Behaloscha 2021
Facing facts; the power of language; the cost of leadership; and the way of diligent mastery.
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Face the Facts
3 minute read
When something big and life-changing happens, you might think it’s obvious that you notice and act accordingly. But that’s not always the case.
As far as big and life-changing happenings, the Revelation at Sinai ought to be up there. God came down to Earth to give humans the Torah! We might expect the beginning of humanity’s journey with the Torah to be full of eager excitement, or perhaps at least a somber sense of purpose and responsibility. But that’s not what happens.
The very first excursion away from Sinai winds up in catastrophe; the people bitterly complain about their miserable life in the desert. They seem to have forgotten all about the genocide and slavery, and this is a fine example of the slave mentality they could never seem to shake; they fondly reminisce about the good old days of Egypt, when they enjoyed abundant fish, cucumbers, garlic, onion, leeks, and juicy melons. Now they’re stuck eating manna from Heaven, fed daily by no less than God Himself, but after experiencing the culinary delights Egypt had to offer, this was only bland and boring. They clamor for more enjoyable food and demand some tasty meat, and subsequently, a plague ensues with many casualties.
While the story unfolds in its way, Rashi suggests that it was the manner of their departure from Sinai that cultivated their craving for meat:
וַיִּסְעוּ מֵהַר ה’ דֶּרֶךְ שְׁלֹשֶׁת יָמִים – They marched from the mountain of God a distance of three days…. (10:33)
Our Sages compare their attitude to a child running out of school; that they couldn’t wait to put God’s mountain behind them, figuratively as well as literally. What if God imposed even more laws?! As the Ramban notes, it’s not just they traveled; it’s that they traveled away from the mountain and all it meant – וַיִּסְעוּ מֵהַר ה.
The Chasam Sofer notes that if a bad attitude is what fueled their craving for meat, then intuitively, the inverse lesson must be true too; if they had solemnly carried the Torah and lived up to their responsibilities, then they never could have contemplated that God’s cuisine was lousy!
But instead, they ran from destiny.
Rather than act like people who had witnessed Sinai, they acted like people who had not, simple folk with simple wants and needs, because who doesn’t enjoy a good steak now and then?
But as the story shows, that shouldn’t be what satisfies us; that shouldn’t be the thing we crave and desire first and foremost. Did they want fresh meat because that’s just what humans like, or was it the result of their unwillingness to face the fact of Sinai and rise to its challenge? They might have believed the former, but our Sages believe the latter.
Our Sages labeled their mentality as childish; a child lacks the discipline, experience, maturity, and wisdom to do the hard things they need to but don’t want to. A child is not yet ready to grapple with life’s challenges.
Only they weren’t children.
While we can knowingly sigh at such an obvious error, the Torah is a mirror that tells us who we are, that God can speak to humans, and we will run away. Destiny can call, with the highest purpose the universe can offer, and we will procrastinate with all kinds of creative escapism, avoiding responsibility by indulging ourselves with trivial nonsense.
Consider for just a moment what you might be avoiding, failing to recognize, or running away from. At its core, avoidance is an emotion management problem. That feeling you get when there is something you keep kicking down the road? That’s a signal.
Something big happened to them, and they ignored it and tried to leave it behind. But life comes at you one way or another, so you’ve got to take it all with you and incorporate it into your being. The stakes are too high – we can’t afford to be childish, and we can’t run from who we are.
There are lots of big and scary things we have to do, and we must cultivate the maturity to rise to the challenge.
As Kierkegaard said, face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are.
The Power of Words
3 minute read
Humans are the apex predator on Earth.
We share this planet with thousands and thousands of species, trillions of organisms, and none but humans carry a lasting multi-generational record of knowledge of any obvious consequence. And yet, a feral human being left alone in the woods from birth to death, kept separate and alive, wouldn’t be much more than an ape; our knowledge isn’t because humans are smart.
It’s because we speak – מְדַבֵּר.
We communicate and cooperate with others through speech, giving us a formidable advantage at forming groups, sharing information, and pooling workloads and specializations. Speech is the mechanism by which the aggregated knowledge of human culture is transmitted, actualizing our intelligence and self-awareness, transcending separate biological organisms, and becoming one informational organism. With language, we have formed societies and built civilizations; developed science and medicine, literature and philosophy.
With language, knowledge does not fade; we can learn from the experiences of others. Without learning everything from scratch, we can use an existing knowledge base built by others to learn new things and make incrementally progressive discoveries. As one writer put it, a reader lives a thousand lives before he dies; the man who never reads lives only once.
Language doesn’t just affect how we relate to each other; it affects how we relate to ourselves. We make important decisions based on thoughts and feelings influenced by words on a page or conversations with others. It has been said that with one glance at a book, you can hear the voice of another person – perhaps someone gone for millennia – speaking across the ages clearly and directly in your mind.
Considering the formidable power of communication, it follows that the Torah holds it in the highest esteem; because language is magical. Indeed, the fabric of Creation is woven with words:
וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹהִים, יְהִי אוֹר; וַיְהִי-אוֹר – God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. (1:3)
R’ Jonathan Sacks notes that humans use language to create things as well. The notion of a contract or agreement is a performative utterance – things that people say to create something that wasn’t there before; a relationship of mutual commitment between people, created through speech. Whether it’s God giving us the Torah or a husband marrying his wife, relationships are fundamental to Judaism. We can only build relationships and civilizations with each other when we can make commitments through language.
Recognizing the influential hold language has over us, the Torah emphasizes an abundance of caution and heavily regulates how we use language: the laws of gossip and the metzora; and the incident where Miriam and Ahron challenged Moshe; among others. Even the Torah’s choice of words about the animals that boarded the Ark is careful and measured:
מִכֹּל הַבְּהֵמָה הַטְּהוֹרָה, תִּקַּח-לְךָ שִׁבְעָה שִׁבְעָה–אִישׁ וְאִשְׁתּוֹ; וּמִן-הַבְּהֵמָה אֲשֶׁר לֹא טְהֹרָה הִוא, שְׁנַיִם-אִישׁ וְאִשְׁתּוֹ – Of every clean creature, take seven and seven, each with their mate; and of the creatures that are not clean two, each with their mate. (7:2)
The Gemara notes that instead of using the more accurate and concise expression of “impure,” the Torah utilizes extra ink and space to articulate itself more positively – “that are not clean” – אֲשֶׁר לֹא טְהֹרָה הִוא. While possibly hyperbolic, the Lubavitcher Rebbe would refer to death as “the opposite of life”; and hospital infirmaries as “places of healing.”
The Torah cautions us of the power of speech repeatedly in more general settings:
לֹא-תֵלֵךְ רָכִיל בְּעַמֶּיךָ, לֹא תַעֲמֹד עַל-דַּם רֵעֶךָ: אֲנִי, ה – Do not allow a gossiper to mingle among the people; do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor: I am Hashem. (19:16)
The Torah instructs us broadly not to hurt, humiliate, deceive, or cause another person any emotional distress:
וְלֹא תוֹנוּ אִישׁ אֶת-עֲמִיתוֹ, וְיָרֵאתָ מֵאֱלֹהֶיךָ: כִּי אֲנִי ה, אֱלֹהֵיכֶם – Do not wrong one another; instead, you should fear your God; for I am Hashem. (25:27)
Interestingly, both these laws end with “I am Hashem” – evoking the concept of emulating what God does; which suggests that just as God constructively uses speech to create, so must we – אֲנִי ה. The Lubavitcher Rebbe taught that as much as God creates with words, so do humans.
The Gemara teaches that verbal abuse is arguably worse than theft; you can never take back your words, whereas a thief can return the money!
The idea that language influences and impacts the world around us is the foundation of the laws of vows, which are significant enough that we open the Yom Kippur services at Kol Nidrei by addressing them.
Of course, one major caveat to harmful speech is intent. If sharing negative information has a constructive and beneficial purpose that may prevent harm or injustice, there is no prohibition, and there might even be an obligation to protect your neighbor by conveying the information – לֹא תַעֲמֹד עַל-דַּם רֵעֶךָ.
As R’ Jonathan Sacks powerfully said, no soul was ever saved by hate; no truth was ever proved by violence; no redemption was ever brought by holy war.
Rather than hurt and humiliate, let’s use our power of communication to teach, help and heal; because words and ideas can change the world. They’re the only thing that ever has.
Leaders Bleed
2 minute read
One of the most tragic characters in the Torah is Moshe – his entire life was defined by conflict. While conflict is part of being a statesman fighting for his people’s freedom and establishment, he repeatedly found himself at odds with his own people countless times, with his family at others; and even with God at certain moments.
It’s interesting to see how Moshe responded each time differently.
When the people complained that they were fed up with the manna and wanted to eat proper meat, Moshe didn’t fight them; he was utterly overwhelmed and told God he wished he was dead.
When God told him to appoint 70 elders, Moshe was relieved and glad to share the burden. When the two men left out of the new administration, Eldad and Medad began a prophecy predicting Moshe’s downfall; not only was Moshe not offended, he wished prophecy on all the Jewish People.
R’ Jonathan Sacks notes that the fact that Moshe was no longer alone restored his spirit and confidence entirely because a good leader is not afraid of his students.
The role of a teacher and leader is to raise and empower the influence of those around him. One of Judaism’s most remarkable ideas is that teachers are heroes too – Moshe, R’ Akiva, Hillel, and Ezra.
Leadership isn’t about titles, status, or power; it’s about taking responsibility for those we care about and putting in the work to make their lives better, helping them and challenging them to do better and be better.
R’ Samson Raphael Hirsch writes that the highest achievement for a teacher is to make himself superfluous. When the student outgrows the teacher, it’s the highest achievement, not a failure or threat.
Seventy elders and Eldad and Medad were not a threat, but Korach and his failed coup were, and on that occasion, Moshe responded forcefully.
The episode’s opening gives the game away – Korach attempted a power grab – וַיִּקַּח קֹרַח. R’ Simcha Bunim of Peshischa teaches that you cannot seize power benevolently; you can only cultivate it through public service.
R’ Tzvi Meir Silberberg charges us to be excellent wherever we are. You can make the most of it or make more of it, but excellence isn’t transferrable. A rebranding doesn’t change the fundamentals.
R’ Shai Held notes that Moshe is only miserable when people won’t accept his help and guidance; when he has his seventy elders and Eldad and Medad, he is calm and at peace once again.
After this episode, Moshe faces another conflict; his siblings start complaining about the woman he chose to marry. After fighting everyone, his own family turns on him. And immediately after that, the Torah describes Moshe as the most humble man who ever lived.
R’ Shai Held notes that this follows from the way people treated Moshe. When everyone turned on him, and his family betrayed him, he wouldn’t turn on them and, in fact, prayed to help them.
R’ Jonathan Sacks teaches that pain causes humility, but humility can sanctify pain when channeled to public service. Moshe was the most humble man because he could love and care for people who let him down. After aiding the debacle of the formation of the Golden Calf, Ahron defended his failure by blaming the people’s wickedness, but not Moshe. Moshe stood up to them, but critically, stood up for them.
Because it was never about him, he only ever cared about helping them.
Attention To Attitude
2 minute read
One of the daily features of the Mishkan service was the service of preparing and lighting the Menora. The Torah highlights that Ahron took the ceremony deeply seriously:
דַּבֵּר, אֶל-אַהֲרֹן, וְאָמַרְתָּ, אֵלָיו: בְּהַעֲלֹתְךָ, אֶת-הַנֵּרֹת, אֶל-מוּל פְּנֵי הַמְּנוֹרָה, יָאִירוּ שִׁבְעַת הַנֵּרוֹת. וַיַּעַשׂ כֵּן, אַהֲרֹן–אֶל-מוּל פְּנֵי הַמְּנוֹרָה, הֶעֱלָה נֵרֹתֶיהָ: כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּה ה, אֶת-מֹשֶׁה – Speak to Ahron, and say to him; “When you rise to light the Menora, light seven candles.” Ahron did so; he lit the candles on the Menora, just as Hashem had commanded Moshe. (8:2-3)
But if you think about it for a minute, it's a little odd to say that Ahron followed his instructions - וַיַּעַשׂ כֵּן / כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּה ה. What is so noteworthy about doing what he was supposed to do - how else would he light the Menora?
Picking up on this strange remark, Rashi quotes the Sifri that Ahron performed his duties scrupulously, precisely the way Moshe told him for the rest of his life, and never changed or deviated in any way.
R' Simcha Bunim of Peshischa notes that as much as the comment is about Ahron not changing how he performed his duties, it's equally a comment about how his duties didn't change him. Some people let privilege and honor get to their heads - but not Ahron.
The Sfas Emes notes that lighting the Menora wasn't a particularly prestigious ceremony in that any Kohen could kindle the lights. Still, Ahron took it seriously enough that he insisted on doing it himself every day for the rest of his life.
The Ishbitza notes that the highest praise for Ahron is that he retained that initial desire, and it never got stale or boring for him. He kept challenging himself to find something new and exciting, so he lit the Menora his last time with the same enthusiasm as the first.
The Shem mi'Shmuel notes that the word for training, which means practice repetitions, is cognate to the word for inauguration, the first time you do something - חינוך / חנוכה. This suggests that training is not simply a repeat of past performance but the repetition of newness, with each repetition inviting an opportunity to introduce a fresh aspect or dimension.
Mastery is typically boring. Finishing your fiftieth marathon is probably less special than your first.
It's normal.
The more we experience something, the more our enthusiasm and attention typically wane. Predictability and comfort put an end to fresh euphoria; when we know what to expect, our excitement wears off, and boredom sets in. That’s why we need to keep things fresh if we’re focused on a long-term project or goal.
It's something often seen with young professional athletes who lose their way - they think they've made it and stop putting in the work that would take them to the elite tier. The seasoned professionals always comment on how essential it is for the youngsters to maintain their concentration and focus to stay on track.
The highest form of mastery is in valuing each repetition and finding the novelty and excitement in it.
By being fully present in each moment and devoting your undivided attention, things don't get boring.
TTOW
Have you ever tried really hard to get someone to understand you? To see something they’re missing? This is one of my all-time favorite songs - it never fails to give me goosebumps. Give it a listen somewhere quiet with good quality headphones.
QOTW
“One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree. ‘Which road do I take?’ she asked. ‘Where do you want to go?’ was his response. ‘I don’t know,’ Alice answered. ‘Then,’ said the cat, ‘it doesn’t matter.” Alice replied ‘So long as I get somewhere.’ Responded the Cheshire Cat, ‘Oh, you're sure to do that, if only you walk long enough.’
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
Where are you heading?
The ideal standard is that we face the direction of Jerusalem for prayer. Across the world, shuls are conventionally designed this way, with the congregation facing Jerusalem. It makes sense; our orientation, that is, our relative position, where we are in the physical or spiritual universe, should be fixated on Jerusalem, and the seat of the sacred, the Beis HaMikdash.
But the Halacha makes an allowance for when you’re not sure which way Jerusalem is. It simply mandates that you direct your heart to heaven, and it counts just the same, which is significant. When you know which way holiness is, head that way. When you lose your way and get disoriented, it’s as simple as turning your heart back to heaven.
A sinner can feel abandoned and alone; they’ve lost their way, walked the path away from God. But the funny thing is, wherever you find yourself in the physical or spiritual universe, however lost, it’s actually not hard at all to course correct; you just have to turn the right way, and now you’re on the right track again, and God was never far away – כִּי לֹא תַחְפֹּץ בְּמוֹת הַמֵּת, כִּי אִם בְּשׁוּבוֹ מִדַּרְכּוֹ וְחָיָה, וְעַד יוֹם מוֹתוֹ תְּחַכֶּה לוֹ, אִם יָשׁוּב מִיַּד תְּקַבְּלוֹ.
Teshuva can be as simple as turning in the right direction.
“If you do not change direction, you may end up exactly where you are heading.”
― Siddhārtha Gautama