Rabbi's Corner

Compelled to Return

There is a recurring expression in Tazria and Metzorah that both you and I likely would not have paid much attention to, but the Rebbe makes a fascinating observation about. In fact, when you’re done reading this, all you will need to remember is this little expression, which so succinctly captures the essence of this magnificent idea. The expression is “Vehuva el Hakohen – he will be brought to the Kohen”. This expression is used in this week’s Parsha to describe how the Metzorah is brought to the Kohen to be declared impure. In next week’s Parsha, however, this expression is used to describe how the Metzorah is brought to the Kohen to be purified.

The phrase “he will be brought” implies an element of coercion. Its usage is therefore understandable in this week’s Parsha, because the Metzorah likely does not want to go to the Kohen to find out that he might be impure. Of course, the Metzorah may have exercised his own free choice in seeing the Kohen, but still, one can imagine that there is a certain level of compulsion involved. Although the Metzorah understands that it is the responsible or proper thing to do, it is not something he relishes, and the word Vehuva is therefore appropriate.

What seems strange, however, is the usage of this phrase in next week’s Parsha. There, the Metzorah has long been declared impure, and has had to inconveniently encamp outside the city for weeks on end, in complete isolation. Now that his affliction has departed, one would imagine that he is all too eager and excited to go to the Kohen! If so, why does the Torah use the word Vehuva, which denotes compulsion and force? Confounding things further, the Metzorah cannot be brought to the Kohen anyway, for he is quarantined outside the camp. Rather, it is the Kohen who must make the trek to visit him outside the camp, as the very next words in the Posuk spell out. If so, why does the Torah say Vehuva?

The Rebbe explains that a Jew outside the camp may get too comfortable, acclimating to the foreign environment so well that he no longer desires to re-enter the camp. He is happy with a life bereft of Torah and Mitzvos, enjoying instead all the pleasures and indulgences of this world. And yet, although this person is not looking to return to the fold, he feels obligated and compelled to do so. Thus, the expression Vehuva: something is pushing the Metzorah in the right direction.

But what is it that compels this reconnection? The answer is that the Metzorah remembers what happened during that first instance of Vehuva. He was brought before the Kohen to be assessed and appraised, and he recalls the kindness, caring and sensitivity of the Kohen who did not rush to immediately render him impure, but sought a basis to purify him. Even once it became clear that the Metzorah was impure, the Kohen did not issue the verdict with a light heart and an easy mind, but with perceptible anguish over the fact that a fellow Jew would be expelled from the camp. Even though the Metzorah is now content in his spiritually remote corner, this memory triggers an urgent compulsion to reconnect, if only for the sake of the Kohen.

This message is very relevant to all of us. At times, it is our mandate to call our children or charges to account, and we cannot shirk that responsibility. However, we must ensure that every act of discipline is perceived as tough love, with more love than tough. By demonstrating our empathy and care every step of the way, we guarantee the Vehuva; the day will certainly come where he will feel compelled to re-enter the camp and be purified.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

Gratitude That Resonates

Living as we do in our home girt by sea, Australians associate international travel with transoceanic flight, requiring us to bentsch Gomel every time. This obligation stems from this week’s Parsha, which teaches us about the Korban Todah, the Thanksgiving Offering. Thankfully, there are only four specific occasions which warrant such thanksgiving, for otherwise we would be busy with offerings every moment of our lives. These four instances are outlined in the 107th chapter of Tehillim, which the Baal Shem Tov instituted that we say each Friday afternoon before Mincha, to thank Hashem for helping us navigate – sometimes obliviously – the perils we faced during the week.

Yet, there is an inconsistency in the way these four situations are listed. In Tehillim, the order is: Desert travellers, freed prisoners, those recovered from illness, and sea voyagers. The Gemoro explains that Dovid ranked these situations according to their survival rate, with desert-crossings being the most dangerous and ocean-crossings being the safest. But despite referencing this chapter of Tehillim, Rashi rearranges the order of the list, repositioning sea voyagers from last to first. Why?

The Rebbe explains that one of the most important qualities of successful teaching is relatability. It might be relatively easy to convey dry information, but it will most likely be forgotten by tomorrow. It takes much more to captivate the mind and heart of the student with a memorable insight that will be ingrained forever. The best way to achieve this is by linking the subject material to the interests and experiences of the recipient, framing it so that it resonates personally.

This, the Rebbe explains, is why Rashi switches up the order. Since Rashi is depicting how Moshe initially presented these Halachos to the Jews, it only makes sense that he drew on their own life experiences to do so. Moshe thus tapped into the sequence of the nation’s journey after leaving Egypt – first crossing the Yam Suf, then sojourning in the desert, and their eventual incarceration for forty years in an open-air prison due to the sin of the Meraglim. Moshe Rabbenu left the recovering sick for last, because most Jews in the desert did not personally experience this. For this reason, Rashi describes the first three situations in the plural form, as they were experienced collectively by all the Jews of that generation, whereas sickness is presented in singular form, for that was something endured by only a few people.

The lesson for us is obvious. Without exception, we are all educators, be it to our children, students, family members, colleagues, or random strangers. Every encounter is an opportunity for us to teach and uplift, and the odds of success will directly depend on the degree to which we exert ourselves to reach into that person’s world of experiences in order to touch them.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

Mindful Hearts and Heartfelt Minds

There are some rather famous questions on the opening words of this week’s Parsha: “These are the numbers of the Mishkan, the Mishkan Haeidus…” Why does the word Mishkan appear twice? And why is the second instance followed with the adjective Haeidus (“of testimony”)? The answers abound, and even within Chassidus there are a variety of explanations, but here is one:

When is testimony needed? If a matter is established fact or clearly known to us, there is neither need nor scope for testimony. It is only for something hidden or unknown that the need for testimony exists, to reveal that which was heretofore hidden. The Possuk thus means that man’s mission is to create two types of sanctuaries for Hashem – both in the revealed realm (Mishkan) and in the hidden realm (Mishkan Haeidus). These two realms exist within us in the heart and mind.

The heart, representing the world of emotion, is open and exposed, for its entire purpose is to interact with others. Emotional expression is a mode of personal revelation that lays bare our feelings towards others, be it a feeling of love or anger. People of the heart are generally outgoing and deem their social relationships to be of utmost importance.

On the other hand, the mind is our internal space, a place of introspection and contemplation, where the focus shifts to the discovery of deeper, hidden truths. In fact, the entire purpose of intellectualism is to glimpse at that which is transcendental and mysterious to us. People of the mind are generally introverted, aloof and detached from their surroundings. Comprehension requires concentration, which in turn is more attainable by disconnecting from outside distractions.

The message of our Parsha is that one must not be satisfied with either pathway over the other. None of us are exempt from revealing Hashem through the exertions of both mind and heart, with an emphasis on both the inside and the outside.

What might this look like in a practical sense? People of the heart tend to busy themselves with improving the world around them, such as through outreach activities and acts of kindness. For example, parents may study Torah solely so they have something meaningful to share at the Shabbos table, or to help their children with homework. Similarly, a community minded person will tirelessly work on influencing the environment, such as through Shiurim, mentoring or personal example. Such individuals are building the first kind of Mishkan. Although good and wonderful, this is not enough, because self-education and self-improvement are also necessary. Even the busiest mentor must find time to learn Torah and daven for no purpose other than to do Hashem’s will, even if no one sees and no one hears. That is how they can also build the second kind of sanctuary, the Mishkan Haeidus.

On the other hand, people who are overly engrossed in their own studies and personal growth, such as Torah scholars and the like, must remember that focus on self is insufficient. While introspection is valuable, it must not lead to isolation. They ought to take an interest in the world around them, through teaching and advising, or performing acts of kindness.  They will thereby also build both types of sanctuaries – the Mishkan and the Mishkan Haeidus.

The word Mishkan is related to the word Mashkon, which means collateral. Chazal say that the double instance alludes to the first two Batei Mikdash which were seized from us as indemnity for our sins. However, the third Beis Hamikdash will stand eternally; may we build it speedily in our days.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

Neck and Neck: Two types of Stiff-neck

Parshas Ki Sisa contains the tragedy of the Jews’ unfaithfulness less than forty days after their match made to Heaven. Hashem’s reaction was severe, regretting having chosen them as His nation. Threatening to unleash His vengeance against the Jews, Hashem accused them three times of being stiff-necked: “I have seen this people and behold! they are a stiff-necked nation; now leave Me alone so My anger may burn against them so that I may destroy them” (32:9) ... “I will not go up in your midst for you are a stiff-necked people” (33:3) … “You are a stiff-necked people; were I to go up into your midst for one moment, I would destroy you” (33:5).

It is easy to understand the metaphor: a stiff-necked person cannot or will not turn his neck in any direction, and this is like the obstinate who refuse to acknowledge their rebukers or heed their words, showing their disdain by wilfully turning their back to their reprovers. Hashem thus sought to destroy the Jews for their shameless contempt, because a nation cannot be founded on stubborn and uncompromising individuals who refuse to learn and change.

Shockingly, Moshe beseeches Hashem to forgive the Jews for that very reason. “If I have found favour in Your eyes Hashem, let Hashem go now in our midst; because they are a stiff-necked people, You shall forgive our iniquity and our sin and take us for your inheritance.” How could the very indictment against the Jews now morph into their defence? Because of this enigma, many Meforshim reinterpret this Posuk as Moshe’s plea that Hashem forgive the Jews despite their stiff-neckedness, rather than because it. But if so, why bring it up at all? Why did Moshe invoke the Jews’ flaws when seeking to secure their atonement?

The beginnings of an answer can be gleaned from Midrash Rabbah which states, “The Jews are the most brazen of the nations… you might regard this as their shame, but it is in fact their tribute. A Jew proudly proclaims, ‘Either Jewish or dead.’”

In other words, Jewish survival relies on our stiff-necked refusal to bend to the culture of the day. A Jew is deaf to whatever beliefs may enchant the nations of the world, instead embracing the ways of his father and grandfather before him. If there is one trait that epitomises Judaism, it is the ability to resolutely stand by our beliefs. How else could we stick to the same tradition for thousands of years, as excited as if it were all brand new? So yes, even if the stubbornness of the Jews led to their temporary downfall when they struggled to shake themselves of the lingering shackles of their Egyptian upbringing, their obstinacy remains a virtue in the bigger picture, rather than a flaw.

The Alter Rebbe goes on to explain that the same also applies on an individual basis. To be stiff-necked represents steadfast loyalty to Hashem, even at times when our intellectual and emotional capacity may not be sufficiently robust to contemplate about or be moved by the greatness of Hashem. This, the Alter Rebbe explains, is Moshe’s remarkable defence of the Jews: Forgive them because they are stiff-necked. Even if they sinned and transgressed the Word of Hashem, this trait of Your children is the one that will bring you the most satisfaction.

There are so many ways to apply this in our lives. The more obvious message is that we must be assertive in upholding Hashem’s principles in this Woke world, drawing on our willpower to harness every moment and experience to connect with Hashem. No less importantly, when we meet a Jew who appears stiff-necked in rejecting Torah’s ways, we must emulate Moshe and embrace the immense potential of this trait. May our persistent loyalty to Hashem in the troubles times of Golus yield the coming of Moshiach speedily in our times.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

From Pole to Pole: Ready to Roll

Every Mitzvah is eternal, applicable in all places and for all time. What, then, is the enduring relevance of the Mitzvah (in this week’s Parsha) to safeguard against the removal of the Aron’s poles? Furthermore, considering that the Aron remained stationary for most of its existence, why was it so crucial to perpetually keep it in “transport mode”? And most intriguingly, apart from the overall Mitzvah to fashion the Mishkan with all its components and vessels, why is this the only other Mitzvah associated with the Mishkan’s construction? Does it make any sense that fabricating the Aron is not listed among the 613 Mitzvos, whereas keeping its poles intact is a Mitzvah in its own right?

The Chinuch explains that the Aron was the focal point of the Mishkan and Beis Hamikdash, for it connected the Shechinah with the Jews, and by extension, the entire world. It was thus imperative that the Aron be protected at all costs. Even during peaceful periods, the Aron had to be kept in a state of evacuation readiness. This way, in the event of unexpected crisis or emergency, the Aron could be securely handled by the Kohanim, even if they were under duress or thrown into panic.

This approach offers a measure of explanation, but it is still hard to understand why such an improbable risk would warrant such an extreme precaution. The Rebbe therefore presents another explanation, one which imparts a timeless message for every Jew:

The Aron, which contains the Luchos and the Torah, is a metaphor for every Jew who embodies Torah and Mitzvos. Just as the Aron resided in the most sacred space, the Holy of Holies, so too, such a Jew yearns to constantly remain in a sanctified environment. Hashem commands the opposite: not only must we be willing to venture out of our holy environs to bring the Torah to the outside world, but we must remain “transport ready”, always equipped for instant mobilisation. To “keep our poles on” means to take interest in and care about the state of the world outside of us. We must be on the constant lookout for opportunities to boost the quality of connection between the outside world and Hashem.

This insight of the Rebbe is reflected in a teaching of the Olelos Efraim regarding the Kruvim atop the Aron, which were designed with “wings spread upwards… their faces toward one another.” This imagery portrays a Jew of such holy aspirations as to be depicted with his wings soaring upwards. Yet, in the very same instant, he directs his gaze towards his fellow Jew, ready to assist. We too must embrace our ambassadorship to project the Torah’s values, both to those around us and the entire world. May we thereby once again merit the revelation of the Aron in the Holy of Holies.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

Hearing versus Heeding

The beginning of this week’s Parsha tells us exactly what news reached Yisro’s ears: “He heard all that Hashem had done for Moshe and the Jews – how Hashem took the Jews out of Egypt.” Yet, Rashi introduces a question that should now seem inexplicable, “What news did Yisro hear that he came? The splitting of the sea and the war with Amalek.” Given that the Posuk explicitly states what Yisro heard, why does Rashi ask? Rashi’s answer seems just as mysterious, because he diverges from the Posuk’s focus on the Exodus to highlight the parting of the sea and the war with Amalek. How can this disparity be reconciled?

The Rebbe explains that Rashi sought to address a particular nuance that is not so apparent from the Torah itself. Although the Posuk tells us in general terms what Yisro heard, one still wonders what inspired him to come. What motivated him to abandon the comfort of his home and the security of his homeland, embarking on a journey fraught with discomfort and danger to join the Jews in the distant wilderness? If Yisro’s goal was merely to worship Hashem, could he not have converted in Midian and observed the Mitzvos there, even proselytising his newfound faith to his compatriots? This is the emphasis of Rashi’s question: “What news did he hear and come?” Rashi answers that it was specifically the parting of the sea and the war with Amalek that inspired Yisro’s coming.

While the parting of the sea was a wonder that reverberated across the whole world, causing nations to tremble and consuming the inhabitants of Philistia with terror, the battle with Amalek had the opposite effect, shattering the momentum of miraculous events. It exposed not only the physical vulnerability of the Jews, but their spiritual decline too, for the war was precipitated by their weakened hold of the Torah and questioning whether G-d was in their midst. One would have expected that this should have given Yisro pause, reminding him that the Jews were still very much hated and persecuted by antisemites even while Hashem was so clearly at their side. Yet, this moment was precisely the one that Yisro chose to approach and declare, “Now I know that Hashem is greater than all gods.” Why?

The Rebbe offers a profound glimpse into Yisro’s character, portraying him as the first “Righteous Gentile” in world history who was deeply empathetic toward the Jewish plight. Despite his comfortable and dignified life at the apex of society, the “Priest of Midian” could not rest when the people of Israel suffered and despaired. So long as the Exodus went well for our forefathers, Yisro rejoiced from afar. With Pharaoh defeated and the Jews set free, and even the great sea parting before them, Yisro was content with watching from the sidelines as the entire world stood in awe of the miracles that befell the Jews.

But then, in one instant, everything changed: Amalek attacked the Jews, reducing yesterday’s invincible people into today’s vulnerable outcasts. The spell cast by the splitting of the sea was now broken, and all the haters came out of the woodwork to jeer at the Jews. And that is precisely what galvanised Yisro into action and stirred him to journey to the camp of Israel. He recognised the Jews’ need for solidarity and saw the role he could play in restoring their national honour. Yisro leveraged his prestige and global reputation to shift the prevailing narrative and change the tide of discourse around the world. Instead of talking about Israel’s loss of deterrence, people would now ask: “Have you heard about the revered high priest and renowned philosopher who forsook it all to align himself with the Jews?” In embracing the Jewish people during their most vulnerable moment, Yisro did not just change the narrative; he became an integral part of their story, forever entwining his legacy with theirs. May we see much of the same in our times.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

Citizens of Tomorrowland

The unsophisticated question of the Tam, the third of the four sons, is presented to us at the end of this week’s Parsha. “And it will be if your son asks you tomorrow, saying, ‘Mah Zos – what is this?’ you shall say to him, ‘With a mighty hand did the L‑rd take us out of Egypt.”

In explanation, Rashi comments, “There is a tomorrow which is immediate, and a tomorrow which is at a later time.” At the face of it, Rashi appears focused on the timing of the Tam’s question, observing that it would not arise the morning after the Exodus, but only in the distant future. The problem is that this seems redundant – surely a child who witnessed the Exodus would not be wondering the next day as to the purpose of Pesach. If it is obvious from the context that “tomorrow” refers to the distant future, why does Rashi feel the need to state the obvious, and at such (relative) length?

The Rebbe explains that Rashi was concerned about a different question entirely: Why does the Posuk spell out “tomorrow” at all? After all, it does not really seem to matter when the Tam will ask his question? Rashi therefore infers that the Torah means to highlight the motivating factor of the Tam. For, the wise son asks questions to increase his sagacity, and the wicked son to attack our credibility, whereas the child-who-does-not-know-to-ask simply lacks ability. The Tam is none of the above… but what then defines him and drives him, and from where do his questions arise?

Rashi’s answer is that the Tam is a “child of tomorrow”. Not in a chronological sense, but in an ideological one. Having grown up in a different era and set of circumstances, he has a different perspective of reality, moulded by the society and culture which surround him. His questions are dull and simplistic because the Pesach rituals simply don’t speak to him. He is a child of the future who basks in cosmopolitan liberalism and the wonders of scientific ingenuity, whereas the Exodus is a thing of the past, as much relic to him as hieroglyphics and sarcophagi. “What is this?” reflects not just disinterest, but a genuine inability to grasp any relevance.

More specifically, the Rebbe classifies children of the future into two distinct categories. There is the child of “the immediate tomorrow” who aligns himself closely with his parents’ lifestyle, despite having been born into a later generation. He dresses as they do, shares their values, and follows their ways. The questions of such a child are welcomed and understood by the older generation, who are all too eager to answer them.

But then there is the child of “the distant tomorrow” who seems detached and withdrawn, the one to whom nothing seems to resonate. His questions don’t reflect curiosity but inattention and disengagement. One might be tempted to ignore his questions altogether; why bother? But the Torah tells us otherwise – it is especially important to answer the child of “the distant tomorrow”, tailoring our responses to pique his interest and attract his attention. True, what “worked” for generations bygone won’t necessarily work for this child, but he is as much Jew as any other, and simply requires a different approach to reach his core.

This insight of the Rebbe captures one aspect of the Rebbe’s dynamic leadership: Relatable messaging! It is a call to action for us to adopt a similar strategy, crafting messages that are relatable and engaging to our own youth, thereby bridging any generational divide.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

Burning Yet Unburned

Hashem first revealed Himself to Moshe through the extraordinary vision of the burning bush. Intrigued, Moshe approached to comprehend this phenomenon. That moment marked a turning point in our national destiny, for it was here that Moshe was appointed as the first Jewish leader, setting into motion the chain of events that would culminate in the giving of the Torah. But what fundamental and vital message was Hashem conveying to Moshe, and to all of us, through this marvellous display?

The laws of physics dictate that a fire must consume. The greater the fire and the longer it burns, the more it must devour. In a metaphysical sense, spirituality is fire and materialism is matter. The classical view is that spirituality can thrive only at the expense of materialism. This is the meaning of Pharaoh’s complaint to the Jews, “You are idle, idle! That is why you say, ‘Let us go and sacrifice to the L‑rd.’” Similarly, many regard the fire of Kedushah as a threat to our own identity, leading to fear and paralysis in serving Hashem. The very same fear that inhibits a not-yet-religious person from doing a Mitzvah is the very same fear that impedes a Frum person from adopting a new Hiddur or Hachlotoh. This fear that heightened spiritually will somehow downgrade our current way of life is also what some may find disconcerting about the messianic era.

However, the Torah emanates from the Creator of both the spiritual and physical. It is thus not bound by the laws of physics, be they physical or spiritual. The Torah’s holiness does not reduce physicality or diminish one’s individuality, but rather empowers and enhances them. By directing them towards their divine purpose, they become Hashem’s ambassador in this world. And there is nothing stronger than that.

When a person allows the fire of Kedushah to burn, his identity not only remains unharmed and intact, but becomes impassioned by the flame. Like all those thornbushes out there, he resembles the one which is most captivating, the one in which a fire dances. This is the message that Hashem conveyed to Moshe, and indeed to all of us at the threshold of our religious journey: the Torah’s fire does not consume. Rather, it ignites our potential and extends our glow. Understanding this message is crucial to progressing in our service of Hashem.

Perhaps we can extend this idea to gauge our spiritual leadership over our charges – our children and our students. We must recognise that true leaders ignite their followers with a fire that does not consume. If our devotees feel consumed or hurt, that is a sure sign we are doing something wrong.

Let us embrace this thornbush fire, and may the synergy of the spiritual and physical usher in the days of Moshiach.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

Those Who Don’t Ask Don’t Learn

There is something subtly unusual in this week’s Haftorah, of the sort that might be easily overlooked. The Haftorah begins by describing how Hashem instructed Yechezkel to make a presentation for the Jews, “Take one stick and write on it ‘For Yehudah and the Children of Israel his companions’, and write on another stick ‘For Yosef, the stick of Efraim and all the house of Israel, his companions.’ Bring them close, one to the other into one stick, and they shall be one in your hand.” It is here where things get interesting. Instead of instructing the Prophet to immediately explain the symbolism to the Jews, Hashem instead directs Yechezkel to wait for the Jews to ask, “Will you not tell us what these are to you?”

This approach is rather unprecedented, given that Prophets are generally enjoined to present the word of Hashem without delay, irrespective of whether the people are asking for it or not. There is only one other place in Tanach where a similar scenario transpires – in the prophecy foretelling the events of Asara Bteves (24:15). Why is the Novi instructed to wait for the Jews to query the significance of these props?

On Shabbos Parshas Vayigash 5729, there wasn’t supposed to be a Farbrengen. In fact, as was common in such situations, the Rebbe addressed future milestones in the previous Shabbos Farbrengen, including the Pegisha planned for Shabbos Parshas Vayigash. However, as it turns out, there ended up being an unforeseen Farbrengen.

At this spontaneous Farbrengen, the Rebbe emphasised that all novel Chassidic teachings were embedded in Torah all along, even if no one ever shone a spotlight on it. As an example, the Rebbe invoked the famous teaching of the Baal Shem Tov – that a Jew must take a practical lesson from everything he sees or hears. The Rebbe explained that this teaching is sourced in the two prophecies above, where Hashem expected the Jews to seek out the message in the deeds they witnessed before them. In fact, this was the entire catalyst for the unscheduled Farbrengen – the Rebbe wished to derive lessons in the service of Hashem from the successful Apollo 8 mission, the first crewed spacecraft to leave low Earth orbit and reach the Moon. The Rebbe went on to draw a whole range of parallels and lessons from spaceflight, which can be accessed by looking up the sources below.

The message is clear: In our service of Hashem, we must seek lessons from everything that we see and hear. As important as this pursuit is for us, it is particularly important to include our children in this too. There is no better time to dwell on this than during the less structured times of the summer holidays, a period with lots of elaborate travel or recreational plans. We will encounter diverse experiences and sometimes unexpected events, such as when (our) plans may go awry. When this happens, it is supremely important to emphasise not only the concept of Hashgocho Protis, but that there must be a positive and valuable lesson in whatever we just experienced. By teaching our children to find learning opportunities in every situation, we not only enhance their spiritual growth, but also equip them with resilience and calmness. Through this, we will usher in the era when the Divine purpose is manifestly apparent in every single aspect of creation.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

Lasting Peace and Tranquillity

By the start of this week’s Parsha, Yaakov had already endured so much. He had fled the murderous clutches of his brother Esav, lived for twenty years in the home and employ of his idolatrous and crooked father-in-law, navigated a tense reunion with Esav, survived the strife of Dina and Shechem, and mourned the untimely passing of his favourite wife, Rochel. With these trials behind him, Yaakov is finally ready to settle down – Vayeshev Yaakov. Yet, how does Hashem respond? Rashi informs us: “When Yaakov sought tranquillity, the ordeal of Yosef sprang upon him. When the righteous seek tranquillity, Hashem says, ‘What is prepared for the righteous in the world to come is not sufficient for them, that they seek tranquillity in this world too?’”

This seems disturbing on so many levels. Given what Yaakov had already been subjected to, was he not entitled to finally live out his days in peace? Moreover, the very fact that Yaakov desired tranquillity is proof positive that this was a well-placed and worthy aspiration, so why would Hashem deny him of it? Finally, why would the Parsha – Vayeshev – be named for the very thing that Yaakov did not receive? To the contrary, the roiling turmoil in the Parsha is the very antithesis of what Vayeshev means!

These questions seem insurmountable when viewing Hashem’s declaration as a denial of Yaakov’s craving. However, the Rebbe explains that the exact opposite is true: When Hashem saw how much Yaakov desired tranquillity, He sought to bestow it upon him in the highest form, far surpassing what Yaakov imagined for himself in the Land of Israel. This transpired in the last seventeen years of Yaakov’s life, which were also his best, when he witnessed the fledgling Jewish nation flourish even in Mitzrayim. Such an outcome could culminate only through the significant traumas and tribulations that Yaakov experienced beforehand, for those events engineered Yaakov’s relocation to Egypt under Yosef’s governance.

This account highlights the two forms of tranquillity. The first is superficial, characterised by material comfort but lacking in depth – good food, good sleep and fun things to do. This recreational form of serendipity is devoid of true purpose and meaning, for it does not lead to fulfilment and satisfaction in the long term, but to the very opposite – emptiness and depression. The second type of tranquillity is profound, but achievable only through much work and effort – “Those who sow with tears will reap with joy.” Achievements such as these impart a rewarding sense of fulfilment and satisfaction that eclipse all the temporal pleasures of life, but there are no shortcuts to its attainment through blood, sweat and tears.

This message is an important one to remember as we approach the summer holidays. Yes, we need rejuvenating downtime each year to reconnect with ourselves and those dearest to us. But in doing so, it is crucial to consider the nature of our sought-after tranquillity. Will we still prioritise our Ruchniyus and Yiddishkeit? Will we utilise the extra time on our hands for more davening and learning with ourselves and our children? Yes, such pursuits may take more effort than lounging around on the couch, but they are the surest way to achieving the highest form of serenity, with results that will linger for the long term.

In a sense, this is also the heroic story of the Maccabees. Rather than complacently embracing the alluring ways of Hellenism, they fought bitter battles to restore true peace and calm in Israel. The same can be said of us: The Jewish People have endured so much suffering and hardship in Golus, and there doesn’t seem to be any end to our struggles. However, we know that Golus is the means through which to achieve the ultimate serenity – Geulah. We ask Hashem to finally usher in “the day that is entirely rest and eternally serene”.

Good Shabbos and a Freilachen Chanukah,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

No Peace

Given that Yaakov was raised in Be’er Sheva, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that this was his point of departure when he set forth for Charan. Yet, the Torah goes to the trouble of articulating this at the beginning of this week’s Parsha: “And Yaakov left Be’er Sheva.” According to the Midrash, this is to underscore that Yaakov was desperate to escape Be’er Sheva. He could not tolerate what it represented, for it drew its name from the treaties that Avrohom and Yitzchok struck with Avimelech, with each side committing not to antagonise the other. Avrohom’s pact with Avimelech deferred the Jews’ conquest of Eretz Yisroel for seven generations (until the times of Moshe), and Yitzchok’s subsequent pact with Avimelech deferred the Jews’ conquest of Eretz Yisroel for another generation (until the times of Yehoshua). Yaakov ran away from all that.
 
The question is obvious: If a covenant with the Plishtim was good enough for Avraham and Yitzchak, then why not for Yaakov? Or, to ask it the other way around, how could Avraham and Yitzchak forge such a pact, given the negative outcome for their descendants?
 
The Rebbe explains: We often consider it expedient to adopt a “live and let live” strategy. We will eagerly bring our message to all who are receptive, and maybe even to those who are apathetic or ambivalent. But we may steer clear of those who are antagonistic, out of the fear that they might attack us and disturb our mission. This was the approach of Avraham and Yitzchak. They spread G‑dliness wherever they could, but “made peace” with their antagonists and enemies. For that reason, Avraham and Yitzchok forged a peace treaty with Avimelech – they agreed to leave him alone in the hope that he would leave them alone.
 
But there is a downside to mutual non-aggression. Although Avimelech would not disturb Avraham and Yitzchok in the short term, neither could they overcome him. Avimelech and his society would remain unchanged, and the consequences would haunt the Jews down the road. For seven or eight generations, the Plishtim retained the power, wherewithal and inclination to bar the Jews from their land.
 
Yaakov heralded a new approach, pioneering the age of “live but don’t let live”. He rejected the path of truces, with the recognition that engaging rivals was crucial to overcoming them. Yes, his approach was tougher and invited pushback, but Yaakov sensed that this was the only way. Thus, Yaakov ran away from what Be’er Sheva represented, and headed straight for Charan, “the place of divine anger”. Here, in the wickedest of places, Yaakov “grabbed the bull by the horns”, challenging, daring, and dueling with the fraudster Lavan, in order to extract all the sparks of Kedusha contained within him.
 
As Chassidim, we engage the world around us through spreading the wellsprings of Torah and Chassidus. When we encounter resistance, we may think that further engagement is not worth the consequences. We might be tempted to just adopt the “live and let live” strategy and move on to the next opportunity. Our Parsha tells us that although such an attitude was acceptable in the times of Avraham and Yitzchok, the strategy changed ever since the time that Yaakov left Be’er Sheva.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Shmuel Lesches 

Globalism or Nationalism

Paradoxically, Chayei Sara speaks about everything other than the life of Sara. It contains three central episodes that seem to underscore her supplanted role – her passing and burial, Yitzchak’s consolation through his marriage to Rivka, and Avraham’s subsequent marriage to Keturah. How can all this be dubbed “the life of Sara”?

Moreover, the last of these events raises some disturbing questions: What prompted Avraham to marry Keturah at the ripe old age of 140, thereby bringing more non-Jews into the world? Was he not betraying Sara who had insisted, with Hashem’s backing, that Hagar be expelled? And why was Avraham not repulsed by Hagar’s relapse into idolatry during her period of banishment?

Delving into the depths of this narrative, the Rebbe develops a profound analysis: Avraham was a globalist whereas Sara was a nationalist. What does this mean?

Avraham’s very name means “father of all nations”, and he constantly strove to welcome even idolaters into his tent to teach them about the one true G-d. Avraham had multiple wives and multiple children; some part of the Jewish fold, and others not. Avraham sought to maintain a relationship with Yishmael even when it disturbed Yitzchak’s pure environment. Avraham was a globalist who inclusively prioritised the spiritual welfare of the entire world as much as that of his own kin. He was certainly successful on that front, with all Abrahamic religions claiming eternal affinity with him.

On the other extreme is Sara, whose name means “princess over all” – regal, yet aloof and distant. She had only one husband and only one son, both of whom are the cornerstone of the Jewish nation. Her entire focus was begetting and raising Yitzchak, to the point of banishing anything in the way – including her stepson Yishmael, despite her initial support of Avraham fathering a child with Hagar. Sara was clearly a nationalist, who prioritised her people above all else.

Both husband and wife acknowledged the necessity of both missions: spreading the divine message universally and nurturing a nation dedicated to this cause. Their differences centred primarily on the prioritisation of these objectives, a tension that surfaced later in their lives when events caused these missions to clash.

This is why this Parsha is called “the life of Sara”, because all three episodes not only exemplify Sara’s nationalism, but Avraham’s eventual surrender to it. First, Sara’s passing led to the very first Jewish purchase of the Holy Land. Despite Efron’s willingness to cede Machpelah for free, Avraham insisted on paying top dollar for it, so that no one could deny Jewish control of the land. Second, when it came time to find a soulmate for his son, Avraham resisted Eliezer’s pleas for Yitzchak to wed his daughter, even though that would have made for a perfect multicultural union. Instead, Avraham sent Eliezer to find the one and only woman in the world who would perpetuate Sara’s legacy. And lastly, Avraham’s union with Keturah culminated in his decision to distance his other progeny, in order to preserve his spiritual and physical heritage exclusively for Yitzchak.

What about us? In our own lives, are we globalists or nationalists? When we sit around our Shabbos tables or catch up with our friends, do we spend our time “solving” the world’s many problems? Or do we set aside the “global” issues and focus instead on practical and positive initiatives that will make a tangible difference to our people?

The Torah tells us about both pathways because each has its time and place. Still, although Avraham, too, passes away in this week’s Parsha, the name remains Chayei Sara, and not Chayei Avraham. This is a testament to the enduring primacy of Sara’s calling, one that Avraham ceded to even when it clashed with his own life’s mission. In our times too, may we merit to see the triumph of the Jewish National interest over all adversity.

Question versus Quest

Central to Yiddishkeit lies the expectation that we not only believe in Hashem, but also strive to know Him to the best of our ability. Within this, there are two vastly distinct paths of focus: The school of Chakirah, which provides evidence that Hashem exists, and Chassidus, which is far more fixated on understanding how Hashem operates.

The latter pathway is not an intuitive one to take. After all, most of us do not typically bother to exert our intellectual faculties and acumen to investigate or research something we do not regard to be a problem. We stop to think primarily when we are sceptical of a particular truth, or when we encounter a problem with the way something operates. When all functions as expected, we seldom delve into underlying mechanisms.

For instance, consider a person craving an early morning caffeine-hit. When the brewer dispenses the java without a hitch, the coffee-lover couldn’t care for the mechanics behind the machine. He would not pause to investigate the presence of electricity, nor would he have any inclination to reflect on the inner workings of the machine. It is only when the coveted brew fails to materialise that the caffeine-starved takes the time and effort to scrutinise the machine’s internals to troubleshoot the problem.

Similarly, since every Jew is a believer and the son of a believer, it is no surprise that many are entirely content with their wholehearted belief in Hashem’s existence, and that He knows exactly what He is doing. This is especially true when events around us align with our preconceived notions about how the world should operate. At such times, any ambition to learn more about Hashem may remain dormant.

This brings us to the difference between Avraham and Noach. Avraham is described as the “Head Believer” who rejuvenated humanity’s faith and consciousness in Hashem's omniscience. But why was this crown not shared with Noach, who is described as a “complete Tzadik” with unwavering faith in Hashem? And what enabled Avraham to instil these values in his descendants for all time, whereas Noach did not?

The Rebbe explains that Noach’s faith in Hashem was innate and instinctive. He was born circumcised, and his contemporaries recognised him as the child whose birth had been foretold to Odom. Noach inherently sensed G‑dliness, and he was at peace with Hashem’s governance of the world. Consequently, he felt no need to pursue the study of Hashem any further – and he didn’t.

In contrast, Avrohom was born into circumstances far removed from faith in Hashem. He had to wrestle with and reject the idolatry of his family and country. His initial quest for faith was fuelled by his own questions and discontent with what he saw around him, and that led him to awareness of Hashem’s existence. Yet, Avraham did not stop after his philosophical and theological conundrums were solved. Even after crossing that bridge, Avraham kept at it; this time, not to resolve his personal quandaries nor make sense of the world’s craziness, but simply to know Hashem more. This unwavering pursuit elevated him to a believer of the highest order, with the power to filter through and leave an indelible imprint on his children and descendants.

The Call to Action is clear – to intensify our study of Chassidus. This holds true not only in times such as ours, when we may wonder more about the way that Hashem operates. Rather, our curiosity about the intricacies of His ways must remain a constant endeavour, even when all seems well. As we stand in proximity to “the Mattan Torah of Chassidus”, let us rededicate ourselves to its study, thereby ushering in a future where the entire world will be filled with the Knowledge of Hashem.

Beyond a Mere Shadow

On market days in Lubavitch, the Tzemach Tzedek would deliver a Maamar before the morning light, finishing early enough for the visiting merchants to open their stalls by the time the market opened. On these occasions, a modest lantern would be placed in front of the Tzemach Tzedek, to provide a measure of illumination.

During one such gathering, it happened that Rashbatz, a revered Chossid of the Tzemach Tzedek, unwittingly positioned himself between the candle and the table at which the Tzemach Tzedek sat. When Rashbatz realised that his figure cast a shadow on the table, he was initially inclined to move. On second thoughts, he decided to remain exactly where he was, so that the Tzemach Tzedek could elevate even the shadow he created. But just then, the Tzemach Tzedek interrupted his delivery of the Maamar with the remark, “It is possible to elevate light, but not darkness.” The Chassidim were mystified by the seemingly irrelevant interjection, aside from Rashbatz who recognised the Tzemach Tzedek’s Ruach Hakodesh in discerning his thoughts.

This anecdote poses a profound question: How could the Tzemach Tzedek posit that darkness cannot be elevated when we know that the entire purpose of creation is to transform darkness to light?

The Rebbe explains that there are two kinds of darkness: the first is merely the absence of light, whereas the second is the actual presence of darkness. Although we typically perceive physical darkness as a void of light, the Torah gives us instances where darkness goes beyond that. For example, before Hashem separated light and darkness on the first day of creation, they “served concurrently”, which can only be possible of a tangible darkness that is not eliminated by light. Similarly, the plague of darkness was clearly more than just a void if it could freeze the Egyptians in their places.

Spiritually speaking, the darkness that is just a void represents someone who does nothing at all – neither good nor bad. Conversely, the tangible kind of darkness represents the evildoer, or evil itself. Counterintuitively, the Tzemach Tzedek was telling Rashbatz that while the darkness of evil can be elevated, the darkness of nothing – such as a mere shadow – cannot. As it relates to Avoidah, one who has committed evil can do Teshuvah and thereby transform his misdeeds into virtues, whereas inaction and inertia cannot be propelled anywhere.

In our current trying times, the barbaric savagery unleashed against the Jewish People cannot represent anything other than the utterly palpable darkness of hatred, and its eventual transformation into light remains a mystery to be deciphered only when Moshiach comes. Yet, in our response, we must be vigilant not to create the darkness of absence. Chassidus cautions us greatly to distance ourselves from depression and despair, which are nothing but a void. Rather, we must remain focused on creating light and actively radiating positivity. This explains Chassidus’ obsession with “just doing”, for it is not the scale of our deeds that matter, but the mere fact that we are doing.

Even so, there was another occasion when the Rebbe spoke of the potency of a shadow. It was just three days after the onset of the Yom Kippur war, and the Rebbe invoked the Posuk, “Hashem is your Guardian, Hashem is your shadow at your right hand.” Why do we call Hashem our shadow? Because just as a shadow echoes our movements, so too does Hashem reflect our spirit and conduct. When we exude joy and enthusiasm, He mirrors that back to us. May we see that today!

The Soaring Dropout

Haazinu, Moshe’s last song to the Jewish people prior to his passing, describes the relationship between Hashem and the Jews as that of an eagle and its young: “Like an eagle that awakens its nest, hovering over its fledglings, it spreads its wings, taking them and bearing them aloft on its pinions.” Rashi explains that an eagle stands out in the animal kingdom for its extraordinary compassion towards its young. Driven by a protective instinct, the eagle elevates its hatchlings above its wings, ensuring that any hunter’s arrows will strike it rather than its vulnerable offspring.

To gain a much deeper understanding of this symbolism, let us note that King Shlomo, the wisest of men, intriguingly described the eagle as one of the three wonders that baffled him. “Three things are too wondrous for me… the way of an eagle in the sky.” This naturally prompts our own surprise: what is so mystifying about an eagle in flight?

The Arizal explains that Shlomo wondered how it could be that the eagle, an unkosher bird, derives from the Eagle’s Face of the Merkava (Divine Chariot)? Although all impure things ultimately originate from a holy source, the Tzemach Tzedek clarifies that the eagle down here is exactly as in its source. If you can’t understand how, that’s okay, because Shlomo Hamelech couldn’t either.

All this is succinctly captured in the Hebrew word Nesher, which means both eagle and dropping. Such opposites! The eagle is legendary for soaring at the heights of the world, and yet the very same word describes someone or something that has fallen to the lowest of lows! This explains why Hashem’s compassion is likened to an eagle, for His Thirteen Attributes of Mercy emerge from the highest apex of Kesser, yet extends to the lowest abyss.

Just as the eagle analogy applies to Hashem, so too does it apply to His young, the Jewish people. The question posed by King Shlomo movingly echoes through the ages: How is it that a Jew who has fallen into the darkest places is still the same Jew who stands at the pinnacle of greatness, the chosen child of Hashem? As our sages teach, when Jews rise, they touch the zenith; when they fall, they plummet to the deepest void, grappling with the pitfalls and vulnerabilities of life. Yet, as King Shlomo marvelled, even at their lowest, they remain the same eagle whose way is in the sky.

What hope is there of rescuing a Jew from the depths? The answer lies in the characteristic of the eagle: compassion. How so? Mercy embodies a certain duality. On the one hand, it suggests an entity in pitiful circumstances, but on the other, it signals that this entity originated from a greater place, because one would only feel pity for a creation outside of its natural habitat, in a place where it doesn’t belong. It is precisely the stark contrast between a Jew and his circumstances that evokes the deepest sense of sympathy, sorrow, and compassion. The very sense of compassion serves as an empowering reminder to the one who plummeted that he is not in his rightful place, and this very recognition inspires him to rise once again.

When someone stumbles spiritually and falls, the worst calamity they can suffer is despair, or the belief that there’s no way out. In many ways, this is more damaging than the fall itself, because it traps them in that state. The remedy is to remind them that they are eagles of the sky. No matter how low they’ve fallen, they still carry with them a spark of divinity, of inherent purity. This isn’t their true place; they belong somewhere grander. This realisation serves as the catalyst to seek redemption and make amends.

This is what the Torah means when it says of Hashem “like an eagle that awakens its nest”. Hashem’s limitless mercy and compassion is itself the greatest motivator for those who have fallen to rise and reclaim their rightful place in the heavens. Let us do our part in reminding the fallen that they are truly “eagles in the skies”! Even more importantly, let us constantly remind ourselves of this whenever we engage our brethren.

When the Opposite Attracts

Rabbi Simlai was one of the great sages of the Gemoro. In fact, the opening statement of Tanya is attributed to him in our contemporary texts of the Gemoro. Yet, when he appeared before the eminent Rabbi Yochanon to study Aggadetah, Rabbi Yochanon spurned him. Rabbi Simlai persisted, surmising he could learn the entire thing in three months. In exasperation, Rabbi Yochanon threw a clod at Rabbi Simlai, exclaiming, “If Bruriah, the esteemed wife of Rabbi Meir and the daughter of Rabbi Chananya ben Tradyon, who was known to study three hundred Halachos on a short autumn day, nonetheless took three long years to master this study, how can you hope to grasp it in a mere fraction of that time?”

This intriguing tale is shrouded in much mystery. Let us examine the most prominent question: Why did Rabbi Yochanon decline to teach a part of Torah to Rabbi Simlai?

One answer can be derived from a Possuk in this week’s Parsha, “The secret things are to Hashem; but the revealed things belong to us and to our children forever, that we may do all the words of this Torah.” This Posuk conveys that Torah is a tapestry of Nigleh and Nistar. The revealed dimension encompasses Mishnah, Gemara, and Halacha, which detail the intricacies of all the Mitzvos. The esoteric dimension of Torah illuminates the profound essence of the Mitzvos and their connection to the Divine. Although seemingly distinct facets, they are really two sides of the same sacred coin. That is why the Zohar describes Nigleh as the ‘body’ and Nistar as the ‘soul’, just as the body and soul are inseparable. In similar fashion, Nigleh is described as a ‘garment’ and Nistar as the ‘light’, as evidenced in the Possuk, “Who cloaks Himself with light as with a garment”.

This distinction is also apparent among Torah scholars: there are those who are primarily Halachic decisors, and then there are the Kabbalists. The revealed Torah is the purview of the former, whereas the hidden world of Kabbalah resonates with the latter. This distinction is illustrated in the life of the Alshich, who sought to study under the great Arizal. Each time the Arizal began expounding on Kabbalah, the Alshich would drift off to sleep. Despite his greatest efforts to stay awake and attentive, nothing helped. Baffled and disheartened, the Alshich approached the Arizal for guidance. The Arizal responded, “Your soul belongs to the world of Drush, not the world of Soid.”

This is why Rabbi Yochanon demurred, for he knew that Rabbi Simlai’s soul was fundamentally attuned to Nigleh, and not Nistar. We see this in the name Simlai, which is derived from the Hebrew word for garment (‘Simlah’), which (as above) is a metaphor for the revealed dimension of Torah. When Rabbi Simlai insisted, Rabbi Yochanon pointed out that even Bruriah, whose name means ‘bright’ and ‘pure’, reflecting her bond to the hidden part of the Torah, had still needed three years to master it, and Rabbi Simlai certainly could not fare any better.

What about us? The Rebbe often taught that we merit a taste of Moshiach as we stand at his threshold. We are therefore able to – and therefore must – achieve success in both kinds of study, just as we will after Moshiach comes. This message is especially apt in the leadup to Rosh Hashana, in which our role is to draw down and reveal the new hidden light that Hashem unleashes at the start of each year. May our efforts be crowned with success!

Based on Likkutei Levi Yitzchok. The Talmudic story is told (with more details) in Bavli Pesachim 62b, Yerushalmi Pesachim 5:3 (where it is recorded as Rabbi Yonason).

Good Shabbos and Ksiva vChasima Tova L'Shana Tova UMesuka,

Flavour of the Month

A Jewish month is normally referred to as Choidesh. Yet, in describing the monthlong “cooling off period” of the Yefas Toar (captive woman), the Torah says that she must weep for a Yerach of days. Although the word Yerach is certainly acceptable, why does the Torah employ this rare form here, and not the far more common Choidesh which appears more than sixty times in Chumash?

The Halachic answer to this question (Yavomos 48b) is that Choidesh refers to a calendrical month, which can be either 29 or 30 days, whereas Yerach is a full thirty days. Thus, the Torah informs us that the Yefas Toar’s crying and grief must span a full thirty days.

However, there is another masterful answer to this question, one which focuses on the fact that both Choidesh and Yerach are associated with the lunar month; the word Yerach literally means moon (similar to the way ‘month’ is etymologically rooted in the word ‘moon’), and Choidesh refers to the lunar’s rebirth following its monthly conjunction with the sun. The Rebbe explains that there is a profound difference between what the two represent:

The word Choidesh, meaning renewal, is suggestive of energy, enthusiasm and momentum. It is little wonder that this is the Torah’s choice of word to describe a month. In similar fashion, when the Torah speaks of marriage further on in this week’s Parsha, it uses the phrase Isha Chadasha to reflect the excitement and enthusiasm of the newlyweds. For that reason, the Kesubah uses the word Choidesh in its date, to hint that the foundation of a healthy marriage is renewal and rejuvenation. What was yesterday cannot be today, and the future must go deeper than the past.

Conversely, the word Yerach is indicative of the overall lunar cycle, which moves from one set of thirty days to the next without any apparent variety. Yerach thus represents the endless loop of a repetitious and predictable cycle of familiarity that breeds contempt. Thus, the last Parsha of the Torah coins the phrase Geresh Yerachim, linking Yerach to Geresh, which can mean divorce. In similar fashion, the Gett contains the word Yerach in its date, as the dissolution of the marriage can often be traced to the relationship becoming endlessly humdrum and stale. In the context of the Yefas Toar, the Torah warns us that this sort of unhealthy marriage, based on superficial factors alone, will soon lose its appeal.

The most famous acronym of Elul, Ani Ledodi v’Dodi Li, represents our marriage relationship with Hashem. It thus behoves us to pause and consider what kind of relationship we are in. Are we caught in an endlessly repetitive loop of Mitzvos, or do we embrace them with renewed passion and zeal every time? Indeed, our Sages have proclaimed, “Each day, the Torah should be perceived as new.” Intriguingly, the Zohar tells us that the monthlong crying of the Yefas Toar corresponds to the month of Elul, which we can now understand as being the month to bewail our “Yerach” relationship with Hashem, and transforming it for the better.

But how? The Baal Shem Tov explains that the Shofar reminds us to renew our relationship with Hashem, and to observe His Mitzvos not out of a sense of compulsion or habit, but with a genuine appreciation of their novelty. This sentiment is echoed in the Possuk Tiku Bachodesh Shofar; sounding the Shofar is a call for renewal. In this light, we can well understand why Chassidus emphasises the adoption of new deeds and practices in anticipation of Rosh Hashanah, in order to inject a newness in our service of Hashem. May we succeed this Elul in meriting the ultimate refresh with the coming of Moshiach now.

Good Shabbos and Ksiva vChasima Tova,

Spiritual Sightseeing

Parshas Reeh sets into motion a trilogy of Parshiyos containing approximately 170 Mitzvos, or slightly less than one-third of the total. Moshe introduces them with a reminder to ponder the consequences of our choices, saying, “See, I give before you today a blessing and a curse.”

The problem, though, lies in the very first word of the Parsha, Reeh. You see, for much of Sefer Devorim, Moshe has been telling us to listen, Shema, which seems entirely apropos when directing us to focus on his spoken word. In fact, Shema appears over 90 times in Sefer Devarim, in one form or another. Why does Moshe suddenly tell us to see?

The Rebbe explains that there are two kinds of vision. We can opt to view a situation through our physical eyes, in a superficial, materialistic and crass way. Alternatively, we can choose to gaze with the deeper vision of the soul, looking beyond the limitations of our physical eyes to appraise the situation for what it truly is. Indeed, the Zohar tells us that a person sees clearest when he closes his eyes, for only then does he observe with the eyes of his Neshama. The Chasam Sofer explains that this is why we close our eyes when we say Shema. (Some also say this is why a Chosson and Kallah don’t physically look at each other under the Chuppah.)

Thus, the first Possuk of our Parsha instructs us to close our physical eyes and Reeh; to perceive how both blessings and curses are placed before us by Anochi, by Hashem. Although sins and curses seem to emanate from a force that opposes holiness, the profound vision of our Neshama can sense that they, too, are set before us by Hashem as a gift (Noisen). This is because overcoming temptation and tribulation propels us to far greater heights than those attainable through good deeds. From this vantage point, we realise that we are not merely passing up indulgence for something greater, but are actually harnessing them to the fullest for their intended divine purpose.

This lesson is especially relevant as we embark upon the Avodah of Chodesh Elul. As we navigate our lives and experience all kinds of challenges, we ought to remember this mantra, “Reeh Anochi Noisen – See that I am giving you a gift.” We are reminded not only to listen, but to witness, how all of existence, including the seeming curses, are really a gift from Hashem. Embracing this worldview empowers us to overcome everything!

Good Shabbos,

Seeing Double: The Dual Message of Nachamu Nachamu

This Shabbos draws its name from the first two words of the Haftorah, Nachamu Nachamu, in which the prophet proclaims Hashem’s call to comfort the Jewish people. This seemingly redundant repetition raises a question – what is the significance of this doubled assurance? After all, if Hashem’s comfort is potent, one instance should suffice, and if it isn't, then how will doubling it help?

Several interpretations emerge from the Midrash. One suggests that the double consolation corresponds to the two Batei Mikdash that were destroyed, or to the devastation of the two Kingdoms of Israel. Another proposes that it extends both to the living and the deceased, to those in the lower worlds and those above. Yet another perspective observes the use of double language throughout Yishayahu’s prophecies, reflecting the double level of prophecy rewarded to him for enduring the cynicism and scorn of Israel.

However, none of these approaches seem to address how the comfort itself is doubled. Rather, they depict a single solace that is merely directed at multiple tragedies. To address this, the Rebbe developed a unique interpretation during several Sichos in the summer of 5734, illuminating how the comfort itself is truly doubled.

The first comfort, understandably, redirects our attention towards the future, reassuring us of forthcoming goodness, even if things today seem bad. Yet, it fails to fully address our wounded sense of insult that is worse than injury:

The fact that the Jews were punished for their Sinas Chinam and other grave sins is hard enough. What crushes our spirit far more profoundly is the manner in which our retribution was executed, triggering a total collapse of our national honour and dignity before all the nations of the world. Indeed, as far as they are concerned, it calls into question our status as the Chosen Nation, the honour of our Torah, and indeed, the very power of Hashem. Why does the path of the wicked prosper, at our expense? In this sense, the Churban is doubly troubling; the punishment itself, and our ignominious indignity ever since.

This is where the second consolation steps in, assuring us that good not only awaits us in the future, but is already present today. Although the present exile seems tragic, it contains immense opportunities that would not otherwise materialise. Success creates more of the same, whereas failure opens new doors. As the adage goes, there are three ways to deal with hardship: the weak cry, the strong stay afloat, and the believer sees and seizes opportunity.

This is the double message of comfort: Redemption does not begin somewhere in the future, but in the here and now. The first Nachamu assures us of a bright future, whereas the second Nachamu delivers a much deeper message, informing us that it is already good today.

In our own lives too, we are used to finding Hashem in the good and glorious, in all that which is beautiful and happy. We tend to regard moments of crisis and fracture as the enemy, like an invading force from the outside. Nachamu Nachamu expresses to us the opposite. Not only must we remind ourselves that we will prevail over hardship, but even more importantly, that we will grow from it. May our own personal redemptions herald the cosmic redemption speedily in our days.

Good Shabbos,

The Deep Clean

Anger leads to error, and that is exactly what happened when the Jewish warriors returned from their victorious campaign against Midian. After expressing his indignation that the troops had not purged those most responsible for the sins of the Jews, Moshe turned his attention to the spoils and reminded the Jews to purify them from Tumah with the waters of the Parah Adumah. However, Moshe did not tell them to Kasher the utensils, and Elazar the Kohen spoke up to address this oversight.

Since anger leads to error, rather than forgetfulness, we must assume that Moshe deliberated the non-Kosher status of the utensils but wrongly concluded that Kashering was unnecessary. What was the reasoning for his assumption? According to the Rebbe, Moshe reasoned that if the waters of the Parah Adumah were potent enough to sanitise the Tumah of death, it certainly had the power to expel any vestige of Issur (non-Kosher) that had adulterated the vessel, and no further Kashering would be necessary.

Elazar clarified that Kashering can be achieved through fire alone, and the waters of the Parah Adumah could accomplish nothing in this regard. The reason? Tumah is contracted exclusively through exterior contact – touching, lifting or sharing a room with a corpse – and is likewise removed through external means such as Mikvah or the waters of the Parah Adumah. Conversely, Issur penetrates the very walls of the vessel and must be eradicated through a fire that will reach into the vessel’s interior and either extract or destroy any Issur.

This insight goes well beyond the mechanics of purifying a vessel and sheds much light on the broader journey of personal transformation. Tumah and Issur represent the two types of negative forces that can influence the Jewish soul, with a key difference between them. Tumah characterises an outer negative atmosphere that might envelop a person without permeating him or affecting his core, whereas Issur typifies a negative influence that has infiltrated the person’s soul and adversely changed its inner essence. Tumah defilement can be removed simply by substituting the surrounding atmosphere with a more constructive one, and this external change is sufficient to yield the desired outcome. Even so, this will not be adequate to uproot any Issur defilement that penetrates one’s inner fibre, and a thorough and invasive cleanse will be required to purge all negative influences from one’s internal being.

Of Moshiach’s time, Hashem foretells, “And I will sprinkle pure water upon you, and you will be Tahor; from all your impurities and from all your abominations I purify you.” Hashem speaks only of purifying us from Tumah, with no mention of Kashering us from Issur. This indicates that the adversities of Golus cannot tarnish the inner essence of a Jew, and its negative impact goes no deeper than our external environment. May we merit our purification speedily in our days!

Good Shabbos,

Rising from the Dust and Ashes 

Chazal tell us that the dust of the Sotah and ashes of the Parah Adumah were Avraham Avinu’s reward for uttering the phrase “I am but dust and ashes” with utter humility. From a technical standpoint, the words ‘dust’ and ‘ashes’ correlate well with these two Mitzvos, but what substantive connection is there between them?

The Rebbe explains that there are two forms of kindness. A lesser form of kindness is exemplified by a person who extends generosity only when convenient and easy, whereas a deeper form of kindness is embodied by one who willingly sacrifices for the sake of others. Avraham Avinu personified the latter kindness, extending it even in the face of much physical or spiritual sacrifice. He welcomed guests who could not pay, and deliberately positioned himself where wayfarers would otherwise lack assistance. When Hashem visited him post-circumcision, Avraham braved intense pain and sweltering heat to greet three idolatrous guests, even at the expense of basking in the Divine presence.

Such kindness stems from a deep-rooted sense of humility and placing others ahead of oneself, which is the full import of Avraham’s words, “I am but dust and ashes”. For this reason, Hashem rewarded his descendants specifically with these two Mitzvos, whose common denominator is self-sacrifice for the benefit of others. In the Mitzvah of Sotah, Hashem commands to have His name erased to restore peace between husband and wife, and in the Mitzvah of Parah Adumah, the Kohanim involved in its preparation became impure solely to purify others.

We also find a unique connection between the Parah Adumah and Moshe. Chazal tell us, for instance, that the ashes of Moshe endure eternally, and that only he was privy to the meaning behind Parah Adumah. But what exactly is the reason for this unique bond? The answer can be gleaned from another Midrash, which describes how Moshe was initially stunned by the Mitzvah of Parah Adumah, for he could not fathom how a Jew could plummet into such a grave level of impurity. Nonetheless, like Avraham, Moshe exerted himself on behalf of these very Jews, without consideration to the fact that they represented his antithesis.

This message is particularly relevant to the Chag Hageulah that we celebrate this Shabbos. The Frierdiker Rebbe in could have easily withdrawn into his own private world, devoting his life to the lofty pursuits of a Tzaddik, or clandestinely attending to the needs of his most loyal followers. Instead, he chose to humble himself and descend many spiritual levels, demonstrating extraordinary Mesiras Nefesh to purify Jews who were endangered by the impurity associated with spiritual death. Similarly, we must commit ourselves to the welfare of our brethren to the point of self-sacrifice, even if it means prioritising another person’s purity over our own.

Good Shabbos,

Mission Sabotage: When Motive Trumps Deed

Rashi presents a vivid description of the Meraglim’s return with enormous fruits from Eretz Yisroel: “How was it done? Eight of them bore a cluster of grapes, one carried a fig and another took a pomegranate. Yehoshua and Kolev took nothing at all, for the intention of the others was to slander the land; just as its fruit is extraordinary, so are its people extraordinary.”

We can well empathise with how Yehoshua and Kolev must have felt when they elected to boycott the Meraglim’s plan. But there is still a significant problem. Bringing back the fruit was not a scheme concocted by the Meraglim to frighten the Jews, but an explicit directive from Moshe, “See what kind of land it is… be courageous and take from the fruit of the land.” In boycotting the Meraglim, Yehoshua and Kolev seem to have divested themselves of the mission entrusted to them by Moshe.

In fact, this instruction was the one for which Moshe demanded the most self-sacrifice, urging the Meraglim to be courageous. For, unlike Moshe's other instructions to the Meraglim, which merely required them to form an impression, this one necessitated them to return with evidence. The last thing a spy would risk is to be caught with tangible evidence, and Moshe sought to stifle any reluctance on the part of the spies to bring back the fruits. If so, how could Yehoshua and Kolev disregard the very instruction that Moshe had so emphasised?

The Rebbe explains that we can glean an essential message about Shlichus from this episode, be it our ongoing mission of Torah and Mitzvos from Hashem, or an assigned Shlichus from the leader of the generation. While there is always an expectation that the messenger will fulfil the mission meticulously, there is only one scenario that would compel the messenger to recuse themselves of the Shlichus – when other have seized the agenda and are sabotaging it to the detriment of the Meshaleach. When the mission is exploited to undermine the goals of the Meshaleach rather than to advance them, it ceases to be a Shlichus.

This message serves as a counterpoint to the central theme of the Parsha, which is Hamaaser Hu Haikar; the main thing is action. In many other Sichos, the Rebbe illustrates how every single event and incident in this Parsha demonstrates that good intentions alone matter far less than deed. Nevertheless, the episode of the fruits highlights the exception – when the deed is executed entirely with the purpose of subverting the mission’s objective, transforming the deed from good to evil. This lesson is one to reflect upon in the leadup to Gimmel Tammuz, where every Chossid contemplates their Hiskashrus to the Rebbe. We must always remember that, even if the main thing is deed, it must be pursued in a manner that promotes the goals and objectives of the Meshaleach.

Good Shabbos,

Not Wishy-Washy: Hashem’s Enduring Name

The Gemoro relates a story associated with the Mitzvah of Sotah: When Dovid Hamelech commissioned the boring of the Beis Hamikdash’ foundations, the very depths were breached. As the floodwaters stormed upwards, Dovid Hamelech feared mass devastation. Turning to his advisors, he asked, “Is it permissible to inscribe Hashem’s name on a shard of clay and throw it into the depths to keep the waters at bay?” His quandary was whether the name of Hashem could be exposed to water and potential erasure. Initially, his advisors offered no response. Sensing that Achitophel, the wisest among them, knew the answer but was withholding it, Dovid pronounced a curse on anyone who knew the solution but would not share it. This spurred Achitophel to speak up, “If the Torah allows the erasure of Hashem’s name in order to restore peace between a husband and wife, all the more so to save the entire world.” Dovid Hamelech followed his advice, and the waters were pacified.

An obvious question arises: Even a schoolchild knows that Pikuach Nefesh (saving lives) overrides all of Torah! If so, why did Dovid Hamelech hesitate to throw Hashem’s name into the water? Furthermore, why did Achitophel need a different proof to demonstrate that this was allowed?

The Rebbe explains that inscribing Hashem’s name on a shard and throwing it into the waters was not a natural remedy. Rather, salvation could be achieved only due to the divine power of Hashem’s sacred name. Dovid’s dilemma was whether writing Hashem’s name with the knowledge that it might be erased could potentially diminish its holiness from the outset, and hence not achieve the desired result. In essence, Dovid Hamelech’s uncertainty was less about whether it was permissible to take such action, and more about whether it would have the power to save the world. He thus sought a source in the Torah to establish that writing Hashem’s name for such a purpose would not lessen its sanctity. Achitophel found this assurance in the Mitzvah of Sotah, where Hashem’s name is written to be erased, yet still retains the sanctity of Hashem’s name, leading to a miraculous outcome.

From here the Rebbe derives a significant lesson. The Torah possesses numerous beautiful qualities: intellectual and emotional depth, morals and ethics, practical life lessons for all, and literary elegance. Even so, none of these qualities will guarantee success when using it to influence, inspire, or save the world around us. Merely emphasising these aspects might lead others to regard the Torah as a magnificent artefact, but nothing more. True impact can be achieved only when the Torah is projected with proper reverence for its holiness, and the recognition that its power draws from its sanctity.

Another lesson the Rebbe derives is that nothing in the world inherently supersedes Torah. Even Pikuach Nefesh overrides the Torah only because the Torah itself says so. Therefore, in all such situations, one must look to the Torah for guidance. Similarly, when one wishes to draw a seemingly assimilated Jew into the fold, one cannot make concessions or adjustments with the justification that they are necessary to achieve the end goal, unless sanctioned or warranted by the Torah itself. Otherwise, such outreach efforts will be bound to fail, much in the same way that Dovid Hamelech’s intervention did not stand a chance of success without a source in the Torah.

Good Shabbos,

Of Passing Interest

Interest plays such a fundamental role in modern economics that one would struggle to think of life without it. Interest rates drive a wide range of financial activity and investment decisions, and buttress mortgages and credit cards. They also form the backbone of monetary policy, inflation control, economic stimulus and exchange rates. All of this stands in stark contrast with the interest rate mandated by the Torah – 0%. Why does the Torah ban interest entirely? Why can’t the owner derive benefit when someone else makes use of his cash?

There are many classical explanations in the Meforshim. For example, the Sforno explains that loans are often sought as a last-ditch attempt to prevent financial ruin, and it is unconscionable for someone else to think of profiting from such a situation. The Abarbanel echoes this sentiment, stating that we must go beyond the letter of the law and forgo what we are reasonably entitled to in order to stand in solidarity with our poorer brethren.

Alternatively, Rashi focuses on the concern that the borrower is not fully cognisant of the risks involved. This is why the Torah refers to interest as Neshech, like a snakebite whose effect is not immediately felt until after the venom has spread too far. Similarly, a person who takes an interest-bearing loan won’t truly appreciate his predicament until after he accrues too much interest. Yet a third explanation is proposed by the Kli Yakar, who posits that one who lends with interest becomes overly reliant on a steady income stream that is guaranteed and fixed. This gives him a false sense of security, which in turn minimises his trust in Hashem.

None of these explanations seem to account for the prohibition in all situations, which is one of the reasons that the Rebbe takes a different approach entirely. According to the Rebbe, the prohibition of interest does not stem from another imperative, such as proliferating kindness or increasing one’s faith in Hashem. Rather, interest at its very core is problematic. Let us consider that when money is loaned, the lender ceases to control the funds, and the borrower may use it as he deems fit. He merely has an obligation to return a similar amount eventually. Were the lender to demand interest, he would essentially be profiting from something that he controlled in the past, and not something that is currently his. The Torah objects to this because it does not want us to live in the past. By prohibiting us from lending with interest, the Torah is exhorting us to never rest on our laurels and suffice with the fruits of our past labour. Rather, we must act in the present! Every moment, every second of our life, is a newly unique opportunity that must be capitalised.

This message especially resonates this time of year, when we commemorate the passing of Rabbi Akiva’s 24,000 students. There are many lessons to be learned from that story, but which one does the Gemoro highlight? The answer is crystal clear to anyone who examines that Sugya. The Gemoro underscores that Rabbi Akiva did not recede into the past and wax nostalgic about the glorious era of Torah during which he presided over 24,000 students. Instead, he set the past completely to the side and focussed on the present, gathering five new students. The rest is, quite literally, history. These five new students became the pillars of instruction for all generations. One shudders to think what would have been had Rabbi Akiva chosen to live in the past instead.

The message for us is clear. Each of us has certainly achieved so much in our lives, regardless of the age and stage we find ourselves in. But we must never reach a point where we become satisfied with basking in our past achievements. You taught many students already? Great, now go find some more! You learned so much Torah already? Great, now go learn some more! You performed so much Mivtzoim already? Great, now go do some more! Only through living in the present, as opposed to the past, will we be able to usher in the future era of Moshiach.

Good Shabbos,

Just Don’t It

Although Kedoshim, the second of this week’s Parsha, does not contain the highest total number of Mitzvos (that honour belongs to Parsha Ki Seitzei with 74 Mitzvos), nevertheless, it includes a total of 51 mitzvos within just 64 Pesukim, which arguably constitutes the highest concentration of Mitzvos in the Torah. These 51 mitzvos are broken down into a division of 13 positive commandments and 38 negative commandments. Generally speaking, the dos and don’ts are predictable; when the Torah wants action, it expresses this as a do, and when the Torah mandates abstention, it expresses this as a don’t.

There seems to be one exception, an instance where the Torah tells us a don’t when we would have expected a do. The overall gist of the command “You shall not stand by your fellow’s blood” is clear – when you see another person’s life in jeopardy, save him. But if the Torah is driving us to act, why is this Mitzvah expressed as a don’t (stand by), instead of as a do (save him)?

The Rebbe offers an innovative answer based on a highly literal reading of Rashi. “Do not stand by your fellow when you are able to save him; for example, if he is drowning in the river and a wild beast or robber attacks him.” The Torah is not referring to a person who faces only one danger. Rather, the Torah is referring to an instance where a person’s life is jeopardised on multiple fronts simultaneously – not only is he drowning, but at that very moment, bandits or wild animals are assaulting him. In such a hopeless situation, a bystander would surely wonder how he could possibly save the person from so many dangers at once! (It goes without saying that the Torah does not expect the bystander to throw all caution to the wind, for two lives will go down instead of one.)

This is why the Torah presents this command as a don’t, instead of a do. The Torah does not tell us what to do because there is no playbook here, nor is there a training manual or precedent that one can turn to for guidance. Even so, Hashem tells us the don’t – don’t stand by. Even if we cannot fathom how our involvement in the situation might help, no matter. As the Baal Shem Tov taught, everything happens due to Divine Providence, and the very fact that we encountered such a situation is proof positive that we can assist. We must get involved and just do our best in the moment, and our efforts will yield the desired results despite the apparent hopelessness of the situation.

If this is true physically, how much more so in a spiritual sense. At times, Hashem presents us with circumstances that seem spiritually bereft and desolate, or bring about our interaction with a person who seems beyond redemption. In the absence of clear instructions or direction, we might second-guess ourselves and wonder what we could possibly do. This Mitzvah tells us that even when we have nothing to fall back on and we really don’t know what to do, the very fact that Hashem brought it to our attention demonstrates that we cannot stand idly by. By trying our best, we will be able to look back and count all the little miracles that occurred along the way that ultimately achieved the desired outcome.

Good Shabbos,

Paradox of Purity

Shemini was the Parsha we learned for Chitas during Pesach. One of the more obvious links between Shemini and Pesach is spelled out towards the end of the Parsha: The obligation for every single Jew to purify himself before each of the three Regolim (Pesach, Shavuos and Sukkos).

In the times of the second Beis Hamikdash, many Jews were lax in their observance of the laws of ritual purity. The Sages referred to them as “Amei Ha’aretz” and decreed that they could not be trusted. However, recognising that every Jew purifies himself before Yom-Tov, the Sages ruled that the Amei Ha’aretz could be relied upon during each of the three Regolim. This led to a seemingly bizarre twist. If an Am Ha’aretz touched a piece of meat or a barrel of wine on Yom-Tov, those items remained pure for the duration of Yom-Tov, but they automatically became impure the moment Yom-Tov ended! This seems paradoxical: If the Am Ha’aretz touched these items when he was deemed pure, why should they be regarded as impure as soon as Yom-Tov ends?

The Rebbe explains that the purity of each Am Ha’aretz on Yom-Tov does not stem from his own efforts alone. Rather, when all Jews gather together, each person fuses with the greater Jewish collective, which is in a collective state of purity. The Am Ha’aretz becomes part of that entity too, so he is regarded as pure. However, as soon as Yom-Tov ends and the Am Ha’aretz returns to his own individual interests, he resumes his former status. Therefore, everything he touched must henceforth be treated as impure.

Having celebrated the Yom-Tov of Pesach with family and community, Parshas Shemini imparts the tremendous power of community, and inspires us to do as much as we can to keep that momentum alive, even after Yom-Tov has ended.

Good Shabbos,

For His Sake Alone

“A pleasing fragrance to Hashem” is what the Torah tells us 37 times about Korbonos. Yet, specifically in our Parsha, where it appears neither for the first nor the last time, Rashi chooses to explain the meaning of this expression, in the context of the Olah, the burnt offering. “This sacrifice gives Me contentment, for I commanded, and My will was fulfilled!” Why the delayed reaction?

There is another more subtle question as well. In his commentary to Chumash, Rashi is generally uninterested in the realm of philosophy, instead focussing on the plainest meaning of the Pesukim. As such, Rashi does not usually explain the reasons for the Mitzvos, a topic which inspired the genre of Taamei Hamitzvos. Yet here we have one rare instance where Rashi unveils the essence of sacrifices – “It gives Me contentment, for I commanded, and My will was fulfilled!” Why does Rashi depart from his usual routine?

The Rebbe explains that there is a profound difficulty in understanding the meaning of sacrifices, so plainly prominent that Rashi was compelled to address it: It is self-evident that “a pleasing aroma” is not a physical one, but spiritual. If so, one cannot help but wonder what sets Korbonos apart from other Mitzvos, such as Tzitizis or Tefillin. Would it not be correct to say that they, too, provide a pleasing fragrance to Hashem, in the spiritual sense?

Rashi’s answer is deep. Each Mitzvah, even when performed solely for the sake of Heaven, offers a unique benefit to the individual, whether in their relationships with fellow humans or their connection to Hashem. Even the Chukim, whose purpose a person cannot know, still impart certain lessons to be internalised, and they also cultivate a person to be disciplined and humble before Hashem. In this sense, all Mitzvos imbue a person’s life with meaning, energising him and inspiring him! Rashi is telling us that the purpose of Korbonos is entirely different – we do it solely to bring pleasure to Hashem.

Imagine slaughtering an animal, dismembering it, and burning it. How inspired would you feel? The truth is, not at all. And yet, this is what makes Korbonos so remarkable. They are performed entirely to bring pleasure before Hashem, without any expectation of personal fulfilment. As we know from our own relationships, the most meaningful present is the one which the giver doesn’t relate to, but gives nonetheless, knowing how much it means to the recipient. This kind of gift is truly cherished by the beneficiary, knowing that s/he was the only catalyst. This is exactly what Rashi is relaying if we accentuate his words correctly, “This sacrifice gives Me contentment, for I commanded, and My will was fulfilled!”

Although true of all Korbonos, this is most emphasised in the case of the Olah, the burnt offering. Most other Korbonos cater to a human need as well, be it the sin offering, peace offering, guilt offering, or thanksgiving offering. Many are also partially consumed by the people, or by the Kohanim. But the Olah is not sacrificed for any specific human need, nor is it consumed by us. Its only purpose is to bring pleasure to Hashem, and not for our own sake.

Tefillah takes the place of Korbonos. It is no secret that, for many, davening is a struggle. One reason might be that a person thinks ,whether consciously or subconsciously, “What is in it for me? If I daven properly, I won’t have anything to show for it – no increased knowledge, no achievement I can attach my name to, no money in the bank.” This is unlike the study of Torah and observance of Mitzvos, where we more easily sense a quantifiable return – either in terms of knowledge, inspiration or sense of fulfillment. In this regard, davening can seem to offer us the least. The message from this week’s Parsha is that this very “fault” makes Davening the greatest – we do it not for the benefits it might yield us, but out of our sheer loyalty to Hashem.

Good Shabbos,

The Messy Middle

This week’s Parsha reads like a sandwich. It is preceded by Terumah and Tetzaveh, which describe in great detail how exactly Hashem wanted the Mishkan built. It is followed by Vayakhel and Pekudei, which relate how the Jews actually built the Mishkan true to Hashem’s plan. But smack in between the command and its execution, the Torah inserts the narrative of our greatest all time low– the disastrous sin of idolising the Golden Calf only forty days after receiving the first set of Luchos, Hashem’s anger, the resulting plague, and the ultimate reconciliation with the second set of Luchos. How is this narrative relevant in the middle of the story of Hashem’s Mishkan? Why the interruption?

The Rebbe explains that between envisioning a goal and successfully achieving it, there is always the stage of implementation. Which is where things can get really messy. How many times have we enthusiastically resolved to achieve an important objective – be it to learn Chitas daily, daven with the proper concentration and focus, make a concerted effort to be more kind and patient, to lose a couple of kilograms, or shake off that all-annoying habit? We initially get ourselves all pumped up, ready to march towards the goal. But then, when we actually have to roll up our sleeves and put in the work, reality hits. It turns out that it was much harder than we thought it would be. There are all sorts of obstacles and struggles. We may even make mistakes along the way. We start to question ourselves; perhaps this is not really the right thing for us. Our resolve begins to flounder. It becomes so tempting to just throw in the towel.

The message of this week’s Parsha, says the Rebbe, is not to be discouraged. In between the plan and its goal, the Torah tells us that the Jews stooped to the lowest depths imaginable. After sinning as they did, they certainly could have questioned whether they were good enough to build Hashem's Mishkan. Yet they did not. They extracted themselves from that situation, restored their connection with Hashem in an even deeper way, and successfully implemented the goal that Hashem set for them. Like them, we should never be discouraged, and keep pushing forward.

Good Shabbos,

Plugging In

Imagine a friend announcing that he is heading to the car dealership to buy a car for Hashem. Or the barista at the neighbourhood café casually mentioning that she is brewing a perfect coffee for the One on High, with an accompanying wrap stuffed with His favourite filling. Such talk would make you wonder whether that person has lost it, maybe in more ways than one. What then are we supposed to make of a physical Sanctuary for Hashem, replete with artefacts such as a table and candelabra, all manufactured to exact physical specifications? Hashem, who is unbounded by anything finite or infinite, needs a house? Indeed, the Midrash echoes this sentiment: “When Hashem instructed Moshe to fabricate the Mishkan, he was astonished, ‘His glory fills the higher and lower realms, yet He says to build a Mishkan?’… Similarly, Shlomo said as much at the Beis Hamikdash’ inauguration, ‘Behold the heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot contain You; much less this temple that I have erected.’”

Modern technology offers us numerous metaphors through which to address this question; let us use the metaverse as an example. It is probably fair to say that some regard it as reality, whereas others do not. What is the difference between the two groups? The answer comes down to what steps a person has taken to become invested and engaged. A user who invests in a VR headset and the right computer build will be opened to an experience which far transcends the plastic and metal components of his equipment; it is no longer just about a VR headset or computer hardware, but an entryway into an otherwise unseen universe. The experience is completely immersive and transformative, capturing one’s imagination and aspirations, thus influencing his goals and objectives. But then we have the second kind of person, the one who has not bought into the metaverse in any way. Without the right technological gear, he remains completely shut out of that experience.

In a similar (but far more real) fashion, the Mishkan and Beis Hamikdash serve as the medium through which we physical humans can tap into a G‑dly reality, one which we would otherwise remain completely oblivious to. Thus, it is not Hashem who needs the house, but us who need it as a way to encounter Him. To function as it should, the House of Hashem must be made to exact physical specifications so that it will foster the correct mystical atmosphere and heighten one’s spiritual senses. Even so, the Mishkan’s utility far transcends the sum total of its composite physical parts, for it raises every Jew out of the mundanity of life to connect with the source of life.

The Mitzvah to build a Sanctuary is eternal. One way this Mitzvah can be fulfilled during our times is by each Jew building and maintaining a Sanctuary for Him within. This means that we must create an infrastructure that allows us to take notice of, and connect with, Hashem. Over the years, the Rebbe put forth many ways of achieving this on the home front – by filling it with Seforim, affixing a Tzedakah box to the actual structure, and obtaining a personal Siddur for each child. Even if merely physical, these holy items serve as an effective conduit to a far greater spiritual reality. All of this allows us to achieve a deeper layer of the Mishkan’s eternity, for by “plugging in” to G-dliness with the right “equipment” and avidly feeling the realism and dynamism of every detail of Torah and Mitzvos, our observance sits on a much firmer and more everlasting foundation. Through it, may we merit the coming of Moshiach now.

Good Shabbos,

The Chosen Nation

We all know that the Jews are the “Chosen Nation”, but where does it actually say that in the Torah? The answer lies in this week’s Parsha. In the leadup to Mattan Torah, Hashem proclaimed (19:5): “You shall be to Me a treasure out of all peoples, for Mine is the entire earth.” When recounting this episode in Sefer Devorim (7:6), Moshe spelled it out more plainly with the words: “Hashem has chosen you to be His treasured people, out of all the peoples upon the face of the earth.”

Why did Hashem express His choice for us with the word ‘treasure’, or Segulah? This question captures the attention of many commentaries, and it is no surprise that Chassidus sheds light on this as well, with a rather innovative explanation. According to Chassidus, Hashem chose the Jews due to their ability to be like a Segol, as opposed to many other nations that are a Tzeirei. What does this mean?

In the language of Kabbalah, Tzeirei embodies the world of Tohu. In simple English, this means that Tzeirei represents polarisation, where an ideological perspective is embraced in the extreme, to the point that anything associated with the opposite side of the spectrum is completely rebuffed. This phenomenon becomes intensified in a nationalistic context, where the collective attitude of society becomes even more extreme than the initial inclinations of its individual members. Thus, some societies will find themselves on the right side of the Tzeirei, which represents unfiltered kindness, professing much love and tolerance for anything and everything (other than those who say otherwise). Other societies who find themselves on the left side of the Tzeirei will impose unrelentingly high standards, showing no tolerance for anyone or anything that represents a different perspective.

The Segol, on the other hand, personifies the world of Tikkun, or what we refer to as integration. The third dot represents the common goal that is greater than, and can thus harmonise, the two extremes. This is epitomised by the Torah, which fuses the extremes, “From His right hand (Chessed), Hashem gave us a fiery Law (Gevurah)”. For that reason, so much about Mattan Torah relates to the number three, the number of integration. Indeed, Chazal say: “Hashem gave the three-fold Torah (Tanach), to the three-fold nation (Kohen, Levi, Yisroel), through Moshe the third-born, on the third day of the separation of men and women, in the third month of Sivan.” In choosing us as His nation, Hashem underscored the attribute of Segol; the middle road which synthesises the extremes. And to help us in that undertaking, Hashem gave us the Torah.

Good Shabbos,

Why Rush?

If one must paint a picture of the atmosphere pervading Jewish households on the eve of the Exodus, urgency and haste would rank pretty high on the list. This was not a mere symptom of Jewish anxiety and impatience, but divinely commanded. Hashem explicitly told us to eat the Korbon Pesach in haste, with our loins girded, shoes on our feet, and walking staffs in our hands. Indeed, the next day, the Jews ran out of there without time for the dough to rise, and the rest is, quite literally, history. It is no surprise that the Rambam commences the Haggadah with one short sentence that says it all: “We left Egypt in haste.”

But why were we rushing? No one was chasing us. In fact, it is absolutely clear that there was no rush at all, because the Jews left only at midday, a full twelve hours after Pharaoh urged them to leave. A hasty departure would only seem to reduce the might of Hashem’s Hand, as if we were afraid that Pharaoh could somehow stop the Exodus if we didn’t get out quickly enough. In a broader sense, we know that haste can be a vice rather than a virtue, most often associated with reckless instinct and rash impulsiveness rather than unhurried composure, patient deliberation, and balanced purpose. So why promote haste?

The Rebbe explains that cautious consideration is indeed called for when charting the appropriate course of action, in order to steer clear from wrong. However, once past that stage and the point of action has arrived, that is the time to rush. Haste is imperative not only to get the thing done, but to maintain momentum and prevent any stall. Further contemplation will merely lead to second-guessing and allow doubt to set in; our Yetzer Hara and innate aversion to change will all but guarantee it. Thus, the Torah teaches that when we have a Mitztrayim to escape, don’t dilly-dally, for even just one moment of procrastination will unravel it all. Indeed, our Sages tell us that had the Jews delayed just another moment, they would have never left.

Hashem instructed us to manifest our haste in three ways: “Girding our loins” refers to our efforts in strengthening ourselves, “donning our shoes” represents equipping ourselves to interact with the earthiest parts of the world around us, and “staff in hand” denotes our efforts to touch places beyond our immediate reach. We must undertake all these missions with haste. In doing so, we will merit the future redemption, of which the prophet foretells, “You shall not go out in haste, nor shall you go forth in flight.”

Good Shabbos,

Redemption versus Redemption

The Haggadah speaks of Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya being like seventy years old. It is that part of the paragraph which usually draws most of our attention when we sit around the Seder table. However, the overall paragraph speaks of the obligation to constantly remember our Exodus from Egypt, day and night, and even in the days of Moshiach.

To say that we should remember the Exodus at all times during our present exile makes perfect sense, in order that we can reflect on how we got here and how to forge a path forward. But when Moshiach comes? What is the point of commemorating the Exodus during an era which will utterly eclipse it? To do so would be akin to lauding the skills and talent of an accomplished academic or artist with a mere mention of some banal achievement back in their kindergarten days!

A basic answer draws on the fact that the first redemption would have been the final redemption, had the Jews only deserved it. Thus, the coming of Moshiach is the finale of what the original Exodus could have been, and our departure from Egypt remains relevant in the days of Moshiach.

However, the Rebbe presents a much deeper explanation: On the face of it, Golus and Geulah seem like polar opposites, so completely at odds with each other that they cannot coexist. According to this thought, there can be no element of Geulah during the days of Golus, nor any aspect of Golus during the times of Geulah. Indeed, the era of Moshiach will be so different from our current Golus reality that one could be forgiven for entertaining this thought.

However, it is the Egyptian Exodus specifically that does not allow us to make such a mistake. After all, the entire Golus infrastructure remained very much intact in the immediate aftermath of the Exodus; Pharaoh still presided over the throne and the social pyramid of Egypt still flourished. The first redemption makes it clear to us that the Geulah does not displace the Golus paradigm, but instead reveals its heretofore hidden and inner dimension. For that reason, Geulah has the very same Hebrew letters as Golah, with the mere addition of an Alef. This is why it is important to remember the Exodus even in the days of Moshiach, to underscore that the Geulah represents the apex of Golus, rather than its displacement. By the same token, this very notion empowers us in our present task of bringing Moshiach, by reminding us that we need to merely reveal that which is already here.

Good Shabbos,

Yosef’s reuniting embrace with his youngest brother is poignantly described in the Possuk, “He fell on his brother Binyamin’s necks and wept, and Binyamin wept on his neck”. Noting the plural expression, Chazal ask (Megillah 16b as explained by the Maharsha): “How many necks did Binyomin have?”

The Gemoro answers that the neck is a metaphor for the Mikdash, in keeping with the Possuk (Shir Hashirim 4:4) “Your neck is like the Tower of Dovid”. Just as a neck is the conduit that links the body with the head, so too, the Mikdash serves as our bridge to G‑dliness. Thus, Yosef wept over the necks of Binyomin in the plural, for there would be two Batei Mikdash in Binyamin’s territory that would ultimately be destroyed, whereas Binyomin wept over the neck of Yosef in the singular, for he perceived the Mishkan of Shiloh in Yosef’s territory that would eventually be destroyed.

The empathy the brothers exhibited towards each other is touching, but the question is an obvious one: Why did they cry only for the other’s Mikdash, and not bemoan the fate of the one that would lie in their own territory? The Rebbe explains that when a challenge or problem lies within one’s area of responsibility, his single-minded focus must me on resolving the issue. There is no place for crying because doing so will not yield any practical results, but to the contrary – its cathartic effect will alleviate the urgency of the problem, or delude one into thinking that the act of crying was already constructive enough. Thus, one who perceives the destruction of his own Mikdash should not mollify himself with sighing and crying, but rather, throw himself into the task of repairing and rebuilding. Only when one observes the destruction of someone else’s Mikdash, and circumstances are such where it is entirely up to the other person to correct, one will allow the matter to touch his soul and weep for his peer.

The lessons for us are manifold: First, when we have a task to fulfill, we must focus on getting it done, putting our emotions to the side if necessary. Even if the chance of success seems slim, there is much we can learn from the two brothers who remained fully committed to overturning the decree even after seeing with Ruach Hakodesh that their respective sanctuaries would be destroyed. Furthermore, when confronted with someone else’s challenge, and there is truly no way you can assist, the least you can do is empathise. Rather than coldly thinking “there is nothing to be done anyway”, share the other person’s pain and show that you care.

Good Shabbos,

Yaakov’s One Son

 There are Quick quiz: How many sons did Yaakov have? Everyone knows the answer – its twelve. But that is not what the beginning of our Parsha conveys. Rather, the second Possuk states, “These are the descendants of Yaakov: Yosef”. Why does the Possuk ignore all the other sons of Yaakov?

There are many answers to this question, but Chassidus offers one that is striking: Yosef was the gauge that demonstrated the efficacy of Yaakov’s influence. That the children of Yaakov remained true to the tradition of their forefathers does not come as any great surprise so long that they lived close to their father’s bastion of holiness and faith. The real test of Yaakov’s truth was precisely when a family member would be cast away far from the family, in a completely incongruous environment.

That is why the power of Yaakov’s influence was tested only when Yosef descended to Egypt, all alone. Yosef was exposed to the corrupt immorality of the Egyptian Empire. He had to fend for himself for well over a decade, far from any spiritual reinforcement his father would be able to provide. Had Yosef chosen to succumb at any point, none of his family would have ever found out, and he could certainly get away with it as the viceroy of Egypt. Yet, he remained loyal to the faith of his forefathers.

Even at the height of temptation, when Yosef was propositioned by Zuleicha, Potifar’s wife, Yosef prevailed. At this crucial moment, the image of Yaakov appeared, fortifying Yosef with the ironclad willpower he so urgently needed. At this trying hour, it was the image of Yaakov that Yosef saw; he remembered the education and truths he had received from his father so long ago. This is why Yosef is singled out of Yaakov’s children, because he alone retained Yaakov’s values even whilst in faraway Egypt.

This carries a pertinent message about the level of influence we ought to have on our children, both physical and spiritual. Education is not merely about how a child behaves in school and at home, or in some other controlled and supervised environment. Rather, real education is where the values imparted are so strongly embedded within that, even in completely opposite circumstances, the child follows in the path of his forefathers. Every parent or educator must bear this in mind, leading by personal example and seeking to shape not only the child’s mind, but his very soul.

Good Shabbos,

When Leaving is Coming

Our Parsha starts and ends with the angels. At the beginning of the Parsha, there is a handover among them, for the angels of Israel cannot accompany Yaakov into the Diaspora. Yet, at the end of the Parsha, Yaakov encounters these very same angels who have come out of Israel to escort him back to the Land. The problem is that Yaakov is still abroad, and not quite home yet. These angels of Israel – do they leave Israel or not?

The Rebbe observes that angels aren’t the only ones bound to the land of Israel. The Rambam rules that Jews of Israel may not leave either, but for three exceptions – to study Torah, to marry, or to escape persecution. The problem is that there seems to be a fourth exception in the Gemoro – to greet and accompany one’s parents who are bound for Israel. Why didn’t the Rambam list this exception?

The Rebbe explains that travelling abroad solely for the sake of escorting someone back into Israel cannot be regarded as “leaving Israel”. Even though one momentarily finds himself outside the geographic borders of the Land, the entire goal of the excursion is to promote and augment the settlement of Israel. Thus, permission to leave for this purpose is not regarded as an “exception” to the Mitzvah of living in Israel, but rather, its preservation. The same can be said of the angels of Israel; although forbidden from leaving the Land, they were very much allowed to venture forth and protect Yaakov on his return journey to Israel.

In similar fashion, the Rebbe explains that how we approach Golus will influence the type of angels that protect us. If we recognise that our presence here is exclusively to repair and illuminate the world, with the ultimate goal of bringing Moshiach and relocating to the Land of Israel, then our stay outside its geographical borders is ultimately in order to to settle the Land. In this case, we will be accompanied by the angels of Israel even as we find ourselves outside its borders. These superior angels will watch over us, protect us, and give us all the strength we need to overcome the challenges we face.

Good Shabbos,

Tweaking the Message

The Torah is so concise that many Mitzvos are conveyed in just one or two Pesukim. Yet, our Parsha tells us at length not only the story of Eliezer’s travels and well-side proposal, but his recounting of it to Lavan and Besuel. From here, Chazal derive that “the ordinary conversation of our Forefathers servants’ is more beloved to Hashem than the Torah of their sons”. Still, what insight and lesson are we to gain from the additional 15 Pesukim which recount Eliezer’s recounting?

The Abarbanel presents an incredible insight. If we carefully examine the two versions of the story, we will discover more than 10 significant modifications, and it becomes clear that Eliezer “tweaked” his version of events. Eliezer did not falsify a single thing, but he drew more attention to some elements of the story and de emphasised, or even omitted, other parts of the story. Here are just two examples:

In his instructions, Avraham referred to Hashem as the One “Who took me from my father's house and from the land of my birth.” Eliezer repeated this as the One “before Whom I walked”. The Abarbanel explains that Avraham’s departure from Charan many years earlier was still a sore point for the rest of the family. In hoping to score a Shidduch, Eliezer appreciated that it was best to leave some subjects unbroached.

Another example is the one where Eliezer emphasised that he arrived at the well “today”, which teaches us that had been privy to Kefitzas Haderech, the miraculous shortening of the journey. The Rebbe explains that Eliezer broadcasted this in order to impress upon Besuel and Lavan how even Hashem regarded this matter to be of paramount urgency, and that they should therefore not withhold Rivkah for even one day.

From Eliezer, we learn how a true Shliach operates: Since the role of a Shliach is to represent the messenger, one might have thought that the Shliach should precisely adhere to the exact framing of his instructions, without taking any personal initiative to appraise the situation and craft the message to best leave its mark on the recipients.

Eliezer tells us otherwise. Eliezer was the consummate Shliach, introducing himself as “Eved Avrohom Anochi; I am Avraham’s slave”. Eliezer well understood that it was Avrohom alone who plotted the charts, and Eliezer was fully committed to achieving the goals and objectives of Avraham. Yet, Eliezer also understood the importance of exercising his own independent judgment in going about the mission. He did not perform his role perfunctorily, but instead invested much wisdom, perception and sensitivity to tweak the message so that his listeners would not resist or doubt, but rather, take heart and accept the message. And so shall all of us.

Good Shabbos,

The Rambam recounts the major accomplishments of our forefathers, and he attributes the Mitzvah of Maaser to Yitzchok. The Raavad is gobsmacked! How could the Rambam have ignored the Maaser of Avrohom? For, in this week’s Parsha, after Avrohom wins the battle against the four kings, he expresses his immense gratitude to Hashem by giving a tenth of all his possessions. In fact, Avrohom’s deed seems greater, because he gave a tenth of everything – servants, livestock, produce, assets and cash – whereas Yitzchok tithed just his agricultural produce. Furthermore, Avrohom’s Maaser is written explicitly in the Possuk whereas Yitzchok’s is just hinted at!

The Rebbe explains that Avrohom gave Maaser after Hashem showered him with supernatural miracles. With just 318 men, or according to the Midrash, with just Eliezer, Avrohom vanquished the world’s superpower, using hay and straw as his weapons. He clearly saw the Hand of Hashem, and to give Maaser must have surely been instinctive; it was the least he could do to thank Hashem.

Yitzchok, on the other hand, worked hard to harvest his crops. As the Torah says in Parshas Toldos, the terrain was bad, and the year had been a difficult one. There were no overt miracles, and Yitzchok had to grapple with nature. Only after much toil did he reap a splendid crop. It would have been so understandable for Yitzchok to regard it as the fruits of his own hard work, but he knew better. Yitzchok knew that as hard as a person might work, success is in the Hands of Hashem, and he too, instinctively gave Maaser, in gratitude to Hashem. 

That is why the Rambam states that Maaser is Yitzchok’s achievement, because the truest form of Maaser is when one appreciates that all his successes, even the ones that he has worked hard for, all come from Hashem.

Good Shabbos,

Our Ability is Beyond

Midrash Shiur Hashirim tells us that the letter Alef protested vigorously, for a period of 26 generations, with the bitter complaint that Hashem chose to begin the Torah with the letter Beis. Hasham eventually placated the letter Alef by situating it at the very beginning of the Aseres Hadibros. Now, the Alef’s claim is all the more compelling when we recall that to begin the Torah with the word Breishis seems to create more difficulty than by beginning it instead with the word Elokim (see Rashi and other Meforshim), which begins with an Alef. If so, why did Hashem begin the Torah with the letter Beis?

There is a rather famous explanation presented by the Rebbe: The Torah begins with the letter Beis to remind us that there is a prerequisite which comes before Torah study. This prerequisite is the knowledge and recognition that Torah is not just a cultural study or academic field, but rather, Hashem’s Wisdom, which transcends our own intellect.

However, there is another, lesser-known explanation. The Rebbe explains that the Torah starts with the letter Beis to make it clear that we are not on our own. From the very get-go, Hashem actively partners with our Torah study, equipping us with supernatural ability to learn on a level which is beyond our own capacity. Not only that, but Hashem actually takes the first stride, so to speak, and we only need to follow along, much like the letter Beis follows the letter Alef.

The Chassidic adage is well-known: “The way we set forth on Shabbos Breishis, so goes the rest of the year.” We just experienced the beautiful month of Tishrei, and this fortifies us with the drive and wherewithal to reconnect with Hashem’s Torah. It is a time where every Jew naturally desires to rededicate himself to more extensive Torah learning, both quantitatively and qualitatively. But our cynical side intervenes and remind us that “all beginnings are difficult”; our Yetzer Hara assures us that we will quickly revert to our old ways. To counter this, we just need to remember that we are the Beis that follows the Alef; we must follow Hashem’s footsteps and that will give us all the power we need in order to succeed.

Good Shabbos,

L’chatchila Ariber 
 
This Shabbos is the Hilullah of the Rebbe Maharash, marking his passing 140 years ago. One of the most famous sayings of the Rebbe Maharash is L’chatchila Ariber. In its entirety: “The world says that if you cannot crawl under an obstacle, try to leap over it. However, I say, leap over it in the first place!” 
 
The earliest written record of this teaching is in a letter of the Frierdiker Rebbe, written 46 years after the Rebbe Maharash’ passing. The Frierdiker Rebbe describes how this teaching fortified him to stand strong against the might and oppression of the Bolshevik Regime. However, it is interesting to note that this aphorism received scant attention before our times. It is the Rebbe who really shone a spotlight on it and turned it into one of the foundations and cornerstones of Chabad activity.
 
The Rebbe asks: Why did the Rebbe Maharash find it necessary to commence his statement with the world’s perspective? Who cares about what the world says? The Rebbe explains that, with this introduction, the Rebbe Maharash meant to negate the world’s perspective even when it comes to worldly affairs. The motto of L’chatchila Ariber applies not only to matters of Torah and Mitzvos, but even to the way a person approaches his mundane worldly affairs and dealings.
 
What does L’chatchila Ariber mean in our personal lives, practically speaking? At times, we are often faced with a task that we know is right, but our minds work overtime to convince us that it is too hard or not worth the effort. Or, we might look to avoid doing these tasks in an effort to keep a low profile. Mivtzoim, Tahalucha, Shabbos Mevorchim Tehillim, going to Mikvah before davening, committing to learn Chitas and Rambam – these are just a few examples of spiritual matters. L’chatchila Ariber tells us to stop thinking and start doing. When the opportunity for a good thing presents itself, we should just do it, without overthinking it or becoming self-conscious about it. When we do that, we will see our efforts crowned with success.
 
Good Shabbos and Gut Yohr,

Woodchoppers and Watercarriers

At the beginning of this week’s Parsha, Moshe describes how all the Jews stood together – leaders, elders and officers; men, women and children; converts, woodchoppers and watercarriers. The last string of three sounds intriguing. If we’re going to mention the woodchoppers and watercarriers, why not include the tailors and the cobblers, the street-cleaners and the rubbish-collectors? Why are woodchoppers and watercarriers singled out? Furthermore, why are they listed alongside the converts?

Rashi explains that these woodchoppers and watercarriers were Canaanites who pretended to have travelled from faraway lands, and presented themselves before Moshe to be converted. Although they accepted the Torah fully and their conversion was valid, they did so under false pretences and with deceit, securing for themselves benefits that they, as members of the Seven Nations, were not entitled to. When their dishonesty was exposed, Moshe penalised these Canaanites, relegating them to serve as woodchoppers and water drawers. That is why the Posuk lists these woodchoppers and watercarriers as part of the broader category of converts.

The question remains: Why did Moshe specifically make them woodchoppers and watercarriers, and not anything else? The Alter Rebbe answers by delving into the symbolism of woodchopping and water-drawing. A woodchopper represents one who hacks away at the many thoughts that distract him from serving Hashem, for eitza (counsel) is etymologically linked to eitz (wood). Similarly, drawing water means to drain away one’s appetite for physical pleasures and enjoyment, which are all derived from the element of water.

Put simply, this is the image of one who has attained a single-minded focus on Hashem and His desires, to the point that he ceases to derive any pleasure from the physical world. One might claim that such lofty Avoidah is reserved for assiduous Torah scholars and pious men who do not engage with the physical world. But for professionals or businesspeople? How could they possibly strive for such a level whilst simultaneously transacting with the world around them?

The Rebbe emphatically rejects this contention. After all, let us remember who it was that Moshe elevated – the pretentious Canaanites who were very much submerged in the physicality surrounding them. Moshe’s ambition was to elevate every Jew to the highest spiritual plane, even those whose entire affiliation with Judaism began on the wrong foot. Indeed, this is because Moshe, as the leader of the generation, has the power to uplift every Jew. Similarly, in every subsequent generation, we can all attain this goal by strengthening our Hiskashrus to the Tzaddik of the generation.

Good Shabbos and best wishes for a כתיבה וחתימה טובה לשנה טובה ומתוקה; may you be inscribed and sealed for a good and sweet year.

Prepaid or Postpaid?

Elisha ben Avuiah once observed a father telling his son to climb a ladder and shoo away the mother bird, but the boy fell to his death. Elisha was stunned! How could the boy have died while fulfilling the very commandments for which the Torah promises long life – honouring one’s parents, and the mitzvah of shiluach haken (in this week’s Parsha)? This episode was one of the triggers that led Elisha to heresy, for which he infamously become known as “Acher”. Acher was wrong because the goodness and long life promised by the Torah is reserved for the times of Moshiach, who will usher in an era which is endlessly good.

This explanation seems completely at odds with another Mitzvah in this week’s Parsha. The Torah mandates that one must pay a worker’s salary on the very day he completes the job. If so, why doesn’t Hashem grant us reward as soon as the Mitzvah is done? Why do we need to wait for the World to Come? Surely Hashem keeps what it says in His holy Torah!

The Rebbe answers that each time we do a Mitzvah, the job is not truly finished. The ultimate purpose of each Mitzvah is to create a dwelling place for Hashem on earth. Indeed, once this objective is achieved in entirety, we will be immediately rewarded for eternity.

This only serves to raise another question: If our “wages” are payable only when Moshiach comes, how do we explain all the reward that Hashem promises us in this world, such as bringing the rains at the right time and letting the grains grow? The Rebbe explains that there are two types of recompense. The more obvious one is the profit accrued at the end of the job, but the other type enables the worker to do the job in the first place, such as to buy work-clothes and equipment. In similar fashion, Hashem promises us reward in the present moment to enable us to serve Him properly. That is not the ultimate reward, which is reserved for the World to Come.

In the prelude to Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, we daven that Hashem grant us a full “advance” of the first type of reward – health and Parnassah, children and the means by which to support them – so that we can observe His Torah and Mitzvos properly. And through our hard work, may we immediately merit the second type of reward, with the coming of Moshiach.

“You shall not test Hashem” is what we read two weeks ago. Most commentaries understand this as an admonishment against doing Mitzvos with an expectation of reward. Sefer Hachinuch explains the reason for this prohibition – because reward is not guaranteed in this world, and because serving Hashem in such a manner will discourage a person when he feels that he was not sufficiently rewarded for his past Mitzvos.

Tzedakah is the one and only exception to this rule. Chazal derive from our Parsha that one should “give Maaser in order to become wealthy”. Similarly, Malachi prophesied, “Bring Maaser … and test Me with this, says Hashem; I will open for you the streams of heaven and pour down for you blessing until there be no room to suffice for it.” Why can we test Hashem with the Mitzvah of Tzedakah? Meforshim explain that the reward for Tzedakah is guaranteed in this world, and serving Hashem in such a manner will actually encourage a person to give more, when he beholds the dividends that he netted.

This, in turn, begs a more profound question: Why does Hashem reward us for Tzedakah in this world? Furthermore, we know that Tzedakah has a special association with the High Holiday season. For example, Elul is an acronym for a number of Pesukim, one of the most prominent ones alluding to Tzedakah. Similarly, the Rambam singles out Tzedakah when describing the conduct of Jews during the Period of Judgement.  What is the exceptional power of Tzedakah?

The Rebbe explains that we all face an insurmountable hurdle as Rosh Hashanah approaches. We are all to be judged on the basis of our merits, but which of our achievements can we truly call our own? If we learned Torah, it was with the intellect that Hashem gifted us with. If we davened with fervour, it was with the passion and spiritual sensitivity He imbued within us. If we walked or drove to Shule, it was with the legs or vehicle he provided us. And so on and so forth. Indeed, the Posuk says, “Everything is from you, and you gave it to us from your hand.” On what basis can we claim that we “deserve” blessing?

This is where Tzedakah comes in. We share our finances and resources with another person who does not have any inherent claim to it. We do so with altruistic kindness and do not demand of the pauper that he prove his worthiness or put forth a reckoning. This act allows us to turn to Hashem and request that He do the same for us, not only in the next world, but even in this.

This Elul, let us strengthen our adherence to calculating and distributing Maaser properly. Let us ingrain this Mitzvah in our children when they are still young, so that it will be easier for them to maintain as they grow older. Let us focus on the Halachic requirement to give Tzedakah prior to each Yom Tov, a practice which the Rebbe constantly emphasised. Through this, we should merit the ultimate charitable act from Hashem – the speedy coming of Moshiach.

One of the most unnerving prohibitions of the Torah appears in this week’s Parsha: “Beware and watch your life very well, lest you forget the things that your eyes saw, and lest these things depart from your heart, all the days of your life.” From here, the Sages derive the transgression of forgetting even one iota of Torah that he has ever learned. The Alter Rebbe codifies this in Shulchan Oruch (Talmud Torah 2:4): “Whoever forgets even one matter of his studies, i.e. he did not review his studies adequately, the verse considers it as if he forfeited his life.”

Why does the Torah prescribe such a severe punishment for such a seemingly small infraction? Could it possibly be that the Talmudist who forgot just one Daf of the 2711 he mastered is so much worse than a lowly robber or swindler, who does not forfeit his life for the offence he committed?

The Rebbe reminds us that “Torah is our life and the length of our days”. Every bit of Torah that one learns becomes part and parcel of his life. Forgetting any of it is thus akin to shedding a bit of one’s lifeforce. Thus, the consequences of forgetting one’s study is not retributive or punitive, but a simple matter of cause and effect.

This message appropriately coincides with the 15th of Av. Despite marking many events, Shulchan Oruch contains only the instruction to omit Tachanun, and the exhortation to increase one’s Torah study. As the Gemoro explains, this is because the summer days in the Northern Hemisphere begin to shorten, and the nights, which were “created for study”, grow longer. Thus, the lengthening nights usher in a new period of increased Torah study. Although, in Australia, we live in the opposite hemisphere, the mandate is the same. We must utilise every moment we can to increase our Torah knowledge, and to reinforce our recall of all that we have previously learned. Through this, may we herald in the era where “a new Torah will emerge from Me”, meriting a true Nechama with the coming of Moshiach now.

When was the last time a reserve bank crafted policy that improved every single citizen’s financial position and prospects, without exception? When was the last time a national medical or disability scheme truly catered to every individual circumstance? When did it happen that industrial relations produced only winners and no losers? And the list goes on.

One of the biggest challenges in leadership is driving the needs of a nation or community without trampling on the interests and welfare of any individuals. The larger or more diverse the collective, the harder this is to achieve, and there always comes a point at which compromise is necessary. The usual method is to accommodate as many people as possible, and to acknowledge the minority whose interests were compromised, reassuring them (or whoever will listen) that their sacrifice was well worth it for the sake of the greater good.

Matos-Massei describes the division and inheritance of the Land of Israel. To facilitate this process, a representative was appointed to act for each tribe. The curious thing is that these representatives were not appointed by their respective tribes, nor by Moshe Rabbeinu. Instead, their appointment came from Hashem himself. He even elevated them to the status of Nesi’im, conferring upon them the highest position of leadership. Why did Hashem so invest in a process that was essentially nothing more than a division of assets?

The Rebbe explains that dividing the land of Israel presented the type of challenge described at the outset. Every Jew surely wanted the best portion of the land – the one that personally suited him most. For leaders to accommodate every single person’s best interest was nothing short of a gargantuan task. In fact, it was humanly impossible. That is why Hashem intervened and personally appointed the leaders to represent their tribes, because with Hashem’s backing, everything is possible, and the division accommodated everyone’s personal situation perfectly.

From this, the Rebbe derives an important message about the directives of a Nossi to his followers. A Rebbe cares about the spiritual state of the community at large, and instructs his Chassidim to go all-out in achieving this mission. No Chossid should be so disillusioned as to think that his own welfare is being sacrificed in the process. With time and patience, he will eventually realise that, of all the people he impacted by following the Nossi’s instructions, it was his own self who was helped the most.

Many a Shule around the world will likely boast a well-rounded group of highly intelligent people in attendance for Krias Hatorah – rabbis, scholars, philosophers, intellectuals, doctors, lawyers, engineers and accountants. And each year, at the height of Parshas Bolok, they will all sit still and listen in rapt attention to … a donkey’s speech. At the surface, it seems entirely out of character with every other story recounted in the Torah, which all project a certain aura of dignity, grace and gravitas. In this instance, it almost appears as if the Torah has veered into the arena of folk fable! Why would Hashem have wrought such a miracle and then have it transcribed for prosperity?

This problem seems all the more compounded when we remind ourselves that the whole episode seems to have accomplished nothing! Bilaam persisted in his journey to curse the Jews even after the Angel sought to stop Bilaam in his tracks! For what purpose did Hashem open the donkey’s mouth and allow the subsequent angelic revelation to Bilaam, when nothing was achieved thereby? This is especially problematic when we are reminded that Hashem performs miracles with scarcity, only as absolutely required and to the barest minimum.

The earliest glimmer of an answer can be gleaned by observing that, earlier in the Parsha, the name Elokim is used in all of Bilaam’s interactions with the Divine. It is only when the Angel sets out to obstruct the donkey that the name Hashem is used instead. Why the change? Rashi explains that Elokim denotes Hashem’s attribute of severity, whereas Hashem is associated with His abundant mercies. Hashem initially took a heavy-handed approach with Bilaam, and hence the usage of Elokim. But when He saw that Bilaam persisted in his evil mission, Hashem shifted His approach to one of mercy.

And it is at this point of the story that Hashem sends signal after signal for Bilaam to stop. The Rebbe explains that the signals started small and not overtly miraculous – Bilaam’s trusted donkey inexplicably veered off the path, then pressed into the wall, and then crouched and refused to move at all. With each time that Bilaam refused to reflect on why this was happening, Hashem sent a successive signal which was somewhat sharper and more pointed. And when the natural signalling didn’t lead anywhere, the signs started to become supernatural – first the donkey speaking, and then the Angel being revealed. With the donkey talk, the supernatural even swerved into the seeming surreal, as if Hashem was telling Bilaam, “Look at the ends I am going to in trying to shake some sense into you. See, even a donkey understands that you are heading towards self-destruction.”

The Rebbe explains that the eternal message is Hashem’s refusal to “give up” on a man as terribly wicked and vile as Bilaam. Hashem went out of His way, as it were, again and again, to save Bilaam from his own terrible decisions. How much more so, then, are we to never give up on a fellow Jew. Even if we feel that we have already tried, and perhaps tried again, the Torah tells us that we are never exempt from further tries – even if each successive try will require more effort than the previous one, and even to a point that is beyond our own nature and somewhat “unusual” or undignifying. Of course, no Jew is rotten the way Bilaam was, which means that the effort we expend will certainly lead to a positive result.

At the beginning of this week’s Parsha, Rashi remarks that “this portion is beautifully expounded in the Midrash of R’ Tanchuma”. Such a comment seems entirely out of character for Rashi. What triggered it? The Rebbe explains that Rashi is thereby signalling to us that we should not appraise Korach in too superficial of a manner. Yes, on the most basic level, Korach’s mutiny was one of the worst travesties committed by the Jews in the desert. Even so, Rashi reminds us that we should look beyond the basics, and delve deeply into Korach’s psyche and outlook. In doing so, we will discover that “this portion is beautifully expounded in the Midrash of R’ Tanchuma”. Indeed, the Midrash elucidates how Korach was driven by the noblest and loftiest of aspirations.

 =A subsequent Rashi analyses Korach’s lineage. In our Parsha, it is traced all the way back to Levi, and no further. Rashi explains that this is because Yaakov prayed that his name not be associated with conflict and discord. Yet, Rashi hastens to add, “And where is Yaakov’s name mentioned in connection with Korach? In Divrei Hayamim, which provides the pedigree of his descendants, Levites who worshipped Hashem in the Beis Hamikdash.” Here too, Rashi is not content with casting Korach as the absolute antitheses of Yaakov. Although Yaakov’s name cannot be associated with Korach in the context of the rebellion, we will eagerly conjoin their names in other contexts.

And then, several Pesukim later, Rashi asks: “Why did Korah, who was so astute, commit this folly?” The Rebbe challenges the premise of this question: On what basis does Rashi presume that Korach was wise and astute? After all, everything we know of Korach is recounted in this week’s Parsha, and it is entirely a story of attack against Hashem and Moshe, which doesn’t seem too prudent. The Rebbe explains that Korach’s acumen can be perceived within his very folly. If we evaluate Korach’s objectives, we will easily see that they were lofty and well-placed, so much so that even Moshe conceded to Korach, “You seek the kehunah gedolah! I too desire that!” True, Korach’s ambitions did not manifest themselves in the wisest of ways, but they ultimately stemmed from a place of wisdom.

All of these insights reflect the same message: Don’t judge a Jew superficially. Again and again, we are reminded that Korach was not the irredeemable rascal he is commonly made out to be. In similar fashion, the Rebbe teaches us that whenever we interact with a Jew who seems spiritually challenged, we must love him and embrace him, cherishing him and showering him with warmth and affection. We must view him as a great human being, simply because he truly is. Even if it is not initially obvious, it will come to the fore if our interactions affirm this.

This Shabbos is Gimmel Tammuz, when all of us will reflect upon the Rebbe’s leadership, and what it means to us. At every step of the way, the Rebbe concerned himself with the plight of all individuals, communities and broader society, promoting every kind of outreach and support to Jews of all stripes. In the course of this, the Rebbe saw each and every single one of us as the unique, precious, individuals that we truly are. As his Chassidim, the Rebbe empowers us to do the same.

Who made the Menorah? He did. That is what the Posuk affirms at the outset of our Parsha: “He constructed the Menorah, according to the design that Hashem showed Moshe.” But who is he?

Rashi’s two explanations only seem to confound things. His first explanation is that “he constructed the Menorah” refers “to the one who made it”. For real? It was known all along that someone made the Menorah, and the question was who? How do Rashi’s words clarify anything? Rashi’s second explanation is that the Menorah “was made by itself, through Hashem.” This phrase seems oxymoronic – if Hashem made it, then it was not made “by itself”!

The key to decrypt this enigma is to remind ourselves that, in tasking us with constructing the Menorah, Hashem was asking us to do the unattainable. As the Midrash spells out, even after Moshe was shown a fiery image of the Menorah, he could not fabricate it, because its design was an engineering impossibility. That is why, at the end of the day, Hashem produced it. If so, why did Hashem instruct us to fashion it in the first place?

The Rebbe explains that this episode portrays our respective missions in the world. Hashem charges each of us with a task so grand that it is humanly impossible to execute. Nevertheless, all Hashem wants of us is to do our truest best. We need to fulfil the mission to the fullest extent that we can, at which point He will step in and crown our efforts with success. At no point are we absolved from seeing the mission through, and we will triumph only if we do our part. This modus operandi personifies the inherent bond between each Jew and Hashem, one in which Hashem craves the “partnership” of each Jew.

This collaboration can be easily construed from the words of Rashi. His first explanation is that “he constructed the Menorah” refers “to the one who made it”. Here, Rashi is referring to the person most involved in its production – Betzalel. Even so, Betzalel is not mentioned by name, for he didn’t create the Menorah independently, and thus cannot take the credit for bringing this project to its fruition. But neither did Hashem cast His involvement as an open act of G-d, for that would have completely eclipsed the human role. Rather, the Menorah’s fabrication seemed “routine”, and Hashem’s hand was not overtly apparent. This leads into Rashi’s second explanation, that the Menorah “was made by itself, through Hashem.” Although the Menorah was ultimately the work of Hashem, He nevertheless allowed the perception that “it was made by itself”, so as not to detract from Betzalel’s role.

A Chossid embodies this doctrine. On the one hand, he undertakes to do all the impossible things demanded of him, and he appreciates that he must achieve truly supernatural results in all the manifold, and sometimes contrasting, tasks at hand. At the same time, when he does achieve success, he does not assume personal credit, but rather attributes his successes to Hashem.

Achitophel was famous for his profound wisdom – he served as an advisor to Dovid Hamelech and led the Sanhedrin. Indeed, Tanach portrays his sagacity this way: “Now, the advice Achitophel gave in those days was like that of one who inquires of the word of Hashem.” 

But he is also infamous for joining Avshalom’s revolt and deserting Dovid Hamelech. When Achitophel eventually concluded that the revolution would end in failure and its ringleaders would be punished, he escaped to his family home to commit suicide. Before committing this fatalistic act, Achitophel instructed his children three things: Do not quarrel. Do not rebel against the house of Dovid Hamelech. And if Shavuos is a clear day, sow wheat.

One can certainly appreciate the sentiment behind Achitophel’s first two pieces of advice. He was warning his children not to repeat his own mistakes in his pursuit of ambition. But what on earth did he mean with his third piece of advice? Right before he strangled himself, the best legacy to bequeath his family was agricultural advice? In any case, Shavuos is the time of the wheat harvest – clearly a little late to think about sowing the wheat.

In a letter penned in 5709 (1949), the Rebbe explains that Achitophel always placed his own personal view and agenda ahead of his commitment to Hashem’s Will. This was even true of his Torah learning. Although Achitophel was renowned for his wisdom, he would often utilise it to trump tradition. On his deathbed, he finally realised the folly of his ways. And this is how he told it to his children:

Wheat is a metaphor for wisdom. As the Midrash says, the Tree of Knowledge was wheat. Similarly, until a child has partaken the taste of grain, he cannot engage in speech, which is the hallmark of human intelligence. Shavuos, however, cannot be just about wisdom, for the Torah was already studied by our forefathers in the generations prior to Mattan Torah. Rather, Shavuos is about commitment and submission to the Higher Will; to learn Torah the way He wants and not the way we want. Shavuos is about our pledge of “Naaseh V’nishma – we will do, and we will listen”, prioritising our acceptance of the yoke of Heaven as a prerequisite to learning His wisdom. So, Achitophel told his children that only after “Shavuos is clear”, i.e. only after you have internalised Kabbolas Ol and the innate humility it represents, only then will your “wheat” – your wisdom – grow successfully

The opening of the Parsha reads like a paradox, “When you come to the land that I am giving you, the land shall rest a Sabbatical year for Hashem. For six years you may sow your field, and for six years you may prune your vineyard, and gather in its produce, but in the seventh year, the land shall have a complete rest, a Sabbatical year for Hashem.”

The first sentence makes it appear that Shemitah is observed as soon as you come to the land. For, before even saying anything at all about working for six years, the Torah is already talking about observing Shemitah. On the other hand, it is clear from the continuation that Shemitah is not observed until the seventh year. What are we to make of this?

More often than not, our spiritual achievements are attained only through a lot of physical legwork. Before embarking on any such project, it is imperative to ponder the ultimate spiritual purpose of the entire physical exercise. Only then will our physical undertakings be infused with the proper inspiration and self-motivation, and only then will the outcome meet expectations, or even surpass them. That is what our Parsha is telling us. “When you come to the land, before you set out to do any sowing or pruning, think about the seventh year. It will be a ‘Sabbatical year for Hashem’, a year when all the fruits of your physical labour will be elevated, allowing your own relationship with Hashem to be upgraded. Only after you have given this your full consideration may you proceed to work the land for six years, for only then will your hard work and effort indeed consummate in the Shemitah year.”

This message is applicable to so many aspects of our lives, where our spiritual achievements materialise from the physical: Every single week, we work for six days, and this gives us the boost we need to intimately connect with Hashem on the seventh day. When raising our children, we focus on their physical needs at first, but with the aspiration of developing them spiritually at the right time. When someone turns to us for assistance, we first concern ourselves with his physical necessities before worrying about their spiritual insufficiencies. The message of this week’s Parsha is the importance of prior reflection about the ultimate objective. For only then will we be fortified with the devotion, passion and commitment that the task requires, and only then are we assured of eventual success.

When a tree is planted in the land of Israel, its fruit will progress through three stages. For the first three years, one may not derive any benefit from the fruit, and it is designated as Orlah. In the fourth year, the fruit is conferred with the sanctified status of Revai, and must be eaten within the hallowed walls of Yerushalayim. From the fifth year onward, the fruit may be consumed without any restrictions or requirements. In conveying this last detail, the Torah states (19:25) “And in the fifth year, you may eat its fruit, in order to increase its produce for you.”

The language of the Posuk indicates that the Torah is not merely assuring us a reward. Rather, the entire purpose of all three stages is in order to increase the produce of the fifth year and beyond. On the surface, this seems perplexing – why is the aim of this long process to increase the unsanctified produce? If anything, it would seem that the sacrosanct fruit of the fourth year is far more important than the mundane fruit of the years that follow!

The Rebbe explains that although the fruits of the fourth year are the holiest, they are not the ultimate objective. This is because Hashem did not put us in this world merely to revere the holy, but rather, to sanctify the ordinary. Consequently, the Torah is more fixated on the produce of the fifth year.  When one freely chooses a way to utilise this mundane fruit in his service of Hashem, the Torah extolls “in order to increase its produce for you.”

The same three-stage process is true in our own lives as a whole, and indeed, applicable to every day of our lives. The Orlah fruit tells us that we must first undergo a stage of abstinence to disassociate from the Kelippos, in order to avoid becoming bogged down when engaging them later. Then, the Revai fruit tells us that we must “journey away” from day-to-day life and fortify ourselves within the hallowed walls of Torah study and Tefillah, to the point of experiencing spiritual ecstasy. Nevertheless, the entire goal is the fruits of the fifth year, and the first two stages prepare us to be successful in that bid. We must always remember that Hashem did not put us in this world merely to revere the holy, but rather, to sanctify the ordinary.

"Is Shehecheyanu recited tonight?” It is a quite common question many people ask each Yom Tov, and the answer is quite simple: We always recite Shehecheyanu, on every night of every Yom Tov, with only one exception – the last two days of Pesach. Why? One answer can be traced back to a touching episode recounted by the Frierdiker Rebbe:

During Pesach of 5666, in the township of Lubavitch, two granddaughters of the Rebbe Rashab were playing in the dining room. The young five-year old girl, who would later become famous as Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka, asked her older sister: “What exactly is the nature of this Yom Tov of Acharon Shel Pesach.”

“Why, it’s a Yom Tov like any other,” answered the older girl.

“This cannot be,” retorted Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka. “It is most certainly not like every Yom Tov, because we did not recite Shehecheyanu at candle-lighting.”

The Rebbe Rashab, who was in his room learning, was interrupted by the sounds of fierce debate. Intrigued, he emerged to see what the argument was about, and was reminded of another similar incident that occurred many years prior. Later that night, at the Seudas Yom Tov, the Rebbe Rashab recounted in vivid detail how, as a young child, he had asked the very same question of his father at the Yom Tov meal. When none of his siblings could provide a satisfactory answer, they all went along with their father, the Rebbe Maharash, to seek clarification from their grandfather, the Tzemach Tzedek. 

The Tzemach Tzedek explained, “On the first days of Pesach, we celebrate the first redemption through the first redeemer, Moshe Rabbenu. On the final days of Pesach, we celebrate the final redemption through the final redeemer, our righteous Moshiach.” Shehecheyanu can only be recited when we feel the joy in our flesh and bones, and while we are still in exile and Moshiach has not yet arrived, we cannot thank Hashem for having “granted us life ... to reach this occasion”.

Even so, the absentee Brocho was a common topic of conversation at the Yom Tov tables of the Rebbeim, as well as in their Sichos. This seems strange: If it is not the time to recite Shehecheyanu, why dwell so extensively on its absence? In one approach, the Rebbe explains that talking about our inability to recite Shehecheyanu for the future redemption awakens a heightened desire and longing for it, and “a person is where his thoughts are.” Moreover, our focus on the absent Brocho aggravates our pain over the exile, and this pain itself has the power to break the exile. May we speedily recite Shehecheyanu for the coming of Moshiach!