Insight of the Week

Parashat Emor concludes with the disturbing story of the "Megadef," the individual who publicly blasphemed G-d. The man was brought before Moshe, and Hashem informed Moshe that blasphemy is a capital crime, and this individual must therefore be put to death. Rashi (24:10) brings different explanations for what drove the "Megadef" to blaspheme G-d. One approach is that he had found himself on the losing side of an unfortunate legal dispute. The background to this dispute dates back to Beneh Yisrael's period of slavery in Egypt, when this man's mother was desired by an Egyptian man, and he schemed to have an illicit relationship with her. The "Megadef" was the product of this forbidden union. As such, he did not legally belong to his mother's tribe, the tribe of Dan. When he tried pitching his tent in Dan's territory, he was taken to court, and he lost the case. Since his father was an Egyptian, he did not have legal rights to territory among the people of Dan. This background to the story perhaps explains a subtle nuance in Hashem's instructions to Moshe. After commanding that the "Megadef" must be given capital punishment, G-d told Moshe that this is the law for all blasphemers. He said: "Ish Ish Ki Yekalel Elokav Ve'nasa Het'o" – "Any person who blasphemes his G-d shall bear his sin" (24:15). Curiously, G-d here repeats the word "Ish" ("person"), perhaps suggesting that He refers to two different people. The explanation might be that Hashem was alluding to the two guilty parties in this tragic story. True, the "Megadef" himself committed a grievous offense for which he needed to be severely punished, but the other party, the person who fought against him, also shared a not-insignificant share of the guilt. Certainly, his insensitivity and decision to pursue legal action in no way justified the blasphemy spoken by the "Megadef," because even when we endure hardship and suffer hostility, we are expected to maintain our composure and our faith in Hashem. Nevertheless, the other party to this dispute cannot be excused for angering the "Megadef" and leading him to this grave sin. Hashem thus told Moshe, "Ish Ish Ki Yekalel Elokav Ve'nasa Het'o" – both parties bear a degree of guilt in the case of blasphemy, because provoking a person and turning a resolvable situation into a fight – even if this does not justify the other party's extreme reaction – is wrong. Not every fight that can be fought should be fought. In fact, in the vast majority of situations, fights should not be fought. Being right does not make fighting the right decision. And so very often, both parties are guilty, because even the party that is technically correct was wrong for pursuing the matter and fighting about it.

Much of Parashiyot Tazria-Mesora is devoted to the topic of Sara'at – the affliction that would befall a person on account of certain misdeeds, primarily, the grievous sin of Lashon Ha'ra, negative speech about other people. King David, in a famous verse in Tehillim (34:14), instructs us, "Nesor Leshoncha Me'ra" – "Guard your tongue from evil," urging us to refrain from Lashon Ha'ra. Curiously, this verse continues, "U'sfatecha Mi'daber Mirma" – "and your lips from speaking deceit." At first glance, this means that we are to refrain from both negative speech about other people, and also from misleading others through dishonesty. We must wonder, however, why the verse combines these two admonitions. Seemingly, these are two completely distinct ills – Lashon Ha'ra, and deceit. Why would David combine them into a single warning, urging us to restrain our mouths from both negative talk about people and from dishonesty? We might perhaps arrive at a new understanding of this verse by exploring the psychological underpinnings of the desire to speak Lashon Ha'ra, why we are so often and so naturally inclined to hear and share negative information about other people, and why we find it so difficult to refrain from such speech. The most common reason people enjoy speaking Lashon Ha'ra, I think, is to feel good about themselves. We are all human, and human beings, by definition, are flawed and imperfect. A person's flaws and imperfections make him uncomfortable, bringing feelings of shame, inadequacy and insecurity. Speaking of other people's failings works like a drug to alleviate this discomfort. Focusing one's attention on another person's inadequacies brings a sense of superiority, thereby allowing him to feel good about himself. This is the lure of Lashon Ha'ra, and why nearly every person feels tempted to speak negatively about others. Since every person has faults which make him uncomfortable, every person feels a natural impulse to alleviate this discomfort the easy way – by looking down on other people, by talking about what they do wrong. However, like with all "drugs," this is the wrong way to handle uncomfortable feelings. When the fleeting rush of excitement fades, the person is still left with his deficiencies, and thus with his feelings of insecurity. Looking down on other people temporarily blinds a person to his own faults, but those faults remain, and will continue to make him feel uneasy and insecure. This might be the meaning of the verse in Tehillim cited earlier. "Guard your tongue from evil, and your lips from speaking deceit." The "deceit" mentioned in this verse perhaps refers to the self-deception of Lashon Ha'ra. When one speaks Lashon Ha'ra, he deceives himself, pretending that he is more impressive and accomplished than he really is. Lashon Ha'ra is all about fooling oneself into thinking that he is great by pointing out the failings of other people. What, then, is the proper way to deal with our feelings of insecurity? How, as imperfect people, can we feel good about ourselves and our lives? The answer is found in the very next verse in Tehillim: "Sur Me'ra Va'aseh Tob" – "Turn away from evil, and do goodness." Quite simply, the way to feel good about ourselves is by trying to be better. Rather than deceiving ourselves, we should instead honestly acknowledge our faults, admit to ourselves that we – like all people – are imperfect and are meant to be imperfect, and try to be better. If we want to live in peace with ourselves, we need to stop fooling ourselves and to instead work hard to address our faults and improve. No, this will not bring the same excitement as hearing or sharing "juicy," unflattering gossip about the people around us. But it will have the long-term effect of making us feel good about ourselves, of bringing us peace of mind and real fulfillment, as we know that we are genuinely making an effort to live our best lives and be the best version of ourselves.

Toward the end of the Maggid section, we read the famous teaching of Rabban Gamliel: "Whoever did not say the following three things on Pesach has not fulfilled his obligation: Pesach, Masa, and Marror." Rabban Gamliel then proceeds to explain the meaning and significance of these three Misvot. The Pesach sacrifice was offered in the times of the Bet Ha'mikdash to commemorate the miracle of the plague of the firstborn, when Hashem "skipped" ("Pasach") over Beneh Yisrael's homes on the night of the Exodus, protecting them from the plague. The Masa commemorates the fact that Beneh Yisrael left Egypt hastily, without having had time to prepare and to allow their dough to rise. And the Marror symbolizes the "bitterness" of slavery from which our ancestors were saved. At the Seder, we are obligated to discuss the meaning of these three Misvot. Many commentators noted that this passage is stated out of chronological sequence. The "bitterness" of slavery, quite obviously, preceded the plague of the firstborn and Beneh Yisrael's frantic departure from Egypt. Yet, surprisingly, Rabban Gamliel first discusses the Pesach sacrifice and Masa – which commemorate the events of the Exodus – and only then mentions the Marror, which represents the slavery that our ancestors endured prior to their redemption. Why is the Marror mentioned last? Numerous answers have been given to this question, one of which emerges from a deeper understanding of Rabban Gamliel's teaching. Many years ago, as a young Rabbi, I was approached by a group of young men in the community who asked me to deliver a weekly class, which they would host on a rotational basis. These fellows were not particularly observant, and I was very pleased that they expressed interest in a weekly Shiur (Torah class). But when I showed up for the first class, I was aghast. The table was set up for a card game, with chips, cigarettes and beer bottles. I felt very uncomfortable, and I asked the host what this was all about. He explained that this group meets every week for a card game, so they figured they would begin the evening with a Torah class. After that first class, I consulted with a certain great Rabbi to receive guidance. I did not think it was appropriate for me to give a Shiur to these people under these conditions. I'll never forget what the Rabbi told me. "What they do after the Shiur is none of your business," he said. "Your job is to teach them Torah. And the light of Torah will change them." I accepted the advice, and he proved correct. Gradually, all these young men discontinued their improper behavior. It did not happen immediately, but it happened. On another occasion, I was asked to deliver a weekly Torah class to a group of men on Shabbat. Every week, the man who hosted the Shiur in his home would get up and leave in the middle. I later found out that he left for work. Once again, I consulted with a great Rabbi in the community, asking if it was appropriate for me to continue teaching a Torah class in the home of a Shabbat desecrator who gets up to leave in the middle to go to work. "Are you going to wait for him to stop working on Shabbat before teaching him Torah?" the Rabbi told me. Now this man is fully observant, learns Torah for two hours every day, and gives large amounts of money to Sedaka. Three times every weekday, in the Amida prayer, we ask Hashem to help us repent. We ask, "Hashibenu Abinu Le'Toratecha Ve'korbenu Malkenu La'abodatecha" – "Bring us back, our Father, to Your Torah, and draw us close, our King, to Your service." We ask that we be returned to Torah even before our service is complete. We do not wait until our behavior is perfect, until we have fully performed Teshuba, before learning Torah and trying to draw close to Hashem. To the contrary – we are to take the first steps even in our state of imperfection, as these steps will help us improve. This might be the deeper meaning of Rabban Gamliel's teaching about "Pesach, Masa, U'marror." The word "Pesach" means to skip. Rabban Gamliel is teaching us to "skip" right to the "Masa." In a different context, the Sages commented that the word "Masa" is associated with the word "Misva," for we must observe Misvot with zeal and alacrity just as the dough must be handled quickly and rigorously to avoid becoming Hametz. We are to skip to the stage of "Masa," of Misva observance, even before addressing the "Marror" – the "bitterness" of sin and religious failings. Theoretically, we should first cleanse ourselves of wrongdoing before coming to serve G-d. In practice, however, this does not work. If we refrain from Misvot until we fully repent from our misdeeds, we will likely never feel ready to begin our service of Hashem. Rabban Gamliel therefore urges us to skip the stage of "Marror," to begin performing Misvot even if our behavior is far from perfect – as the light of Misvot will help us improve. We begin the Seder with the words "Kadesh U'rhatz" – referring to Kiddush and hand-washing. The message here is that we should strive for "Kadesh" – for holiness, even before we have "washed" ourselves, before we are fully "cleansed" of wrongdoing. Hashem wants us to begin learning Torah and performing Misvot even if we are currently far from perfect, and to trust that the good habits we develop, and the spiritual power of Torah and Misva observance, will impact our souls and our behavior, and lead us to greater purity.

The Mishna in Pirkeh Abot (3:16) teaches: "The shop is open, the shopkeeper gives on credit, the ledger is open, the hand writes, and whoever wishes to borrow may come and borrow." Meaning, G-d invited us to come and enjoy the blessings of the world, "on credit," even before we deserve them, though with the expectation that repay our "debt" through the performance of Misvot. The Megaleh Amukot (Rav Natan Neta Spira, Poland, 1584-1633) offers a deeper explanation of the Mishna's teaching, noting that the word "Hanut" ("shop") may be read as an acrostic for "Hodesh Nissan Ve'hodesh Tishri" – "the month of Nissan and the month of Tishri." During these two months in particular we are invited to "borrow," to receive great blessings from the Almighty that we do not necessarily deserve. These two months – Tishri, when we observe the Yamim Noraim, and Nissan, when we observe Pesach – are especially auspicious times when we are able to turn to Hashem in sincere prayer and have our wishes fulfilled. This connection between the months of Nissan and Tishri is discussed also by Rav Baruch of Medzhybizh (1753–1811), in explaining a verse in Parashat Bo ( 13:5) regarding the Pesach sacrifice: "Ve'abateta Et Ha'aboda Ha'zot Ba'hodesh Ha'zeh" – "You shall perform this service in this month." Rav Baruch explains that the word "Zot" ("this") refers to Yom Kippur, when the Kohen Gadol would perform the special Aboda (service) in the Bet Ha'mikdash, which the Torah describes with the word "Zot": "Be'zot Yabo Aharon El Ha'kodesh" ("With this shall Aharon enter the Sanctuary" – Vayikra 16:3). The word "Zeh" (the masculine form of "Zot"), Rav Baruch says, refers to the month of Nissan, of which G-d declared, "Ha'hodesh Ha'zeh Lachem Rosh Hodashim" – "This month is for you the first of the months" (Shemot 12:2). Hence, when the Torah tells us, "Ve'abateta Et Ha'aboda Ha'zot Ba'hodesh Ha'zeh," it means that we should perform the service of "Ha'zot" – of Yom Kippur – during "Ha'hodesh Ha'zeh" – the month of Nissan. Just as the period of the High Holidays is a time for repentance and spiritual growth, so is the month of Nissan. Rav Baruch adds that the difference between the words "Zot" and "Zeh" shows us the difference between the Teshuba (repentance) of Tishri and the Teshuba of Nissan. In Kabbalistic teaching, the feminine form is associated with passivity and timidness, whereas the masculine form connotes assertiveness. Tishri is referred to with the feminine form, "Zot," because this is a time of fear and intimidation, when we repent because we are being judged. Nissan, however, is a time for "Teshuba Me'ahaba" – repentance out of love. This is a joyous, vigorous Teshuba, when we seek to grow out of a sense of excitement and enthusiasm, out of deep love for Hashem and a desire to draw closer to Him. The Abneh Nezer (Rav Avraham Borenstein of Sochatchov, Poland, 1838-1910) writes that the days of Nissan are especially precious, and every hour during this month is as valuable as an entire day in a different month. This is a month in which we can achieve greatness, and it behooves to take full advantage of this opportunity, and utilize our time during Nissan for intensive Torah learning, prayer, and spiritual growth.

Hashem commands in Parashat Ki-Tisa, "Ach Et Shabetotai Tishmoru" – "However, you shall observe my Shabbatot" (31:13). Rashi explains that after Hashem presented the commands regarding the construction of the Mishkan, He emphasized that the work on the Mishkan must be discontinued on Shabbat. The question arises, however, as to why Hashem here commands observing "Shabetotai" – His "Shabbatot." Instead of simply telling us to observe "Shabbat," He uses the plural form, referring to Shabbat as "Shabbatot." Why? A fascinating explanation is offered by the Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala (Rav Yaakov Tzvi Mecklenberg, 1785-1865). He writes that etymologically, the word "Shabbat" has two meanings. First, it denotes "Shebita" – cessation from work. Additionally, the word "Shabbat" refers to "Yishub Ha'da'at" – peace of mind, and clarity. Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala explains that we are commanded to "observe Shabbat" in two senses: by refraining from Melacha (forbidden activity), and by attaining "Yishub Ha'da'at" by experiencing he special Kedusha of Shabbat. The first Shabbat is intended to bring us to the second; we are to refrain from forbidden work for the purpose of reprogramming our minds, resetting our priorities, and refreshing our perspective on life. Throughout the week, we are busy tending to our needs, occupied with our careers, our businesses, and all the many other important things that we need to deal with. With all the frenzy of the workweek, we can so easily forget what this is all about, what the purpose of all this is. On Shabbat, there is an obligation of "Shebita" – to desist from Melacha – so that we can achieve "Yishub Ha'da'at," peace of mind, a clearer perspective on what life is all about, what our priorities ought to be. We spend more time in the synagogue, more time with our families, more time singing Pizmonim and learning Torah, so we can refresh our minds and remind ourselves of what's truly important. On this basis, Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala suggests a novel reading of the Gemara's famous teaching (Shabbat 118b) that if the Jewish People would properly observe "Sheteh Shabbatot" – two Shabbatot – we would be worthy of redemption. This is commonly understood to mean that we would be redeemed if we all observe Shabbat for two weeks. Ha'ketab Ve'ha'kabbala, however, offers a different interpretation, explaining that the Gemara speaks of the two different dimensions of Shabbat observance. We become worthy of redemption if we not only refrain from the forbidden activities on Shabbat, but also experience the weekly "reset," gaining a new perspective on life by redirecting our focus onto spirituality and the service of Hashem. This concept might also shed light on a different teaching in the Gemara – that whoever enjoys delights on Shabbat, "the desires of his hearts are granted to him." At first glance, this means that by enjoying fine foods and delicacies on Shabbat, one guarantees that all his wishes are fulfilled. We might, however, understand this passage differently. If we observe Shabbat properly, then "Notenin Lo Mish'alot Libo" – he is given new wishes, new desires. Proper observance of Shabbat gives us a new perspective, and resets our priorities. Thus, if during the week our primary aspirations were about wealth and material luxuries, on Shabbat our aspirations are spiritual. Shabbat refreshes our perspective such that our primary goals are a greater connection with Hashem, more Torah knowledge, more Misvot, more religious engagement. The ultimate purpose of Shabbat is not the cessation of work itself – but rather the renewed perspective that this brings, which leads us to reset our priorities and redirect our focus onto that which really matters.

Parashat Teruma begins with G-d's command, "Ve'yikhu Li Teruma" – that Beneh Yisrael should donate materials toward the construction of the Mishkan. Surprisingly, Hashem here commands that the people donate toward this project with the word "Ve'yikhu," which means "They shall take." Instead of saying that the people should give, that they should donate, Hashem commands them to "take" a donation. This highlights a basic truism about charity – that by giving, we receive. When we give charity, when we donate toward a worthy cause, we receive far more than we give. We lose nothing, and we gain an incalculable amount. The merits earned through charitable donations are worth far more, and are infinitely more secure, than any financial asset. The rewards are both inestimable and guaranteed. But this understanding of the word "Ve'yikhu" actually runs even deeper. The Gemara in Masechet Kiddushin speaks of an exceptional case where a bride can be betrothed by giving, instead of receiving. The Halachic mechanism of Kiddushin, whereby a woman becomes formally betrothed to a man, requires the man to give the woman something of value. Of course, this is commonly done by giving the bride a ring. Normally, Kiddushin cannot be effectuated in the opposite manner, through the bride giving something to the groom. If the bride wishes to give the groom a gift, this must not be done as part of the Huppa ceremony, because it must be perfectly clear that the betrothal takes effect through the groom giving the ring to the bride. However, the Gemara establishes that if the groom is a distinguished person, such as a member of the royal court, then his bride can become betrothed to him through her giving him a gift. The reason, the Gemara explains, is that when an ordinary person gives a gift to a person of distinction, the giver derives great benefit by the recipient's acceptance of the gift. The satisfaction that comes from the distinguished person's consent to receive the gift outweighs the value of the gift. Therefore, if the groom is a man of distinction, the bride can become betrothed through the benefit she receives by the groom's acceptance of her gift, because by giving, the bride is actually receiving. This Halacha sheds new light on the command "Ve'yikhu Li Teruma." When we donate for a Misva purpose, we are, in essence, donating to Hashem, as it were. We are so-to-speak giving something to Hashem. Whether it's assisting a family in need, contributing to a charity fund, or supporting a synagogue of yeshiva, we are giving a gift to Hashem – who is, quite obviously, far more "distinguished" than any dignitary or prominent figure. And in this sense, we receive when we give. Anytime we have the opportunity to donate, we are given the privilege of giving a gift to Hashem. This is a privilege we should celebrate – and an opportunity that we should eagerly and enthusiastically seize as often as we can.

The opening verses of Parashat Yitro tell of Yitro's arrival at Beneh Yisrael's camp. Yitro, Moshe's father-in-law, had been a pagan priest, but then recognized the truth of monotheism. He now took the next step, and joined Beneh Yisrael as they encamped at the foot of Mount Sinai. Rashi comments that Yitro was motivated to join the nation upon hearing of two events: Keri'at Yam Suf (the splitting of the sea), and the war against Amalek. It seems difficult to understand why the war with Amalek contributed to Yitro's decision. The splitting of the sea was, of course, an extraordinary miracle, an event that was heard throughout the ancient world and led all the nations to look at Beneh Yisrael with awe. It is understandable that this miracle inspired Yitro to come and join Beneh Yisrael. But how did the war against Amalek have this kind of effect? What about this event inspired Yitro? One answer is that Yitro was struck by the drastic decline that Beneh Yisrael experienced from the event of Keri'at Yan Suf to the war against Amalek. The Sages teach that at the time of Keri'a Yam Suf, every member of the nation, even the most unlearned among them, reached a certain level of prophecy. The nation at that moment rose to the greatest heights. Just several weeks later, however, when they found themselves without water, their faith was shaken, and they started asking, "Is G-d in our midst or not?" (Shemot 17:7). It was in response to this lack of faith that Hashem led Amalek to attack Beneh Yisrael. Yitro saw how the people so quickly fell from the stature of prophets to the point where they could actually question whether Hashem was with them. This rapid decline is what prompted Yitro to join Beneh Yisrael. The Gemara teaches that Torah is the "antidote" to the Yeser Ha'ra (evil inclination). Sinful tendencies are part of the human condition; as long as a person is alive, he is going to tempted by some lure, by some human weakness, by one or several of the many negative traits with which people are created. And in order to withstand these inclinations, we need to immerse ourselves in Torah. Therefore, when Yitro saw how fast people are capable of falling, he made the decision to join Beneh Yisrael, so he can access the Torah, the "antidote" to the Yeser Ha'ra and protect himself from spiritual decline. Rav Yosef Salant (Jerusalem, 1885-1981) offers a different explanation of Rashi's comment. He writes that after the miracle of the sea, many people throughout the world attributed this event to Moshe Rabbenu. Rather than recognize the existence of a single, omnipotent Creator, they instead concluded that Moshe was a superior sorcerer who succeeded in defeating the Egyptians through his magical prowess. Yitro, who was well-versed in all the various forms of ancient paganism, including sorcery, likewise suspected that it was Moshe who split the sea by lifting his staff over the water. Beneh Yisrael's miraculous victory against Amalek, however, was clearly not brought about by Moshe. At the time of the battle, Moshe stood at a distance, on a hill overlooking the battlefield. And when the people looked heavenward, they received Hashem's assistance and defeated the Amalekites. This event showed that the splitting of the sea was wrought not by Moshe, but by an all-powerful G-d, and this motivated Yitro to come join Beneh Yisrael. There might also be a third interpretation. In the Book of Debarim (25:18), Moshe describes Amalek's attack with the word "Karecha." The Sages explained this term as a derivative of the word "Kar" – "cool." After the miracle of the sea, Beneh Yisrael were feared throughout the world. The Rabbis drew a comparison to a tub filled with scalding hot water, that nobody dared touch. When Amalek launched their attack, they were like a person who jumped into the tub of boiling hot water – he suffered bad burns, but cooled the water for anyone else who wished to bathe afterward. Amalek was defeated, but this battle had the effect of "cooling" Beneh Yisrael, of exposing their vulnerability. Beneh Yisrael now appeared far less fearsome, and no longer seemed invincible. Yitro saw the grave Hillul Hashem – defamation of Hashem's Name – caused by Amalek's attack. The awe and admiration that the world felt toward Beneh Yisrael after the splitting of the sea were now gone. And Yitro understood that the only way to rectify a Hillul Hashem is by creating a Kiddush Hashem – a glorification of Hashem's Name. He therefore decided to join Beneh Yisrael. As a respected and wealthy public figure, his arrival would "make the news," and become widely known. People all over would hear that a prominent former pagan cleric had recognized the truth of the Jewish faith and decided to join Beneh Yisrael's ranks. This would repair, at least somewhat, the damage caused by Amalek's attack. And thus Yitro's decision was driven by these two events – the splitting of the sea and Amalek's attack, as he sought to restore the respect for Beneh Yisrael that was achieved by the miracle of Keri'at Yam Suf.

The Torah in Parashat Bo (12:40) states that Beneh Yisrael spent a total of 430 years in Egypt. Already Rashi notes the seeming contradiction between this verse and G-d's prophecy to Abraham Abinu that his descendants would endure a 400-year period of exile and oppression (Bereshit 15:13). Why did G-d predict a period of 400 years, if Beneh Yisrael were going to spend 430 years in exile? Rashi explains that the number depends on the starting point. The period from the birth of Yishak until the Exodus was 400 years, but Abraham received this prophecy thirty years prior to Yishak's birth, for a total of 430 years. The Shela Ha'kadosh (Rav Yeshaya Horowitz, d. 1630) offered a different answer, boldly asserting that G-d added thirty years to the period of exile. G-d informed Abraham that his descendants would live as foreigners for 400 years – but as a result of Mechirat Yosef, the sale of Yosef as a slave by his brothers, thirty years were added. The Shela explains that Yosef was brought out of the dungeon in Egypt and appointed the country's vizier at the age of thirty (Bereshit 41:46). In a sense, then, his first thirty years were stolen from him because of his brothers' cruelty. Therefore, it was decreed that Beneh Yisrael would endure an additional thirty years of oppression. The Shela's theory sheds light on the Gemara's comments in Masechet Sanhedrin (92) regarding the mistake made by the tribe of Efrayim. The Gemara says about the people of Efrayim, "Manu Le'ketz Ve'ta'u" – they miscalculated the end of the Egyptian exile. When they erroneously thought that the time for redemption had arrived, they left Egypt. But when they reached the Philistine region of Gat, they were attacked by the Philistines, and many were killed, while some managed to escape back to Egypt. The Gemara says that the remains of those people from Efrayim were the "dry bones" that were miraculously brought back to life in Yehezkel's famous prophecy. On the basis of the Shela's analysis, we can understand more clearly why the tribe of Efrayim made this mistake. If, indeed, an extra thirty years were added on account of the sin of Mechirat Yosef, then it stands to reason that the tribe of Efrayim – who descended from Yosef – assumed that they did not need to wait the additional thirty years. Since this period was a punishment for the crime committed against Yosef, they figured, it did not affect them, the descendants of Yosef. They therefore left Egypt thirty years early, at the end of the period of exile that was initially decreed. The question then becomes, why were the people of Efrayim wrong? Why were they killed for leaving Egypt early? The answer emerges from a passage in the Zohar regarding another consequence of Mechirat Yosef. Each year, on Tisha B'Ab, we recite a special Kinna (dirge) about the "Asara Harugeh Malchut" – the ten great Rabbis who were brutally murdered by the Romans. The Zohar teaches that these great Rabbis were Gilgulim (reincarnations) of the brothers, and they were killed to atone for the sin of Mechirat Yosef. Now in truth, only nine of the twelve brothers participated in Mechirat Yosef: Yosef, of course, was the victim; Binyamin, the youngest, was home and not involved; and Reuben was not present when the other brothers decided to sell Yosef, and in fact tried to rescue him. Why, then, were ten Rabbis killed to atone for the sin committed by only nine brothers? The answer is that Yosef himself bore a degree of guilt. While his brothers of course acted wrongly by selling him as a slave, he was partially responsible for their hostility. He reported to Yaakob about their alleged wrongdoing, and provoked them, arousing their hatred. Therefore, he, too, was accountable. This, then, was the tribe of Efrayim's mistake. The additional thirty years were decreed also for them, the descendants of Yosef, because he was partially responsible for what happened. Their decision to leave Egypt was thus a mistake, as they, too, were required to spend an additional thirty years in Egypt.

Parashat Shemot tells about the enslavement of Beneh Yisrael in Egypt, a policy enacted by the king about whom the Torah writes: "A new king arose in Egypt, who did not know Yosef" (1:8). Rashi brings a debate among the Amoraim regarding this verse. One view accepts the simple meaning, that a new king came to power. According to the other view, however, this Pharaoh who decided to persecute Beneh Yisrael was the same king who ruled Egypt previously, but he is called "new" because "Nit'hadeshu Gezerotav" – he issued new decrees. This second opinion cited by Rashi requires some explanation. The phrase "Nit'hadeshu Gezerotav" does not actually denote "new" decrees. Its precise translation is "his decrees were renewed." There is, of course, a significant difference between a "new" decree and a "renewed" decree. A "new" decree is one which never existed before, whereas a "renewed decree" is a policy that was once in place and is now restored. We must ask, then, which old policy did Pharaoh "renew" in Egypt? Rav Yosef Salant (Jerusalem, 1885-1981), in his Be'er Yosef, answers this question by examining Onkelos' translation of this verse, which concludes: "De'la Mekayem Gezerat Yosef" – "who did not uphold Yosef's decree." According to Onkelos, Pharaoh annulled the policy that Yosef had put into place. This likely refers to the measures Yosef had enacted in order to feed the population of Egypt during the famine. As we read toward the end of Parashat Vayigash, once the famine struck, Yosef began selling the vast quantities of grain that had been stored during the seven years of surplus. At first, he sold grain to the people in exchange for money, and then, after they had spent all their money, he sold them grain in exchange for their animals and their land. Eventually, the people were left with nothing with which to purchase grain. Yosef therefore turned the entire population into Pharaoh's servants, giving them land to till, in exchange for which they gave Pharaoh a percentage of their crops. The Torah writes that the Egyptians were happy with this arrangement, as it ensured their survival during the devastating famine that ravaged the country. Many years later, Rav Salant explains, Pharaoh changed this policy and brought back the conditions that had been in place before Yosef came along. And thus he "renewed" the old decrees. Rav Salant writes that once the famine ended, Pharaoh used the arrangement established by Yosef as a means of provoking resentment and hostility toward Beneh Yisrael. As politicians often do, Pharaoh sought to win the people's support by convincing them that they were victims of an evil scheme from which he would heroically rescue them. He thus charged that Beneh Yisrael – who were living comfortably in the Goshen region – were responsible for the Egyptian people's lack of freedom, for their status as Pharaoh's servants, because it was Yosef who enacted this policy. And thus the arrangement that saved Egypt from widespread starvation was turned into an evil, malicious scheme to subjugate the people. The Egyptians who were previously grateful for this arrangement now resented it, blaming Yosef – and, by extension, all Beneh Yisrael – for the injustice that they were told they now experienced. One contemporary Rabbi added that this might shed light on Rav Yosef's comment in the Gemara (Pesahim 68b) expressing the great importance of the holiday of Shabuot. Rav Yosef remarked that if not for the event of Matan Torah, which is celebrated on Shabuot, "Kama Yosef Ika Be'shuka" – "There are several 'Yosef's' in the marketplace. Meaning, it is only because of the Torah that Rav Yosef was able to achieve and to distinguish himself through his outstanding scholarship. On a deeper level, however, Rav Yosef was perhaps lamenting the fact that the phenomenon of Yosef, of a Jew who was unfairly maligned and scapegoated after having helped and contributed to a country – has recurred many times. There are, unfortunately, many examples of "Yosef," occasions when Jews were viewed with suspicion and treated with hostility despite their having been hard-working, law-abiding, contributing members of society. This observation is, on the one hand, sobering, but on the other hand, it should give us hope and encouragement at this time of rising antisemitism. This phenomenon is upsetting, but not new. It has happened before – and, each time, we've prevailed. Hashem has always helped us in the past, and he will help us now, as well. We will continue to proudly carry the legacy of Yosef Ha'sadik, passionately adhering to our values and traditions while contributing to the society around us, and placing our trust in Hashem at all times.

The Torah in Parashat Vayigash lists the names of the members of Yaakob Abinu's family who moved with him from Canaan to Egypt. These include his granddaughter, Serah, the daughter of Asher (46:17). Targum Yonatan Ben Uziel tells us something fascinating about Serah – she was one of the very few people in world history who never died, and instead went into Gan Eden alive. Serah received this special reward because she was the one who informed Yaakob Abinu that Yosef was still alive. Yaakob had mourned and grieved for twenty-two years, thinking that Yosef, his beloved son, was devoured by an animal. When Yosef's brothers returned from Egypt with the news that Yosef was actually alive, and had risen to the position of vizier of Egypt, they were unsure how to communicate this information to Yaakob. He was an elderly, shattered man, and they needed to share with him this news in a gentle, delicate manner that wouldn't cause him shock. They turned to Serah, Asher's daughter, who was a talented musician. She took an instrument and sang beautifully to Yaakob the words that Yosef was alive. In reward for this act, Serah earned eternal life. It is not difficult to see the principle of "Midda Ke'negged Midda" – how actions are repaid "measure for measure" – at work in this story. Serah effectively restored Yaakb Abinu's soul, bringing him back to life. Throughout the twenty-two years of mourning, Yaakob was lifeless – without joy, without vitality. Serah restored Yaakob's life – and so she was rewarded with eternal life. The Zohar teaches that anytime a person shares good news with somebody, the spirit of Eliyahu Ha'nabi enters his being. Eliyahu is the one who will inform us of Mashiah's imminent arrival. In fact, Ashkenazim have the practice of adding a brief prayer to Birkat Ha'mazon asking Hashem to send us Eliyahu Ha'nabi "so that he will bring us good news, salvations and consolations." Eliyahu is the ultimate bearer of good tidings – and he is the most famous person who never died, who lives eternally, who went straight into Gan Eden without experiencing death. By sharing good news with people, we attain an element of Eliyahu Ha'nabi's eternal quality. When we tell good news, we make people happier, we revitalize them, we encourage them, we bring them more "liveliness." We are thus worthy of eternity. I recall that after my first child was born, I went from the hospital to a job I had at the time tutoring a young man in preparation for his Bar-Misva. When I came in, his mother said hello and asked how I was doing. I said I was fine, without informing her that my wife delivered a baby boy. I felt I would come across as self-absorbed by telling her about the birth. Later, the father came in and said hello, and once again I just responded to the greeting without informing him about the birth of my son. Not long after I left, both parents heard that my wife had given birth to a boy. They both called me and asked in bewilderment why I hadn't said anything about it. I acted incorrectly that day. I didn't realize at that time how important it is to share good news, as much and as often as possible. People love hearing good news. It gets them excited, it injects them with optimism and encouragement. It gives them a better feeling about the world. It reminds them that beautiful things are happening all around them, that Hashem does so many wonderful things. Sharing good news has the effect of lifting people's spirits and energizing them. This is especially important in today's day and age. The device we carry in our pocket is constantly bringing us bad news. We are greeted all day by distressing news, by all that is wrong in the world. The news feeds never tell us about couples getting engaged and married, about people working hard, accomplishing, and earning a respectable livelihood, about happy families enjoying dinner or an outing, about people doing Misvot and learning Torah. This is not reported as news because it's uninteresting. News feeds instead tell us as much negative information as it can – crime, corruption, ugly politics, "juicy" gossip about public personalities and celebrities, etc. Every piece of news we consume makes the world seem darker. The cumulative effect of news consumption is chronic negativity, and even anxiety, as we feel that everything about the world is wrong. The antidote to this gloom is positivity. We should be making a point of being as positive and upbeat as possible. We should be seizing every opportunity we have to share happy news, to point out the good things that are happening, to compliment, to praise, to express admiration and gratitude. There is more than enough negativity in our lives – and we must therefore avoid adding further negativity. Instead, let's spread positivity, talking as much as we can about all the good we see around us.

The opening verse of Parashat Vayesheb introduces the story of Yosef by saying, "Vayesheb Yaakob Be'eretz Megureh Abib, Be'eretz Kena'an" – "Yaakob dwelled in the land when his father had lived, in the land of Canaan." The question arises as to why the Torah found it necessary to inform us that Yaakob lived in the Land of Israel (known then as Canaan). While it is true that Yaakob had spent twenty years outside the land, with his uncle in Haran, we already read in last week's Parasha, Parashat Vayishlah, of Yaakob's return to the Land of Israel, and of his experiences there. Why, then, do we need to be told again that he lived in Canaan? Moreover, we must ask why the Torah emphasizes here that this is the land where Yaakob's father, Yishak, had lived. We are well aware of the fact that Yishak had lived in Israel, and we know that even when famine struck the land, and he began journeying toward Egypt – just as his father, Abraham Abinu, had done in a time of famine – G-d appeared to him and commanded him to remain in the land and not to go to Egypt (Bereshit 26:2-3). Why, then, does the Torah find it necessary to mention that the Land of Israel was "Eretz Megureh Abib" – the land where Yishak had lived? The Ramban answers these questions by explaining that the word "Megureh" stems from the word "Ger" – "foreigner." The Torah isn't telling us that Yaakob lived in Canaan – but rather that he lived as a "Ger," as a foreigner, under the rule of the Canaanite tribes, just as his father had. This reality fulfilled G-d's prophecy to Abraham Abinu that his descendants would live as foreigners, in a land governed by others – "Ki Ger Yiheyeh Zar'acha Ba'aretz Lo Lahem" (Bereshit 15:13). Abraham's descendants would live as foreigners for 210 years in Egypt – but this prophecy actually began immediately with the birth of Yishak, who lived as a foreigner in the land of Canaan, as Yaakob did, until going to Egypt at the very end of his life. The reason this is emphasized here, the Ramban explains, is for the sake of contrasting Yaakob with his brother, Esav. The previous section – the end of Parashat Vayishlah – elaborates at great length on Esav's progeny, how he settled in the region of Edom and established there a large empire. Esav enjoyed all the comforts of freedom and sovereignty, establishing a kingdom swiftly and easily. Yaakob, meanwhile, remained in his homeland, in the Land of Israel, where he lived as a foreigner. It would be centuries later that Yaakob's descendants, Beneh Yisrael, would – after many difficult battles – establish their kingdom in their homeland. The Ramban writes that the Torah mentions this "to tell that they [Yishak and Yaakob] chose to live in the chosen land, and that through them [the prophecy of] 'for your offspring shall be foreigners in a land not theirs' was fulfilled." As opposed to Esav, Yaakob – like his father – preferred living in the Promised Land, in the sacred Land of Israel, even under less-than-ideal conditions, rather than enjoy the comforts and conveniences that were available elsewhere. Yaakob chose a life of meaning and purpose over a life of comfort and convenience. He understood that we are brought here to this world to live meaningfully, to pursue meaningful goals and achievements, and not to enjoy vain pleasures. And so he preferred basking in the sanctity of the Land of Israel over an easier life elsewhere. Life as a Torah Jew isn't always easy – because the goal is to live with meaning and purpose, which takes hard work and sacrifice. We, the descendants of Yaakob Abinu, must follow his example of choosing a life of Kedusha and purpose over a life of comfort and convenience.

When Yaakov arrived at the outskirts of Haran, he saw local shepherds with their herds near the well outside the city. He asked them why they weren't giving their sheep water. The shepherds explained that they could not remove the large, heavy stone from the top of the well. They needed to wait for all the shepherds to assemble at the well so they could together roll the stone off the well. Yaakob then proceeded to the well and, by himself, pushed the stone off so the shepherds could draw water for their flocks. Rashi comments that this episode shows us that Yaakob possessed unique physical strength. We must ask, for what purpose did the Torah tells us about Yaakob Abinu's exceptional strength? What lesson are we to learn from this story? Every person, without any exceptions, has spiritual struggles. And no two people's struggles are the same. Misvot which come easily for one person is a difficult challenge for somebody else. Some people struggle to observe Kashrut, others have a hard time with Shabbat. There are those who have difficulty praying properly, and there are those who find it challenging to observe the Torah's standards of Seniut (modesty). But everyone is struggling with something. This is true even of the great Sadikim. King Shlomo teaches us in Mishleh (24:16), "Ki Sheba Yipol Sadik Ve'kam" – "For a righteous person falls seven times and gets up." Even the righteous fall – and they fall repeatedly. The difference between a righteous person and others is "Ve'kam" – that a Sadik "gets up" each and every time he falls. The wicked person, at a certain point, gives up. He decides not to bother struggling, figuring that it's just too hard for him. An example of this kind of person is Esav, about whom the Torah says, "Ve'hu Ayef" – "and he was tired" (25:29). Esav had the potential for greatness. He was no less capable of being a Sadik than Yaakob was. But he grew "tired" – he decided not to try. The Sadik doesn't get tired. He falls, often, but he keeps getting back up. How does the Sadik do this? What motivates him to keep trying, even after falling multiple times? The answer is found in one of the Birchot Ha'shahar (morning blessings), in which we thank Hashem "Ha'noten La'ya'ef Ko'ah" – "who gives strength to the weary." The Sadik keeps getting back up because he believes that Hashem is helping him and giving him strength. As long as we keep trying, Hashem gives us the abilities we need to eventually succeed. This is the difference between the wicked and the righteous: the wicked person feels powerless, and thus concludes that there is no purpose to continue trying, whereas the righteous person confidently believes that Hashem is giving him the strength he needs to improve. This is the message of the story of Yaakob Abinu's experiences at the well outside Haran. The large stone on the well symbolizes the Yeser Ha'ra, our evil inclination, the difficult – often overwhelming – spiritual challenges that we each face. Like the stone, they seem too big to move, too difficult to handle, too much for us to overcome. The shepherds, like many people, don't bother trying, because they assume they don't have the strength to succeed. Yaakob showed that when one believes in the "Noten La'ya'ef Ko'ah," he is much stronger than he thinks, and he can "remove the stone," and overcome his challenges. We are not expected to be perfect, because we are human beings, and human beings aren't perfect. We are, however, expected to try, and to try again when we don't succeed. We are expected not to grow tired, not to give up, and to instead trust that Hashem is helping us and giving us the strength we need to achieve.

Toward the end of Parashat Vayera, we read the famous story of Akedat Yishak – where Abraham Abinu was commanded to offer his beloved son, Yishak, as a sacrifice upon the altar. At the last moment, as Abraham held the knife over Yishak, prepared to slaughter him in fulfillment of G-d's command, an angel called out to Abraham and told him to desist, explaining that the command was merely a test of Abraham's devotion to Hashem. The Zohar, in a fascinating passage, adds a remarkable component to this story – one which sheds light on one of the critical lessons that it teaches us. When Yishak saw the knife about to descend upon his neck, the Zohar tells, he, in a sense, died. His soul departed. He was then given a new soul, and came back to life. Yishak was the first to recite the Beracha of "Mehayeh Ha'metim" – praising Hashem who restores life to the dead, and for this reason the second blessing of the Amida prayer, which corresponds to Yishak – the second of patriarchs – concludes with this Beracha. This replacement of Yishak's soul laid the foundations of the emergence of the Jewish Nation. Yishak's original soul was incapable of begetting children, but this new soul was. It turns out, then, that it was only because of Akedat Yishak that Yishak was able to produce offspring. This gives us an entirely new perspective on the story of the Akeda, and its relevance to our lives. When Avraham received the command to slaughter to Yishak, he did not understand how G-d could instruct him to do such a thing. After all, G-d had earlier told him, "Ki Be'Yishak Yikareh Lecha Zara" – that his line would continue through Yishak, and not through his first son, Yishmael (21:12). How, Abraham wondered, could G-d assure him that Yishak would be heir to his covenant with G-d, and the father of the nation destined to emerge from him, and then command offering him as a sacrifice before he had a child? Abraham did not understand. It seemed that offering Yishak on the altar marked the end of G-d's promise, as it would prevent the birth of Am Yisrael. In truth, however, fulfilling this command is precisely what enabled Yishak to have children. Had Abraham refused to obey, in the interest of assuring that Yishak would father the great nation that Hashem had promised – it would not have happened. It was specifically by fulfilling G-d's command, which entailed doing something that appeared to sabotage the process of Am Yisrael's emergence, that Am Yisrael in fact emerged. The Midrash teaches that G-d implores us, "Obey Me, because nobody obeys Me and loses." We never lose by following Hashem's will, by observing the Misvot. We often find ourselves tested the way Abraham was, as a Misva appears detrimental to us. Many times, we face a situation where doing the right thing seems to work against us and our best interests. Staying in bed instead of getting up for Minyan is more comfortable and convenient. Avoiding places where we know we should not be might cost us social points. Dressing, speaking and acting the way we know we should might invite ridicule. Adhering to the Torah's strict ethical standards could cost us profitable opportunities. So often, the right thing to do seems to hurt us. But even when this is true in the short-term, it is never true in the long-term. Whatever sacrifice we need to make here in the present to remain faithful to our Torah values is more than worth it, because Hashem guarantees us that in the long run, we only benefit from obeying His commands. Rav Nachman of Breslav (1772-1810) taught that when a person feels himself becoming angry, he should imagine that Hashem is about to give him an enormous fortune – but he must earn it by restraining his anger. The person thinks that shouting and insulting is the right response to the situation – but by doing so, he will forfeit the inestimable future rewards that are promised to those who control their anger. This can be applied to all the many religious challenges that we face on a day-to-day basis. When we feel tempted to compromise our principles, we should remember the lesson of Akedat Yishak – that the short-term benefits we sacrifice to obey Hashem are far surpassed by the long-term benefits of obedience.