It’s all green and lush, without that dead, hardwood exterior. But it’s precisely the dead trunk of the tree that keeps it standing tall. Green plants are soft and flexible. Without the firmness the hard, dead trunk provides, they’re tossed around in the slightest breeze. To grow like a tree, we need a solid trunk that doesn’t budge in even the strongest gale.

Now here’s the part we don’t want to hear. If you want firm, lasting growth, some parts of your life have to be dead! A tree stays upright because it has a trunk that’s hard, dead wood. For us, that means much of our daily functioning has to be as inflexible and unnegotiable as a block of wood.

No, I don’t mean you should be a robot. Having “dead” parts doesn’t mean acting mechanically without feeling. What it means is that you’re able to do what’s incumbent on you, even if you’re having a hard day or you’re not feeling particularly lively. We have to be able to live even when we don’t feel full of life.

Many bochurim ask me to give them inspiration for getting up on time for Shacharis. I tell them motivation isn’t the path to success. They appreciate the value of tefillah, and want to get to davening on time. But it’s impossible to feel motivated when your alarm goes off and you’re so exhausted you can barely open your eyes. I get up very early, when it’s still pitch-black outside, and everyone in the house is fast asleep. And believe me, I’m not always bursting with motivation.

I tell the bochurim: Do you know why I get up at my scheduled time? It’s not because I’m motivated — it’s because that’s when I get up! For me, getting up on time is as inflexible and unbendable as a tree trunk. True, it’s “dead” in a sense; it isn’t always saturated with exhilaration and fulfillment. But that’s exactly why it doesn’t bend every time I feel exhausted or a little under the weather.

Our very body shows us how inflexibility allows us to thrive. When we tighten a muscle to move our arm or leg, the tendon pulls the bone we want to move. Tendons have to be taut; if they were too pliable, they couldn’t pull our limbs. It’s their inflexibility that enables us to run, dance, and leap.

I know this idea is not in vogue. Today, motivation is our lifeblood. We want to feel excitement, fulfillment, and geshmak in everything we do, 24/7. We want davening, learning, and chesed to be sweet and uplifting, every time. So it’s extremely hard for us to function at our normal level when we aren’t feeling so pumped.

It’s not our fault. The world around us is obsessed with satisfaction and has trained us to pursue it constantly. Naturally, we take the same approach in the spiritual realm of life. We experience the thrill of water skiing and the savoriness of a juicy steak, and seek similar gratification in avodas Hashem. We want to feel inspired in tefillah, exhilarated in our learning. But while motivation and excitement are pumping with life, they’re as soft and inconsistent as a green plant.

If our avodas Hashem hinges on what we find geshmak, we’re bound to bend like a plant every time our motivation fades. Being excited by mitzvos is a wonderful thing. But that shouldn’t be the only reason we do them. We have to get used to doing what we need to do, simply because that is what we do, period. Our daily functioning must be as firm and inflexible as a tree trunk. That’s the way to keep our head up high when life’s difficulties threaten to bring us toppling down.

People don’t want to work on this, because they’re afraid their avodas Hashem will become dry and mechanical. But in fact, ridding ourselves of our dependence on “feeling” allows us to feel more genuinely. If you think avodas Hashem has to be filled with feeling every second, you are subconsciously pressured to be emotional. Particularly in tefillah, the urge to be moved by davening brings us to artificial expressions of emotion. If we get used to doing mitzvos not because we feel inspired, but just because that’s what we do, we’ll free ourselves from the pressure to feel. Then, even if our davening isn’t jam-packed with constant feeling, the emotions we do feel will be more genuine.

It feels good to be a plant. Everything is alive, every second full of vigor and zest. But that’s not the path to lasting growth. What a shame it is to reach grand heights, but lose our stature every time we’re having a bad day. Let’s grow like a tree, and get ourselves a solid trunk. True, a trunk may seem kind of dead. But when you look at a magnificent redwood 300 feet tall, you realize it couldn’t be more alive.

—Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1020)

The post Be Steadfast Like a Tree: Part 2 of 4 first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

H

ow does a person grow? Here and there, in rare moments of respite from our hectic schedules, we ask ourselves that question. We fill our daily lives with mitzvos and good deeds. But in our personal development, most of us feel stagnant. How do we become bigger and broader people?

The Alter of Kelm used to grow wheat in his yeshivah. No, he wasn’t a miller or a baker. He explained that seeing dynamic growth in the world around you sparks personal growth, and can in fact illustrate how a person should grow. We can learn how to grow from nature.

In nature, a tree grows the most. Trees grow continuously throughout their lifespans, and reach prodigious heights. We have a lot to learn from trees about growth. What’s more, we’re innately equipped to grow like them, for the Torah likens a person to a tree.

To learn how to grow from trees, we should contemplate three parts of a tree: the roots, the trunk, and the branches. We need to identify our own metaphorical roots, trunk, and branches, and understand how they each contribute to our growth. In this column, we will focus on the roots; in future columns, we will discuss the trunk and branches, im yirtzeh Hashem.

What functions as our roots? To answer that, we first have to realize that a tree has many roots, which spread out all over the place in a very disorganized fashion. That’s because roots bring water and nutrients to the tree. They seek out nourishment wherever they can reach. We too have roots that bring us the “nourishment” we need to grow. Those roots are our past experiences. They give us the tools, and the confidence, to take on new challenges, improve our characters and break free from negative tendencies.

Dovid Hamelech teaches us this lesson. Dovid, young and inexperienced in battle, volunteered to fight Goliath, and went to persuade Shaul Hamelech that he was fit for the job. Needless to say, Dovid, the composer of Sefer Tehillim and the fourth “leg” of the divine Merkavah, was a deeply religious man. What would you expect such a religious person to say to express his confidence? “Hashem will help me!” But that was not how Dovid phrased his argument.

Dovid said: “I was a shepherd, and once a lion grabbed a sheep from my flock. Another time a bear did the same. I went after them and snatched the sheep out of their mouths. They rose up against me, and I slew them. Goliath will be like the lion and the bear.” Only then did he add: “Hashem Who saved me from the lion and the bear will save me from Goliath.”

He firmly believed that Hashem would help him, of course, but that wasn’t the crux of his argument. He looked at his own experiences, and they showed him that he was capable of taking on Goliath. Though he had never been a warrior, he recognized that his life had unexpectedly prepared him for this new
challenge.

WEcan even learn this lesson from Hashem Himself. At the burning bush, Hashem revealed Himself to Moshe Rabbeinu and told him to take the Jewish People out of Egypt. For a whole week, Moshe argued that he was unworthy of the task. He told Hashem, “I am not a man of words. I am heavy of mouth and heavy of tongue, and cannot speak before Pharaoh.”

Hashem responded: “Who gives a person his mouth, and who makes a person mute, deaf, clear-sighted or blind? It is I, Hashem!”

Hashem’s statement is self-evident to any person of faith. You and I would not need any evidence, let alone Moshe Rabbeinu, who was actually conversing with Hashem. Yet Hashem brought proof for His words.

What was Hashem’s proof? Says Rashi, based on the Midrash: “ ‘Who gives a person his mouth’ — who taught you to speak when you were on trial before Pharaoh for the Egyptian you killed? ‘Who makes a person mute’ — who made Pharaoh mute and fail to exert himself in carrying out your execution? Who made his servants deaf, so that they didn’t hear his orders? And who made the executioners blind that they could not see when you fled?”

Hashem told Moshe: Look at your own life! Remember your experiences when you stood before Pharaoh many years ago. Examine them, contemplate them, and see that you have the ability to go and speak to Pharaoh. Let your own life nourish you to accept the mission you thought you were incapable of.

Our past experiences are our roots. They give us the nutrition we need to grow through life’s challenges and tackle deeply entrenched defects in our character. Many people don’t understand this. They think we have to import our nutrition from outside sources: “To become more patient, I need to take a course on patience.” “If I struggle with anger, I need to attend a workshop on anger management.”

It doesn’t work like that; knowledge alone doesn’t give us the nutrition we need to grow. Our nutrition is within us, in our own life experiences.

We all have nutrition in our own life, but you have to look for it. The nutrition you need for any given challenge could be hidden where you least expect it. It could be an experience that at first seems totally irrelevant to your present challenge. That’s why a tree’s roots are everywhere. We, like a tree, need to use our roots to search in every direction for the nutrition we need.

Let me illustrate this with an amusing fact about me. I know we’re in the digital age, but many people still have family photo albums. Neat, organized albums from various occasions or trips. An album of this child’s bar mitzvah, that cousin’s wedding, the family vacation in Fiji… You know what to expect when you open an album, and if you’re looking for a particular picture, you know where to find it. Everyone organizes their pictures like that — except for me.

I don’t have any albums at home; I have a few big boxes of pictures. Once or twice a year, when all the grandkids come over, we throw all the pictures on the floor, and everyone grabs one. Voices call out, “Wow, do you remember that? Where was that? Who is that next to Zeidy?” Nothing is expected; every picture is a surprise. (Trust me, it’s much more fun that way.)

You have to know: In your heart, you do not have photo albums of experiences. You have a box of pictures, and you can’t know where to find the nutrition you need for your current challenge. You have to sift through all the “pictures” of your experiences until you see one that offers you lessons or strength for your current endeavor. Today, you might need a picture from last week; tomorrow, you may need a picture from 50 years ago. No course or book can teach you where to find your nutrition; you simply need to search in every corner of your heart, like a tree’s roots seek out nutrition.

We are rooted in our own lives. Our past experiences are the roots that help us grow through life’s constant challenges and pursue personal greatness. We have to realize that every experience isn’t just a memory; it’s a manual for growth. Remember your experiences, store them in your heart, and when you need one, search through them carefully to find the one that gives you the nutrition you need. Like Dovid Hamelech, find the lion or the bear in your own life that empowers you to face the Goliath at hand.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1017)

The post Trees Teach Us about Growth first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Lag B’omer is a day of great joy, but it’s shrouded in mystery. Many of us take our children to sing and dance in honor of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai. But if they ask us what exactly we’re celebrating, we have a hard time answering. Rabi Shimon revealed the sodos — the secret teachings — of Torah. To the vast majority of us, that esoteric realm of Torah is as foreign as outer space. Not only are we unfamiliar with those teachings, we don’t even understand their nature. What are the sodos of Torah, and is there any way for us to relate to them?

The first thing we need to understand is that sodos of Torah are not a separate branch of Torah wisdom. The Torah contains different areas that, though intrinsically linked, can be more or less studied separately. One may study the prohibitions of Shabbos, another may focus on monetary laws, while another may learn Kodshim. We ordinarily think that the sodos of Torah are another such field of Torah study. But the truth is that they are not a separate area; rather, they form the hidden inner core of every part of Torah.

Simply put, the sodos of Torah are the teachings that reveal Hashem’s underlying intent behind the laws of the Torah. They are not abstract, otherworldly concepts; rather they are the hidden intent behind Hashem’s commandments. The revealed Torah teaches the actions Hashem wants us to do; the sodos of Torah teach us their purpose. There are sodos in every mitzvah, a higher purpose that Hashem designed the mitzvah to accomplish.

Do you know what you’re really doing when you shake a lulav, separate challah, or make Kiddush? Every mitzvah we do has cosmic significance. A mitzvah comes from on High, and when we fulfill it, our actions affect realms way beyond our physical world. Hashem’s commandment is like the string of a kite. When you move the string in your hand, it maneuvers the kite that soars far above you. So too when we perform a mitzvah, our actions have an impact in the Upper Worlds the mitzvah stems from.

The mitzvos of the Torah all have a sod, a purpose. Hashem designed each mitzvah to perform a necessary function in maintaining our world and the worlds above it. That purpose, Hashem’s plan that lies behind the mitzvos, is the subject of the sodos of Torah.

That’s the fundamental difference between this realm of Torah and halachah. Halachah is concerned with determining Hashem’s ratzon for us, what He wants us to do in any given situation. Our business in halachah is to understand His ratzon, not His underlying intent. That intent is the exclusive pursuit of the teachings revealed by Rabi Shimon bar Yochai — the sodos of Torah.

Just as there are sodos in the mitzvos, there are also sodos in Hashem’s providence — the underlying intent behind the ways He conducts world affairs. Hashem has a plan for the world, and through everything He does, He imperceptibly guides the world toward its purpose. That purpose, and how everything Hashem does advances it, is concealed. All we see is how Hashem responds to our actions. We see that He rewards righteous behavior and punishes wrongdoing; we know He relates to us in the manner we relate to Him — middah k’neged middah. But what is His plan, and how does each event bring that plan closer to fruition? That’s the subject of the sodos of Torah.

These teachings are sodos, not because they’re secrets Hashem doesn’t want ordinary folk like us to know, but rather because we won’t understand them. Even if we hear these teachings and comprehend the words, we won’t understand how they are in fact the underlying purpose behind mitzvos or world events.

There are a number of reasons for that. One is that the concepts are much deeper than the simple reality we observe. Just as an illustration: When I look at you, I see a human being. But in deeper terms, one might say he sees a revelation of Hashem’s grandeur. I wouldn’t make the connection and understand that we’re both describing the same thing.

The sodos of Torah are not “something else!” Most people think that the “secrets” of Torah are exciting, mystical ideas that are independent of the revealed Torah. That’s a tremendous mistake. The sodos of Torah are just a deeper understanding of the Torah’s teachings that reveal their underlying intent. That’s why the sodos of Torah never truly contradict the revealed Torah, despite their apparent differences. But only someone at a tremendous level can see that.

Chazal tell us that four sages entered the Pardeis — the uppermost levels of the Torah’s sodos. One died, one was injured, and another became a heretic. Only Rabi Akiva entered the Pardeis in peace and went out in peace. One of the Vilna Gaon’s disciples explains: Rabi Akiva went in and saw the uppermost secrets of Torah, then went out and saw the simple Chumash with Rashi that even children know, and managed to see that they were in essence one and the same.

We are not Rabi Akiva, nor Rabi Shimon bar Yochai. How can we relate to the sodos of Torah? Once we understand that the sodos reveal Hashem’s underlying intent and purpose, we can find a rich parallel in our own experiences. Behind every mitzvah and every event on the world stage, Hashem has a higher purpose in mind. He has a plan, and every mitzvah we do and every event He orchestrates furthers that plan. So too Hashem has a higher purpose for us.

Most of the time, we don’t see that purpose. We often sense Hashem’s Hand in our life, but we only see how He’s helping us weather the storms and surprises life throws our way. But once in a while, if we open our eyes, Hashem’s intent shines through, and we get a glimpse of His plan for us. Everything that happens to us, every step along life’s journey, becomes imbued with a higher purpose. That discovery fills us with joy.

Now we can understand the tremendous simchah of Lag B’omer. On this day, we celebrate the sodos of Torah, which reveal the higher purpose behind every single mitzvah we do, and every event in history. We’re not just celebrating the esoteric wisdom Rabi Shimon brought to the world; we’re celebrating the discovery of Hashem’s hidden plan which those teachings revealed.

This Lag B’omer, let’s try to connect to the simchah in a genuine way. Try to identify at least one moment when you felt that Hashem was showing you the greater purpose of your life, and let that discovery fill you with joy. Then think about how Rabi Shimon revealed to Klal Yisrael the hidden purpose and meaning behind every mitzvah we do and every world event. The teachings of Rabi Shimon may be secret, but the simchah they inspire need not be.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1012)

The post The Simchah of Lag B’omer first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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hen one of my sons was in cheder, he played the game chamesh avanim (also called “kugelach”) for hours on end. I tried to entice him to learn a Mishnah with me, or at least do something intellectually stimulating, but my efforts were in vain. Nothing could break his immersion in the game. I thought he would grow bored after a few days, but month after month went by, and his game sessions only grew longer.

I knew my son had the potential to become a bona fide talmid chacham, and watching him waste countless hours was dismaying. Furthermore, I couldn’t fathom the appeal of that dull and monotonous game for the life of me. But one day it dawned on me that in his own way, my son was training himself to become a masmid. He was honing his ability to repeat the same activity again and again without losing focus — an ability that would later enable him to learn a sugya for several hours without interruption. To me it was a trifling game, but in his life, it was a formative experience.

We view other people from the vantage point of our own lives. We acknowledge the importance of another person’s endeavors only to the extent that they influence our own lives. If someone’s behavior, personality traits, or attitudes aren’t exactly our cup of tea, we dismiss those aspects of the person, oblivious to their significance in that person’s life.

Our inability to view another person’s life on its own terms inhibits us from being nosei b’ol with those around us. We can only understand people’s pain, joy, frustration, or excitement if we put ourselves in their shoes and see how they — not we — approach and experience life. This middah is the backbone of interpersonal relationships — and, according to the Alter of Kelm, of avodas Hashem in general. You don’t have to be a psychologist to do it; you simply have to think about the other person’s life in its own right.

How much do we think about the lives of those around us? For most of us, the truth is, very little. Our minds naturally contemplate subjects that fascinate us; the familiar and the mundane rarely occupy our thoughts. The prerequisite to thinking about other people is to be intrigued by them.

Not everyone is naturally exciting, if you look at the dry facts of their life. The way to be intrigued by another person is to look at his unique avodah. In the realm of avodah, every single person has big important things to do, and all aspects of his life and personality play a part in that avodah. Even details of his life that seem mundane paint the portrait of a fascinating and noteworthy person. The details may not be inherently interesting, but the story they tell is.

Many gedolim were so immersed in Torah that they barely tasted food, yet at the Shabbos table they showered their rebbetzins with detailed praise for every dish like culinary connoisseurs. Some people think that these gedolim on their lofty madreigah saw no importance in the taste and texture of food, and they feigned interest to make their wives feel appreciated. That’s a superficial interpretation. These gedolim praised the food not despite its insignificance, but because it was truly significant in the avodah of their wives. In their own avodah, the tastiness of food was immaterial, but they knew that in their wives’ avodah, enhancing the oneg Shabbos of their families had great significance.

Sometimes, even what seems like eccentric or illogical behavior can in fact reveal the other person’s avodah. To me, it’s self-evident that as soon as you finish eating soup, you should take the bowl to the sink and rinse it before the residue dries to form a hard crust. But when my family has soup, my wife stays seated and continues the conversation. By the time the bowls make it to the sink, it takes intense scrubbing to get them clean.

For a long time, my wife’s behavior confounded me. But eventually, I began to see that not getting up in the middle of the seudah was important in her personal avodah. She lives in the moment with menuchas hanefesh. When it’s family time, she doesn’t allow anything to break her engrossment, even for a moment. I have a different personality; for me, getting up to put a bowl in the sink doesn’t compromise my involvement with the family. To me, staying seated for an extra few seconds is inconsequential. But to my wife, those few seconds make all the difference. My wife’s behavior, as incomprehensible as it first seemed, revealed to me the fascinating world of her avodah.

Even behavior that’s downright negative can carry importance in someone’s avodah. The Gemara in Bava Basra relates that a descendant of Moshe Rabbeinu named Yehonoson was a paid employee in a house of avodah zarah. He thought such employment was permitted for a person in financial difficulties, but this erroneous conclusion was just the product of his lust for money.

What would we do if we met Yehonoson? We would shake our head in disbelief and exclaim: “See what chemdas mammon can lead you to!” We would then come home and give a mussar shmuess to our family about how money is utterly worthless in the grand scheme of things. Yehonoson would be etched in our minds as a lowly and pitiful man.

But when Dovid Hamelech heard about Yehonoson, he responded differently. He saw how much Yehonoson loved money, and appointed him finance minister of the whole kingdom. Dovid Hamelech saw past Yehonoson’s despicable conduct and recognized that chemdas mammon was an important koach in his life. He saw that the very trait that led Yehonoson astray could play a productive role in his individual avodah.

That wasn’t wishful thinking. After Yehonoson assumed his position as finance minister, he did teshuvah with such sincerity that the Tanach calls him by the name “Shevuel,” because he returned (“shav”) to Hashem with his whole heart.

That’s the epitome of being nosei b’ol. It wasn’t just that Dovid Hamelech knew how to channel Yehonoson’s chemdas mammon in a better direction. Dovid looked at the man’s personal avodah and saw its importance, though it was extremely different from his own. Yehonoson was an important person, and in his unique avodah, even the essentially negative trait of chemdas mammon had importance.

We learn from Dovid Hamelech how we should think about the lives of others. When we look at another person’s avodah, we see that his life is important exactly as it is — not only after he sheds his negative traits. Someone else’s life may seem uninteresting or unappealing to us. We need to look beneath the surface to see the other person’s unique avodah. Then we’ll understand that although some details of his life are negligible or negative in our world, in his world they look very large.

The key to greatness in bein adam l’chaveiro, and ultimately all avodas Hashem, is to think genuinely about others. Let’s try to step out of our own narrow viewpoint, and look at the lives of our spouse, children and friends in their own light. Look beyond the seemingly uninteresting details, and see the rich world of avodah that lies beneath. If we do that, we’ll discover that the people we thought we knew are much more important and fascinating than we ever imagined.

—Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1009)

The post Larger Than Life first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

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here’s no question about it: The whole Jewish People is under attack. Practically overnight, a tsunami of anti-Semitism has inundated the entire globe. It couldn’t be clearer that this sudden pandemic of anti-Semitism was orchestrated by HaKadosh Baruch Hu. He wants something from us, and we’d better try to figure out what it is.

The anti-Semitism all around us is a wake-up call from Hashem. He caused the entire world to point an accusing finger at the Jewish People. Anti-Semites hate us not for what we do, but for who we are. They can’t tolerate the Jewish character that makes us Jews.

It stands to reason, then, that Hashem wants more from us than fine-tuning our halachic performance. We have many mitzvos that need improvement, and character traits to refine. But this surge of anti-Semitism calls for an avodah that’s more fundamental than our actions or even our middos. The Jewish character is under attack; and Hashem is showing us we need to mend the cracks in our Jewish character.

What is the essence of the Jewish character? We need to answer that question before we can identify the points that need repair.

The essence of a Jew is very deep and multifaceted. Let’s focus on one characteristic that offers tremendous potential for avodah: A Jew always believes in the future. This perspective on life defined the Jewish People from its very inception. The Jews in Egypt suffered unspeakable atrocities. Infants cast into the river, backbreaking labor, and spiritual mutilation were their grim reality.

At the Burning Bush, Moshe told Hashem that the Jews would never believe him that they were going to be redeemed. But Hashem said, “Ekyeh Asher Ekyeh” — something will be, and the Jews know that. The Jews know that the reality they live in will not last forever; the future has something else in store for them.

The present is not eternal; something else will develop. This attitude toward life is at the heart of the Jewish character. Let’s not be superficial. Belief in the future doesn’t mean hope. Hope is only relevant when the present is gloomy, but belief in the future is an approach to every scenario in life. It means awareness that the present situation, whether dire or delightful, is transient. Something different will develop.

A Jew is someone who believes in the future. Now let’s try to understand Hashem’s wake-up call in this light. Hashem has filled the world with anti-Semitism to show us that something in our Jewish character is flawed. If belief in the future is a quintessential aspect of the Jewish character, we have to look to see where our belief in future development is lacking.

If we examine our approach to life, we’ll find that unpredictable change is hardly even on our radar. Let me bring this out with a few practical illustrations from my own life.

I sometimes visit homes that are so fancy, I feel nervous just stepping inside. The owners invested more money than I could ever dream of to fill their palatial abodes with every imaginable luxury. Those people clearly appreciate the present, but do they ever think about the future? If they did, they might reconsider investing so much in a present that could change at any moment.

I once stayed in a newly constructed mansion, and I overheard my hostess jokingly tell a friend: “If Mashiach comes now, building this house will turn out to be a very expensive mistake.” I’m not sure she realized how true her words were.

We would do the same as my hostess, if we had the means. We all want to be at the final destination of life’s journey, to reach our dream state where nothing will change but the out-of-style furniture.

This isn’t merely materialism; our very Jewish character is in question. The Jewish way is to leave space in our life for the changes that an unforeseeable future can bring. I don’t mean you can’t live comfortably, but we shouldn’t reach the point where all our eggs are in the basket of a static present.

This flaw in our Jewish character isn’t just expressed in our approach to gashmiyus. We’re unwilling to invest in any endeavor that doesn’t clearly lead us toward our ultimate goal. My fourth son is one of the greatest learners I know; he’s filled with a desire to understand the Torah more and more deeply. He wanted to share his knowledge and love of Torah with others, so he left his prestigious kollel to teach.

Do you know what position he accepted? He’s a third-grade rebbi. People ask me, almost stuttering, “Are you… happy… with your son?” They think such a talented yungerman becoming a third-grade rebbi is a tragedy. He should have stayed in kollel till he was offered a position commensurate with his abilities.

That’s because they don’t believe in the future! They only look at the present. And my son’s position isn’t the “shteller” he always dreamed of, nor does it promise to lead him there.

We feel stuck if we’re forced into an occupation that isn’t what we ultimately want to do. We want to be, right now, at that final destination where we can remain, happily ever after. But if we truly believe in the future, why not start off with something less? You won’t stay there forever if you’re meant to do more. You can’t know what, but something will develop. We don’t think about that, because we’re losing touch with our Jewish character.

Our flawed outlook on shidduchim stems from the same problem.

My daughter was an exceptional girl, and everyone was sure she would get a stellar shidduch. When she got engaged, all her friends — and mine — were shocked. They saw a boy who hadn’t yet accomplished anything remarkable, from a home with lower standards of frumkeit than hers. But my daughter chose him, because she saw a person who wanted to grow. Her friends rolled their eyes and told her, “You don’t understand shidduchim.”

Young people want to marry into a family with the best last name, to win the most accomplished bochur, the girl with the perfect job or wealthy family. We want our children to be in the perfect family, to have the picture-perfect spouse. We don’t look down the road, to see what surprising future might emerge from the present. If our Jewish character were sound, we’d see things differently. A boy who’s really interested in growing — isn’t that the best shidduch imaginable?

So much of our frustration in child-rearing is due to our myopic focus on the present. We yell at our kids to stop their mischievous antics, without considering what might develop from their roguery down the road. One of my sons used to climb on everything in the house. He ascended couches, tables, and bookshelves like a mountaineer. It was frustrating to say the least, but I tried to keep in mind that something unforeseen might grow out of that annoying hobby.

Fifteen years later, I saw how he “climbed” a Tosafos with the same vigor and tenacity he used to climb the furniture. Ekyeh Asher Ekyeh — something will always develop.

If we bring future development into our field of vision, we’ll view our children, our professional status, and life itself in a more authentic way. Let’s listen to Hashem’s call, and try to become more Jewish. If we do that, we may trust that although the present state of Klal Yisrael is bleak, a better future will soon sprout from this unlikely ground.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1006)

The post Keep the Future in Focus first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

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or the past three months, a steady stream of suffering has engulfed the Jewish People. The tragedies of Shemini Atzeres were only the beginning. We have lost soldiers at the prime of their youth, chassanim awaiting their wedding day, fathers of young children. Families live in the hospital, praying for their loved one’s recovery; others live in constant dread of the dangers that abound on and under the ground.

The suffering around us isn’t just a cause for weeping — it’s a call for avodah. Our times demand from us the middah described in Pirkei Avos as nosei b’ol im chaveiro; literally, sharing our friend’s burden. Being nosei b’ol means seeing everything that your friend is going through, including the subtle difficulties you wouldn’t notice with a superficial glance. This is a necessary step toward helping your friend or providing emotional support, but it’s also significant in itself. Even when we can’t help, we must not remain indifferent to our fellow Jew’s plight. If we can’t alleviate our friend’s difficulty, the least we can do is acknowledge it.

To work on being nosei b’ol, we have to dispel a common misunderstanding. Being nosei b’ol doesn’t mean feeling other people’s pain. If we understand the severity of their hardship, we will inevitably be emotionally affected. But if we try to approach the plight of our fellow with our heart alone, we risk getting sucked into the quicksand of despair. Becoming too emotionally involved actually prevents us from helping others, because when someone is sinking in quicksand, only someone standing on firm ground can help him.

The beginning of being nosei b’ol is not to feel for the other person, but to think about him. To take a moment to step into his shoes and just think about his world, without searching for solutions. What is it like to live in his situation, day in and day out? How does it impact him physically, emotionally, spiritually, and socially? We’re often blind to the difficulties our friend experiences because we don’t think about his life. Even caring comrades can be oblivious to the most painful aspects of their friend’s situation, simply because they never thought it through.

IF we’re honest, most of us have to admit that we spend little time actually thinking about someone else’s life. I’m often struck by this when young people consult with me about shidduchim. Recently, a bochur told me his prospective shidduch is an accountant. To him, that fact just meant she makes a decent salary. I asked him if he’d thought about what her career entails. Being an accountant requires 100 percent accuracy. If she makes a mistake, she could get fined; if she deliberately fudges a few figures, she could go to jail.

I asked him: “Have you ever been accountable for the truth like that? How many times have you given a chaburah when you knew your chiddushim were not pure Torah truth? You’re dating a person you may want to marry, but you haven’t even dedicated one minute to thinking about her world!”

Most of us are like that bochur. We see other people, even those closest to us, and never pause to think about their lives. Unless we see what burdens our friend is carrying, we can never help lighten his load.

Sure, when we see a friend in distress, we rush to help. But if we don’t take the time to think about what our friend is going through, our efforts can actually pour salt on his wounds. Years ago, my friend’s wife passed away, leaving him with five small children. At the shivah, I found him surrounded by visitors, and I felt a bit superfluous.

But when I spoke with him, he told me he was very happy I’d come. Because, he explained, everyone else had assured him that his wife’s passing was really a good thing; I was the first to acknowledge that something terrible had happened to him.

What the other visitors told my friend wasn’t nosei b’ol — it was sheer cruelty! Every word they said was true: Everything Hashem does is for the best. But they didn’t think about what my friend was going through, and how their remarks would make him feel. His life had been destroyed, he had no idea how to survive the next day, and they told him something good had happened to him. They knew about the events of his life, but they never put themselves in his shoes to consider what it was like to endure them.

SO many Jews today are in pain, so many others are paralyzed by fear. While being nosei b’ol is always important, it is rarely needed as acutely as it is now. Hashem is challenging us to work on being nosei b’ol. But we can’t take in all the suffering around us. If we dwell on all the hardships people are enduring, we will certainly break. So how do we meet Hashem’s challenge?

We have to understand a major principle in avodas Hashem. When Hashem presents us with a challenge in avodah, He’s showing us an area He wants us to work on; but He wants us to focus our efforts in the right framework. The current tragedies show us that Hashem wants us to work on being nosei b’ol, but we should start off with easier cases than those tragedies themselves.

There are opportunities galore to work on being nosei b’ol, even for those who live far away from the carnage of the war. Say your spouse is upset with you, and you don’t know why. You instantly conclude that he or she is overly irritable or hypersensitive (come to think of it, your spouse has always been that way), and you either defend yourself or wait for the storm to pass.

Next time, try to put yourself in your spouse’s shoes, and think. What makes him feel so upset? Where is she coming from? What’s going through his mind? Besides discovering our own faults, we’ll begin to understand our spouse much better.

Think about your children. Not about getting them to do what you want, but about their lives. What does it feel like to walk in their shoes? What are their difficulties and frustrations? What do they need from me as a parent? We don’t need to be psychologists; we just need to take a few minutes to think about their world.

WE can even work on being nosei b’ol in times of simchah. When my sons were in yeshivah, two of my daughters got engaged nearly simultaneously. All my friends came to wish me a double mazel tov. But not one of them considered what it was like to marry off two children at the same time. I was bursting with joy, of course; but on the other hand, I had the unsettling feeling that my bustling home was becoming an empty nest overnight. None of my friends sensed that, because they didn’t put themselves in my shoes and imagine how my life’s events might make me feel.

The avodah of being nosei b’ol is tremendously rewarding. If we start to think about the lives of those around us, we will experience newfound harmony and depth in our relationships. We will grow by making other people, not only ourselves, the subject of our thoughts. And, once we understand the difficulties others face, we’ll be able to help them more effectively.

Let’s accept the challenge of our times, and train ourselves to think about the lives of the people around us. Because the first step to helping someone bear his load is to place it, not upon our shoulders, but upon our mind.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 996)

The post Lightening the Load first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Calls to “gas the Jews” are defended as protected speech; leaders of the academic world unabashedly insist that advocating the genocide of the Jewish People is acceptable conduct. A few months ago, no one would have dreamed that such virulent anti-Semitism would sprout up. Suddenly, even the places where Jews have always felt at home are starting to feel like 1930s Germany.

As history has taught us, anti-Semitism isn’t the result of anything Jews do. They don’t hate us for what we do; they hate us for who we are. It’s always been that way. Rashi in Daniel 11:17 says Antiochus sought to kill everyone who called himself a Jew. Anti-Semites simply can’t tolerate the existence of a Jew in the world.

That leads us to ask a basic question we may never have asked before: What is a Jew? Not in the halachic or genealogical sense; rather, what is the essence of a Jew that the anti-Semites can’t stand?

To answer this question, we have to go back to the birth of the Jewish nation in Mitzrayim. The beginning of the Jewish People was far from picture-perfect. The Ramban in parshas Bo writes that the Jews there had fallen to a dismal spiritual state. They even abandoned the mitzvah of bris milah and worshipped avodah zarah. They did not deserve to leave Mitzrayim; yet, says the Ramban, they called out to Hashem, and He heard their prayers.

This disgraceful beginning reveals the essence of the Jewish character. Though the Jews of Egypt had forsaken the mitzvos, they still prayed. They prayed because it was self-evident to them that as inescapable as their predicament seemed, the facts on the ground didn’t tell the whole story. They knew beyond a doubt that Hashem governed the world, and even the immutable laws of nature could be suspended if Hashem wished. While everything around them indicated that their hope was futile, they understood that there is more to the world than meets the eye.

A Jew looks beyond the world’s external facade and understands that there is more to it than mere physical existence. At its most basic level, this trait is manifest in even our most distant brethren. Every time a conceptual ideal is put forward for governing society, there are Jews behind it. Jews shun a purely pragmatic approach to life, because they instinctively understand that the world has a purpose beyond making money and having a good time.

A Jew abhors superficiality. A Jew looks deeper and finds spiritual significance in what others find earthly and mundane. Anti-Semites hate us for who we are; our answer to their hatred is to be more Jewish, and try to look more deeply at the world around us. While that sounds abstract, this avodah is actually extremely practical. Let us explore two ways we can do so in our everyday lives.

One area where we can work on this avodah is bein adam l’chaveiro. Everyone recognizes the necessity of character refinement, but most view this enterprise superficially. All the books about interpersonal relationships are concerned with a very practical endeavor: How to get along better with spouses, friends, and coworkers.

But the Jewish approach views bein adam l’chaveiro not just as a way to get along with others, but as the path to Olam Haba. Every morning after birchos haTorah, we recite the list of good deeds whose fruits are enjoyed in this world, while their principal reward remains intact in the world to come. Most of those mitzvos are bein adam l’chaveiro. Being nice to others is a prerequisite to harmonious living in this world. But how does that bring you to the spiritual delights of the world to come?

The Jewish approach to character refinement is much deeper than behaving nicely. It’s about refining our base qualities, and becoming better and bigger people. We endeavor not only to do acts of kindness, but to become people who live for others. We try not just to control our anger, but to become people who aren’t incensed by petty insults to our honor. We reap the fruits of our behavior in This World, but it’s in the World to Come that we are rewarded for our spiritual transformation. It’s important to master techniques for controlling our anger and acting amiably with others, but being Jewish requires us to refine not only our behavior, but also ourselves.

Another area to work on looking deeper is our response to the blessings Hashem gives us. What should you do when Hashem gives you something you desperately needed? Of course, you have to express your gratitude to Hashem. Hakaras hatov, writes Chovos Halevavos, is the foundation of avodas Hashem. But our gratitude shouldn’t be limited to a simple “thank you.”

I learned this lesson from Rav Wolbe. For years, every time we finished learning together, I thanked him. One day he responded, “Don’t say thank you.” I was astounded. He took time every week out of his packed schedule to teach me wisdom I’d never encountered anywhere else. He had changed my life immeasurably. Why should I not say thank you?

I asked him, and he explained: “I learned with Rav Hutner for well over a decade, and I never said thank you. I showed him I was thankful, but I never used those two words. That’s because I understood that everything he gave me wasn’t a gift for me to put in my pocket and take home. It was for me to work with, grow with, develop further, and ultimately transmit to others.”

I don’t recommend anybody actually stop saying “thank you.” Rav Wolbe’s point was that we should not treat the gifts we receive from others or from Hashem superficially. If Hashem gives us health, parnassah, or children, our response must not be simply to thank Hashem; we have to use His gifts to serve Him better and help others serve Him as well.

When a child is born, everyone understands Hashem wants long-term avodah from the parents: to raise the child in the right path. The same is true with everything Hashem gives us. Say you buy a car. Why did Hashem give you the car — for you to say “Thank You, Hashem!” and drive away? The gift contains a whole world of avodah. You can use the car to save time and learn more Torah, to help others, to work on anger in the frequent scenarios that naturally induce road rage…. There’s so much more than the physical machine you see at first glance.

We usually only look deeper when what meets the eye is unpleasant. If something bad happens, we say “gam zu l’tovah.” We don’t see the good now, but Hashem’s plan is beyond our understanding. Countless people struggling with a difficult situation have come to me to ask, “What does Hashem want from me?” They understand that Hashem wants a special avodah from them.

But no one ever came to me after something good happened to him to ask, “What does Hashem want from me?” It never crosses our mind that the gift Hashem gave us contains more than we see at first glance. Even when what meets the eye is pleasant, a Jew has to look deeper, and see the world of avodah beneath the surface.

Our response in the face of anti-Semitism should be to be more Jewish. Let’s focus on these two areas — character development, and using Hashem’s gifts to serve Him — and train ourselves to look more deeply at the world around us. If we do that, we’ll discover that being a Jew is more demanding, and more rewarding, than what meets the eye.

—Prepared for print by Rabbi Eran Feintuch

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 992)

The post Time to be a Deeper Jew first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.