One of our granddaughters told me she is reading my book “Migrant Soul”, which was published back in 1992. It spurred me to read it myself, for the first time in more than two decades. I liked it! It’s out of its original publisher’s print but, if you’re interested, it can be ordered print on demand or in a Kindle version here.
That Yaakov’s descendants are commanded by Hashem to place the blood of the korban Pesach on the doorposts and lintels of their homes’ doors (Shemos 12:7) is certainly intriguing.
Considering that the Gemara on the first amud of massechta Yoma teaches that “baiso zu ishto,” that the word “his home” in the Torah implies “his wife,” blood on the doors of homes would seem to embody the metaphor of niddah. What pertinence could that possibly have here?
That premise, though, is wrong. The Gemara refers to two types of blood, daam niddah and daam leidah. It’s not niddah being metaphorized here, but, rather, leidah, birth.
Because something was indeed born out of the blood-adorned doors in Mitzrayim: a nation. A new collective entity called Klal Yisrael.
In Mitzrayim, the Jews were all related to one another but they could reject that connection. Indeed, many did, and did not merit to leave Mitzrayim, dying there instead.
On their last night in Mitzrayim, though, the rest of the Jews underwent a change. With blood on their doorways and matzoh in their packs, they followed Moshe into the daunting desert, knowing not what awaited them. And became an entity whose members, and descendants throughout history, are part of an organic whole, no matter what any of them may choose to do.
Which is why, in the words of the Gemara, “A Jew who sins is still a Jew,” in every way. There is no longer any option of “opting out” of Klal Yisrael.
And so, blood in Judaism is a symbol not of death, but of birth.
The words of the navi Yechezkel (16:6) poignantly reflect that fact:
Referring to “the day you were born,” Hashem, through the navi, tells His people: “And I passed by you as you wallowed in your blood, and I said to you, ‘in your blood, live.’ And I said to you, ‘in your blood, live’.”
© 2024 Rabbi Avi Shafran
It’s intriguing that when Moshe and Aharon are sent to present themselves to Par’oh and to demonstrate the miracle of a staff turning into a snake, Moshe is commanded by Hashem to tell Aharon to throw his staff to the ground to effect the transformation.
Elsewhere, of course, with two exceptions (hitting the Nile and the ground, because Moshe had been saved by water and earth) it is Moshe’s staff that is used to fulfill divine commandments, as in the splitting of the sea and, in the desert, the hitting of the rock to bring forth water. But here, why isn’t Moshe the one charged to cause the miracle?
A lesson may lie in the oddity. Moshe, we remember, was earlier, at the burning bush, told to throw his staff to the ground, where it turned into a snake (Shemos 4:2,3). There, the command was issued after Moshe expressed doubts about whether the Jews would listen to him.
And, as Rashi explains there, the transformation of the staff was not meant as some demonstration of miraculousness but rather as a rebuke to Moshe, for having doubted the Jewish people’s willingness to hear His message.
So perhaps the reason Hashem wanted Aharon and not Moshe to perform the demonstration before Par’oh was to spare Moshe embarrassment over the memory of the rebuke he had earlier received. The reminder, of course, was still there, in a staff turning into a snake. But at least Moshe himself was not asked to perform the very action that had telegraphed the rebuke.
The Mishna (Bava Metzia 58b) says that one may not remind a repentant sinner of his prior deeds, nor a convert’s son of those of his ancestors. Perhaps the lesson here of Aharon being given the order to throw the staff down is that even a subtle reminder can be a source of embarrassment to another, and thus, something to carefully avoid.
© 2024 Rabbi Avi Shafran
Each of us lives at the center of a series of concentric circles, the closest one encompassing our immediate family members; the next, friends and neighbors; beyond that, co-religionists or fellow citizens of one’s country. At a distance removed even farther is the larger circle of human beings with whom we share similar values. And further out still, the circle encompassing the rest of humanity.
I once wrote an essay contending that it is no sin – in fact, it is proper – that we feel, and demonstrate, our deepest love for the circle closest to us. And greater concern for the next circle out than for those beyond it.
Some Jews seem embarrassed at the idea of Jews acting with special alacrity on behalf of fellow Jews. But they are misguided.
In fact, I suggested, the only way to feel any concern for the “outer circles” is to hone one’s love for those in one’s inner one first. Exercising the “empathy” muscle with regard to those closest to us is what allows us to have true empathy at all for those most distant.
Moshe Rabbeinu, the “most humble of all men,” was not naturally given to interfering in conflicts. And yet we find him doing so thrice in the parsha: First, by killing the Mitzri who was beating a Jew; second, by berating a Jew who was hitting another Jew; third, by standing up to the non-Jewish shepherds who were bullying the non-Jewish daughters of Yisro.
A dear talmidah of mine from long ago, Tanya Farber, suggested that my observation about how empathy for those distant from us is only enabled by first feeling, and acting upon, empathy for those close to us may inform Moshe’s interventions. What empowered Moshe’s decision to stand up for Tzlafchad’s daughters may have been his standing up earlier for fellow Jews.
The only way to truly “love humanity,” and not just mouth half-hearted concern for it, is to first concentrate on the easier, but essential and prime, endeavor of loving those to whom we are closest.
© 2024 Rabbi Avi Shafran
All the letters of the Hebrew alphabet are found in the bracha that Yehudah is given by his father Yaakov – with one exception: the zayin.
That fact is pointed out by Rabbeinu Bachya, who notes that zayin is not only a letter but a word – meaning “sword” or, more generally, “weapon.”
He writes:
“The reason is that the malchus Yisrael, which emerges from Yehudah, will not score its essential victory through the use of weapons like [ victories achieved by] other nations. Because the sword is Esav’s heritage but [not] that of the Jewish malchus, which will not inherit the land with their swords. And is not conducted by natural means, with the strength of the hand – but rather, through the… sublime power of Hashem.
And that is why one finds in the name Yehudah, the source of the Jewish kingdom, the letters of Hashem’s name…”
That fundamental message is always important to internalize, but it is particularly timely today. We have seen, in the Jewish fight against unspeakable evil, failures of military tactics, intelligence and weaponry, and the use of the latter bringing only more hatred against Klal Yisrael.
May we soon merit to see the success that can ultimately only come from Above.
© 2023 Rabbi Avi Shafran
The books considered holy by other religions present their heroes as flawless. One of the indications that the Torah, by contrast, is divine in nature is its recording of flaws of action or attitude in its greatest people. Considering the stature of the people exhibiting them, the flaws are always in reality more subtle than they seem, but are noted all the same.
An example is Yaakov Avinu’s response when asked his age by Par’oh. He replies: “The days of the years of my sojournings are 130 years; few and bad have been the days of the years of my life…” (Bereishis 47:9).
A Midrash quoted by the Daas Zekeinim has Hashem responding, “I saved you from Esav and Lavan, I returned Dina to you, and also Yosef, and you complain about the years of your life that they were few and bad?”; and reducing Yaakov’s life by 33 years, 33 being the number of words in the exchange.
It is said in the name of the Arizal that Yaakov’s soul inhabited Rabi Akiva. Their names share a root (and both married Rachels). Yaakov, the Arizal said, needed to atone for the 22 years he was away from his father Yitzchak, and Akiva “corrected” that inability of Yaakov to honor his father by serving his teacher, Nachum Ish Gamzu, for the same number of years.
It’s fascinating to realize that Rabi Akiva famously would say “All that the Merciful One does is for the [ultimate] good” (Berachos 60b) – an attitude that reflected the motto of his teacher, Nachum Ish Gamzu – “This, too, is for the good” (Taanis 21a). Hashem has a plan for us, and, even when its details are painful, it is for an ultimate good.
It would seem plausible that Rabi Akiva, by his adopted attitude, “corrected” the flaw in his predecessor Yaakov’s words. Yaakov saw the challenges he had been forced to face in some way as “bad.” But, as Rabi Akiva and his rebbe said, nothing Hashem does, no matter the pain it may yield, can be called anything but, evident or not, its ultimate essence: good.
I once overheard someone, asked how things were going, respond: “Everything’s going according to plan!” It was a truly insightful answer.
© 2023 Rabbi Avi Shafran
Many years ago, a wise rebbe of mine, addressing instances of financial finagling by some members of the tribe, explained that the forefathers of us Jews whom we revere are Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov, and we are to strive to emulate their rectitude and integrity. But, he continued, our bloodline also includes the cheater Lavan. And sometimes, regrettably, his genes, so to speak, can express themselves in some Jews’ inclinations, and even behavior.
At the end of the parsha, Yosef, still “undercover” as the Egyptian viceroy, plants a royal goblet in Binyamin’s knapsack. When the chalice, which Yosef indicates was used for telling the future, is “found” there, he says to his brothers, “Don’t you know that a person like me practices divination?”
Divination, or kishuf, is forbidden by the Torah. Yosef received his ability to interpret dreams directly from Heaven, not through any magical means. And that is clearly why he avoids lying outright, not claiming that he himself uses the goblet for divination purposes but, rather, that it is so used by “a person like me” – referring to Par’oh, not himself.
The halachos of what constitutes kishuf are complex. There are occasions when an omen may be taken seriously but, generally speaking, acting on the “revelation” of an omen, or relying on seemingly magical means to make one’s plans, constitutes a forbidden act.
There are, unfortunately, practices that have found footholds in some otherwise observant Jewish circles that seem clearly to be straddling, if not crossing, the line between legitimate “omen recognizing” and outright, forbidden occultism. I won’t venture into citing particular practices. As the same wise rebbe quoted above would say about controversial things, “Go ask your local Orthodox rabbi.” But when faced with the option of utilizing a seemingly questionable segulah, one needs to weigh the possibility that doing so may be an issur d’Oraysa, a Torah prohibition.
Back in parshas Vayeitzei, we find Lavan telling Yaakov, that “I have learned by divination that Hashem has blessed me on your account” (Beraishis 30:27).
Once again, Lavan is in our ancestry. But we have free will, and are charged to do our best to squelch whatever inclinations we may have that are born of that ancestor’s influence.
© 2023 Rabbi Avi Shafran
When we read the account of Yosef’s unfair imprisonment – and his eventual release after the Egyptian ruler is informed by the sar hamashkim, the butler, of Yosef’s G-d-given ability to interpret dreams – there’s something that’s easily overlooked: the particular action that set Yosef’s liberation into motion.
Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky, zt”l, points out that the genesis of Yosef’s release from prison and ascension to the position of viceroy in Mitzrayim lies in his having noticed that his fellow prisoners, the king’s baker and butler, were crestfallen one morning.
He didn’t ignore that fact. “Why do you appear downcast today?” he asked them (Beraishis 40:7). And they proceeded to tell him of their dreams, which he then interpreted.
“Come and see,” Rav Kaminetsky advises, “the greatness of Yosef,” who, after being wrongly imprisoned by other Egyptian officials, nevertheless, when he saw these officials in a state of depression or angst, was so concerned that he immediately asked them what was wrong.
That’s a lesson for life. When we see someone out of sorts, we are often inclined to ignore the person or even steer ourselves in another direction. But it is that inclination to avoid the sad person that should be ignored. We may not have the solution to the depressed person’s problem like Yosef had for his fellow inmates’ dilemma. But asking “What’s wrong?” or “Can I help?” are the proper responses. If only because they are expressions of concern.
Which may help lift the spirits of the inquiree.
And even, perhaps, benefit the inquirer.
© 2023 Rabbi Avi Shafran
One might not expect the key to happiness to be hidden in the meeting of Yaakov and Esav recounted in the parsha. But it’s there.
When Yaakov explains the lavish gifts he had sent ahead to his twin, the latter demurs, at least perfunctorily, and says, “I have much [already].” Yaakov insists that Esav receive his gifts since “I have all [I need]” (Beraishis 33:9, 33:11).
Those focused on material wealth as providing happiness, explains the Kli Yakar on those sentences, can only ever claim to have “much,” not “all.” For, satisfaction will always be elusive. As Chazal say, “One who has one hundred wants 200)” (Koheles Rabbah 1:34).
In 1971, social scientists Philip Brickman and Donald T. Campbell coined the term “hedonic treadmill” to refer to the fact that, as a person makes more money or collects more possessions, expectations and desires rise in tandem, resulting in no permanent gain in happiness.
Happiness is born, rather, of an attitude, that of “I have all.” Whatever one has. “Who is wealthy?” Ben Zoma asks in Avos (4:1), and answers: “He who rejoices in what he has.”
The mussar giant R’ Elya Lopian offered an enlightening parable based on the pasuk “Those who seek Hashem lack no good thing” (Tehillim 34:11):
A man tells a visitor to his home how fortunate he is to be wealthy, and presents a cornucopia of expensive medications he has been able to amass to treat his many ailments. The guest smiles inside at his own fortune – to have no need for any of the medications in the first place.
One can step onto the hedonic treadmill and spend one’s life fulfilling – or trying to fulfill – one’s material desires. But, just as it’s better to be healthy than to be sick even with a full medicine cabinet, so is it better to be happy with one’s lot rather than spending life in a never-ending spiral of striving.
Those who seek to serve Hashem lack nothing. Their perspective on life and why they were created provides them the understanding that, whatever they have, they have everything.
© 2023 Rabbi Avi Shafran
Sometimes an idea can only be possible after a certain point in history. One example might have to do with the imagery of Yaakov’s dream at the start of the parsha.
The message delivered to our forefather during that prophecy was “To you shall I give [Cna’an], and to your children.” And: “All the families of the earth will be blessed through you, and through your children.” Yaakov, in his dream, is being reassured that, unlike Avraham and Yitzchak, all of his children will comprise the Jewish nation.
Even the stone on which he rested his head that night and later made into a monument to the revelation he received carries that message. According to the Midrash, it had originally been many stones, which fused into one, a metaphor for the family unity he would achieve. Rashi even comments elsewhere (Beraishis, 49:24) that the word for “stone” (even) itself is a contraction of the words av and ben, “father” and “son.”
But then there is the sulam, usually translated “ladder,” which plays the central role in Yaakov’s dream imagery.
The word occurs only this one time in the Torah, and its etymology is unclear. But an Arabic cognate of the word refers to steps ascending a mountain. The easiest way to ascend a mountain is a spiral path. That fact, and the possibly related Aramaic word “mesalsel” – to twist into curls – might lead one to imagine Yaakov’s ladder as something akin to a spiral staircase.
Which speculation leads to a fascinating thought that couldn’t have been thought until the 1960s.
Considering that the assurance given Yaakov in his dream was essentially a “genetic” one – that all his progeny would be part of Klal Yisrael — might the sulam have been not a simple ladder but rather something reminiscent of, and symbolizing, the essential structure of the molecule that carries genetic information – a double helix?
© 2023 Rabbi Avi Shafran