Lomdus vs. Skills: A Response to Rabbi Adler of TABC

Posted on February 9, 2012 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

Here is a letter of mine recently printed in Issue 5:5 of Kol Hamevaser, the “Jewish Thought Magazine of the Yeshiva University Student Body,” in which I responded to their interview with Rabbi Yosef Adler of TABC (5.2, the Education Issue). In the interview, Rabbi Adler argues for intellectual stimulation over skills in high school Gemara education. I am honored that Hamevaser elected to print my letter, which I am printing here, as well, for the benefit of my own readers.

First, Rabbi Adler’s thoughts, from Hamevaser:

AC: You are a noted advocate of the use of derekh Brisk (the Brisker method of Talmud study) in high school education. How do you respond to the concerns of educators who feel that high school is a time to focus on reading skills and general familiarity with the spectrum of Torah?

RYA: My number one objective in yeshivah high school education is to turn people on to learning. I try to show them that learning can be taken seriously and is enjoyable, and I hope to pique their curiosity to learn. I love to have guys who are budding talmidei hakhamim, but I want most of them to be baalebatim (laymen) who respect learning and I want them to get turned on to learning. My goal is not that every kid should know how to “make a leining” (read a passage of Talmud). I do not think that in the time that is allocated in yeshivah high schools of our orbit – an hour and a half or two hours a day – is sufficient to communicate that. It is, if it is your only objective. If your only objective is skills, then perhaps you could have kids read, and reread, and reread. But I think you will turn off eighty percent of them, because it is a little boring. I am willing to forfeit that for the experience of getting them challenged and letting their minds explore what is happening, let them get involved in the learning process and hopefully turn them on to make Torah-learning an incredibly important value in their life. I think that intellectual stimulation and lomdus and Brisker Torah is the way to go.

My response:

To the Editors:

Your interview with Rabbi Adler for the most part solidified the high esteem in which I hold this master builder of Jewish education. However, I was troubled by his comments on Brisker Lomdus in high schools as the best means of “intellectual stimulation” on account of basic skills being “a little boring.” As a graduate and Musmach of YU now serving as a high school Rebbe at a co-educational, Modern Orthodox school in a mid-size Jewish community, it is my personal opinion that Rabbi Adler, albeit with the best of intentions, has entirely missed the mark in his assessment, and that his and others’ approach to this issue is causing more harm than good.

I am proud to stress basic skills in my Gemara classes before delving into Iyun (but never Brisker Lomdus at their level), and my students are as engaged, stimulated, and excited as their peers elsewhere. What I would propose to Rabbi Adler and others who adapt his stance on this issue is that there are two means of “engagement” which must be taken into consideration. My students’ excitement is deep, if less broad, as it comes from the internal pride of knowing that they are able to actually do something on their own, that they have (or will have soon) the inestimable power of being able to learn any Gemara they choose. They are excited that they saw something a few notches above them, reached high, and took hold of it for themselves. Attaining that excitement is more laborious, true, and it does not immediately cater to the culture of instant gratification to which we and are our students fall prey. But why should Gemara education play a “yes dear” role to the worst social morays of our time? My experience has been that when given an opportunity to rise above the need to feel immediately satisfied by their Torah learning and instead feel the old-fashioned exhilaration of production earned honestly and by accumulated toil, the students respond beautifully. In contrast, whatever excitement is gained by seeing something 100 notches above them, staring at it off in the distance, and nodding solemnly at the beauty of it as it flies by without truly understand what it is that they’re seeing, is the kind of excitement that will leave as quickly as it came.

I fear that the learning in our classrooms may begin to adapt itself to our generation’s unfortunate tendency towards the apocryphal, with learning as an inherent value replaced by learning as entertainment, as something to stare and gawk at, as the ultimate unreachable goal by which to measure oneself without any real compunction to believe that we can “get there.” If “appreciation” of learning is central, Rabbi Adler would be right. If learning itself is a value, then even today, after all these millennia, and maybe more so than ever, learning takes actual work. This is not surprising, because learning is the emblematic derivative of our desire to come closer to Hashem during our time on earth. It is axiomatic that any relationship devoid of work has no staying power. To Rabbi Adler’s proposal that we ingest our students with a burst of momentary excitement in a bid to generate a life-long love of learning, I can only say that that will work as well as any relationship entered into with a similar level of commitment. By comparison, suppose a well-intentioned basketball coach “excited” his team by showing them videos of plays by professional athletes that they could not possibly complete at their own level, leaving them to wonder whether their own functional abilities were of any use. Brisker Lomdus, like those videos, may provide a very limited burst of excitement, but the real staying power will only be achieved through hard work and skills. Absent these, the players will neither enjoy nor understand basketball, and their long-term prospects for playing will be rather slim – all despite the excitement they initially felt on watching those videos.

On the issue of there not being enough time for both skills and Lomdus in “an hour and a half to two hours a day,” I find that claim suspect. I think some people just don’t want to make the effort, or don’t know how to, or don’t believe they can if they tried, or consider it beneath themselves to try. You may cover fewer Sugyot in a year (although I doubt it, because on the balance you’ll cover more ground anyway with their increased skills), but if each Sugya is learned first with an eye to basic skills and then analyzed in depth, all bases would be covered. This is what I do in my classroom, and the excitement on my students’ faces speaks for itself. They bask in the glow of what they can actually accomplish on their own, as well they should. For all intents and purposes, my students are building for themselves a complete set of Shas without ever entering a bookstore, and they cannot be prouder. Any real Brisker would laugh at a child who can’t hold a Gemara straight using the vaunted “Brisker Derech” the same way we chuckle seeing a small child wearing his father’s coat.

As far as the mid-range results of Rabbi Adler’s strategy, I do not have to surmise because I saw them. Having spent two years teaching at a mid-level post-high school yeshiva in Israel prior to accepting my current position four years ago, coping daily with the results that Brisker Lomdus had wrought on these day school graduates, I can only say that the outcome was not pretty. Not only were their basic skills lacking to the point that they couldn’t read and translate anything (not surprisingly, given Rabbi Adler’s own assertions), but their analytical skills were missing as well – any attempt to make them Brisker Lamdanim had fallen flat. Perhaps even more alarming, they could barely articulate anything more cogent as to why they were in Israel than that their friends had come as well. They weren’t in Israel to continue learning Brisker Lomdus, a term they probably had never even heard. And they certainly weren’t there to learn basic skills, although many realized before too long that there is nothing boring at all about being able to learn Gemara on their own and that making up for lost time was probably the best way to spend their year. Seeing those kids day after day, years after their proper developmental window for acquiring basic skills was essentially closed, was what really pushed me to come back to America and do things differently in a school setting. I am proud that I have been able to do that, and I hope to continue to do so for many years to come.

I will say only this in conclusion to Rabbi Adler and others who agree with him: Don’t feel bad for Gemara. Don’t be scared to present it for what it is. Don’t apologize for its intricacy, difficulty, profundity or depth. Don’t let excessive condiments dull the Gemara’s own delicious taste. Today more than ever, our students are starving for the opportunity to feel real, hard-earned accomplishment, and while they may lack the vocabulary to ask you articulately for it and may not thank you for it right away, they would be more than gratified in due time if you would help them find it.

Signed with every ounce of respect for this modern-day giant of Jewish education, a man whom I truly admire and even emulate for the pivotal role he has played in teaching Torah and dedicating his life to his students and to his craft,

Posted in Communal Matters, Jewish Education (meta) | 2 Comments

כמעט נטיו רגלי: Ye of Little Faith – Patriarchal Edition: Parshat Toldot

Posted on February 7, 2012 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

Is it possible that Avraham failed a test given to him by Hashem? That question has been on my mind and those of my Ninth Grade students, as we have explored Rashi’s selective use of a challenging Midrash.

We’re up to the point in our year-long exploration of Rashi’s commentary on Chumash at which we jump off the page to consider Rashi’s use (and occasional misuse) of original sources such as Midrash and Gemara. One of these voyages from 1,100 France to 500 Babylon made for an unexpectedly intriguing debate.

Yitzchak in Avraham’s Image … To Protect Whose?
Parshat Toldot begins with the anti-climactic “Toldot” description of Avraham’s progeny:

בראשית פרק כה
(יט) וְאֵלֶּה תּוֹלְדֹת יִצְחָק בֶּן אַבְרָהָם אַבְרָהָם הוֹלִיד אֶת יִצְחָק: (כ) וַיְהִי יִצְחָק בֶּן אַרְבָּעִים שָׁנָה בְּקַחְתּוֹ אֶת רִבְקָה בַּת בְּתוּאֵל הָאֲרַמִּי מִפַּדַּן אֲרָם אֲחוֹת לָבָן הָאֲרַמִּי לוֹ לְאִשָּׁה:

One of the many questions my students picked up on in learning these פסוקים is the apparent redundancy within the first verse – if Yitzchak was “ben Avraham,” then clearly אַבְרָהָם הוֹלִיד אֶת יִצְחָק. Why does the פסוק need to inform us of this?

Not surprisingly, Rashi is bothered by this question, too:

רש”י בראשית פרק כה
אברהם הוליד את יצחק – על ידי שכתב הכתוב, “יצחק בן אברהם,” הוזקק לומר “אברהם הוליד את יצחק.” לפי שהיו ליצני הדור אומרים, “מאבימלך נתעברה שרה, שהרי כמה שנים שהתה עם אברהם, ולא נתעברה הימנו!” מה עשה הקב”ה? – צר קלסתר פניו של יצחק, דומה לאברהם, והעידו הכל, “אברהם הוליד את יצחק!” – וזהו שכתב כאן, “יצחק בן אברהם היה,” שהרי, עדות יש, שאברהם הוליד את יצחק:

An intriguing story – the scoffers around Avraham mocked the Patriarch for Sarah’s allegedly having conceived Yitzchak with Avimelech until Hashem, apparently to protect the First Couple’s image, made Yitzchak look so much like Avraham that no one any longer had any doubts as to who was the boy’s rightful father.

A look at the Midrash Tanchuma that Rashi is ostensibly quoting,* however, reveals some important differences:

מדרש תנחומא (ורשא) פרשת תולדות סימן א
בא וראה כח השלום! – שבשעה שנתטלטלה (that she was taken) שרה מיד פרעה ליד אבימלך, ונתעברה ביצחק, היו אומות העולם אומרים, “הַלְבֶּן מאה שנה יולד?! אלא, היא מעוברת מאבימלך או מפרעה.” והיתה חשד בלבו של אברהם על אלו הדברים. מה עשה הקב”ה? אמר למלאך הממונה על יצירת הוולד, עשה כל אקונין שלו כדמות אביו, כדי שיעידו הכל שהוא בנו של אברהם. מנין? ממה שקראו בענין, “אלה תולדות יצחק בן אברהם.” ממשמע שהוא אומר “יצחק בן אברהם,” איני יודע שאברהם הוליד את יצחק? ומה ת”ל אברהם הוליד את יצחק?! – שכל הרואה אברהם, היה אומר, “בודאי שאברהם הוליד את יצחק,” ממה שהיה קלסתר פניהם דומין זה לזה! לכך נאמר, “אברהם הוליד את יצחק.”

Rashi changes this Midrash in his retelling in many interesting ways – the absence of Pharaoh and Hashem’s outsourcing “the change” to an angel are two – but perhaps the most intriguing difference is Rashi’s omission of Avraham‘s doubt, brought on by the mockers’ derision – והיתה חשד בלבו של אברהם על אלו הדברים – as the very reason for Hashem’s making the change at all.

Avraham – a doubter? It seems that the Midrash is suggesting this possibility. Avraham, who believed at age 100 that he would have a son? Avraham, who pinned his hopes for Jewish Peoplehood on a strict one-year deadline? Avraham, who believed even when his righteous wife laughed? Perhaps it was to make the likelihood of Avraham’s conception at that advanced age, and the concomitant furtherance of the Jewish Nation, even more stultifying that Hashem inserted Avimelech in the picture. Still believe, Avraham? Sure, no problem. But then along come the comedians, and והיתה חשד בלבו של אברהם. The change in Yitzchak was not, as Rashi implied, for the mockers; why would Hashem make such a change just to convince them? Who were they in the grand scheme of history? Let them laugh! But that Avraham should doubt? Had it come to this? Hashem needed to take action. The test had become too great for even Avraham to endure.

The Object of Doubt – Two Paradigms
In class we constructed two separate possibilities as to the meaning of the Midrashic line והיתה חשד בלבו של אברהם. Perhaps the phrase comes to mean only that Avraham worried what others would say – a תפארת לו מן האדם problem. Hashem wanted, in that case, to protect Avraham’s image in the world at large. This theory is also brought in the Anaf Yosef commentary to Midrash Tanchuma, along with the explanation that Avraham had doubts of his own. The problem with the other-conscious theory is that it leaves little resolution as to why Hashem would have set into effect the very course of events which would lead to others’ doubts, only to resolve them by changing Yitzchak’s appearance. The less “frum” approach, on the other hand, that Avraham was personally doubtful, at least leaves with us a more satisfying (and edifying) chain of events: Hashem put Avimelech in the picture as a further barometer of Avraham’s belief in Hashem’s ability to grant the Patriarch a child; Avraham cried Uncle, faltering in his belief at this point; Hashem sent a safety net, making Yitzchak look like Avraham, to save Avraham.

(The Anaf Yosef points out that Mizrahi‘s text of the Tanchuma, in place of והיתה חשד בלבו של אברהם על אלו הדברים, has the more evocative line והיתה קטטה בבית אברהם על אלו הדברים – and there was fighting in Avraham’s house due to this matter. This text would lend credence to the idea that Avraham himself had some doubt who was Yitzchak’s father, and that it was for Avraham’s sake that Yitzchak’s appearance needed to be changed.)

Avraham’s Doubt: Means of Edification, Base for Growth
If we are to adopt the explanation that Avraham had doubts of his own which needed to be assuaged, we are left with the difficult reality that Avraham stumbled in his faith. How do we understand Avraham as a doubter? Is it time to sell Avraham to a caravan of Arab merchants? My students proposed a working hypothesis to help preserve both the Midrashic version of events and Avraham’s image. Imagine, they posited, that a teacher gives his students a pretest on the first day of school. The results will determine their class placement for the rest of the year. Naturally, the teacher will ask the students to solve problems which he knows are currently beyond their capability. The goal of the pretest is not to determine what is already known, but what is not yet known; the purpose is to ask continually harder questions until the student cannot answer them any longer, at which point the teacher will have the knowledge he needs to plan the year accordingly. If the students were to cheat and score beyond their personal capability, this would only make the rest of the year harder for them.

Perhaps Hashem had the same plan in mind for Avraham: continually “up” the challenge until Avraham cried Uncle. Make him infertile. Wait until he is 100 before guaranteeing him a child. Give him a strict one-year deadline. Throw in Avimelech and Pharaoh. And then add the comedians to the mix. In the end, it is peer pressure which proves too much for Avraham. That is the level from which Avraham can now begin to work on his Emunah. Looked at from this perspective, Avraham did not fail the test given to him by Hashem – he passed it four times, and the fifth was never required of him! Think of the wall in an optometrist’s office, with its rows of ever-smaller letters and numbers. One who reads four rows perfectly before stumbling on Row 5 has not failed – he has simply indicated to the optometrist what prescription he requires. In a similar way, Hashem now knows where Avraham needs work in his Avodat Ha’Emunah – incidentally, a level that most of us would probably not come close to – and his work on Emunah can begin again now.

Changing Yitzchak – An Outside Job?
At the same time, it is interesting to note another difference between Rashi and the Midrash. Rashi goes out of his way to say that Hashem made the change – מה עשה הקב”ה? צר קלסתר פניו של יצחק – even though the Midrash went out of its way to say that an angel caused the change: …מה עשה הקב”ה? אמר למלאך הממונה על יצירת הוולד. Why would the Midrash be so clear in its assertion that Hashem appointed an angel to do this job?

Perhaps, offered one student, the message from Hashem here is that just as an angel is, at Hashem’s direction, changing Yitzchak’s appearance in utero, it was just as much an angel, and also just as much at Hashem’s command, who told Avraham that he (and not Avimelech) would have a baby one year earlier. Lest Avraham begin to doubt his prior reliance on an angel, Hashem reinforces Avraham’s original belief that an angel can be empowered to act on Hashem’s behalf.

On the other hand, perhaps the angel is used here to imply to Avraham that if he is prepared to, even partly, abandon his belief that it is Hashem who bestows children (and, by extension, can do so whenever and however He wants), Hashem will essentially acquiesce to Avraham’s skepticism of Hashem’s abilities by outsourcing Yitzchak’s change to an angel rather than making the change Himself. Hashem’s use of an angel is thus a gentle Divine nudge, informing Avraham that if he is prepared to go it alone, Hashem is prepared to make that choice a reality. If so, why is it so important that Avraham realize the truth of what happened and believe unequivocally in Hashem’s ability to follow through on His guarantee and provide a child for Avraham?

Forging a People on Belief
Suppose Sarah’s pregnancy went ahead without Yitzchak’s being changed to look exactly like his father Avraham. The baby is born looking like Sarah, or like no one in particular, but Avraham’s once-dormant doubt as to Yitzchak’s true father is never truly forgotten, and he always wonders. The message in the Midrash is that that is not a Jewish People that Hashem can tolerate. We cannot be a People of ambiguous origin – or worse, one whose origin is shrouded in the ambiguity of whether it was in fact Hashem’s guarantee that brought it about. If Avraham’s doubts are holding him back from seeing Hashem as the sole and unquestioned Power that put the continuity of the Jewish People in place, the very integrity of the Jewish People is likewise called into question. Of what use any longer is the Jewish People to Hashem if we cannot serve as a living and confident testament to His presence on this earth? The change of Yitzchak thus serves as a testament not only to Hashem’s ability to both create and change nature (as “Hashem as Creator” during Ma’aseh Bereishit was modified during Yitziat Mitzrayim to display “Hashem as Changer”), but also to the centrality of belief in the furtherance of the Jewish People. For if Yitzchak is born unchanged and Avraham is never sure whether Hashem’s guarantee really came true or whether maybe, just maybe, Avimelech was inserted into the picture to ameliorate a fumbled promise, is that a Jewish People at all?

_______________
* In fact, while Rashi borrows elements of this comment from the Midrash, he takes other elements from Gemara Bava Metzia .פז. While it is out of the scope of this post to compare the two sources and how Rashi borrowed selectively from each, I will give you the Gemara here and you can make the comparison for yourself. (The bold phrases might offer some hints as to key differences. The first story in this Gemara, about Sarah nursing many babies, is brought in a different Rashi elsewhere in Bereishit, unlike the Gemara which connects it to the Yitzchak story.)

תלמוד בבלי מסכת בבא מציעא דף פז עמוד א
“ותאמר, ‘מי מלל לאברהם, הניקה בנים שרה?’ ” – כמה בנים הניקה שרה? – אמר רבי לוי: אותו היום שגמל אברהם את יצחק בְּנוֹ, עשה סעודה גדולה. היו כל אומות העולם מרננים ואומרים, “ראיתם זקן וזקנה שהביאו אסופי מן השוק ואומרים: בנינו הוא; ולא עוד, אלא שעושין משתה גדול להעמיד דבריהם?!” מה עשה אברהם אבינו? הלך וזימן כל גדולי הדור, ושרה אמנו זימנה את נשותיהם, וכל אחת ואחת הביאה בנה עמה ומניקתה לא הביאה, ונעשה נס בשרה אמנו ונפתחו דדיה כשני מעיינות, והניקה את כולן. ועדיין היו מרננים, ואומרים: “אם שרה, הבת תשעים שנה, תלד, אברהם, בן מאה שנה, יוליד?!” מיד, נהפך קלסתר פנים של יצחק ונדמה לאברהם. פתחו כולם ואמרו (בראשית כה), “אברהם הוליד את יצחק.”

Posted in Classroom Experiences, Parshat Hashavua | Leave a comment

מאבל לאור גדול: Preliminary Thoughts on Joy and Aveilut in Contemporary Jewish Worship

Posted on January 28, 2012 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

I confess, I am a Minyanaholic, even a bit of a Minyan-snob. I am one of those guys who not only, under normal circumstances, makes a point to be at Minyan, but notices and judges you (yes, you!) if you are not there. I said already, I’m a Minyan-snob, a wonkish Minyanaire. That’s because the obligation to Daven with a Minyan is real (see אורח חיים צ:ט), albeit with very legitimate provisions, including ongoing work-related exceptions (see, for example, גמרא ברכות לח עמוד ב and אורח חיים קכח:כד). One of the million reasons that I am endlessly thankful for my job is the opportunity it affords me to Daven with a Minyan regularly; I do not take that lightly, and I do not mean to insult those with legitimate reasons for missing Minyan, even often. My Minyoxiousness is reserved for lazy people who would rather watch TV than go to Minyan (on that, see אורח חיים צ:יא).

I go to Minyan a lot, in part because I believe that that is a real obligation. But that also, perhaps, legitimizes my weighing in on another obligation, one that is not real at all: the supposed requirement for someone who is a mourner to serve as Chazzan whenever he can.

I don’t blame people for mistaking this for an obligation, since the Establishment has attempted to convince us of this for some time. As esteemed a publication as Eretz Hemdah once delineated the obligation this way:

“The Rama (YD 376:4) rules that it is proper for sons of the deceased to bring them merit by saying Kaddish and being chazan for 11 months after death. Yet, mourners do not have an absolute need or right to be chazan. The Shulchan Aruch (OC 53:20) says that a congregation may choose another chazan over a mourner if they so desire. A mourner’s absolute right applies only to the Kaddeishim designed for them (Mishna Berura 53:60). However, the congregation should allow a mourner to be chazan under normal circumstances (he is a fluent chazan and positive person).”

Let’s look at the sources the Eretz Hemdah quotes. First, the Rama in Yoreh Deah – I’ve quoted a bit before and after to show that I have not eliminated anything of relevance:

שולחן ערוך יורה דעה סימן שעו סעיף ד
ונהגו להקפיד אם יכנס אדם לבית אחר קודם שירחץ וישב ג”פ, ומנהג אבותינו תורה (שם במהרי”ל). ונמצא במדרשות לומר קדיש על אב (כל בו וריב”ש בשם תנחומא וספרי, ובחיי בשם מסכת כלה, וב”י בשם הזוהר, ובא”ז בשם תנא דבי אליהו רבא); ע”כ נהגו לומר על אב ואם קדיש בתרא י”ב חדש, וכן נהגו להפטיר בנביא, ולהתפלל ערבית במוצאי שבתות שהוא הזמן שחוזרין הנשמות לגיהנם. וכשהבן מתפלל ומקדש ברבים, פודה אביו ואמו מן הגיהנם (כל בו בשם הגהות). ונהגו לומר קדיש על האם אע”פ שהאב חי עדיין.

Maftir, one Kaddish at the end of each Tefillah, and Chazzanut at Ma’ariv of Motza’ei Shabbat (for twelve months, not eleven). That’s it. Notice the Rama’s reason in the first line quoted above – Motza’ei Shabbat is when the souls of the departed go back to Gehinnom. Then, in the very next line, the Rama says that a son’s serving as Chazzan “redeems his father’s soul from Gehinnom.” Eretz Hemdah took this second line wildly out of context, somehow extending it to every opportunity to be Chazzan that a mourner should encounter for eleven months. But that makes no sense – souls return to Gehinnom once a week; not all day, every day, seven days a week, for eleven months. It is difficult to say that the Rama meant that mourners should always be Chazzan when (1) his first line states explicitly that that obligation is only on Motza’ei Shabbat; and (2) his second line gives a reason that is only relevant to Motza’ei Shabbat. So why, at least according to this Rama, is it “proper for sons of the deceased to bring them merit by saying Kaddish and being chazan for 11 months after death?” I think that Eretz Hemdah has some explaining to do on this one.

The Mechaber in Orach Chaim quoted (more accurately) by Eretz Hemdah also does not come close to delineating any obligation for a mourner to be Chazzan with any regularity:

שולחן ערוך אורח חיים סימן נג סעיף כ
אם אחד רוצה לומר תפלה בשביל אביו, ואחד רוצה לומר בשביל אחר, מי שירצה הקהל שיאמר התפלה – הוא יאמר.

Here again, the Mechaber seems to see no preference whatsoever in a mourner’s serving as Chazzan and doesn’t even come close to legitimatizing the now-universal practice of granting unchecked power to mourners all over the world to turn Shuls, once Citadels of Joy, into morose extensions of Shiva houses. And a look at the Shulchan Aruch’s source, a Teshuva by the Maharik, shows that, if anything, the Mechaber is actually being kind to mourners as compared to the Maharik before him:

שו”ת מהרי”ק סימן ל
אבל בענין התפלה, כך לי: האומר בשביל אביו, כמו האומר בשביל אחר שאין קרוב כלל. דאין זה תלוי כלל אלא ברצון הקהל, שהתפלה היא שלהם, והיא במקום קרבן צבור, דהיינו התמידים, שהיו באים משל ציבור. ואין ראוי שהיה אדם שלוחם להקריב את קרבנם שלא מדעתם ורצונם. ומטעם זה, פסק רבינו שמחה, דאפילו יחיד יכול לעכב את החזנות ולומר, “איני חפץ שיהיה פלוני חזן!” – אם לא שכבר הסכים עליו מתחלה. והלכך, מי שירצו הקהל שיאמר התפלה, הוא יזכה בו, ולא האחר.

The Maharik lends not a hint of legitimacy to the Minhag so prevalent in our Shuls that mourners take over without a second thought, even going so far as to say that a single individual who is unhappy with a mourner-Chazzan may obfuscate that person’s “right” to Chazzanut.

The Darkei Moshe [i.e., the Rama] mentions two Rishonim who object to the idea that an individual can assert his will for no reason – “אפילו בלא טעם” – as to who should be Chazzan. It is interesting to note, however, that the practice of unilateral, purposeless objection does seem to have at one point been very popular:

חידושי דינין והלכות למהר”י ווייל סימן ס
על מה שנהגו בימים נוראים למחות לשונא להתפלל.
כתב מהר”ח אור זרוע, ע”י סיבה ששמע על הנוהגים כך שהיחיד מוחה אפילו בלא טעם, ותולין דבר זה ברבינו אביו ז”ל – וכעס הרבה, והוכיחו על כך, שחלילה לאבא לפסוק כך, להתיר ליחיד כל דהו למחות בלי טעם! – אך, (this individual should) יציע טעמו ודבריו לפי טובי העיר; אם יראו דברים ניכרים, שראוי למחות עליהם – כפי זה יעשו, עכ”ל. וע”ז הוסיף רבי שבתי ז”ל, שהיה באותו דור ראש מנהיגנו, וז”ל – גם בעיני הקטן, לא טוב וכשר הדבר להחזיק במנהג זה, לתת יד ליחיד כל דהו בלא טעם טוב:

While it doesn’t seem that any legitimate Halachic authority ever permitted the custom of unilateral, purposeless objection, it does seem that that custom nonetheless persisted with some degree of latitude in various communities. Left to our imagination, of course, is what constitutes “בלא טעם,” and it is not clear whether one’s objecting to a Chazzan simply because that individual is a mourner would, at least according to the Darkei Moshe, meet the criteria of “בלא טעם.” The Maharik would certainly consider one’s objecting to a particular individual serving as Chazzan merely because he is a mourner legitimate and not “בלא טעם” – notice the placement of the words “ומטעם זה” in the Maharik quoted above.

The Mishna Berura assumes that Chazzanut is something that a person in his week of Aveilut would more likely do:

  משנה ברורה סימן נג ס”ק נט
(נט) בשביל אביו – פירוש, שמת אביו, ורוצה להתפלל כדרך האבלים, כי תפלה היא יותר מצוה מאמירת הקדיש.

With the delicateness that the Mishna Berurah takes in explaining this issue, it doesn’t sound to me like, even in his time, Chazzan-centeredness by mourners was a regular practice – or at least a preferred one. And the Piskei Teshuvot (נט:כ) notes that the Ari Z”l never advocated for mourner-Chazzanim, even on Motzaei Shabbatot: ויש לזכור כי האר”י ז”ל, אשר בודאי היה בקי ביותר בשורש תיקון הנשמות בשמי מרום, כתב כי עיקר התיקון הוא באמירת קדיש ולא הזכיר ענין התפילה לפני העמוד.

Eretz Chemdah’s mistake is mirrored in ArtScroll’s excellent and authoritative Mourning in Halacha, 40:1, where we learn that “[t]he custom is that the mourner leads the prayer-service during the entire eleven months.” That I cannot deny, but the citation given for this “custom” in the footnote, “Rama (376:4),” is dishonest, since, as we have seen, the Rama does not say that. In the next paragraph, the author acknowledges that he does in fact know how to read a simple Rama: “One should especially make an effort to lead the Maariv services at the conclusion of the Sabbath, since that is when the souls return to Gehinnom.” The same Rama is again cited in the footnotes. But the Rama never said “especially” anything, and ArtScroll knows that. By citing the Rama twice, once with the qualifier “especially,” the implication is that two levels of obligation exist. The Rama, in fact, only noted one.

The Aruch Hashulchan (376:12) quotes the Rama verbatim and without modification. In a further compromise of its intellectual integrity, Mourning in Halacha (Ch. 40, fn. 2) quotes directly from a different part of the same paragraph in Aruch Hashulchan, but ignores the Aruch Hashulchan’s quote of the Rama which would have damaged MIH‘s claim that mourners have regular rights to Chazzanut. How interesting that MIH contains a long (and rather patronizing) direct quote from Aruch Hashulchan on a different matter, and soon after (fn. 4) a long quote directly from She’arim Metzuyanim BeHalachah, but ArtScroll never quotes the Rama itself directly! A little difficult, perhaps, when you know you were misquoting him to begin with.

As a regular Minyan-goer who has sat through year after year of thrice-daily Chazzanut by mourners, I would like to advocate a return to the ruling of the Rama: One Kaddish per Tefillah; Maftir; and Chazzanut at Ma’ariv after Shabbat. I think it is time to reclaim our Shuls as places of joy and Divine connection – “שהתפלה היא שלהם, והיא במקום קרבן צבור” – a far cry from the houses of death they are now, burdened by numerous Kaddishes, laden with memorial plaques, and almost endlessly beset by mourner-Chazzanim. (I have even heard people express surprise that more people don’t come to Minyan regularly; I am not surprised at all!)

I do not believe that posting this will bring about any overnight change in this regard, nor should it. מה אני ומה חיי? I teach kids for a living. I am satisfied to start the conversation, to make it safe to bring up this issue in polite company without it being considered an affront to mourners everywhere to do so, to request intellectual honesty (rather than purely emotion-based decision-making) on this issue from our leaders, and to have others check my work and prove to me, if possible, that there is some obligation here that I am not seeing. I certainly do not mean in any way to slight mourners – nor did the Rama, the Mechaber, the Mishna Berura, or the Maharik. But I do believe that we need to carefully consider the extent to which we equate Tefillah and Aveilut in contemporary Orthodox Jewish life and whether that equation (or our desire to be menachem aveil properly, as it is demonstrated here) is appropriate, deserved, or beneficial to our overall spiritual health or that of our communities.

Posted in Communal Matters, Halacha | Leave a comment

Kalev’s Prayer: Maintaining Integrity of Self in a World of Easy Associations

Posted on January 15, 2012 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

Proudly presenting another bit of Sixth Grade Torah …

Shelach. The Spies. Rashi uses a textual ambiguity to derive that Kalev arrives in Chevron alone and prays at Me’arat HaMachpeila for Divine assistance from עצת מרגלים – the advice of the other spies – almost identical language to that used by Rashi to describe Moshe’s earlier prayer on behalf of his protege Yehoshua that that spy, too, be saved from עצת מרגלים. This fascinating moment of self-discovery by Kalev is worthy of its own post, and my students over the years have produced some beautiful insights on that front. But for now, a different question that I had not heard until this year: why now? Why does Chevron have this transformative effect on Kalev?

A student this year asked this question, and then answered it by looking more closely at the Pasuk, and specifically at the juxtaposition of Kalev’s self-discovery and the presence of three giants who were also in Chevron at the time. We know that the other spies would use these giants to bolster their claim that the Jews could not possibly survive in the Land, but Kalev’s very time in Chevron leaves him unwilling to do that. So why are we told now, as Kalev is praying alone in Chevron, that he is surrounded by giants?

Perhaps, proposed this student, Kalev saw something in those giants that scared him even more than their imposing size. Perhaps the giants made Kalev realize, in a way that he had not before, how different he was from the other spies – or how different from them he wanted to be. Suppose Kalev saw the giants as a challenge placed in front of him by Hashem to confirm Kalev’s faith that Hashem would help the Jews conquer the Land. The other spies, Kalev knew, would see the giants as proof that the Jews could not possibly conquer the Land. To Kalev, the giants served as a mechanism by means of which to draw inspiration – and by extension, to draw a line between himself and his colleagues.

People are social creatures, and we seek the protection and confirmation of those around us. That is healthy and natural – until one crosses a line beyond which he is acting merely as part of that group and against his own truer convictions. Moshe has a similar moment in yesterday’s Parsha, Shemot. The Torah tells us that before killing a murderous Egyptian, ויפן כה וכה, וירא כי אין איש – he turned in each direction and saw that no one was watching. Moshe had grown up as an Egyptian in Pharaoh’s palace, but here, staring him in the face, was his own line beyond which he would not be acting in consonance with his true inner self. So he took a stand.

When I first got to Yeshiva University, I faced a challenge which confronts everyone in such a large and varied institution: defining oneself on the basis of association with particular groups. Sizing me up – perhaps by my conservative dress or extra learning time – as another right-winger on campus, a “penguin” (an unflattering term around YU for those who tend to dress in monochrome ) approached me to ask if I would consider learning with him. I asked when he had in mind, as I had a rather tight schedule, and he suggested 3:00 on Monday’s. I replied, naively, that I had English class at that time. He knew that. In fact, he was in the same class. He wanted to know if I would learn during class with him in the back of the room. (Unfortunately this arrangement is not unheard of at YU.) Although I felt the pull of wanting to show the extent to which I was part of a group with which, in some other ways, I did identify, I was also disgusted by the suggestion and attending rudeness and Chillul Hashem. That was a ויפן כה וכה moment for me. Past that line, I would not have been true to myself. Convenient as it would have been to take the easy route to self-identification at that moment, I had to admit that I was not entirely them in order to remain true to the necessarily life-long task of constantly finding myself.

At the same time, although it would be tempting to conclude this post here and skirt the issue – and as much as I have never conceived of this blog as a means of mud-slinging, venting, or airing dirty laundry – I would not be true to myself if I did not express the disappointment I feel in being part of a group which chose to cancel a weekly family-based learning program in lieu of a playoff football game on TV. Although in many ways I identify with that group quite strongly, I cannot help but admit what was staring back at me, for here was all the hypocrisy, laziness and misplaced-prioritizing slung at Modern Orthodoxy from the Right and the Left on display for all the world to see. The fact that the weekly program is for families and children, and not a Shiur for adults, makes it all that much more painful as it reeks of the mixed messages we must work so hard to avoid giving our children. So that’s my ויפן כה וכה line for today, that point beyond which I would not be true to myself: Convenient as it would be to take the easy route to self-identification at this moment and tow the party line (or at least be silently complicit on the issue), I have to admit that I am not entirely them in order to remain true to the life-long task of constantly finding myself.

Luckily, I can end on a more positive note. Sharing the earlier part of this post with a friend yesterday, I pointed out that Kalev’s ויפן כה וכה moment did not change his being part of the group of spies. Despite his estrangement with their overall approach and worldview, he did not immediately return to the Jews but coalesced around a new outlook. My friend pointed out to me that for Moshe, the opposite was necessary – he needed to separate himself entirely from his past in order for his ויפן כה וכה moment to have meaning. In this regard, I am glad that I have always been able to be a Kalev, retaining allegiance with the Penguins of YU (despite my many differences with them and their never seeming to quite understand me) and, today, with the Modern Orthodox among whom I am proud to share many parts of my life. But like Kalev, I will never definitively and conveniently choose to be anyone in order to forgo the life-long task of constantly finding myself.

Posted in Classroom Experiences, Communal Matters, Parshat Hashavua | Leave a comment

Shaul and the Roots of the Contemporary Leadership Vacuum

Posted on January 8, 2012 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

More 6th Grade Torah, from this past Friday, with an add-on related to the situation in Israel:

Shmuel Aleph, Perek 15: Shaul’s latest blunder comes in his second war with Amalek. Despite Hashem’s explicit command to the contrary (15:3), Shaul and the Jews let King Agag live (15:8-9), along with some of the better Amaleki cattle (15:9) which they will offer as a Korban to Hashem. Upon being called out on the infraction by Shmuel, Shaul appears at first to shift the blame to the Jews (15:15) – מעמלקי הביאום, אשר חמל העם, [these animals] are from the Amalekites, upon whom the [Jewish] Nation had mercy. But Shmuel will have none of it, instead chastising Shaul for the latter’s own lack of leadership (15:17): הלא, אם קטוֹן אתה בעיניך, ראש שבטי ישראל אתה, וימשחך ה’ למלך על ישראל – although you may be small in your own eyes, you are nevertheless the head of the tribes of Israel, and Hashem has anointed you King over all the Jews!

Three commentators’ insights to this pivotal interlude amount to a triumvirate of lessons on Jewish leadership which, as we will develop, may be uniquely important in our time.

1) Whose Mistake?
I heard a beautiful quote once: “one can delegate authority, but not responsibility.” Radak (15:17 – הלא) makes that point here in connection with Shaul. Although it may have been the Jews who requested that Shaul save Agag and the animals (actually, as my students noticed, that is not at all clear from 15:9), Shaul is nonetheless as responsible as they are. As their (albeit unwitting) leader, Shaul has the choice either to prevent the Jews from doing wrong or to accept full responsibility for their actions – actions which, by failing to voice his disapproval, Shaul implied were in compliance with his desire as well. As Radak puts it:

לא עשו הם, אלא אתה! שהיה בידך למחות (to protest), ולא מחית; נראה כי רצונך וחפצך היה בדבר, וחמדת השלל!

A leader cannot so divorce himself from the actions of his charges as to absolve himself of the responsibility due their actions; by failing to prevent them from erring, he is as complicit in their actions as are they. This, according to Radak, was what Shaul failed to understand and what led to his downfall, and it is a powerful lesson for all Jewish leaders.

One of the students made the intriguing point that Shaul did not appear humble in shifting the blame to the Jews (“מעמלקי הביאום, אשר חמל העם“), but Shmuel nonetheless assigns humility to Shaul (“הלא אם קטוֹן אתה בעיניך”). This points to Shmuel’s desire to soften his condemnation of Shaul as much as possible, and it portends the end of our Perek, where we learn that Shmuel mourned Shaul as long as he lived.

2) Agent of Whom?
Malbim picks up on the later part of our verse in identifying Shmuel’s condemnation of Shaul: הלא, אם קטוֹן אתה בעיניך, ראש שבטי ישראל אתה – וימשחך ה’ למלך על ישראל. What gave you the idea, says Shmuel, to act upon the dictates of the Jews? You were anointed by Hashem! This is not a democracy, Shaul, this is an autocracy – and the monarch is Hashem, with you as His agent! Shaul’s mistake, says Malbim, lay in his failing to recognize the true origin of his own power. He was the leader of the People, but not by the People. The Jews’ pressuring Shaul to save Agag and the animals should have had no impact on his decision-making whatsoever. Consider, for example, a classroom of students who feel, not surprisingly, that they should spend the day running around outside. Were their foolish teacher to comply with their request, he would face the wrath of the Principal, who would likely and justifiably say something like, “They didn’t hire you, I did!” Shaul similarly failed to remember that it was not the Jews who “hired” him but Hashem, and likewise that it was only Hashem to whom that Shaul needed to feel that his actions would be held accountable.

3) Who’s Your Daddy?
Targum, quoted by Rashi, calls up historical antecedent to condemn Shaul, homiletically rendering the “ראש שבטי ישראל אתה” portion of Shmuel’s dressing-down as a call for Shaul to consider his proud Binyamini heritage. Remember, says Shmuel, that it was your own Binyamini ancestors who were the first tribe to venture into the Sea after leaving Mitzrayim! You are a member of ראש שבטי ישראל – the first of all tribes, the tribe who acted with alacrity and enthusiasm in your service of Hashem!
My students developed this line of reasoning by taking it one step further: How can you say, Shaul, that you were “unable” to impact the wayward Jews around you? Why, that is exactly what your own ancestors did, and so that is what you should have done as well!
One of my students ingeniously and creatively pointed out that Binyamin was the youngest tribe, the Ben Zekunim, the one that could most easily be excused for harboring an inferiority complex of the type that Shmuel hints at here: הלא אם קטוֹן בעיניך. But this is not valid, says Shmuel, because ראש שבטי ישראל אתה – your tribe arose from the smallness of its origins to assert vital leadership at a critical time! No less was expected of you now, Shaul, and your failure to realize or act upon this expectation led to your saddening downfall.

4) Contemporary Implications
Three commentators, three approaches to Shaul’s undoing – shifting blame towards others (Radak), misplacing the object of his authority (Malbim), forgetting for what reason he was invested with authority in the first place (Targum / Rashi). Considering these indictments of Shaul, my mind moves eastward – לבי במזרח – as I try to make sense of what has happened in Israel recently.

The saddening but understandable tendency by many to believe that more than a mere handful would condone the shocking actions perpetrated on students simply walking to school is not the failure of those few perpetrators, or of the many conscientious objectors, or of the doting media – it is the failure of the leaders, whose responsibility it is to take the hard step of condemning vulgarity in their ranks even (or perhaps especially) when it is uncomfortable for them to do so. Like Shaul, with his misplaced humility and tendency to conveniently avoid conflict with his constituents, the Chareidi community of today, it seems to me, is faced with a generation of unwitting and myopic leaders who, while massive Talmidei Chachamim whose heels I may never reach in learning, operate in the throes of a dangerous social contract: to retain the authority invested in them by the masses, who shield them from criticism and grant them unchecked authority, they simultaneously and concurrently remain clouded from being able to speak rationally about the very people whom they lead. It is hard to believe that Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach would have stood silently at a time like this, or even Rav Shach. Those were leaders with sound judgment and strong character who did not fall back on the argument that הלא, קטוֹן בעיני – I am not deserving of leadership anyway, so I will pretend that it has not been granted to me. Those were leaders who understood the moral imperative that they had to speak up, even when it was difficult. They did not shift blame to others, be it Hashem (as someone showed me over Shabbat), the media, or the left-of-Chareidi Israel public. They understood that Jewish leaders are subject only to the dictates of Hashem, and not to people who would have those leaders pledge their allegiance. They remembered their proud heritage, that they were merely links in a chain of leaders who, like Nachshon Ben Aminadav as an individual or the tribe of Binyamin collectively, stood up at the most difficult times and made statements that would change the course of a river – and that of history. Today’s Chareidi leaders are all too aware of the public contract under which they operate: approve of our actions, however vulgar they may be; and we will protect you, shield you, and allow you to act with impunity.

Shaul and the Jews had the same contract. But that generation also had a Shmuel. The question is … who will be our Shmuel?

Posted in Classroom Experiences, Communal Matters | Leave a comment

On the Precipice of Beauty: Parshat Miketz and Chanukah

Posted on December 26, 2011 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

I have long marveled at a phrase tucked away in Parshat Miketz, the official sponsor of Shabbat Chanukah.  The phrase appears at a critical juncture, with Viceroy Yosef finally meeting his one and only brother Binyamin, the second son of their mother Rachel. In fact, in case you forgot, their brief conversation begins with the Torah reminding us of their relationship:

בראשית פרק מג
(כט) וַיִּשָּׂא עֵינָיו, וַיַּרְא אֶת בִּנְיָמִין, אָחִיו, בֶּן אִמּוֹ, וַיֹּאמֶר, “הֲזֶה אֲחִיכֶם הַקָּטֹן אֲשֶׁר אֲמַרְתֶּם אֵלָי?” וַיֹּאמַר, “אֱלֹהִים יָחְנְךָ בְּנִי:”

 One wonders what the mention here of the two brothers’ mother adds to the story; we will return to that question at length later on. Meanwhile, we will assign to this question – why the mention of Rachel – the sleuth code-number of “#1.”

Second, why does Yosef need to “lift his eyes” before seeing Binyamin? Binyamin has been right in front of Yosef for some time, alongside his older brothers.

But of course the pivotal moment in this conversation takes place in the three-word monologue from Yosef to Binyamin: אֱלֹהִים יָחְנְךָ בְּנִי. One might imagine that with the opportunity to meet his brother after so many years away, Yosef would pour out a lifetime of knowledge and experience to his younger brother. In fact, as we will see, Yosef does not disappoint. But what exactly Yosef means, and how he is sharing anything meaningful here, we will shelve for now as Question “#3.”

In order to understand Yosef, let’s back up one generation and explore Yosef’s mother, Rachel. If there is anything that we know about her, of course, it is that she is beautiful:

 בראשית פרק כט
(טז) וּלְלָבָן שְׁתֵּי בָנוֹת, שֵׁם הַגְּדֹלָה לֵאָה, וְשֵׁם הַקְּטַנָּה רָחֵל: (יז) וְעֵינֵי לֵאָה רַכּוֹת, וְרָחֵל הָיְתָה יְפַת תֹּאַר וִיפַת מַרְאֶה: (יח) וַיֶּאֱהַב יַעֲקֹב אֶת רָחֵל, וַיֹּאמֶר, “אֶעֱבָדְךָ שֶׁבַע שָׁנִים בְּרָחֵל, בִּתְּךָ, הַקְּטַנָּה:”

Yosef understands correctly that his mother’s beauty is a source of pride, a cherished family trait that he can and should try to emulate. The problem is that whenever Yosef tries it on, this trait only gets him into trouble. First, with his brothers, as understood by Rashi:

 בראשית פרק לז
(ב) אֵלֶּה תֹּלְדוֹת יַעֲקֹב – יוֹסֵף בֶּן שְׁבַע עֶשְׂרֵה שָׁנָה, הָיָה רֹעֶה אֶת אֶחָיו בַּצֹּאן, וְהוּא נַעַר* אֶת בְּנֵי בִלְהָה וְאֶת בְּנֵי זִלְפָּה, נְשֵׁי אָבִיו, וַיָּבֵא יוֹסֵף אֶת דִּבָּתָם רָעָה אֶל אֲבִיהֶם: (ג) וְיִשְׂרָאֵל אָהַב אֶת יוֹסֵף מִכָּל בָּנָיו, כִּי בֶן זְקֻנִים הוּא לוֹ, וְעָשָׂה לוֹ כְּתֹנֶת פַּסִּים:

 *רש”י בראשית פרק לז
והוא נער – שהיה עושה מעשה נערות – מתקן בשערו, ממשמש בעיניו – כדי שיהיה נראה יפה:

… and then again, just before the incident with the wife of Potiphar:

 בראשית פרק לט
(א) וְיוֹסֵף הוּרַד מִצְרָיְמָה, וַיִּקְנֵהוּ פּוֹטִיפַר סְרִיס פַּרְעֹה, שַׂר הַטַּבָּחִים, אִישׁ מִצְרִי, מִיַּד הַיִּשְׁמְעֵאלִים אֲשֶׁר הוֹרִדֻהוּ שָׁמָּה: (ב) ויְהִי ה’ אֶת יוֹסֵף, וַיְהִי אִישׁ מַצְלִיחַ, וַיְהִי בְּבֵית אֲדֹנָיו הַמִּצְרִי: (ג) וַיַּרְא אֲדֹנָיו כִּי ה’ אִתּוֹ, וְכֹל אֲשֶׁר הוּא עֹשֶׂה ה’ מַצְלִיחַ בְּיָדוֹ: (ד) וַיִּמְצָא יוֹסֵף חֵן בְּעֵינָיו וַיְשָׁרֶת אֹתוֹ, וַיַּפְקִדֵהוּ עַל בֵּיתוֹ, וְכָל יֶשׁ לוֹ נָתַן בְּיָדוֹ: (ה) וַיְהִי, מֵאָז הִפְקִיד אֹתוֹ בְּבֵיתוֹ וְעַל כָּל אֲשֶׁר יֶשׁ לוֹ, וַיְבָרֶךְ ה’ אֶת בֵּית הַמִּצְרִי בִּגְלַל יוֹסֵף, וַיְהִי בִּרְכַּת ה’ בְּכָל אֲשֶׁר יֶשׁ לוֹ, בַּבַּיִת וּבַשָּׂדֶה: (ו) וַיַּעֲזֹב כָּל אֲשֶׁר לוֹ בְּיַד יוֹסֵף, וְלֹא יָדַע אִתּוֹ מְאוּמָה, כִּי אִם הַלֶּחֶם אֲשֶׁר הוּא אוֹכֵל, וַיְהִי יוֹסֵף יְפֵה תֹאַר* וִיפֵה מַרְאֶה: (ז) וַיְהִי אַחַר הַדְּבָרִים הָאֵלֶּה, וַתִּשָּׂא אֵשֶׁת אֲדֹנָיו אֶת עֵינֶיהָ אֶל יוֹסֵף, וַתֹּאמֶר, “שִׁכְבָה עִמִּי:”

Wait, only now Yosef is beautiful? Presumably he was always beautiful! Rashi explains:

*רש”י בראשית פרק לט
ויהי יוסף יפה תואר – כיון שראה עצמו מושל, התחיל אוכל ושותה ומסלסל בשערו. אמר הקב”ה, “אביך מתאבל ואתה מסלסל בשערך?! אני מגרה בך את הדוב.” מיד, ותשא אשת אדוניו וגו’.

Yosef is on a constant quest to re-create for  himself the beauty of his mother Rachel. To that end, although his initial attempt leads directly to the hatred of his brothers and his being sold, he tries again when he is newly comfortable in the house of Pharaoh. This, too, leads to a terrible end, as Rashi points out, with the wife of Potiphar newly tempted by Yosef’s resurfaced and apparently highly seductive beauty to seduce Yosef, leading to his being led off into the seclusion of jail, once again the victim of just trying to be like his mother. Note the similarity between the way that Rachel was described by the Chumash – יְפַת תֹּאַר וִיפַת מַרְאֶה – and the way Yosef is described in this second incident, just before the wife of Potiphar attacks: יְפֵה תֹאַר וִיפֵה מַרְאֶה. At just the moment that Yosef has finally achieved parity with his beloved mother, her coveted beauty once again gets him into trouble.

Enter Binyamin, Yosef’s only brother, the person watching this whole scene and wondering what to learn from Yosef’s twice-thwarted attempts to emulate their mother. Yosef has three words for his brother: אֱלֹהִים יָחְנְךָ בְּנִי. This phrase is often translated as May God give you grace, my son, but I would like to translate it differently: It is but God who bestows grace, my son. Here is a lifetime of wisdom and experience encapsulated into three small words. My attempt to be like our mother wasn’t wrong on its face, but I failed to realize that the beauty I so coveted, the true beauty of our mother Rachel, is Divinely bestowed, not humanly created. Each of Yosef’s attempts to create beauty fell flat because אֱלֹהִים יָחְנְךָ בְּנִי, it is only Hashem who gives true beauty, the kind I was trying to emulate all along. This, of course, would explain Question #1, why Binyamin is described as בֶּן אִמּוֹ immediately preceding Yosef’s presentation of his advice: it is in recognition of their shared status as Rachel’s בֶּן אִמּוֹ that the elder brother presents his life’s thesis. The lesson also needs to be shared in full view of the rest of the brothers, because only by admitting to this point in their presence can Yosef fully do Teshuva for his original sin of causing them jealousy, now that he understands why it was wrong. As long as the feelings he engendered in his brothers were merely an attempt to follow his mother’s ways, he did not understand why he had any reason to apologize for them. Now that he sees an alternate path to achieving that same goal, he can attempt to correct what he newly sees as a mistake of so long ago.

As to Question #2, a more careful study of the phrase וַיִּשָּׂא עֵינָיו is warranted at some point, because this phrase appears seemingly at random in Tanach, especially in Sefer Bereishit, and it always appears superfluous. My high school students this year developed a working hypothesis that the phrase refers to the sudden realization of something which provides new insight into what came before. Avraham’s וַיִּשָּׂא עֵינָיו-moment at the beginning of Parshat Vayeira, for example, provides that figure with the realization that helping these people despite his personal suffering could be the very reason that Hashem made him go through that suffering to begin with. In our case, Yosef might only come to the realization at this late stage that beauty must be internal to be eternal, or it may be only now that he realizes that the need to come to that realization was what drove the entire story until now. Standing now with Binyamin and his brothers before him, the reality of the entire ordeal becomes as clear as day to Yosef.

Either way, אֱלֹהִים יָחְנְךָ בְּנִי is a highly important if oft-neglected point in the Yosef narrative. And it is no less important for us than it was for Yosef, because this same realization plays a central role in understanding the holiday into which Parshat Miketz inexorably finds itself enmeshed. The classic Greek-Jewish struggle is often painted as a war between culture per se and the Torah. Yet we know deep inside of us that this is not a fair appraisal, because the value we place on beauty in music, art, and literature is well known. Artwork adorns our houses while harmonious music fills them with class and resonance. Particularly in the recent decades, to use Abie Rotenberg’s description, “we have witnessed a virtual explosion of creative Jewish song.” An ad for ArtScroll’s latest volume of The Illuminated Torah boasts that “the illuminations are breathtakingly beautiful, the calligraphy and micrography are exacting … – a magnificent new art edition by renowned Judaica artist …” Hardly the stuff of a petulant People disinterested in art or culture.

To use the terms we have developed already, we are not an anti-Rachel Nation. We are, however, an anti-Yosef nation, at least in the conception that Yosef originally envisioned: a superficial, fundamentally self-interested notion of beauty. In fact, the more altruistic approach to beauty realized through Rachel is embedded in the very name of Chanukah – chein, grace or inward beauty. Far from shunning beauty on Chanukah, we celebrate it as חן, a prototypically Jewish form of beauty.

The two mistakes of Yosef are not entirely redundant. The first time that Yosef gets into trouble for his beauty, it is entirely self-generated. Perhaps not quite as much can be said of Yosef’s second encounter with the perils of beauty:

בראשית פרק לט
וַיַּרְא אֲדֹנָיו כִּי ה’ אִתּוֹ, וְכֹל אֲשֶׁר הוּא עֹשֶׂה ה’ מַצְלִיחַ בְּיָדוֹ: (ד) וַיִּמְצָא יוֹסֵף חֵן בְּעֵינָיו, וַיְשָׁרֶת אֹתוֹ, וַיַּפְקִדֵהוּ עַל בֵּיתוֹ … (ה)  … וַיְבָרֶךְ ה’ אֶת בֵּית הַמִּצְרִי בִּגְלַל יוֹסֵף, וַיְהִי בִּרְכַּת ה’ בְּכָל אֲשֶׁר יֶשׁ לוֹ בַּבַּיִת וּבַשָּׂדֶה: (ו) וַיַּעֲזֹב כָּל אֲשֶׁר לוֹ בְּיַד יוֹסֵף … וַיְהִי יוֹסֵף יְפֵה תֹאַר וִיפֵה מַרְאֶה:

Here, Yosef did in fact express חן to those around him, which, we are told, is what allowed him and everyone around him to succeed. That much is very positive, and the story could have ended happily there, right in the middle of Scene 2. Unfortunately, however, Yosef at this point recasts his old mistake, assuming that that acceptance somehow permitted him to resume his old pattern of self-generated beauty. Once again Hashem gives him a love-kick, this time letting him know that beauty of the outward, self-generated variety is not permitted even after חן has already been achieved. This leads Yosef to offer his sage advice to his younger brother, a fitting capstone to his personal saga: אֱלֹהִים יָחְנְךָ בְּנִי.

Mistake #2 may be one we need to think about, as we become more enmeshed and comfortable in the wonderful מלכות של חסד which surrounds us here in America. Even if we are beloved in this country for the right reasons, because of our חן, that is not a license to take our foot off the pedal and begin to adapt aspects of that culture which are יופי and not חן, Greek and not Jewish, Yosef #1 and not Rachel. Sometimes when we achieve a measure of success, it becomes easier for us to forget that that success was achieved through חן and can only be maintained through חן. Our grandparents fresh off the boat, like Yosef in Pharaoh’s house, exuded חן and won the respect of those around them. Now we are more comfortable, and as the חן turns to a more self-involved יופי those around us start to be less sure of whom we are and to what extent we are worthy of that much respect.

Our Chanukah challenge is not to shun culture or beauty, but to determine a proper means for its integration, one in which the beauty of the object is a product of the aspect of truth which that object represents, what we might call inward beauty, or חן; not an outward beauty which hoists a preconceived notion of beauty indiscriminately onto a religious object. We should aim to represent Rachel’s beauty, Yosef’s final conception of beauty, allowing beauty not to permeate into our religious life but to be expressed through that religious life. If Torah is the source of beauty, not its final destination, then we will once again express חן to all those around us, and our own Yosef story can end in the middle of Scene 2, without the need for the reconciliation of a Scene 3.

Posted in Chanukah, Holidays, Parshat Hashavua | Leave a comment

Fruit For Thought, A Tree for Naught

Posted on November 6, 2011 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

When is a tree more than just a tree – and less? A careful examination of some of the early pesukim in Bereishit with my Ninth Grade Parshanut class yielded some tremendous fruit for thought, along with an eye-opening answer to that question. The thoughts below are a conglomeration of ideas by all of the students in the class – they are not my own, or at least far from exclusively so.

The command from On High (Bereishit 1:11) was abundantly clear: תַּדְשֵׁא הָאָרֶץ דֶּשֶׁא עֵשֶׂב מַזְרִיעַ זֶרַע עֵץ פְּרִי עֹשֶׂה פְּרִי לְמִינוֹ אֲשֶׁר זַרְעוֹ בוֹ עַל הָאָרֶץ וַיְהִי כֵן – the earth shall grassify grass, vegetation seedifying seeds, a tree of fruit making fruit, whose seeds are in it according to its type on the earth – and it was so.

Small wonder that the ground, the intended recipient of this command, lost little time in messing up the order. The very next Pasuk tells us what happened: and the earth produced grass, vegetation which would sprout seeds according to its kind, and a tree which would make fruit. And Elokim saw that it was good.

Rashi picks up on the ground’s rebelliousness as related specifically to the tree. While the ground was told to create a fruit tree bearing fruit – meaning, ostensibly, that the tree would taste like the very fruit that it produced – the ground instead created a tree which only had fruit, but which did not also taste like fruit. For this reason, Rashi says, the ground was later punished along with the other characters in the Garden (3:17): Cursed is the ground, for your sake; with effort you will eat from it all the days of your life. Thorn and thistle will sprout for you, and you will eat the grass of the field.

Several questions present themselves:

1) How is it possible for the ground to violate Hashem’s explicit orders and decide independently to create a rogue tree?
2) If the ground sinned now, why isn’t it punished until later? Why wait to punish the ground until the other Garden characters sin?
3)  It is unclear to what extent the ground is actually punished. Although it says “cursed is the ground,” its punishment seems to affect man more than itself.
4)  The end of 1:11 says “and it was so,” indicating that the command to the ground had in fact been fulfilled in the way that it was ordered. Furthermore, the end of 1:12 says that “Elokim saw that it was good,” implying that He was pleased with the ground’s unilateral decision to defy His orders. Both statements seem to obscure why in fact the ground was punished for its actions.
5) What incentive did the ground have to violate Hashem’s orders? What did it gain by making a fruit-bearing tree rather than a fruit-like tree? Why did the ground violate God’s command at all – just for kicks? Just to show it can?

In order to approach this discussion, let’s establish a working paradigm for the relationship between God and His creations. This is important because this is not the only instance in which the creations defy His orders. The sun and moon are of equal size until the moon complains and is diminished. Man, of course, defies the one order he is given and is immediately punished. So really, we can add the following question to the above list: Why does God create a world with the capacity for defiance? And why, of all of the creations who rebel, does man retain this ability still today, while other creations could no longer rebel even if they wanted to?

All sin takes root in the absence of a mindfulness toward one’s Creator. At the same time, one cannot consciously remember his Creator without having the chance to forget his Creator and only then deliberately abandon this urge in favor of remembering Him. At this moment of God-consciousness, one actively earns his reward for defying his primordial nature and instead remembering God. In other words, we were made to forget God in order that our remembering Him would be meaningful.

Most of the creations’ defiance of or disagreement with Hashem went against Hashem’s original plan, and their punishment was to lose their ability to choose. That ability had been inconsequential to the overall running of the universe, but it was nice while it lasted. The ground’s losing its ability to choose, and thereby to defy God’s orders, did not interrupt the larger plan that Hashem had for the universe. On the other hand, man’s ability to choose – that singular quality that would now set him apart from all of the other creations – needed to be kept intact and preserved for all time. What was originally the province of all of the creations – free choice, and the duality of great and terrible consequences that necessarily go along with it – became the sole property of man.

Can creations today rebel? To some extent, yes. Ramchal in Derech Hashem points out that while the sun and moon cannot rebel, the weather can do more or less what it wants, because Hashem has deliberately outsourced the running of meteorology to “mother nature.” That is why it so hard, even today, for meteorologists to make any clear predictions of tomorrow’s weather, even though our ability to predict the rising and setting of the sun is (nearly) flawless. But there is an important distinction to make here: while Hashem chose to outsource the running of weather, that was exactly that – His choice – which He could also reverse any second that he wants to, thus making weather once again as “predictable” as the rising and setting of the sun. In the same way, our ability to choose is only due to Hashem’s wanting us to have that ability.

So – how is it possible for the ground to violate Hashem’s explicit orders and decide independently to create a rogue tree? Perhaps, the ground was not in fact violating Hashem’s command, but merely exercising its God-given power to choose. In that, the ground was perfectly in line in doing what it did, because the ability to choose is central to what makes – or at least, in the ground’s case, what made – for a meaningful existence on earth. At the same time, this ability came with a peril – the chance for abuse – and the ground proved that it was no longer able to maintain the ability to choose. But – If the ground sinned now, why isn’t it punished until later? Why wait to punish the ground until the other Garden characters sin? Because its sin and theirs was really one and the same – mered, rebellion, the abuse of the precious gift of free choice. And it was critical for man to see, by dint of the juxtaposition of the tree’s sin with his own, the power and limitations of free choice.

After the Great Flood in Parshat Noach, Hashem makes an interesting statement el libo, to Himself: לֹא אֹסִף לְקַלֵּל עוֹד אֶת הָאֲדָמָה בַּעֲבוּר הָאָדָם, I will not continue to curse any longer the ground for the sake of man. Apparently, twice is enough. The ground rebelled, as we have seen, by creating a non-edible fruit tree, and so it was punished when man rebelled by eating from the edible fruit of a non-edible tree. (Could perhaps the Adam-Adamah connection be that Adam would not have been able to sin if the ground had obeyed Hashem in the first place and made an edible fruit tree? A careful reading of 2:17 would seem to indicate that very fact. What exactly is Man commanded not to do? Check it out!) And now again, by means of a flood, the ground is punished along with man. The first time, the ground rebelled. But what did the ground do this time which led to its further downfall?

בראשית פרק ד
(ט) וַיֹּאמֶר ה’ אֶל קַיִן אֵי הֶבֶל אָחִיךָ וַיֹּאמֶר לֹא יָדַעְתִּי הֲשֹׁמֵר אָחִי אָנֹכִי: (י) וַיֹּאמֶר מֶה עָשִׂיתָ קוֹל דְּמֵי אָחִיךָ צֹעֲקִים אֵלַי מִן הָאֲדָמָה: (יא) וְעַתָּה אָרוּר אָתָּה מִן הָאֲדָמָה אֲשֶׁר פָּצְתָה אֶת פִּיהָ לָקַחַת אֶת דְּמֵי אָחִיךָ מִיָּדֶךָ: (יב) כִּי תַעֲבֹד אֶת הָאֲדָמָה לֹא תֹסֵף תֵּת כֹּחָהּ לָךְ נָע וָנָד תִּהְיֶה בָאָרֶץ: (יג) וַיֹּאמֶר קַיִן אֶל ה’ גָּדוֹל עֲוֹנִי מִנְּשֹׂא: (יד) הֵן גֵּרַשְׁתָּ אֹתִי הַיּוֹם מֵעַל פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה וּמִפָּנֶיךָ אֶסָּתֵר וְהָיִיתִי נָע וָנָד בָּאָרֶץ וְהָיָה כָל מֹצְאִי יַהַרְגֵנִי:

Wait, who sinned here – Kayin or the ground? Rashi brings this ambiguity home:

רש”י בראשית פרק ד
(יא) ארור אתה מן האדמה – יותר ממה שנתקללה היא כבר בעונה, וגם בזו הוסיפה לחטוא:  אשר פצתה את פיה לקחת את דמי אחיך וגו’ – והנני מוסיף לה קללה לא תוסף תת כחה:

Apparently, even more guilty than Kayin for murdering his brother was the ground for participating in that murder by accepting Hevel into the ground. It seems that the ground had, up to that point, retained some of its free will – unfortunately, in this case, using it for a negative end. However, perhaps predictably, the ground’s punishment was held in abeyance until a future generation – and even less surprisingly, a generation fraught with murder. At that time, once again, both Adam and Adamah were punished together.

But no more. Immediately following the Flood, the symbiotic interrelationship between Man and Ground is permanently severed – לֹא אֹסִף לְקַלֵּל עוֹד אֶת הָאֲדָמָה בַּעֲבוּר הָאָדָם. And why? כִּי יֵצֶר לֵב הָאָדָם רַע מִנְּעֻרָיו. Wait – what about the ground? Isn’t the ground’s יֵצֶר also רַע מִנְּעֻרָיו? The ground has already made two very bad choices, as many mistakes as man has made up to this point! Granted. But from this point on, man and ground will go their separate ways. Man will retain his free choice, his יצר’s ability to be רַע מִנְּעֻרָיו forever intact. The ground, on the other hand, now loses that ability to choose, as we see in the very next Posuk: עֹד כָּל יְמֵי הָאָרֶץ זֶרַע וְקָצִיר וְקֹר וָחֹם וְקַיִץ וָחֹרֶף וְיוֹם וָלַיְלָה לֹא יִשְׁבֹּתוּ. Ground now will follow fixed, robotic, freedom-less calendrical patterns of days, seasons, and years. More than that: man controls the calendar – החודש הזה לכם ראש חדשים could perhaps be homiletically interpreted as this concept of “months” is for you (man) to determine, oh you who are the controller of months. And given that Ground is now forever to be without the ability to choose, it would not be fair to punish it alongside man, whose יצר, unlike the Ground’s, will continue to be רַע מִנְּעֻרָיו. This is perhaps the greatest, and surely the most tragic, shake-up of the original order of creation: that the tenuous relationship between Adam and Adamah, envisioned as a fitting check and balance on the power of each, will now be abandoned. Man will continue to sin and be punished. Ground can no longer sin or, hence, be punished alongside Man. Man and Ground wave farewell for history.

A coda: a careful reading of the Pesukim about the keshet, rainbow, which follow the Flood shows that there are in fact two covenants made concerning the keshet – the first (9:10) is made אתכם ואת זרעכם אחריכם, with you (mankind) and your offspring; the second (9:13) is ביני ובין הארץ, between Me and the Ground. Man’s destiny is no longer intertwined with that of the Earth. What began as an exercise of faith in Man’s ability to influence the Ground positively (1:28) – פְּרוּ וּרְבוּ וּמִלְאוּ אֶת הָאָרֶץ וְכִבְשֻׁהָ, turned into a realization that this dream would never be realized (9:1) – וַיְבָרֶךְ אֱלֹהִים אֶת נֹחַ וְאֶת בָּנָיו וַיֹּאמֶר לָהֶם פְּרוּ וּרְבוּ וּמִלְאוּ אֶת הָאָרֶץ. The era of וְכִבְשֻׁהָ has ended.

Posted in Classroom Experiences | Leave a comment

A Study in Contrasts: Thoughts at the Unveiling of Mrs. K.

Posted on October 30, 2011 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

I wanted to share some thoughts that were on my mind as I sat close to Mrs. K.’s unveiling, with perhaps more time than others to reflect as I was, being a Kohen, unable to enter the actual cemetery.

Parshat Bereishit contains an interesting lesson in contrasts. We learn that because light was good, G-d separated it from darkness: וַיַּרְא אֱלֹקים אֶת הָאוֹר כִּי טוֹב וַיַּבְדֵּל אֱלֹקים בֵּין הָאוֹר וּבֵין הַחֹשֶׁךְ. The question presents itself: what does one thing have to do with the other? Why did light’s being good require that it be separated from darkness? One could even wonder whether, being good, it could not cause greater good by remaining with, and thus helping, the “less good” darkness.

Rashi addresses the issue:

וירא אלהים את האור כי טוב ויבדל – … ולפי פשוטו, כך פרשהו: ראהו כי טוב, ואין נאה לו, ולחשך, שיהיו משתמשין בערבוביא, וקבע לזה תחומו ביום ולזה תחומו בלילה

According to Rashi, Hashem was unsatisfied with the mixture of light and darkness into one giant mass, and so He set light’s “techum” in the day and dark’s “techum” in the night. Rashi’s use of the word techum is interesting. A techum, like a gevul, is a boundary; what differentiates the two terms is that a techum is more easily traversed than a gevul. A techum should not be ignored, but it is physically possible (and, at times, necessary) to do so. A gevul is a demarkation which cannot physically be ignored even if one insisted on doing so.

At first glance, it does not appear that Rashi has helped us much – obviously Hashem was displeased with the combination of light and dark and so separated them; we knew all that before reading Rashi. A more careful reading of Rashi, however, reveals more. אין נאה לו ולחשך שיהיו משתמשין בערבוביא – it was not pleasant for it (i.e., the light) and darkness to serve in a mixture. It seems that Hashem’s original goal in mixing the two was to create a beautiful, pleasant scene – one that would in fact be נאה, pleasant – much as the one we enjoy during the few, fleeting moments each day when we still see light and dark mixed in a picturesque sunrise or sunset. Hashem’s original plan was to create a beautiful, נאה world, a world of eternal twilight, a world in which the most beautiful moment of the day would repeat itself continuously throughout the endless expanse of time.

What happened? What caused Hashem to reconsider? Apparently the realization that what makes a sunset beautiful is not the sunset itself – or to paraphrase Rashi, אותו וחושך משתשמין בערבוביא – but that is a sunset is, by definition, a study in contrasts. When a sunset is merely that, a sunset, but not a contrast of two disparate elements which also, at some point in time, exist independently, the sunset at that moment loses its beauty. The contrast of the sun which in its exclusivity reigns over the day with the impending darkness whose techum is night is what causes the sunset to achieve its beauty. Each element is allowed to pass over its assigned techum only briefly in order to showcase the beauty of its being combined with its opposite element. What makes the sunrise beautiful is that we have seen each of each elements separately and thus appreciate the beauty of their combination. In sunset, we mourn the loss of exclusive sun while lamenting the deep darkness to come. Without each side having its own techum, in a world of eternal dawn, that dawn itself could not be appreciated.

We live in a world of beautiful contrasts, and one in which contrasts are beautiful precisely because we have seen their disparate elements as that, disparate. And so we segue on to death and life. We want our loved ones to live forever; at a funeral, we could swear that we wish that was the case. In truth, though, life is only beautiful because its brevity allows us to appreciate life while we have it. Life is a sunset, always temporary, beautiful in its transience. We are always halfway between life and death. Unending life would be as beautiful as a permanent sunset – for without knowing its opposite, life cannot truly be appreciated.

Mrs. K. left us with the beautiful, temporary gift of her presence here with us – and a presence made all the more beautiful by the fact that it was temporary. I was privileged to know her and to be inspired by the care with which she invested every interaction with her students. She eschewed cynicism – the usual copy-room banter about this or that student was notably and decidedly absent from our conversations, replaced with an enviable concern for their welfare, even those of them who could at times be challenging or trying of our patience. Always, the care was there to wash away the urge for cynicism, and I left our conversations feeling very much more motivated to face even the most trying classroom situation with renewed vigor and optimism. As a new teacher, that patience and impartiality was perhaps the most precious gift she could have given me, and one that hopefully will keep on giving.

Spending the past year without Mrs. K., it is the extent to which she treated every student with uncommon dignity and respect, never falling prey to the false god of “candor” – love, not obsequiousness – that I have most marveled about. And it is that which, like a sunset without the sunny day preceding it, I would perhaps least have noticed without Mrs. K.’s absence. Perhaps, as we need the sunset to remind us of the sun’s beauty, we need the sunset of loved ones’ lives to remind us of what generated their beauty when they were alive.

Posted in Parshat Hashavua | Leave a comment

A Thought at 30

Posted on October 27, 2011 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

10:00 pm. I stand at a fork in the road: my “Hebrew birthday,” as the kids call it, began two hours ago; my “English birthday” begins in two hours. A fine moment for reflection, as much for the poignancy of the occasion as for the question implied by being halfway between two such markers in time. A chronological manifestation of what Marc Shapiro would call the ephemeral challenge of one’s being Between the Yeshiva World and Modern Orthodoxy.

Either way: ברוך שהחיינו וקיימנו והגיענו לזמן הזה. The mind boggles; the eyes tear. A wonderful wife. Two beautiful children. The greatest job I could ever hope for: the sweetest, most receptive, most sensitive young people to learn with every day; and the most caring and understanding support staff I could imagine. Recently, our first purchased car. And yesterday, our first purchased house.

Today I happened to learn the Tefillah of ויברך דוד with my learners. When broken up correctly (as no Siddur seems to do), this is a very short Tefillah recorded in Divrei Hayamim, one said by Dovid Hamelech to the collective Jewish presence when he was nearing death and preparing to pass along his vast storehouse of wealth to his son, Shlomo. The thrust of the Tefillah is simply this: והעושר והכבוד מלפניך, ואתה מושל בכל – all that Hashem has given me, all of the wealth and vast resources which you see surround me here today, has been entrusted to me as a loan, as an opportunity to be returned in the form of Divine service. At the same time, I recognize that I am not permitted to do so, and so I am entrusting my son Shlomo to do the same. In class we compared wealth amassed in one’s lifetime to a collection of library books filling one’s home. While one may look like a fine collector of books, in truth all of them will have to be returned within a matter of weeks. Wealth granted to us by Hashem is merely that, a grant. A grant used illegitimately is of no consequence and obfuscates the original purpose of the grant – it is either spent properly or returned. Resources given to us by Hashem function in much the same way – they are part of a grant for use in service of Him, and any other purpose is illegitimate. והעושר והכבוד מלפניך, ואתה מושל בכל.

The students. The house. The family. At 30, the more Hashem gives me, the more conscious I am of this message: it is all from You – and not a gift, but a loan, to be processed for Your service and returned expressly to You. והעושר והכבוד מלפניך, ואתה מושל בכל.

I am reminded of a famous insight into the qualitative difference between Yaakov and Eisav. When the two meet after their extended vacation, Eisav brags to his brother (Bereishit 33:9) that יֶשׁ לִי רָב, I have amassed a lot of goods. Yaakov, on the other hand, tells Eisav just two peuskim later that יֶשׁ לִי כֹל – I have everything. We need to live in a יֶשׁ לִי כֹל way. When one receives a grant for a particular purpose, it is an unexpected addition to his overall financial portfolio. He cannot legitimately expect any more than that. That’s יֶשׁ לִי כֹל. All of our lives should be lived with that feeling, because it is all a loan, unexpected income, meant to be repackaged in the form of Divine service and returned to its Source. Unfortunately, we often forget this message and believe that we hold personal entitlement to any of these Divine loans, and thus also that we can do with them as we wish.

יֶשׁ לִי כֹל.
With each new day, יֶשׁ לִי כֹל.
With each new year, each new decade of life, העושר והכבוד מלפניך.
None of it is deserved, nor any of it truly earned. It is all a gigantic opportunity to serve Hashem. Each gift thrown newly into the mix is like another prop thrown onto the grand improvisational stage of life, begging the same question: How can this be used to serve Hashem, in combination with the collection of gifts which it joins?

This is the challenge a new gift. A new day. A new year. יֶשׁ לִי כֹל, ואתה מושל בכל.

Posted in Classroom Experiences, Tefillah | Leave a comment

Audio and Sources – Shemini Atzeret – Hashkafa and Halacha

Posted on October 18, 2011 by Rabbi Leib Zalesch

Below is audio (MP3) and sources (PDF) for a Shiur I gave at the high school today on Shemini Atzeret. The first half is a Hashkafic (Philosophical) perspective on what Shemini Atzeret is really all about; the second, more Halachic half of the Shiur is a discussion of the background of sitting in the Succah on Shemini Atzeret and a new perspective on all of the different Minhagim about this issue. Enjoy, and please share your feedback!

Audio – Shemini Atzeret – Hashkafa and Halacha (MP3)

Sources – Shemini Atzeret – Hashkafa and Halacha (PDF)

Follow-up: Over Yom Tov I saw a Taz (see link) who also discusses – and justifies – a significant leniency regarding eating in the Succah on Shemini Atzeret. Here is the Taz:

ט”ז אורח חיים סימן תרסח
כתוב בהגהות מיימוניות: “הא דנהיגי מקצת לאכול חצי סעודה בסוכה, וחצי סעודה בביתו – מנהג זה לא נזכר בשום מקום.” אבל נראה לי ראיה ברורה ממדרש תנחומא פרשת פנחס: “ילמדנו רבינו כו’,” עד “ולמה התירו חכמים להפטר מסוכה ביום טוב אחרון של חג – אלא, כל ז’ ימי החג מתפללים לטללים, ויום טוב האחרון, מתפללין לגשמים! ולכן נפטרים מהסוכה, כדי להתפלל על הגשמים בלב שלם.” עכ”ל:

The Taz notes that the Haga’ot Maimoniot (a commentary on Rambam’s Mishneh Torah – although the copy I have available to me at the moment does not include this comment) is displeased with the Minhag of many in his day to eat part of the Shemini Atzeret meal in the Succah and the rest of the meal indoors. The Taz, however, justifies the Minhag on the basis that it eliminates a Halachic Blue Screen – how, wonders the Taz, can we say Tefillat Geshem even as we continue to sit in the Succah, unless we eat part of our meal indoors? The Taz is worried that no one will say Tefillat Geshem with sincerity (“b’lev shalem“) if we are, only minutes later, to eat our full meal in the Succah and get rained on while doing so!

I have several problems with this Taz:

1) The Taz assumes that Tefillat Geshem is a prayer that one should ideally say with the full hope that it start to rain right now, without any delay. This, however, cannot be our real intention when we say Tefillat Geshem. Tefillat Geshem only ushers in our saying “Mashiv HaRuach,” in which we praise Hashem as rain-giver; we do not ask for rain for two more weeks (in Israel) or several more months (elsewhere). In Israel, for example, actually asking for rain is delayed so that guests who had come to Temple-Era Israel for Succot would not be rained on as they returned home. When Israelis say Tefillat Geshem on Shemini Atzeret, they clearly do not actually want rain to fall right away as its doing so would harm their friends! Americans, too, obviously do not truly want it to rain when we say Tefillat Geshem, as we will not actually request rain in Shemoneh Esrei until early December. The Taz’s premise that eating exclusively in the Succah would prevent an earnest Tefillat Geshem seems to be built on a mistaken notion as to the breakdown of shevach, praising Hashem as rain-giver, which we do daily beginning on Shemini Atzeret; and bakasha, actually asking Hashem for rain, which we do not do for quite some time. The delay in employing bakasha should, at least in theory, allow us to sit in the Succah unworried throughout Shemini Atzeret. This raises an intriguing follow-up question, however: From reading the words and seeing the Chazzan dressed in a Kittel, Tefillat Geshem does seem to constitute a request for rain. So why do we (apparently) ask for rain in Tefillat Geshem, but then cease doing so for weeks or months afterward in our Tefillot? Why not say Tefillat Geshem in two weeks (in Israel) or in early December (elsewhere)? More fundamentally, is Tefillat Geshem in fact bakasha or is it merely shevach? This question seems important for determining when, why, and how we say Tefillat Geshem. If Tefillat Geshem is bakasha, the Taz is right but we encounter a Halachic Wormhole with regard to why we are asking for rain weeks or months before we need it. If Tefillat Geshem is shevach, the Taz is wrong but we can sit care-free in the Succah on Shemini Atzeret because we have not begun to ask Hashem for rain but only to praise Him as rain-giver. (The fact that when Shemini Atzeret falls on Shabbat we still say Tefillat Geshem seems to indicate that Tefillat Geshem is a Tefillah of Shevach, and the Taz is wrong.)

2) Based on the Taz’s reasoning, it would be more appropriate to eat one’s entire dinner meal in the Succah and his entire lunch meal (after he has said Tefillat Geshem) in the house. That is not, however, the Minhag under discussion by the Hagahot Maimoniot, which is to eat half of each meal outdoors and the other half of each meal indoors. That theoretical Minhag, while tempting in consideration of the Taz’s assumption that Tefillat Geshem is a mitigating force in our ability to sit comfortably in the Succah, is also not mentioned in the Pardes or Aruch Hashulchan which we went through in the Shiur.

3) If the Taz is correct and Tefillat Geshem would prevent us from sitting comfortably in the Succah on Shemini Atzeret, why not say Tefillat Geshem on the second day of Yom Tov, Simchat Torah? I know the Tefillah is already long on Simchat Torah, but it would seem to be a fairly simple way to make both the Succah-dwelling of Shemini Atzeret and Tefillat Geshem more sincere. Any takers on that one?

Posted in Classroom Experiences, Halacha, Holidays, Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah | Leave a comment