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lose to 40 years ago, I was witness to what seemed at the time an insignificant conversation between one of the yungeleit in the kollel in which I was learning and an attendee at his beginners’ Gemara shiur.

They were learning about the melachos of Shabbos and were studying the details of meleches koseiv, writing. The halachah is that writing two letters in order on Shabbos makes one liable min haTorah for writing. However, if one writes only one letter, and that letter is the final one in a book of Tanach, he is liable min haTorah all the same. The reason for this is that the writing of a letter that concludes an entire sefer of Tanach is significant enough to qualify it as meleches machsheves, which constitutes chillul Shabbos.

The novice student, an intelligent gentleman, asked the rebbi why the ending of a sefer of Tanach is different from the ending of any secular book. The yungerman, a very sharp talmid chacham, explained that the holy sifrei Tanach are the word of Hashem, written with precision and without a solitary extra word or letter. When it is over, it is absolutely over.

The ending of a secular book, on the other hand, is arbitrary. If the author of Moby Dick, for example, had decided to write another chapter, there was nothing to stop him from doing so. Therefore, writing the concluding letter to Iyov, Shmuel, or any other sefer Tanach, has a special significance and qualifies as a melachah. Moby Dick is not Torah min haShamayim and there is nothing legislating its end. I was impressed with this talmid chacham’s quick wit and how he applied his bekius in the divrei chol of his youth to help him teach fundamentals of the Torah Hakedoshah.

This story comes with an amusing footnote, which is probably why I remember the story so well. Just a few weeks later, one of the attendees of another of this yungerman’s shiurim wanted to show his appreciation for the devotion the rebbi had for his students and presented him with a beautifully gift-wrapped Chanukah present... a copy of Moby Dick.

I took it as a siman min haShamayim (as did he) that this talmid chacham was right on the mark with his ability to make Torah alive to a newcomer and was being encouraged to continue his avodas hakodesh, which he does with great expertise till today, bringing the devar Hashem to thousands all over the world.

This whimsical anecdote can perhaps cast some light on a cryptic line in Gemara (Yoma 29a) that tells us, “Purim was the last of all (public) miracles.” The Gemara counters, “But wasn’t there Chanukah?” And the response is that Purim was the last one to be written (as part of Tanach, in Megillas Esther).

This passage begs for an explanation. What is the difference if it was written or not? A miracle is a miracle! We may suggest that the idea of a book, particularly one of the five Megillos, is, as stated above, a finite work in which the story ends with the concluding sentence. This was Purim and Megillas Esther, the story of Haman’s attempt at genocide of the Jewish People and our miraculous salvation. There was a physical existential threat to the Jewish nation, and it was thwarted in the merit of our tefillos and acts of teshuvah.

Chanukah, on the other hand, was not given to be written down, for that story never ended. That was a battle of spiritual survival, Yavan’s desire to Hellenize us all and force us to adopt their culture and lifestyle. We were granted a reprieve during the period of the Chanukah miracle, but that battle never truly ceased. It could not be written down as a book because a final chapter has yet to be written. And the war goes on.

Rav Chaim Stein ztz”l, the Telsher Rosh Yeshivah, pointed out that the Gemara investigates what sin might have caused the decree against the Jewish nation before the miracle of Purim. Yet when it comes to Chanukah, we find nothing of the sort in the Gemara (although some later commentaries, such as the Bach, offer opinions). He suggested that the challenge we faced at that time was really nothing new at all. It was the time-honored battle between the Sitra Achra and the power of kedushah. Chazal didn’t have to ask why it came; it is as old as Yaakov and Eisav and will always be a battle to be fought until Mashiach’s arrival. It is indeed the war that never ends.

Just to illustrate how crucial our resolve must be to come out victorious in this eternal battle, Rav Nosson Wachtfogel, the Lakewood Mashgiach, shared a tradition he has ish mipi ish, going back to the great Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin — that in the last war before Mashiach’s arrival, all erliche Yidden will be saved. Rav Yehoshua Leib defined “erliche” as those who have separated themselves from the nations of the world by avoiding the products of their culture, such as their newspapers, their music, and their books.

We may sometimes be hard-pressed to tell the difference between their cultural products and ours. Could we honestly say we are among those whom Rav Yehoshua Leib was talking about?

Some years, such as this one, find society at large celebrating their holiday season exactly when we are observing ours. The various ads and promotions in the secular media as well as our own evoke bars of the seasonal song, “It’s beginning to feel a lot like Chanukah, everywhere you go,” although their version substitutes something else for Chanukah. We are bombarded on the heels of Black Friday to spend money with reckless abandon, often on things we do not need. There is a ruach in the air to spend, spend, spend.

I recall a comment made to me by a friend who owns a Judaica store, that when our two holidays coincide, business is way better, since people are in the mood to buy. Nebach, even our moods are influenced by the culture around us that places such a priority on acquiring “stuff.” This did not come from Mattisyahu and the Chashmonaim, we can be sure of that. They were moser nefesh to overcome Yavan and all that it represented, and not allow their world into ours.

We may think that we don’t really buy into the season at all and that we have indeed resisted Yavan’s advances. This presumption may be challenged with the following humorous but thought-provoking story about a little boy who went shopping with his big sister in a large department store and encountered the Bearded One in his red suit entertaining the children on his lap.

Wanting part of the fun, the child walked up and sat on the man’s lap and was asked what he wanted for the holiday.

“A Shas!” the budding talmid chacham answered.

Without missing a beat, the man replied, “A gezunt oif dein kup!”

Needless to say, the boy left without his Gemara. This may sound like a harmless anecdote, but it reminds us of our responsibility to teach our children to resist the allure of the society that surrounds us.

The Ponevezher Rav offered a novel insight to answer a very obvious question on the al hanissim prayer that we recite on Chanukah as well as on Purim. After we thank Hashem for the miracles and salvation, “al hanissim v’al hapurkan,” we add “v’al hateshuos v’al himilchamos — the salvations and the wars.” Do we really want war?

Some, including Rav Yosef Nechemiah Kornitzer ztz”l, have suggested that after experiencing a yeshuah from a tzarah such as war, one might be inclined to have wished the tzarah never came in the first place. The true eved Hashem realizes that if the tzarah was a vehicle for him to eventually appreciate Hashem’s hashgachah in the yeshuah, then it was all worth it. We therefore thank Hashem for that opportunity, even for the milchamah.

The Rav had a different perspective, which dovetails with the vort we began with above. It is still a little too early to thank Hashem for the victory, since the war against Yavan was really about kedushah versus tumah. Total victory will only be achieved when Mashiach arrives, and evil will be completely eradicated. It is hardly the time to pat ourselves on the back and take a victory lap.

But there is one thing to still be thankful for in this regard, and that is the determination to keep on fighting, even though the battle is tough. When the powers of tumah are raging, we refuse to stop fighting the good fight, but choose to continue the battle until we merit the day when kedushah will be victorious for good.

The Rambam, at the end of Hilchos Chanukah, writes that the mitzvah of ner Chanukah is “mitzvah chavivah ad me’od — a very beloved mitzvah.” This terminology is not typical of the Rambam’s style anywhere else. He doesn’t rank the popularity of mitzvos. Furthermore, what is this chavivus of which the Rambam speaks?

Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach referenced the Gemara in Yoma we quoted at the outset stating that the Chanukah story was not to be written in a formal megillah. He explains that this is because the whole point of the Chanukah miracle is to emphasize and strengthen our emunah in Torah shebe’al peh, the oral transmission of Torah.

This is borne out by the following question. How could the oil in the Beis Hamikdash become defiled in the first place? The Gemara teaches us (Pesachim 17a) that all sanctified liquids, such as the blood used to sprinkle on the Mizbeiach, the water used for the libations, as well as the oil for the Korban Minchah are always pure. That being the case, then based strictly on the written Torah, they didn’t require a miracle at all.

Furthermore, as others point out, the entire issue of the eino Yehudi defiling the oil is also only d’Rabbanan in nature. The neis of Chanukah was intended to preserve the integrity of the institution of Chazal and Torah shebe’al peh and our belief in them, and to show how beloved they were to Hashem.

We may also add the well-known maamar Chazal that tells us, “Chavivin divrei sofrim miyeinah shel Torah — The words of Chazal are even more beloved and sweeter than the ‘wine’ of Torah.” Since the Chanukah miracle publicized our commitment and belief to Torah shebe’al peh, it is only fitting that it davka not be written, but left to oral tradition. This is the “chavivus “ the Rambam is referring to, the love we displayed toward all things Torah shebe’al peh — a love so precious to Hashem that He made a miracle to reinforce that commitment and belief.

It is written in Sefer Minhagei Chasam Sofer that on Chanukah, more so than on other days, the Chasam Sofer was very particular to learn Torah and was perturbed by those who wasted their time on frivolous pursuits. He said that it is the strategy of the yetzer hara to prevent people from avodas Hashem and talmud Torah on Chanukah, a day reserved for thanks and praise to Hashem, because secrets of the Torah were given to Moshe Rabbeinu on the days that were destined to become Chanukah. We may add that those secrets are the epitome of Torah shebe’al peh.

AS we stand around our menorahs and take in the light of our tiny flames that pushed away the “choshech zu Yavan,” the darkness of the Greeks who dimmed our eyes with their wicked decrees against our Torah life, we should share our own renewed commitment to our chachamim as well, and the Torah shebe’al peh they nourish us with for our day and age.

And as we view the decadence to which the world around us has sunk, as spiritual heirs to Yavan and those who follow their ways, let us thank Hashem for lighting our path to a life of taharah, kedushah, and love of Torah and mitzvos. There is nothing more beloved than that.

Rabbi Plotnik, a talmid of the yeshivos of Philadelphia and Ponovezh, has been active in rabbanus and chinuch for 25 years and currently serves as ram in Yeshivas Me’or HaTorah in Chicago.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)

The post More Beloved than Wine       first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

This time of year reminds me of a sh’eilah I received that so inspired me that I often try to reflect on it before Ne’ilah. A woman had been undergoing advanced fertility interventions for years and had reached a round of treatment that was likely to be her final attempt. She was on the verge of success but had entered a very delicate phase of her treatment. Due to her precarious condition, her doctor felt it was imperative that she remain fully hydrated on Yom Kippur and not limit her drinking to small shiurim.

Her husband called to ask the sh’eilah, and I could hear her desperation in the background on the other end of line: “But it’s my last chance! Tell him it’s my last chance!”

My heart was breaking for the unimaginable emotional burden this bas Yisrael was bearing. She so much wanted to do the right thing, and at the same time she was grasping at every straw to keep her most cherished dream from dying. This is not the forum for a halachic discussion of my response, but I am happy to share that she merited cuddling her newborn baby before the next Yom Kippur rolled around.

Those words of desperation, “This is my last chance,” rang in my ears throughout all of Ne’ilah that year, and in almost every year since then. As the proverbial Gates of Heaven are closing, we beseech Hashem in desperation with “shaarei Shamayim p’sach.” This really is our last chance. So how are we to make use of it?

No doubt, our first reaction in a life-and-death situation would be to find the best advocates to come to our defense, or the best expert to treat our illness. In the world of ruchniyus, we look to the malach echad, whom we invoked when we recited kapparos on Erev Yom Kippur, to be a meilitz yosher. This malach is really a product of our own mitzvah performance and becomes an even stronger advocate when we renew our commitment to yet higher levels of fulfilling the ratzon Hashem. The power of a kabbalah to commit to be better in some way is inestimable, as long as that kabbalah is sincere and within our reach to live up to.

Rav Shalom Schwadron once told the story of his discussion with his rebbi, Rav Leib Chasman, of the strategy he had come up with to emerge meritorious in judgment on Yom Kippur. He told Rav Chasman that he planned to take on a particular resolution going forward. Rav Chasman asked him if he was certain that he could sustain it, and Rav Shalom affirmed his belief that he could. The rebbi asked the talmid once again if he thought it was sustainable, and Rav Shalom repeated his declaration.

“Good, now cut it in half,” was the master rebbi’s response.

As optimistic as we are when we make our kabbalos, we need to be sure they are reasonable to maintain, and they will then hopefully be meilitz yosher for us.

Indeed, Rabbeinu Yonah, in his classic Shaarei Teshuvah — the Shulchan Aruch of teshuvah, as the previous generation’s great ones would refer to it — tells us that by making a sincere kabbalah, a person receives instant credit for everything he ultimately does as a result of that genuine resolution. This is the most obvious reason why kabbalos are so effective and our greatest hope for gaining added merits to be zocheh b’din.

A kabbalah isn’t merely an investment in the future. Rather, it is a vehicle to instantaneously log thousands of zechuyos. Our resolve to invigorate our Bircas Hamazon with kavanah or to undertake extra blatt Gemara gives us hundreds of new mitzvos — right here, right now. They become the malachim hameilitzim we mentioned during kapparos. They are our most powerful advocates and the best protektzia we could hope to find at this crucial moment, our last chance.

WE would do well to study a powerful and encouraging insight from the Ramchal, Rav Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, the author of Mesillas Yesharim and many other classic works of machshavah.

We insert the words zachreinu l’chayim near the beginning of our Shemoneh Esreh tefillah for all of Aseres Yemei Teshuvah. We make a similar request toward the end of Shemoneh Esreh; but for this one, we ask not just for chayim but for chayim tovim. Why the difference? Would it not be appropriate to ask for chayim tovim in the opening of the tefillah as well?

The Ramchal, as quoted by Rav Chaim Friedlander in Rinas Chaim (explanations of the Yamim Noraim tefillos in the back of his classic Sifsei Chaim, volume one), tells us the following. Our opening request to be written for chayim is not a reference to life at all, in the literal sense. The Gemara tells us that tzaddikim, even after their death, are called chayim, alive. Our request at this juncture of the davening is to be identified and classified as tzaddikim in Hashem’s eyes, thereby meriting all the privileges a tzaddik deserves.

It is not a request for life per se; that is reserved for u’chsov l’chayim tovim that we recite further on. Zachreinu l’chayim is a plea to simply be viewed as a tzaddik. We obviously need to explain what that means. If we truly are tzaddikim, we don’t have to remind Hashem of that! And if we are not, what value is there in making such a request?

We can’t answer this question without understanding what “tzaddik” means in the first place. The importance of this word’s true meaning is highlighted by Kol Nidrei opening with the words Ohr zarua latzaddik, as well as the refrain of Uv’chein tzaddikim in the Yamim Noraim Shemoneh Esreh. Who are we talking about? The few great ones among us? Those whose ways we can only dream of following? What about us? Aren’t we average people also in attendance on Yom Kippur night and at all the tefillos of the season? Couldn’t we have chosen a pasuk that speaks to the vast majority instead of the elite minority?

Perhaps the explanation is as follows. A well-known Gemara tells us that tzaddikim are signed and sealed on Rosh Hashanah for life, whereas beinonim — literally, those whose merits and demerits are 50–50 —  are left hanging until Yom Kippur. If they are meritorious (zachu, in the Gemara’s terminology), they, too, will be signed and sealed for life. The well-known Rambam, when quoting this Gemara, changes the word zachah to “asah teshuvah” — specifically, that he repented. The question is, if a beinoni is at exactly 50–50, why wouldn’t one mitzvah do the trick to tilt the scale? Why, then, must he do teshuvah? Let that one mitzvah suffice!

Rav Itzel Peterberger famously answered that the transgression of not doing teshuvah, squandering a golden opportunity for achieving closeness with Hashem during the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, would outweigh any mitzvah that a person could muster, thereby making teshuvah indispensable during this time.

Rav Yitzchok Hutner pointedly asks: How can anyone truly be classified as a beinoni in the first place? Is it really possible that a person’s zechuyos and aveiros total up at exactly 50–50? And even if they do, it can’t be for more than a fleeting moment at best — certainly not for the entire week-plus of Aseres Yemei Teshuvah! Our madreigah is so fickle and fleeting, subject to change at every moment. And are we to think that Aseres Yemei Teshuvah was intended for this one-in-a-million individual who truly is considered a beinoni, and even then, for only a snapshot in time?

To resolve these questions, Rav Hutner suggests a novel approach. (This idea can also be found in the seforim of Rav Aharon Kotler and Rav Nosson Wachtfogel, and is expounded upon more recently in Yerach L’mo’adim from Rav Yerucham Olshin.) The term “tzaddik” in this context, says Rav Hutner, is meant to represent a “middah b’nefesh” — or as the vernacular goes, an attitude. Someone who is looking to grow spiritually and is taking steps to do so is termed “tzaddik,” for our purposes here.

Of course, it’s not enough to be a tzaddik at heart; it must be accompanied by action. But even when the Rambam is describing the concept of “rov zechuyos,” it is not the mathematical equation of mitzvos versus aveiros that carries the day; rather it is the direction in which a person is heading. He is a tzaddik due to his commitment to rov zechuyos.

And even when the Rambam recommends increasing our mitzvah activity to crawl out of beinoni status, or making kabbalos for that matter, it is mainly intended to change the way a person identifies himself to one of tzaddik. For a tzaddik, the arrow is always pointing up. A beinoni doesn’t have a strong pull one way or another. He may even have an abundance of mitzvos to his credit. But his mindset is what we would call centrist, or a middle-of-the road attitude. In Hashem’s world, it is a road to nowhere.

This novel interpretation of beinoni can perhaps be learned from the Gemara (Berachos 61b) that says, “a tzaddik is controlled by the yetzer tov, a rasha by the yetzer hara, and a beinoni by both.” The Gemara then quotes Rava (some texts have it as “Rabbah”), who labeled himself a beinoni. Apparently, in his humility, Rava felt his pull to the yetzer tov was not strong enough for him to consider himself a tzaddik.

Furthermore, this beinoni attitude can take a person down a very slippery slope. He is fine eating a food with a hashgachah he never heard of, or carrying in a community whose eiruv he has no idea is reliably maintained. He blows off the latest sh’eilos as chumras of the day, assuming that if it were a problem, he would have heard of it before, or previous generations would have been concerned about it as well. (Bugs in the water and in my vegetables, really?)

Recently, there was a story going around about a girls’ high school in Yerushalayim where the principal announced that there was a shatnez issue with a popular brand of shoes. All girls wearing this brand immediately removed their shoes.

This is a wonderful example of how one should conduct himself, but can we all confidently say we’re on that level?

Do we sometimes find ourselves rationalizing that these new sh’eilos are surely some type of extremism and not an integral part of being an erliche Yid?

In contrast, the attitude of a tzaddik, such as we are committing to be when declaring zachreinu l’chayim, is to be a ben aliyah and to want a closer relationship with Hashem.

We should ask ourselves, if I hear of a concern in an area of halachah that I’m not familiar with, do I want to find out more? Do I look at carrying in a problematic eiruv as being akin to walking on a land mine? Do we consider spiritual perils to be as hazardous as physical ones? Would I eat food rumored to be tainted with poison, or do I shrug it off and say the FDA approved it, so there is nothing to worry about? Would we wear clothing suspected of containing skin-eating bacteria? We should want to make sure our avodah is on the up-and-up, as cutting edge as our business and lifestyle.

If one enters Aseres Yemei Teshuvah as a beinoni, his only recourse is to do teshuvah and tip the needle toward tzaddik status, for only tzaddikim will merit a good din. One more mitzvah simply won’t cut it, but a new attitude and fresh approach might.

Juxtaposing ruchniyusdige issues with situations in our daily lives in which we wouldn’t be satisfied with the bare minimum can highlight this distinction for us. I recall the time when our shul needed a new sefer Torah, and a meeting was held to drum up support for the worthy cause. One of the attendees asked how much a used one would cost.

A very passionate member responded, “Would you dare drive a used car?”

Similarly, our relationship with Hashem has to be one where we strive to be our best. And we are being given the chance of renewing that relationship now. We can all be that tzaddik. And we can dare introduce the holy night of Yom Kippur with that statement of commitment, Ohr zarua latzaddik. It can potentially be us all. During Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, the lackadaisical attitude of a beinoni is treif, and we must examine ourselves to ensure that we are not guilty of that. We even give ourselves a push by observing things such as pas Yisrael that don’t necessarily concern us all year long. We want to live the part, not just say it.

In reality, then, the beinoni is not one-in-a-million. Sadly, he might be the millions. But it is time to up our game and stretch beyond beinoni. It is the attitude and newfound identity of a tzaddik that will win the day, and it is something we dare commit to three times daily in our Shemoneh Esreh during this precious time of year when we say Zachreinu l’chayim and Uv’chein tzaddikim.

The words of the Ramchal are incredibly empowering as we approach Hashem with a genuine commitment to live a better life, an elevated life, a holier life. Zachreinu l’ chayim — look at me as a tzaddik, because I am committed to being one right now. And as the Shemoneh Esreh concludes, we then additionally beseech Hashem for chayim tovim, the good life for which we pine in the merit of that commitment.

It is said that someone approached the Chofetz Chaim in desperation, assuming that the proper avodas hateshuvah was out of reach. The great tzaddik lovingly told him it is not so hard — “a charata’le, a kabbalah’le,” and you’re good to go. The Chofetz Chaim was hardly minimizing the seriousness with which one must approach teshuvah. Rather, he was giving us the formula for how to get started and hopefully taste the sweetness of the opportunity to work our way up to deserve the honorary title of tzaddik and merit l’yishrei lev simchah, knowing that we are striving to be our best. We can’t view teshuvah as something out of reach for the common man and attainable only for the tzaddik. The tzaddik could be me. The tzaddik better be me.

As the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah fade quickly away, we need to take chizuk in knowing that we are being given one more chance to make that commitment. It doesn’t have to feel like our last hopeless and desperate chance; rather, it’s a hopeful first step toward many more chances to come, if only we utilize the opportunity properly. We are putting down our credit card, giving a down payment now and promising to follow through as the year progresses, and we can afford to commit to grow more, even in tiny increments.

May we all merit the words of v’chasmeinu b’sefer hachayim and vachasom l’chayim tovim together with all of Acheinu Kol Beis Yisrael in a shnas brachah v’ yeshuah.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1032)

The post Our Last Chance     first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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here is a well-known midrash that offers insight into the suffering of the Churban and the ultimate relief that we anticipate in better times. However, as many midrashim are, it is very cryptic and begs for an explanation.

Chatu b’kiflayim, they sinned doubly, as the pasuk says, “Cheit chatah Yerushalayim.” Therefore, they were doubly punished, as the pasuk says, “Ki lakchah miyad Hashem kiflayim.” They will subsequently be doubly comforted, as the pasuk says, “Nachamu, nachamu ami.”

What does it mean to “sin doubly”? Does it mean they sinned twice? Does it mean they sinned a lot, both quantitatively and qualitatively? If so, then it is not a matter of sinning doubly — it is simply an intensification of sin.

Furthermore, what is a double punishment? If it means their retribution was extensive, it has no relation to being doubled — it simply means a lot! And lastly, what is the double comfort of which Yeshayahu Hanavi speaks?

Perhaps we can shed some light on this Chazal with a very moving story that was shared with the world by Rav Yisrael Meir Lau, former chief rabbi of the State of Israel and currently rav of Tel Aviv. During the Yom Kippur War, 475 badly burned soldiers were brought to Ichilov Hospital for treatment. Four of them were in particularly bad shape, with burns covering almost 100 percent of their bodies.

As if the pain from the burns weren’t enough, the treatments were equally unbearable. One soldier who could not contain himself was screaming so loudly from the pain that it pierced the hearts of everyone in the building. As much as the staff tried to calm this brave soldier down, especially as it was causing even more distress to the other victims, it was to no avail.

Suddenly, the patient went completely silent. Rav Lau, who was present, feared the worst. There could be no reason for the screaming to abruptly stop unless the patient had passed away. To the Rav’s great surprise and relief, he found the soldier sound asleep. His serene look completely belied the incredible pain he had been suffering just moments before.

What really happened? The patient’s mother had approached her son’s bedside and found one small area of uninjured skin. She began to massage the area and soothed him, saying, “Ima is here, relax my child, relax.” She repeated it over and over, holding back her own tears, until her son fell into a calm sleep.

Rav Lau, after returning home early the following morning, shared a new insight that he gleaned from this moving scene with his rebbetzin. In Yeshayahu (chapter 66) the Navi says, “Just as a man is comforted by his mother, so too I will comfort you.” From all the metaphors the Navi could have chosen to describe comfort, he chose this one, that of a mother and her child.

“Last night,” the Rav continued, “I understood this in greater depth than ever before. Nothing was able to calm this burn victim — not morphine, not pleading, nothing. Only when his mother came with her incomparable love and soothed him as only a mother can was he able to find peace and fall asleep.”

Let us return now to our opening midrash. The midrash tells us that the Jews “sinned doubly.” This can be explained as follows. Every sin has two components. There is the physical action of the sin, which intrinsically contains a defiance of the will of Hashem. Then there is the second component, the change that overcomes the person and turns him into a chotei — a sinner. And the more he sins, the more it brands him as a chotei.

And just like there is a person who tells an occasional white lie — as opposed to the serial manipulator of the truth, a.k.a. a liar — so, too, there is the occasional transgressor, and then there is the sinner. There is the one who gets upset from time to time, and there is the baal ka’as. It is his identity. Not only does the sin become permissible in his eyes, it infuses his personality and very essence.

As Pirkei Avos teaches, aveirah goreres aveirah, one sin drags its victim to the next one, until he is transformed into a completely different being both inside and out. The Ohr HaChaim Hakadosh, in his well-known entry on ir hanidachas in parshas Re’eh, writes about a conversation he had with a Yishmaeli executioner. He shared with the holy Ohr HaChaim that every time he carried out his job, he became even more bloodthirsty than before to kill again. It completely transforms him into “an executioner.” This happens not only to those who kill for a living, but also to those who routinely practice middos ra’os or aveiros.

The idea here is that “sinning doubly” means that, in addition to the action of the sin, the performer transforms into something different, something lower and more sinister than what he had once been.

This is essentially what the Gemara in Nedarim (81a) is teaching when it tells us that the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash occurred because “they did not bless the Torah first.”

The Bach explains that this was an indictment of their overall approach to performing mitzvos. Engaging in learning Torah is intended to bind our neshamos with kedushas Hashem. The mitzvos are intended to permeate our very bones, to the point that our physical selves can serve as a merkavah and resting place for the Shechinah. This in turn has an impact on the entire world.

They failed in that mission and learned for their own benefit. There were people who followed the rules of the Torah when conducting their business, but they did so superficially; it didn’t affect them on a deeper level. Also, many people learned Torah, but it was merely to show off their chochmah. The Torah wasn’t in their bones.

Their beings had been transformed into those of “sinners,” and their failure to internalize the kedushah of the Torah barred them from climbing out of this classification.

Moreover, this failure to internalize the Shechinah caused it to depart from this world and leave us bereft of a Beis Hamikdash, a home down here for the Shechinah to inhabit. This is one interpretation of “Shechinta b’galusa.” When we drive the Shechinah out of our midst, we leave it no place to reside other than back up in Shamayim. Hashem is demanding internal kedushah from us, and if we do not achieve it, the kedushah will go back up to the Heavens where it can comfortably reside.

Mitzvos are not merely lists of dos and don’ts. They were made, as Chazal mandated, l’tzaref bahen es habri’os, to turn us into more sensitive and finer individuals. They must impact our sense of kedushah, tzniyus, and love for Hashem.

Rav Zev Leff related an anecdote (Festivals of Life, p.266) that shows how people can get so caught up in the details of a mitzvah and completely lose sight of how that mitzvah is intended to affect us. Rav Shraga Feivel Mendlowitz was the guest of a certain individual for the Friday night seudah. Upon arriving at the host’s home with his host, they found that the hostess had fallen asleep from the exhausting Erev Shabbos preparations and had failed to awaken in time to finish setting the table. The host, obviously embarrassed in the presence of his illustrious guest, berated his wife for her irresponsibility. He especially berated her for not covering the challos.

How absurd this scene is, thought Rav Shraga Feivel. One of the reasons we cover the challah is to protect them from being “embarrassed” when the brachah over the wine is made before the more important hamotzi. I have yet to see an embarrassed challah, he mused. The custom is there to awaken the awareness in us that if one should not embarrass even an inanimate object, then all the more so not a human being.

And here is this man, who embarrasses his poor wife for not covering the challos. The host was concerned about the minhag but totally ignorant of its implication and the greater will of Hashem that is revealed in that practice. Clearly this was not an action that would have contributed to binyan Beis Hamikdash. Quite the opposite, and a good illustration of where the Bach’s words were directed concerning mitzvos in general, not just learning Torah specifically.

The pasuk in Megillas Eichah uses the expression, “Tumasah b’shuleha — her sin was on her hem (of her clothing),” in describing the low level to which we had sunk. People are easily recognizable and sometimes even identifiable by the clothing they wear. It is not hidden, but out in the open for all to see. Sadly, we were wearing our aveiros on our sleeves and could immediately be identified as what we were inside — not occasional sinners, but the type whose aveiros take over the entire persona.

This is what Chazal understood as double sinning. For that, they were punished double in kind — not only for the actual sin but also for the damage they had done to their neshamos in the process.

What that secondary punishment is would of course be up to Hashem to decide. But as we know from the tochachah in parshas Bechukosai, from the mere attitude of a behavior of keri — a casual and lackadaisical relationship with Hashem — we are treated in kind with a lack of Hashgachah pratis that appears to us as keri from Hashem’s side as well. It is all-encompassing and not necessarily limited to one particular act of retribution. It is indeed a frightening and painful consequence of an easygoing attitude in avodas Hashem. This is reserved for those whose entire personality has become one of a chotei, Rachmana litzlan, may Hashem have mercy.

Once we turn the corner and learn the messages of churban, and seek to rectify its cause, it is time for nechamah. The word nechamah, although usually translated to mean consolation, has a deeper meaning than simply feeling comforted from a sense of mourning. We find in the Chumash that when Hashem decided to bring the Great Flood to the world, it says, “vayinachem Hashem,” which simply translated means Hashem had a change of heart for the creation of mankind.

Of course, it is not to be taken literally when speaking of Hashem. But one thing was for sure —there was about to be a change effected in the world, which was now on the precipice of total oblivion. The word nechamah, the way it is more commonly used, also implies a change of heart, a change of emotion. One goes from sadness and misery to a refreshing change of heart and feeling of comfort and menuchas hanefesh.

This could perhaps be the deeper meaning of “Nachamu, nachamu.” Not only was Hashem comforting us by accepting our newfound resolve to correct our actions that brought about churban, He was also effecting an inner change in us. He was recognizing our attempt at changing ourselves from the inside, purging ourselves of the label of chotim and becoming bnei aliyah once again. Indeed, the Navi compares Hashem’s comfort to that of a mother toward her child. It is loving and soothing on the inside, perhaps even more significant than making the pain go away on the outside.

It is this sense of inner tranquility that the Navi is speaking about. We were not just occasionally sinning on the surface, but wounded on the inside as well to the point of being called chotim. It permeated our very being and changed us completely to the point that we were distanced from Hashem and forced to suffer the consequences.

The Navi was now telling us, not anymore. “Nachamu, nachamu ami,” Hashem in His ultimate love and kindness is now assisting us in a rebirth of our sullied neshamos, as the Gemara teaches us, “Haba l’taheir mesayin oso — one who wants to purify himself will receive Heavenly assistance.” It is a cause for great relief and celebration; Shabbos Nachamu has traditionally been observed as one of happiness and joy, as mentioned in the seforim hakedoshim. It is the beginning of our healing process, as Hashem Himself is attesting to.

We have acquired the ability to undergo a great spiritual change, one that we can only hope to maintain and build upon with the Yamim Noraim right around the corner. We need to take care not to lose that opportunity in the three weeks between Tishah B’Av and Rosh Chodesh Elul, despite the relaxed atmosphere that bein hazmanim and vacation season bring. Our neshamos have been elevated and sensitized to the ever-greater aliyah in store for us come Elul.

We are healing and changing ourselves for the better, and can once again feel the loving embrace of Hashem as we attempt to bring His Presence back into our very selves as it was when the Beis Hamikdash stood. Let us realize that day once again when it makes its return bimheirah b’yameinu, amen.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1023)

The post Doubling Down first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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his book, Habitachon V’hademokratiyah (“Security and Democracy”), Isser Harel, the first director of the Mossad, shared an experience from his childhood that has since been repeated by several gedolei Torah all over the world, including Rav Sholom Schwadron ztz”l, the Maggid of Yerushalayim. (Harel’s last name was originally Halpern, and he was born into a chareidi family. Unfortunately, he did not maintain that lifestyle, and he ultimately became the hero of the Israeli intelligence community.)

Young Isser grew up in Dvinsk when the great Rav Meir Simcha, author of Ohr Sameiach and Meshech Chochmah, served as the rav of the city. The river that ran through the city was on the verge of overflowing its banks, frightening all of the inhabitants, who knew full well the potential danger it presented. They laid sandbags to try to hold back the floodwaters, but to no avail. Rav Meir Simcha was asked by the townsfolk to save the day. (According to one version of the story, even the gentile mayor implored him for help.)

He arose from his Gemara, approached the river, and declared, “River, river! I am the mara d’asra of this city, and I decree with the power of the Torah that you recede immediately!”

The water level returned to normal, causing a great kiddush Hashem among all the inhabitants of Dvinsk, Jew and gentile alike. Scoffers will either call it black magic or deny the story altogether. Others might deem it a litvishe mofes. However, we can turn to the writings of the Ohr HaChaim Hakadosh to understand exactly what was at work here.

After Klal Yisrael crossed the Yam Suf, the pasuk tells us that the water returned “l’eisano,” literally translated as “to its full strength.” Chazal, however, saw in the word l’eisano an allusion to the word l’tna’o, its condition, which contains the same letters. According to this interpretation, HaKadosh Baruch Hu made a condition with the water at Maaseh Bereishis that it would one day have to split on behalf of Klal Yisrael. Simply understood, this means that from the beginning of Creation, the Yam Suf was destined to split when we encountered it thousands of years later as we fled the Egyptians. This understanding is problematic for several reasons.

First, the Midrash tells us that when Moshe Rabbeinu approached the Yam Suf, it “refused” him. (This is a reference, of course, to the Sar shel Yam, as water doesn’t communicate.) The sea’s reasoning was that since it was created on Day Three of Maaseh Bereishis and mankind on Day Six, it was not justified for the great sea to split for the inferior man. However, if we are to understand the condition made at Creation, that one day in the future it would simply have to split, where was there room for debate or resistance?

The Ohr HaChaim asks a second, more general question regarding the episode of Kri’as Yam Suf. We find in the Gemara that Rav Pinchas ben Yair, on his way to rescue a prisoner, “threatened” a river that if it didn’t split for him to allow him across, he would turn it into dry land, wiping it completely out of existence. What, then, is the unique nature of Kri’as Yam Suf, and the sea’s argument with Moshe, if anybody can split rivers?

The Ohr HaChaim proceeds to answer these questions with a fundamental concept that we, as the recipients of the Torah, need to understand. The condition that was made at Maaseh Bereishis had nothing to do with Kri’as Yam Suf per se at all. It was a condition that Hashem made with all of Maaseh Bereishis; that it must take a back seat to those who are ameilim b’Torah, toiling in Torah study. Ameilim b’Torah, says the Ohr HaChaim, were given the same dominion over the world that the Creator Himself possessed.

This was how the Yam Suf was able to make its argument: The Torah had not even been given yet, so Moshe had no power to uproot its existence. Hashem responded that Moshe Rabbeinu was destined to receive the Torah, and was therefore indeed accorded the privileges of an ameil b’Torah. By the same token, because Rav Pinchas ben Yair was an ameil b’Torah, he, too, was able to force the river to part so he could continue his holy mission of pidyon shevuyim. In fact, continues the Ohr HaChaim, anyone who has acquired the status of ameil b’Torah can approach the created world with this “note” that entitles him to do as he pleases with the Bri’ah itself.

Such is the power of Torah and those who toil in it. No black magic, no mofes. It is simply the way of the world. This certainly gives us a greater understanding and appreciation of gedolei Torah when we hear of them working what seem to be magnificent miracles that challenge the very laws of nature; their ability is built into our own law of nature.

Perhaps this can provide us with a new understanding of Rashi on the pasuk “Im bechukosai teleichu — If you walk in my statutes.” Rashi explains these words to mean “she’tiheyu ameilim ba’Torah” — that you should toil in Torah. The word chok can be interpreted as the laws of nature, as in chok nasan v’lo yaavor — “He established an order that shall never change.” One who toils in Torah allows himself access to those chukim and can control them at his will.

Rav Meir Shapiro ztz”l shared a similar anecdote about the power of ameilim b’Torah, albeit from a little further back in history. The story that Rav Shapiro shared was actually recorded for posterity in the annals of Lublin, by the city’s own government historians.

The Maharshal, while serving as the rav in Lublin in the 1600s, had a disciple whose new wife had tragically passed away shortly after their wedding. Sometime later, the Maharshal noticed that his talmid was in a very depressed state, and he approached him to inquire about his well-being, or rather his lack thereof. The talmid unburdened himself, confiding to his great rebbi that he had made an oath to his wife shortly before her death that he would never remarry. He realized now what a foolish thing he had done, for he would have to spend the remainder of his life alone.

The Maharshal informed him that his oath was invalid because it contradicted the mitzvah of peru u’revu, a man’s obligation to marry and populate the world, and he was free to find another wife. Sure enough, the talmid listened to his rebbi and remarried.

Shockingly, shortly after his wedding, the young man himself suddenly passed away. Lublin was abuzz — people began to question the Maharshal’s psak allowing the second marriage, causing an uproar in town. The Maharshal, fully aware of what was going on, instructed the chevra kaddisha to send a representative to his home before the burial for some special instructions. As the time for the kevurah arrived, someone appeared at the Rav’s home awaiting his orders.

The Maharshal gave the man a piece of paper that said, “Shalom, Shalom to you, pamalia shel maaleh. I paskened based on the Torah that my disciple is permitted and obligated to marry. I decree with the power of Torah that you return him to me!”

The Maharshal proceeded to sign his name and instructed that the paper be placed in the grave alongside the niftar, that the grave remain open, and that everyone leave the cemetery. Shortly after the burial, the niftar appeared at his home, dressed in his tachrichin, acting as if nothing special had taken place. His wife had quite the shock as she ran off to her parents’ house in a state of fright and confusion.

In the morning, the Maharshal instructed his talmid to dress in regular clothing and take his regular seat in the beis medrash. Needless to say, his old friends were hesitant to keep company with him. This prompted the Maharshal to once again declare, through the power of Torah, that the Heavenly “minister of forgetfulness” should take control of Lublin and obliterate the incident from everyone’s collective memory. The young man returned to a normal life and indeed raised an upstanding family.

(How this story eventually became known is a mystery, but if Rav Meir Shapiro felt it authentic enough to share publicly, we can assume he was convinced of its veracity.)

When the Ohr HaChaim wrote that any ameil b’Torah can present his “note,” this was apparently one great example. But there is a critical point to bear in mind, a crucial element in the lofty pursuit of Torah study.

For although we see the incredible power of Torah at work, we must be reminded of the mishnah in Pirkei Avos, “Whoever learns Torah lishmah, for its own sake, merits many things.” The mishnah does not reveal what these “many things” are, and simply continues by giving an additional list of the good fortunes that await one who learns Torah lishmah. Apparently the devarim harbeh (many things) mentioned at the outset are something other than the good fortunes enumerated later.

The Ponevezher Rav is quoted as having said that if one ever met the Chazon Ish, he would understand what the mishnah meant. The “devarim harbeh” are intangibles that cannot be described. It is important to note that Rav Chaim Volozhiner (Nefesh HaChaim, Sha’ar 4, chapter 2) explains that Torah lishmah means “for the sake of knowing the Torah,” period. No extras, no goodies, and no super powers either — just simply to know the word and will of Hashem. Such a person will merit those special gifts.

Perhaps this can help us understand a well-known but baffling anecdote recorded in the Yerushalmi and quoted by Tosafos in Maseches Chagigah (15a). Chazal related the circumstances surrounding the tragic personality of Elisha ben Avuyah, known as Acheir. He was the rebbi of the Tanna Rabi Meir, but left the life of Torah, even being mechallel Shabbos and Yom Kippur.

Avuyah, Acheir’s father, was considered one of the gedolei Yerushalayim and invited his colleagues to his son’s bris. Rabi Elazar and Rabi Yehoshua were discussing Torah topics in depth, when suddenly the house was surrounded by fire. (There are a number of other instances recorded in Shas and Midrash Shir Hashirim [1:10] of great people producing this fire of Torah as well.)

Avuyah asked them if they were coming to burn his house down, to which they responded they were so engrossed in learning that they were recreating the experience of Maamad Har Sinai, which was accompanied by fire. Profoundly shaken, Avuyah exclaimed that he never realized the power of Torah until that moment.

“If my son shows signs of success,” said Avuyah, “I will dedicate my life to ensuring that he becomes great in Torah.”

The Yerushalmi concludes that since Avuyah’s intentions were not l’Sheim Shamayim, for he wanted his son to learn for the sake of being able to create that same holy fire, he planted seeds in his son’s neshamah that eventually influenced him to stumble and ultimately veer entirely off course.

This Yerushalmi begs for an explanation. What exactly did Avuyah do wrong? Torah is fire — ko somar devarai k’eish — and he wanted his son to have the kind of fiery Torah and fire that he had just witnessed. What is so terrible about that? Why was this aspiration considered such an egregious act of wrongdoing that it propelled his son off the dais of the greatest gedolei Torah?

Based on what we learned above, perhaps we can open up a small window to understand this. Avuyah declared that he did not know kochah shel Torah (as per the lashon of the Yerushalmi) until witnessing the fire surrounding his house. He had just seen something awesome. Here were two mortal beings, showing such control over Maaseh Bereishis that they were able to produce an actual fire simply by learning Torah. Avuyah wanted his son to have that ability as well. Who wouldn’t?

The fault Chazal found in him was that no such intentions can underlie learning Torah for its own sake, lishmah. Torah is neither a weapon or a laser beam; it is the word of Hashem and must be learned with only one goal in mind, to master it through and through. Although learning Torah with ameilus can indeed influence and change the actual Bri’ah, this is not why we learn it. Someone who is described by Chazal as one of the gedolei Yerushalayim should have known better. His misguided intentions were enough to plants seeds that, if improperly nurtured, could blossom into a son like Acheir.

Rav Chaim Volozhiner (Nefesh HaChaim, Sha’ar 4, chapter 2) learned from this Yerushalmi that every single person is capable of re-experiencing Maamad Har Sinai by learning Torah. We may not see the fire, but we can rest assured knowing that our neshamos are being warmed by its heat and being enlightened by its glow.

Even if we have not reached that heightened level at which we can alter nature with our koach haTorah, that does not mean we are denied the ability to effect actual physical benefit through our study of Torah.

I personally heard the following idea emphasized many times by the Ponevezher Mashgiach, Rav Chaim Friedlander ztz”l. The pasuk in parshas Ha’azinu (32:18) says, “Tzur yeladcha teshi” — translated literally, “you forgot the Rock Who birthed you.” Rashi, however, quotes Chazal’s homiletic interpretation, which is “tosh kocho shel maalah — weakens the strength of ‘Above.’ ” How does one “weaken the strength of Above”?

This is meant to represent the idea that although Hashem wishes to bestow good upon us, it is up to us to determine if we deserve it. If our actions disqualify us from being recipients of His goodness, we anger Him and “weaken His strength” to be able to do good for us. It is our actions that give Hashem the ability, kiveyachol, to be meitiv us. (In Nefesh Hachaim, Sha’ar 4, Rav Chaim Volozhiner develops this concept at length.) If we do the kinds of things that upset Him, His hands are tied, so to speak, from showering us with the bounty of good. It stands to reason, then, that when we are on our best behavior, it allows all the shefa tov to come down.

As we ready ourselves to celebrate zeman Matan Toraseinu, we can all commit to either learning Torah b’ameilus, supporting it by encouraging our bnei bayis to do so, facilitating it through acts of tzedakah, or simply appreciating what all the ameilus is really accomplishing for us.

We have never felt the need for the Torah’s protection in recent times as much as we need it today. May the day soon come soon when Hashem’s dominion over the world will be revealed to everyone once again as it was at Har Sinai. Through our humble efforts, im yirtzeh Hashem it will.

Rabbi Plotnik, a talmid of the yeshivos of Philadelphia and Ponevezh, has been active in rabbanus and chinuch for 25 years and currently serves as ram in Yeshivas Me’or HaTorah in Chicago.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1014)

The post The Power of Torah Lishmah      first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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irplane trips often provide experiences that are fodder for good stories. Two such experiences that happened to me years ago offer some food for thought as we approach Shabbos Hagadol and Pesach.

The first incident happened long enough ago that I cannot recall the circumstances of my trip. I was flying somewhere to give a speech — I cannot recall where, or what it was about. Instead of schlepping seforim, I brought along copies of the various sources I needed to review for quoting in the drashah.

A very dignified and respectful einah-Yehudis was looking on and noticed that the text I was reading was something other than English, and that I was rapidly scribbling notes from right to left. She asked what I was doing. I explained that I was about to give a speech to a Jewish crowd, and I was reviewing my material. She inquired if I did this often, to which I replied in the affirmative.

Her next comment — to paraphrase the words of the Gemara, “nichnesu k’eres b’libi” — stung my heart. “So you mean your job is to get people to work on themselves? When do you work on yourself?”

I can’t recall anybody having said something like that to me before — or since, for that matter. A powerful piece of mussar like that should never be ignored, no matter its source. Indeed, didn’t Chazal instruct us, “Adorn yourself (first) and then adorn others”? I had to admit to myself, I had a ways to go.

Of all the challenges and opportunities that the Yom Tov of Pesach presents, the most difficult of all, said the Alter of Kelm, is Chazal’s mandate of “chayav adam lir’os es atzmo” — the obligation to envision oneself as if he had actually left Mitzrayim. How is that even possible, let alone obligatory? Although the great ones among us — notably Rav Chatzkel Levenstein ztz”l in Ponevezh — would regularly set up benches in a shiur room and dance through them as a reenactment of Yetzias Mitzrayim, that can hardly be expected of the vast majority of the population.

(Rav Chatzkel did indeed tell the legendary masmid, Rav Chaim’ke Berman, “If you ever expect to become anything great, you must also perform Yetzias Mitzrayim.” I was personally told this when I spotted Rav Chaim’ke in the wee hours of a Leil Shabbos, his countenance shining with an otherworldly glow. I asked him what was up, to which he responded, “I was just in Mitzrayim!” and proceeded to share Rav Chatzkel’s mandate. Apparently, there are some individuals who can do it.)

Thankfully, the Rambam seems to have rescued us by quoting a different version of the Mishnah, as he writes in the seventh perek of Hilchos Chometz U’matzah: “One is obligated to display a behavior [l’har’os es atzmo — to show himself, rather than lir’os es atzmo, to see himself] as if he has just left the slavery of Mitzrayim.” The Rambam goes on to explain that this is the underlying reason for drinking four cups of wine, leaning, and other displays of freedom at the Seder. According to this, the Mishnah never expected all of Klal Yisrael to reach the level of Rav Chatzkel or those in his league. We are only required to demonstrate, through the way we commemorate it, our belief that the geulah from Mitzrayim took place on this night.

The Netziv offers a different approach that can also put us at ease, to some extent; but it, too, comes with a mandate. The word that the Mishnah uses to describe this mitzvah of envisioning Yetzias Mitzrayim, “chayav,” does not mean “obligated” in the way we would normally use it. We find other places in Shas where the word chayav refers to a level we should aspire to reach, but one that is not mandatory in nature.

One example is Chazal’s dictum that one is obligated to say, “When will my deeds reach those of my forefathers Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov”? Certainly, this is not an obligation akin to wearing tefillin or keeping Shabbos. It is something we should strive to attain and view as a standard for what we want to accomplish in life.

Similarly, Chazal instructed us to say “Bishvili nivra ha’olam — the world was created for me.” Although there are varying interpretations of what Chazal were mandating by this, one thing is clear. We don’t observe any of our fellow Yidden making it a point to state that they have not yet reached the lofty level of the Avos, or declaring out loud that the world was created only for them. Rather, these are madreigos that we aspire to, but they are by no means mandatory.

Here too, says the Netziv, Chazal were not demanding a mitzvah that most of us are incapable of fulfilling; rather they were encouraging us to aspire to greatness by envisioning the actual exodus from Mitzrayim and the accompanying nissim and nifla’os that we experienced as a nation. This will make us greater people and more serious servants of Hashem. It was left up to each individual to rise to the occasion as high as his individual abilities will take him.

But how can we get there? Did Chazal give us a clue as to how to reach this lofty level of envisioning ourselves as the Yotzei Mitzrayim?

Let’s return to the friendly skies. It was 1988, and I was traveling to my niece’s wedding in New York. I boarded the plane at O’Hare Airport in Chicago and found my aisle seat next to a friendly gentleman who was eager to make conversation. He was en route from Los Angeles after having attended a World Series game for the ages, with the winning team’s star player hitting a home run in the bottom of the ninth inning to secure victory.

Our conversation would have to revolve around something other than Bava Metzia, which is what I was learning at the time. I asked him where he was coming from, and was immediately informed of his great zechus of having been at this game for the ages. There happened to be a true Midwest thunderstorm raging at that moment, supplying lots of lightning for our visual pleasure. We would not be going anywhere anytime soon. To be exact, for five hours! Meanwhile, I was treated to a blow-by-blow account of the home run heard around the world.

Full disclosure: I know a thing or two about baseball and could certainly hold up my end of a conversation about how one hits the ball with a bat. But not for five hours. I was being regaled with every dreidel and pitchivke (pun intended) about the at bat, how the hitter was up against the wall in the pitch count and playing on a bad leg to boot. I was to discover what kind of pitch it was, how close he was to being struck out, and every trivial narishkeit associated with this feat.

Thankfully, we finally took off, and I made it to the wedding for the middle of the second dance. (No sooner had I walked in than Rav Shmuel Kamenetsky shlita commanded me to immediately go over to my worrying mother and announce my safe arrival.)

After returning home, I had an epiphany that gave me an insight into, of all things, our ability to feel as if we had gone out of Mitzrayim. What had compelled my seatmate to carry on for so long about one single home run, with more detail than one would ever think possible?

First of all, this was obviously very important to him. He was a Dodgers fan, and he had witnessed history. And relating every detail of what he saw was his way of reliving the event. It mattered not that I had already had my fill of the tale many hours prior; to him, it was a life-altering experience, and the more he delved into the blessed play, the more fulfilled he felt. And by the time he was done, I could practically smell the popcorn in the stadium and hear the roar of the crowd. His exuberance, as well as his gift for detail, put me right in Dodger Stadium — although I would much rather have been under a chuppah in Staten Island.

L’havdil, let us take a look at our Pesach Seder. The Rambam makes a point of telling us that the featured portion of Maggid is the parshah of “Arami oved avi” — the same pesukim we recite when bringing our bikkurim to Yerushalayim, which give a quick overview of our history and the exodus from Mitzrayim. The Rambam exhorts us to elaborate on the pesukim and speak about the miracles and wonders that we experienced as a nation as we left Mitzrayim, as well as the ten Makkos we saw while we were still there. V’chol hamarbeh, harei zeh meshubach.

We are also instructed to express our appreciation and to praise Hashem for all His kindnesses as we delineate them one-by-one in Dayeinu. The Rambam also instructs us to be very animated when we relate the story to our children, pointing out to them that we were slaves just like the slaves that our children see with their own eyes.

I am told that in the home of my wife’s grandfather, Rabbi Yehoshua Sperka ztz”l of Detroit, he would emphasize that he knew this all to be true because he had heard it from his father, who heard it from his own father, and on and on, all the way back to the ancestor to whom it happened. Did this not cement the emunah in the Makkos and Yetzias Mitzrayim in his descendants’ collective consciousness for generations? I can vouch that it did.

It is all a matter of how the leader of the Seder shows his excitement, unwavering belief, and attention to detail that brings the assembled to feel the droplets of the Yam Suf on their skin as they sing the Hallel at the Seder. The more our children feel we were there, the more they will know they were there too — as the Gemara instructs us to declare, “V’osanu hotzi misham.”

The actual mitzvah of sippur Yetzias Mitzrayim is enhanced to the degree one provides detail and perspective — the more, the better. It offers him a greater opportunity to personally reexperience the excitement and the reality of the event, and not merely relate a history lesson. This is why even if we were all wise, kulanu chachamim, we would nevertheless have a mitzvah to talk about it again and again. We are not recounting Yetzias Mitzrayim, we are living and breathing it.

This does indeed put a great burden and responsibility on the baal haSeder. His job is not just to incorporate the feeling of leaving Mitzrayim himself; he also bears the holy task of relating it to his own children or whomever else may be attending his Seder.

This insight could help us understand the very structure of the Haggadah a little bit better. This mandate, “In every generation a person is obligated to envision himself as if he went out of Mitzrayim,” is recited all the way at the end of Maggid. If, indeed, we have a goal to feel as if we ourselves left Mitzrayim, should this not be stated right at the beginning of the Seder, so we will know what we should aim for? By the time we say this, the Seder is as good as over!

Perhaps the answer is that if we said it at the outset, it would be an exercise in futility. How are we going to intellectually or emotionally feel that we left Mitzrayim, before going through the Haggadah and reading and expounding on all the miracles that it teaches us? Merely reciting this sentence would not do anything to help our cause, because we have nothing to excite the senses or stimulate our emotions.

It is only after we have read the incredible adventure that was Yetzias Mitzrayim that we can even begin to talk about feeling as if we had gone through it ourselves. We need to hear the details, we need to feel the simchah, and we need to see our father or Seder leader so enraptured by the story that we can connect on our own level and feel it ourselves.

This is not an intellectual experience; we know the story. The Jews were in exile, and Hashem took us out. The Seder is not here to tell us old news. What it is here for is to make it part of our very being, and something we walk around with every day in our hearts, not just in our heads. That requires absorbing what the Haggadah is saying and what the baal haSeder is demonstrating. It is a holy calling and an incredible and unmatched privilege. No baal haSeder should ever take it lightly.

As Pesach is fast approaching, it is time to think about how to capitalize on the avodas hayom and make the most out of our Seder, and — to borrow from the vernacular — to hit it out of the park. And as my first fellow passenger reminded me, before we invest all the work in everyone else, let’s work on ourselves so that our absolute emunah in Yetzias Mitzrayim comes shining through to the point that everyone at our table will truly feel they were there.

Rav Ben Tzion Abba Shaul, in his sefer Ohr L’Tzion, points out that the Shulchan Aruch dedicated a special siman (chapter), albeit only one sentence long, to Shabbos Hagadol, and how it got its name. In some communities, they even incorporated Shabbos Hagadol into the regular Shabbos greeting. The Rema adds that many are accustomed to say the Maggid portion of the Haggadah on Shabbos Hagadol, for the miracle of geulah began then.

Apparently, this Shabbos carries tremendous significance and is not simply the Shabbos before Pesach. Let us use it to make our own preparations for what we will im yirtzeh Hashem finally celebrate in real life as our own geulah sheleimah b’karov.

Rabbi Plotnik, a talmid of the yeshivos of Philadelphia and Ponovezh, has been active in rabbanus and chinuch for 25 years and currently serves as ram in Yeshivas Me’or HaTorah in Chicago.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1007)

The post Get Excited about the Exodus   first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Not unlike many of my born-and-bred American brethren, I grew up on a steady supply of soda pop. Pepsi was definitely my first choice, with Coke a not-too-distant second.

Upon arriving in Bnei Brak back in 1982 to continue my learning, I discovered to my dismay that I would need to find other ways to quench my thirst. Pepsi was not available due to the company’s participation in the Arab boycott of Israel. Coke, despite its factory located prominently at the entrance to the Ir HaTorah, was frowned upon in the Torah world for not passing muster with respect to its hashgachah. I would have to subside on Cristal, under the hashgachah of Rav Landau ztz”l, and the ever-popular, effervescent Tempo, under the hashgachah of the Badatz.

Several years later, my cousin went to learn in Yerushalayim, and we kept in touch through the mail (no phone calls then — you would need to cram asimonim like mad into the payphone for a 30-second hello). One particular letter stands out in my memory. Pepsi had finally entered the Israeli market, with a Badatz hashgachah, no less! It was laYehudim haysah orah for the chutzniks.

One particular Yerushalmi Yid confided to my cousin that he indulged in the Amerikanishe beverage for the first time in his life and declared, “Es iz gantz geshmak, der Papusi!”

I’m sure it took my cousin a minute or two to discern that “Papusi” was one and the same with the beloved “Pepsi.” Of course, the label had no nekudos on it, so what else was he supposed to think? Why would Pepsi (or “Fufsi,” for that matter) be a more logical pronunciation? My cousin had a good laugh over it, and it still brings a smile to my face every time I think about what my reaction would have been had I been there.

On a more serious note, we often see signs and letters too, thinking with total confidence we know exactly what we are looking at. We read them based on our limited intelligence and make conclusions, without considering that we are reading them all wrong.

I am not referring to assembly instructions for the bookcase you bought at Home Depot written in a foreign language masquerading as English, but to much more important messages. Rather, I mean the events that unfold in our world that may look like one thing to an unsophisticated novice but appear completely different to the trained eye of an expert. And the stakes are much higher than Pepsi versus Papusi or installing your bookcase shelf backwards.

We are all familiar with the Purim song “Shoshanas Yaakov.” Although its exact composer remains a mystery to this day, we do know it was written a very long time ago by what early commentators referred to as kadmonei kadmonim. The song is partly based on the Yerushalmi in the third perek of Maseches Megillah that prescribes singing “arurim haresha’im” on Purim along with other expressions of thanks that are familiar to us from that time-honored piyut. The Hagahos Maimoniyos in the first perek of the Rambam in Hilchos Megillah, as well as the Avudraham, record many of these stanzas as well. “Shoshanas Yaakov,” or an earlier version of it, was obviously familiar to the Rishonim.

One of the more puzzling verses in “Shoshanas Yaakov” comes at the very beginning: “Bir’osam yachad techeiles Mordechai,” about how the Jews rejoiced when they saw Mordechai being paraded in the streets of Shushan in his techeiles, simply understood as his royal garments or perhaps even his tzitzis. Why was techeiles the cause of their joy? Wasn’t the simple appearance of Mordechai besting Haman and being escorted by his archnemesis enough to bring everyone to their feet, jumping for joy?

Perhaps we can suggest the following. The Gemara teaches us that each of the Bigdei Kehunah brought atonement for a particular sin. (The Zohar Hakadosh says that one would be inspired to teshuvah merely by staring at one of these articles.) In particular, the Me’il, the special robe worn by the Kohein Gadol, served as a kapparah for the sin of lashon hara. The Gemara tells us that since the Me’il had bells attached to the bottom that produced sound when the Kohein walked, “Yavo davar sheb’kol v’yechaper al kol,” the sound would serve as an atonement for the noise of lashon hara.

Rav Shneur Kotler ztz”l was very fond of offering yet another insight as to why the Me’il served as a kapparah for lashon hara. The Gemara tells us that techeiles had a unique quality, relating that its color reminds us of the color of the sea, which in turn reminds us of the color of the sky, which ultimately reminds us of Hashem’s Kisei Hakavod, His royal throne, as it were. One who observed the beautiful dye of the techeiles would be reminded, through the power of association, of Hashem’s presence up above.

This concept of Kisei Hakavod is analogous to someone having a bird’s-eye view of the entire world from way up high. Not only does Hashem have a panoramic view of the physical world with respect to space, but Hashem also has a wide-angle view of events with respect to time and history. As the Lakewood Rosh Yeshivah famously termed it, “mit der gantze gantzkeit,” in absolute entirety.

A baal lashon hara is compared in the seforim to a fly that is attracted to filth. If only the slanderer were to look at his victim in his entirety and see in his “gantzkeit” how much good he really possesses, he would understand that focusing on the flaw is a distortion of the full picture and desist from his toxic speech. This is why the Me’il atoned for lashon hara, for it was precisely the slanderer’s inability to look at the whole person that caused him to sin. Gazing at the Me’il could inspire a baal lashon hara to look at people wholesomely, to see others in their entirety, instead of focusing on little shortcomings.

Haman, the Gemara in Megillah (13b) tells us, was the ultimate slanderer — leika d’yada lishna lishna bisha k’Haman.” What was Haman’s great lashon hara? The Gemara points to Haman’s comment that Klal Yisrael is a nation that is “mefuzar u’mefurad — spread out and scattered.”

One wonders, is that really such a terrible thing to say? Why does the Gemara see this as quintessential lashon hara? I once heard it explained that while the comment may not be the most sinister, Haman’s perception of Klal Yisrael as a scattered nation goes to the very heart of the nature of lashon hara. Klal Yisrael is Echad, they are rooted at the core, and the inability to see this means that you are disconnected from the “gantzkeit” perspective — the worldview that comes with an association with the Kisei Hakavod. You are unable to put the pieces together.

And as we know, Haman was, in fact, disconnected from the Kisei Hakavod. Haman was the progeny of Amalek, who fought a vicious battle against Klal Yisrael. Afterwards, Hashem says that there must be war against Amalek “ki yad al keis Kah — for the hand is upon the throne of Hashem.” Rashi points out that the word “keis” is missing an alef and explains that, until Amalek is eradicated, the Kisei Hakavod will be incomplete. So we see that Haman, who is divorced from the Kisei Hakavod, and from the “gantzkeit perspective” that comes with it, is also the ultimate speaker of lashon hara.

In light of this, let us now return to “Shoshanas Yaakov” and see how the worldview we gain from the Purim story is precisely the remedy to all the evil that Haman represented.

As we know, the Purim story stretches over nine years, from Vashti’s death to Esther’s selection, and ultimately to the yeshuah we celebrate as Purim. Looking at each event along the way in isolation, one would be very challenged to see anything more than a string of natural occurrences, political intrigue and infighting, and a foolish ruler with a hot temper doing whatever he pleases on a whim. (Sound familiar?)

Only after the story ends can we step back to see how the story of the Megillah unfolded (as we do with the Megillah itself when reading it), and how it is indeed one gantze gantzkeit. It was precisely the sight of Mordechai’s techeiles — which harkens back to the Kisei Hakavod — that inspired the Jews to realize this and put all the pieces together. It was a miracle that nobody could have seen coming. The story that looked like a total disaster looming was actually Hashem’s guiding Hand orchestrating every single event.

We need to take note of this, not just on Purim, but during every stage of our long and difficult galus.

Back when Ronald Reagan was president, the United States negotiated a deal to sell Saudi Arabia the most sophisticated military reconnaissance aircraft to date, known as AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control Systems). Menachem Begin, the Israeli prime minister at the time, expressed “profound regret and unreserved opposition” to this deal, as these planes were touted as being able to track every move of the Israeli Air Force and prevent surprise first strikes.

President Reagan turned a deaf ear to Israeli protests, proclaiming that “It is not the business of other nations to make American foreign policy.” The Israel lobby was in overdrive trying to prevent this disaster from actually coming to reality, as the planes were scheduled for delivery between 1986 and 1987. It was to no avail, and indeed the Saudis got the AWACS. Only Hashem could save us from utter calamity, everyone thought.

And He did. Fast-forward to the Persian Gulf War of 1991, and we saw from a front-row seat next to Kisei Hakavod how the Saudi AWACS became an essential part of the allied war effort against Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, which had promised to attack Israel. And in case anyone forgot, that war ended on Purim.

Did anybody see it coming in 1986? Could we have known that what looked like sure disaster was really Hashem’s method of putting every weapon in place for a campaign to be waged in another five years? If only we learned from the Me’il.

Let’s take one more peek into the Megillah. The Gemara famously tells us that when Esther proclaimed at Achashveirosh’s private party, “Ish tzar v’oyeiv,” in response to the king’s question of who was responsible for the attempted genocide (a relatively recent addition to our vocabulary, but an old concept in our history) of the Jewish nation, that Esther pointed to Achashveirosh himself. It took a malach, who came and shifted her finger toward Haman, to seemingly save the day. Mefarshim are quite intrigued by the question of what Esther was thinking at that moment. Truth may be a virtue, but this hardly looks like a smart move. It wouldn’t have been far-fetched for Achashveirosh to declare, “Off with her head!” His track record for that was, after all, pretty good.

Perhaps we can suggest that Esther was indeed viewing the entire episode from her Kisei Hakavod perspective. Where the layman saw nothing special, Esther saw everything as another link in the chain of miraculous events that would eventually make us declare for the rest of time, “she’asah nissim l’avoseinu.” She read the signs.

In her world, the entire Purim story was one incredible miracle after the next, not simply random mundane events that happened to get her to this point in time. If so, she reasoned, it is indeed appropriate to answer Achashveirosh’s question honestly. We are living an open miracle! The malach had to intervene and demonstrate that although it may have been as clear as day to Esther, this was not the way Hashem wanted it to play out.

There is a lesson to be learned here for generations. We must take note of what look like banal events and realize that they are Hashem’s hidden way of preserving us, just as open miracles are. That lesson would have gotten lost on us had Esther chosen the uber-miraculous route. It had to be b’hester, hidden, for this is the modus operandi that Hashem uses from that point forward to guide history throughout the rest of galus.

The era of open miracles such as Yetzias Mitzrayim was no more. Our yeshuos will be shrouded in nature, and we will have to analyze events ourselves and appreciate every little step for what it is, Hashem’s hashgachah, whether we understand it at the moment or not. The greatest among us can read the signs and guide us and encourage us along the way to hold on to our hopes and dreams, for the yeshuah is kerovah lavo, soon to come.

I merited to hear one shmuess from the incomparable Rav Shlomo Brevda ztz”l while I was learning in Bnei Brak. (Ironically, Rav Brevda was very outspoken about Americans’ obsession with Pepsi Cola. I didn’t share our opening anecdote with him.) He asked why, among all the different opinions mentioned in Maseches Megillah concerning how much of the Megillah one needs to hear to be yotzei, everyone agrees that we must hear the last chapter.

This would seem very odd, because all it says there is that Achashveirosh imposed a tax over his entire kingdom, followed by the information that Mordechai became the second in command to the king. Why is this so significant?

Rav Brevda suggested that after an episode as incredible as the Purim story, one might have thought it would make a life-changing impression on everyone who experienced it, even Achashveirosh; for he saw as much as anyone the incredible sequence of events and how it all turned around and changed the course of history. Yet he was the same old taxing king, looking to make more money to fill his coffers, and was totally oblivious to what has just transpired over the previous nine years. Achashveirosh could not read the signs, as he did not recognize them for what they were. Mordechai, on the other hand, brought his public service up to a whole new level.

Back to “Shoshanas Yaakov.” This ability to see the gantze gantzkeit sheds light on why the paytan describes the Jewish nation as “Shoshanas Yaakov.” The magnificence of a shoshanah — a rose — arises from the arrangement of its many petals being more than a sum of its parts. A bag of loose petals cannot excite the senses the way an entire rose does. So, too, the beauty of this miracle was much greater than the sum of disjointed parts. Our identity as “Shoshanas Yaakov” is a reflection of our newfound beauty, and of our having perceived the gantze gantzkeit.

This should serve as a mandate to us to come away from Megillas Esther with an entirely different perspective on life, hashgachah, hester panim, and the ideal of teshuas Hashem k’heref ayin. May we all gather the strength to read the signs and see Hashem’s guiding Hand throughout the remainder of galus, which will b’ezras Hashem finally come to an end, bimheirah b’yameinu.

Rabbi Plotnik, a talmid of the yeshivos of Philadelphia and Ponevezh, has been active in rabbanus and chinuch for 25 years and currently serves as ram in Yeshivas Me’or HaTorah in Chicago.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1004)

The post Seeing the Whole Picture first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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nyone who has ridden in an Israeli taxi can safely assume two things. One, the driver will take you where he feels you need to go (“What do you mean you’re not going to the Zvehiller Rebbe’s kever ? I’ll take you there right now.”) Second, he moonlights as an agent for the Immigration and Absorption Ministry. Whatever your driver’s religious commitment, once your chutznik accent gives you away, you will not be able to avoid the question of when are you making aliyah. If you dare respond that you have no such plans, you had better be prepared for the sales pitch that is sure to follow.

I recall one such conversation the last time I was privileged to visit Eretz Yisrael, a year and a half ago. My driver, a very sincere and sweet man, was interrogating me about why I insist on living in chutz l’Aretz. I told him we were toying with the idea of making the move one day but were not quite ready yet. My wife, I explained, was especially excited about the prospect of someday living in Eretz Yisrael because, as I put it, she is a “fervent Tzioni.”

This comment thoroughly bewildered the driver. He did a double-take at my rabbinical attire to make sure he heard me right. “Adoni! Ishtecha Tzionit?”

I quickly put him at ease and told him that my wife fervently prays every day, “V’sechezenah eineinu b’shuvcha l’Tzion b’rachamim.” That is the Tzion of her dreams, and in fact the focus of everybody’s tefillos. For once, I got the best of a taxi driver.

What is it that drives so many of our brethren who dwell in Artzeinu Hakedoshah to advocate for aliyah at every opportunity? And how is it that they possess a passion for Eretz Yisrael that sadly many of us chutznikim do not?

Sacred Ground

It is pretty clear from the narrative at the very end of Maseches Kesuvos that Chazal Hakedoshim wanted us to feel a great love for Eretz Yisrael. The Gemara describes how Amoraim literally kissed the stones of Acco upon entering Eretz Yisrael, and got down on the ground and rolled in its holy earth. The Maharal tells us that Eretz Yisrael’s land, its dirt, and its air, all have special qualities not found anywhere else on Earth.

A visitor to Eretz Yisrael went to see Rav Eliezer Shach ztz”l and asked him where he should spend his time during his two-week stay. Rav Shach told him to spend his days in the local beis medrash, for “avira d’ara machkim” and “ein Torah k’Toras Eretz Yisrael.” He would never have this opportunity outside the holy air of Artzeinu Hakedoshah. Rav Chaim Zaitchik ztz”l quoted the Alter of Slabodka, who was asked why he relocated to Eretz Yisrael when he was already at an advanced age. The Alter answered that it was worth coming simply to breathe the air of Eretz Yisrael.

Furthermore, the Gemara records how Rav Ami and Rav Asi would be careful to move out of the hot sun into the shade to avoid the blistering heat of Eretz Yisrael. Rashi understands that their motive was to avoid speaking ill of Eretz Yisrael. The Ri Migash interprets the Gemara slightly differently. He says that these Amoraim wanted to deepen their love of Eretz Yisrael by enjoying the feeling of relief from the shade of the Holy Land. Some people apparently took this gemara very seriously; Rav Yitzchok Zilberstein attests that in the home of a certain talmid chacham, a sign in front of his air conditioner read “mazgan Rav Ami v’Rav Asi.”

I recall visiting my uncle, Rav Shloima Margolis ztz”l, who settled in Bnei Brak after a long career in rabbanus in Boston. It was summer, and many of us are familiar with the tropical climate in that part of Eretz Yisrael, where temperatures way beyond 100 degrees are not uncommon, with humidity to match. My uncle asked me how my trip was, and I reflexively commented that it was so hot and muggy. His demeanor, usually sweet and Zeide-like, abruptly became very serious.

“Nu, azoi redt men oif der Land? [Is that how you speak about Eretz Yisrael]?” he admonished me.

I was both humbled and disappointed in myself that I had sounded like the Meraglim, who could say nothing about Eretz Yisrael beyond its perceived shortcomings.

Land of Feelings

Years later, I came across a vort in my uncle’s sefer, Darkei Hasheleimus, that taught me how we need to relate to Eretz Yisrael, and how my attitude needed to change. We are probably familiar with Chazal’s words on why the parshah of the Meraglim is written after the incident of Miriam’s lashon hara on Moshe Rabbeinu. It is the Torah’s way of teaching us that the Meraglim should have learned a lesson from Miriam’s mistake and not repeated the transgression by slandering Eretz Yisrael.

The question arises: Eretz Yisrael is not a human being — it is land. Although it is true that we should not speak about Hashem’s gift to His people this way, is it really comparable to lashon hara about a person? The answer my uncle suggests is that we should relate to Eretz Yisrael the same way we relate to human beings. And just as we must not speak ill of another human being, neither must we denigrate our beloved home. The riveting words of the Navi Yeshayahu, “And Tzion said Hashem has abandoned me and forgotten about me,” as well as the comforting words of Nachamu, “Speak to the heart of Yerushalayim,” were certainly meant evoke images of Tzion as a live being, not just as a coveted piece of real estate in the Middle East.

If we examine the nusach of the last group of Kinnos we recite on Tishah B’Av, we will see how the paytanim, most notably the greatest Tzioni of his era, Rav Yehudah HaLevi, brings this point home. From the very first verse (as translated in the ArtScroll Kinnos) — “Tzion, will you not inquire about the welfare of your imprisoned ones?” — and further on, “When weeping over your suffering, I am [like] a jackal, but when I dream of the return of your captivity, I am a harp for your songs,” we are meant to feel that we are connecting to something tangible and real. There is a constant stream of emotion, vacillating between pain and love, that we express while mourning Yerushalayim and begging for our return that sounds exactly like we are speaking with a long-lost friend.

Where does this feeling come from? After all, the Torah never mandated this love. Even the mitzvah to live in Eretz Yisrael is the subject of great debate among the Rishonim and halachic authorities throughout the ages. What is it that gives us this feeling of love toward Eretz Yisrael? Why do we mourn our separation from it with the intensity of one who has lost a close relative?

Source of Sustenance

The Maharal, in a few succinct lines, gives us direction and insight. He writes that everyone has a bond to Eretz Yisrael. This is why the Gemara, in Maseches Berachos, quotes Rav Yochanan’s amazement that people in chutz l’Aretz can live very long lives, for the pasuk says, “L’maan yirbu yemeichem... al ha’adamah.” Only Eretz Yisrael seems to be capable of supporting long life. As the Maharal puts it, “[A Jew] leaving Eretz Yisrael is akin to a tree being uprooted from its roots, when even replanting it will not facilitate its survival.”

The Maharal explains that our neshamos receive sustenance from Eretz Yisrael, even if we are not conscious of it. To a certain degree, it is the source that gives us spiritual life. We can subconsciously feel it even if our intellect may not.

Many of us have a custom to eat the special fruits of Eretz Yisrael on Tu B’Shevat. The significance of the day derives from the halachah that tithes of fruit may not combine fruit from one year’s bounty with fruit from that of the next. Tu B’Shevat was chosen as the demarcation line between years, for this purpose, because that is when the sap begins to run and the trees awaken from their winter slumber in Eretz Yisrael. Hence the custom to eat peiros from Eretz Yisrael on that day.

The Sma”k (Sefer Mitzvos Hakatan) writes that we should praise Eretz Yisrael not for its physical attributes but only for its spiritual ones, such as the opportunities it offers to fulfill unique mitzvos, since those are what drive our longing for it. The Bach disagrees and maintains that kedushas Eretz Yisrael impacts every single thing. The fruits of Eretz Yisrael draw not only nutrients from the ground, but kedushah as well. By eating those fruits, we ingest spiritual sustenance as well as physical nourishment.

This is a very enlightening insight to share with our talmidim and children, who often come away from Tu B’Shevat having learned nothing more than bokser is Yiddish for carob and it is actually edible. Eating these fruits is an avodas hakodesh if done with the proper intention.

To this day, I continue to feel the inspiration I gained from a visit to Rav Yossele Sheinberger ztz”l in Yerushalayim. When his daughter placed a plate of grapes on the table, he said excitedly, “Zeit to’eim fun peiros Eretz Yisrael [Taste the fruits of Eretz Yisrael]!” He was expressing the joy he took from the sweetness of the holy fruits of our treasured Land. A sweetness infused with his visceral love.

Mother Land

There is an expression in the Ramban in his drashah for Rosh Hashanah, in which he refers to his move to Eretz Yisrael, which may shed some light on this idea. “That [Hashem] has taken me out from my land and moved me from my place, I left my home, abandoned my property, and became like a raven to my children, is because my desire is to be in my mother’s bosom — l’fi she’retzoni b’cheik imi.” The Ramban was equating being in Eretz Yisrael with coming home to his beloved mother.

I believe that we can gain a clearer understanding of this in light of the words of the Maharal. Eretz Yisrael, on a level we may not intellectually appreciate, gives us life — just as our mother did and will continue to do so long as she is able. The Ramban’s sensitivity for this was such that he was compelled to leave everything behind to reunite with that source of life. Undoubtedly, those who were moser nefesh to follow his example felt the same way.

The Torah never tells us to love our parents, because this is unnecessary. Nobody needs to be told to love his mother or father; it is instinctive and natural. Somewhere in the deep recesses of our neshamos, we sense that this is true for us of Eretz Yisrael as well. For this same reason, the Torah never commands us to love Eretz Yisrael. This love is just as instinctive, and just as natural, as the love one has for his parents.

And Eretz Yisrael reciprocates. The pesukim in Yeshayahu are replete with references to the mourning of Mother Tzion for her lost children, and her joy in welcoming them home.

Moshe’s Wish

Without a doubt, our greatest desire to live in Eretz Yisrael b’binyanah is to fulfill all the mitzvos it affords us. A simple reading of the Gemara (Sotah 14a) would seem to bear that out. “Why did Moshe desire to enter Eretz Yisrael? Did he need to eat its fruit? Rather, Moshe said, ‘Yisrael is commanded to perform many mitzvos, and they can only be fulfilled in Eretz Yisrael. I wish to enter the Land so they can be fulfilled by me.’ ”

The basic level understanding of this g emara is that Moshe wanted the opportunity to fulfill the mitzvos that are unique to Eretz Yisrael, such as terumos and maasros. Meshech Chochmah asks why the Gemara didn’t simply answer that he wanted to fulfill the mitzvah of yishuv Eretz Yisrael, according to the opinions that it is indeed a genuine mitzvas aseh from the Torah.

Perhaps the answer is that the Gemara never meant the mitzvos specific to Eretz Yisrael, but rather any mitzvah. As the Ramban writes on parshas Eikev, no mitzvah can be fulfilled perfectly outside of Eretz Yisrael. He invokes the pasuk in Yirmiyahu, “Hatzivi lach tziyunim,” that the point of fulfilling mitzvos outside of Eretz Yisrael is to ensure that we don’t forget how they go once we come back.

Moshe Rabbeinu was asking to enter Eretz Yisrael because he would have never had the opportunity to fulfill any mitzvah in its perfect form. This is what he meant by “Yisrael was given many mitzvos [harbei mitzvos nitztavu Yisrael], a veiled reference to “hirbah l’hein Torah u’mitzvos,” an expression of reference to the entire gamut of mitzvos. Certainly, Moshe’s fervent wish was to be able to experience the highest level of avodas Hashem. It should be ours as well.

Teach the Children

Given that there is an inherent natural love we should possess for Eretz Yisrael, one may wonder why we have not made this a focus of our educational system here in chutz l’Aretz. Has its accessibility as a vacation destination dulled our sense of awe that the Amoraim felt upon arriving on the shores of Acco?

I recall a discussion I had many years ago with a world-renowned expert in the world of chinuch. He mentioned his desire to design a curriculum that would instill the importance and centrality of Eretz Yisrael in our lives. I pointed out to him that we already have many opportunities to do that without needing to create new lesson plans. If, for starters, we merely pointed out the many references in Bircas Hamazon and Shemoneh Esreh to Eretz Yisrael, the Beis Hamikdash, and anything related to them, we could be well on our way to accomplishing that, without sophisticated materials and tech-savvy presentations.

Either way, I always found it puzzling that this never seemed to be a high priority in our yeshivos and Bais Yaakovs. Maybe the time is ripe to reconsider that. If we don’t know what there is to love about Eretz Yisrael, and why we should love it, how will we ever touch the levels of the chachmei haTalmud who rolled in the land and kissed its stones as a demonstration of that love?

We may even have to teach the fact that this love was meant to be instinctive. We don’t need to reinvent the wheel to convey this. We simply need to verbally express and model a heartfelt fervor whenever we come across one of the many references to Eretz Yisrael in our tefillos and the seforim we teach. Wouldn’t it be tragic if a child who was separated from his mother for many years had to be taught how to love her? Isn’t it just as tragic if we need to do the same as it relates to our relationship with Artzeinu Hakedoshah?

Until We Return

When I was a young child, my Tanta Esther was the only aunt on my father’s side who survived Churban Europe. We only saw each other once in a while, as I was growing up in Boston and Tante Esther lived in faraway New York. Whenever she did see me, she would spread her arms wide and ask, “Henoch’l, how much do you love me?” If I recall correctly, the more I said (a hundred much?) the bigger the payoff was.

If Tzion were to talk directly to us today and ask, “How much do you love me?” what would we answer back? Would we know why? Would we be able to tell the truth? Would we even understand the question? Will our children?

Eretz Yisrael is on everybody’s mind. Let’s all continue our efforts to daven for her, build zechuyos for her, and just as much as anything, express our love for her. A mother doesn’t abandon her children. Neither will Eretz Yisrael.

As Rav Yehudah HaLevi wrote in kinnos about Eretz Yisrael, “My soul intensely yearns to behold the splendor of your radiance, may peace be yours and may there be peace to those who help you.” Kein tihiyeh lanu.

Rabbi Plotnik, a talmid of the yeshivos of Philadelphia and Ponovezh, has been active in rabbanus and chinuch for 25 years and currently serves as ram in Yeshivas Me’or HaTorah in Chicago.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 996)

The post Like a Mother’s Love first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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here is a popular midrash quoted in a number of early sources that tells us, “Hashem said to Yaakov: You endangered your life [nosata nafshecha] for small jugs for My sake. I will repay your children with a small jug in the days of the Chashmonaim.”

This Chazal begs for an explanation on at least two fronts. First, what is the correlation between the pachim ketanim Yaakov went back to retrieve at Maavor Yabok before his historical encounter with the Sar shel Eisav and the lonely pach shemen found by the Chashmonaim that became the catalyst for our Chanukah celebration for all time? Second, what did Chazal mean when they said Yaakov went back to retrieve those small jugs “for Hashem’s sake”? According to the simple narrative in the Chumash, he simply returned to pick up what he had accidentally left behind!

We must also understand why Yaakov needed to go back, in any event. He was not lacking for wealth; a few dollars’ worth of jugs would hardly make a dent in his portfolio, which already held more cattle and property than he would ever need.

Perhaps all these questions answer one another.

I recall reading about a young Belzer chassid who received a special coin from the Rebbe as a gift in honor of his bar mitzvah. An older chassid coveted the coin and offered the young boy a significant amount of money for it. Young as he was, the boy was smart enough to realize that the Rebbe’s coin was worth more than money, and he turned the man down by simply telling him, “It is a gift from the Rebbe and it is not for sale at any price!” The man understood it would be futile to continue his effort and quickly gave up.

If this is how much we should value a coin from someone as holy as the Belzer Rebbe, how much more so should we appreciate a gift directly from Hashem Himself?

This approach, perhaps, can answer our difficulties with the midrash with which we began. When Yaakov Avinu returned for the small jugs, it was hardly because he was in need of them. Rather, it was because his heightened sensitivity for every single thing he possessed, big and small, made him see they were all gifts from Hashem. Such things are inestimable in value and worth going back to retrieve, even though the danger involved led Chazal to characterize his doing so as a form of mesirus nefesh.

This is what the midrash meant by telling us that Yaakov returned for “Hashem’s sake.” It wasn’t because Yaakov needed the pachim. Rather, he was being mekadesh Hashem by demonstrating that even the smallest and seemingly insignificant possession is a matnas Elokim and must be treated as such. Sure enough, the ensuing meeting with Sar shel Eisav, and all the symbolism attached to it for eternity, showed us how worthwhile it was.

This is not the only time we find Yaakov going to extra lengths to safeguard his property. The Torah records that after parting company from Eisav, Yaakov built succos, huts, for his animals. As a result, that place became known as Succos. The Ohr HaChaim Hakadosh questions the significance of this and writes that Yaakov introduced to the world the concept of creating shelters as a means of caring for animals, and the Torah deemed it worthy enough to be written down for eternity. Perhaps we could add based on the above that Yaakov was also reinforcing the message that everything we own is a gift from Hashem and needs to be recognized as such, not to be taken for granted. Maybe this is included in the Ohr HaChaim’s thought as well.

Let us now return to the pach shemen of the Chanukah story. Imagine discovering the one little jug that would seemingly only last one day. The pessimistic person says it is barely worthy of a mitzvah, let alone a celebration. The optimist says Hashem has gifted us a miraculous find. We will cherish it and do what we can with it, for surely Hashem didn’t give it to us for nothing. The rest is history, known to all of us as Chanukah.

Aside from all the standard lessons we traditionally take from Chanukah, maybe this would be an opportune time to take another one. We often find ourselves left wanting more, whether in the world of business, personal achievements, or even family, not realizing that what we already have is a gift from Hashem.

An acquaintance of mine founded a yeshivah with dreams of seeing it grow and take its place among the yeshivos hakedoshos u’mutzlachos of the world. Which rosh yeshivah does not? After a number of years, enrollment was still below what he had envisioned. In a discussion he had with a veteran of the yeshivah world, my friend was asked how many talmidim he had.

“Only forty”, he replied.

The immediate response was laden with a strong dose of mussar: “What do you mean only forty? Every talmid is an olam, an entire world. Even if you have only one, you have so much. There is no such thing as ‘only’!”

Having had the privilege to teach talmidim myself for over thirty years, bli ayin hara, I was both refreshed and overjoyed when my friend shared this conversation with me. What aspiring marbitz Torah does not hope for and dream of having hundreds if not thousands of talmidim and playing a pivotal role in Klal Yisrael? Some do, many do not. Or so we thought. Who says a small gift from Hashem, as every talmid must be viewed, is not a large one?

WHILE LEARNING in the Ponevezher yeshivah in 1982, I was a daily witness to the indescribable mesirus nefesh of Rav Shloimke Berman ztz”l, one of the roshei yeshivah and a son-in-law of the Steipler. Rav Shloimke suffered from a rare form of Parkinson’s disease, which caused him to shake violently as he went about his daily routine of giving shiurim, learning Torah, and even checking esrogim with great expertise. It was hard to fathom how he managed to live that way, but he was a constant presence in the beis medrash.

I asked his son, who was my good friend, if there wasn’t any medication available that could ease his shaking and alleviate his misery. He responded that there most certainly was, but it made his father drowsy and affected his concentration. His father felt that as long as Hashem had given him the gift of seichel, a clear and intelligent mind, he did not want to squander the chance to learn and spread Torah.

I was amazed how this tzaddik was able to persevere under such circumstances. Yet he recognized and appreciated Hashem’s gift, even against the backdrop of his severe disease, and insisted on utilizing it to the fullest. It was no small gift, and he was not going to let it go to waste, yissurim and all.

Another memory from yeshivah: The mother of another good friend was extremely ill with a machlah that would eventually claim her life. We gathered for Tehillim every night for Maariv in the hope of offering her some respite, if not a complete recovery. My friend told me that every little bit made a difference. His mother, a tzadeikes, expressed how thankful she was to Hashem; despite her incredible pain, she was able to experience a second or two of relief when, with great effort, she was able to change her position in bed. That was worth giving hoda’ah for! And it certainly was mechazek me to keep on davening on her behalf.

Who dares think a little is not a lot? And no one should ever harbor thoughts that if Hashem gifted him with “only” a small family, while others are filling their Ford Transits to capacity, that he has not been the recipient of a gift directly from Hashem’s hand to cherish and appreciate. And even couples that still await children, difficult and painful as that challenge certainly is, need to find solace and comfort in the gifts that they have indeed been given and focus on them in the meantime.

And what was Dan thinking when his wife bore him one child, Chushim, who was deaf? Yet Dan merited to become the second-largest shevet after Yehudah. It was indeed the gift that kept on giving. Not everyone will merit that, either, but who can know what potential lies in the gifts each one of us was given? Did Yaakov know what destiny awaited him as he made his statement of appreciation for Hashem’s small gifts? Do we? Even when gifts we hoped for never materialize, we need to look at the ones that did in earnest. Who knows where that will lead us down the road to our own destiny?

Appreciating that the small blessings in life are really not small after all is not something we need to do just for ourselves, but to recognize in others as well.

It is well known that Rav Moshe Feinstein, aside from his gadlus in Torah, was a gadol in the way he treated other Yidden. Someone in his inner circle dared ask him if he really thought people were as choshuv as he treated them, or if he was simply putting on a show to make them feel good.

Rav Moshe responded with his great humility that he was well aware of his own capabilities and potential, and he honestly felt that he had not lived up to his full potential. However, as pertained to others, he had no idea what their full potential was, and as far as he knew, they were the greatest they could be! How could he not be mechabed them in turn?

There is a great lesson for all of us in appreciating greatness even in what might not appear as such on the surface. Being the best one can be, achieving one’s full potential, no matter how modest that potential may be, is the definition of gadlus.

ONE OF THE MAJOR TOPICS of discussion over Chanukah is the unique nature of how this mitzvah is performed. On the one hand, there is the basic minimum of one candle per night, which suffices to fulfill the mitzvah 100 percent. Yet we all try to go out of our way and fulfill it mehadrin and mehadrin min hamehadrin with more and more candles, something we don’t find with any other mitzvah.

Perhaps, based on the above, we can suggest that indeed, we are celebrating and taking note of the small gift from Hashem, the discovery of the one lonely pach shemen. That is all that halachah mandates. Yet we insist on demonstrating that that one tiny gift is not tiny at all. We light in shul with a brachah, something that the halachah never demanded. The mitzvah grows and morphs into more and more at home to the point that a house full of people will be lighting dozens of candles, as testimony that every small gift from Hashem is truly never small at all. Great people see the gifts, big and small, and realize that there are truly no small ones at all. Yaakov Avinu saw it and enabled the Chashmonaim to see it too. So should we.

As of this writing, we are still engaged in a war the likes of which none of us has ever seen. Let us keep in mind what Chazal taught (Berachos 5a), that Hashem gave us three matanos tovos — Torah, Eretz Yisrael, and Olam Haba, and they are acquired only through yissurim, difficulties. The Ben Ish Chai, in his Sefer Biniyahu, explains the reason is that a person may have ulterior motives in all three of these great pursuits. Perhaps he is learning Torah just to acquire the wisdom it contains, but not l’Sheim Shamayim. Maybe his desire for Eretz Yisrael is merely to indulge in its physical attraction and delicious fruit. Even the desire for Olam Haba could be for the wrong reasons, as he may be performing the mitzvos merely to receive the rewards they bring, as opposed to simply fulfilling the will of Hashem.

(For many of us, we probably think, halevai we would do the right thing in the first place, but this reminds us that there are greater things to which we should aspire.)

If one is willing to go through difficulty to get all these precious acquisitions, it is a sign that his intentions are 100 percent sincere, and he is willing to put up with whatever it takes to get them. Withstanding the challenges that line the path of learning Torah and acquiring Eretz Yisrael and Olam Haba are, in themselves, fulfillment of the will of Hashem.

The Torah itself alludes to the greatness of this gift of Eretz Yisrael. In parshas Va’eira, Hashem promises, “And I will bring you into the land that I raised My hand [nasasi es yadi] to give it [to you].” Based on the sefer Tzeidah Laderech, the pasuk is using a metaphor: I, Hashem, King of the world, am proud to hold Eretz Yisrael up high for all to see, and present it to my beloved Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, and their descendants. Kiveyachol, Hashem is so proud to give this great present to his most devoted servants, for it is the most special place on earth.

Chazal taught us that the comparatively small area of Eretz Yisrael is capable of yielding outstanding brachah when we are meritorious. The Gemara, at the very end of Maseches Kesuvos, describes the incredible bounty, both in quality and quantity, that Eretz Yisrael is capable of producing when Klal Yisrael is zocheh to live there and observe Torah and mitzvos properly. The Gemara quotes many testimonials to bear this out, among them Rabi Meir and Rabi Yehoshua ben Levi, who personally witnessed miraculous brachah from what under natural circumstances would have been impossible.

Our small gift is not small at all, and the more we fulfill the ratzon Hashem, the more we will see how big and great that gift can become. On Chanukah it was one day’s oil turning into eight. Who knows what great gift is in store for us if we can muster up the proper zechuyos, even in our own time.

Eretz Yisrael may be small in size but is great in stature. It will only come with yissurim as the Gemara told us. Let each of us do our part, so that we merit the gift of Eretz Yisrael once again as our own, ba’agala u’vizman kariv.

Rabbi Plotnik, a talmid of the yeshivos of Philadelphia and Ponovezh, has been active in rabbanus and chinuch for 25 years and currently serves as ram in Yeshivas Me’or HaTorah in Chicago.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 988)

The post No Gift Is Small  first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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discussing the awesome nature of the Yamim Noraim, the Mishnah in Maseches Rosh Hashanah gets straight to the point: “And they all pass in front of Him like bnei maron.” Although there are different opinions in the Gemara as to who or what these bnei maron are, one common thread runs through them all: that we all line up single file and pass under Hashem’s watchful eye, receiving our verdict for the coming year.

The Mishnah quotes the pasuk in Tehillim, “Hayotzer yachad libam, hameivin el kol maaseihem,” to illustrate this idea, that Hashem fashions all our hearts together, yet understands each one individually. The Gemara adds, “And they are all observed in one glance.”

What is the message of this statement? And what are we to make of the dichotomy of “together” versus “individually,” as far as our avodah during this time is concerned?

The Meiri on the above-mentioned Mishnah seems to have been addressing these questions, and states succinctly in four words that this Mishnah is alluding to the concept of Hashgachah pratis, Hashem’s Providence over each and every individual. What are we to take from this?

This past Tishah B’Av, I had an experience that gave me some insight into Hashgachah pratis. After Minchah, I was approached by a talmid who had just graduated from my shiur. He asked if he could come along with me on my annual visit to the local beis hachayim. I felt that it was important to maintain a kesher with this talmid, so even though I normally avoid social activities on Tishah B’Av, off we went.

Experience had taught me not to take the old route via the Kennedy Expressway (Chicago’s painful imitation of the BQE), as construction was underway and four lanes had been reduced to one. So I did what any self-respecting driver would, and set my Waze to “Jewish Waldheim.” The navigation device did its thing, almost from the beginning. I was instructed to utilize what seemed like every street in Chicagoland — to make a right at this nondescript alley, a left at the hydrant, a right through some unknown neighborhood, and a left at the bullet casing, until 53 minutes later we found ourselves at Waldheim, exactly as promised. A gezunt oif der kop of the Israeli who invented this life-saving contraption.

As we were making our way through all these unfamiliar streets and neighborhoods, I shared an epiphany with my young charge. Think about it. This little tzatzkele is orchestrating every move I make and knows exactly where I have to go, and the best way to get there. I am in totally unfamiliar territory, but I am being meticulously led by a satellite that is aware of every single move I make and knows how to get me to my destination. And even when I stray, due to inattentiveness or any other reason, he is right there to recalibrate and put me back on track.

Incredible, I realized, how a Kia Sorento is being followed move by move among millions of other vehicles on the street just to do what is best for it and avoid any traffic or trouble spots, even a policeman waiting behind a pole. Is this not artificial Hashgachah pratis, l’havdil?

But it doesn’t stop there. At the very same time, billions of others are receiving the exact same treatment. Whether it is a Navajo chief on a reservation, a Saudi oil magnate in Riyadh, or a Yerushalmi on his way to Kever Rochel, each and every one is receiving the very same VIP service, as the GPS technology brings him to his horse, oil rig, or Mamme Rochel.

How is this possible, I asked my talmid leaning back in the front seat, that so many people are getting this incredible personal service, all at the same time? It suddenly occurred to me that Waze is an apt metaphor for Hashgachah pratis. How many times have we used the term Hashgachah pratis, with unwavering belief that Hashem knows our every move, and directs us where we have to be? Have we ever given thought to the fact that since the beginning of time, this master orchestration is going on every single second of every single day, for the billions who have walked this earth? Does it not boggle the mind?

Rav Yerucham Levovitz ztz”l expressed his amazement, as was befitting for someone of his stature, when he heard of a tragic accident in which a number of people traveling in a wagon were all killed. As the Mashgiach put it, “Look how Hashem placed all these people, who all needed to meet their fate, on the same wagon, at the same time.” To the big maamin, it is hashgachah at its strongest. Every move is calculated down to the smallest detail. To the uninitiated observer, it is purely an unfortunate phenomenon of bad luck.

Truthfully, as many have pointed out, going back to the Rishonim and reiterated by the likes of Rav Dessler and the Chazon Ish, different people are zocheh to different manifestations of Hashgachah pratis depending upon their level of dveikus and absolute allegiance to Hashem. As Michtav MeEliyahu puts it, two people can be crossing the same street together and get struck by a vehicle with exactly the same potential for disaster. Yet one will come out completely unscathed, while his friend is severely injured.

I personally heard from Rav Yosef Berman shlita, a grandson and close confidant of the Steipler, that his grandfather related that he had been sick many times with types of illnesses an average person could not survive, but he merely davened them away. This was not chas v’shalom a statement of gaavah; the great tzaddik was simply stating a matter of fact.

One of the earliest sources for this profound idea is the Ramban in his commentary on Sefer Iyov (36:7). To briefly quote from his fundamental yesod in Hashgachah pratis:

People of the Torah and of pure belief trust in Hashem’s Providence and protection of the human race. When a person recognizes Hashem, he is protected in kind... and this is why He (particularly) watches over tzaddikim, for their hearts and minds are constantly on Him.

The ultimate chassid who always clings to Hashem and never takes his mind off of Him, even when he is engaged in pursuits of Olam Hazeh (not just performance of mitzvos, but even mundane conduct of life such as eating and the like), is constantly protected even from natural events... as if he isn’t even human, but a being from the upper world. And to the extent he clings to Him, he will receive outstanding protection. Whereas someone who is more distant in his thoughts and actions will be more subject to the natural course of events.

The Rambam follows a similar path in his Moreh Nevuchim and says that people only fall subject to the natural course of events when they take their minds off constant dveikus to Hashem. The fact that they aren’t committing an aveirah is irrelevant; merely a lapse in being davuk constantly to Hashem is enough to subjugate them to the vicissitudes of the general laws and consequences of nature.

This is why in the Tochachah, the Torah attributes our misfortune to the attitude of “ein Elokai b’kirbi,” I have not integrated Hashem’s presence into my very being. (The reader is strongly recommended to learn Rav Chaim Friedlander’s exhaustive and fundamental elucidation of this concept in Sifsei Chaim, Emunah V’hashgachah, beginning on page 96.)

We should not allow ourselves to lose sight of what is happening, millions of times, simultaneously for us all, over the course of the Yemei Hadin. We are, indeed, all standing in the group photo of Klal Yisrael; yet every single one of us is being judged individually, and will be guided individually, based on where his relationship with Hashem is holding.

Every backing up out of the garage, every ascent up a staircase will be on the table. Will our mundane tasks be uneventful, or, chalilah, too full of drama? Will my daughter be accepted into seminary in five months from now? Will my baby be healthy through nine full months of development, and will next season’s flu manage to ignore my household? Will that business deal finally come to fruition?

This may be what the Meiri meant when he wrote that the Mishnah in Rosh Hashanah is a lesson in Hashgachah pratis. On the one hand, Hashem is judging us all. But at the very same time, with the one all-encompassing glance that only Hashem is capable of, He is meting out to every individual according to that person’s level of dveikus, what he or she will receive in the coming year. To those who are less davuk, the laws of nature will govern their lives more. For those who resemble the tzaddikim who never take their mind off Hashem’s presence in their life, even for a moment, the decree will be completely different. And there is enough Hashgachah pratis to go around for everyone. All at the very same time.

Baalei mussar, from Rav Yisrael Salanter, the Alter of Kelm, and their talmidim, down to our day, have always stressed the importance of the koach hatziur, the ability to imagine and apply lessons from things we are familiar with, so that they become more real and relatable. The Rambam in his work Shemoneh Perakim uses the expression of bringing things from muskalos (intelligence) to murgashos (feeling). Our avodah cannot remain in our heads alone but must graduate into our hearts, otherwise it stands very little chance of success.

As the Chofetz Chaim pointed out when inventions such as cameras and telephones came into use, these tools serve as illustrations of how Hashem sees, hears, and records our actions. Similarly, modern inventions such as video cameras and MP3s give us an appreciation for the day when all of our actions will be replayed on the big screen for the Beis Din shel Maalah to see, and everything we have said will be heard. And we can attain a better appreciation of Hashgachah pratis through the tziur of GPS.

If we were given tools to bring these images closer to home, it would be worthwhile to let those lessons and images sink in, as we behold the feeling of nora v’ayom that these days present.

Most people, not only the great tzaddikim among us, have indeed felt the beneficence of Hashgachah pratis in various forms. Although we may not view ourselves as being even in the same discussion as those who live lives seemingly beyond the laws of nature at every turn, we all have our moments. I have heard in the name of Rabbi Yissocher Frand that it would be worthwhile to keep a journal of Hashgachah pratis moments to provide us with constant concrete reminders that even “little guys” like ourselves are not so little after all.

I would add that it can also serve as chizuk that we can all touch the level of dveikus in our hearts and minds that the Rishonim taught us are within reach. And even though it is difficult to maintain it for long, who says we can’t be better than we’ve been in that regard, and try not to be meisiach daas from Hashem’s presence for longer than we have succeeded in the past? The more we actually feel and experience the Ani L’dodi, we will receive in kind the V’dodi Li, our mandate for Chodesh Elul and beyond.

These precious few moments over Yamim Noraim that we beseech Hashem for brachah and hatzlachah are in turn going to dictate the fate of every moment the coming year brings. Every twist and turn, as well as every recalibration and redirection, are on the table right now. Nothing is a given and nothing can be expected. Not one thing.

These days are our opportunity, like no other time in the year, to employ that power of tziur to bring us to greater heights that are practically unattainable once the Yamim Noraim have passed. We, too, need to picture how we are faced with a challenge, whether concerning parnassah, health, a shidduch, or any of life’s endless nisyonos. We know how when we are in the throes of a nisayon, we can be overcome with a feeling of helplessness, and chalilah hopelessness, as if there is nothing to do.

But now there is something we can do. We can do our parts in meriting an extra dose of hashgachah by strengthening our relationships with Hashem. It might not be in the same league as the Chazon Ish or the Steipler, but nobody is asking us to be anyone but the best versions of ourselves.

Can we not take the ruach of these days to have a constant awareness of Hashem’s presence and ein od milvado, which Rav Chaim Volozhiner famously termed the segulah hanifla’ah, an incredible zechus to merit outstanding Hashgachah pratis even when all hope seems to be lost? Can we not use the modern inventions Hashem has thrown our way in this generation to feel His constant watchful eye, looking after our every twist and turn, making sure that we arrive at our destination of a shanah tovah u’mesukah safely?

Yes, I can, just as my family can, just as my friends can, just as you can, just as the millions all over the world can. All at the same time. We have a big hand in determining the ultimate gezar din through our own actions and thoughts.

Let us navigate these days properly so that we merit to reach out desired destination for a shnas brachah v’yeshuah for us and all of Klal Yisrael.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 977.

The post Hashem’s Waze first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

AN experience that took place over 30 years ago haunts me every year when we enter the period of bein hameitzarim, more commonly known as The Three Weeks.

There was a weekly minyan held in my neighborhood’s Bais Yaakov school building, specifically for Russian Jews, led by Rabbi Hillel Belsky shlita. Many of the attendees were sadly ignorant of their precious heritage but held on to their Jewish identity with great pride. They even protested that the divrei Torah shared before Mussaf should not be translated into Russian out of concern for chillul beis knesses.

One summer Shabbos afternoon, we hosted one of the couples that frequently attended the minyan, and the conversation turned to Tishah B’Av. As I prepared to explain its significance, one of the guests told me that he had indeed heard of it. He said that in Russia, they had visited the cemetery every year on that day, although he didn’t understand why.

I was moved. The Communists had almost succeeded in eradicating any vestige of religion from our people, but thankfully not completely. Even in the wasteland of the Soviet Union, Yidden knew about Tishah B’Av and felt the need to acknowledge it.

If even Jews who had been estranged from Yiddishkeit for generations felt a need to tune into the somber tone of the day, we, who have learned its tragic history, surely should be marking it appropriately. What is our mandate on Tishah B’Av aside from fasting, reciting Kinnos, and catching up on laundry once it concludes?

There is a fascinating gemara in Taanis (29a) that discusses the source for our tradition that Churban Bayis Sheini happened on Tishah B’Av, like Churban Bayis Rishon. Remarkably, there is no clear indication when this second Churban actually took place. And even more surprising is the Gemara’s answer: “Megalgelin zechus al yedei zakai v’chov al yedei chayav.” Since the 9th of Av is an inauspicious date, and we know unequivocally that Churban Bayis Rishon took place then, we can be sure that the second Churban took place then as well.

At face value, this gemara is difficult to understand. Is that it? Is our whole mesorah regarding the date of Churban Bayis Sheini based on an educated guess drawn on some axiom that bad things happen on bad days? Granted these are Chazal’s words, but this idea still goes over with difficulty. How do we relate to it, and what are we intended to learn from it?

Rav Yerucham Levovitz ztz”l, the mashgiach of the Mirrer Yeshivah, quotes a midrash about the significance of time and the way we should relate to it, which sheds light on this question. The midrash teaches us that there was a specific time for Adam’s creation, a specific time for him to leave Gan Eden, and a special time for Matan Torah. And this list continues, recording many pivotal events in our history that were locked into an exact time.

Contrary to what most people think — i.e., that an event occurs and coincidentally happens at a certain time — Rav Yerucham teaches us that it’s really the other way around. The entire ability for anything to take place hinges completely on the influence of the time; we need to just capture the moment and apply ourselves to the power and segulah of that time. Matan Torah had to take place when it did, as was the case with Yetzias Mitzrayim. Had we not done what we chose to do in order to allow it to happen then, only Hashem could know what would have had to transpire to enable the event to ever take place, if even possible.

An appreciation of this concept allows us to understand how Chazal Hakedoshim were able to truly feel the spiritual energy that different times hold, in a whole different realm than we are capable of. Case in point: We sing every week in zemiros how Shabbos is mei’ein Olam Haba. But while we only sing it, great people who are tuned in to kedushah can feel it.

This holds true for every zeman. Those who are spiritually attuned can actually sense the energy inherent in different zemanim.

Chazal, with their acutely sensitive spiritual antennae, experienced Tishah B’Av on a visceral level. As such, they sensed this was the day of Churban Bayis Sheini. It could only be that day and no other.

Far from an educated guess, for them it was as real as our consciousness of the mundane things we relate to in the physical world. Ruchniyus was their world, and more real to them than anything here is to us.

And even on our level, the integral power of the day means Tishah B’Av is ingrained in our neshamos, even for those who sadly don’t actually know anything about it.

Rav Avrohom Yitzchak Bloch, rosh yeshivah of Telshe in Lithuania, interpreted the word “moed” in Megillas Eichah as a reference to Tishah B’Av, despite its usual connotation as a time for celebration. While the idea of a Yom Tov strikes a note of dissonance in the somber context of churban, we are taught that it can be understood as a time of meeting with Hashem. As Rav Mordechai Gifter ztz”l would say, “Mir treft mit ihm Baruch Hu — we are meeting with Him.” Whether the backdrop seems good or bad, His presence is obvious, and the feeling of meeting Him is inescapable.

This gives us a clearer insight into the kinnah “Eish Tukad B’kirbi” in which the paytan contrasts our joy upon our Exodus from Egypt with our misery when leaving Yerushalayim. They were both occasions of moed — clear meetings with Hashem — albeit consisting of completely contrasting, opposite emotions.

The Three Weeks preceding Tishah B’Av certainly have an aspect of churban inherent within them, and we know the halachah mandates various restrictions due to the “ketev meriri” (a dangerous ruach, or spirit, that Chazal have taught us is particularly harmful during this time of year). These halachos and minhagim are tools to bring the reality of churban closer to home, and when viewed as such, they raise the question of why anyone would search for leniencies and squander the opportunity to engage in what earlier generations felt was a time to connect with Hashem.

Early on in my rabbinical career a woman in the year of aveilus asked me a sh’eilah in a gray area of halachah, and I felt it appropriate to be machmir. Sometime later I had the opportunity to review the question with a prominent posek, and he told me he thought I had ruled too stringently. When I called the woman to notify her of my new position and apologize, her reaction was precious. “If I held back from doing something out of respect for my mother’s memory, let it be another zechus,” she said simply.

It’s sadly ironic how aveilim, Rachmana litzlan, have no problem keeping stringencies all twelve months of aveilus, yet some of us can’t bear being without a capella music or meat at a siyum for even nine days. It provides food for thought about how much we feel connected to the Churban, and what we are willing to sacrifice for the cause.

We are taught that the word “shanah  — year” can also be translated as “repeat.” This is because each year there is a repetition of the spiritual energy that charges each particular date. Our ability to tap into these energies depends on our personal conduct. In a public lecture, Rav Yoshe Ber Soloveitchik of Boston said that in the house of his father, Rav Moshe, the atmosphere was completely different at this time of year. You could cut it with a knife, it was so mamushisdig — it was so real.

I still have vivid memories of my mother’s “hilchos Nine Days” growing up as a child. There was no television whatsoever, and no ball games on the radio on Tishah B’Av. It may not sound like much today, but back then in the ’60s, it was a big deal.

I once went to a ballgame on Shivah Asar B’Tammuz at Fenway Park, before I was even a bar mitzvah, and my mother’s words of deep disappointment still ring in my ears every single year. “I can’t believe I raised a child tzum geien tzu dem (to go to a) ballgame Shivah Asar B’Tammuz.”

I remember teaching a 12-year-old about how in days gone by, the Megillah could be read anywhere between the 11th and 15th of Adar, to accommodate those who lived far from where other Jews lived. He couldn’t understand why we can’t read it beyond those dates as well.

In an attempt to speak his language, I offered a mashal: Let’s say your favorite football team was playing from 12:00 to 3:00. Could you put on the television at 4:00 and expect to watch the game?

L’havdil, everything has its time, and once that time has passed, we can’t simply pull it out of a hat anymore and recapture the precious moments.

Perhaps we can’t feel the Churban the way Chazal did, but we can certainly honor that ideal and strive to attain something by doing the best we can. The culture in our homes and our lives needs to reflect the loss of our Beis Hamikdash, both for ourselves and our children. We are not obligated to make up new restrictions or chumros that the world has never seen. But we certainly do not want to disregard the time-honored ruach that we saw and felt, and be mechanech our children in kind.

But even the moed of Tishah B’Av itself is not reserved for calamity exclusively. Rav Yosef Zvi Dushinsky ztz”l (as quoted in Talelei Oros) references a Zohar that the fight between Yaakov Avinu and the Sar shel Eisav took place on Tishah B’Av. This struggle portends our ultimate victory over Eisav.

In an eerily powerful teaching, Chazal tell us that Mashiach is destined to be born on Tishah B’Av as well, which is a source for various customs to reduce our aveilus after chatzos as an expression of our anticipation of his arrival.

Hashem’s closeness to us was apparent even on the day of the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash. Chazal teach us that the Keruvim in the Beis Hamikdash represented the relationship between Klal Yisrael and Hashem, and that they faced away from each other when we did not do the will of Hashem.

Yet while the Beis Hamikdash burned, the Keruvim embraced each other. We were meeting with Hashem.

The seeming dichotomy of the day is not really a duality at all; the two aspects represent flip sides of the same coin. The ultimate moed, Mashiach’s arrival, is an outgrowth of the face-to-face moed of churban. The embrace of the Keruvim even as the fires of destruction raged was an open demonstration of the intensity of this bond.

Rav Yaakov Emden wrote in Siddur Beis Yaakov that we remain in galus simply because of our disregard for mourning the Beis Hamikdash during this time of the year, not to mention the rest of the year. “And even if this were the only sin we were guilty of, it would be worthy of prolonging galus.”

We have been mired in galus long enough. Let us following Chazal’s directions pertaining to our conduct during these three weeks, which will allow us to connect with the awesome powers inherent in this time.

And may we soon see the fulfillment of the words of the Navi Zechariah that “the fasts of the fourth, fifth, and seventh will [eventually] be for happiness and moadim tovim,” good and happy meetings with Hashem.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 967)

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