Parshas Beshallach — The Truest Expression of Gratitude
Then Moshe and the Children of Israel will sing …
As if with one voice, the commentaries wonder at the future tense employed here by the Torah. The meaning of the verse is clear: then, after the splitting of the sea and the destruction of Pharaoh’s chariots, the Jews sang their praises of the Master of the World who had provided their miraculous salvation.
If so, why the future tense?
All the commentaries begin with Rashi: Then, when [the nation] saw the miracle, it felt inspired to sing. But what has Rashi added? Is it not obvious that their song of praise was inspired by the events through which they had been saved?
Perhaps we can find a clue in the structure of our daily prayers. The weekday Amidah, the standing prayer, is divided into three distinct sections. The first three blessings are expressions of praise, through which we demonstrate our recognition that we are standing before the Almighty, the One who hears supplications and has the power to answer them. The final three blessings are expressions of gratitude, wherein we thank HaShem for listening to and considering our entreaties.
The body of the Amidah, the thirteen central blessings, are expressions of request, wherein we ask for the Almighty to bestow upon us the basic necessities of life, so that we are able to serve Him by studying His Torah and upholding His commandments. By recognizing that G-d is the source of all blessing — of intelligence, health, sustanance, justice, and all things physical and spiritual — we remind ourselves of our own responsibility to direct our lives in fulfillment of the higher purpose for which we were created, and we focus our attention on self-evaluation to determine whether or not we are living up to our individual potentials.
Of this central group of petitions, the final blessing poses something of a curiosity. Shema koleinu – Listen to our voices, we cry out, and accept our prayers with favor and mercy. What is the value of asking HaShem to listen to our prayers? If He is already listening, then this request is superfluous; if He is not listening, then it is pointless. Moreover, why is it positioned at the end of our list of requests? Presumably we should ask G-d to listen before we begin to ask, not after we have finished asking?
I believe I heard the following explanation from Rav Dovid Gottleib: If I ask my friend to lend me ten dollars, and he lends me ten dollars, naturally I respond by saying, “Thank you.” However, if my friend tells me he doesn’t have the money, but he will get it for me, I also respond by saying, “Thank you.”
In the first case, I am expressing my appreciation for having gotten what I want. But in the second case, even though I still don’t have the ten dollars, I nevertheless express my appreciation. Indeed, in this second case my thanks describe a higher level of gratitude, not merely for having gotten what I want, but for my friend’s interest, concern, and effort, which ultimately mean more to me than mere money.
Similarly, in the blessing of Shema koleinu, we are not asking the Almighty for what we have already requested; rather, we are asking Him to embue us with the perception of His involvement in our lives. More than the things we have requested, we want to feel that HaShem cares about us, that He is responsive to our needs and our desires, that even when He withholds from us what we want it is because He recognizes that the fulfillment of these requrests is not in our own spiritual best interest. Indeed, at no time are we closer to G-d than when He is in the process of granting our petitions, for it is then that He is most actively involved in our lives. The moment our requests are answered, we once again feel a sense of independence, which is a manifestation of the illusion that we can survive for even a moment without the grace of G-d.
If we apply this principle to the splitting of the sea, we can understand that the Jews had two different ways that could have praised HaShem for their salvation. They might have expressed their gratitude after they had been saved, seeing then that they were truly secure from the threat of the Egyptian army. However, a higher expression of gratitude would have been to sing the praises of HaShem as they were passing through the sea, for it would have been at that moment, with the walls of water towering above them and Pharaoh’s chariots bearing down upon them, that HaShem was closest to them. At that moment, their trust in the inevitabilityof their salvation inspired a song like no other, describing their gratitude for the greatest gift any human soul could desire — true spiritual intimacy with the Divine.
Nevertheless, to have stopped in the midst of their flight to safety to begin singing would have shown needless dependence upon HaShem’s miraculous intervention. Rather, they waited until their survival was assured. But the Torah testifies to the feelings that motivated their song. Then, when they were still fleeing from the Egyptians between the walls of water, the Children of Israel would sing. Even if their mouths would not form the words until later, their hearts were already inspired to sing as the greatest possible expression of gratitude and closeness to their Creator.
Parshas Bo — The Crossroads of Repentance
During the last days of prophetic vision, some 25 hundred years ago, the sages divided the Torah into parshios – portions, and decreed that successive parshios should be read publicly as part of the Sabbath morning prayer service, so that the Jewish people would hear the reading of the entire Torah from year to year. The divisions of these parshios followed either historical, philosophical, or narrative patterns, so that each was, to some extent, self-contained with a particular thematic focus.
It is curious, therefore, that the sages saw fit to place the first seven of the of the Plagues upon Egypt into last week’s parsha, while leaving the final three for this week’s Torah portion. The commentaries discuss at length the arrangement of the plagues into three sets of three, with the final Plague upon the Firstborn in a class by itself. Consequently, if it were necessary to divide the plagues at all, it would better have been placed the point of division after the sixth plague – which completed the second set of three – than after the seventh.
Nevertheless, a careful reading of the narrative reveals that the seventh plague does stand out from all the rest by virtue of Pharaoh’s unprecedented reaction. After each of the previous plagues, Pharaoh had either stubbornly refused to yield or else promised to send the Jews out, only to revoke his permission once the plague had abated. But after the plague of fiery hail, Pharaoh makes an astonishing admission: This time I have sinned; God is righteous, and I and my people are wicked.
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In its discussion concerning the laws of marriage, the Talmud proposes an unlikely scenario, in which a man said to a woman, “You are betrothed to me on condition that I am a tzaddik – a righteous man.” The Talmud concludes that the betrothal is binding and the woman is married, even if the man is a person of dubious reputation. Why? Because it is possible, the sages explain, that at the moment he spoke he may indeed have repented the sins of a lifetime and became a truly righteous man.
If so, perhaps Pharaoh’s sincere confession in the face of the extraordinary suspension of nature, whereby the incompatible forces of fire and ice were forced into partnership for the express purpose of punishing the Egyptians, opened a window of opportunity for him and his nation.
From the very beginning, it had been the Almighty’s plan that Pharaoh would not let the Jews go, so that God would have cause “to multiply My miracles upon the land of Egypt.” After each of the first five plagues, Pharaoh cooperated by hardening his own heart. In contrast, after each of the last plagues before Pharaoh’s capitulation, it was God who hardened Pharaoh’s heart: because Pharaoh had discarded every opportunity to submit to the Divine Will, he forfeited the freedom to turn from the course he had chosen for himself through his earlier decisions.
After the seventh plague, however, we find both expressions: first Pharaoh hardened his own heart; subsequently, God informs Moshe that He has hardened Pharaoh’s heart. How can both be true at the same time?
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The power of tshuva – repentance – is unimaginable. In an instant, any individual can rewrite his past, erase a lifetime of misdeeds, and transform himself into the most righteous of men. Even Pharaoh, the paradigm of wanton evil, possessed the human potential to return to the path of justice and truth. Having endowed every human being with the capacity for human renewal and redemption, God Himself cannot stand in the way of the truly repentant.
We might suggest, therefore, that when Pharaoh acknowledged both his own wickedness the justice of the Almighty, God had no power to further harden Pharaoh’s heart. In that instant, Pharaoh had positioned himself at the threshold of true righteousness, and no force in the universe could stand in his way if he chose to take the final step forward.
No force, that is, except himself. Pharaoh saw that the rain, the hail, and the thunder had ceased, and he continued to sin; and he made his heart stubborn…
The moment was lost and, having forfeited his chance, Pharaoh’s fate was assured. Instead of seizing the moment and stepping forward into a new future, he stepped backward and toppled into oblivion of his past.
And so last week’s parsha ends: by flirting with repentance, Pharaoh held in his hand the opportunity to end the siege of plagues and halt the systematic destruction of his country. But he failed to follow through, and so the plagues resume as this week’s parsha continues on.
How often do we find ourselves looking through a window of opportunity, offered the divine gift of sudden clarity into the condition of our souls and direction of our travels upon this earth? How often are our eyes granted the vision to look upon our lives with true objectivity, to recognize in sharp relief the contrast between what we could achieve and how far we have fallen short of our potential?
And what do we do with these opportunities? Do we rise to the challenge and resolutely chart a new course into the future, or do we take notice only for an instant and then, like Pharaoh, return reflexively to the habits of the past? Every such moment is ours for the taking or ours to discard. The way we choose will determine our future, in this world and in the World to Come.
Parshas VoEira — The Faith of our Fathers
Students of Torah literature know that serious scholarship begins (and often ends) with the commentaries of Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, familiar to the Jewish world as Rashi. His synthesis of Talmud, midrash, and kabbala, together with the multifaceted brilliance of his insights and his economy of language, sets Rashi in a class by himself as he draws our attention to nuances, forces us gently to consider scriptural anomalies, and weaves the breadth and depth of Torah philosophy into his pithy explication of Biblical and Talmudic passages.
Consequently, scholars grow nervous when Rashi appears to point out the obvious. And nowhere does Rashi offer a comment more seemingly pointless than at the outset of this week’s Torah portion.
And Elokim spoke to Moshe, and He said to him, “I am HaShem; and I appeared to your forefathers, Avrohom, Yitzchok, and Yaakov, as Keil Shakkai, but My name HaShem I did not make known to them” (Shmos 6:2-3).
Rashi first explains that scripture’s use of the name Elokim – referring to G-d’s attribute of justice rather than His more dominant attribute of mercy – places our verse in its proper context as a response to Moshe’s complaint at the end of last week’s parsha, “My Master, why have you brought evil (i.e., injustice) upon this people, and why have you sent me?”
Rashi then addresses HaShem’s remark concerning the revelation of His name to the patriarchs. The name HaShem represents mercy and therefore implies the fulfillment of promises; consequently, even though G-d identified Himself to the patriarchs using the name HaShem, He never revealed Himself to them as such through the fulfillment of promises that would only be honored in the time of future generations.
It is Rashi’s next comment, however, that confounds us. On the words And I appeared, Rashi offers this insight: to the patriarchs.
Since the verse continues to tell us that HaShem appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the only three patriarchs of the Jewish people, to whom else could Rashi have thought we might mistakenly suppose HaShem had appeared?
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The Zohar explains that Torah wisdom is both inherited and acquired. Even if a scholar eventually surpasses his parents or his teachers in wisdom, it is the wisdom of his parents and teachers – which they themselves received through their link to Sinai – that has enabled their child and their student to reach whatever heights he has attained in Torah. Even Moshe the Lawgiver, whose unique mastery of piety and spiritual wisdom sets him apart from every other figure in Jewish tradition, built his own accomplishments upon the spiritual foundations of his forebears.
However, to this rule there are three exceptions: the patriarchs – Avrohom, Yitzchok, and Yaakov – so called because they had no one else from whom to learn and no one else’s accomplishments upon which to build.
Born into a generation in which all knowledge of HaShem had been effectively forgotten, Avrohom came on his own to a recognition of his Creator and spent his life developing within himself the attribute of chesed – lovingkindness – the perfection of mitzvos bein adam l’chaveiro, commandments between man and his fellow. And although Yitzchok inherited from his father a knowledge of the Almighty, he nevertheless labored to develop within himself the entirely different quality of gevurah – spiritual self-discipline – with no model from whom to learn the process of perfecting mitzvos bein adam L’Makom, commandments between man and G-d.
Finally, as much as Yaakov learned chesed from Avrohom and gevurah from Yitzchok, he had no model for how to perfect within himself mitzvos bein adam l’atzmo, commandments between man and himself, by blending these two mutually exclusive qualities into a new attribute called emes – ultimate spiritual truth.
From this point on, with the establishment of these three qualities woven into the spiritual fabric of the universe and infused into the spiritual DNA of the Jewish people, all Torah accomplishment rests upon the foundations of the patriarchs.
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Where does Rashi find an allusion to this profound and mystical lesson in the beginning of our parsha? Maskil L’Dovid explains that this idea is essential to understanding HaShem’s reply to Moshe.
According to Sfas Emes, Moshe complained that G-d had brought evil upon this people because he, Moshe, had calculated that the Jews had endured all the suffering necessary for them to earn redemption. If the accounts balanced, reasoned Moshe, then to make the people suffer further was not only pointless but unjust.
What Moshe could not have realized was that, even if the Jews of this generation did not deserve any further suffering, the survival of future generations would one day depend upon the collective Jewish suffering the people were experiencing now. To become stronger through continued tribulations, and to have undeserved suffering “on credit” against future transgressions, the continued oppression of the Jews in Egypt would provide shelter from the harshness of divine judgment later on.
Consequently, HaShem rebukes Moshe, not for his reasoning but for his lack of trust. “I appeared to the patriarchs,” says HaShem, “not because of what they inherited but because of what they made themselves. And yet, without the advantages you have as their beneficiary, they never lacked in trust that I would ultimately fulfill the promises I made to them.
“That trust,” explains HaShem, “is the basis of how they became great, how they became the patriarchs whose merit now stands by you, just as the merit of your generation will stand by those who come later.”
Three times a day, we begin our silent prayer by acknowledging our relationship with HaShem – our G-d and the G-d of our fathers. By standing upon the shoulders of our forebears, we benefit from the connection and the resources we have inherited; at the same time, we acquire our own merit from which our children will benefit as we have. The power of each, and the power of both together, is beyond our comprehension. And the trust we have in that power, especially in the darkest of times, is the key to our ultimate redemption.
Parshas Sh’mos — The Staff of Leadership
And Moses responded, saying, “But [the people] will not believe me and they will not heed my voice, for they will say, ‘G-d did not appear to you.’” And G-d said to him, “What is that in your hand?” And he said, “A staff.” (Exodus 4:1-2)
The trepidation of Moshe (Moses) to accept the onus of leadership is understandable. After 210 years of Egyptian bondage, what credibility would Moshe have in the eyes of the people? How would he convince them that he had truly been appointed by the Almighty to lead them out of slavery?
G-d’s answer, however, is more difficult to comprehend. If HaShem wanted Moshe to cast his staff upon the ground so it would miraculously transform into a snake, let Him simply have said, “Cast your staff upon the ground.” Why did the Almighty first ask Moshe to identify the object he was holding?
Rabbi Meir Libush Malbim explains that Moshe had a choice of three possible answers. As a shepherd, Moshe could have identified his staff as a makeil, a shepherd’s crook. As an eighty year old man, he could have refered to it as a mashenes, a cane or walking stick. Finally, he could have called it as he did — a mateh, which means staff, but which also can mean scepter, a symbol of sovereignty and leadership.
Moshe’s objection was not directed solely at the people’s unwillingness to follow, but at his own lack of distinction as a leader. And so, HaShem presented Moshe with a test. What is that in your hand? the Almighty asked, implying that Moshe’s answer would answer Moshe’s own question. Did Moshe see himself as an old man, needing a cane to support him? Did he see himself as a simple shepherd, adept at leading sheep but not his fellow Jews? Or did he see himself as possessing the nobility of character necessary to successfully shoulder the responsibilities of leadership.
Confronted with these choices, Moshe could only answer the truth. It was not lack of humility but honesty and integrity that compelled Moshe to admit that he was neither a feeble old man in need of support nor a mere shepherd whose purpose in life was defined by his lowly profession. Moshe recognized that the Almighty had made him something more, had instilled in him the qualities that prepared him for greatness.
Further on in the narrative, HaShem commands:
And this staff you shall take in your hand, with which you will perform the miracles (4:17)
As a constant reminder of Moshe’s confidence in himself, HaShem commanded him to carry the staff with him always, and to use it as the instrument through which he would bring about HaShem’s signs and wonders. In this way the Almighty communicated to Moshe that if Moshe believed in himself, the people would recognize his confidence and accept his leadership. And so they did.
In contrast, when the prophetess Devorah instructed her husband, Barak, to lead the people into battle against the Canaanite general Sisera, Barak refused to go unless Devorah accompanied him. Devorah replied: “I will surely go with you; however, your effort will bring you no honor” (Judges 4:9). Rather than rise to the occasion, Barak refused to believe that he could succeed on his own. Devorah did not argue, for she understood that no people will place their confidence in a leader who has no confidence in himself. Instead of becoming a hero, Barak assured his place as little more than a footnote to history.
It’s worth noting that accepting the responsibilities of leadership is not synonymous with seeking power. Moshe neither sought nor desired the position of leader over the Jewish people, but neither did he refuse the position when it was thrust upon him. From Moshe’s example we learn that a healthy reluctance to assume power over others is a sign of true character and authentic leadership.
Perhaps the most troubling development in contemporary politics is the selling of the presidency, as well as many state and local offices. Only the very rich — or those with very rich friends — can realistically aspire to positions of political authority. And what motivates those willing to spend their own millions or the millions of others to win the privilege of wielding power? When was the last time we saw even the palest reflection of the reticence of Moshe in any of our public servants?
During the era of the judges, the usurper Avimelech massacred his 70 half-brothers to seize control over the Jewish nation. Only one brother, Yosom, escaped and, before he fled into hiding, he paused to chastise the people for standing by and permitting Avimelech to carry out his bloody coup. In his rebuke, he offered a tantalizing parable, paraphased here:
The trees went looking for a leader. They came first to the olive tree, but the olive tree said, “Should I leave my oil to hold sway over the trees?” Next they came to the fig tree, but the fig tree said, “Should I leave my sweetness to hold sway over the trees?” Then they came to the grapevine, but the grapevine said, “Should I leave my wine to hold sway over the trees?” Finally, all the trees came to the thornbush, which said, “Come take comfort in my shade; and if not, a fire will go forth and devour you all” (Judges 8:7-15).
Of course, a thornbush has no shade to offer, and can do nothing but inflict injury and discomfort. But when men of quality and accomplishment (symbolized by the olive tree, the fig tree, and the vine) recognize that the people have no desire to be led, but simply seek leaders who will do their bidding, then why should they abandon their own fortunes to shoulder the fruitless and thankless burdens of leadership?
And when no worthy leaders can be found, where else will the people turn than to those who make the promises the people want to hear, no matter how impractical or implausible? And how often are those promises complimented by threats, veiled or otherwise, of the consequences of looking elsewhere for “leadership”?
When leadership devolves into the hands of those who can afford to make the loudest noise and the most sweeping promises, then the people have no right to complain about the quality of the leaders to whom they have subordinated themselves. Only when people seek genuine leaders will they find individuals worthy of leadership. And only when people are willling to follow will they find worthy individuals willing to lead.
Parshas Vayechi — The Consolation of Exile
The last days of Yaakov, the beginnings of Egyptian bondage, and the fragrance of Eden.
Parshas Vayigash — The Battlefront of Truth and Falsehood
And Yosef harnessed his chariot and went up to meet Yisroel, his father, in Goshen. [Yosef] appeared before [his father], fell upon his neck and wept profusely (Bereishis 46:29).
Was it only Yosef who wept? What of Yaakov, who had never recovered from the loss of his beloved son in the 22 years he believed Yosef to be dead? Why was he not moved to tears?
Rashi offers the explanation of the sages, who tell us that Yaakov was reciting the words of Shema, the most profound articulation of kabbolas ol malchus Shomayim – accepting the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven. According to the Maharal, Yaakov conducted himself in the way of the truly righteous, translating this moment of supreme joy into an expression of service to his Creator. At the moment he is reunited with his son, Yaakov found a unique opportunity to reestablish his connection with HaShem, a connection that had been impaired by his years of unrelieved mourning.
But what of Yosef? Why did he not respond as his father did, by expressing his closeness with HaShem rather than with a display of filial emotion?
Sfas Emes suggests that for Yaakov, the ish emes – the man whose essence was defined by pure and unadulterated truth – any response other than turning personal joy into an expression of divine service would have been unnatural and insincere.
But the personality of Yosef was entirely different. In contrast to his father, for whom any contradiction between his inner and outer personas would be inconsistent with his fundemantal nature, Yosef conducted his life by hiding his inner self behind a façade wholly separate from his true essence.
As a man possessing a pure and righteous character, Yosef ruled Mitzrayim, a nation known for its moral corruption. As a man of spirituality and austerity, Yosef directed the material survival and enrichment of the most powerful nation on earth. In contrast to his father, here identified by the name Yisroel, which characterizes the manifestation of truth that is both transparent and self-evident, Yosef lived a life of hiddenness, in which apparent inconsistency often belies a far deeper truth that remains unseen.
The kabbalists refer to our world as Olam HaSheker – the World of Falsehood. It is a world in which physical reality conceals the true spiritual nature of the universe, and in which we can easily lose our way by virtue of the misleading signposts that point us down the road toward vanity and futility. From our patriarch Yaakov/Yisroel we learn to appreciate genuine emes, the spiritual truth that defines our purpose and our destination. From Yosef, however, we learn an indispensable strategy that makes it possible for us to reach that destination.
Shlomo HaMelech tells us that there is a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; there is a time to keep silent and a time to speak. The knowledge of when not to express inner truth, and the ability to keep one’s true feelings internal when circumstances demand circumspection – these are essential to spiritual survival in a world of falsehood and deceit. This does not mean that we must learn the tactics of deception ourselves, but that we recognize when the crooked ways of a crooked will not allow us to express absolute truth publicly.
The most basic laws of loshon hara prohibit us not primarily from slander, but from hurtful truths. The sages even warn us against articulating all a person’s praise in his presence, lest we embarrass him or cause him to become arrogant. What is true may not always be what is proper.
By the same token, imagine the effect upon Yaakov if his son had not expressed unrestrained emotion upon their meeting. Indeed, Yosef was sincerely moved to tears. But to suggest that his natural reaction would have been other than Yaakov’s, that he did not desire with equal fervor to translate his personal joy into divine service, is to misunderstand Yosef completely. Rather, Yosef recognized that, under the circumstances, his own personal expression of divine service required him to display the outward response that would be most consoling to his father. His inner self directed his outer self in a fashion appropriate to the external conditions in which he found himself.
In many ways, Yosef’s form of service is far more demanding than Yaakov’s. How much easier is it to be forthright than to constantly engage the battlefront of externality, walking the line between propriety and insincerity? But this is what life in a complex and physical world requires from us, until the arrival of the messianic era releases us from the hidden nature of Yosef and allows us to embrace the purity of Yisroel.
As we approach the eve of the messianic era, the struggle becomes ever more acute. When we look upon the physical battles of our times, the military wars against aggressors who have no interest in peace, and the diplomatic wars against appeasers who paint aggressors and defenders alike with the broad brush of moral equivalence, we find ample evidence of the duality intrinsic to the world we live in. We look for truth and justice from the world around us and instead find ourselves condemned for our own forthrightness. We are threatened with extinction and chastised when we fight for our survival.
It is Yosef who shows us the way: to hold fast to our inner selves, to hold firm to inner truth, to not shout truth from the rooftops but live lives of quiet resolution, always wary of the dangers that threaten to steer us too far to the left or to the right, never losing hope in our own potential to rise above the deception and falsehood of the world around us and find our way safely home.
Parshas Mikeitz — When Past meets Future
Understanding the charade perpetrated by Joseph on his brothers and its relevance today.
Parshas Vayeishev — The Final Battlefield
The confrontation between Yaakov and Eisav plays itself out in the headlines of our times.
Parshas Vayishlach — Names of Conflict and Destiny
The Talmud tells us that anyone who refers to our forefather Avrohom by his earlier name, Avram, has committed a sin (Berachos 13a). The kabbalists explain that our names are not merely labels but representations that describe the essence of our souls. Therefore, to call our patriarch by anything other than his new name constitutes a negation of his spiritual transformation and a rejection of our spiritual mission as his descendants.
The Talmud suggests that, according to this reasoning, the same should apply to Yaakov after the Almighty changed his name to Yisroel. However, because the Torah itself continues to call him Yaakov, the Talmud concludes that there is no such prohibition. Both names remain relevant as accurate descriptions of Yaakov and, consequently, either name may be used.
But why? The Talmud offers no explanation for why HaShem would have changed Yaakov’s name to Yisroel if He intended the former name to remain relevant. Furthermore, the wording of the verse is nearly identical to that in which Avrohom receives his new name: No longer will your name be called Yaakov; rather, Yisroel shall your name be called (Bereishis 35:10). Why does the Almighty declare that the name Yaakov should no longer be used, then continue the use of that name?
The name change from Yaakov to Yisroel is prophesied earlier, when Yaakov wrestled with the sar shel Eisav, the guardian angel appointed over the nation that would descend from Yaakov’s wicked brother. As he traveled toward his first encounter with his brother in 20 years, Yaakov was forced to engage in spiritual combat with the divine emissary representing Eisav’s power and influence throughout the generations.
By defeating the malach of Eisav in battle, Yaakov not only assured the ultimate victory of his progeny over the descendants of Eisav, but also elevated himself to a spiritual level higher than that of a purely spiritual being. By doing so, Yaakov attained a level of spiritual self-completion that rendered further physical service irrelevant. As Yaakov, he had nothing more to accomplish. To remain in this world, he needed a new goal, a new spiritual purpose requiring a new name. He became Yisroel, and began to direct his efforts toward the fulfillment of a new mission.
Rashi explain that the name Yisroel derives from the word sar, meaning “ruler,” alluding to Yisroel’s ultimate dominion over the world that would characterize the arrival of the messianic era. However, Rav Moshe Alshich interprets Yisroel as deriving from the word yashar, meaning “straight,” in contrast to the name Yaakov, from okav, meaning “crooked.”
This interpretation helps us understand the words of the Sforno, who explains that Yaakov’s original name applies to the contention between him and his brother, Eisav. In dealing with crooked people, one may sometimes have to apply tactics that may themselves appear to be less than upright. Although we dare not adopt the ways of the wicked even in our efforts to vanquish them, occasionally we must draw so near to the boundary between propriety and impropriety that the outside observer may question the virtue of our own actions.
As long as the influence of Eisav remains dominant in the world, the children of Yaakov have no choice but to employ the name Yaakov and all that it implies – as with Yaakov’s apparent manipulation of Eisav to prevent him from misusing his birthright, and as with his temporary deception of their father, Yitzchok, to prevent the disastrous bestowal of the blessings Eisav would have exploited to destroy his brother. Even a saint cannot always retain the image of saintliness when battling unconscionable evil.
However, when the dominion of Eisav is ultimately overthrown and the influence of Eisav is uprooted from the world, then the name Yaakov will no longer be necessary. The necessity of battling against evil will be gone, and all will recognize the uprightness of Yaakov’s descendants and their singular devotion to the service of their Creator. Only the straightness of Yisroel will remain, and the appearance of crookedness imposed upon him by his brother will be nothing more than memory.
Parshas Vayeitzei — Bringing the Well into the City
And [Yaakov] saw that there was a well in the field. Three flocks of sheep were there lying beside it, since it was from this well that the flocks were watered, and a great stone [blocked] the mouth of the well (Bereishis 29:2).
This is how the Torah describes Yaakov’s arrival at the house of Lavan, his uncle, after fleeing from his wicked brother, Eisav, and beginning his search for a wife. Curiously, when Eliezer, servant of Yaakov’s grandfather Avrohom, arrived at the same place a generation earlier, the Torah describes the location of the well not “in the field” but ”at the edge of the city” (Bereishis 24:11).
This seeming inconsistancy provides the basis for an enigmatic debate recorded in the Talmud (Bechoros 8b):
The Elders of Athens said to Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananyah, “We have a well out in the fields; bring it into the city.”
Rabbi Yehoshua took chaff and threw it before them, saying, “Make me a rope out of chaff and I will bring it in.”
They asked, “Who can make a rope out of chaff?”
He replied, “Then who can bring a well from the field into the city?”
Last week, we explained that the Torah employs the imagery of a well – the source of water, which is the basis of physical life – as a symbol for Torah itself, which is the source of spiritual life.
The Malbim explains that when peace and a sense of unity exist among the Jewish people, when they live in the Land of Israel with the Divine Word guiding their actions and their attitudes, then the “well” of Torah is “in the city,” providing the people with security and their settlements with prosperity.
However, when our spiritual negligence and complacency cause us to be exiled from our land and subjected to the uncertainty and unpredictability of life among the nations of the earth, when we have to struggle against all manner of obstacles to keep G-d’s word and His commandments central in our lives, then the well of Torah is “in the field.”
This was the assertion of the Elders of Athens, the scholars of the Roman Empire who based their wisdom on the teachings of the ancient Greeks: If you Jews are divided against one another, if you yourselves recognize sinas chinom, the senseless hatred among you, as the cause of your exile, then how can you ever expect to earn your redemption? How can you believe that the well “in the field” will ever become transformed into a well “in the city?”
Rabbi Yehoshua’ s answer finds its meaning in the continuation of the Torah narrative:
And all the flocks would gather there, and they would roll away the stone from the mouth of the well and allow the flocks to drink, and then they would return the stone to its place over the mouth of the well (Bereishis 29:2).
To bring the well from the “field” into the “city” requires a spiritual “rope” to bind the future with the past. The Malbim explains that the three flocks represent the three eras of Jewish exile, each imposing upon the people the challenges and crises. Only by working together to overcome these challenges will the people achieve a level of unity to become worthy of redemption and acquiring the merit to build HaShem’s Temple so that the Divine Presence can dwell in their midst.
In the course of the first two exiles, the collective merit of a unified Jewish nation ultimately ”rolled away the stone” of temptation and transgression, allowing the waters of spirituality to flow free and revive a spiritually thirsty people. And each time, prosperity encouraged the people to stray after the inclinations of the hearts, so that the stone of self-indulgence and self-interest rolled back to its place and drove the people back into the parched desert of exile.
The first era was galus Mitzrayim, the exile in Egypt, which forged the people into a nation and culminated in their entry into the land and their ultimate construction of the first Beis HaMikdash. Tragically, without the external pressure provided by enemies around them, their commitment to one another dissolved and, over time, led to the erosion of their collective merit and their exile to Babylon.
Thus began the second era, in which the Jews gradually earned back the privilege of living in their land, rebuilding the Temple, and regaining political autonomy in the aftermath of the miracle of Chanukah. But infighting among the descendants of the Hasmoneans eventually led to the disintegration of political stability, the conquest by the Roman Empire, and the destruction of the second Temple.
Out of the ruins of the Roman Empire grew Western Civilization, the final exile of Jewish history, in which the twin attractions of material prosperity and cultural assimilation have exceeded all the obstacles to spirituality that have confronted the Jews throughout all previous ages. And once again, the divisiveness that traces its roots back to the senseless hatred of 2000 years ago stands in the way of bringing the well of Torah and spiritual redemption from the “field” into the “city.”
Scattered like chaff, the Jewish people will remain in exile until, by bonding together in unity, they form the “rope” that connects them back to their origins as a cohesive people. When that happens, Rabbi Yehoshua told the Elders, when the “chaff” of disunity becomes a “rope” of redemption, then the Jewish people will find their way home.
But how is that possible? the Elders asked. Just as chaff cannot make a rope, disaffected and disparate individuals cannot form a people.
That may be true, answered Rabbi Yehoshua. But the image of chaff only describes the Jewish people in the most simplistic and superficial way. We may appear cut off from one another, but we share the collective soul of the Almighty’s chosen people. The more we become distant from one another, the more we yearn to return to our common roots. As the exile grows darker and deeper, we come closer to the time when the very depths of our spiritual darkness will compel us to pull together, thereby pulling ourselves forward into the light of the messianic era.
Perspectives
Dawn to Destiny:
Exploring Jewish History and its Hidden Wisdom
By Rabbi Yonason Goldson
A comprehensive overview of Jewish History from Creation through the redaction of the Talmud, illuminating the intricacies and complexities of Torah tradition and philosophy according to the sages and classical commentaries, spanning the length and breadth of Jewish experience to resolve many of history’s most perplexing episodes, offering profound insights and showing their relevance to life in the modern world.
How did the sin of Adam transform mankind and the world? How were the prophecies of Noah fulfilled through the rise of the Greek Empire? Why did lifespans shrink so dramatically after the Flood? How did the builders of the Tower of Babel believe they could wage war against G-d? Why did the Torah have to be given in both written and oral form? What was King David’s transgression regarding his involvement with BasSheva? Why did some Jews oppose the construction of the Second Temple? How can we trust the transmission of Torah if our scholars engaged in such fierce disagreements? These and many other questions are answered in this unique volume.
An invaluable resource for scholars and laymen. A priceless tool for education and outreach. With approbations from HaRav Dovid Cohen and HaRav Zev Leff.
FOR EXCERPTS CLICK HERE.
FOR ORDERING INFORMATION CLICK HERE.
Mission Statement for the Jewish People — from the extraordinary wisdom of Rav Shraga Feivel Mendelovitz, founder of Torah education in America.
Why Jews are Liberals — the origins of ideological confusion, and a follow-up piece exploring the practical applications.
The End of the Age of Reason — the sages’ vision of a future that is at our doorstep, and a follow-up piece in response to, and including, some colorful comments.
Israel: History, Politics, and Ideology — Answers to the attacks of apologists and antagonists.
Defining “Objective” History — How can we determine the accuracy of historical records? How do we resolve contradictions in history?
Evolution Forum — Is it possible to have a civil debate on the subject?
The Language of Confusion — 60 years after 1984, Orwell’s prophetic dystopia remains more relevant than ever.
The Final Battlefield – The current economic crisis foretold a thousand years ago and the climax of the ultimate ideological war. Also, variations on a theme inspired by Pink Floyd and this recipe for the only truly secure investment.
The Fallacy of Moral Relativism — How I taught a class of cynical teenagers the illogic of unrestricted personal freedom.
Hurricane Season– With meteorologists predicting more hurricanes on the scale of Gustav, Ike, and Katrina, these thoughts on the Pacific Rim Tsunami are worth another look.
Talking the to the Wall Department — My efforts to engage an ideologue in civil discourse. Draw your own conclusions, and feel free to weigh in … respectfully.
Insights into the weeky Torah Portion
Donate to Block Yeshiva High School — I know of no finer educational institution in the world that prepares students to become materially and spiritually successful adults. Our graduates are the greatest evidence of our commitment to excellence.
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENTS– I am often available as a scholar-in-residence, chazzan-in-residence, or lecturer. For lecture topics and samples of weekend programming click here. Inquiries may be directed to the email below:
Contact me at torahideals [at] att.net.
