G

alus is a term that connotes so much suffering — homelessness, disunity, persecution, destruction, and much more. These components of galus cause us pain, but they are not the worst of the experience. There is another factor that causes us the deepest hopelessness and despair, and that is the endlessness of our exile.

Seeing a “light at the end of the tunnel” can carry us through even the most grueling situation. A person who knows that getting his life on track will require some extraordinary effort, but that the effort will pay off, is usually willing to endure the suffering. People are willing to work day and night to establish a business, earn a degree, or raise a family. Someone who is ill is willing to endure treatments and surgery that are painful but potentially effective. The prospect of better days ahead keeps him going. However, if he feels that his life will be endless drudgery, with no end to the toil, he will despair and refuse to move forward.

It has been just about a half a year since our world was shaken by the terrible events that occurred on Simchas Torah. The first emotion was shock, followed by fright, then anger. Israel began to fight furiously and heroically, with an unmatched intensity and bravery. We bombed tunnel after tunnel, killed commander after commander, and wrecked installation after installation. Day after day, week after week. It is now six months later, and there is no sign of reaching any end. Every tunnel leads to another tunnel, every lair to another lair, and there seems to be an endless number of Hamas fighters.

But that is only one aspect of the endlessness. Even if we succeed in killing every single Hamas fighter tomorrow, there will be another generation of Hamas fighters under this name or that name. And when we finish in Gaza, Lebanon has an endless supply of Hezbollah soldiers. And Yemen has Houthis. And so on and so on. Can we even be sure about the countries that signed peace treaties with us?

Does anyone seriously think that someday, the Palestinians will make a rational calculation and say to themselves, “Why not just use the billions of dollars the world has given us to build ourselves a beautiful country, with jobs for everyone?” There may be temporary periods of reprieve, when exhaustion and calm minds prevail, but very soon the terrorism will start again.

It was not supposed to be that way. For almost 200 years, the common wisdom was that all our woes were a byproduct of our homeless existence. No natives like foreigners living in their homeland. But usually after a generation or two, the foreigners integrate into the host culture.

We, however, persisted in retaining our own identity. We were the outsiders. We had no armed forces, and therefore could not defend ourselves. We were not allowed to engage in farming and many other trades; therefore,   we became businessmen, so-called parasites who “lived off other people’s hard work.” Our religion was different from that of our hosts, spawning a plethora of horrendous libels.

The solution was thought to be obvious, if difficult. Become a normal people. Have a country that is yours and everything will fall into place. Sure, there will be birth pangs, but those are productive pains, like that of a dislocated shoulder being pulled into place. Once that initial stage has passed, life should be natural and smooth.

Seventy-six years ago, it happened. Sure, it required tremendously hard work, and blood, and bravery; but it happened indeed. The War of Independence was to be expected; the skirmishes and killing of the fedayeen was to be expected; even the 1956 Sinai campaign could be seen as part of that process. In 1967, we won a victory so magnificent that we believed there would not be a war for the next 100 years. However, no sooner had the Arabs been defeated than they began preparing for the Yom Kippur War, which brought us a hair’s breadth away from total disaster, chas v’shalom.

Again, we managed to regroup and surge back incredibly. But no matter how many times we win, they keep coming back, again and again. Can anyone explain how, almost a century later, with magnificent armed forces, sophisticated and brave beyond words, we are still not safer than we were at the beginning of our venture? That no fewer Jews are killed in the ongoing skirmishes than in the pogroms of Europe?

We have built a society that is widely considered successful by Western standards. It offers education, economic opportunity, health care, democratic institutions, and so forth. And yet we are still seen as pariahs. We are bloodsuckers, world manipulators, and just plain genocidal. We have not gained an iota more respect from our vilifiers. Yes, there are good and honest people who see things truthfully, but theirs does not seem to be the majority view.

We are not weighed down by the suffering itself. We have emerged from these situations and worse, time and time again. Rather, we are experiencing an accumulated sense of hopelessness. If this hasn’t worked, what will? Nothing seems able to bring an end to it. And “endlessness” is synonymous with hopelessness and despair, chas v’shalom.

But we have been here before.

The Ramban, in a most powerful observation (parshas Vayechi, Bereishis 47:28), compares our galus — the last of all galuyos — to Yaakov’s descent into Egypt, the first of the galuyos. The most important of these similarities is that the redemption does not arrive as expected. Yaakov had expected to spend the famine years in Mitzrayim and then return to Eretz Yisrael. But alas, the galus stretched on and on, and Yaakov never made it back; only his bones came home.

“So too,” writes the Ramban, “our galus has gone on interminably. We have no notion of when it will end. We are as if dead, feeling as if our bones are dried out and lifeless.”

Our galus is the galus of Edom, and Edom is compared to an abyss (Bereishis Rabbah 2:4, based on the girsa of Yalkut Shimoni and others). What defines an abyss, more than anything else, is that it seems bottomless.

Eisav’s bottomless, “endless” abyss is really the ultimate contradiction to Hashem. Hashem is defined as Infinite, and therefore, the good in creation must also be infinite. This means that the default setting of creation is goodness. Any darkness or difficulty is inevitably temporary, created to fulfill a very specific necessity. As soon as that need is satisfied, the world returns to light and tranquility.

Eisav, on the other hand, is the evil counterbalance to this truth. He casts the mirage of an “abyss” onto creation. The default setting of the world therefore seems to be meaningless and endless darkness, with maybe an occasional point of light.

As long as we are taken in by this illusion, we sink into despair, and we lose our desire to continue.

But we were here once before.

In Mitzrayim, we were not even a people yet. We had a vague memory of some Divine promise. We had sunk into two centuries of grueling labor and persecution, with not a hint of any change. And one day, in an instant, we became alive. The redemption was “b’chipazon,” hurriedly, instantly. Had darkness indeed been the default setting, then change would have required a process. But since it was the other way around, and living and thriving is the default setting, with darkness but a temporary necessity, we returned to our default position instantly.

This is our great challenge today. Two millennia of galus. A glimmer of hope. And still, we find ourselves endlessly sloshing in the quicksand of death. It is so easy to think that darkness is the norm, that evil is an infinite abyss.

But the memory of that first Pesach reminds us that no matter how hopeless the galus seems, it is inalterably finite. For if Hashem is Infinity, then goodness must be the true default setting for creation.

The redemption is called the “keitz,” the end, or the boundary. The angel (see Daniel 12) revealed to Daniel that there is a keitz, but hid the calculation within a code for which we lack the key. What was the point of revealing the keitz without giving us a way to calculate it? What, in fact, was revealed?

The answer is that the angel revealed the very concept of a keitz, and that is the essential nechamah. This assures us that evil exists only within certain boundaries and has a clearly defined end. To us mortals, with our limited span of existence, galus seems endless; but that is an illusion.

In truth, the world is a world of goodness, and the difficulties are, in their essence, temporary. They must end. The belief in Mashiach and in a keitz is therefore not simply that we will be helped and saved from our woes. It is an entirely different perspective on the universe created by the Infinite One, Who is all good.

The Ramban concludes with these moving words:

“We are like the dead, thinking that our bones are dried out. We will then be brought up from all the nations, as the offering to Hashem. The nations will be aggrieved when they recognize the honor bestowed upon us. We will see the vengeance of Hashem.

“He will pull us up, and we will live before Him.”

Rav Aaron Lopiansky is the rosh yeshivah of the Yeshiva of Greater Washington, Tiferes Gedaliah, and a talmid of Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz, Rav Nachum Partzovitz, and his father-in-law, Rav Beinish Finkel. He also learned under Rav Moshe Shapira. Rav Lopiansky has authored several seforim, including the recently released Orchos Chaim, Ben Torah for Life.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1008)

The post Endless? first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Galus is not merely a punishment, but rather a journey. It is a painful journey indeed, but one that enables us to learn wrong from right, often by experiencing terrible disappointment in the idols we worship.

The neviim describe Klal Yisrael as an unfaithful woman who falls for the glamorous “other,” only to be humiliated by rejection from that same “other.” The neviim paint wrenching scenes of betrayal and regret, but after we are rejected, we come back to the One Who loves us faithfully and unconditionally.

This was true of the galus of Yavan. The tragedy of that galus lay not so much in the Yevanim as in the Jews who followed them, thinking they had found a better way of life. Yavan’s cruelty toward us opened the eyes of many of these people; Klal Yisrael returned to Hashem and the eternal light of the Menorah.

This pattern repeats itself time and again, even in our own times. Science and philosophy were thought to be the harbingers of a beautiful new world — an enlightened and civilized society. No country embodied this “advanced civilization” to the extent Germany did. Its people were the most educated, its scientists the most advanced, its thinkers and poets most profound. The country was a paradigm of what science and reason could achieve. It is no wonder, then, that German Jews so idolized their country, and that it played so prominent a role in their identity. In fact, this national pride gave birth to convoluted formulations that described the Jewish and German identity as being one and the same.

That idol came crashing down on us with horrific vengeance. Whatever a person’s beliefs were after the war, the belief that science or philosophy could create a moral society had thoroughly evaporated.

Another idol that we pursued avidly was Communism. It grabbed the hearts and minds of so many Yidden. An entire generation was swept up in its worship. They gave their hearts and minds to it, and their lives as well. And then it turned on them. It was a rude awakening, but that idol is gone.

As we moved on, a new ideology has gripped us. For the lack of a better word. let us label it “progressivism” or “liberalism.” In our world today, there is a knee-jerk reaction against those words. But that reaction overlooks the attraction liberalism, at its inception, had for traditional-minded Jews in a time when many injustices had yet to be addressed in our society.

One hundred years ago, old people were at the mercy of their relatives, with no way to support themselves. A sick person who could not afford medical care was left to die. Handicapped people were basically imprisoned in their homes, as no buildings or bathrooms accommodated them. People with Down syndrome were locked away. Newspaper ads in the classified section stated, “Only Christians need apply.” Black people had to drink at a separate fountain. And we, the Jews, were the unwanted immigrants, who had the doors of America slammed in our face, dooming us in Europe.

The same conservative movements that we so adore today were the ones that fought to hold on to that way of life. And the liberal and progressives that we despise were the ones who fought and succeeded in creating the social norms that we take for granted today.

Is it any wonder that so many Jews spearheaded that ideology? Is it not firmly anchored in our most basic Jewish ethic of compassion? Isn’t Avraham Avinu the embodiment of kindness?

So now the question is, how did we go wrong with compassion?

Let us turn to Chazal: “He who expresses mercy toward the cruel and wicked will eventually express cruelty toward the merciful and righteous” (Koheles Rabbah 7:24; Tanchuma Metzora 1; Midrash Tehillim 7, et al).

What are Chazal teaching us in this profound statement? The Maharal explains many times that any behavior, no matter how positive in its essence, will eventually become destructive if it is not controlled and checked. The Rambam in Hilchos Deios says that it is actually the mitzvah of v’halachta bidrachav — “You shall go in His ways” — to control and channel the various middos in line with Hashem’s will. Any middah undefined by boundaries will inevitably lead to evil at some point. Thus, mercy is a wonderful attribute. But when mercy releases a killer from prison, mercy becomes the enabler of more murder. Thus, he who is compassionate toward the cruel inevitably becomes cruel toward the compassionate.

The “old world” was strict and demanding. Authority — whether church or state — was venerated. If someone could not fend for himself, well, tough luck; no one owes you anything. If you are different, then you don’t belong. Society was indeed short on compassion.

Then hearts stirred and inspired people to make society more compassionate, caring, and embracing. Much good was accomplished. But this compassion was not tempered by any elements of restraint, discipline, obligation, or authority, etc. Morality started and ended with compassion.

Slowly, even so noble a middah as compassion became grotesquely perverted. There is no good and no bad, only “different.” There is no industriousness or laziness, just entitlement. There is no personal restraint or dignity, just indulgence and immediate gratification.

As this wave of compassion swept the world, Jews, who are rachmanim bnei rachmanim, were swept up in it. It connected to an emotion that spoke so strongly to us as Jews. For secular Jews, this was the Judaism they wanted; it was all “tikkun olam” — no laws, no restrictions, no Divine authority. Jews were the heart and soul of this new wave of the Western worldview.

And then October 7 came. The entire enlightened, “compassionate” world came crashing down on us. Not only was there no sympathy for the butchered and terrorized, but calumny and accusations were heaped upon us.

What happened? Is the entire world really composed of Jew-haters who would like to see us dead? I don’t think that is the root of it. Most are decent people who are motivated by feelings of compassion. But these are mindless feelings. No one is asking of himself, “Who is persecuting whom?” Or, “If a killer is holding a baby as a shield and is coming to kill me, can’t I defend myself?”

Rather, they shout simple slogans, meant to arouse passions without thought.

But more than that. Their reaction reflects the belief that right and wrong are determined by the strength of emotion, not by G-d, nor by the laws of the Torah. And when that happens, mercy turns to cruelty, and would-be angels become demons.

For much of secular Jewry, this was a moment that shook core beliefs and understandings. It was like the moment when the Nazi officer ripped the World War I medals off the Jew’s chest and barked, “Filthy Jew, you defile Germany with your presence!” It was like the moment when the Soviet NKVD trained their guns on their Jewish comrades, who had persecuted fellow religious Jews with great ardor, and charged, “You Jewish cosmopolitan bourgeois, the proletariat is downtrodden as long as you’re alive!”

For us, members of the chareidi public living in our insulated shtetl society, this betrayal isn’t personal, because we never replaced Torah with the idol of liberalism. While we recognize the surfacing of these sentiments as a nuisance and perhaps a danger, we are not suffering the humiliation of the spurned woman the neviim describe. But for people who participate in fully in secular society, this rejection was devastating.

So many wonderful brethren, hitherto very lightly affiliated, have had an epiphany of connection to Klal Yisrael. One wishes to put an arm around them, and say: “Yes, dear brother, Avraham’s middah was kindness and compassion, and that is definitely the bedrock of our people. But Avraham is not enough of a foundation to build G-d’s nation upon. It is the added application of Yitzchak and Yaakov’s realization — that compassion is only good when weighed and measured by the laws of Hashem’s Torah — that founded our people. Compassion may be the engine, but Torah and truth are the steering wheel and brakes.

“Come, join us and reclaim those two other Avos that are rightfully yours, and then we will embrace together the chesed and emes that is the eternity of the Jewish People.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 989)

The post Shattered Idols first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

ON

Yom Kippur 50 years ago, I was an American bochur davening in the Mir Yeshivah when the sirens went off. It was not until quite a few days later that the extent of the terrible devastation became known. But the shock was immediate: It can’t be, it just can’t be.

I had come to Israel three years earlier. Just three years before my arrival, during the Six Day War, the Arab armies had been defeated for once and for all. It would be at least a thousand years until they could even have the audacity to start up with us.

I recall a few months after I came, I saw a new building going up, with a space designated for a bomb shelter. I was puzzled. I asked someone, why do we still need these? He shrugged and muttered something about outdated regulations.

Fifty years have gone by, and once again, we are at an impossible moment.

There is so much emotion to grapple with: The Yom Tov that turned to mourning for so many. The terrible decisions that may have to be made about the hostages. The young boys who will be entering the hell of Gaza, and their families who will be in excruciating tension for as long as their children are there. Their nights and days will be one long nightmare, faces turning pale at every knock on the door and every buzz of the phone.

There is so much nesias ol that we need to generate. So much tefillos harabim, and so much tikkun hamaaseh. But as I was dancing hakafos, my mind kept going back to that fateful Yom Kippur 50 years ago, and how I was sure that never again would I think, “It can’t be.”

So let us ponder that mood of self-assuredness, of smugness and complacency. On the level of behavioral science, this is a well-known phenomenon that affects everyone — from the businessman, to the soldier, to the criminal, and so on and so on. Success breeds a sense of “this is natural and automatic,” and the person becomes more careless and reckless. This is what Shlomo tells us explicitly as possible: “Before collapse comes pride; before failure, haughtiness of spirit” (Mishlei 16:18).

But I’d like to understand the ruchniyus manifestation of this attitude, and where it stems from.

The Zohar states in parshas Naso, “A person travels through this world, and he feels that it will be his forever and that he will remain there for all generations to come.” The Zohar is revealing to us an extraordinary aspect of the human sense of things.

The ardent believer prays mightily to Hashem to acquire something, knowing that Hashem is the source of all. Yet once the person has acquired or achieved anything, he feels that it is rightfully his unless Hashem chooses to take it away from him. Yes, he acknowledges that the actual acquisition comes from Hashem, and he knows that Hashem can take it back, but in the present moment, the feeling is that it’s naturally mine.

Perhaps this was what was meant by Bar Koziba, who, before setting out for battle, turned to Hashem and proclaimed, “Don’t help us, just don’t hinder us” (Midrash Rabbah on Eichah 2:4). Bar Koziba could not have been a crass disbeliever — Rabi Akiva supported him and possibly believed that he was Mashiach. He certainly understood that might and strength came to him from Hashem. But once gained, he felt that strength was naturally his, and that in order to succeed in battle he merely needed that Hashem not interfere with the natural deployment of that strength.

This dynamic is often described in the Torah as Bnei Yisrael “becoming fat” and then denying Hashem. And it is so true of us today in so many different ways.

WE all recognize that Hashem gave us life, but we think the good health that we enjoy is ours. Certainly Hashem can chas v’shalom rock our health, but so long as He doesn’t, we think it’s ours. The same attitude holds true for the wealth that we have accumulated, and it is true of our ruchniyus and so much more.

This runs counter to the middah of bitachon. We tend to think about bitachon when we’re in difficult situations and hope for the best. Many times we say the right words, and perhaps we emotionally latch on to them so that we don’t despair. But bitachon is doubly necessary when dealing with what we have actually succeeded in acquiring.

We need to genuinely feel and believe that we have whatever we do because Hashem is allowing us to have it at this present moment — and there is nothing about our having it that makes it ours in any permanent way.

The appropriate attitude is expressed in our daily davening: “hamechadeish b’tuvo b’chol yom tamid;” Hashem is constantly renewing the world. We tend to understand this as some sort of mystical reference, that Hashem is constantly repeating “let there be light” in the higher worlds. As such, it is an abstract philosophy meaning very little to us practically.

But if we translate it to our day-to-day life, it is the greatest test of emunah and bitachon. It means that whether our bank account is utterly empty or bursting with nine-digit figures, our situation is utterly the same. This moment’s poverty or wealth says nothing about the next moment. Neither despair nor arrogance ought to reside in our hearts — ever!

I recall a year when the enrollment in the Mir Yeshivah increased dramatically. There was a general sense of elation. But when Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz got up to say the first shmuess of the zman, he had a different perspective. When he looked around and saw the overflow crowd, he spoke of trepidation; of the dangers of being overtaken by one’s sense of success.

Baruch Hashem, Klal Yisrael has so much today. There are material possessions and extraordinary ruchniyus accomplishments. But woe unto us if even for a moment we feel smug and complacent, thinking that if we have it, then it has become ours as a given.

The succah is an ultimate sign of bitachon. For even as we are sitting in a home, we can still see the sky peeking through the holes. A brick-and-mortar home protects a person, but it also shuts out Hashem. A succah, in contrast, is indeed a house — but a temporary one. It can last for a long time, but each moment of its existence is a temporary moment.

Would that we be zocheh to live Succos in its full sense of diras arai, and we’ll have Shemini Atzeres of simchah and never again of the devastation that we lived through this week.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 981)

The post Moment by Temporary Moment first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

R

osh Hashanah is the opening salvo of ten intense days of teshuvah, which culminate in Yom Kippur. Yet none of the features of our avodah on this Yom Tov seem to suit that description. Our tefillos make no mention of our individual sins. Neither do we recite Vidui. In fact, our attention to teshuvah on Rosh Hashanah seems faint in comparison to the rest of the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, when we make frequent reference to aveiros and repentance as we say Selichos.

Rather, the singular focus of our Rosh Hashanah tefillos is on affirming Hashem’s Divine monarchy. How does this theme provide a starting point for teshuvah?

To understand the inner meaning of our avodah, we look for the templates Hashem puts in front of our eyes in this world. Says the Zohar (in its discussion of the inner meanings of tekias shofar), if we have no explanation from the Sages, we are to “observe what occurs in the perceived world… for Hashem has ordained that all that happens in this world is analogous to that which takes place above.”

Therefore, let us analyze a phenomenon that has been taking place “on this Earth” to understand an important foundation of our avodah on Rosh Hashanah.

For the past few months, Israel has been wracked by the debate concerning the Supreme Court’s power to negate government actions and/or legislation on the basis of “unreasonableness.” In most countries, the High Court can nullify laws or government actions that contradict preexisting laws or a national constitution. In Israel, however, the High Court can act based on the seemingly “unreasonable” and unjust nature of the government policy or law itself. Regarding Israeli politics and turmoil surrounding this issue, I leave it to people who are knowledgeable on the subject to offer an opinion. I would like to focus on a more fundamental point that is lost in the political hullabaloo.

At first glance, we are tempted to say that a democratic government should operate according to majority rule. But let us ask ourselves: If the majority of people decide to cancel the democratic form of government and install a dictator, should that become the law? If a law is passed requiring the wealthiest 25 percent of the population to allow the government to redistribute their wealth (which would probably garner 75 percent of the vote), should that law stand just because a majority passed it? If a majority passes a law that a minority of people should be enslaved, should that be the law of the land? We can think of many examples like this.

So how should we describe the criteria for just laws? I think that the word “reasonable” is a bit misleading. Every act of reasoning is based on two foundations: accepted principles, and logical derivations from these principles. Thus, economic activity is built on the principle that maximizing profit is good. On that basis, people analyze what activities are conducive to maximizing profit. Similarly, the “common welfare” is the foundational principle of good governance. Therefore, the details of how the government is run should be derived logically from that principle.

These principles are what is being referred to as “reasonableness” in Israel’s High Court debate. However, I believe a better description, which acknowledges the significance being attached to them, would be “moral right and wrong.”

Who Decides What’s Right?

So far so good. I don’t think that anyone would disagree with this. But now we get to the trickier part. While the majority should decide how to achieve the common good, who gets to decide if these laws meet this purported moral standard?

One answer is to enlist a group of wise and learned individuals who are removed from the fray of market activities, who have dedicated their lives to this goal; theoretically, they would be the ideal guardians of these moral principles. Without tendering an opinion on whether such a group actually exists, let us examine this premise itself.

If we were to poll the opinions of all the wise and learned individuals concerning moral principles, we would hear every answer possible. For example, among the great works of philosophy, there is almost no consensus about anything. Depending on who you ask, private property is either sacred or a great evil. Marriage is either the bedrock of society or archaic. Patriotism is either noble or the root of all war, and so on. Even democracy itself is totally nixed by Plato; was Plato unreasonable?

But this leaves us confounded. Doesn’t every decent human being have a sense of morality?

The answer is that morality is indeed a universally accepted concept. But if we ask, “What is moral?” we will receive as many answers as there are people. The solution to this conundrum is to recognize that, despite most human beings’ intuitive sense of morals, morality itself is rooted in the Divine.

Thus, the serpent, when tempting Adam and Chavah to eat from the Eitz Hadaas, had one sales pitch: “If you eat from this tree, you will truly know good from evil.” This power was solely Hashem’s; He had not granted it to Adam. After eating from the tree, not only did Adam not gain the ultimate knowledge of good and bad, but even the intuitive awareness of tov and ra that he had possessed became muddled and confused. As a result, mankind is afflicted with this chaotic riot of opinion, in which every possible moral position is proposed by intelligent, “reasonable” people. Every individual represents only one limited perspective on the Divine, and it is most often skewed by various biases.

Let us now come down to Earth and touch base with ourselves. As the Yamim Noraim approach, we begin the process of rebuilding our own moral character. There are two critical points in the calendar for this process: Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. While Yom Kippur, with its many recitations of Vidui, is the visible part of the process, Rosh Hashanah lays the foundation. Rosh Hashanah expresses the axiom that morality is rooted in Hashem, and that He alone calibrates good and evil in this world.

The event that is identified with the essence of Rosh Hashanah is the Akeidah. This event is, in Hashem’s eyes, the ultimate good. However, it leaves human beings totally baffled. And that was exactly the point of it.

Because Avraham Avinu was a perfect servant to Hashem, who recognized Hashem’s definition of good to the full extent possible by humans, it was he who was chosen to teach us that the human being’s sense of good, no matter how attuned to the Divine, is not the end of the story. In obeying Hashem’s command, Avraham acknowledged that the good which mankind — even at its most elevated — is capable of recognizing is but a branch of something far, far bigger, which is rooted in Hashem.

When Avraham met that challenge, Hashem told him, “Now I know that you truly fear Elokim.” This praise meant, “Your own moral awareness did not blind you to the fact that morality is rooted in something beyond man’s limited understanding.”

This indeed is the essence of Rosh Hashanah. In recent years, it has become somewhat of a ritual for many “rabbis” — some who proclaim themselves Orthodox — to speak out against Hashem’s testing of Avraham through the Akeidah.

Besides the incongruous spectacle of a “rabbi” berating Hashem, this wrongheaded critique is the exact opposite of what Rosh Hashanah is meant to be. Rather than putting forth the humble message that “I truly do not understand Hashem’s ways,” he implies, “I understand far better than You!”

But what about ourselves? When confronted with a psak halachah or a din Torah that doesn’t sit well with us, do we sincerely say, “My seichel fell short of determining right and wrong”? Or is our reaction very different? Have we ever conceded our reason to something above it? At best, we shrug helplessly and say that despite their “getting it wrong,” we have no choice but to follow the psak.

Without the recognition that our wrongful acts are wrong because Hashem deems them as such, and that our deeds have diverged from His will, our Yom Kippur is lacking. We regret the sins we have committed, but only because, on further consideration, we know they cannot benefit us. But teshuvah is not defined primarily by regret. Rather, it is the return to Hashem, and that is the work of Rosh Hashanah.

All of the above is not only essential to our avodah during the Yamim Noraim, but also to our ability to meet our personal challenges with emunah intact. Almost everyone faces challenges that seem to fail the “reasonableness test.” One person struggles with recurring health issues that rob him of the ability to live what he considers a meaningful life. Another person struggles to care for a severely incapacitated family member. Still another person wrestles with an ever-growing mountain of bills and debts, which, despite valiant efforts, only keeps growing. And how many people are spending years trying to find a spouse and begin family life, but to no avail?

As hard as we try to accept these situations, we cannot help but think that they simply do not “make sense.” Certainly, we must pursue appropriate hishtadlus and tefillah, but do we actually have the inner emotional recognition that “This is Hashem, and therefore, it is beyond my understanding”?

We say lengthy Viduim on Yom Kippur. However, in the Beis Hamikdash, the Kohein Gadol only said, chatasi, avisi, pashati. But there is one critical opening phrase to the Vidui: “Ana Hashem” — Please, Hashem! With this plea, we declare that Hashem is the ultimate Source of morality. If we have sinned, it is against Hashem that we have sinned, for that is the core definition of sin. Once we have established that, then our enumeration of our various aveiros takes on its true meaning. We can then wait for Hashem, the Source of tov and ra, to answer us: Salachti kidvarecha!

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 978.

The post The Limits of Reason first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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group of Slonimer bochurim — the future Nesivos Shalom among them —slowly filed into the room of their Rebbe, the Beis Avrohom, to be mekabel pnei rabo on the first day of Pesach.

“Kinderlach, did you read the Haggadah last night?” he asked. The Rebbe looked at them with piercing eyes and began quoting the pasuk brought in the Haggadah: “Vatirbi, you have grown; Vatigdeli, you have developed. Shadayach nachonu, you are ready to nurse others, to teach and to be mashpia. No?”  And then he bore down and said, “Ve’at eirom va’eryah, you are but naked and bare!”

The Nesivos Shalom, recounting the story, remembered the frozen silence that seemed to last forever as these powerful words hung heavy over the bochurim. No one moved a muscle.

The Rebbe’s countenance then softened, and in a warm voice, he finished the pasuk: “Va’omar lach b’damayich chayi. Va’omar lach b’damayich — that which a person bleeds for is what gives him life.”

When I heard this account myself from the Nesivos Shalom in a shmuess [it was also printed in the Slonimer Haggadah Toras Avos], I sensed that the Rebbe was reliving that profound moment of critique and instruction. The point was clear: A shallow person measures his accomplishments by quantity. How much? How many? But the real measure of ruchniyusdik achievement lies in how deeply it is anchored in the very essence of the person. To what degree is this deed an expression of the self?

From Our Deepest Being

Klal Yisrael was at an incredibly low spiritual level in Egypt. But that understates the peril in which our nation stood; we actually were not even fully alive. Like an unborn fetus, we had not yet proven our ability to draw our first breath as an independent, living entity.

Hashem therefore wanted to endow us with merits that would ensure our viability. It was not possible, nor would it be effective, to simply give us an abundance of mitzvos. Hashem therefore focused our efforts on just two: the unique mitzvos of Pesach and bris milah. The singular feature of these mitzvos was that we would have to bleed for them, and it was the bleeding itself that ensured that we would live.

Let us take a closer look at those mitzvos. The bleeding involved in their performance is a lot deeper than the physical emission of blood.

The sheep was the Egyptian deity. Imagine bulldozing a mosque in Iran or in Saudi Arabia. What would the reaction be? Slaughtering a sheep in Egypt was the equivalent, and therefore, by sacrificing the Korban Pesach, Bnei Yisrael were risking their very lives.

The blood of milah similarly goes a lot deeper than the blood spilled at the actual circumcision. The sanctity of the bris demands the restraint and containment of our strongest passions and desires. Since these desires are man’s greatest pleasure and craving, they appear to be his essence.

Rabi Elazar ben Durdaya (as chronicled in Avodah Zarah 17a) lived a very promiscuous life. When he decided in an abrupt instance to do teshuvah and stop his sinning immediately, he died. For when a person is deeply enmeshed in taavah, it attaches itself to his deepest recesses of life and self. Therefore, restraint in this area must likewise emanate from the deepest recesses of a person’s being.

Beyond the Comfort Zone

When we learn about the days of old, we are usually taught that people of previous generations occupied  a much higher madreigah than we do today. There is no doubt that the giants such as the Chofetz Chaim, Rav Chaim Ozer, and many others towered far, far above us. But what about the average frum Yid of those times?

Arguably, we maintain a higher standard for mitzvos like tefillin and esrogim than was available to the average Jew in those days. In addition, many more people today have attained high levels of Torah knowledge, and so many more people are sitting in kollel, learning full-time. Nevertheless, there is a persistent sense that we do not hold a candle to the madreigah of our predecessors.

That intuitive feeling is correct, and the reason is that their Yiddishkeit was infused with b’damayich chayi — with their very blood. Life was very hard. Keeping Torah and mitzvos was extremely difficult. Their mitzvos were fulfilled with their last ounce of blood, and therefore, their mitzvos gave them life. These sacrifices were the b’damayich chayi of those generations.

But what are we who live in the modern era to do? Does Hashem expect us to reject the plethora of blessings and conveniences that He has given us? Should we go back to scrubbing floors for Pesach the old way, just because it was more difficult? Should we exert ourselves by walking a few miles to  shul or yeshivah when we have the ability to drive? Certainly not.

There are, however, two areas in which we can act upon b’damayich chayi and thereby inject a more powerful surge of life-force into our ruchnyius. The first of these arises on those occasions when we are called upon to do something which is difficult; we should not hesitate to do it.

When all of life was difficult, no one could excuse himself from a task because it was difficult; that was life. But today, when most everything is easy, comfortable, and convenient, we hesitate to step out of our comfort zone. Consider the common diplomatic expression, “I don’t feel comfortable doing such and such.” While this is usually an excuse for something that we don’t wish to do, why does “lack of comfort” pass muster as an appropriate reason to shirk some task? The fact that it does speaks volumes.

The Good Fight

A more important takeaway for us is the frame of reference provided by b’damayich chayi for judging the value of our efforts and accomplishments. Great achievements naturally imbue us with a sense of value and purpose. Thus, the person who is good at learning and has accomplished a great deal is inspired to learn still more.

But what energizes the person who struggles mightily with his attention span and/or comprehension, and achieves a minimal amount after great effort?

Likewise, a person who can give large amounts to charity and see the difference his donations have made has ample motivation to keep giving. But what about the person who can only give a small sum, and even that’s a struggle? What’s the point?

And what about the person who works several jobs but cannot afford anything “extra” because his entire salary is depleted by the time he pays tuition? What encourages him to keep working?

Further, some people seem to be natural tzaddikim and are able to achieve a level of tzidkus. But what about the person whose life is an endless struggle against the yetzer hara? Why struggle today only to experience the same struggle again tomorrow?

To all of these people, and to ourselves with regard to our own personal, never-ending struggle, we say: b’damayich chayi. Your easy and grand achievements are worthy, but your chiyus comes from the areas that you bleed for. The chaining yourself to the Gemara with all your effort; the few dollars of tzedakah that are so difficult to come up with; the tuition that you pay by working so long and hard — all of these are your b’damayich chayi! What you consider a minimal achievement is in fact your essence as an oveid Hashem.

Infusion of Life

A while back, a rav in an affluent community related the following story to me: One of his young balabatim, a very bright and capable fellow, got a job in the world of investments. For an entire year he worked hard at pulling together a complex and lucrative deal, and with Hashem’s help, he was successful. The date was set for the final closing, at which all the representatives of the various parties would be present. This young man would then earn a fine commission, which would jumpstart his career.

But there was one hitch: the only day that everyone could come together was Shabbos. This rav consulted a major posek and mapped out a plan whereby the young man could attend the closing without incurring any chillul Shabbos.

A few weeks later the rav asked this young man how the closing went. The young man replied, “I didn't go.”

“But why not?” inquired the rav.

The aspiring investor explained, “My grandfather came to this country as a poor immigrant. Every Monday he had to look for a new job, because he would not work on Shabbos. Some weeks there wasn’t even enough food. But he kept Shabbos all his life. If he could keep Shabbos at the price of feeding his children, then I can keep Shabbos properly even at the possible cost of a glamorous career.”

By spilling his blood for Shabbos, the grandfather infused life into his family, whose Yiddishkeit remained intact in America. So powerful was that force that it was still going strong two generations later, when it lifted his grandson’s ruchniyus onto a higher plane.

Indeed, b’damayich chayi, b’damayich chayi!

Rav Aaron Lopiansky is the rosh yeshivah of the Yeshiva of Greater Washington, Tiferes Gedaliah, and a talmid of Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz, Rav Nachum Partzovitz, and his father-in-law, Rav Beinish Finkel. He also learned under Rav Moshe Shapiro. Rav Lopiansky has authored several seforim, including the recently released Orchos Chaim, Ben Torah for Life.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 956)

The post By Your Blood You Shall Live   first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

I was privileged to see Rabi Meir from behind. (Eiruvin 13b)

One night when I was seven years old, my father hurriedly awakened me. Rav Aharon Kotler was here! He had come to our neighborhood to purchase arba minim in a shop in the basement of our building.

We rushed down to the shop and I beheld Rav Aharon for the first and last time; his fiercely piercing eyes were trained intensely upon the merchandise before him, and then briefly upon me as he gave me a brachah.

A few years later, our class was taken to Pike Street on the Lower East Side to attend Rav Aharon’s funeral.

Lo zachisi liroso b’fanav.

My generation did not merit the experience of those who had been his talmidim in Lakewood to learn Torah under his transformative influence. Theirs was the generation that defined for us the concept of a “yeshivah bochur.” They were real American boys who had somehow taken the unusual step of going off to Lakewood, where they were shaped into the first generation of American yeshivahleit.

Many of those talmidim became the roshei hayeshivah of the next generation, opening up yeshivos in countless locations in America and fanning the sparks of the Torah revolution. Ironically, Rav Aharon himself had no way to communicate with an American high school boy and convince him to come and learn. He had neither the background nor the vocabulary with which to reach that boy. Usually, the suggestion came from a high school rebbi who spotted a particularly bright or earnest bochur and encouraged him to go to Lakewood. But once the boy arrived, it was Rav Aharon who caused the transformation.

But how? Rav Aharon’s shiurim were a challenge to comprehend, even for a brilliant rosh yeshivah. His mind was lightning-quick and razor-sharp and he spoke at a rapid-fire clip. Even his shmuessen were far from user-friendly; the content spilled out in a powerful cascade.

Nor was he personally available to the bochurim of the yeshivah. Most of the week, he was elsewhere, raising funds for the yeshivah and tending to the far-reaching responsibilities he took upon himself for Klal Yisrael. As a result, talmidim who needed help in their learning or personal matters had to turn to others in the yeshivah. However, those were not the interactions that formed them. The catalyst was Rav Aharon.

How?

The post Branded by Truth first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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ometimes deprivation underscores so much more strongly the positive in what we have. Covid has brought many deprivations in its wake — some minor, some harsher — but it has helped us realize and appreciate what there is.

A communal issue that emerged during Covid was the closing of shuls and the proliferation of living room and backyard minyanim. Indeed, the people who created and maintained backyard minyanim for the last two years deserve a tremendous yasher koach. At a time of crisis and need, they rose to the challenge, expending a great deal of effort and expense, giving up their of privacy, and enduring many other inconveniences, in order to sustain tefillah b’tzibbur. Ashreichem and yiyasher kochachem!

But the initiative opened up a potential Pandora’s box. Firstly, there are some backyard minyanim that stubbornly remain, and don’t seem to have any intention of returning to a shul.

Even among many people who have returned to shul, there still remains the nagging doubt, “Maybe those backyards weren’t so bad?” For the sake of the integrity of our kehillos, it is imperative that we clearly define the absolute need for batei knesses.

The Korach Logic

These minyanim had and have many allures, including low overhead and convenience. But most alluring is that there is no rav. The justification for such an arrangement, which is often not actually stated but rather is implicit or even subconscious, is that in today’s generation, most people are well-educated enough in halachah to manage the details of proper davening. As far as a drashah or devar Torah is concerned, many feel they can do without it. Otherwise, congregants can take turns preparing and delivering a vort.

This is not a new sentiment. For example, when Korach was upset at Moshe for grabbing the kehunah for his brother, he disputed the entire institution of priesthood. “Why do we need holier Jews? Aren’t we all a mamleches kohanim? Isn’t the entire community holy? Didn’t we all hear Hashem at Sinai?”

Korach illustrated his point with a seeming absurdity: “Does a garment that is all techeiles need tzitzis? Does a house full of seforim need a mezuzah?” These are powerfully logical arguments. But they are manifestly wrong; for the halachah is that indeed the garment that is all techeiles does require tzitzis, and the room packed to the rafters with seforim does require a mezuzah.

But where is the logical flaw in Korach’s most cogent argument?

The flaw lies in his basic assumption: that ruchniyus has a finite and absolute definition. Once a person becomes a kadosh, he has reached his goal and the process is over.

But the true nature of kedushah is to become Divine-like. And since Hashem is infinite, the road to becoming kadosh is by definition infinite. It is a constant progression to the beyond.

Thus, the techeiles tzitzis fringe of a garment is an arrow pointing and trailing off to the beyond. So too, the mezuzah on the doorway is an arrow pointing to the beyond. No matter how blue the garment, no matter how many seforim in the room, true spirituality lies not within, but rather in the never-ending voyage to the beyond.

The Maharal in many places explains that placing spirituality into finite boundaries and concretizing it means perforce destroying it. Nothing spiritual is “this”; rather, it is always, “this and then.”

Indeed, Korach’s logic was flawless, but it was built on the falsest of premises. The premise is that spirituality is a fixed goal — something that can be contained and attained, as opposed to a perpetual process — something to constantly strive for.

The Power of Presence

This concept defines the first and most important function of a rav: presence — the presence of a man of stature. It is a communal statement to ourselves and to our children that here is the person who represents the road to further reaches, in regard to Torah knowledge, yiras Shamayim, and middos.

A reflection of this concept is seen in the halachah that in a beis haknesses, the elders are supposed to be seated facing the public, “so that the public faces both the holy ark and the elders” (Orach Chayim 150 based on a Tosefta). In other words, being part of a community means that a person is looking up toward both the Torah and the elders.

In previous generations, communities would traditionally choose rabbanim primarily for their stature. In the old days, the rav was not the one who spoke; a maggid usually did that. Even the day-to-day psakim were many times the province of a morah hora’ah.

For instance, in Brisk, neither Rav Chaim nor the Griz paskened day-to-day questions; Reb Simcha Zelig Reguer did. Major decisions were indeed the province of the rabbanim, but above all, it was their very presence that shaped and elevated the community.

Today, a rav often does speak and pasken and provide general guidance, but his most important role continues to be his very presence.

The effect of this presence is reflected in halachah, which considers someone who is mechallel Shabbos in public to be in the category of a gentile in many regards. However, many poskim state that if the offender was not mechallel Shabbos in front of an adam gadol, he is not considered a “mechallel Shabbos in public” (Orach Chayim 385, Mishnah Berurah 6). Thus, we see that the very presence of a choshuve person is a deterrent to wrongdoing.

Who Will Tell Us?

After presence, the second important element that a rav brings to a community is tochachah, rebuke. The Rambam states that one of the purposes of the bimah in shul is to serve as “the place to stand for the reader of the Torah, and for the person offering rebuke to the public” (Rambam, Tefillah 11:3).

This rebuke is not necessarily a fire-and-brimstone speech; it can be subtle and soft criticism. Furthermore, Mesillas Yesharim explains a mussar fundamental: that mussar is not meant for the purpose of imparting new information. Most of what mussar has to offer is already well known. However, even that which is well known needs to be constantly brought to people’s attention, as there is a tendency to repress the demands such information makes on us.

Over the course of the year, a rav reminds people again and again about decorum in shul, coming to shiurim, shalom bayis, chinuch habanim, giving tzedakah, and undertaking communal responsibility. Halachos are taught and repeated publicly.

The rav may be an outstanding and inspirational orator, or he may be far from it. But in all cases, there is a constant reminder of what’s right and what’s important. Ideally, communities shteig because of this; minimally a reasonable status quo is maintained, whereas communities with no mochiach tend to gradually deteriorate over time.

Some groups have eschewed a rav and instead substituted a rotation of congregants to say a devar Torah. Many times, this includes the silly, the cynical, and even the borderline heretical. After all, in a democracy, who is to say what should be said and what shouldn’t? And even if the devar Torah is most appropriate, it can never come across as a demand or rebuke. For the speaker’s role is that of a peer, not that of a leader or superior.

Living as a Community

There is another severe fault with the improvised minyanim and that is addressed in an open halachah:

“Wherever there dwell ten Jews, they must prepare a house wherein people will gather to pray; this place is known as a beis haknesses. The people of the town force each other to build a beis haknesses” (Rambam, Tefillah 11:1; also, Orach Chayim Ch. 150).

It is therefore clear that a shul must be a designated structure. I believe that this is in line with the halachah of having a makom kavua for our own tefillah (Rambam, Tefillah 5:6). “Ad hoc,” a word that describes “pop-up minyanim,” expresses something insignificant — but a shul, and each person’s own place of tefillah, require the gravitas of permanence and structure.

Finally, there is a more global issue with backyard minyanim, and that is the lack of a sense of communal responsibility among the shul members and within the broader community. In a shul, people look out for each other; the shul creates a sense of achrayus for others. This means that people must supply membership and building funds and maintenance funds. Mikvaos, eiruvim, and various tzedakos tend to center around the shul. If there is no shul, the sense of communal responsibility is materially diminished.

The community of Israel is called an eidah. One version of an eidah is the terrible eidah of Korach, as we explained.

But there is a second and most uplifting vision of an eidah. This is described in the words of Moshe Rabbeinu’s plea to Hashem: “May the L-rd of spirits appoint a leader for the eidah. He will be a person who will go out ahead of them and come in ahead of them. And he will lead them out, and bring them back in, so that the eidah of Hashem will be not like a flock of sheep without a shepherd” (Bamidbar 27:15).

Moshe’s final request for Israel was a leader. The first quality of leadership he cited was personal stature — that the leader be “ahead of them.” Then follows the quality of being able to “take Yisrael with him,” and lead them beyond.

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aruch Hashem, we have by and large returned to our shuls. For that handful who haven’t, we say, “It is now time to fold up those chairs and tables, and ‘just as you receive great reward for acting, you will now receive great reward for desisting.’ By shutting down those backyard minyanim, you will thereby spearhead the drive to bring back adas Yisrael to its true form, with a leader who marches ahead of the tzibbur and whose very presence prompts us to follow along. You will lead the return of your mispallelim to a place worthy of being called a beis Hashem, which expresses the collective achrayus of the klal.”

This is an auspicious time for this to take place. It is in the year of “Hakhel,” when all of Israel gathers together as a kahal. And standing together as a kahal, may we merit to serve the Melech who exhorts and rebukes Klal Yisrael, once again, with the eternal words of Sefer Devarim.

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 931)

The post Time to Return first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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he galus of Mitzrayim is unique in many ways. Unlike the other galuyos, it does not seem to be a punishment for sins, but rather a prerequisite for Bnei Yisrael to become the nation of Hashem. Although Chazal connect certain shortcomings in Avraham Avinu’s conduct to his children’s descent into Mitzrayim, these links seem to be more of a remez, an allusion, than the main reason. (See Maharal Gevuros Hashem for a detailed explanation.)

The second puzzling aspect of our experience in Mitzrayim is that Bnei Yisrael’s pain and suffering, which we discuss in great detail, were only a symptom of that galus. The underlying cause of the galus is the decree, “Your children will be strangers in a land not theirs,” and “They shall be enslaved to them.”

Both decrees can — and did — cause great suffering, but suffering is not the essence of these two states. By understanding the exact nature of the galus of Mitzrayim, we can understand more precisely the nature of our geulah from Mitzrayim.

To fully comprehend this seminal event of our nationhood and what it means to be Hashem’s nation, let’s first gain a deeper understanding of what it means to be an individual.

A person is called a medaber — “one who speaks.” By speech, we do not mean the mechanical emission of sounds; parrots can do that, and today, voice simulators do it extremely well. Medaber, rather, refers to “expression.” Man contains within himself a vast reservoir of ideas, understanding, and feelings. By harnessing the power of speech, he has the ability to concretize them, express them, and make them part of the public domain.

This is true of man as an individual, and it is true of Klal Yisrael as well. Hashem states, “I have formed this nation to tell of My praises” (Yeshayahu 43:21). This means Klal Yisrael harbors very deep neshamos that need to express themselves as fulfillment of their Divine mandate. They have undergone experiences that are clear Hashgachah pratis and are waiting to be put into words.

The ultimate actualization of both adam and Yisrael is expression. Conversely, the ultimate pain is suppression, the inability to express our essence. (This is why people will risk their lives to combat regimes that squelch free self-expression, even if their lives are otherwise comfortable.)

This suppression, then, was the essence of Galus Mitzrayim. As darkness preceded light in the very act of Creation, so too did the darkness of Galus Mitzrayim precede the formation of Klal Yisrael. The hardship of this galus was the suppression generated by living in a strange land, and even more so by the enslavement therein. Even without physical suffering, the Jews were in a state of galus.

Freedom from Mitzrayim, therefore, meant the ability to express themselves, to become the nation that was formed for the purpose of self-expression, “that tells of My glory.” Supporting this idea, the seforim (widely quoted Zohar in parshas Va’eira) describe the constraints of this galus by expounding that in Egypt, “speech was in galus.”

That is why the central mitzvah of the Seder evening is speech. This focus on speaking at length is unique, for even regarding divrei Torah, we are taught the virtue of concise language: “A person should always teach his students with brevity” (Pesachim 3b). The Rambam (Deios 2:, 4) similarly states that a person should use “few words to convey much meaning.” Nevertheless, on this august evening we are enjoined, “The more one relates, the more one is praiseworthy” (Haggadah).

The reason is that brevity is indeed laudable when our goal is to transmit knowledge or information. However, on Pesach night, when our goal is expression itself, the more we express, the greater we are.

Throughout history, we have endured times when outside oppressors prevented us from expressing ourselves. Our hearts and minds were bursting to pour forth, but the Spanish Inquisitors, the Russian czars, the Communists, and anti-Semitic rulers throughout Europe muzzled us.

Today, baruch Hashem, we are in a relatively strong position. Almost everyone in Klal Yisrael is free to say and do as he or she wishes. Ironically, however, we find it difficult to express ourselves. We go through all the motions, do all the mitzvos, and say all the right things, but we do not feel that our “self” is being expressed in these words and deeds.

When asked to speak about any matter of Yiddishkeit, how often do we feel that it is the expression of our inner self, and how often do we feel we are simply repeating something that someone else wrote? It is not, chas v’shalom, that we don’t believe it to be true; but still, it is not an expression of our inner self. It is like food that when properly digested becomes “us” — incorporated as an essential part of our unique cells. But when we spit back something undigested, it retains its original identity. It has never become “us.”

This deficiency in expression is a double-edged sword: On the one hand, the mitzvos we perform feel lifeless, while on the other hand, our inner soul is languishing in its prison waiting desperately to break free and realize itself. It seems that there is an “orlas halev” — a callus that has encased our hearts.

This is the galus of our times, awaiting a redeemer.

The most opportune moment to begin the process of redeeming our personal dibbur ought to be Pesach night. It is the season of geulah, and the Seder is the time to speak and express the thoughts trapped within.

Especially if we are leading the Seder, we feel we should be using our power of speech to convey the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim in its many details. But sippur — the telling of this story — does not mean “saying” or “reciting.” It means “expressing.” Its primary purpose is not to inform the listener (see Malbim, Tehillim 19:2). Instead, it means telling stories that are personal experiences, stories that meld with and express our inner self, that are close to our hearts.

The problem is not that, Heaven forbid, we don’t believe what we are saying — it is that we are not living the words.

The halachah is that each of us is obligated “to see himself as if he was personally liberated from Mitzrayim.” Perhaps this is the real meaning behind a strange exchange between Rav Nachman and Daro, his slave. The Gemara relates that Rav Nachman asked Daro, “A master who frees his slave and (as a bonus) gives him silver and gold, what should the slave say in return?”

Daro said, “He ought to thank and praise his master!”

Rav Nachman then proclaimed, “We need no longer recite Mah Nishtanah.”

This exchange seems utterly pointless. What kind of question is that? And what was so incredibly profound about Daro’s reply? Wouldn’t any person on the planet give the same exact answer?

The answer is that the point of this exchange was not to elicit enlightening information from Daro. Rather, it was to hear the voice of someone languishing in slavery utter these words! Mah Nishtanah is meant to highlight for us the personal experience we are partaking in; hearing the personal words of Daro evoked in Rav Nachman a similar sense of personal experience. Only a slave could express this answer with the entirety of his person invested in the words.

The task facing us on the night of Pesach is indeed challenging. To properly prepare for that task, we need to ponder the words of the Haggadah and its commentaries. It is only when these words strike the deepest of chords within our soul that we can we begin the process of expressing ourselves through them.

When our children tell us the simplified pshatim they’ve been taught, we can encourage them to relate the ones that seem most relevant to them, in words that clearly convey they are speaking to themselves rather than merely reciting pshatim, beautiful as they are.

When we learn for ourselves and teach our children to mull and ponder the words of chachameinu zichronam livrachah, when those words strike a resonant note in our neshamos, and we begin the arduous task of translating and understanding the words that are ours, we will have begun the process of geulah. We start the emancipation of our dibbur the night of the Seder, and once freed, it will remain a ben chorin the rest of the year.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 907.

The post Oppression and Expression      first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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the throngs began pouring in from all corners of Eretz Yisrael, it began feeling eerily like an aliyah l’regel.

Except that aliyah l’regel used to bring us together in the joy of Yom Tov, and now we were brought together with the deep mourning of aveilus. But we were brought together at a point of focus for all the divergent members of Klal Yisrael. A point of focus that brings us back to the times when the Mikdash was that point of focus for Klal Yisrael.

At the very center of Klal Yisrael stood the Mishkan, and later, the Beis Hamikdash. From there, Klal Yisrael drew its spiritual nourishment and inspiration.

The Beis Hamikdash itself consisted of three circles:

The outermost circle, surrounded by a wall, was the courtyard. Within this courtyard stood the Mizbeiach. There, the multitudes of Klal Yisrael would come and bring sacrifices so they could be cleansed of their sins, their leprosy and other impurities. There, they would offer gratitude to HaKadosh Baruch Hu for saving them in times of trouble, and to acknowledge and reach out to Hashem in every way conceivable to a mortal, mundane human being living his everyday life.

Every single Jew — farmer, laborer, businessman and artisan — would return to this spiritual “home” to touch base with HaKadosh Baruch Hu three times a year. Fattened, robust cattle were trotted through the courtyard, where they were transformed into spiritual offerings to Hashem.

Inside this courtyard was the next circle. There stood the Heichal — the Temple building itself. Only the spiritual nobility of Klal Yisrael, the Kohanim, were allowed inside. No animals ever crossed the threshold, and even the blood of animals was allowed in only for extraordinary sacrifices. The avodah in the Heichal involved the refined oil, incense, and the bread of the Lechem Hapanim.

Although outsiders were not admitted into the Heichal, they did catch a glimpse of the otherworldly spirituality therein. We learn that “the brides in Jerusalem would be steeped in the perfume of the incense” (Yoma 39b); “the light of the Menorah testified to the entire world that the Divine Presence dwelled in Israel” (Shabbos 22b); and “The Shulchan with the bread was lifted up three times a year so that the pilgrims outside could witness Hashem’s love for Klal Yisrael” (Yoma 21b). Indeed, the Mikdash proper was a place for the elite, but every Jew could catch a glimpse of it and absorb a sense of the kedushah residing within it.

Finally, we come to the innermost enclosure, the Kodesh Hakodoshim — the Holy of Holies. It was totally closed off, inaccessible to everyone. Even the Kohein Gadol, who entered once a year, did so surrounded by a veil of smoke that obscured everything. Furthermore, no divine service per se was performed within this enclosure except for the Yom Kippur service, the purpose of which was to cleanse the Kodesh Hakodoshim of any sin and impurity that had affected it.

What, then, was the purpose of the Kodesh Hakodoshim, if not divine service?

The answer is that the “divine” can never be tangible to us. True that at its lowest level of expression, the “divine” does becomes an interaction between man and HaKadosh Baruch Hu, but it draws its validity from a place that is beyond human interaction.

The Kodesh Hakodoshim is that “place beyond.” It is the center of everything, and every interaction with Hashem is actualized through its presence, but it itself is “beyond.”

Chazal expressed this concept when they described the Aron’s position in the Kodesh Hakodoshim. It was placed so that the poles by which it was transported created a protrusion into the Paroches — the curtain covering it. Chazal describe this as resembling the “bosom of a woman” (Yoma 54a), hinting to us that the Aron, with the Luchos inside, nourish the entire Beis Hamikdash. Yes, the Kodesh HaKadoshim was veiled and completely separate from us, but in some deep way, it was the source of the kedushah for the rest of the Beis Hamikdash.

The post Holy of Holies first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

It has been a week of upheaval and devastation. The notion of a serial predator comfortably ensconced within chareidi society shakes us to the core. This was never even remotely part of our vision of Torah community life. Instinctively, one wants to be just left alone; one wants to forget about the whole mess and go on with life as usual. But that cannot happen. If we ignore the events, then we are setting ourselves up for another round of tears, and chas v’shalom yet another.

“The heavens are G-d’s province, but This World has been given to us.” Once a person has passed on to G-d’s world, we are no longer involved in judging him. We have lost the right, obligation, and ability to do so. But we live in a world that Hashem has entrusted to us. And we are held accountable for both our actions and our inactions. We therefore need to speak about the issues that are relevant. We have no right to be silent.

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he first deluge of tears and sobbing to which we must open our ears and hearts is those of the victims of abuse. They cry unheeded; buried in rehab facilities, they have been told to hold their silence. I have visited those facilities and spent time with victims. I advise you not to do so, because it may ruin your capacity to enjoy life. But if you prefer truth over enjoying life, you will discover a Gehinnom that exists here in our world.

A young boy or girl has been taken advantage of by someone they know. At first they may not even have known what it’s all about. They may have relished the attention and compliments. Slowly, the misguided “realization” sinks in that they are “bad,” “damaged,” and “worthless” in the worst way possible. Their pain becomes unbearable, they have no hope, and they turn to drugs and destruction to bring relief to their souls.

Quite a few choose to end their suffering. Tragically and disturbingly, Rachmana litzlan, this appears to have happened last week in Eretz Yisrael with one such victim. And often death draws no empathy, nor is it even mentioned. They are buried in deathly silence, with their sobs unheeded, and their families compelled to feel ashamed.

This problem is compounded multiple times over when the perpetrator is a powerful and respected public figure. No one believes the victims, and the best advice given to their family is “to hush it up.” If they do speak up, at best the perpetrator will have them labelled as disturbed. Worst case scenario, the perpetrator fights back like a cornered animal knowing that if the victim’s story comes to light, his life is over. All is fair in this war, and a perpetrator of this sort will not stop at anything. They correctly perceive it as struggle of life and death for themselves and their families.

A few years ago, I was involved in the publication of an issue of Dialogue on the topic of molestation and abuse. Included were lengthy interviews with professionals in the field and other related articles. One article was written by a survivor. It is a person known to me whose every word is to be believed, someone who leads an extremely honorable and chashuve life. After the person opened up to me, I was shocked. He seemed to live such a fine and happy life. And only then did I discover what kind of Gehinnom he lived in. Decades after the events, he still lives with the trauma and has occasional suicidal thoughts.

To quote an adam gadol who read the article, “It has changed my understanding of what abuse and trauma are all about. I’ve turned from an agnostic to a fervent believer.”

[Ultimately, the decision was made not to publish the article in that forum.]

Indeed, one of the core problems of the issue is that people put abuse into the “aveirah” folder, as a crime. But it should in fact be put into the “retzichah” folder. Because it’s nothing less than murder. The haunted, vacant eyes of a youngster who is on his way to self-destruction shout “lo saamod al dam reiyacha.” Raising this issue is not about seeking “fitting punishment” for a sinner; that is indeed Hashem’s province. It is about saving the next youngster from being murdered, and that is our most urgent obligation.

With the help of Hashem and thanks to the efforts of some extraordinary people, progress has been made in extending empathy and concrete help to victims. But their path remains a lonely and tortured one, and their tears continue to fall.

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esides not being aware of the intense sufferings of these people, there is another reason why our tzibbur keeps falling into this situation time and again, and that is the “halo” effect.

We have the misguided notion that “if it glitters it is gold,” all the way through. We feel that if a person is doing good in one area, he is perfect in every area. In order to move forward, we need to first rid ourselves of a fatal flaw. The most fallacious statement in our misguided thinking is, “someone who does good, cannot possibly be bad in any way.” This is flat-out wrong.

My rebbi, Hagaon Rav Chaim Shmulevitz, would often repeat a theme during his shmuessen: “Ohr v’chosech mishtamshim b’irbuvya” [lit. light and darkness are concomitant]. Even if one has bright and dazzling light radiating in his soul, it is not at all to the exclusion of him also having patches of darkness; and vice-versa.

We see the characters of our world as either black or white. This fallacy permeates our mindset. Our storybooks have heroes and villains; and never the twain meet. If he is good, he can do no wrong; if he is bad, he can do no right. This is a wonderful and simple set of tools. Unfortunately, it fits nothing in reality.

The coexistence of good and evil is the reason why someone canbuild an empire of hatzalos nefashos while concurrently destroying many innocent lives. It is why a person who lived a seeming ascetic and puritan life, and was a “holy man” for many, has been jailed for molestation and extortion, and is now facing charges for setting up a murder. There are many people who may have engaged in one area of “tov,” and were automatically assumed to be good in every aspect. Fallacious assumption. Fatally fallacious because it prevents observers from processing and stopping what is truly happening. .

Nothing a person does, should make us oblivious to red flags. If anything, the behaviors of a public person need to meet a much higher standard.

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he first round of sobbing is for the grief of these victims. And the second round of sobbing is for the tragedy of the perpetrators’ families. A family who felt that they were of the noblest in Klal Yisrael, has been utterly smashed and devastated. What consolation is there for them? They have not sinned, but the suffering is theirs.

And one needs to cry and ache for the generation of Israeli children whose childhood innocence has just imploded because of what these books and their childhood hero will forever be associated with. And in one instant, children have to have their innocence shattered to smithereens. There is not even a coherent explanation that one can give them.

But our deepest sobbing should be for ourselves and the state of our communal life. In a normal and properly organized society, there would be authority that could safeguard against malfeasance. We have built magnificent Torah and chesed institutions. But we lag far behind in erecting systems of sufficient oversight and authority. Who can one complain to? Who can take action? Who will stand up against the powerful and well-connected?

On the other hand, we need that same strong forum to protect the innocent as well. Rumors can take off with lightning speed, and the damage done can never be rescinded. It takes one mischievous child, one disgruntled parent, or one mistaken bystander, and a life is destroyed. Accusations ring far louder than acquittals. And unfortunately, there have been terrible stories like that. A well-respected forum will have the standing and trust to clear the innocent of rumors and innuendoes.

Yes, you will righteously declare, “the rabbanim ought to do x, y, z.” I need to break the news to you: There is no organization called “the rabbanim.” There are thousands of rabbanim, rebbeim, ramim, each inundated with the needs and demands of their communities and talmidim. But each one is a yachid, overwhelmed by the particular needs of his charges.

Given the reality that many are uncomfortable turning to secular authorities in the first instance, there is value in having a mechanism for determining the facts and an appropriate communal response. But creating a global network of effective forums, where a person no matter their location or affiliation can pick up a phone, lodge a complaint without fear of retribution, have competent people investigate, and communal action taken, seems a daunting feat.

It requires the following:

1] The forum must have standing, i.e. broadly accepted authority to investigate and conclusively determine a communal response. As things stand now, there are just a few batei din or rabbanim who can actually conduct a proper investigation. And too often there is a counter beis din that decides that this dayan is an am haaretz and a rodef.

2] The members must have the time to deal with an issue. To add this kind of responsibility to the workload of an already-overwhelmed rav, is a farce.

3] They also must have training in this area, and have access to experts who can investigate appropriately.

4] The forum must have real leverage. The accused will not cooperate unless the beis din can levy some real consequence. Some existing options: In very tight-knit communities, the threat of being thrown out is real. Others have a working arrangement with the police authorities from the start.

5] Finally, there must be some system in place to protect the dayanim and members of this forum. An accused person typically becomes desperate and launches an all-out war against the “corrupt” beis din. Rabbanim will be mobilized to speak out against them. Threats and innuendos, harassing phone calls, and financial pressures on institutions associated with them are the norm. Ask any dayan who deals with family cases to share some horror stories. Will a group of rabbanim stand up publicly and consistently for the people in this forum?

Of course, there is room — and a need — for a “review board” that will handle complaints against beis din’s particular actions or rulings. But there is no room for vigilante actions. If someone were to try these tactics in a court, he would find himself rapidly behind bars.

Fortunately, there do exist some batei din that meet many of the conditions outlined above. And others are in the process of formation. Recent events have actually been a catalyst for some serious beginnings. These developing efforts need strong public urging and support. But too many victims have suffered, and continue to suffer, in the interim.

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o let us cry out of self-pity. We are suffering and are helpless. Victims suffer. Perpetrators are allowed to continue until they destroy victims, their families and eventually themselves. So much suffering, and the valley of tears seems endless, as we live through story after story that never seems to find its happy ending.

But as a maamin ben maamin, I believe that the story of Klal Yisrael does have a happy ending. The chapters may seem gloomy and tragic, because we flawed mortals write them. But the conclusion is scripted by Hakadosh Baruch Hu.

The hashgachah that has brought about the miraculous rebirth of Torah Yiddishkeit and has given rise to stupendous citadels of Torah and chesed, is surely at work to preserve these self-same structures. With Hashem’s help, there are people rising to the occasion and working to create that system that will safeguard our children and cherished institutions.

Amen, kein yehi ratzon.

A Place of Healing

Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 893.

The post For This We Weep    first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.