Weekly Inspire

We read toward the end of Parashat Bereshit that Hashem saw the evil of mankind and decided to destroy the world. Next week, in Parashat Noach, we read of the flood that Hashem brought upon the earth, sparing only Noach and his family. After the flood, Hashem made a promise that He would never flood the earth again. When we read these pesukim carefully, we notice something surprising. Here in Parashat Bereshit, the Torah says, וירא ה' כי רבה רעת האדם בארץ, וכל יצר מחשבות לבו רק רע כל היום – Hashem saw all the evil that the people were committing, and He saw the evil in their heart, their natural tendency to sin (6:5). The evil nature of people led Hashem to decide to destroy them. After the flood, however, we find just the opposite. Hashem announced that He would never again destroy the earth כי יצר לב האדם רע מנעריו – because of the people's yetzer ha'ra (evil inclination), because of their evil instincts. How could the yetzer ha'ra be both the reason to destroy mankind, and the reason not to destroy mankind? The answer is quite simple – and exceedingly important. In short: we just have to try. Before the flood, the people did not even try to restrain their sinful instincts. They followed their negative tendencies without any attempt to exercise discipline and act the right way. After the flood, however, Noach offered a sacrifice to Hashem – symbolizing the people's commitment to say "no" to their evil tendencies, to sacrifice the things they desire for the sake of fulfilling Hashem's will. When we do this, Hashem looks kindly upon us. Even when we're imperfect, and even when we're far from perfect, He treats us with compassion, because He understands our struggles and our challenges, and He sees that we're trying. What matters most is that we're trying, that we're making a sincere effort to restrain our negative instincts and do the right thing. This is so important for every one of us to realize. If a person is struggling, if he has some good days and some bad days, if he has a bad habit that he can't seem to kick, if he tries to do the right thing but doesn't always succeed – then this means he is human. It means he is living the way he is supposed to live. We are not meant to be perfect. We are meant to strive to be better. We are meant to work hard and to make a real effort to improve. If we're trying, then we are on the road to greatness. And we are the kind of people that Hashem wants in His world.

One of the dramatic moments of Yom Kippur in the times of the Bet Ha'mikdash was when the kohen gadol would draw lots to determine the fate of two goats. One goat was designated as the שעיר לה' – a sacrifice to G-d, and its blood was sprinkled in the holiest place in the world, in the inner chamber of the Bet Ha'mikdash . The other goat – the שעיר לעזאזל – was taken out into the desert, symbolically carrying all the sins of the Jewish Nation, and then thrown from a cliff. The two goats brought for this "lottery" needed to resemble one another. They were to be a similar size, appearance, and price. These two outwardly similar goats ended up with two opposite fates – one was brought to the holiest place on earth, and the other was thrown off a cliff in the desert. The commentaries explain that two people could appear to be generally the same, but are really traveling on two different paths. They seem to dress more or less the same way and lead more or less the same lifestyle, but in truth they're very different. One is genuinely dedicated to Hashem, and the other is dedicated to עזאזל , to vanity, to things with no value. On Yom Kippur, we are called upon to take a long, hard look at ourselves and determine which path we're really on. Are we fully committed to Torah? Do we really devote our lives to Hashem? Or is our allegiance directed toward other things? The Midrash draws an analogy to a person who needs to reach a certain destination, and sees in front of him two routes that he could take to get there. One route begins with thick thorn bushes that are very difficult to traverse, but soon after this rough patch, there is a clear, beautifully paved road for the rest of the trip. The other route is just the opposite – it begins as a clear path, but is then filled with thorn bushes the rest of the way. So many people who suffer from addiction chose the second road. They saw opportunities for fun and enjoyment, and they indeed had fun and enjoyed, but this resulted in decades of anguish. The path of the Torah is like the first path. When someone tries to begin observing Shabbat, it is exceedingly difficult. But once he gets used to it, it's the most beautiful thing in the world, and he looks forward to it throughout the week. Learning Gemara is at first very difficult, and even frustrating. But once a student spends enough time learning and gets the hang of it, it is exhilarating. On Yom Kippur, our obligation is to make the decision of which road we are going to take – the road to ה' , or the road to עזאזל . And we need to know that the road to Hashem at times looks scary, it looks hard. The other path seems much easier. But on Yom Kippur, we make the firm, resolute decision to take the path of Torah, knowing that even when there are bumps along the way, it leads to a beautiful, fulfilling life. I was once walking on Kings Highway during the Aseret Yemeh Teshuvah (Ten Days of Repentance, from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur), and I passed by a facility which looked like a fitness center. Outside there was a sign that read: If it doesn't challenge you, it doesn't change you . This was how they hoped to encourage people to sign up for their exercise program. I thought to myself, this is the perfect message for the period of Aseret Yemeh Teshuvah ! If we are going to grow, we need to challenge ourselves. We cannot go through this period without hard work, without having the difficult conversations with ourselves, without struggle. If we want to experience the unparalleled beauty and joy of Torah life, then we need to go through the "thorns," we need to challenge ourselves. Let us make this commitment to undertake the challenge of growth, to make the difficult decisions that need to be made, and may Hashem then lead us along the road to a beautiful and happy Torah life, amen .

הנסתרות לה' אלוקינו, והנגלות לנו ולבנינו עד עולם – "The hidden matters are for Hashem our G-d; but the revealed matters are for us and our children, forever…" (29:28) The Hovot Ha'levavot (in the Sha'ar He'behinah section) presents an analogy which captures the idea that this pasuk in Parashat Nitzavim is telling us. He describes a blind man being brought into a fully-furnished and fully-stocked home. It has beds, chairs, tables and couches, and all the food and beverages that he would need. But it also has something truly extraordinary – a doctor with a special medication that would cure the man of his blindness. The man enters the home, and starts walking around – banging into furniture, falling and hurting himself. The doctor approaches him and tells him that he can cure his blindness so he can see again. But the blind man, stubbornly and inexplicably, refuses. He doesn't want the treatment. He continues walking around and getting hurt. He bitterly complains and asks why he was brought into this home where nothing is in the right place, and where he can't do anything without hurting himself. The Hovot Ha'levavot explains that many people here in our world are just like this blind man. They find the world difficult, inhospitable and painful. Things aren't where they should be. They expect something to happen a certain way, but it happens a different way. Just like the blind man doesn't expect the stairs to be where they were, people don't expect situations to unfold the way they do, and so they "fall" and get hurt, like the blind man. They have in their mind a plan of how things should be – just like the blind man is used to his old home, and expects everything to be the same in his new home – and so they repeatedly "bump" into things and feel embittered. All this happens because they are "blind," and they refuse to take the "cure" for their blindness, which is emunah . Emunah opens our eyes to realize that we are in a "house" furnished and designed by Hashem, who invites us to use everything there. The "chair" might not be where we expect it to be, or where we want it to be, but when we see it through the lenses of emunah , we are able to "sit," to use it, to benefit from it. Once we "treat" our "blindness" through emunah , we'll stop getting hurt, because we'll stop expecting things to be precisely the way we think they should be. הנסתרות לה' אלוקינו – the reasons why our world is arranged the way it is belong only to Hashem. These remain hidden for now. We believe that one day we will understand, but in the meantime, we do not have access to this information. It is not our job to explain why things are the way they are. Our job is the נגלות – to open our eyes, to cure our blindness, to accept the world and our lives as they are, and then make the most of it, by enjoying and appreciating our blessings, and by using our challenges and hardships as catalysts for growth. Unfortunately, so many people are disillusioned with Judaism because they have unreasonable expectations. They hear exciting stories of hashgahah peratit (divine providence), of how Hashem helped people, and assume that everything is always supposed to work out. They fail to recognize the נסתרות , that there are things they aren't supposed to understand. The stories of hashgahah peratit are of course real, and they show us that Hashem is here with us, but they do not mean that things will always work out perfectly the way we want. We live in a world of both נסתרות and נגלות – of things that we aren't supposed to understand, but that we are supposed to know how to respond to. We must not get bogged down by the נסתרות – why past events happened, and what the future will bring. Instead, we need to focus on the נגלות – on what Hashem expects of us right now, in the present, in whatever circumstances we currently face.

Parashat Ki-Tavo begins with the mitzvah of bikkurim , which requires farmers to bring the first ripened fruits to the Bet Ha'mikdash , and present them to a kohen . In one sense, bikkurim resembles other agricultural mitzvot which obligate a person to give the first portion of his produce to Hashem. On the other hand, the mitzvah of bikkurim has something unique, an element that we don't find with other mitzvot , and that is a requirement to make a special declaration when arriving in the Bet Ha'mikdash . This declaration, known as מקרא ביכורים , recounts the origins of our nation, recalling how our ancestors were enslaved in Egypt, cried out to Hashem, and then were miraculously freed, eventually coming into the Land of Israel. The farmer concludes by announcing that he has brought his first fruits to Hashem. These pesukim are familiar to us from the text of the Haggadah at the seder , where we use these pesukim as the springboard to discuss the story of our ancestors' enslavement and the miracles of Yetziat Mitzrayim . Why does the farmer give this whole speech? Why is it not enough for him to bring his first fruits and present them to the kohen in the Bet Ha'mikdash ? I occasionally have the experience of looking at a painting and wondering how much it cost. Due to my limited knowledge of art, I often cannot tell if a painting is a simple work, worth maybe $200, or is a rare collectors' item, worth perhaps tens of thousands of dollars. Often, we look at something which seems to us pretty ordinary, when it's actually a priceless object. This is true of life's experiences, as well. Life gets so busy, so pressured and so chaotic, that we so often don't appreciate the value of the moment. The brief conversation with a child who comes home from school. The dinner table. The family get together. The ride in the car with a spouse or child. These are precious moments, but because we're always feeling pressured and we're always rushing, we don't appreciate them. We rush through them instead of being fully present. Later in the parashah , we read a section where Moshe Rabbenu warns of the calamities that would befall the Jewish People if they abandon the Torah. One of these warnings is והיו חייך תלויים לך מנגד – "Your lives will be hanging in front of you" (28:66). This pasuk is generally interpreted to mean that the people would face such grave danger, that their lives would be "hanging," always at risk. However, somebody shared with me a different reading – that the people would be so pressured, so anxious, that their lives would be "hanging" in front of them instead of being actually lived and experienced. It would always seem that our lives are "hanging," that we're constantly under pressure, desperately trying to do what we need to do, to the point where we're not living. With this in mind, we can perhaps understand the law of מקרא ביכורים . The Torah didn't want the farmer to simply bring his first fruits to the Bet Ha'mikdash . It wanted the farmer to be fully present, and fully aware of the precious value of this moment, of what it means that he grew fruits in Eretz Yisrael . He was required to reflect on what this moment meant – that Hashem performed miracles for his ancestors, and brought them out of slavery so they could live in a special land and produce their own fruit. This seemingly simple event should be appreciated. This is not a $200 painting; this is a priceless moment. Institutions of Torah learning as known by the word yeshivah , which literally means "sitting." Rather than referring to them by the act of studying, we use the word yeshivah , because it connotes ישוב הדעת – focus and concentration. A yeshivah is not merely a place of learning. It is a place of focused attention on learning, a place free of distractions, a place where a student is fully present, concentrating solely on his growth as in Torah. Let us resolve to strive to always be present and focused in everything we do. Instead of right away thinking of the next thing on our schedule or our "to-do" list, let's instead be present in the moment. Whomever we're talking to, let's be present and focused on that person. Whichever mitzvah we're involved in at any given moment, let's be present and focused on that mitzvah . Whatever task we need to take care of, let's be present and focused to get it done the right way. Let's recognize and appreciate the precious value of every small moment. If we live with this mindfulness, being presented and focused, then we will feel so much more accomplished, knowing that each moment of our lives is a priceless "piece of art."

One of the mitzvot which the Torah presents in Parashat Ki-Tetzeh is שילוח הקן – sending away the mother bird. When a person wishes to take an egg or young bird from a best, he must first send away the mother bird before taking her young (22:6-7). The Mishnah (Megillah 25a) instructs that it is inappropriate to say to G-d while praying, על קן צפור יגיע רחמיך – "Your compassion reaches even the bird's nest." The Gemara gives the example of a certain hazzan who was leading the service in the presence of Rabbah, one of the great Rabbis of the Talmud, and this hazzan said to Hashem: אתה חסת על קן צפור אתה חוס ורחם עלינו – "You had compassion on the bird's nest; You shall similarly have compassion and mercy upon us." This hazzan , the Gemara related, spoke improperly, as one should not invoke the bird's nest in his prayer. The Hatam Sofer offers a unique explanation of the Gemara. The bird, he writes, symbolizes the human body, our physical beings. Thus, for example, we read in the Book of Vayikra that after a person was stricken with tzara'at , he was required to undergo a process of purification that included two birds, representing his body's restoration. When the hazzan prayed that G-d should have compassion on us like He has compassion for the bird, he was saying: "Just as You, Hashem, care for our bodies, for our physical wellbeing, making the heart, liver, kidneys, brain, lungs and the rest of our bodies work at every moment, please also help my soul." He was praying for G-d to take care of us spiritually, just as He takes care of us physically. And this is a mistake. When it comes to our physical wellbeing, we are to trust Hashem. We must make a reasonable effort, but with the understanding that the outcome depends entirely on Hashem and not on our hard work or ingenuity. The Shulhan Aruch mentions the custom to read every day the section of the Torah that tells of the manna, and the Mishnah Berurah explains, כדי שיאמין שכל מזונותיו באין בהשגחה פרטית – so that we believe that our livelihood comes through Hashem's providence. The Torah says that if a person in the desert collected more manna than he was supposed to, or less manna than he was supposed to, he would still end up with the amount he was meant to have. We are encouraged to read about this each day to remind ourselves that although we are expected to make an effort to earn a living, the results are determined solely by Hashem, and not by our efforts. When it comes to our spirituality, however, we need to take responsibility. We cannot just sit back and ask Hashem to take care of it for us. We need to be proactive. The greatest Rosheh Yeshiva in the world spend a great deal of time fundraising for their institutions. Of course, they pray to Hashem for help – but they see this as their responsibility. When the Greeks defiled the Bet Ha'mikdash and forbade the Jews from learning and observing the Torah, the Hashmonaim did not just arrange for large prayer gatherings and call for Tehillim groups. They mobilized an army and took up arms to defend the Torah – in addition, of course, to praying to Hashem to make their efforts successful. Elul is the time especially designated for this purpose – to take responsibility for our spirituality. This is the time to stop waiting for inspiration, for someone or something to get us more involved and more committed. More than any other time of year, Elul is when we must take matters into our own hands, when we need to take the initiative and motivate ourselves, push ourselves, and decide that we are going to try harder and grow.