On a recent Friday night, the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR) held its “30th anniversary gala” in Washington, DC. Too bad you probably missed it.
Something the celebrants didn’t know was that some bad news (at least for them) lay on the horizon. To read what it was, please click here.
Imagine finding yourself in a desolate place and spying a lone figure in the distance coming toward you. Your apprehension, even nervousness, would be understandable. But then, when he comes closer and you see that it’s a man with a long white beard, wearing a hat, kapoteh and tallis, you’d breathe a sigh of relief. Until he suddenly attacks you, gets you in a headlock and bends your arm painfully behind your back.
The angel that confronted Yaakov when our forefather re-crossed Nachal Yabok to retrieve some small items looked, according to one opinion, “like a talmid chacham” [Chullin 91a].
The most straightforward takeaway from that contention is that one cannot rely on the appearance of a person as being reflective of his essence. That’s an important lesson, as it happens, for all of us, and to be imparted to our young. Honoring someone who looks honorable is fine, but trusting him requires more than that.
But there’s a broader, historical message in that image of a faux talmid chacham too.
From the 19th century Wissenschaft des Judentums movement to the Reform and Conservative ones to the Jewish nationalism that sought to replace Torah with a Jewish state to “Open Orthodoxy,” there have been many efforts to distort the essence of Judaism – dedication to the Creator and His laws for us.
They have all sought to don conceptual garb proclaiming their “Jewish” bona fides. But they have all been revealed to be no less masqueraders than the sar of Esav wrapped in a tallis.
© 2024 Rabbi Avi Shafran
With all the wacky wokey warriors spewing hatred for Israel and Jews on college campuses and city streets, one could be forgiven for not noticing the proliferation of anti-Semites on the other end of the political spectrum.
But they’re there, and, in a way, more threatening. You can read about some of them here.
A piece I wrote about the future of school choice is here.
Yaakov and Leah had their first (perhaps only) argument on the morning after the wedding feast. He had expected Rachel to join him in his abode that night but, unknown to him until morning’s light, “behold, it was Leah” (Beraishis 29:25).
Midrash Rabbah (ibid) recounts how our forefather exclaimed “Deceiver, daughter of deceiver! Did I not call out ‘Rachel’ and you answered me?”
Leah well parried the thrust: “Is there a barber without apprentices? Did your father not call out ‘Esav’ and you answered?”
Touché.
But the Torah isn’t a drama presentation. And the Torah doesn’t criticize either subterfuge. What are we to glean about our lives from that comeback? On the most simple level, I think it conveys something about how we – whether we are teachers, parents or just people (because all of us are examples to those around us) – convey less (if anything) with words than we do with our actions.
I learned that lesson well, if a bit embarrassingly, many years ago, when I was typing away on a keyboard and my four-year-old son sat down on the floor near my desk with a pegs-and-holes toy, which his imagination had apparently repurposed into a word processor (this was B.C. – Before Computers), and proceeded to imitate me.
It was very cute, and I smiled. Until, that is, his little sister crawled over and tugged at him. Showing annoyance, he turned to her and said, loudly and tersely, “Will you please stop? Can’t you see I’m working?” Yes, he was, as they say in the theater, inhabiting his character.
One of the answers to the Chanukah question of why the cohanim needed to find a sealed flask of oil despite the fact that tum’a hutra b’tzibbur – ritually defiled entities are permitted in many cases for public use – is attributed to the Kotzker Rebbe. He explained that that principle does not apply when a crucial, new era is being initiated, which was the case when the Chashmonaim rededicated the Bais Hamikdash. At so important a time, purity cannot be compromised.
The term for “initiation” is chinuch. And it is also used to mean “education.” When we educate others, especially the young, we do well to ensure that our actions are pure.
© 2024 Rabbi Avi Shafran
Nations’ annexation of territory, although it tends to cause much clutching of pearls, is not rare.
But the proposed-in-some-circles annexation of Yehudah and Shomron (the “West Bank”) raises an issue that needs to be carefully thought through.
To read what, click here.
When a pasuk seems superfluous, it’s probably significant.
As Rivka is about to advise her son Yaakov to impersonate his twin Esav and receive their father Yitzchak’s bracha, she adds, “So now, my son, heed my voice about that which I am commanding you” (Beraishis 27:8). What are those seemingly unnecessary words meant to convey?
Rav Yaakov Moshe Charlop, the Mei Marom, suggests something fascinating. He points out that Yitzchak, spiritually purified as he was after the Akeida, was exquisitely spiritually sensitive and able to discern that the food he was consuming carried the flavor of a mitzvah – here, an aroma of kibbud av va’eim, the honoring of parents.
Yitzchak had commanded Esav (but not Yaakov) to bring him victuals and so Rivka sought to ensure that what Yaakov brought his father would be spiritually redolent of that mitzvah. Otherwise Yitzchak would sense the lack of “mitzvah-ness” in the food, and know that the son before him was not Esav.
And so, Rivka’s statement to Yaakov that he heed her voice about “that which I am commanding you” imbued the food Yaakov prepared with that mitzvah-aroma. Yaakov’s physical disguise was thus complemented with a spiritual one – the fulfillment of a parent’s order.
I have a personal custom, when attending a bar or bas mitzvah celebration, of directing the father or mother of the newly “commanded” member of Klal Yisrael to ask him or her to pass the parent one of the condiments on the table. When the young person complies, I say, “A mitzvah d’Oraysa is fairly rare. You just fulfilled one.” And, mindful of the Mei Marom’s thought, I know that,even though the parent most likely can’t taste it, the aroma of a mitzvah resides in the food.
© 2024 Rabbi Avi Shafran
The turnout at a Manhattan “Jewish Reconstructionist” congregation’s election night watch party was emblematic of something about the future of American Jewry. To read what, click here.
In the maelstrom of what passes for political discourse these days, the Jewish imperative of hakaras hatov is too often missing in action. A piece I wrote about the outgoing administration is here.
Rabi Akiva, the Midrash (Beraishis Rabbah, 58:3) recounts, once sought to awaken some students who were nodding off by quoting the opening pasuk of the parsha: “And the life of Sarah was one hundred years, and twenty years, and seven years, the years of the life of Sarah”(Bereishis, 23:1).
“Why,” he asked, “was it that Esther ruled over one hundred and twenty-seven provinces? Because Esther, who was the descendant of Sarah, who lived one hundred and twenty-seven years, would rule over one hundred and twenty-seven provinces.”
Many explanations of that strange juxtaposition have been offered. What occurs to me is that almost all that we know about Sarah is that she caused Hagar to flee from Avraham and Sarah’s home and then, after the maidservant’s return, banished her and her son Yishmael because of the latter’s sinful actions (see Rashi ibid 21:9). Yishmael’s character and tendencies, she feared, might come to influence Sarah’s own child, Yitzchak.
Esther spent most of her life in a foreign environment, as queen of ancient Persia (and its 127 provinces). But she maintained her connection throughout with her cousin Mordechai and their faith. She was impervious to the influence of her surroundings.
Perhaps that was what Rabi Akiva’s confounding comparison was meant to convey: that Sarah’s alacrity and vigilance regarding Yitzchak provided her descendant Esther the ability to withstand the influence of her environment.
And it may be that Rabi Akiva’s use of that thought as a literal “wake-up” call to the students was itself part of the lesson, namely that one has to be, as Sarah was, wide awake and fully aware of one’s surroundings, lest their undesirable elements infiltrate his life, or that of those for whom he is responsible.
© 2024 Rabbi Avi Shafran