Weekly Inspire

The first section of Parashat Emor presents the special laws that apply to the kohanim , the additional restrictions that they need to be observe because of their unique status in the nation. When Hashem tells Moshe to teach these laws to the kohanim , He says, אמור אל הכהנים...ואמרת אליהם – "Speak to the kohanim …and speak to them," indicating that there are two different "speakings." Rashi brings the Midrash's explanation of this repetition: להזהיר גדולים על הקטנים – "To warn the adults with respect to the children." Meaning, Moshe was to teach these laws to the kohanim , and also to instruct the kohanim to teach these laws to their children. The obvious question arises, is this not true about the entire Torah? Isn't there an obligation on all parents to teach their children what the Torah requires of them? Why specifically in the context of the unique laws of the kohanim must Hashem emphasize the parents' responsibility to pass these mitzvot onto their children? The answer, I believe, is very important – for all of us, and not just for the kohanim ... Kohanim have the challenge of explaining to their kids that they cannot do certain things that other people can do. Their children might likely resent having special restrictions that others don't have. And so the Torah needs to emphasize to the kohanim that they must meet this challenge. Hashem says to Moshe, אמור אל הכוהנים בני אהרון – "Speak to the kohanim , the sons of Aharon ." He was telling them to emphasize the great privilege they have to descend from Aharon, the first kohen , to excite them with the awareness that they are special. The kohanim are to speak of their status with pride, depicting it to their children as a badge of honor. This way, the youngsters will not resent the additional restrictions entailed. This idea is very personal for me. Growing up in Deal, my father was a Rabbi and my mother was a teacher. We did not have lots of money for extras like most others in the community. But not only did we not feel that we lacked anything, but to the contrary – we felt a special sense of pride. We felt proud to be a family of Torah, a family of Torah leadership and education, a family of hesed , a family that contributed so much to the community. The gap in materialism between us and others was not a factor at all. We were proud to be a family of Torah and hesed . Sadly, many people spend lots of money that they don't have, or put themselves under a great deal of pressure to afford certain things, because they're worried about their reputation, about how people will talk about them. This is unfortunate – and wrong – for several reasons. One of which is that people who will talk negatively about somebody who hosts simple affairs, who drives a simple car, or who lives in a simple house, will likely talk negatively about him no matter what he does. It is delusional to think that we can make sure everyone thinks highly of us. I know as a Rabbi that I cannot possibly expect to win everyone's respect and admiration. There will always be people who look down on us or who criticize us, for whatever reasons. But additionally, it is a terrible mistake to make material things our source of pride, what we're all about, the thing that our lives revolve around, as our "brand" and "label." Seeking fulfillment and happiness through material things is like eating pretzels when you're thirsty – rather than quenching the thirst, it makes you even thirstier. True joy and contentment are achieved when we live with meaning and purpose, when we fill our lives with things that really matter, that have real value. Of course there is nothing wrong with enjoying material blessings. The problem becomes when we turn materialism into the primary focus of our lives, into our primary goal, into our source of pride and of our sense of accomplishment. This will leave us feeling empty and unfulfilled. True fulfillment comes from making our lives primarily about Torah, spirituality, hesed , contributing to the community, helping people. This is where we should be seeking our feelings of pride and gratification, and our sense of accomplishment. להזהיר הגדולים על הקטנים . Our responsibility to our children is to fill them with pride over our identity as a Torah family, as a hesed family, as an idealistic family, as a family that lives each day the way Hashem expects His special nation to live.

I cannot tell you how many people – youngsters and adults – have told me that they have stopped praying, or have even stopped being observant, because they prayed for something and did not get what they wanted. This is a challenge that everyone faces at some point – and often many times over the course of life – and it has, unfortunately, led many people to give up on tefillah or on mitzvot generally. But this challenge is based on a fundamentally mistaken approach to prayer. People believe that prayer is about getting what we want. When we have some kind of problem, or when there is something that we're lacking, we pray to Hashem so He will solve the problem or give us what we need. But this is not what tefillah is about. The Gemara tells us this explicitly. In a passage that I wish was more famous, the Gemara in Masechet Berachot (55a) teaches: כל המאריך בתפלתו ומעיין בה סוף בא לידי כאב לב – if a person prolongs his tefillah and he "looks into it," then he will suffer heartache. Rashi explains this to mean that if a person prays for a long time with the expectation that his lengthy prayers assure that his wishes will be granted, he is setting himself up for terrible disappointment, because there is never any guarantee that one's tefillot will be answered. The Gemara then makes an even more dramatic statement, listing עיון תפילה – praying with the expectation that one's requests will be granted – among the things that cause Hashem to be especially mindful of a person's sins, making it less likely that his wishes will be granted. Prayer is not about getting what we want, for a very simple reason – we don't really know what we want. We can easily imagine Queen Ester praying fervently day after day in Ahashverosh's palace that she should be sent back home to Mordechai. If Hashem had granted her request, the Jews would not have been saved. A person may pray fervently for a certain job, for a certain shidduch , for some outcome – but in reality that thing he prays for is not the best thing for him. Only Hashem knows what is best for us, and so we have no reason to expect Him to grant us everything we ask for. Prayer, then, is not about changing Hashem's mind – because we don't want Him to change His mind! After all, He knows what we need far better than we ever will. Rather, prayer is about changing us. The experience of prayer, of standing before Hashem with a feeling of humble submission and complete dependency, recognizing our unworthiness and how much we need Him, profoundly impacts us. And this process of growth which tefillah inspires is the reason why we pray. This might be the meaning of the Mishnah in the second chapter of Pirkeh Avot that we learn this week. Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel teaches: הוי זהיר בקריאת שמע ובתפילה, וכשאתה מתפלל, אל תעש תפילתך קבע אלא רחמים ותחנונים לפני המקום ברוך הוא. Be meticulous in the recitation of Shema and prayer; and when you pray, do not make your prayer a fixed, routine obligation, but rather [let it be] mercy and supplication before the Almighty. Rabbi Shimon here perhaps addresses the problem we described – of people losing interest in prayer because their requests have not been granted. He urges us to continue praying every day, regardless of our past disappointments – and to pray not mechanically, by rote, just to discharge our obligation, but with feeling and emotion, because this is precisely the function of tefillah , to arouse our feelings of humility, of submission, of dependency, of faith, and of connection to Hashem. The Mishnah concludes, ואל תהי רשע בפני עצמך – one should not see himself as evil. At first glance, this instruction has nothing to do with the rest of the Mishnah. The explanation might be that if a person prays and does not see the results he wished for, he should not conclude that he is sinful, that Hashem does not care about him, or that Hashem think he's evil and undeserving. This is not true at all. Hashem has very valid reasons for doing what He does, for deciding to grant our wishes or to not grant our wishes. It is not that we are unworthy of His kindness – it's that His kindness is not always manifest the way we expect it to, or the way we think we want it to. Prayer is referred to as עבודה – "work," because it's exactly that – work. It's about working on ourselves, working on our relationship with Hashem. Prayer is not a vending machine, where we say words and then get what we want. It's about investing effort to grow, to draw closer to Hashem, and to reinforce our belief that He – and only He – knows what is best for us.

As we begin telling the story of Yetziat Mitzrayim at the seder , we say: מתחילה עובדי עבודה זרה היו אבותינו, ועתה קרבנו המקום לעבודתו – "Originally, our forefathers were idol-worshippers, but now, the Almighty has drawn us close to His service." In this passage, we reflect upon our nation's humble beginnings, the fact that we descend from people who worshipped idols, and we express our deep gratitude that we now have the great privilege of serving the one, true G-d. However, one of the commentators offered a deeper insight into this passage in the Haggadah . The Haggadah is teaching us that if a person lives his life in a manner of מתחילה , always looking back, then this is a form of עבודה זרה , of foreign worship. So many people fail to grow religiously because they are beset by guilt and shame over things that happened in the past. They can't get over the feeling that their mistakes five, ten, twenty or even thirty years ago define them forever. They can't let go of their regret and embarrassment. Conversely, there are people who feel so proud over great things they did long ago, so they fall into complacency. They decide that their work is done, that they are now exempt, that they no longer need to put in effort, to work hard, to achieve, or to grow in Torah, because they accomplished so much many years ago. These two attitudes are a form of עבודה זרה . This mindset, defining ourselves based on the past, is very foreign to Torah. The Torah teaches us that וע כשיו – an attitude of "now," focusing on the present, and the opportunities that are given to us right now, קרבנו המקום לעבודתו – is what brings us close to Hashem. The way we draw close to Hashem is by staying focused on the present, on the potential we have to achieve right now. We should never feel stuck in the past. What happened ten years ago, or even yesterday, does not mean that I cannot be great today, or that I don't have to be great today. This is one of the reasons why we make a point of recalling our less-than-impressive origins at the seder – to impress upon us this mindset of ועכשיו , that what matters most is not what we did in the past, but how we are choosing to live in the present. Just as Hashem brought our ancestors out of slavery to Pharaoh so they could be His servants, He is likewise prepared to take us out of our "slavery," whatever we feel is holding us back, and help us serve Him better. We aren't stuck and we aren't trapped. We just have to make the decision to be a "today" person, to focus our attention on who we can be today, irrespective of the past.

Parashat Vayakhel begins with Moshe assembling Beneh Yisrael and conveying to them Hashem's commands regarding the construction of the Mishkan . Rashi makes a comment that might, at first glance, seem trivial – but, when we think about, is nothing short of astounding. He writes that this gathering took place the day after Yom Kippur. Rashi here isn't just giving us the timing of this assembly. He is showing us something remarkable about Moshe Rabbenu. To understand the message, we need to understand the events leading up to this day. On the 6 th of Sivan – Shavuot – Moshe went up Mount Sinai to receive the Torah. When he came down forty days later, he saw the people worshipping the golden calf. He spent the next forty days pleading with Hashem to forgive them. He then went up the mountain again on the first day of Elul to receive the second set of luhot (tablets). He spent yet another forty days on top of the mountain, coming back down for the last time on Yom Kippur. This means Moshe had spent 120 nearly consecutive days – four months! – on top of Mount Sinai with Hashem. Now he has returned, having completed that mission. And the very next day, he gets to work. He doesn't go on vacation. He doesn't take a break. He doesn't relax. He doesn't allow himself any "down time." He gets right to work, instructing the people to donate materials and to build the Mishkan . Moshe's energy and zeal had a significant impact on the people. The Torah says that after he told them Hashem's commands, ויצאו כל עדת בני ישראל מלפני משה – the people "left from Moshe's presence" (35:20). The commentaries explain this to mean that they left inspired by Moshe. They were moved by his example of commitment and hard work, of proactive and devoted effort. And they, like him, got straight to work. They right away brought all that was needed for the Mishkan – to the point where, just a couple of days later, Moshe had to tell them to stop donating. But there's also something else remarkable about this story. The people in charge of building the Mishkan worked so diligently that the project was completed on Hannukah. However, it was only months later – the beginning of the month of Nissan – when Hashem told them to start using it and offer sacrifices there. Everything was ready – but Hashem decided when it would be used. This is how we are to approach life: we need to get to work, diligently, without delay, without wasting our time – but with the understanding that the outcome depends solely on Hashem. Our job is to do the work, to put in the effort, to try our hardest. But Hashem decides what the final result will look like, how, when and where things fall into place. Life is so often overwhelming, at times even scary. We have a lot on our plate. We don't know where to start. Sometimes, we're not even sure what to do. In these situations, we need to just get to work and leave the rest to Hashem. We need to avoid escaping to our screens, procrastinating, pushing things off, overthinking, worrying, fretting, and hoping. Instead, we need to act, to get going, to do the best we can – and trust that Hashem will take care of all the rest.

The Gemara poses the question of where in the Torah we find an allusion to Haman. It then proceeds to give a surprising answer – citing a pasuk from the story of Adam and Havah's sin in Gan Eden . Hashem said to Adam after the sin, המן העץ אשר ציויתיך לבלתי אכל ממנו אכלת – "Did you eat from the tree which I commanded you not to eat from?" (Bereshit 3:11). The word המן (" Ha'min ") is spelled the same as "Haman," and thus it is here where the Torah makes a subtle reference to the villain of the Purim story. This seems very peculiar. What connection is there between the story of Adam in Gan Eden and the story of Purim? I once saw a very powerful answer. The snake succeeded in luring Adam and Havah to sin by drawing their attention toward the one tree that was off-limits. They had a perfect life in Gan Eden – except that there was this one tree which they could not enjoy. Adam and Havah focused on this one thing that was missing, that wasn't exactly right, and this is how they were led to sin. The same happened to the Jews during Haman's time. The Gemara says that one of the reasons why Hashem brought Haman's decree is that the Jews participated in Ahashverosh's party. The Jews of Persia lived very comfortably. They had plenty of food and plenty of wine. But they couldn't stay away from Ahashverosh's feast. Instead of focusing on all that they had, and all that was good in their lives, they were lured by what was off-limits, by what they should not have been getting involved with. This is a mistake so many of us make. We complain about what's wrong in our lives, rather than seeing just how wonderful our lives are. People complain about their spouse – forgetting that marriage is a wonderful blessing. People complain about their children – forgetting that having children is a wonderful blessing. People complain about their job – forgetting that having work is a wonderful blessing. People complain about having so many weddings and other events to attend – forgetting that having lots of friends who are making semahot is a wonderful blessing. According to one view, the forbidden tree in Gan Eden was a grape vine, and the "fruit" of which Adam and Havah partook was actually wine. Wine clouds a person's judgment, and so it skewed their perspective. Every Shabbat, we correct the sin of Adam and Havah through the mitzvah of kiddush – by using wine for the exact opposite purpose. On Shabbat, we drink wine to feel content, to feel happy, to feel gratified about our lives. We rectify Adam and Havah's mistake by focusing on all that is good in our lives, on everything we have, and feeling grateful for it. The Megillah tells that it was on the seventh day of Ahashverosh's feast when he ordered Vashti to come, and she disobeyed. The pasuk says, ביום השביעי כטוב לב המלך ביין – "On the seventh day, when the king's heart was happy with wine." The Gemara interprets this pasuk to mean that this was Shabbat – the seventh day of the week – and the "king" refers to Hashem, the King of the world. On Shabbat, Hashem saw the Jews making kiddush , and in this merit, He put into place the sequence of events that would lead to Ester's rise to the throne and the foiling of Haman's plot. The mitzvah of kiddush , which is all about feeling content and happy with what one has, marked the rectification of the Jews' participation in Ahashverosh's feast. We need to stop listening to the "snake" that tries to draw our attention to the "forbidden tree," to what we're missing, to what's not right, to the "problems" in our lives. We need to instead remember that our lives are beautiful. Our lives are wonderful. No, our lives aren't perfect, but they're not meant to be. When we focus on our blessings, on all that is right about our lives, we will be so much happier, we will complain so much less, and life will be so much more enjoyable and fulfilling.

Parashat Mishpatim begins with the law of the עבד עברי . This refers to someone who, due to financial straits, resorted to theft, and was caught, but could not repay his victim. In order to obtain the money he needed, he would sell himself as a servant. After six years, his master was required to release him. If, however, the servant preferred staying with his master, he was allowed to do so, but only after the master pierced his ear as a sign of his servitude. Rashi explains that the servant's ear would be pierced as a punishment. His ear heard Hashem proclaim at Mount Sinai, עבדי הם – that the Jewish People are Hashem's servants, and not the servants of their fellow human beings. This servant was now betraying this pronouncement, and so his ear would be pierced. Many Rabbis addressed the question of why the servant's ear would be pierced only at that point, when he chose to remain with his master, and not right when he was caught stealing. After all, at Mount Sinai we heard the command of לא תגנוב , that it is forbidden to steal, and he violated this command. Why, then, was the ear pierced for transgressing עבדי הם but not for transgressing לא תגנוב ? The answer is that ear doesn't represent simply obedience and compliance. It symbolizes something deeper – the "listening" to understand and internalize what was being said. The עבד עברי understood that it is forbidden to steal. He stole out of desperation, not because he thought it was moral. But when he chose to remain in his master's service, he showed a lack of understanding of what עבדי הם means. The servant decided to remain with his master because he looked to his master as the one responsible for his rehabilitation, for his recovery, for his getting back on his feet – thus losing sight of Hashem. Of course, he owed a debt of gratitude to his master who took him in, treated him well, and helped him regain his footing. But he made the mistake of feeling dependent entirely on the master, feeling that he needed to continue this arrangement and couldn't live without it. He forgot that עבדי הם , that even the master was just a human, a servant of Hashem, that Hashem controls everything, that we are dependent on Him and on nobody else. This is a mistake that we must ensure to avoid. We must not become fully dependent on any human being, to the point where we feel we cannot manage without that person. Not on an employer, not on a client, not on a customer, not on a friend, and not even on a Rabbi. Perhaps most of all, we must not feel fully dependent on any political figure. Every human being is just a human being, and thus is, by definition, limited and flawed. Only Hashem is perfect, and only Hashem has complete power and control. And just as we cannot place our trust in any other human being, neither can we feel fully confident in ourselves and our own abilities. Toward the end of our parashah , we read of our ancestors' famous proclamation at Mount Sinai, נעשה ונשמע – "We will do and we will hear." This might mean that they committed to hearing the "sound" that goes forth from Mount Sinai to this very day. The Torah (Devarim 5:18) says about the sound of Matan Torah , קול גדול ולא יסף – it was a great sound that never ended. Rashi explains that since the day the Torah was given, Hashem is calling to us from Mount Sinai, as it were, continuing to command us to observe the Torah. נעשה ונשמע might be understood to mean that even when נעשה , when we are acting and doing, as we go about our affairs, נשמע – we will continue to hear the sound of Sinai, we will be aware of the message of Matan Torah , that everything depends on Hashem and not on our own efforts. The עבד עברי failed to hear this sound, and so he pinned all his hopes for his future and his success on his master. We must ensure never to make this mistake, to always hear this sound, and never place too must trust in any human being, including ourselves.

Two of the fundamental tenets of Judaism are known by the terms emunah (faith, or belief) and bitahon (trust). Much has been written about the precise meanings of these two words, and the difference between them. For our purposes, it suffices to say that the story we read in the Torah over the last two weeks – the story of the ten plagues and Yetziat Mitzrayim – establishes the tenet of emunah , and the story told in this week's parashah – the splitting of the sea – establishes the tenet of bitahon . The miraculous plagues in Egypt showed Hashem's exclusive and unlimited control over the universe. It demonstrated that He governs the world without any constraints, without any other force being able to stop Him, and that He is constantly involved. This is emunah – the core belief in Hashem as the Creator who exerts unlimited control over the earth. At the sea, Beneh Yisrael were taught about bitahon – living with the trust that Hashem can solve problems that appear to have no solution. Emunah is the theoretical belief in Hashem's power, and bitahon is the practical application of that belief, remaining calm and composed during difficult situations, trusting that Hashem is handling it for us. Let us take a closer look at what happened at the shores of the Yam Suf to learn what living with bitahon means. When Beneh Yisrael saw the Egyptians chasing after them, and they realized that they were trapped against the sea, ויצעקו בני ישראל אל ה' – they cried out to Hashem (14:10). Rashi comments that this was the proper response, that Benei Yisrael were following the example of the avot (patriarchs), who likewise cried to Hashem during times of crisis. But then Moshe Rabbenu turned to them and said, ה' ילחם לכם ואתם תחרישון – that they should remain silent while Hashem handles this for them (14:14). After that, Hashem told Moshe to tell the people ויסעו – to move forward into the sea (14:15). This is the prescription for us during times of hardship. First, ויצעקו – we should cry out. It is ok to feel upset, to feel anxious, to feel frustrated, to feel pained. We are supposed to feel these emotions, and not to try to suppress them. And it's ok to cry – certainly to Hashem, but also to those whom we feel comfortable sharing our feelings with, or with a therapist if need be. At a certain point, however, תחרישון – we have to stop crying out, recognizing that ה' ילחם לכם – Hashem is handling this crisis for us, that we are in His hands. We need to stay calm and place our trust in Hashem. And then, most importantly, ויסעו – we need to move forward. No matter what we're dealing with, we can't just give up, wallowing in our bitterness and resentment. We need to go forward and do the best we can under the circumstances Hashem put us in. Three days after Beneh Yisrael crossed the sea, they arrived in a place where they found a water source, but they could not drink the water כי מרים הם – "because they were bitter," and so they called the place מרה – "bitter" (15:23). The Rebbe of Kotzk suggested a fascinating reading of this pasuk . He explained that it wasn't the waters that were bitter, but rather the people. When people are "bitter," when they are angry and resentful, they can never quench their thirst, they can never find satisfaction, because everything they "taste" is bitter. We are all going to experience things that make us upset and get us down. But bitterness never helped anyone. The only way we help ourselves when things happen is ויסעו – by moving forward with the faith that Hashem is handling the problem. We have to move on, doing the best we can, and trust that Hashem will do the rest.

Three times every weekday, we recite in the Amidah prayer the berachah of ראה נא בענינו . We begin by asking Hashem to "see our torment," and to "wage our battles" ( וריבה ריבנו ). We then conclude, מהר לגאלנו גאולה שלמה – to quickly bring us our final redemption. At first glance, it seems that this berachah is a prayer for our final redemption. This is also the implication of the Gemara (Megilah 17b), which explains that this is the seventh berachah of the Amidah prayer because the redemption will arrive with the onset of the seventh millennium after creation. Interestingly, however, Rashi understood this berachah differently. Commenting to this Gemara, Rashi writes that this berachah is actually a prayer to Hashem to "redeem" us from our day-to-day problems, from the hardships and challenges that we face in our lives. Rashi proves this approach by noting that there are other blessings in the Amidah in which we pray for the final redemption, and so this berachah cannot be a prayer for the final redemption. The question becomes how to reconcile Rashi's comments with the simple reading of the Gemara, which indicates that this berachah prays for the final redemption. And, the text of this berachah states explicitly מהר לגאלנו גאולה שלמה – praying for the ultimate redemption, and not just for the resolution of our day-to-day problems. To answer this question, let's go back to a well-known piece of trivia about New York City. The island of Manhattan, as we were all taught, was purchased from the Indians in 1626 for $24. Today, Manhattan is worth countless trillions of dollars. How did that happen? How did this land go in 400 years from being worth $24 to being worth many trillions? The answer is, very simply, one brick at a time. One piece of pavement at a time. One sidewalk at a time. One window at a time. One subway car at a time. Every small act of construction contributed to the city's growth. Day by day, hour by hour, one little bit of effort after another – this is how a $24 piece of land becomes worth trillions upon trillions of dollars. The same is true of redemption. We pray and yearn for the final redemption, but each small "redemption" that we experience brings us closer to that day. There is no contradiction at all between the Gemara's indication that ראה נא בענינו speaks of our final redemption, and Rashi's understanding that it refers to the solving of our everyday problems. These are one and the same. Redemption happens on a small scale every single day, with every problem we solve, every obstacle we overcome, every bit of success we achieve. Eventually, all these will combine to form the ultimate redemption for which we pray and yearn. Which brings us to our parashah , which tells about the unfolding of Yetziat Mitzrayim , the Exodus from Egypt. The Zohar teaches that the redemption from Egypt was not a one-time event. It was the beginning of a process of redemption – a process that is still continuing, even today. The process will be completed only at the time of our final redemption. We might say that Yetziat Mitzrayim was the $24 purchase, and ever since then, we've been building, one "brick" at a time, working towards our final redemption, when the world will reach its state of perfection. This is a very empowering message. It reminds us that every small accomplishment is significant, and contributes toward the world's ultimate redemption. We can either sit around and complain about all the problems in the world, or we can go ahead and make things better. And the way we make things better is by doing good things – one act at a time. Every tefillah . Every mitzvah . Every kind word. Every compliment and word of encouragement. Every favor we do for someone. Everything we do for one of our children or grandchildren. Everyone we positively influence is some way. A guy who laid a few bricks for a building in Manhattan 200 years ago might not have realized he was doing something significant – but he was part of the process of transforming a $24 piece of land into a multi-trillion-dollar piece of land. This is how we need to look at our mitzvot . Every small act is vitally important and extremely valuable. Let's stay focused and stay determined to use our time and our capabilities to build our redemption – one good deed at a time.

The Gemara (Eruvin 65b) teaches that a person's true nature can be determined בכוסו ובכיסו ובכעסו – "through his cup, his pocket, and his anger." This means that a person's essence comes to the fore when he drinks a little too much, or when he is tested – either in his "pocket," when he loses money, or when his angered. It is easy to be a nice, good-natured, kind person when things are going well. But when a person is challenged, when he is out of his element, when something goes wrong, when he encounters some unexpected bump in the road, when something in his life goes a little out-of-a-whack – we see who he really is. I recall once speaking on the phone with a wonderful, refined, and conscientiously-religious individual, while he was in the airport. He suddenly realized that something went wrong – if I recall correctly, he suddenly noticed that one of his documents was missing. He blurted out a word that should never be used – and that this man would never even imagine using under normal circumstances. When people are traveling, they out of their element. They're not comfortable. They're anxious, they're uptight, and so they're more vulnerable. This is true spiritually, as well. When we're home, we have our framework and routine. It is relatively easy to keep kosher, to properly observe Shabbat, and to attend minyan . Maintaining our religious standards is not complicated under normal conditions because our lives are – to our credit – set up that way. But when we travel, when we leave, when we're out of our element, we are tested. Out of our familiar environment, out of our routine – we are more vulnerable. This might explain Yaakov Avinu's timeless pronouncement in Parashat Vayehi about the way parents bless their children. He declared that forever more, parents will bless their children that they should be like Yosef's sons, Efrayim and Menashe – ישימך אלוקים כאפרים וכמנשה (48:20). Why? Efrayim and Menashe were born and raised "out of their element," in Egypt, in a foreign society, away from Eretz Yisrael and the rest of the family. The greatest wish we have for our children is that they should maintain their values and adhere to their faith and principles even in "Egypt," on the road, when they are tested, when circumstances thrust them out of their routine. And so parents bless their children that they should be like Efrayim and Menashe, who remained loyal to Hashem even in Egypt, in a foreign environment. How do we do this? What is our strategy to strictly maintaining our standards even when we travel, when we're out of our routine? The answer is taught to us by the person who embodied this ideal better than anyone – Yosef. As a teenager, Yosef was cruelly torn away from his family and his country, and brought to Egypt as a slave. Even while working as a slave, and even after being sent to prison due to a false accusation, he remained steadfastly devoted to Hashem and to his father's values. There is one word that the Torah says about Yosef which reveals to us the secret of how he did this. When Yosef was tempted by his master's wife, the Torah tells, וימאן – Yosef refused (39:8). A young man thrust far out of his element, Yosef was vulnerable – but there were things which were non-negotiable, that he would firmly refuse to do no matter how great the challenge was. And this is what we need to do when we're on the road – וימאן . We need to set our inviolable red lines. We have to draw very clear boundaries, and remind ourselves of what is absolutely non-negotiable, of which lines we are never crossing, not under any circumstances. We have to make the decision in our minds that there are things which we just refuse to do. וימאן . When we are out of our routine, out of our familiar framework, we have a precious opportunity to make a clear, resounding statement of who we are, where our loyalties lie. This is our chance to show our essence, to show that our commitment the rest of the time is not just a matter of habit or convenience, but a matter of conviction, the result of our firm belief in Hashem and our genuine desire to obey Him.

One of the famous questions asked about the holiday of Hanukah involves a passage that appears right in the middle of the Gemara's discussion of the laws of the Hanukah candles. The Gemara suddenly interjects with what appears to be a totally unrelated comment about the story of Yosef. The Torah says about the pit into which Yosef's brothers threw him: והבור רק אין בו מים – "and the pit was empty; there was no water in it" (37:24). The Gemara explains this to mean that the pit was "empty" only in the sense that it contained no water. It did, however, contain נחשים ועקרבים – snakes and scorpions. Miraculously, Yosef survived. Many Rabbis asked the question of why this comment is introduced amidst the Gemara's discussion of Hanukah. The simple answer, seemingly, is that the same Rabbi who made this comment taught the halacha which the Gemara quoted previously. The Gemara will often tangentially quote other teachings of a Rabbi after bringing his statement about the topic under discussion, so it could be that here, too, the Gemara just happened to bring a second teaching by the same Rabbi. It seems reasonable to assume, however, that there is a deeper connection between Hanukah and the pit that Yosef was thrown into. Let's take a closer look at the Gemara's statement: מים אין בו, אבל נחשים ועקרבים יש בו – "There was no water in it, but there were snakes and scorpions in it." The Gemara here is making a profound observation about human beings. Every person is a "pit" that needs to be filled. People do not remain "empty." Their time, their minds, and their souls will be filled with something. And if it is not filled with "water" – with Torah, with holiness, with spirituality, with meaning and purpose – then it will be filled with "snakes and scorpions" – with destructive activities. This is especially true about youngsters. There is hardly any young man or woman who is just average, who is "neutral," who is "empty." Either they are "filled" with Torah, with a yearning for meaning and a connection to Hashem, or they are "filled" with נחשים ועקרבים , with harmful or destructive behaviors. And this might be the connection between the statement about Yosef's pit and the mitzvah of Hanukah candles. Hanukah is the celebration of the triumph of the "light" of Torah over the "darkness." Torah life is sometimes difficult, but it is filled with "light," with joy, with beauty, with meaningfulness. The alternative to Torah life, as appealing as it may seem, is "dark," a place of נחשים ועקרבים , snakes and scorpions – because if a person does not "fill" himself with Torah, he will fill himself with other things which are "dark" and harmful. Our job on Hanukah when lighting the candles is to reflect on, and rejoice over, the privilege we have to live joyous Torah lives, lives of meaning and purpose, lives of yearning and striving for a relationship with Hashem. We should celebrate our choosing light over darkness, the beauty of Torah life over the "darkness" of other lifestyles. And we should recommit to constantly radiate joy and enthusiasm in our Torah observance so our children will see the "light" and beauty of Torah, and will not look to "fill" their lives with anything else.

JH1094 Rabbi Joey Haber Parashat Vayishlah begins with the words, וישלח יעקב מלאכים לפניו אל עשו אחיו – "Yaakov sent ahead angels to his brother, Esav. " Rashi clarifies that the word מלאכים in this pasuk should be understood as a reference to מלאכים ממש – actual angels. These weren't human messengers whom the Torah describes with the term מלאכים , but rather were actual angels. This explanation is supported by the fact that in the preceding pesukim , we read that as Yaakov left Haran and made his way to Eretz Yisrael , he encountered מלאכי אלוקים – "angels of G-d." It seems that Yaakov sent them to his brother. It is interesting to note that angels play a very significant role in the story of Yaakov Avinu. When he set out from his hometown to live in Haran, he dreamt of angels going up and down a ladder that extended from the ground to the heavens. While in Haran, as he struggled working for his corrupt uncle, Lavan, an angel appeared to him in a dream. As mentioned, he encountered angels on his way back home. And, our parashah tells that he was later attacked by a mysterious assailant, identified by the Rabbis as שרו של עשו – the angel of his brother, Esav. What are we to make of this aspect of Yaakov's life? Why were angels such a big part of his story? We can perhaps answer this question in light of the Gemara's teaching (Shabbat 119b) about what happens in our homes every week on Friday night. The Gemara says that when a person walks home from shul on Friday night, he is accompanied by two angels – one "good" angel and one "bad" angel. If his home is properly set up for Shabbat, then the "good" angel gives the person a berachah that his home should be that way the next Shabbat, too, and the "bad" angel has no choice but to answer " amen ." But if the house is not properly arranged for Shabbat, then the "bad" angel wishes the person that this should happen the next Shabbat, too, and the "good" angel is forced to answer " amen ." I want to ask a simple question about this teaching. Why can't I have two good angels with me when I come home from shul on Friday night??? Why does there have to be a "bad" angel? The answer is that these "angels" reflect our experiences during the previous week, what's happening in our lives. Life is full of surprising twists and turns. So many unexpected things happen in our lives – some good, and some bed. At every step of the way, Hashem sends us "angels," people and circumstances. Sometimes they are wonderful, and sometimes they are challenging. This is life. Nobody has a perfectly good life, and nobody has an entirely bad life. Every one of us has a life with both "good" angels and "bad" angels, with both blessings and hardships. When we begin Shabbat, we carry with us both sides of the equation, the good and the bad. The question is how we handle this combination of good and bad. If we succeed in properly preparing for Shabbat, in creating a beautiful, upbeat atmosphere in our home despite whatever challenges we're dealing with, then our lives are truly blessed – by both the "good" angel and the "bad" angel. If we can think positively and experience joy and contentment despite our struggles, then our lives are beautiful – with both the good and the bad. There is perhaps nobody in our history who dealt with more unexpected twists and turns than Yaakov Avinu. On the one hand, he was very blessed – he had a large family, children who were all tzadikim , and a large fortune. On the other hand, he dealt with so many harsh challenges. He was pursued by his brother. He was deceived by Lavan for twenty years. His daughter was abducted and violated. His beloved son was sold into slavery by his brothers. Yaakov encountered numerous different "angels" over the course of his life. He had angels that helped and protected him. And he had an angel that violently attacked him and that he struggled to overcome, ultimately succeeding. The key to a happy life is not to wait until all the "bad" angels disappear. That will never happen. The key to a happy life is to do what we do every Shabbat – make our homes and our lives beautiful despite what we're dealing with. If we do this, then we will have defeated the "bad" angels that we encounter along the way, by not allowing them to get in the way of our efforts to live a happy, fulfilling life.

Parashat Toledot tells us about Yishak and Rivka, and their experiences with their two children, Yaakob and Esav. One of the intriguing things about Rivka – which is striking especially after having just read Parashat Hayeh-Sara – is that the Torah never tells us about her passing. The Torah devotes a special section at the beginning of Parashat Hayeh-Sara to the death of our first matriarch, Sara, telling us how many years she lived, where she died, that her husband wept and eulogized her, and how he secured a burial plot for her final resting place. Rivka's death, however, is not mentioned – at least not explicitly. Later in the Book of Bereshit (35:8), we read of the passing of Devorah, who was Rivka's nurse when she was younger. Rashi explains that at that time, when Devorah died, Yaakov learned of the passing of his beloved mother, Rivka. The Torah told us about Devorah's passing, Rashi explains, to subtly allude to us that Rivka had died. And so whereas Sara's death received a whole section in the Torah, Rivka's death is concealed within the death of a different person. Why? Rashi writes: ולפיכך העלימו את יום מותה – שלא יקללו הבריות כרס שיצא ממנו עשו . This means that the Torah hid Rivka's death, rather than mention it openly, so that people would not say bad things about her. One of her two sons was Esav, who grew to become a very evil man. If the Torah would speak of Rivka's passing out in the open, people might right away associate her with Esav, and denigrate her. Rashi here is teaching us a very profound truth that emerges when we contrast Sara with Rivka. Both were righteous women who endured a considerable amount of hardship during their lives, but with a very significant difference. Sara's troubles were out in the open, and known to everyone. She was twice abducted by kings, she was childless until old age, and she was forced to move to different places many times during her life. There was no shame or embarrassment in these hardships. Rivka's struggle, however, was more private, and caused her humiliation. She had a son who became sinful, causing her a great deal of grief – but grief that she could not easily share with others, because this kind of challenge is painful and embarrassing. Some hardships turn people into heroes. Of course, we don't wish these challenges upon ourselves or upon anyone else. But when somebody goes through a major crisis, or a devastating loss, the community does its magic – coming together to help in every way, and to offer a strong support system. The person receives help and support, and also well-deserved admiration and respect for the way he or she dealt with this crisis. But so many people endure hidden hardships, that they cannot tell anybody about. It may be problems in marriage, with finances, with a child or several children, a mental health challenge, or an addiction. These are very personal and very embarrassing, and so the person suffers silently, feeling unable to confide, to seek help, to find a shoulder to lean on. These people can be sitting next to you in shul, or at your table at a wedding or other affair. For that matter, they might be at your Shabbat table. They could be your own family members. So many people are struggling with issues that they're understandably too embarrassed to share even with their siblings or closest friends. This is why we need to change the way we see people and speak about them. We need to stop categorizing people as "successful" and "unsuccessful," as though they are two groups – those who "made it" and those who didn't. We have to stop talking this way and thinking this way. We need to instead realize that we're all the same, we're all in the same boat. We all have things in our lives that are going well, and things in our lives that aren't. This is how we need to look at ourselves and at all people. If we do, then people with hidden hardships will feel comfortable and at ease around us. If we think of ourselves as better, as more stable, as more accomplished, as more successful, then without any intention of doing so, we exacerbate the pain of those suffering in silence. We need to instead give off the "vibe" that we're all equal, we're all struggling with something, so people who need comfort and friendship can find it with us. Those familiar with my lectures know that I often share things about me and my family that are less than flattering. I don't do this simply for entertainment. I do this because I want my audience to feel that I see myself as not that different from them, that we're all in this together, we all have our issues, our struggles, our challenges, and our disappointments. If we live with this mindset, then we all become an amazing team – a team whose members are always there for each other, always supporting each other, and always comforting each other, even when we have no idea why the support and comfort is needed.

People sometimes ask me for advice on how to give speeches. Whenever I'm asked this, I give the same three pieces of advice: Remember that nobody cares what you have to say. Just because I have a nice devar Torah to share, or some story that I find interesting – this doesn't mean that they care about it. My job when giving a speech is to find something to say that's relevant to them , that's interesting to them , that's of value to them . Not what's relevant, interesting, or of value to me . Never, ever, ever, ever speak to an audience that you don't respect. Each and every word should be spoken in a manner that expresses respect for the people you're speaking to. If they feel you're talking down to them, in a condescending way, they won't pay attention to anything you say. Be vulnerable. Be prepared to share stories about yourself that aren't especially flattering. There's a clear common denominator between all three pieces of advice – making the audience feel that you're with them, not above them, that you're not standing and talking to them from a different place, but rather speaking to them as an equal. This, I believe, is the key element of hesed – which is one of the important themes of Parashat Vayera. The story told at the beginning of the parashah , describing how Avraham Avino hosted three angels who appeared to him as weary nomads, provides us with a paradigm of hesed . And we read that after Avraham brought them food and served them, והוא עומד עליהם תחת העץ ויאכלו – he stood with them as they ate in the shade (18:8). This is a critically important part of the story. Avraham didn't just give them food and then get back to his affairs. He stayed with them. He showed them respect. He gave them his full attention. He made it clear that he really and truly cared about them, that they were important to him. The Gemara teaches in Masechet Baba Batra (9b) that one who gives money to a poor person receives six blessings in reward, but המפייסו בדברים – somebody who speaks kindly to a poor person, giving him encouragement and emotional support, receives 11 blessings. A poor person of course needs money – but there's something he needs even more than money, and that is respect and concern, the feeling that somebody truly cares about them and considers them important. Most patients prefer doctors with a good bedside manner than a doctor who's the best in the field – precisely for this reason. They need not just good medical care – but somebody who is really concerned about them, who can provide them emotional support and comfort during this crisis. Moshe Rabbenu was given his name, משה , because Pharaoh's daughter drew him from the water when she found him floating in a basket in the river – כי מן המים משיתיהו (Shemot 2:10). Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch noted that seemingly, Moshe should have been named משוי , which means "drawn" – as he was drawn from the water. But instead, he was called משה , which means not "drawn," but "draw." Rav Hirsch explains that because Moshe was "drawn," because his life was saved through hesed , he was to devote his entire life to "drawing," to saving and helping other people. This is true not only of Moshe Rabbenu, but of every one us. There isn't anybody alive who is not the beneficiary of hesed . We are here only because we had people who took care of us, and so much of the good fortune that we enjoy is because of kindness that people do for us even today. Our family, our friends, our community, our society – we owe so much to so many people, without whom we wouldn't have the blessings that we enjoy. If we understand this, then we will be able to do hesed the right way – as equals, without condescension, and without ego. If we understand that we are dependent on people's hesed , then we will give respect to the people who need our hesed . We will realize that we are all in the same boat, that we all depend on one another, and so we all need to help one another. We will then be able to meet other people where they are, and treat them as equals, giving them the feelings of dignity and self-worth that they so desperately need. Avraham is the paragon of hesed not only because of his generosity, but because הוא עומד עליהם תחת העץ – because he treated his guests as equals, because he came to where they were standing, without arrogance and without feeling more important than them. This is the example of hesed that we must aspire to follow.