M

azel tov! Reuven from Yeshiva Yishrei Lev is getting married to Adina from Darchei Binah. Yes, they’re both my students, and they have their very own wild story.

Last year, while visiting kevarim in Eastern Europe, my pious talmid was asked to daven for a young lady looking for a shidduch. He went from kever to kever, pouring his heart out for Adina Tova bas Shprintza. Hashem answered with a resounding “yes” and you guessed it — Reuven was actually davening for his very own zivug! What are the chances? And here I am, writing an article on this topic on their wedding day? It must be bashert….

Spoiler alert: The concept of bashert is perfect for speeches at a sheva brachos. But when dating, looking for “Heavenly signs” will distract you from working out if the boy you’re meeting is right for you. So will wondering, “What if I’m giving up my bashert?” when you say no to a shidduch.

But if you’re not looking for Heavenly signs if the boy you’re dating is your zivug, what approach should you take?

Two-Pronged Strategy

We learn from the writings of luminaries such as the Vilna Gaon and Rav Tzadok of Lublin that the first time something appears in the Torah is its essence. If you want to understand shidduchim, go to parshas Chayei Sarah, where the topic appears for the first time. Learn it deeply. Everything you need to know is there.

We notice a two-pronged strategy of practical hishtadlus and tefillah.

Yitzchak Avinu prepared for his zivug with the ultimate hishtadlus. He traveled to the sadeh, the field where he had previously offered himself as a korban on the altar of the Akeidah and the site of the future Beis Hamikdash. (Pesachim 88a) He davened the first Minchah and unleashed the power of tefillah. (Berachos 26b)

When Yitzchak Avinu finished his tefillah, he opened his eyes and voilà! He saw Rivkah. His tefillah had been instantly answered. Every future Minchah in history will derive its spiritual strength from that first Minchah. (Maharshah, ibid.)

Rav Michel Shurkin shlita relates that when his sister would share good news that a friend was zocheh to an excellent shidduch, a boy who was both a lamdan and had yiras Shamayim, their father would respond with, “Your friend had gut gedavent Minchah” — she had davened Minchah well and earned this boy. (Meged Givos Olam, 2:92)

Immediately after the Akeidah, Rashi comments: “Bisro HaKadosh Baruch Hu shenoldah Rivkah bas zugo.” Hashem informed Avraham that Rivkah, Yitzchak’s zivug, had been born.” (Bereishis 22:20).

Avraham Avinu knew with ruach hakodesh that Yitzchak’s bashert was a three-year-old girl named Rivkah. Why didn’t he tell Eliezer, “I can save you a lot of drama, just find a three-year-old named Rivkah, make sure she’s family, and your job is done”?

Instead, he prepared to find his son’s zivug with practical hishtadlus. He instructed Eliezer, his trusted servant, to go to his birthplace and find the right girl from the right family via a complicated setup to test her middas hachesed, because he understood that she must be outstanding in this middah. (Yitzchak, whose middah was gevurah, associated with self-control and fear of Heaven, needed a partner with the extreme opposite strengths. Her chesed would complement his gevurah to build the second dimension of the three Avos, the foundation stones of Klal Yisrael [Sfas Emes, Chayei Sarah, 5637]).

Eliezer arrived at the well at exactly the moment that the waters were gushing toward her. Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch calculated that Rivkah gave 140 gallons of water to Eliezer’s camels. Eliezer had found the perfect kallah for his master’s son.

So why was all this hishtadlus necessary?

Avraham Avinu understood that finding a zivug is a process, a dynamic synthesis of hishtadlus and siyata d’Shmaya.

It Came from Hashem

In retrospect, we see the guiding Hand of Hashem all along the way. Indeed, Besuel, Rivkah’s father, when hearing the extraordinary chain of events that led to Eliezer’s discovery of Rivkah, declared, “Mei’Hashem yatza hadavar! — This came from Hashem!” (Bereishis 24:50) Who could possibly say no to a shidduch that is so obviously bashert?

Throughout history there have been tzaddikim who have known up front who is their bashert, similar to the ruach hakodesh of Avraham Avinu. For example, Reb Chaim Halberstam, the saintly Sanzer Rav, was redt to Rachel Feigele, the daughter of Rav Baruch Frenkel-Teomim, known after his classic sefer, the Baruch Taam. All sides were ecstatic about the union of the young gaon and the gadol hador’s daughter. Small problem: Nobody had told Rachel Feigele that Reb Chaim was an unsightly cripple. When she found out, she was heartbroken. With all the respect she had for Reb Chaim, she just couldn’t go through with the shidduch.

Reb Chaim asked if he could speak to Rachel Feigele privately. Shortly afterward, she agreed to the shidduch. They were zocheh to doros of tzaddikim, including the chassidishe dynasties of Bobov and Klausenberg.

What happened during those few moments? The story goes that Reb Chaim asked her to look into a mirror. When she did, her face went pale. In her reflection she had the exact physical defect Reb Chaim had.

Reb Chaim explained that she’d been destined to be born with this handicap. He knew that she was his true bashert, so he davened to Hashem that the defect would be transferred to him so that his wife wouldn’t suffer. Reb Chaim, at that time, was only 17 years old.

How did Reb Chaim know with such clarity about his bashert? The answer is beyond us. It’s the domain of lofty souls. For the rest of us, the shidduch process remains a combination of hishtadlus and tefillah. Leave wondering if someone is your bashert out of it, and concentrate on working out if they would make a good spouse for you.

The Rambam conveys this in a powerful letter to “Rav Ovadia the Convert.” (Responsa 436) He explains that choosing our marriage partner should be done with our bechirah, with rational thinking. He argues that if our shidduch is preordained in Heaven, why would a newlywed be exempt from battle, “Lest he die in battle and someone else takes her.” Surely if the shidduch is bashert, she will remain his forever!

The Rambam goes on to state that if we do good deeds, Hashem rewards us with a “zivug yafeh u’meshubach” (and vice versa, but let’s think positive!) In other words, behind our very rational choice of spouse, Hashem is intimately involved.

The Ultimate Zivug 

The questions surrounding the topic of bashert are numerous. Did you marry your bashert? After tragedies people remarry and have a perfect second marriage. Who was their bashert: their first spouse or their second? Once upon a time, men had more than one wife. What happens to the bashert of someone who died without getting married? What about those who have terrible marriages?

Let’s go a little bit deeper and explore the concept of bashert. Bashert is a Yiddish phrase for a designated marriage partner. Everything, absolutely everything, has a zivug, a partner. We see this in the first pasuk of the Torah — in the beginning Hashem created Heaven, the male force, and earth, its female zivug.

Furthermore, every zivug is an echo of the ultimate zivug, that of Hashem and Klal Yisrael. That’s why every Jewish home is a mikdash me’at, a microcosm of the Beis Hamikdash. This makes for another staple sheva brachos devar Torah.

Adam Harishon and his zivug were created literally as two halves of a whole. (Berachos 61a) Technically speaking, the name “Adam” is neither male nor female. When they were separated, they instinctively reconnected, like two lonely magnets. Kayin, Hevel, and (some say) Shes were immediately born, each with at least one twin sister who was their designated zivug (see Rashi Bereishis 4:1). (It wasn’t a good time to be in the shadchanus business!)

And then came the nachash, Adam and Chava sinned — and everything unraveled. From then onward, relationships became like shul politics — complicated.

The Zohar (Lech Lecha 91a) teaches us that the neshamos of Klal Yisrael were created before Heaven and Earth, and were stored under the Kisei Hakavod. Each neshamah was created together with its zivug.

Interestingly, Pirkei D’Rabi Eliezer (36) relates that the shevatim, with the exception of Yosef and Dinah, were created with twin sisters, their natural zivug. It was a throwback to a world without sin. Understanding that the sin of Adam and Chava distorted the zivug process opens a portal to answering our questions.

Zivug Sheini

The Gemara (Sotah 2a) relates: Rav Yehuda said in the name of Rav, 40 days before the formation of a fetus a Bas Kol proclaims, the daughter of Ploni is destined for Ploni.

This seems to contradict another statement: Rabba Bar bar Chana said in the name of Rav Yochanan, zivugim are (as difficult) as splitting the Yam Suf.

The gemara resolves the contradiction by explaining that the first statement refers to zivug rishon and the second to zivug sheini.

What is a zivug sheini? The simple answer is that it is referring to a second marriage where it is unlikely that you’re marrying your zivug.

Rav Moshe Sternbuch (Teshuvos v’Hanhagos 4:279) brings in the name of the Zohar that zivug rishon refers to our zivug in our first incarnation. When we’re reincarnated, the system of zivugim works differently. Today we’re all assumed to be gilgulim and thus we need to cross the Red Sea to find our zivug sheini.

Rav Sternbuch uses this concept to explain why it’s no big deal to marry a widow. He could have also mentioned that when someone dies young, we can assume he was married to his zivug in a previous gilgul.

In fact, all our questions can be answered with the concept of gilgul. It seems very unsatisfactory, but deep down we understand, hanistaros l’Hashem Elokeinu, there are hidden ways that Hashem runs His world beyond our comprehension. (Devarim 29:28)

So while we’ve discussed two ways to understand how bashert can “get complicated” — that we’ve married the wrong zivug, or through seeing the bashert process through the lenses of gilgul — there’s a third way to understand zivug sheini which is a total game changer. Rashi says “zivug rishon” is based on his mazel, which is his natural zivug that has existed since the beginning of time, before Heaven and Earth were created (see Chasam Sofer 7:34).

“Zivug sheini” is based on his maasim, his deeds. It’s not his natural zivug. This opens up a fantastic possibility: Through the spiritual growth we undergo before we marry, we can break out of our predetermined mazel in life and give ourselves an upgrade.

I once heard a life-changing shiur from the Kamenitzer mashgiach, Rav Moshe Aaron Stern ztz”l. He was explaining how our mazel doesn’t have to define us, and he challenged us with the following question: Ha’im haratzon koveia es hayecholes, oh ha’im hayecholes koveia es haratzon — Does willpower determine our abilities, or do our abilities determine our willpower? When Yaakov Avinu lifted the rock off the well, a feat that needed many muscular shepherds to work together to achieve, his strength didn’t come from his mazel. His strength came from a fiery willpower that burst past his physical abilities. Ramchal explains that this show of strength was the opening act of building Klal Yisrael.

This is an important message for all those young men and ladies who feel that the system has boxed them in. They’re told, “Don’t expect to get better than this type of shidduch. This is your mazel, your preordained destiny.” Sometimes they hear it enough times and they just give up. Often they hear it from well-meaning loved ones. (But don’t take this as a get-out-of-jail-free card to dismiss healthy and wholesome shidduch advice!)

Chazal teach us that you can break out of your mazel. You need burning willpower and you need to put in the work to get there. But you will get there. Like Leah who changed her bashert from Eisav to Yaakov with rivers of tears, our willpower is limitless.

And that would truly make a great sheva brachos speech.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 919)

The post Is He My Bashert? first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

 
This past year has exposed the myth that the nations of the world love us (PHOTO: YONATAN SINDEL/FLASH90)

“What would Rav Moshe have said?”

Hands down, this must be the most frequently asked question among Rav Moshe Shapira’s talmidim across the globe. Like a master sea captain, Rav Moshe would steer us with hashkafic clarity through the stormy waters of world events, always original, always penetrating, always one step deeper than conventional narrative. And now, when we need him most, he is no longer with us to give us guidance.

But he left us with clues. For decades he developed themes about the nature of Galus Yishmael, the final exile that precedes Mashiach (see Looking into the Sun, pages 394-397). For example, he would talk about their unique power of tefillah and how we needed to elevate our tefillos to the “mesirus nefesh of Yitzchak Avinu.” I remember how he once lamented, “Dovid Hamelech said, ‘Eleh varechev, v’eleh vasusim, v’anachnu b’Sheim Hashem Elokeinu nazkir [They fight using their chariots and horses, and we fight using the Name of Hashem — Tehillim 20:8].’ Woe to us when our leaders fight using their rechev and susim, and their leaders fight using the Sheim Hashem!”

To our credit, his ideas inspired initiatives like the Amida Army, a Baltimore-based women’s group that encourages women to find time to daven as zechuyos for our soldiers, and has to date “generated” over 20,000 Shemoneh Esrehs.

Rav Moshe repeatedly stated that our last enemy would be Iran. This is remarkable considering that in the Six Day War, our enemies were Syria, Egypt, and Jordan; in the Yom Kippur War, they were Syria and Egypt, and in the Gulf War, it was Iraq.

I would like to focus on one idea that was an ikkar, a fundamental of Rav Moshe’s teachings. It has direct ramifications for the conversations in our magazine:

Among ourselves, we need to stop referring to the Hamas attack as “October 7.”

Rav Moshe would quote the Ramban (Shemos 12:2), who writes, “[the mitzvah] of hachodesh hazeh lachem rosh chadashim is that Yisrael should count Nissan as the first month so that we should remember the great miracle [of Yetzias Mitzrayim].” Rav Moshe enjoyed calling it “a mitzvah of the Ramban,” as the Rambam and others don’t mention it.

In practice, it means when, for example, we write a contract using the Hebrew date, we have fulfilled a mitzvah of the Ramban. It also means that it is preferable to write a secular date in a check with its full month name, such as November 5, 2024, instead of 11/5/2024 (for us Brits, 5/11/2024). This way, we avoid using the number 11 to signify November as the 11th month from January. We should instead use the number 11 to refer to Shevat, the 11th month from Nissan.

Behind this Ramban lies an essential foundation block of Jewish life. Wherever possible, our minds should be in tune with the Hebrew calendar. Jewish dates are intrinsically significant. Years are counted from Maaseh Bereishis and months are counted from Yetzias Mitzrayim. They define the rhythm of our lives as we journey though the passage of time.

I understand the counterargument. October 7 is not really a date, rather it’s the universally accepted name for an event. It’s a reference point, a marei makom, so that everyone can be on the same page. As a precedent, everyone knows what 9/11 means; it would be weird to call it “the catastrophe of the 23rd of Elul.”

I agree that when we step into the big, wide world, October 7 is much simpler on the ears than a reference to Simchas Torah or Shemini Atzeres that fell on Shabbos. Within our own Torah community, however, we need to constantly remind ourselves that Hashem chose a momentous day on the calendar to change the course of history.

We need to hear the bas kol.

Although a bas kol conventionally refers to a “Heavenly voice,” Rav Moshe would quote the Talmud Yerushalmi (Shabbos 6:9) that teaches us that Hashem “talks to us” through world events within the realm of nature. That too is called a bas kol.

So here are my thoughts, without my rebbi holding my hand, knowing full well that the events that are unfolding are devarim ha’omdim b’rumo shel olam:

Our enemies knew what they were doing when they chose to attack on Simchas Torah. We believe, however, that no one can hurt a Jew without a gezeirah from Above. In other words, they didn’t choose Simchas Torah to attack us, Hashem chose that day for them. He was having a private conversation with us. Just like we need to note that our enemies are the children of Yishmael, we need to note that the solution includes understanding Simchas Torah, Shemini Atzeres, and Shabbos. All three are associated with intimate closeness to Hashem.

In this magazine (“Man of the People,” by Shmuel Botnick, Issue 1031), Rav Dovid Cohen was quoted as saying:

Shemini Atzeres is the greatest day of the year, the tachlis of all the moadim. The Zohar teaches that on Shemini Atzeres, Hashem says, “Ani v’atem nismach bo yachad — you and I will celebrate together.” The Zohar also writes that on Shemini Atzeres, we merit “all the yeshuos.” Shemini Atzeres is the day when Hashem is unified with Klal Yisrael. And on Shemini Atzeres, the great tragedy happened.

It’s a very difficult thing. Hashem clearly wants something significant. He seems to be saying that He isn’t happy with us. It appears that Klal Yisrael is not worthy of being “together with Hashem.” It must be that we are distant from Hashem. We have to change our entire tzuras hachayim.

Strengthening Shabbos observance is an obvious place to start. My talmid Reb Yossi Pincus shared with me his enthusiastic participation in the “Ki Eshmera Project” of his GGBH Shul (a.k.a. “Munks”), systematically reviewing hilchos Shabbos as a community.

Strikingly, what stood out on that day was that we were dancing with sifrei Torah as the unfathomable unfolded. The bas kol seems to be giving a thunderous message that “change in our tzuras hachayim” must include not only ameilus in Torah and support of our Torah institutions, but in the simchah of our lives that revolves around Torah.

This past year, 5784, exposed the fallacy of those believing we can solve our problems with our Arab neighbors through diplomacy or military might. In the words of Rav Moshe, “Zeh elbon l’intelligentzia shel yeled ben eser [It’s an insult to the intelligence of a ten-year-old].” It has also exposed the myth that the nations of the world love us. It has also reminded us of the beauty and gevurah of our people and how much we need each other, all the different shevatim of Yaakov Avinu.

And in the simchah of Torah, we find solace.

Simchas Torah is Hashem, His Torah, and Klal Yisrael. Nobody else and nothing else. It’s an explosion of joy, a taste of that future moment when we will point and say, “Zeh Hashem kivinu lo, nagilah v’nismechah biyeshuaso — This is Hashem for whom we have longed, let us exult and rejoice in His salvation” (Yeshayahu 25:9).

Let’s take out the earplugs called October 7. Let’s try to hear the bas kol. And if there’s a need to give the wars we are fighting a name, my tefillah is that it should be “Milchamos Ikvesa D’Meshicha,” the wars that herald the coming of Mashiach.

Rav Menachem Nissel is a talmid of Rav Moshe Shapira and the author of his biography, Looking into the Sun: The Torah, Life and Legacy of Rav Moshe Shapira (Feldheim 2024). He is also the author of Rigshei Lev: Women and Tefillah (Feldheim 2024), the senior educator for NCSY, a maggid shiur in Yeshivas Yishrei Lev, and a teacher in seminaries in Jerusalem.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1036)

The post Stop Calling It October 7       first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Nebuchadnezzar and Titus were incapable of causing any damage to the Higher Worlds. Rather it was our sins that weakened, kiveyachol, the Higher Realms. We contaminated (and destroyed) the Higher Mikdash (in Heaven). All Nebuchadnezzar and Titus had to do was physically destroy the Lower Mikdash, corresponding to the Higher Mikdash. [But it was already destroyed by the hearts of man] as Chazal teach us (Eichah Rabbasi 1:43), kimcha techina techinas, (our enemies) ground flour that had already been ground…

[Nefesh Hachayim, 1:4]

THE INVISIBLE CHURBAN

Everyone loves visiting the enchanting city of Venice. It’s like walking into the inside of a real-life fairy tale, charming bridges over picturesque canals lined with jaw-dropping palazzos. Throw in hundreds of years of Jewish history and you can walk in the footsteps of the Levush, the Chidah, and the Ramchal.

Venice is also synonymous with its Carnival festival. Since 1162, Venetians would throw wild parties before Lent, a 40-day period in their religious calendar when they would abstain, among other things, from eating meat. Carnival is derived from carnis levare which literally means “remove meat.”

In the 14th century a new twist was added to the festivities. Venetians would parade in ornate masks and elaborate costumes that allowed them to hide their true identities. Class divisions instantly disappeared. Immoral behavior was rampant. Furthermore, the doge (Venetian duke) would allow mask wearers to write political charges or scandalous letters against anyone they chose and place the accusations in a box in front of the palace. The box still stands today.

The rabbanim of Venice were horrified. This was a catastrophe for the kehillah’s kedushah, especially their youth, who would mingle with the crowds and do lowly aveiros while hiding behind their masks. Cheremim (severe censures) were placed on anyone who participated.

Rav Moshe Dovid Valli (1697–1777), one of the greatest talmidim of the Ramchal, reflected on how degenerate Venetian yidden had become and writes:

Kol hamarbeh b’oso zman l’hishollel u’lhishtageiya yoser, hu yoser meshubach, [during the Carnival] whoever would act more foolishly and crazier than the next was considered [among his peers] more praiseworthy” [Likkutim 1:73].

He then adds something ominous. In describing the decadent world before the Mabul, the Torah writes, “Keitz kol basar ba lefanai — the end of all flesh (humanity) has come before Me.” (Bereishis 6:13) On the level of remez this can also be translated as, “The end of all meat has come to My attention,” referring to the decadence of the pre-Lent Carnival.

The immediate consequence is the Mabul, the Flood that destroyed the world.

Sound familiar? Imagine a realm where everyone is anonymous; a place without accountability. Imagine a space where one can defame and shame others at will, spread rumors instantly visible to billions worldwide. Imagine a vast network that could spread revolutions and spark deadly riots. Imagine having access to infinite choices to watch licentiousness and filth created by the dirtiest gutters of the human mind. With just a few finger movements.

Welcome to our world. The average American spends over seven hours a day hiding behind screens, and nearly 60 percent of adults admit to being addicted to their phones. Over 50 percent of children have seen inappropriate Internet content before their 12th birthday. Thirty-seven percent of teens have experienced cyberbullying. American consumers and businesses lost $12.5 billion in Internet crimes in 2023.

Society has paid the price: 23 percent of Americans have visited a mental health professional in the last year; double the number in 2004. Painfully, the statistics in our community are not significantly lower.

I remember when, over 20 years ago, my talmidim in Derech Ohr Somayach were explaining to me the concept of Wi-Fi. They described how every Jewish boy could hide in the privacy of their bedroom and have access to absolutely everything. I told them that Hashem would never allow such a thing to happen. How can mechanchim fight such an enemy?

Rav Moshe Shapira, the most self-controlled person I ever knew, once said that if someone would offer him a potion that would make him magically become young again, “hayiti zorek oto im bei’tot — I would kick him out.” Why? Because I would never want to be young in the age of the Internet.”

He described our world as a return to the Dor Hamabul, the Generation of the Flood.

A FLOODED WORLD

Obviously, we’re not in the Dor Hamabul in a literal sense; Hashem promised Noach that the Flood will never return (Noach 9:11). Conceptually, the Mabul was much more than a world covered with water that destroyed everything. It was a return to the second day of Creation, when the world was covered in water. (Zohar, 3:273; see Rabbeinu Bechaye, Bereishis 2:3)

On the third day of Creation, Hashem created dry land. Maharal (and others) frequently use two powerful words, chomer and tzurah, to describe fundamental ideas in Judaism. They are nuanced words and must always be understood in context. In understanding the difference between the second and third day, chomer implies raw material and potential; tzurah gives the chomer definition and makes it functional. A world covered with water has nothing, yet in potential it has everything. It just needs dry land to emerge from it and empower life.

Chomer can become tzurah with just the power of speech. As a mashal, imagine a slab and four sticks of wood.  You can touch it and feel its texture and know that it feels cold under your fingers. You can smell it and discern the scent of pine. All you have is chomer. Now imagine you gave this chomer a name; you called it a table. At that moment all the wooden potential has been given tzurah; it’s now a defined and functional object.

We now have a new understanding of the Mabul. It was a natural consequence of a generation that had returned all tzurah of their civilization into chomer. Family structures and property ownership crumbled. This disintegration spread to the animal kingdom, where creatures would cohabit across species. The result was distorted progeny, lions that weren’t lions, tigers that weren’t tigers, and bears that weren’t bears (oh my!).

Rashi comments on the etymology of the word mabul, describing it as, “shebilah es hakol — it decayed everything; shebilbeil es hakol — it mixed up everything.” (Bereishis 6:17)

Fast forward to 2024, and all the tzurah of our world is decaying in front of our eyes. Once upon a time our society would flourish with well-defined structures. Kings were revered and loved by their people and nations had kings who were powerful and wise. Together the potential of the realm would be actualized. Male and female were defined genders who would build strong homes and communities. Parents were parents and children were children. Together the batons of family traditions and ideals were passed from generation to generation.

This has all but disappeared. America is the first country in history to be a global superpower that never had malchus. At least it has a presidency that is an echo of royalty. Alas, that, too, is vanishing. This has created a very dangerous world. In the words of Rav Dessler, “The fragility of our world resembles the short span of time between when an anti-Semite gets drunk and when he becomes violent.” And he said that 70 years ago.

What’s the primary matrix that has fueled the downfall of the tzurah of civilization? It’s the masked world of the Internet and its cohorts.

STAYING AFLOAT

Traditionally the Jewish home was a fortress. The walls would protect us from the outside world and allow us to nurture our loved ones from within. But like the bubonic plague, walls are useless against a wireless enemy. As a Brooklyn mechanech told me, “No matter how many filters you have, your child is as exposed as his weakest friend’s weakest friend.”

We’re forbidden to despair. Hashem told Noach that there’s a solution to the Flood. Enter the Teivah (Ark) and you’ll be safe. The Zohar describes the Teivah as an Aron Habris (1:59b). Interestingly, Teivas Noach and Aron Habris are both gematria 870.

Both the Teivah and the Aron are worlds that defy the laws of physics. The Teivah was just 300 amos long, 50 amos wide, and 30 amos high, yet contained two of every animal species. Some estimates say that there are over a million species of insects alone! The Teivah had no ventilation and was lit with a miraculous tzohar. It’s an environment that could sustain life for perhaps six or seven hours. Similarly, Chazal teach us that, “Aron eino min hamiddah,” it consumed no space  (Megillah 10b). It stood 10 amos away from the walls of the Kodesh Hakodoshim, yet miraculously the Kodesh Hakodoshim was just 20 square amos.

The word teivah also means “word.” Rema M’Fano (Pelach Harimon 7:1) notes that the gematria of the three dimensions of the Teivah, (lamed 30 + shin 300 + nun 50) spell out the word “lashon,” tongue. The secret of the Teivah is that it was anchored in the power of the holy words of the Torah, represented by the Aron Habris, a world that is above and beyond the constraints of nature.

We mentioned that with words alone we can turn chomer into tzurah.  On a metaphysical level, words of Torah can take the chomer of a physical world and elevate it to its noblest level of tzurah, a spiritual state that defies all laws of nature. In other words, just like our gedolim consistently remind us that only Torah protects our soldiers, and does so in miraculous ways, similarly Torah can protect our Jewish home and make it impregnable from a spiritually flooded world.

Simply spoken, our survival is found by making the Aron Habris the anchor of our lives. On a practical level, we must constantly ask ourselves what more we can do to attach our lives to Torah. The walls of our mikdash me’at must hear the sounds of Torah, reverberating in harmony with the joy and laughter of a relaxed and happy home. We need to say our morning birchos haTorah with added fervor, especially when we beseech Hashem that our children should enjoy the sweetness of Torah. We need to take our support of our local Torah institutions to a whole different level. In particular, the suffering of the yeshivos in Eretz Yisrael should be forever in our hearts and minds. We need to look for every opportunity to help them.

THE INVISIBLE NECHAMAH

The challenge of entering the Teivah is easier said than done. When we experience failure, we can easily slip into sadness, the plaything of the yetzer hara. Rav Wolbe would often quote the Arizal who said that a small achievement today is like a huge achievement in previous generations. Similarly, a huge aveirah today is like a small aveirah of yesteryear. When a young man struggling with the Internet holds himself back, just once, he should be very proud of himself. He has fulfilled the mitzvah of kedoshim tihiyu (see Ohr HaChaim Vayikra 19:2) and has unleashed untold goodness in the Higher Worlds. Reb Yeruchem’s classic essay Doros Ha’Achronim (Daas Torah 3:146) says that the insane challenges of our generation mean that simple Jews can be considered gedolim in Shamayim.

In less than two months we will storm the Gates of Rachamim reading the pesukim of Zichronos in our Rosh Hashanah Mussaf. In one of the pesukim we invoke the memory of Noach:

“…When You brought the waters of the Mabul to destroy all living flesh because of the evil of their deeds. Al kein, therefore, may his remembrance come before You….”

The Klausenburger Rebbe asks, the word “al kein,” implying a connection to the previous statement, seems irrelevant. What do the evil deeds of the generation have to do with Hashem remembering us for salvation and mercy?

He answers with a beautiful insight. Noach’s generation, the prototype of everything loathsome, was a particularly hard generation in which to be free of sin. Yet Hashem saved Noach and his family. Certainly, in our generation, where the tentacles of Carnival stretch across the globe and into every home, Hashem should treat us with kid gloves and forgive us.

The flood will not last forever. At the chosen moment Hashem will dry up the churban of tzurah and send us the Goel Tzedek. We will joyfully step out of our teivah and greet him. The Aron Habris will take its rightful place in the rebuilt Yerushalayim and the light of Torah will fill the world.

Rabbi Menachem Nissel is the Senior Educator of NCSY and teaches at Yeshivas Yishrei Lev and various seminaries in Yerushalayim. He is the author of Rigshei Lev: Women and Tefillah.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 905)

The post Our Secret Weapon   first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Photos: Mattis Goldberg, Rabbi Aubrey Hersch, Family archives

Rav Moshe Shapira never let the world around him color his clarity. His warm heart and all-encompassing knowledge in both the revealed and hidden Torah, brought him to unique heights, taking his talmidim along and opening vistas for them, too. In Looking into the Sun, by longtime talmid Rabbi Menachem Nissel, Rav Moshe — who passed away seven years ago on 10 Teves — comes alive again for students old and even new

Iwas a young yeshivah bochur from England when I approached Rav Moshe Shapira for the first time. It was 1981 and he had just joined the faculty of Yeshivas Mishkan HaTorah on 41 Rechov Sorotzkin.

The yeshivah had previously broken off from Yeshivas ITRI (playfully called “Splitri”), and bringing in Rav Moshe was considered a master stroke to put the yeshivah on the map. Rav Moshe was still in his forties, yet his reputation as a man who had mastered kol haTorah kulah preceded him. His face radiated the hadras panim of a previous generation, of one mining the depths of the penimiyus of Torah, and harmonizing it with the outside world.

So I was delighted to finally meet this extraordinary person. I asked him a question on the Gemara we were learning. He asked me my name and then answered with magnanimous patience and clarity. I left feeling like a million dollars.

The next day I went back to him with a different question. This time he looked at me with his piercing eyes and said, “Did you look up the Rashba?” I said no. “Rav Akiva Eiger sends you to a Gemara in Yevamos — did you look it up?” I said no. Then he paused and said, “So why are you wasting my time with your unprepared questions?”

The conversation was over. I was traumatized. I ran to my friend, Rav Yerachmiel Fried (currently a rosh kollel in Dallas), and asked him what had just happened. “The first time you went to him you were a stranger,” he explained. “Now you have become a talmid.”

And so, for the next 37 years, over 20 of them as his “Friday driver,” I was careful to only ask questions that were thoroughly prepared. Rav Moshe demanded excellence from his talmidim. He expected us to go deeper. And when we had reached our capacity of depth, we were expected to reanalyze everything and question every assumption and then go deeper still.

Rav Moshe rarely spoke about himself, and we had to gather snippets of information from here and there to get a bigger picture. He was born on 25 Iyar, 1935, and grew up in Tel Aviv. His father was Rav Meir Yitzchok Shapira of Skudvill, Lithuania, a great nephew of the Alter of Kelm and a talmid of the Telz yeshivah.

One story that Rav Moshe shared at his father’s shivah made a huge impression on me, helping me to understand where Rav Moshe got his superhuman personal discipline.

At some point in Rav Meir Yitzchok’s youth, he decided he wanted to make sure he would never lie in bed for no reason. He trained himself that if he would ever wake up during the night, he would immediately stand up next to his bed. Then, in an upright position, he would decide whether he needed further sleep or whether he should start his day.

Over the decades, he trained himself to get up at precisely 2 a.m., rush to shul and learn until Shacharis. The last days of his life he was in a coma. The nurses told Rav Moshe that every night at around 2 a.m., he would start struggling with his blankets, as if trying to get up — while in a coma.

At his mother’s shivah, Rav Moshe shared her mesirus nefesh for his Torah. At the young age of 11, she sent him to the fledgling Ohr Yisrael Yeshiva of Petach Tikvah to learn from the great geonim Rav Yaakov Neiman and Rav Yosef Rozovsky. Soon after his bar mitzvah, he moved to Ponevezh, where bochurim many years his senior would ask him for help on the sugya they were learning.

Ponevezh led to Chevron, which led to Beis Yehuda (Rav Michel Feinstein’s yeshivah in Tel Aviv) and after his marriage, Kamenitz and the Mir. In 1960, Rav Moshe married Rebbetzin Tzipporah, who stood by his side throughout nearly 60 years of marriage. Her father was Rav Aaron Bialistotsky, head of the famed Ohel Torah kollel in Jerusalem, whose talmidim included Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv and Rav Shmuel Halevi Wosner.

Rav Moshe’s brother-in-law, Rav Yitzchok Bialistotsky, once shared with me that his father tested his prospective son-in-law on all of Shas b’iyun. Afterward, Rav Moshe’s father told his future mechutan, “What you don’t know about my son is that he knows Maharal the same way he knows Shas.”

Rav Moshe’s life can be simplified into 40 years of learning and 40 years of teaching. What they have in common is that he kept on reinventing himself and never seemed to stay in one place for more than a few years. Before Mishkan HaTorah, he was a maggid shiur in Beis Hatalmud and in Tifrach, and in 1976, he arrived on American shores and taught in Stamford, Connecticut — his first exposure to American talmidim.

For Rav Moshe, every moment of life was precious — he certainly wasn’t the type to engage in nostalgia. That’s why I was surprised one Friday as I drove him home from the mikveh when he shared a decades-old memory.

“Do you remember when Yehoshua was Andy? And Gershon was Johnny? And Yerachmiel was Robbie? And Elazar was Eliot? And you (Menachem) were Manny?” He paused and then delivered his punch line in Israeli-accented English. “Those were the good old days.”

These were Mishkan HaTorah chevreh, and Rav Moshe, who was less known then, chose to give us his undivided warmth, guidance, and attention. He had an office with plain whitewashed walls that wasn’t much bigger than a closet, and all we had to do was knock on the door, and we could talk about whatever was on our minds. He was tough with us and loving with us. He was there for us as we navigated shidduchim, and he was still there for us a generation later as we married off our own children.

I started shidduchim way before I was ready. The reasons were dramatic and complex, but to simplify, my father wanted me to take off a year from yeshivah to study at a business school in London. Rav Elyashiv told me to listen to my father but with one small caveat — I should go married! It was July, and university began in two months; how could I possibly be married by then? Rav Elyashiv assured me that this was Yerushalayim Ir Hakodesh. Things worked differently here. Everything would work out fine. Two weeks later, I was engaged.

During that period, Rav Moshe held my hand. I was in awe of his penetrating insights on my personality when giving me dating advice. I was reassured that I was in good hands. When I felt ready to propose, I asked him if I was ready. “Menachem, ani choshev she’zeh tov,” were the words I will never forget. Rav Moshe’s confidence gave me the peace of mind that I was making the right decision. Forty years later, I still have that peace of mind.

The post By the Warmth of the Sun first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

EVERYTHING YET NOTHING

The end of Yom Kippur hits us like an orchestral crescendo. After 40 days of intense work, we’re as close as possible to resembling malachim. Our physical bodies have been impoverished with the five inuyim, reduced to sheaths for our soaring neshamos. The stench of our sins has been cleansed from our essence by receiving mechilah from those whom we have hurt and through the constant repetition of Vidui. The dramatic chazaras hashatz in Mussaf, where we recreate the avodah in the Beis Hamikdash, presses the reset button on Klal Yisrael, and we’re once again k’ish echad b’lev echad at Har Sinai. It has been a day of impassioned tefillos, of breaking down barriers between us and our Creator.

And yet and yet and yet.

There’s a feeling of existential emptiness. As if we’ve done nothing. As if there remains a massive impenetrable wall between us and Hashem.

In many shuls, the rav gives a rousing derashah before Ne’ilah. He warns us that the curtains are coming down on our once-in-a-year opportunity to cleanse the mistakes of our past and set ourselves up for success.

“P’sach lanu shaar, b’eis ne’ilas shaar, ki fana yom — Open for us the Heavenly Gate, at this time when the Gate is closing, for the day is fading away….”

In desperation we look for a secret weapon to break down that wall between us and Hashem and open the Heavenly Gate. Fortunately for us, Hashem gave us that weapon many years ago.

It’s the Yud Gimmel Middos shel Rachamim, the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy.

THE BREAD OF SHAME

Before we take a closer look at our “secret weapon,” a few introductory words: The Yud Gimmel Middos shel Rachamim are said daily by Sephardim when they recite Tachanun with a minyan. Both Sephardim and Ashkenazim say them throughout the year during Selichos. Interestingly, Sephardim say them when reciting Selichos during Yom Kippur day, Ashkenazim only say them on Yom Kippur night. They’re also said on Rosh Hashanah and Yamim Tovim when taking out the sifrei Torah, often with chazzanus and fanfare. However, the crucial introductory phrase, “vayaavor Hashem al panav vayikra,” is omitted. This, for reasons beyond the scope of this essay, takes away its power. It de-weaponizes them.

Ne’ilah is different. The Yud Gimmel Middos shel Rachamim take center stage and are said again and again. Some kehillos are careful to say them 13 times. They’re surrounded by some of the most powerful piyutim of the year, composed by giants such as Rabbeinu Gershom of 11th-century Mainz, Germany; Rav Yitzchak ben Shmuel (Ri Hazaken) of 12th-century Dampierre, France, and the great 9th-century Italian paytanim, Rav Silano and Rav Shephatia.

Don’t be misled by their poetic beauty! The piyutim are the proverbial peanut butter and jelly that makes the bread palatable. It’s the nutritious bread that we want. The piyutim are there to frame the Yud Gimmel Middos for maximum effect.

My opinion: It’s better to say a piyut slowly with kavanah than to rush them to keep up with the tzibbur. However, it’s crucial to join the tzibbur for the Yud Gimmel Middos with its introductory paragraph. So, stop at the end of the sentence, join the tzibbur for the Yud Gimmel Middos, and then return to the next sentence in the piyut you were reciting.

What’s the secret of our “secret weapon”?

Just 40 days after Matan Torah, Klal Yisrael had fallen from the greatest heights to the lowest depths. Cheit Ha’eigel was an unforgivable sin, a red line crossed, with no hope of return. Zechus Avos had been lost. The Nation of Israel’s oblivion was as guaranteed as the sun setting in fiery demise.

One man believed that the sun could still rise. Moshe Rabbeinu pleaded on behalf of his people, relentlessly begging for the impossible. He succeeded.

The pasuk says, “And Hashem passed before him [Moshe] and proclaimed” (Shemos 34:6). Rabi Yochanan said, “… the pasuk teaches us that HaKadosh Baruch Hu wrapped Himself in a tallis like a shaliach tzibbur, and showed Moshe the structure of the order of the prayer [of the Yud Gimmel Middos shel Rachamim]. He said to him, ‘Whenever the Jewish People sin, let them act before Me in accordance with this order [i.e., say these 13 Attributes], and I will forgive them.’ ” [Rosh Hashanah 17b]

That’s it? At first glance this makes no sense. Moshe Rabbeinu is told that the solution to forgiving our sins, no matter how grave, is to press 13 magic buttons in order, and voilà! All is forgiven.

We firmly believe that we earn our sechar (reward for our deeds) both in This World and the Next. That’s intuitive. L’havdil, in economics we say, “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” Chazal explain this logically by using the phrase nehama d’kisufa, the bread of shame (see Ramchal, Daas Tevunos 18). They noted that human nature only enjoys bread when it’s earned. When we receive undeserved gifts, we feel shame.

Similarly, forgiveness for our past misdeeds should be earned with appropriate teshuvah. How can it be that our past is erased by just saying 13 powerful phrases?

The Midrash (Yalkut Shimoni, Ki Sisa 395) gives us some backstory to Moshe’s tefillos on our behalf:

At that time, HaKadosh Baruch Hu showed him [Moshe] the otzros [vaults] of sechar set aside for tzaddikim. [After showing him the first otzar] Moshe asked: “Ribbono shel Olam, for whom is this?”

Hashem answered, “For those who give tzedakah.”

“And for whom is this [second otzar]?”

“For those who took care of orphans.”

And this continued, otzar after otzar.

Finally, he was shown the largest otzar of all. “And for whom is this?”

[Hashem responded:] “You have just seen the otzros that are received by those who are worthy. But for those who are not worthy, those who have nothing, they receive this otzar for free.”

Of course, this makes our question stronger. How can someone who “has nothing” receive the largest otzar of all? Where’s the logic and where’s the justice?

AKASRIEL

To unlock the secret of the Yud Gimmel Middos, we need to study an enigmatic gemara in Brachos (7a), popularized by Reb Avraham Fried’s classic song  "Tanyeh":

Tanyeh, [the Kohein Gadol] Rabi Yishmael ben Elisha related, “I once entered [the Kodesh Hakodoshim on Yom Kippur] to offer ketores. I saw Akasriel, Kah Hashem Tzevakos, seated upon a high and exalted throne. And He said to me: ‘Yishmael my son, bless Me.’

“I said to Him, ‘May it be Your will that Your Rachamim overcomes Your anger and may Your Rachamim prevail over your other middos. May You deal with Your children with Your middah of Rachamim. And may You deal with them lifnim mishuras hadin, beyond the letter of the law.’

“Hashem nodded His head [as if He was saying ‘Amen’ to my brachah].”

Clearly this Gemara contains layers and layers of kabbalistic depth, way beyond our pay scale. Nevertheless, we can gather snippets of information that are eye-opening.

First, the story happened on Yom Kippur, implying the possibility that the revelation that happened was something unique to the nature of that awesome day.

Second, when Rabi Yishmael ben Elisha entered the Kodesh Hakodoshim, he had a vision of Hashem expressed with the name Akasriel. This name is associated with Hashem’s, Keser, His Crown.

Finally, we have this remarkable exchange between Rabi Yishmael and Hashem. Hashem asks Rabi Yishmael for a brachah, which is seemingly incomprehensible. Hashem is by definition the Mekor Habrachah, the Source of all Blessing. It’s like Niagara Falls asking for a glass of water.

Rabi Yishmael responds by asking Hashem to go lifnim mishuras hadin, beyond the letter of the law. It seems to be an inappropriate request. Why should Hashem break His law? The law is how a king runs his realm, how a country enjoys stability through justice, law, and order. A king can be merciful, but mercy is part of the system of justice. A judge can say, we will lower your speeding ticket because this is a first-time offense. But it’s still justice.

Indeed, the whole of Rosh Hashanah is built on the framework of Hashem running His world with justice. The shofar arouses Hashem to move from the Throne of Din (strict judgment) to the Throne of Rachamim (merciful judgment). But it’s still justice. We don’t ask Hashem to break His laws. Lifnim mishuras hadin is breaking the law. A realm cannot exist without law.

CROWNS

Let’s try and put the pieces of the puzzle together. Some of our readers may be familiar with the spectacle of England’s Imperial State Crown placed on the coffin of Queen Elizabeth II as she was lying in state. It was visually overpowering, adorned with nearly 3,000 precious stones. It represented her majesty, her sovereignty.

A crown contains a deep idea. The correct place for a crown is on the head of a monarch. The position of the crown is a fundamental symbol of royalty. If the king represents the country, the crown represents that there is something beyond and above the king himself. In the language of our story, if the full height of the king represents the rules of how a country is run, whether with strictness or with mercy, then the crown represents that the king has something beyond and above his own self.

Only the king can break his own rules.

In other words, his crown represents his ability to go lifnim mishuras hadin, beyond the letter of his law. This power must be used sparingly. Otherwise the king will make a mockery of his own judicial system, and his country will not function. For example, the “crown” of the president of the United States includes his constitutional ability to grant pardons for federal crimes. If he wants to be taken seriously, he won’t pardon all his criminal friends who have been rightfully sent to prison.

How does that work when we are talking about the realm of the King of Kings?

Hashem wants nothing more than to break His own rules and unleash His unconditional and unlimited love for His people, expressed through the power of His Crown. However, He will only do so when Rabi Yishmael, representing Klal Yisrael, gives Him a brachah. Why is that?

The word brachah is associated with the word breichah, which means an accessible water source (Teshuvos HaRashba 5:51). Hashem is the source of all blessing; all goodness comes from Him. When we bless Hashem, we open a deeper water source, a new channel of Hashem’s goodness, which comes from His Crown. The brachah we give Hashem precipitates His ability to go lifnim mishuras hadin.

Here’s the catch. To access the Crown and bless Hashem, we need to reach a complete state of humility. We need to negate our own egos until our essence is totally focused on bringing out His Malchus, to the exclusion of anything else (see Maharal, Chiddushei Aggados Menachos 29a). Hashem invokes the “break-My-rules” power of His Crown when the request comes from His nation who recognize that nothing exists outside of His Kingship and Crown.

Only on Yom Kippur can we reach that moment. To bless Hashem, you need to be on the level of Rabi Yishmael, the holiest man, entering the holiest place, at the holiest time.

THE OTZAR WITHOUT END

We can now understand the lesson that Hashem taught Moshe Rabbeinu when he saw the largest otzar of all, destined for those have nothing. “For those who have nothing” means for those whose self-perception is that they deserve nothing. Everyone else, proud of their accomplishments, expects a reward and that’s what they receive in measured proportion. Those who feel they deserve nothing unleash Hashem’s ability to go lifnim mishuras hadin and in turn they receive boundless reward.

By the way, we can now understand why Moshe Rabbeinu, in the introductory paragraph to the Yud Gimmel Middos, is referred to as just anav, the humble one. The humblest man of all is the exact person to teach us the unlimited power of the Yud Gimmel Middos.

For 40 days we toil to reconcile ourselves with our Creator. Thirty days of ani l’Dodi v’Dodi li, followed by coronating the King with the shofar of Rosh Hashanah. Ten days of introspection and teshuvah and working on reconciling with every Jew climax with the multi-faceted avodah of Yom Kippur.

And yet and yet and yet. We feel nothing.

Exactly.

We have now reached total nothingness. We now have absolute clarity that we do not even deserve the right to breathe without Hashem’s beneficence. We have now reached the moment when Hashem lovingly smiles and says: Now I can give you My secret weapon. Now I can give you My 13-fold formula that unleashes the otzar without end. Now that you have become nothing, I can make you infinitely powerful.

THE CROWNED KING FINDS HIS QUEEN

Shlomo Hamelech describes Yom Kippur as yom chasunaso, Hashem’s wedding day (Rashi, Taanis 26b). For 2,448 years He searched for a partner in the lower world who would fully understand the true majesty of the King of Kings. He found Knesses Yisrael, a simple maiden, filled with the beauty that comes with modesty. This day is also described by Shlomo Hamelech as yom simchas libo, the day of His great rejoicing. Hashem now had a queen with whom He could share everything.

The awesome day of Yom Kippur ends with a shofar blast, symbolizing the freedom of slaves. It also symbolizes our own freedom. Freedom from the shackles of our physicality and freedom from the shackles of our ego. We can devote ourselves completely to our duties as Hashem’s queen.

Once upon a time, in a long-forgotten age, humanity was challenged with a plague called coronavirus. Sarcasm intended. It’s sad that one of the powerful lessons of those times may have vanished. It wasn’t lost on us that the word corona means crown. The scientists who in 1968 came up with the name thought that, under a microscope, the virus they were looking at resembled a solar corona.

The world came to a grinding halt. We felt totally helpless. And with that deep conviction that mankind, with all its science, was ultimately nothing, we declared, v’yitnu lecha Keser Meluchah, we give You the Crown of Royalty. You and nobody else.

This year, may Hashem help us return to that clarity. May Hashem in turn unleash, lifnim mishuras hadin, all the otzros of goodness for His queen, His beloved nation, Klal Yisrael.

YUD GIMMEL MIDDOS SIMPLIFIED

What thoughts should we have as we unleash this explosion of boundless Rachamim from Above?

There’s a discussion among the early sources how to count the 13 attributes. For example, is “Hashem, Hashem” two of the attributes or just introductory words? Is “lo yenakeh” an attribute?

Selichos Be’er Yaakov (Panet) brings 13 different opinions as to how to count them!

There is further discussion as to what each attribute actually means. And of course, there are layers upon layers of depth to each one. Presented here is one possible path, where the focus is on simplicity and relatability:

1. ה' Hashem’s Rachamim is in full force before we sin, despite His knowing that we will sin.
2. ה' He continues to relate to us with the same Rachamim, even after we sin.
3. קל His Chesed is powerful, nothing can stand in its way.
4. רחום He is compassionately involved in our lives, even for seemingly trivial matters.
5. וחנון His Chesed is free, not dependent on our actions.
6. ארך אפים His patience allows us chance after chance to do teshuvah.
7. ורב חסד Hashem’s Chesed hugs every Jew, no matter how distant.
8. ואמת He never reneges on His word.
9. נוצר חסד לאלפים He passes the Chesed from generation to generation.
10. נושא עון He carries the burden of our sins, even when they are intentional.
11. ופשע And even when rebellious.
12. וחטאה And even when unintentional, as a result of our lifestyle of apathy.
13. ונקהHe deep cleanses all our sins, turning them into merits when we do teshuvah from love.

Rabbi Menachem Nissel is the Senior Educator of NCSY and teaches at Yeshivas Yishrei Lev and various seminaries in Yerushalayim. He is the author of Rigshei Lev: Women and Tefillah.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 861)

The post Our Secret Weapon first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Miriam Haneviah was born a child of galus. Her parents named her Miriam, from the word mar, bitter, and she dedicated her life to turning bitter to sweet (Seder Olam Rabbah, 3). Before the age of seven, she prophesied that her divorced parents would reunite and give birth to Moshe Rabbeinu, savior of the Jewish People (Midrash Rabbah, Naso, 13). With love and patience, she watched over her brother as he lay in his floating crib on the Nile. At the propitious moment, she stepped forward to make sure he would be nursed by his own mother.

She was the leader of the Jewish women at Yetzias Mitzrayim, inspiring them to bring percussion instruments into the Midbar, confident they would witness Redemption. After crossing the Yam Suf, she led them in song and dance. In her merit, we earned the Be’er Miriam, which supplied the Jews with the purest of water throughout 40 years of wandering in the desert.

Miriam’s legacy is as the great teacher of Jewish women. On a deeper level, her Be’er Miriam represents Torah shebe’al peh, the Oral Law, and Miriam is described as the essence of the Oral Law (Sfas Emes, Ki Seitzei, 5657).

Perhaps most inspiring of all was her bravery. Along with her mother, Yocheved, she stood up to Pharaoh and defied his decree of genocide. By putting her life in mortal danger, she succeeded in saving a generation of Jewish children.

In the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim, Miriam stands out as the quintessential Jewish hero.

In Search of the Jewish Hero

What makes a Jewish hero?

Do you remember the tragic attacks of September 11 in 2001, when Americans consoled themselves with the rediscovery of the “American hero”? Gone was the “me-first” and “dot.com” generation, which celebrated the pursuit of instant wealth, pleasure, and ego gratification. America was once again dignified with noble men of valor, who stepped forward in the hour of need with the spirit of bravery and self-sacrifice.

During those days, I ran a chizuk website for seminary graduates called JemSem. At the turn of the secular millennium, countless lists were compiled of the greatest this and the greatest that of the millennium, century, decade, and year. I was contacted by a respectable Torah organization with a request to ask our readers to nominate the “greatest Jewish woman of the 20th century.” I respectfully declined. I’d like to explain why.

Let’s go back to Miriam.

Chazal teach us that if you want to understand the essence of a letter, word, person, or concept, the best place to go is where it’s first mentioned in the Torah. Where is Miriam mentioned for the first time in the Torah? Surprisingly, she’s introduced to us as an Israelite midwife, using her professional name, Puah. Rashi (Shemos 1:15) explains the significance of this name: “Puah is Miriam. She was named ‘Puah’ because she would coo [‘Puah’ is similar to the word poah, which means ‘cooing’] and gently speak to a baby, in the manner of women who know how to pacify a crying infant.”

This is astonishing! The first time that our great hero Miriam is introduced to us in the Torah, her essence is revealed as the woman whose expertise is in hushing a newborn child. How uninspiring! Every mother calms her baby. Why does the Torah reduce the legacy of this exalted woman to her ability to do something so unoriginal?

At first glance, this is insulting.

But Rav Yerucham Levovitz, former mashgiach of Mir Yeshivah, responds to this with a vitally important principle. This principle doesn’t ring true in the ears of those raised in Western culture. It’s certainly not the way the media wants us to see people. But it’s the ultimate arbiter of how we should see people.

The Torah doesn’t differentiate between big actions or small actions. The Torah only differentiates between big and small people. Big people do everything with “bigness.” They put every drop of their moral strength into everything they do.

Significantly, if you want to see the greatness of a person, the dramatic acts he does is a poor indicator. Imagine a fireman who is awarded a medal for going into the flames of the Twin Towers and saving lives. Is he “big” person? The world says yes. He should be displayed on the front cover of magazines with reverence and adoration.

The Mishnah (Avos 2:5) advises, “Al tadin es chavercha ad shetagia limkomo — don’t judge a person until you see him in his home.” Imagine we find that our fireman doesn’t know how to treat his wife and children. He’s the worst husband and father. According to Rav Yerucham, the fact he found the strength to rise to the occasion when under public scrutiny only tells us he did a great deed. But true greatness is beyond his reach. He remains a very “small” person.

So how do we know that Miriam was a great person? Perhaps she, too, like our fireman, was able to rise to the occasion at the moment of truth. Was she truly great?

The Torah responds emphatically. The first time we meet her, she’s singing a lullaby to a baby with exactly the same passion she exhibited when she defied Pharaoh or led the Jewish women in triumphant song. Her “bigness” in the little things she did, was her true indicator of greatness. Miriam lovingly calms a child that isn’t her own, when nobody could see her, and the child would never know.

This is the moment of true Jewish heroism.

Defining a Hero

Let’s take this idea a little deeper. We are accustomed to a secular definition of heroism. The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines a hero as “a person who is admired for achievements and noble qualities.” In other words, heroism isn’t something intrinsic in a deed. It’s a function of the admiration of others. If nobody ever knows about your achievements, they cease to be heroic.

This outlook is typical of the ancient Greeks and is totally rejected by the Torah. Great deeds of great people in the Torah are generally hidden, with no one except Hashem knowing. For example, the most awesome deed of all, Akeidas Yitzchak, was done in total privacy. As Rav Moshe Meiselman writes in his classic Jewish Woman in Jewish Law (New York: Ktav Publishing House, 1978): “How different are the great people of the Torah from Greek heroes! Perhaps the clearest example is the contrast between the Akeidah and the Greek tragedy Iphigenia in Aulis. While Abraham sacrificed Isaac to G-d, for G-d, and before G-d alone, Agamemnon sacrificed Iphigenia for Greece and in the presence of Greece. The essence of the Greek heroic act lay in its public appeal and public nature. There was no glorification of inner heroism, but only of public display and public approval.

“Far from the shores of Aulis was the Jewish hero. To the Jew, moral victory for both man and woman is what one does for G-d and before G-d, the Source of all value. Jewish tradition frowns upon public display, for the moment a human acts in public, his motivation can be tainted by unworthy considerations.”

What would be the accurate word for hero in Lashon Hakodesh? Unsurprisingly, there isn’t one. Since the “hero” concept belongs to a culture that the Torah considers false, by definition it doesn’t exist in Lashon Hakodesh, the holy Hebrew language, where every word is truth. In metaphysical terms, the hero has no metzius, no place in the world of reality, and therefore he doesn’t exist in the language of absolute reality. The hero is in the company of a whole list of words that represent concepts that have no translation into Lashon Hakodesh, the language of emes anchored in reality. They include words such as bravery, chivalry, gallantry, romance, fun, and fair play.

Nevertheless, in this article, we’ll continue to use the word hero in its loose sense, to connote greatness in a person. True greatness, however, is the hallmark of those who strive to remain hidden from the eyes of man, so they can devote every small deed in loving service of Hashem.

Women Are Heroes

It’s no surprise that the “Puah Principle,” that greatness can only be seen in the small deeds of people, is taught to us by a woman. We live in a society in which greatness is measured by the appreciation and acknowledgments of others, in which fame is both glamorous and desirable, and in which deeds have to be reported by newspapers to be noble.

In the mindset of Western civilization, the “low-achieving” female gender is often at the bottom of the greatness hierarchy. When some colleges for Jewish women flaunt their greatest graduates, they invariably venerate those who, for example, became academically famous, built distinguished institutions, or broke glass ceilings in the corporate world.

The Torah mindset is quite the opposite. Torah sees greatness in modesty, though small, quiet acts of virtue hidden from public view. This is exactly where Jewish women excel. King David exclaimed, “Kol kevudah bas melech penimah — the prestige of the [Jewish] princess is her privacy” (Tehillim 45:14). She remains private, achieving maximum results with minimum profile. Famous Jewish women like Miriam only achieved greatness in the eyes of the Torah community because the truth slipped out when we became aware of their small, hidden deeds.

A more modern example of a truly great Jewish woman is Sarah Schenirer. She’s the obvious candidate for “the greatest Jewish woman of the 20th century.” She was the visionary, founder, and tireless builder of the Bais Yaakov movement. In secular parlance, she was a woman who “made it big.” Yet if you read Rav Hanoch Teller’s magnificent biography of her in Builders (NYC Publishing, 2000), a picture emerges of an extremely modest woman who wanted nothing more than to serve Hashem hidden from public view. She stepped forward to do what had to be done because, like Miriam before her, she was the only one who could do the job.

Take, for example, Rabbi Teller’s description of the crowning day in her life, the gala celebration to dedicate the new Bais Yaakov seminary in Krakow: “Speaker after speaker ascended to the decorated stage to address the gathering. Here was the fulfillment of Sarah Schenirer’s dream — but where was the woman who had launched the movement, dedicating every waking moment to its success, the woman who was the sole inspiration for the entire gathering?

“Sarah was, as always, in the background. She allowed others, who had built upon the foundations she had lovingly laid, to assume the limelight. Finally, they found her. Standing in the last row of the audience, surrounded by some of her students, was Sarah Schenirer, a sefer Tehillim clutched tightly in her hand.”

Sarah Schenirer was indeed a great Jewish woman. But her greatness was defined by achievements that a secular biographer couldn't possibly recognize or acknowledge. She was great because she managed to engineer the greatest revolution in women’s education for generations without sacrificing a drop of the privacy of the Jewish princess.

I’ve been asked why we don’t mention the Imahos in the beginning of the Shemoneh Esreh after invoking the Avos (which, by the way, was one of the first changes to the siddur made by the Reform Movement). The answer is clear. We always mention the Imahos together with the Avos. When we say Avraham, we mean Avraham and Sarah. By definition there’s no Avraham without Sarah; they’re two sides of the same coin. And so on with the other Avos.

Nevertheless, the Imahos choose to be mentioned as the completion of their spouses. They feel more comfortable that way. They’re always there for us, praying, beseeching, and complementing the work of the Avos. But they’re exactly where they want to be, exactly where future generations of their children need them to be. Away from the public eye. Private and hidden.

Interestingly, if asked who was the greatest man of the 20th century, the Chofetz Chaim would probably get most votes. We can safely assume that his wife was “ishto k’gufo,” as great as he was. Yet very little is known about the wife of the Chofetz Chaim.

So to answer the question of the survey presented to the JemSem website, “Who was the greatest Jewish woman of the 20th century?” The answer is simple. By definition, we’ll never know.

It’s Not about Charisma

Another word that has no metzius is charisma. It’s a personality trait that should make us cautious. Charismatic people can be scary because they can be manipulative. We hear stories, for example, of respected rabbanim who are electrifying speakers, brilliant scholars and published authors, who though the power of their charismatic personalities, do very bad things to people. How can we ever trust a rabbi?

The answer, again, is with the “Puah Principle.” Let’s see what they’re like behind closed doors, when they’re not on show. Let’s see if they can do small deeds with greatness. If they don’t, then they’re exposed as hoaxes and should be shunned. But if we see them doing small deeds with greatness, their charisma becomes a blessing from Hashem. This is the hallmark of many of our gedolim. They use their charisma to inspire others and further the causes of Klal Yisrael.

I’ve been fortunate to have seen many examples of gedolim doing small deeds with greatness. I’ve shared this story before in these pages, but I’m sharing it again as it’s so powerful and so illustrative of this idea. Rav Moshe Shapira ztz”l once volunteered to come to my apartment in Har Nof to see if he could make shalom between neighbors after there was a bitter machlokes. With elegant chochmah, he worked out a solution that pleased everyone. When he was in my house, our cleaning lady Sara offered him tea. He politely declined.

After having walked down two floors to leave the building, Rav Moshe suddenly turned to me and said, “Menachem, I forgot something.” I thought he’d forgotten something like an umbrella and offered to get it. But he started climbing the stairs again, and back in my apartment, went from room to room until he found the cleaning lady and wished her goodbye.

Rediscovering Miriam

From a Torah perspective, there were many unsung heroes during those heady days that followed 9/11. Among them were the remarkable women who did shemirah for those who died at the World Trade Center. The New York Times, in an article published on November 6, 2001, titled “Stretching a Jewish Vigil for the Sept. 11 Dead,” relates: “In the darkest hours of the night, Judith K., dressed in her Sabbath finery, sat in a tent outside the New York City Medical Examiner’s office, singing the haunting repertoire from the Book of Psalms. From midnight until 5 a.m., within sight of trucks full of body parts from the World Trade Center, she fulfilled the most selfless of Jewish commandments: to keep watch over the dead, who must not be left alone from the moment of passing until burial.… Ms. K. and the others have won blessings from Christian chaplains at the site, and their dedication has moved police officers and medical examiners to tears.”

This was indeed a stunning mitzvah and a kiddush Hashem. Nevertheless, without detracting from the importance and beauty of the deed, and through no fault of the women who did the mitzvah, on its own it lacked the true definition of a great deed. It was in open view. The New York Times wrote an article about it. The mitzvah was diminished under the eye of the public.

Perhaps the following, totally hidden scenario captures the spirit of Jewish heroism: “Around the world, all eyes are glued to the television as the astonishing events of September 11 unfurl in front of an incredulous world. As hard as it may be for Rachel L., she pulls herself away from the intoxicating screen and picks up a Tehillim to pray for the welfare of the victims. She cries hot tears for Hashem to have mercy on His children. In Heaven, the prayers are accepted and a decree is rescinded to save the life of one of the casualties.”

A tefillah saves a life. The act is totally hidden. Surely this is the essence of greatness. Yet here, too, we can’t say for sure that the deed was pure. Rachel’s mitzvah was a reaction to an extraordinary occurrence. She rose up to the occasion and responded correctly and admirably. Would she be able to find the same power of tefillah inside of her on an ordinary day? Perhaps the astounding event brought out of her a special strength and an intensity of prayer. But there was nothing sustainable that would indicate internalized greatness.

We’re forced, then, to fall back to the only type of scenario of self-evident greatness: “Somewhere, in the middle of the night, a baby cries. A mother pulls her weary body out of bed and consoles her child. She sings an old song her mother used to sing when she was a little girl. The baby relaxes and falls back to sleep. The baby will never know, and perhaps will never understand what had happened until she, too, becomes a mother.”

We’ve found true greatness. A Jewish mother connects through the generations to the prophetess Miriam. At that moment she has become Puah. In a small hidden deed, she has discovered the essence of the Jewish hero, of Jewish greatness.

Rabbi Menachem Nissel is the Senior Educator of NCSY and teaches at Yeshivas Yishrei Lev and various seminaries in Yerushalayim. He is the author of “Rigshei Lev: Women and Tefillah.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 838)

The post The Puah Principle first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

AS Tishah B’Av approached during my first year in yeshivah, I found myself struggling to relate. I turned to Rav Moshe Rozmarin, (author of Devar Moshe) for guidance, and he shared two thoughts.

First, he told me, once you’re married with kids, relating to Tishah B’Av becomes much easier. I understood his words to mean that the love and nurturing that come with building a family take one’s sensitivity to suffering to a totally different level. After having hugged one’s own child, reading, “Should women eat their own offspring, the babes of their care?” (Eichah 2:20) takes on a heartrending new dimension.

Secondly, he advised, while it may be hard to relate to 2,000-year-old suffering, contemporary suffering is vivid and alive. When you read about the past, think about the present. Then use those emotions as a hook to connect to the past.

This second piece of advice resonated deeply. If I couldn’t relate to the Churban Beis Hamikdash, I could always relate to the churban of Europe. I grew up in North West London thinking that having a number tattooed on your arm was normal. I had heard horrific and explicit stories from my parents, teachers, and shul members who had actually seen or experienced the suffering.

Yirmiyahu Hanavi said, “I am the man who has seen affliction by the rod of His anger” (Eichah 3:1). With Rav Rozmarin’s advice, the road from the crematoria of Auschwitz allowed me to connect to “the rod of His anger” of crusades, pogroms, and inquisitions, all the way back to the fires of Yerushalayim.

The Desire for Revenge

As a mechanech who takes groups to Poland, I often tell a short and powerful story at the selection platform in Birkenau, Auschwitz.

Over the course of 56 days, from May 15 through mid-July, 1944, 437,402 Jews were deported from Hungary in 147 trains. That’s almost 8,000 kedoshim per day. To give perspective, the sum total of every Yid who has been killed for being Jewish since the Holocaust, including all the korbanos of Israel’s wars, adds up to less than a week of Hungarian transports.

During that time, a German priest was stationed in Auschwitz, ostensibly to give “chizuk” to the German guards. A huge cross hung from his neck. He watched day in, day out, as the transports rolled onto the platform, ejecting their dazed and confused captives. Their faces were filled with innocence, their eyes shining with a fusion of terror and sanctity.

Witnessing the atrocities took a toll on the priest, and one day, while watching these pure Yidden being butchered at the platform, he finally cracked. He tore off his wooden cross and started breaking it into pieces. As it splintered, he cried out at the top of his voice, “Das ist Gottes Volk! — This is G-d’s People!”

I share this story with my students to evoke a sense of Jewish pride in the holy kedoshim. Truthfully, though, for most of us, when standing in a place where such unfathomable evil took place, the primary emotion we feel isn’t pride, but rather anger, outrage against the perpetrators of unparalleled crime. And swiftly following anger is often the desire for vengeance.

Score to Settle

On a purely intellectual level, this desire for revenge seems illogical. As a teen, I remember being highly disturbed when a friend vowed that, given the chance, he would murder six million Germans to settle the score. Most of the Nazis are dead. And if we could kill every last decrepit, old Nazi, would it change anything for the kedoshim who died? To quote Winston Churchill, “Nothing is more costly, more sterile, than vengeance.”

Still, the desire for revenge is a primal urge inside our hearts, albeit one we are forbidden to act upon. The Torah warns us “lo sikom — do not seek revenge” (Kedoshim 19:18). Hashem knows full well the geshmak we feel when the neighbor who refused to give us a ride last week knocks on our door desperate for cash. We refuse the loan, and it feels great! In the words of the Ramchal, “Vengeance is sweeter than honey” (Mesilas Yesharim 11).

However, revenge isn’t always wrong. Sometimes, it becomes a holy obligation. In parshas Mattos, Bamidbar 31:2, Hashem instructs Moshe Rabbeinu, “nekom nikmas bnei Yisrael me’eis haMidyanim; achar, tei’asef el amecha — take vengeance for the Children of Israel from the Midianites; afterwards you will be gathered to your people.”

The Midrash says that this was Moshe’s final, climactic act before going up to Heaven, and that had he chosen to delay the war against Midian, he would have delayed his own death (Tanchuma, Mattos 3). To Moshe’s credit, he understood the urgency of this holy war and immediately sprang into action. The closing chapter of Moshe Rabbeinu’s life was vengeance.

Most poignant is Hashem’s promise of vengeance at the End of Days. The Shirah in parshas Ha’azinu ends with the following promise: “Harninu goyim amo, ki dam avadav yikom, v’nakam yashiv l’tzarav, v’chiper admaso amo — Sing, nations, the praises of His people, for He will avenge the blood of His enemies, and will appease His land and His people” (Devarim 32:43).

Ramban tells us that Shiras Ha’azinu is a microcosm of Jewish history. In its final crescendo, corresponding to the closing chapter of history, Hashem declares, “li nakom, vengeance is Mine” (Devarim 32:35).

Clearly, nekamah is a critical component of the End of Days, as if Hashem declares, “I take this personally, I must take care of this Myself.”

But why? How are we to understand vengeance against the perpetrators of atrocities committed in the distant past?

The Soul’s Desire

The first step in understanding nekamah is to recognize that vengeance is intrinsically different from justice. A speeding ticket is not vengeance; it’s a punishment that fits the crime. Think of it as a technical necessity. Our batei dinim and l’havdil the world’s judiciary systems are based on justice, because it’s the bedrock of a functioning society (Avos 3:2).

The desire for vengeance, on the other hand, isn’t technical, but rather connects to our core essence. Let’s go back to the Mesilas Yesharim and bring the quote in full: “Man is highly sensitive to elbon, being insulted, and when he’s insulted, he feels tremendous pain. For him, vengeance is sweeter than honey, and it’s his only way to find menuchah, inner peace.”

While the word “insulted” is my attempt to translate the word elbon, understanding its meaning requires more elaboration. Elbon is the natural kavod that we all have, that part of us that screams out, “bishvili nivra ha’olam, the world was created just for me” (Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5).

In Tehillim 30:13, the pasuk says “L’maan yezamercha chavod — let my kavod sing Your praises” and Metzudas Dovid explains, “This is referring to our soul, which is the kavod of our bodies.” Our soul and kavod are one and the same.

Hashem created us in such a way that when our kavod has been wounded, we have an instinctive need to restore our equilibrium, and that can only be achieved through nekamah.

This concept can be seen in the word itself. The root of nekamah is the letter nun followed by the two letters kuf and mem. The letter nun is the letter that represents falling (Berachos 4b). Kuf and mem read “kam,” which means “rise up.” We can only rise up and restore our wounded kavod once our enemy has fallen.

Mesilas Yesharim goes on to say that the mitzvah of lo sikom is unnatural. In forbidding us to take revenge, Hashem is asking us to act in a way that contradicts our essential nature, prodding us to superhuman growth. If you lend money to that neighbor who wouldn’t help you when you needed him, and you do it b’sever panim yafos, with a smile, you have elevated yourself to the level of malachei hashareis, ministering angels, who are beyond the realm of kavod.

Since our soul is eternal, this instinct to stand up for our kavod stays with us into the grave. At the beginning of Creation, when Kayin murdered Hevel, Hashem admonishes Kayin: “The voice of the blood of your brother cries out to me from the ground” (Bereishis 4:10). Our blood is that part of our body that contains our soul (Devarim 12:23). It has a voice that cries out from the grave, demanding restitution for our elbon.

Furthermore, when evil is unleashed in the world, the elbon reaches far beyond our individual souls. There is, kiveyachol, an elbon directed at Hashem. This is what we call “chillul Hashem.” In a sense, Hashem’s kavod has been compromised. History is full of dark chapters of chillul Hashem, with some obvious examples including Dor Hamabul, Sedom, Pharaoh, Sisera, and Haman.

At the End of Days, evil will be eradicated and Hashem will be revealed as Hashem Echad. Li nakom, this vengeance belongs to Hashem alone. But as we shall see, the revelation of ultimate vengeance involves a much deeper idea.

Mikdash—Nekamah Connection

Chazal make two observations that are clearly connected (Berachos 33a):

“The Beis Hamikdash is great, as the Torah refers to it between two names of Hashem, as the pasuk says, ‘Hashem, mikdash Hashem’ ” (Shemos 15:17).

“Nekamah is great, as the Torah refers to it between two names of Hashem, as the pasuk says, ‘Keil nekamos Hashem’ ” (Tehillim 94:1).

A foundation of Kabbalah involves understanding the secrets of Hashem’s names. On our level, the Gemara is teaching us that the journey from the Beginning of Days (the first name of Hashem) to the End of Days (the second name of Hashem) must pass through two crucial stations, Mikdash and nekamah. What makes them crucial, and how are they connected?

A fascinating correlation is that they both produce geirim — converts. Let’s contrast two stories, both connected to the Beis Hamikdash:

Rashi (Devarim 33:19) describes how when the seafaring tribe of Zevulun traded with the nations of the world, their non-Jewish trading partners would visit Zevulun’s territory and say, “If we’re already in Eretz Yisrael, let’s visit the Beis Hamikdash and see what it’s all about.” Awed by the beauty and majesty of Klal Yisrael performing the Avodah, they’d say, “There is no nation like this nation,” and they would convert.

The second story, recounted in Gittin 57b, involves Nevuzradan, the cruel captain of Nevuchadnetzar’s armies. When he arrived at the Azarah (the courtyard of the Beis Hamikdash), he was shocked to see blood seething and bubbling on the Azarah floor. The onlookers explained to him that this was the blood of Zecharyah Hanavi, who had been stoned to death by Jews after he warned and admonished them about the impending Churban.

Aghast, Nevuzradan declared, “I will appease him!”

He murdered the Great Sanhedrin and Small Sanhedrin, but the blood still roiled. He slaughtered young men and women, cheder children, but the blood still seethed. He continued the horrific massacre until close to a million Jews had been murdered, to no avail. Finally, he cried out, “Zecharyah, Zecharyah! I have slain the finest of your people. Do you want me to destroy them all?” His words had their desired impact, and the blood stopped bubbling.

Absorbing the impact of what had happened, Nevuzradan was overwhelmed with remorse. “If this is the vengeance that Jews receive for slaying one soul,” he said, “what will happen to me, who has slain such multitudes?!”

He fled and became a ger — a convert.

Two stories, two separate paths to geirus.

The geirus of Zevulun’s trade partners was more straightforward; they saw the grandeur of the Beis Hamikdash, and were drawn to be a part of it. Nevuzradan’s geirus was precipitated by understanding the power of nekamah. When he saw the bubbling blood that would not be placated so long as Zecharyah’s murder was not avenged, he understood that if the vengeance exacted for the honor of one Jew was so deep, how much deeper would be the vengeance exacted on him.

But Nevuzradan’s deeper insight was that the evil itself turned out to be a vehicle to reveal Hashem’s kavod. The evil unleashed by the murder of a navi in the holiest place on earth created the miracle of the bubbling blood, which in turn caused him to murder almost a million Jews, which in turn brought Nevuzradan to realize that all evil is self-destructive.

This brings us to a deeper level of understanding the nature of nekamah. As we stated earlier, the simpler level is that when our nefesh, the higher part of our humanity, has had its natural kavod diminished, it demands a restoration of that kavod through nekamah. But the deeper level of nekamah is when the instrument that diminished your kavod becomes the catalyst to reveal the depth of your kavod. And this second kind is Hashem’s nekamah.

At the Beis Hamikdash, there were two types of gilui kevodo — revelations of Divine kavod, and each so powerful that they brought geirim. One was from the essential kavod of the place itself, the other was from the kavod revealed from nekamah (though the primary phenomenon of gilui kavod through nekamah will take place at the End of Days).

They are both “given between two names of Hashem” because they are equal in effect. One is the direct kavod of pure goodness and the other is the indirect kavod revealed through the nekamah against evil.

Implosion of Evil

The most exalted nekamah is when Hashem allows evil to become stronger and stronger until it looks insuppressible. Then, just when it reaches its zenith, it implodes, revealing itself to have been powerless all along, nothing more than the plaything of Hashem, a tool to bring out His kavod.

We see this in the story of Purim. Haman reaches the zenith of his power, responding to “what should be done for the man whom the king wishes to honor?” with a resounding, “whom would the king wish to honor more than me?” Within hours he was hanging from a tree.

Let’s develop this idea further by returning to the Churban.

The Talmud (Gittin 56b) describes in graphic detail the atrocities committed by Titus, the Roman general who destroyed the Beis Hamikdash, followed by a lengthy account on how Hashem exacted an unusual vengeance.

Titus entered the Holy of Holies with a harlot and a sefer Torah and committed an unspeakable act. As he left, he took his sword and ripped the Paroches — the holy curtain that separates the Heichal from the Holy of Holies. Miraculously, blood started oozing out of the curtain. Titus thought, kiveyachol, that on a certain level he had killed Hashem.

In truth, the blood did represent a death of sorts. In the brachos following the reading of the haftarah, we describe the Beis Hamikdash as Beis Chayeinu — the House of Our Life. The reason why the laws of Tishah B’Av parallel the laws of aveilus is because with the Churban we lost that Beis Chayeinu.

A bas kol introduced Hashem’s nekamah with the words, “Rasha, son of a rasha, descendant of Eisav Harasha! I have a simple creature in my world called a yitush — a mosquito. Why is it called a simple creature? Because it has a mouth to allow food in but has no way to allow food out.” A yitush flew into Titus’s nostril and tortured him for over seven years until he died.

Why did Hashem use a yitush for vengeance? And why did the bas kol focus on the peculiar fact that a yitush has no way to expel food?

The Talmud (Megillah 25b, based on pesukim in Yeshayahu 46:1-4) compares avodah zarah to a person who is chronically constipated. The waste matter accumulates until the person explodes, revealing itself to be nothing more than excrement. Rav Chaim of Volozhin (Nefesh Hachayim 2:7) explains that everything healthy and alive has a filtering system. Kiveyachol Hashem has one too. The evil unleashed into the Higher Worlds by the deeds of man is expurgated through onesh, Hashem’s system of punishment.

As the illusion of avodah zarah expands and expands, it creates an impression that it is alive and all powerful. Until the moment of truth. When it explodes and reveals itself to be excrement, the antithesis of kavod, we realize it was essentially nothing all along. All evil is self-destructive. The moment of truth becomes the ultimate revelation of Hashem’s Kavod.

Titus, representing the power of Rome and their ancestor Eisav, thought he had “killed Hashem.” Therefore the yitush was the perfect instrument to reveal its essence. Let the creature that “has a mouth to allow food in but has no way to allow food out” destroy the evil that cannot filter its filth. The yitush reveals that not only did Titus not “kill Hashem” but that he, and what he represents, was never alive in the first place (Nefesh Hachayim 1:4).

The Final Revenge

As the suns starts to set on Tishah B’Av, the tone of the day switches to nechamah, the search for comfort. In Tefillas Nachem, inserted into Minchah, we pray for the day when the fire that destroyed Yerushalayim becomes the exact same fire that redeems it. Like the sun itself, fire has healing properties and destructive properties.

Fire represents Middas Hadin, the attribute of Hashem’s justice. At the End of Days, fire will bring kavod for Hashem and His people in a way that we are unable to comprehend today. Like Nevuzradan and the visitors who did business with the tribe of Zevulun, there will be an avalanche of requests for geirus. We will no longer accept them, although we look forward to lovingly bringing home every lost Jew.

Kol demei achicha tzo’akim eilai min ha’adamah. The voice of every single Jew who has ever suffered under the hand of our enemies, even the slightest pain, the smallest verbal abuse, is still crying from under the ground. Thousands of years have not dampened their voices.

And Hashem assures us, “ki dam avadav yikom.” I will avenge their blood; this is for Me, and Me only. Every one of these Jews will be brought back to life to see with their own eyes the full power of Hashem’s Middas Hadin. We cannot comprehend the depths of the Gehinnom we will witness our enemies enduring as each of the myriad anti-Semites throughout history will cry out their version of, “Moshe emes v’Toraso emes!” and “Das ist Gottes Volk!”

At Kri’as Yam Suf, the Yidden experienced a nekamah reminiscent of the vengeance Hashem will exact on our enemies at the End of Days. Maharal (Gevuros Hashem, 2^nd Introduction) explains that the neis besoch neis — miracle within a miracle (Ramban, Shemos 15:19) — at the Yam Suf was that what Klal Yisrael experienced as dry land the Egyptians experienced as raging sea, in exactly the same place! This allowed each Jew to see the extent of Middas Hadin in the suffering of each Egyptian. The sadists who enjoyed wielding their whips suffered the most and the ones who were “just doing their jobs” suffered the least (Rashi, Shemos 15:5).

What we cannot fathom is how each anti-Semite will, through their unique judgment, bring out new levels of kavod to Hashem. Not just every Nazi holding a gun, but every kapo, Ukrainian guard, and jeering bystander, every rasha, over 3,000 years of pain. We also cannot fathom how all those who suffered will receive the ultimate nechamah from this moment. They will not just say, “our suffering was worth it,” rather they will rejoice in the great zechus to have been part of this Master Plan.

This year, instead of struggling to relate to the aveilus over what once was, may we merit to rejoice in the nekamah and nechamah that will be.”

Rabbi Menachem Nissel is a mechanech in Jerusalem and is the author of Rigshei Lev: Women and Tefillah. He is a talmid of Rav Moshe Shapira ztz”l, bli ayin hara.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 804)

The post Holy Revenge first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Open your siddur and you’ll find, right after Shacharis, the Ani maamin’s, the Thirteen Principles of Faith. Piskei Teshuvos (1:132) notes that “many have the custom to say them” and brings sources in the footnotes. The ArtScroll Siddur (page 178) declares their recital as “a commendable practice.”

The Klausenburger Rebbe (Ki Sisa 5740) describes their daily recitation by his great-grandfather, the Divrei Chaim of Sanz: “He would say them b’lahav eish kodesh, with holy flames of fire, until it seemed like the walls of the house were trembling. Each phrase was translated into Yiddish. Ani maamin — ich gloyb! When all 13 were completed, he would repeat them all a second and a third time with equal devotion.”

Apologies if I’ve made you feel a little guilty for not saying them on a daily basis. Honestly, I don’t know anyone who does. Why not, though?

These are the principles in which we believe, to the point of willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice. Being prepared to die for something is what makes us truly alive. A major cause of anxiety and depression is not seeing a compelling reason to get up in the morning.

But a Jew attached to his faith always has a reason. His belief is the ultimate anchor, a reminder that his story begins with Adam Harishon and Avraham Avinu and Yetzias Mitzrayim, forging a fiery path all the way to the Melech HaMashiach and beyond to the World to Come. It only makes sense that we should declare these beliefs once a day.

Roots and Branches

The idea of 13 ikarim, principles, is sourced in the Rambam (Mishnah Sanhedrin 10). Ikarim creates a picture of tree trunks, from which branches and twigs emerge organically. The imagery is powerful, but raises a fundamental question. Explicit in the Rambam’s own writings (Hilchos Teshuvah 3:8) is that anyone who denies even one letter of the Torah is considered a kofer, an apostate. From where did the Rambam conceive that these 13 precepts have a special status and are considered as tree trunks, while the rest of the Torah are merely branches? And why is it important to divide our faith into two categories?

The Torah itself reminds us that our faith was created through an ikar, a foundation, upon which everything else is built: Yetzias Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt. The Torah mentions this many times, including the third paragraph of Shema that we recite twice daily, which concludes with, “I am Hashem, your G-d, Who has taken you out from the land of Egypt to be a G-d to you.”

All 13 principles are found in Yetzias Mitzrayim (Rav Moshe Chagiz, Eleh Hamitzvos, Mitzvah 21). When Hashem revealed Himself at Har Sinai, He declared, “I am Hashem, your G-d, Who has taken you out from the land of Egypt, the house of slavery” (Shemos 20:2). The first commandment was to accept the Jewish faith, anchored in the Thirteen Principles of Faith revealed at Yetzias Mitzrayim (see Rambam, ibid).

A Night Of Emunah

On Seder night, we reexperience Yetzias Mitzrayim. This is the perfect time to inculcate our progeny with ikarim, the fundamentals we live and die for. We literally pass over (pun intended) everything that’s truly meaningful to the next generation.

The ikarim are transmitted heart to heart. It’s experiential on the simplest level, through telling the story, through interactive questions and answers, and through the momentous mitzvos of the night. It’s also experiential on the most exalted level imaginable. By following the 15 steps of Seder, we can achieve a sense of clarity in faith that echoes the absolute clarity that we had at Har Sinai, and in our mother’s womb.

The centrality of ikarim on Seder Night is highlighted in how we respond to the four sons:

The chacham is taught the ikarim through their ultimate source, the power of Torah. “Hafoch bah v’hafoch bah, d’kulah bah — delve into Torah and continue to delve into it, for everything is in it (Avos 5:26).” We take our wise son on a halachic journey that builds up to a triumphant crescendo with the rabbinic laws of the afikomen. Fascinatingly, matzah is defined in the Zohar as lachma d’heimnusah, bread of faith (2:183b). The chacham is ready to comprehend the esoteric concept that by eating matzah we ingest ikarim, so that emunah literally becomes part of us.

The rasha has made a choice to reject Yetzias Mitzrayim. “V’lefi shehotzi es atzmo min haklal, kafar b’ikar.” Since he has renounced his association with Yetzias Mitzrayim, he, by definition, is a kofer b’ikar, someone who denies the ikarim. He has severed his connection to his people at the roots.

The tam lacks the sophistication to relate to ikarim though the lenses of Torah study. We reach out to him using the time-honored kiruv approach of telling stories. But these stories aren’t fantastic tales of distant history; the narrator tells them with passion and excitement as firsthand experience. Hashem took us out of Egypt! The tam finds himself drawn into the narrative on a personal level. The ikarim become part of his essence.

The she’eino yodeia lishol, the oblivious child, has no chance to find the ikarim on his own. “At psach lo”— take the initiative and open him up. At is feminine, reminding us that it’s usually the mother who opens up the clueless child. My rebbi Rav Shlomo Wolbe ztz”l notes that at the earliest age, a mother instills emunah in her child simply by role modeling. A little girl watches, puzzled, as her mother stands over the Shabbos candles, talking to Someone invisible, with a loving synthesis of reverence and tears. The child is having her first lesson in ikarim.

Daily Declaration

On Seder Night we light a flame of faith. How do we keep it burning throughout the year? And why isn’t saying the Thirteen Ani maamins a more common practice?

The answer is found in the first pasuk of the Shema. Twice a day we declare the Jewish equivalent of the Pledge of Allegiance. It doesn’t contain the 13 ikarim; rather, it’s a synopsis that breaks the ikarim into three major categories.

Let’s take a deeper look.

The Shema begins with the two iconic words, Shema Yisrael. These two introductory words can be understood as, “I’ve made a personal choice, and my choice is intertwined with the destiny of my people.” Shema literally means “hear.” Hearing is the sense most connected to our choices. Usually, we all see things in an identical way. There’s not much room for discussion. That’s why beis din only accepts visual evidence, what the witnesses actually saw, versus what they claim they heard. The meaning we choose to give the words we hear is subjective; it’s too open to personal interpretation, and therefore can’t work as testimony.

The Maharal (Tiferes Yisrael 16) makes an intriguing insight. Man is unique in that our natural pose is to stand erect, while the animal kingdom is naturally stooped. The animal kingdom always faces earth, locked into physicality, while we have the choice to look upwards toward the heavens, representing the spiritual world, or downwards to earth, representing the physical world. Our ability to freely choose to look up or down is Hashem’s way of reminding us that we have bechirah, free choice. This defines our humanity.

Our vestibular system helps us maintain our balance. When we are upside down, or going down a speeding elevator, the vestibular system sends messages to the brain reminding us to restore postural equilibrium. And where is the organ of balance, which symbolizes free choice, found? In the inner ear.

The Vilna Gaon notes that the Hebrew word for ear, ozen, has the same root as moznayim, which means balances. Our ability to hear and our unique status as the only creations with free choice are intimately intertwined.

With the word Shema I declare that I believe in the ikarim not because of external pressure, but as a personal choice. With the word Yisrael I add that my unique identity is inseparable from my connection to my people (Maharal, Nesiv Avodah 7). My life story begins with my birth and continues through my life. My life story also begins with Yetzias Mitzrayim and continues until I greet Mashiach.

Can You Hear Me?

The Torah’s narrative of Kabbalas HaTorah is surrounded with two people with opposite Shema reactions. The opening words of the parshah are “Vayishma Yisro,” Yisro heard about Matan Torah. Actually, the whole world heard Matan Torah (Zevachim 116a), so why are we singling out Yisro?

There’s a great Yiddish word, hard to translate, that conveys the idea: deheren. It means not simply to hear, but implies a deep understanding of what you’ve heard. It demonstrates that the words had a profound impact. While the whole world heard Matan Torah, only Yisro “dehert,” only he understood that his life could never be the same. He packed his bags and moved to the Midbar.

Immediately after Matan Torah, we learn about a Jewish slave who rejects freedom after six years of servitude. He chooses a life devoid of responsibility in which decisions are made for him by his master. The Torah says his ear should be pierced. Why the ear? Because the ear is where we make choices. “Let the ear that heard at Mount Sinai, ‘for the Children of Israel are slaves only to me,’ yet chose a different master, be pierced” (Rashi, Mishpatim 21:6).

As a teacher in yeshivos and seminaries, it’s painful to watch students who spent a year steeped in kedushah return to their homes and slide back spiritually to where they started. They sat in the same classes and beis hamedrash as their friends, hearing the emes of Torah. But they just heard the kolos. Their peers dehert.

When we declare Shema Yisrael, we reject the cowardice of the Jewish slave and identify with the heroic sacrifice of Yisro, who was moser nefesh for his beliefs. We truly hear.

We are now ready to say the word Hashem. With this word, we declare our belief in a Creator who is hayah hoveh v’yiheyeh, above time and space. This is a simplified expression of the first five ikarim.

We then declare that He is Elokeinu, a combination of two words, Eloka and shelanu. With Eloka we declare that Hashem is running the world, hidden yet in total control. Shelanu implies that He has put His people, Klal Yisrael, in the driver’s seat of His plan.

To succeed in our mission, He gave us an immutable Torah, with Moshe Rabbeinu and prophets and gedolim at the helm to ensure that it is transmitted accurately from generation to generation. These are the next four ikarim.

The final four ikarim, our belief in how Hashem will bring the world to its final destiny, are found in Hashem Echad (Rashi, Va’eschanan 6:4).

The Power of Shema

Every morning we wake up with millions of new words in print and online. In a world drowning with words, a Jew clings to six simple words, the first six-word phrase he said as a child, taught by devoted parents in the same way they, in turn were taught by their parents.

It’s the ultimate privilege to return our souls to our Maker at the end of our life’s journey with those same words, surrounded by progeny who have followed in our footsteps. With those words, we connect to every Jew from every land through every era in history all the way back to the declaration of Shema of Moshe Rabbeinu and Yaakov Avinu.

The Shema is repeated at night, a time that represents confusion and uncertainty. We declare in darkness that the ikarim remain unshakable in our hearts. We connect to the martyrs of our people who lovingly gave up their lives with the Shema on their lips. They in turn connect to the ahavas Hashem of Rabi Akiva’s final Shema under the pain of Roman torture.

Six simple words that contain infinite power. Six simple words that define the faith of our nation.

The Bridge From Egypt To Shema

The Rambam maintains that the full mitzvah of the Shema is to say all three paragraphs. He also maintains that the mitzvah to remember Yetzias Mitzrayim twice a day, found in the third paragraph of the Shema, isn’t a separate mitzvah; rather, it’s integral to the mitzvah of Shema (Rambam, Krias Shema 1:3).

On Seder night, we come out of Egypt once again and relive the nissim geluyim, open miracles of Yetzias Mitzrayim. On a night of total clarity, our emunah in Hashem and the 13 ikarim of His Torah is fortified and faithfully handed over to the next generation.

The rest of the year, in a world where Hashem seems hidden, we take note that we are surrounded by nissim nistarim, hidden miracles. The Shema, containing the bedrock of our faith anchored in the memory of Yetzias Mitzrayim, expresses our belief that, ultimately, it makes no difference whether we see or don’t see Hashem’s miracles. Our lives have meaning. We experienced the first geulah and preparing for the final Geulah.

We are ready to greet Melech HaMashiach.

Forged with Faith

Fifteen years ago, our daughter spent a year working at the Lauder Eitz Chaim School in Moscow. Many of the students knew nothing about Judaism. Decades of Communist oppression had ensured that the fire of the Avos, Yetziyas Mitzrayim, and Har Sinai were extinguished from their souls. The she'eino yodeia lishol is at least sitting at a Seder table. Who of the precious neshamos of Eitz Chaim had ever heard of Seder Night?

The highlight of the Eitz Chaim calendar is their summer camp, run in partnership with Operation Open Curtain. When I visited my daughter at Machaneh, the camp director, Mrs. Chana Rappaport of Toronto, asked me what I thought should be the camp’s goal. I answered that every student must know the first pasuk of Shema. Not just to declare the words, but to feel the words. To relate to three thousand years of Jewish emunah.

It turns out that the Shema was already a legendary pillar of the camp. Rivki Nissel (an esteemed talmidah, but not a relative), senior counselor at the camp and today a clinical social worker in Brooklyn, shared the following story that had unfolded a few weeks after camp in 2003:

There are some really bad neighborhoods in Moscow, infested with drug-addicted hoodlums who will stop at nothing when they need money for their next fix. The police are notoriously indifferent. Shoshanika, a 15-year-old graduate of Machaneh Eitz Chaim, was home with her father when four thugs burst in. Two of them pounced on her, dragged her into a small room and wrapped her face and body with thick Scotch tape. One of them began to strangle her.

In intense pain and feeling overwhelming terror, Shoshanika realized she had just a few moments left in This World. Then she remembered what had been engraved into her heart at summer camp. She could connect to something infinite, spanning the ages, more powerful than all the evil in the world. A Higher Hand had miraculously arranged a thin gap between the layers of tape, allowing her to scream with all her remaining strength.

“Shema Yisrael! Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad!”

Her tormentor dropped her, as if he’d seen a demon. He fled, together with the other criminals. Although paralyzed with shock, Shoshanika managed to maneuver herself to a sharp object and set herself free. She found her father unconscious, bruised and beaten, but very much alive.

This brave young lady shared with Rivki her reflections on her ordeal:

“The Shema saved my life. People probably think that what happened has made me sad and depressed. That I live my life in fear. Actually, it’s the exact opposite. I’ve survived the worst possible experience and what did I find? I found how much Hashem loves me. With Hashem so close, why should I be afraid?

And when did this all happen? On Erev Rosh Hashanah, hours before the Book of Life is opened.

Make It Yours

The discerning reader will notice that the way we explained the six words of the Shema reflecting the ikarim is different from the customary explanation of the Shulchan Aruch (O.C. 5:1 and 61:6). Here’s an approach to the words that synthesize the two approaches.

At first glance, 16 steps seems daunting, but with twice-daily repetition, the full kavanah can be achievable.

SHEMA — HEAR

I hear, understand, and accept. I have made a choice that is completely my own

YISRAEL — O ISRAEL

And my choice is intertwined with the destiny of my people

HASHEM

[When I gaze at the word, I think] I declare my belief that Hashem is Hayah, Hoveh, V’yiheyeh, Was, Is, and Will Be, above time and hence above space, who created the world

[When I read the word, I think] And I accept Him as my Master and King

ELOKEINU — IS OUR G-D

[Elokeinu] I declare that He is Takif, Baal Hayecholes uBaal Hakochos kulam, He runs the world as a Master with unlimited strength and unlimited choices and anything else that seems to have power is an illusion

[Immediately after saying Hashem, I think “Eloka Shelanu”] He runs the world as a hidden King, placing the Jewish People at the center of His plan and giving us the Torah to bring out His plan

HASHEM

[When I gaze at the word, I think] I declare my belief that Hashem is Hayah, Hoveh, V’yiheyeh, Was, Is and Will Be, above time and hence above space, who created the world

[When I read the word, I think] And I accept Him as my Master

[Immediately after saying Hashem, I think] And I believe that at the time of the full revelation of Echad His name Hashem will be fully revealed (Maharal Netzach 42)

ECHAD — THE ONE AND ONLY

[The letter Alef] Hashem is One

[The letter Ches] who is Master of earth and the seven heavens

[The letter Daled] And Master in all four directions, reflecting His kindness (chesed), judgment (din), over future and past

[Immediately after saying Echad, I think] Klal Yisrael accepts Him now as the One and Only King

And after Mashiach comes all the nations will accept him as One (Tzefaniah 3:9), like the unity of an orchestra fully accepting their conductor

And at the End of Days after techiyas hameisim there will be the ultimate revelation of His unity and “Hashem will be One and His Name One” (Zechariah 14:9)

I believe in all these ideas and am mekabel ol Malchus Shamayim, accept the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven, to the point of mesirus nefesh, being prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice

Rabbi Menachem Nissel is a mechanech in Jerusalem and is the author of Rigshei Lev: Women and Tefillah. He is a talmid of Rav Moshe Shapira ztz”l, bli ayin hara.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 789)

The post Festival Of Faith first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Greek influence was everywhere, contaminating the holy nation, defiling the holy land. Would the truth be lost? One man got up and called, “Mi l’Hashem elai!” He and his tiny band of men attacked the great Greek army — knowing that while they may not win, they had to fight.

That cry has traveled through the centuries. And in every generation, there are those who respond and take a stand for Hashem. Eight stories

For years, I wondered why the area of southern Transylvania — birthplace of my father, Reb Shabtai Nissel — had been spared by the Nazis. Northern Transylvania had been given over to the Hungarian Nazis, its inhabitants sent to Auschwitz, but the Nazis in the south never ended up sending people to Auschwitz.

I asked around, explored, investigated, yet no one seemed to know. When I was sitting shivah, I asked my father’s peers, but none of them had satisfactory answers.

While researching on the website Jewish Gen, I was actually able to see the records: The entire region of Arad, which is where my father was from, was slated to go to the death camp Belzec in 1942. I saw my father’s name, his brothers, his parents, his cousins — the entire extended family was listed on this census. The transport was scheduled for Rosh Chodesh Shevat. No one could tell me why it had been canceled.

Eventually, I decided that this would be one of those questions I’d never get an answer to, and I moved on. I began to make a seudas hoda’ah on Rosh Chodesh Shevat every year; I may not have known exactly what transpired, but I did know that my family had been saved.

One day, several years ago, Michlalah was getting rid of many of their Holocaust books. There was a big pile of books near the entrance. One caught my eye — Resisting the Storm: Romania, 1940–1947.

I was soon engrossed in the fading, fraying book, the memoirs of a Rabbi Alexandre Safran, who describes himself as “a young chief rabbi.” Despite his age — he was only 29 — he was elected chief rabbi of Romania after the passing of Chief Rabbi Dr. Jacob Niemirower in February 1940. Rabbi Safran had great hopes for his position — he hoped to further Jewish unity, to protest unjust laws, to instill a youthful spirit in Jewish institutions throughout the country.

But the echoes of war grew nearer. With the Soviet Ultimatum in June of 1940, Romania began to change its policy toward Jews. As the summer months passed, orders were given to kill Jews, and pogroms raged. The violence soon reached Bucharest, where the Safrans lived; 124 Jews were killed in a pogrom, and the Iron Guard vowed to track down and kill Rabbi Safran. Still, even after certificates to Eretz Yisrael were obtained for the Safrans, the young rabbi refused to make use of them; he would stay with his kehillah.

On June 29, 1941 — what would become known as the infamous “that Sunday” — a pogrom erupted in Jassy. Thousands of Jews were deported to concentration camps, many of whom suffocated en route on the death trains. Nearly 12,000 Jews were killed on that day. It was all too clear that Romania had joined hands with Germany.

Several days later, Rabbi Safran was informed that the government had deemed him the first potential hostage; he would be the one to suffer the consequences for anything the Jews did. Yet Rabbi Safran continued his work — advocating on behalf of suffering Jewry, giving shiurim, organizing a school network.

Then came August 1942. Rabbi Safran learned that the Jews of Southern Transylvania were going to be deported. He tried interceding with the King Mihai and Elena, the Queen Mother of Romania, the Swiss ambassador, the Red Cross. When these efforts yielded no results, the Jewish Council decided to contact Metropolitan Balan, the head of the Romanian Orthodox Church of Transylvania — and a known anti-Semite.

Rabbi Safran took an “unusually daring, bordering on the impertinent” step — he asked Balan to come see him in Bucharest. To his surprise, Balan agreed.

But when they met, Balan was distant and cold.

Rabbi Safran raised his voice. “After our deaths,” he warned him, “we will stand together before the Supreme Judge. And I will confront you with the deaths of tens of thousands of Jews, innocent human beings you are responsible for as inhabitants of your diocese!”

Balan stood up and began pacing the room. “The silence hung heavy,” Rabbi Safran recalled. Then Balan lifted the phone and called Officer Marshal Antonescu. “I must see you immediately,” he told him.

Before he left, he took Rabbi Safran’s trembling hand and looked him in the eye. “Remember this day,” Balan told him.

Rabbi Safran returned home, where he felt faint; he’d developed a high temperature. At three o’clock that afternoon, the phone rang. It was Balan. The transport had been canceled. Thousands of Jews had been spared.

That’s not the end of the story. During the war, my father and his relatives — who had it relatively “easy” — were able to save many Jews, who passed through Bucharest on their way to Palestine.

Among the people they helped save were the Bobover rebbe, as well as the grandfather of the current Satmar Rebbe — something I think about whenever I see Bobover or Satmar institutions around the world, brimming with thousands of chassidim who don’t even know about the role my father or Rabbi Safran played in shaping their lives.

And Rabbi Safran never forgot that day. Years later, after the war, Balan appealed to Rabbi Safran. He was threatened with arrest and trial as a war criminal, and asked an acquaintance to remind Rabbi Safran about “a certain day in the summer of 1942.” Rabbi Safran immediately interceded, speaking with the prime minister and other influential politicians, until he had secured Balan’s freedom — an incident he termed a v’nahafoch hu, similar to the Megillas Esther.

“Metropolitan Balan’s reply could only be explained by a miracle,” Rabbi Safran recalled.

A miracle, yes. But also a testament to the bravery and strength of a young man who wouldn’t be silenced, who forged forward in the face of failure and death, who would not stop fighting for his people.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 770)

The post Remember this Day first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Childhood memories of Chanukah bathe us in nostalgia. Nothing compares to the pungent aroma of frying latkes wafting from the kitchen, receiving Chanukah gelt from Zeidy and Bubby.

My chavrusa, Rav Dovid Kamenetsky, recalls with delight how on the fifth night of Chanukah, every grandchild received five dollars from his zeidy, Rav Yaakov. And that was during the 1960s, when five dollars was a fortune for a child! Why the fifth night? It’s the only night that can never fall on Shabbos (Orchos Rabbeinu 3, Chanukah 3).

The minhag is old and universal. Which raises the question, what’s the reason behind the minhag? Why davka money, and not gifts in colorful wrapping paper, as practiced by our non-Jewish neighbors? And why only Chanukah? I’m sure our kids won’t complain if they got some Pesach gelt while we distribute kimcha d’Pischa.

The Ponevezher Rav, quoted by Rav Chaim Friedlander, suggests that the minhag has its roots in the Greek decree forbidding the study of Torah. After the victory of the Maccabim, money was distributed to Jewish youth as an incentive to get them back into learning (Sifsei Chaim, Moadim 2:134). Rav Chaim Palagi brings a similar idea with further material based on Kabbalah (Moed L’Kol Chai 27:77).

If so, somehow, we’ve lost the plan. We distribute coins to boys and girls alike, often at an age when they barely understand what money is all about. (Let’s be honest, the money often ends up in a candy shop, not a seforim store.)

A CRYPTIC RAMBAM

A simpler approach suggests that the minhag of Chanukah gelt is based on the opening words of the Rambam in Hilchos Chanukah (3:1). The Rambam lists eight crimes the Greeks perpetrated against us. (I assume the number “eight” is no coincidence.)

The eighth on the list is the familiar v’timu hataharos — they spiritually contaminated that which was pure, a reference to the shemanim, the oils in the Beis Hamikdash. Fourth and fifth on the list is “u'pashtu yadam b’mamonam u’vnoseihem,” the Greeks “spread their hands” on our money and our daughters. Voila! We have our source. Chanukah gelt reminds us that Hashem saved us from the Yevanim who “spread their hands” on our money (Shaarei Orah, Shaar HaChanukah).

The questions on the Rambam drip like a gooey jelly doughnut. What’s the source that the Greeks “spread their hands” on our money? My rebbi, Rav Avrohom Gurewitz (Ohr Avrohom on Chanukah, 105-108), picks apart the many opinions that explain the Rambam by showing sources that Greeks made decrees that caused us monetary loss. He asks two questions:

Rambam writes, “The Greeks spread their hands on our money and our daughters,” combining in one phrase the monetary crime with the crime against our daughters, referring to the infamous decree that women should be defiled by the local Greek commander on her wedding night. What is the connection between the two atrocities?

The basic difference between Chanukah and Purim is that on Chanukah we suffered from ruchniyus decrees while on Purim they were gashmiyus decrees. (see Taz, Orach Chayim 670:3). Monetary loss belongs to the Purim story. We celebrate our deliverance from Haman’s plans to plunder our wealth in the Purim version of al hanissim. The Chanukah version only mentions deliverance from ruchniyus oppression.

To solve this riddle, we need to go back to basics and ask ourselves a simple question. What is money?

THE WORLD WITHOUT MONEY

Theoretically an economy is sustainable without money. Barter is all we need. I can come to the market with my flock of sheep and use them to buy groceries, bookshelves, or a week’s rent. A baker and a tailor can exchange bread for clothing.

Currency is just a convenience; it’s easier to schlep silver coins than sheep. It also makes it easier for governments to tax their citizens. Money, like cars and washing machines, adds to the quality of our lives, but it’s not essential to the world Hashem created. It’s possible that within a few years, modern countries will go cashless, replacing coins with electronic payment methods.

The Torah, the blueprint of creation, reflects this reality. Whenever the Torah requires money, the equivalent in goods is acceptable. Kiddushin, the legal transaction of marriage, requires a prutah, a small bronze coin. (Although good luck to the yeshivah bochur who offers his wife-to-be a prutah instead of a gold ring!) Even the monetary redemption of maaser sheini, the tithe of produce that is eaten in Yerushalayim, is offered as a convenience to avoiding hauling truckloads of fruits from the Galilee to the Holy City.

But there’s an exception to this entire approach. There’s one mitzvah which can only be performed by contributing an actual coin. The equivalent in goods is unacceptable. That mitzvah is the machatzis hashekel, the half-shekel donated by every eligible Jew as a contribution to the korbanos tzibbur, the communal sacrifices in the Beis Hamikdash (Shemos 30:13-16; Bechoros 8:7).

Apparently, money isn’t just a convenient alternative to trading goods — it’s an essential part of Hashem’s creation. It’s part of Torah and therefore, by definition, contains a profound eternal message.

A SYSTEM OF VALUE

Coins and currency measure erech, value. An economy operating through barter wouldn’t have a universal yardstick of value. Without money, the concept of overall prices that dictates which products are valuable and which are worthless wouldn’t exist. “Expensive” and “cheap” can only exist in a world with money.

The corollary of value is kavod, honor. We honor that which is expensive and dishonor that which is cheap. Interestingly, the word yakar, expensive, is a synonym for kavod (see, for example, Esther 1:20 where Achashveirosh decrees that women must give yakar, honor, to their husbands). Similarly, zol, cheap, also means something lowly and degraded.

Royalty is built on kavod. A monarch shows that he’s elevated beyond dictatorship by projecting his wealth. Indeed, the brachah we make on a non-Jewish king is shenasan michvodo l’basar v’dom, who gave from His honor to flesh and blood. A king’s lifeblood is his honor.

We bestow the ultimate kavod to the King of kings. He’s the source of all true value. It’s is a recurrent theme in our tefillos. On Rosh Hashanah we say, “Meloch al kol ha’olam kulo b’chovodecha, v’hinasei al kol ha’aretz bikarecha — reign over the entire universe in Your glory (kavod); be exalted over all the world in Your splendor (yakar).”

When Hashem created money, He was teaching us that the structure of the world depends on something much more profound than survival and necessity. It’s founded on how we measure the value of things, ultimately expressed in how we honor people, with the highest honor bestowed to royalty. Our challenge is to identify and promote the true source of malchus and kavod, HaKadosh Baruch Hu (Midrash Rabbah, Shir Hashirim 3:10).

Which brings us back to the machatzis hashekel.

THE FIERY COIN

Chazal tell us that Moshe Rabbeinu was puzzled by the commandment of machatzis hashekel (Midrash Rabbah, Bamidbar 14:3). The Torah explains us that the donation was l’chaper al nafshoseichem, to atone for your souls. Money can buy atonement? Doesn’t sound very Jewish to me.

Hashem explains things by showing Moshe a coin of fire, taken from under the Kisei Hakavod, the Throne of Glory. What message was Hashem conveying with this perplexing imagery?

In Shir Hashirim (8:6), Klal Yisrael beseech Hashem to relate to us as the centerpiece of His thoughts and deeds. The pasuk continues by expressing the depth of our eternal love for Him with the powerful words: “Ki azah k’maves ahavah, reshafeha rishpei eish — for strong till death is my love… its flashes are flashes of fire.”

Shir Hashirim continues by describing how all the waters of the world cannot extinguish that fire. If someone were to offer all the treasures of the world to entice us away from our beloved, they would be scorned to the extreme. In other words, the power of love makes offering money useless. Imagine someone offering you a fortune of money for your child! You would be deeply offended and would angrily throw him out of your house. Shlomo Hamelech compares that love to flashes of fire. Fire is beyond the realm of the value system of money.

A coin of fire expresses that there is a single value that nullifies all other concepts of value, making them worthless. It’s not by chance that Hashem took it from beneath His throne of kavod. Hashem is teaching Moshe Rabbeinu that the essential kavod in this world is His throne; every other measurement of kavod and value in this world is insignificant.

When we give our machatzis hashekel, we make the ultimate statement about value. Our half shekel is intimately connected to another half shekel, made out of fire and kept under the Throne of Kavod. Our half shekel thus becomes the paradigm of currency, finding completion in the only currency that has true worth.

Moshe Rabbeinu now understood how a half shekel can atone for our souls. The atonement comes by finding completion in a half shekel of fire. The two halves find natural completion in the Beis Hamikdash, the place where Heaven and Earth meet.

That’s why our half shekels are specifically designated for korbanos tzibbur. It’s only when we let go of our individual identities and become Klal Yisrael that we connect to out “second half,” Hashem’s coin of fire. In the laws of tzibbur, there is no halachic difference between ten men and millions of men. We become one unit called Klal Yisrael, the natural partners to Hashem. And only as Klal Yisrael can our half shekels combine with the fiery half shekel of infinite worth.

A MATTER OF INTEREST

In a 21st century economy, the ancient machatzis hashekel mitzvah teaches us the proper way to view money. When we carry money in our pockets, we’re carrying something valuable. What gives it value? For a Jew, value exists as much as it is connected to the proverbial coin of fire. How is this done in practice?

The word shekel implies lishkol, to give. A Jewish coin is a giving coin. The moment after our earnings have covered our needs, we must ask ourselves, what are we supposed to do with the surplus money? The answer is simple: Use it to make the world a little closer to Hashem.

This principle comes out in full force with the laws of ribbis (the prohibition against charging interest on a loan, nothing to do with Ashkenazi frogs). Lending our surplus money to help a fellow Jew is a basic mitzvah. Charging interest on that loan flips Hashem’s plan for what a Torah economy should look like. “Giving coins” become “taking coins.” Love of our fellow Jew becomes love of ourselves.

Chazal use very strong language to describe the evil of taking interest. For example, Hashem declares that He took us out of Egypt on condition that we don’t charge interest. Anyone who charges interest is kofer b’ikkar, he has rejected the central tenet of Judaism (Sifrah, Behar 5). In Lashon Kodesh, the gematria of ribbis is 612, implying it’s equal in importance to all the other 613 mitzvos. Ribbis has the same four letters as bris, implying that lending without interest is to the economy what bris milah is to our bodies. It defines us.

When we see money as a gift from Hashem to be used as “giving money,” it becomes a tool for perfecting Hashem’s world. When we use it to support Torah, as in a Yissachar-Zevulun partnership, money actually endows Zevulun with the infinite merit of Yissachar’s Torah. When we use money this way, we call it kadosh, holy. It’s not kadosh in the classic way, like a sefer Torah, rather its kedushah comes from our mindset to use money to elevate the world. Ultimately, all Jewish money is anchored in the ultimate value, the fiery half shekel found under the Throne of Kavod.

It was against the kedushah of money that the Greeks waged war.

GREEK VALUE SYSTEM

The Rambam lists eight atrocities that the Greeks committed against the Jews. The common thread is summarized in number eight. V’timu hataharos, they took that which is pure and made it impure.

Greece wasn’t an empire of thieves and adulterers. It was an empire of tumah.

When a chassan turns to his kallah and publicly declares “Harei at mekudeshes li,” he affirms that he and his wife are about to build something unique and infinite, a Jewish home. It will be anchored in kedushah, a microcosm of the Beis Hamikdash itself. The centerpiece of that kedushah is his wife, her holiness rooted in the Imahos.

The local Greek commander could take any woman he wanted. But that wasn’t his agenda. He was waging war against the Jews. His war was against kedushah, and for that, he needed to defile the sanctity of kiddushin, the wedding night.

Similarly, as the occupying army, the Greeks could take from us as much money as they wanted. That wasn’t their agenda, either. They wanted to battle a monetary system that was kadosh, anchored in the Kisei Hakavod. The Rambam combines the two atrocities of pashtu yadam to convey that the Greeks expanded their war against kedushah on two new fronts. In the Jewish home, they fought against the kedushah of the Jewish woman, and in the marketplace, against the kedushah of money.

In classical times, an ox symbolized economic prowess (Mishlei 14:4). Perhaps this is echoed in the “Bull of Wall Street” bronze statue adorning America’s financial district. The Greeks decreed, “kisvu lachem al keren hashor she’ein lachem chelek b’Elokei Yisrael — write on the ox’s horn that you have no portion in the G-d of Israel.” The goal was to disconnect money from ruchniyus. The Greek vision was of a G-dless economy.

In practice, the Greeks wanted to replace giving coins with taking coins. The Greek’s success was noted as early as the times of Hillel Hazakein. At the end of this shemittah year, we’ll have the theoretical opportunity to perform the beautiful mitzvah of shmittas kesafim. We can cancel all debts owed to us, allowing our poorer brethren a chance to breathe.

The idea behind the mitzvah is to remind us that surplus money is an opportunity to help our fellow Jew. Hillel, who lived within 200 years after the Greeks’ decrees, noted that as shemittah approached, Jews just stopped lending. He thus instituted the pruzbul, a legal bypass of shemittas kesafim. The necessity for a pruzbul reflected the extent to which the Greeks had infected our mindset.

THE MESSAGE OF CHANUKAH GELT

Fast-forward 2,000 years, and the Greeks have succeeded beyond all belief. Step into the outside world, and you’ll see a world economy defined by interest rates. Ask anyone “What do you do?” and they’ll answer how they earn money. Their net worth defines their status in society.

From a young age, humanity is taught to be slaves to making money until it destroys their bodies. They then spend it on health care to restore their bodies. The advertising industry creates an endless anxiety promoting physical needs that are essential to happiness. The result? A world drowning in the relentless pursuit of materialistic pleasure. A world with no time for G-dliness, where happiness is a hopeless dream.

Step into the Jewish home on Chanukah. There you will see candles burning from a pure oil liberated from Greek contamination. The fire rises beyond the physical world and connects to a hidden light that is anchored in the fire under the Kisei Hakavod.

In that island of purity, parents give their young children Chanukah gelt. They instill in them the values of Jewish money, the kedushah of the giving coins. Later in life, this will translate into noble pursuits, such as caring for our fellow Jew and supporting our Torah institutions, inspired by the warm memories of receiving Chanukah gelt.

Rabbi Menachem Nissel is a mechanech in Jerusalem and is the author of Rigshei Lev: Women & Tefillah. He is a talmid of Rav Moshe Shapira ztz”l, bli ayin hara.

Chanukah Gelt Challenge

This year, while giving out Chanukah gelt, let’s wage war against Yavan by upgrading our own Giving Coins.

Some suggestions:

[Note: It may be prudent to have a discussion with your spouse or rav before committing to a financial obligation]

TZEDAKAH BEFORE A MITZVAH. Don’t wait until Erev Shabbos before candle lighting to put a coin in your pushke. Every time you daven, give a coin to tzedakah (Rigshei Lev 2:23).

TAKE RESPONSIBILITY Your building needs a rep for the local Tomchei Shabbos? Your neighborhood needs someone to collect for the annual bikur cholim or Hatzalah campaign? Be that person!

FIX IT Annoyed that the air conditioning doesn’t work properly in your shul or kid’s classroom? The bathrooms are dilapidated? Don’t complain. When you see a problem, raise the money, and fix it.

EMPOWER A FELLOW JEW Rambam (see Matnos Aniyim 10: 7-14) writes that the highest form of tzedakah is to give employment, allowing others to express their tzelem Elokim so they too can give to others. Help that lost kid find a job or pay for their schooling. Extra brownie points in Shamayim if they don’t know that you’re their sponsor.

PRACTICE YOUR SMILE Rambam writes that sever panim yafos, showing a fundraiser a pleasant face, is the most important part of the mitzvah of tzedakah. Offer them drinks. Make them feel that they’re giving you much more than you’re giving them, which, of course, is the case.

JUMP THE GUN Rambam writes that the mitzvah of tzedakah is performed better if you give before they ask. It saves the collector the humiliation of putting his hand out. If a fundraiser comes to you annually, preempt them by sending your donation. If you see a poor person, give before they ask.

SIMCHAH Mazel Tov! You’re making a chasunah! Find a poor kallah and pay for her wedding as well. Their simchah becomes a zechus for your simchah.

SHALOM FUND Set aside money on a regular basis to be used to diffuse tension between you and your spouse, family, or neighbors. If a disagreement can be solved by throwing money at the problem, go to your Shalom Fund, and then your Giving Coins become Shalom Coins.

INSPIRE YOUR CHILDREN Beyond teaching by example, teach your children at a young age the art of giving. Give them money for the express purpose of giving tzedakah. Teach them to maaser pocket-money or money earned from babysitting or summer jobs.

CHOMESH If Hashem has blessed you financially, it’s time to upgrade from giving maaser (one tenth) to chomesh (one fifth) of your income. Expect to be blessed even more.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 770)

The post Giving Coins  first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.