Finding Purpose in the Long Journey: Vayetzei 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 27 November 2025. You can also read it in Ivrit here.

There is a puzzling phrase at the heart of this week’s parsha. After Yaakov agrees to work seven years in order to marry Rachel, the Torah tells us that these years were “in his eyes like a few days”—keyamim achadim. Anyone who has waited for something deeply desired knows that time does not pass quickly. It drags. The Akeidat Yitzchak sharpens the point: for someone so eager to marry the love of his life, the wait should have felt like a thousand years. What, then, is the Torah trying to teach us?

The Sforno offers a simple but powerful explanation. The phrase keyamim achadim does not mean the years passed quickly; rather, they felt light—an insignificant price compared to what Yaakov was receiving. He would gladly have worked even longer because Rachel was worth far more than seven years of labour. The Torah is describing not the speed of time but the magnitude of Yaakov’s love.

But perhaps there is something deeper happening. The stories of Yaakov’s early years—from his flight to Charan to his years of labour—are strikingly unspiritual. We read about wages, contracts, sheep, daughters, and family disputes. It feels more like a biography than a parsha. Why does the Torah spend so much time on what appears to be the mundane details of Yaakov’s personal life?

The answer is that Yaakov’s life is never just personal. Rather, it is about the future of Am Yisrael. His work, his marriage, his family—all of this forms the foundation upon which the Jewish people will be built. In that context, seven years truly are like a few days. When a person understands that his actions are part of a mission stretching across generations, the scale shifts. What might otherwise feel like a burden becomes meaningful. What might feel endless becomes purposeful.

This idea also sheds light on the only other place where the phrase yamim achadim appears. When Rivka tells Yaakov to flee from Esav’s wrath, she urges him to remain in Charan for just “a few days”, yet he ends up staying for over two decades. Rivka was not promising a short exile; she was giving Yaakov a framework. Measured against the long arc of Jewish history, even decades can be understood as a short chapter in a much larger story.

In our world of instant results and constant immediacy, we often lose that broader perspective. We judge our lives by the urgency of the moment rather than the purpose of the journey. Yaakov teaches us to look up, to see ourselves as part of something far bigger than today’s pressures or frustrations.

If we remember that our daily efforts—our Torah, our mitzvot, our commitment to community—are part of the ongoing story of Am Yisrael, then we too can experience moments of keyamim achadim. Not because life is easy, but because it is meaningful.

 Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

Yaakov’s Awakening: From Dream to Destiny

Yaakov's awakening from his sleep on the Even Shetiyah is a truly transformational moment in the emergence of a nation from a nomadic family. He is no longer a fugitive but a man with a mission. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains:

There is a pivotal moment in Parashat Vayetzei when Yaakov Avinu awakens abruptly from his sleep and suddenly realizes—perhaps for the first time with absolute clarity—that he has a mission unique in all of human history. His task is not merely to follow the spiritual paths of his father Yitzchak and grandfather Avraham. His mission surpasses anything they had accomplished. Avraham launched the idea of ethical monotheism; Yitzchak cultivated and deepened it. But Yaakov is charged with building the bayit—the spiritual home—that will anchor the destiny of Klal Yisrael forever.

From Ohel to Bayit

Avraham and Yitzchak, despite their greatness, lived nomadic lives. Their existence was characterized by the ohel, the tent—temporary, portable, always on the move. Yaakov, in contrast, begins to build a bayit. In his private life, he establishes a family structure that becomes the foundation of the Jewish people. But his mission reaches beyond the personal. Chazal teach that the place where Yaakov lay down to sleep was none other than Har HaBayit—the future site of the Beit HaMikdash. Unwittingly, he lays his head upon the Even Shetiyah, the primordial foundation stone from which the world itself was created.

The Rambam, the Midrash, and other Rishonim identify this very rock as the same stone upon which Avraham performed the Akeidah and upon which the Kohen Gadol would one day enter the Kodesh HaKodashim. Tragically, that rock still lies beneath the foreign dome that occupies Har HaBayit today. Yet its identity, its holiness, and its destiny remain unchanged.

At this moment, Yaakov begins to understand: this stone—this even—is the starting point for a beit Elokim, the spiritual epicenter of Klal Yisrael and, ultimately, of the entire world.

Why “Elokei Yaakov”?

When Yeshayahu describes the Messianic future, he proclaims:

“לְכוּ וְנַעֲלֶה אֶל הַר ה'… אֶל בֵּית אֱ-לֹקי יַעֲקֹב”

 “Come, let us go up to the mountain of Hashem, to the house of the God of Yaakov.”

Why, ask Chazal, does the Navi refer specifically to Elokei Yaakov?  Because the Beit HaMikdash is uniquely the achievement of Yaakov. Avraham discovered the mountain; Yitzchak cultivated the field; but Yaakov built the house.

Chazal teach that all three patriarchs encountered the same place, yet each perceived it differently:

●       Avraham called it a har, a mountain—an awe-inspiring peak representing the revolutionary idea of monotheism he introduced to the world.

●       Yitzchak called it a sadeh, a field—something requiring labor, cultivation, and effort, reflecting his life's work of developing, deepening, and refining Avraham’s idea.

●       Yaakov called it a bayit, a home—stable, eternal, structured, capable of housing a nation and the Shechinah itself.

It is a natural progression: idea → cultivation → structure.  Yaakov’s greatness is that he transforms potential into permanence.

From Vision to Construction

Yaakov’s dream of the ladder with angels ascending and descending is breathtaking—but he knows immediately that a dream alone is insufficient. As soon as he awakens, he declares:

“אָכֵן יֵשׁ י' בַּמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה… וְהָאֶבֶן הַזֹּאת… יִהְיֶה בֵּית אֱ-לֹקים.”

 He recognizes that the time has come to build, to take the stone and make it a foundation for the future. Yet before he can build the nation, he must build a family. And here the Torah presents a sobering reality. According to Rashi’s chronology, Yaakov at the start of the parashah is 77 years old, alone, unmarried, fleeing for his life from Eisav, a refugee entering an alien land steeped in idolatry and corruption. Materially and emotionally, he appears vulnerable. But spiritually, he possesses one priceless treasure: his mission. He carries within him the emunah of Avraham, the disciplined avodah of Yitzchak, and decades of Torah learned first at home and later in the yeshiva of Shem and Ever. Everything is in place—except the bayis that will bring it all into reality.

Yaakov’s Prayer: Protecting the Mission

The Sforno notes a powerful nuance in Yaakov’s tefillah:

●       “Give me bread to eat” — protect me from poverty, lest deprivation break my spirit.

●       “Clothing to wear” — shield me from the corrupting culture of Lavan’s world.

●       “Return me in peace” — guard me from fear, depression, or anxiety.

The Gemara in Eruvin teaches that three forces can cause a person to lose his spiritual mission:

1. Influence of a corrupt surrounding culture
   
   
2. Anxiety, fear, or depression
   
   
3. Crippling poverty

Yaakov prays not for luxury but for the strength to remain Yaakov—to preserve his mission unbroken through the challenges ahead.

The Legacy of the Foundation Stone

By consecrating the stone beneath his head, Yaakov transforms the place into the foundation of the future Beit HaMikdash. In the language of the Maharal, Har HaBayit becomes the makom hachibur—the point at which heaven and earth connect. Yaakov’s act teaches that the destiny of Am Yisrael depends on building a home: a bayit built on Torah, on spiritual clarity, and on an unwavering sense of mission.

Every generation must remember this. In every era, foreign forces, cultural pressures, or inner struggles threaten to make us forget who we are and what we are meant to build. Yaakov shows us the antidote: hold the mission tightly, build the bayit, and anchor everything on the Even Shetiyah—the eternal foundation. Because only Yaakov knew how to take a dream and turn it into a home.  And only a home can hold the Shechinah.

"Who knows three?"

As we close out the Seder every Pesach, our families sing “three are the fathers and four are the mothers.” But is this true? No doubt there are three fathers, but what is the correct number of mothers? Were there four?  Perhaps there are only three? The most accurate answer actually might be six. Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger explains:

When we bless our daughters, we beseech Hashem to imbue them with the qualities of Sarah, Rivka, Rachel and Leah—the four mothers. In Parshat Vayeshev, Bilhah and Zilpah are clearly identified as wives of Yaakov (“neshei aviv”), this might support six. Rachel is the one who eternally weeps for her children in exile, she was solely designated for Yaakov (Leah believed she was destined for Eisav: see Rashi to Bereishit 29:17) and she, the younger sister, not Leah who birthed such a large number of tribes, is mentioned third in the weekly blessing (we also note Rashi on Bereishit 31:33, who states that Yaakov’s regular abode was in Rachel’s tent and that generally Rachel is the only one designated in the Torah as “eshet Yaakov.”)

Turning back to Seder night, the focus seems to be on the fours—the four cups, the four sons, the four expressions of redemption, and so on. But it is actually the threes that have primacy: one does not fulfill one’s obligation without mentioning three things (Pesach, Matzah, Maror) and the Ten Plagues are condensed into a three-part acronym.

Our people are a nation of threes, as Rav Chisda expresses in Shabbat 88a: “Blessed is the Merciful One who gave the threefold Torah (Torah, Neviim, Ketuvim) to the threefold nation (Kohanim, Leviim, Yisraelim), through the third born (Moshe) on the third day of separation in the third month (Sivan).” Indeed, there is an even earlier three to be associated with our people: according to the Midrash, Avraham Avinu recognized Hakadosh Baruch Hu at the tender age of three years old.

What is the significance of three and how does this relate to the elevated status of Rachel?

While Three Dog Night may have designated one as “the loneliest number,” it is, in fact, the most important number. It is Hashem and it represents unity. With no other (ein od milvado), there is only clarity.  There can be no contradiction or confusion.

When a second is introduced, when there are two, there is opposition and conflict. Adam might not have sinned without his “negdo,” the one opposite him. Yitzchak prayed for children, but that prayer was “lenochach ishto,” opposite his wife. This is not to imply that a man and woman are in a perpetual state of conflict.  Quite the contrary, their ideal state is one of shalom bayit. Nevertheless, this cannot be achieved without a center point, without a third, a three, that integrates their disparate personalities and natures.

Our nation has three fathers, but we are most closely identified as the children of only the third: we are the sons of Yaakov, we are identified as Benei Yisrael. A parent cannot spoil and indulge a child with love: Avraham is the parent of love.  Likewise, a parent cannot always be strict and exacting, as represented by Yitzchak. The most fitting parent blends together these two characteristics into a path of truth and clarity – “titen emet leYaakov.” The third father was the center point that provided our foundation.

If we focus on Rachel, we see that she, more than any of the matriarchs, represented this same center point. She took action at two critical junctures that displayed contradictory behavior. When Lavan substituted Leah when Rachel was to marry Yaakov, she refused to allow her sister to face embarrassment and she honored her father. In other words, she showed love, compassion and respect.

Yet she was willing to disrespect Lavan, even to the point of risking her own safety and that of her family, by removing the idols from his home; they were a complete anathema to her. Rachel, like Yaakov, was a mixture of love and justice (In contrast, Leah showed no compassion to Rachel after she asked for the flowers from Reuven. Leah demanded payment in the form of extra time with Yaakov.).

As the children of Yaakov and Rachel, our spiritual DNA contains the capacity to experience the world in three dimensions, not two. There is a time for love and life and mercy and peace.  Likewise, there is a time to be strict, to fight, to kill, to make war and to be vengeful. The first is ideal, the second is sometimes and reluctantly necessary. However, the guiding principle is always truth and what is right – and that is what our three, our Torah, demands from us.

Unfortunately, much of the world exists in a two-dimensional reality. We are surrounded by those who believe that there is only a single path—the path of death and hate.  In their world there is their way or no way.  Three Dog Night had it wrong. One is not the loneliest number…but two is – the two of conflict, the two of deceit and manipulation and the two of mutual destruction. Any solution involving two is likely one doomed to fail.

Post Script: We all know the old joke about the two Jews stranded on the island having three shuls: one for each and the third that neither would go to. Thinking about this a little more, this explanation does not hold up. They each already had one they would not pray in, this being the shul the other Jew occupied. It is more logical to believe that the third shul was the place where they prayed together; it was the third point where, as the children of Yaakov and Rachel, they would have cried out together be rescued.

Sun, sand and self-sufficiency: growing up at the seaside

Our member, Women’s League President Shirley March, tells us of how a visit to a dairy farm triggered memories of her early years and how profoundly they shaped her attitude to life subsequently. Shirley writes:

The final visit on the recent Shul trip to the Galil took us to the Dugma Dairy Farm, where we learnt about cheese-making and sampled their many products. This brought back fond—and not so fond—memories of my childhood.

I was born and lived for the first 17 years of my life in Eastbourne, a seaside town on the South-East coast of England, where my Father zt”l was Rav of a very small Jewish community made up of local business people. My younger sister and I were the only Jewish children in the town; this meant no Jewish schools and, consequently, no Jewish friends. In addition, there were no Kosher shops or facilities, so everything was made at home, with my mother z”l baking bread, challot, cakes and so forth.

Another of these tasks was cheese making. My father would go to the local dairy, give the workers a pack of cigarettes (a common form of currency over 70 years ago), and come home with a churn of milk.  In fact, at that time, the dairies would take the cream and pour the rest away, unlike now when the residue is used for animal feed or sold as skimmed milk.

Once home, this milk was placed in our outhouse to get sour.  My mother would sew conical-shaped bags from fine sacking. Once the milk had become curds and whey (the curds are the solid, clumpy masses of milk protein, while the whey is the remaining liquid) it was poured into these long bags and allowed to drip over a drain in the outhouse.  After a few days when all the liquid had dispersed, my father would mix in salt and caraway seeds, tie the bags tightly and place them between two boards weighted down with heavy stones.  Waiting again for a few days, the result was a hard white cheese which could be sliced and was known as gomółka.

Below: The Grand Hotel, Eastbourne, where Debussy composed 'La Mer'

Of course, there was no Kosher meat in the town.  My father, also being a shochet, would drive out to a local farm, often with me in attendance, shecht four chickens and bring them home where my mother and I would pluck them (I still remember the tiny lice that used to jump onto us, but luckily they didn’t live long on humans), singe the skin to get rid of any remaining quills (what a terrible smell!), open them, clean them out and then kasher them.  No popping into the local butcher to get a nice clean, ready koshered chicken!  However, it was always exciting to see how many little eggs (just yolks at this stage) we could find inside. These went into the chicken soup and were always fought over.

It was with these chickens that I got my first biology lessons. My father would take the lungs, insert a straw and blow to show me how they worked, open the heart so I could see the how the blood runs, and pull the tendons in the feet so that the toes would open and close.

At that time Rakusens used to supply Rabbanim with free matzo so that problem was solved, but my Mother would make Bureke Eingemachts (beetroot jam) and Ingber (trays of carrot candy) to solve the lack of “sweets”.

Around Purim, my father would take hops and honey and make bottles of “Med” [the Yiddish for 'Mead'] which were kept in the cellar.  The problem was that the alcohol content was so high, we could sometimes hear the sound of popping as the corks were forced out of the bottles!

Things were easier for my mother when my Booba z”l moved in with us as she was also an amazing cook and seamstress.  In fact, all my dresses were made either by my mother or grandmother until I moved up to London at the age of 17.  My Booba only spoke to me in Yiddish, which I learnt to speak quite proficiently and have found very useful since we moved to Israel, using it to converse with my husband’s Chareidi family.

I attended a Church of England primary School and have vivid memories at the age of 7 or 8 of standing in the playground with all the children in a circle around me chanting “You killed Jesus, you killed Jesus!”, to which I replied “Jesus was Jewish, Jesus was Jewish!”, but of course they didn’t believe me!

I started the Girls’ High School a couple of weeks late as I had an infection.  I walked in the classroom and all the girls were staring at me.  When I sat down, I asked the girl next to me “Why are they all staring?”  To which she replied: “We were told a Jewish girl was coming and we are looking for your horns and tail!”

I was always in the annual School Play, but balked when they wanted me to play Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, just because I was Jewish!

I wasn’t allowed to go to University, but went to a local Commercial College to learn shorthand and typing so that I could support myself when I went to London where I was sent to find myself a nice frum Jewish boy which B”H I did.

These are only some of my many experiences of being a frum Jewish child in a totally non-Jewish environment and it made me determined that my own children should go to Jewish schools and not have to experience what I went through.

Silence is golden, but values are silver

Our Poet Laureate Dr Pessy Krausz has shared with us the happy news that another of her poems, 'The Meaning of Silver', will be appearing in this week's issue of Netanya's Poetry Please, and also in the journal of the Israel Association of Writers in English in December. This poem is about a very special piece of silver, the becher which appears on the right.  

Pessy's poem reads like this:

The Meaning of Silver

 Long ago and far away a century almost ago

Aron Eliyahu Hacohen my father was born

in a Polish village called Czychlyn but

moved to Lowicz, parents and siblings all

 

there its central square housed the market place 

shops to the side whose silver-tongued staff

served chatting folks exchanging woes

searching for wares hoping for bargains

 

Tim Gidal’s camera captures the scene 

head scarved women baskets on arms

children, chicks men in padded coats

under hostile elements silvery skies threatening

 

camera shoulder slung as with wife Pia

they fled Nazi onslaught arriving in Israel

where he gave me the picture I shared

with my father – by then wheelchair bound –

 

lightening recollection led him back ninety years                       

There’s Shmuel the wadding maker’s store

Moishe’s shoe shop, Yankel the baker’s next door!

Miraculous, incredible having escaped Nazi pursuit 

 

fled over hostile seas to England’s Dover

found us a village attic room while working in London

said to my mother “Here are my first earnings

go to town, buy us a Becher – a goblet for wine

 

must be of pure silver, no more no less!!” 

It graced our tiny table clad in a white cloth

though barely three I have instant recall

Kiddush with that Becher was entirely unique!

 

And uniquely it’s survived to this very day

graces my Shabbat table where Jerusalem’s home

they say Silence is Golden but Values are Silver

so generations may venerate what money can’t buy

The Blessing Yitzchak Really Intended

Parashat Toledot is a Tale of Two Blessings. But this tale is puzzling on several levels and demands to be understood. Rabbi Paul Bloom looks at a way to navigate a path through this maze of issues.

In the second half of Parashat Toledot, Sefer Bereishit Chapter 27 revolves around a dramatic pair of questions: Who will receive Yitzchak’s great blessing?  Who will be chosen to carry the covenant forward into the next generation—Yaakov or Eisav?

We would assume that the blessing Yitzchak plans to give is the blessing of Am Yisrael: the charge to be “a blessing to the nations,” the spiritual legacy of Avraham Avinu, the bond with HaKadosh Baruch Hu, and the eternal connection to Eretz Yisrael. But when the blessing arrives, it is… surprising.  Almost disappointing. Instead of a grand spiritual vision, the blessing Yitzchak gives sounds like a financial and political one: dew of the heavens, fat of the land, power, wealth, dominance. Not the covenant of Avraham, not the spiritual destiny of Klal Yisrael—just prosperity and influence.

What happened?
 Where is Eretz Yisrael? Where is the mission to bring blessing to the world?  Why is the blessing so materialistic—so un-Avraham-like? These questions, however, lead us to the deeper understanding of the entire parasha.

Was Yitzchak Really “Fooled”?

Chazal and the classical mefarshim reject the simplistic reading that Yitzchak was gullible. Yitzchak Avinu—the spiritual giant, the patriarch—was not naïvely tricked by a bowl of food and a costume.

Following the approach of the Malbim and the Sforno, we see a completely different picture: Yitzchak knew exactly who his sons were.

●      He knew Yaakov was the “ish tam yoshev ohalim,” the spiritual heir, the one destined to carry the covenant.

●      He knew Eisav was a man of action, strength, charisma, and worldly capability.

And Yitzchak believed that each son had a role to play.  His dream—his vision—was a partnership, a partnership like the later model of Yissachar and Zevulun, where:

●      Yissachar dedicates himself to Torah

●      Zevulun engages the marketplace

●      The two support, respect, and need one another.

Yitzchak envisioned Yaakov as the spiritual leader but Eisav as the powerful national leader: the financier, the military protector, the political force. Yaakov would teach Torah, spread emunah, and carry the covenant. Eisav would provide the material infrastructure for that mission.

This was a brilliant plan—if it could work

Thus the blessing Yitzchak gives—thinking Eisav is before him—is not the blessing of Avraham. It is the blessing of worldly power, the blessing of a national partner who would support Yaakov’s spiritual mission. Yaakov would receive his blessing later—the true birchat Avraham—in Chapter 28, Yitzchak explicitly gives him:

●      the covenant of Avraham,

●      the relationship with Hashem,

●      and the promise of Eretz Yisrael.

That was always meant for Yaakov. But Yitzchak hoped for a partnership.

Why the Plan Failed

But one person saw what Yitzchak did not: Rivka. She knew Eisav more deeply, more honestly. She knew that Eisav was not simply a strong, worldly personality—he was fundamentally self-centered. His talents and drive were aimed inward, not upward. He lacked the anavah, the discipline, the spiritual sensitivity to use power for a higher purpose.

Yitzchak dreamed of Yissachar and Zevulun. Rivka saw Korach. Had Eisav received material power, he would not have shared it with Yaakov.  He would have used it for himself—not to build a nation, but to feed an ego. Therefore the partnership could not stand. That’s why Rivka ensures that Yaakov receives the first blessing as well—not because Yaakov needed the power for its own sake, but because Eisav could not be trusted with it.

Yaakov would now have to carry both responsibilities:

●      the spiritual leadership

●      and the material-national leadership.

And for that, he is sent to the “Harvard Business School” of Lavan, to learn the worldly skills necessary to guide a nation.

A New Understanding of “I Already Gave the Blessing”

This interpretation also explains one of the most puzzling moments in the parasha. Eisav begs:
 “Haven’t you a blessing for me, too, Father?” And Yitzchak essentially answers:  “I’m sorry—I already gave it away.” But why should this be so?  Are blessings like coupons that can be used only once? Can a gadol ever say, “Sorry, I’ve run out of berachot”?

The answer is profound: A true berachah is not “I wish you wealth, success, power, beauty.”
 That is just good fortune. That is not a Torah concept of blessing. A Torah berachah is:
 “May you have success and use it for a spiritual purpose— for building Torah, for elevating others, for bringing Hashem’s presence into the world.” If a person cannot or will not use success for spiritual ends, no true berachah is possible.  Yitzchak is not refusing—he is recognizing reality.

The Dream for Klal Yisrael

What emerges from this parasha is a blueprint for Jewish society: The Jewish people need both forms of leadership—spiritual and material.  Both are holy.  Both are necessary. But the key is mutual respect.

Imagine a society—imagine Eretz Yisrael today—where:

●      The military and economic leaders view Torah scholars not as a burden but as the moral and spiritual backbone of the nation.

●      And the benei Torah view the soldiers, workers, innovators, and officials not as distractions but as essential partners in building a Jewish state.

That was Yitzchak’s dream.  It remains the dream of Mashiach ben Yosef and Mashiach ben David— a perfected partnership of strength and spirit. Rivka understood that it was premature in her day.  But the dream remains.

Our Role Today

We live in a time when these tensions are real—perhaps more visible than ever.  And yet the parasha calls us to strive for Yitzchak’s vision:

●      To honor those who protect and build the physical nation

●      To honor those who preserve and teach the spiritual nation

●      And to foster deep respect between them, as partners, not adversaries.

This is not only possible—it is our destiny.

Yehi Ratzon

May we merit to see a generation in which the strengths of Yosef and Yehudah, of Yaakov and Eisav’s potential, of Yissachar and Zevulun, unite to build an Am Yisrael that is both strong and holy, prosperous and humble, powerful and profoundly connected to Hashem.

May that partnership lead us swiftly toward ge’ulah.

Living the Halachic Process, volume IV, by Rabbi Daniel Mann (Book of the Month, Kislev 5786)

For chodesh Kislev our choice of Book of the Month is Living the Halachic Process, volume IV: Questions and Answers for the Modern Jew, by Rabbi Daniel Mann. This work, published by the Eretz Chemdah Institute, features answers to queries sent to the Institute. These answers are divided by field of human activity: prayer, berachot, Shabbat, festivals, kashrut, holy articles, money, family matters and, for questions that fit none of these categories, miscellany. Members of the shul have already been acquainted with one such she’elah: what should one do if, in the middle of one’s Shemon’Esrei, one remembers that one has already davened it earlier (you can enjoy Rabbi Kenigsberg’s mini-shiur on this issue here). 

This book covers lots of important topics. For example:

• Bathroom breaks during tefillah
• Berachot over pizza
• Using a dishwasher with a timer on Shabbat
• The correct routine for lighting one’s Chanukiah when coming home late
• Selling sifrei Torah that are too heavy for an ageing community
• Hosting a difficult guest
• Thanking Hashem after a “false alarm”
• Veganism
• Charging for incidental work that was not originally discussed.

We have this volume in our Beit Midrash library—but you don’t have to come to shul to borrow it. The full text is available online from the Eretz Chemdah website here. And if you want to test yourself against the book by reading the source materials and seeking to reach your own conclusions, these materials are also available online, here.

The Quiet Strength of Continuity: Toledot 5786

This piece was first published in yesterday's Hanassi Highlights.  To read it in Ivrit, courtesy of AI, click here.

n March 1921 Winston Churchill, the British Colonial Secretary of the time, visited the young city of Tel Aviv. Eager to present the best possible impression, Meir Dizengoff, the city’s mayor, arranged for palm trees to be planted along the still-bare Rothschild Boulevard. As the procession moved down the street, the crowd began to climb the newly planted trees to get a better view. The trees promptly collapsed. Churchill turned to Dizengoff and remarked dryly: “Roots, Mr. Dizengoff—without roots, it won’t work.”

That observation serves as an unexpected introduction to Parashat Toledot, the only parasha focused squarely on Yitzchak Avinu. If Avraham’s life is marked by drama, movement, and sweeping transformation, Yitzchak’s seems almost muted by comparison. He stays in the Land and avoids conflict. The Torah devotes its longest narrative about him to the redigging of wells his father had dug—even preserving their original names.

Yet it is precisely here that we encounter the depth of Yitzchak’s greatness.

Beginning a revolution is bold; ensuring that it endures is far more demanding. Avraham’s role was to introduce an entirely new spiritual vision to the world. Yitzchak’s was to ensure that vision took root—that it would not disappear once the initial excitement faded.

But genuine continuity is never mere imitation. Yitzchak could not simply repeat Avraham’s actions; his world was different, his generation different, and the spiritual challenges he faced required a distinct response. Redigging the wells was an act of renewal, not nostalgia: the same water, the same values,but drawn in a way that his generation could understand.

Rav Soloveitchik notes this idea in his explanation of the Midrash that Avraham and Yitzchak looked identical. Rashi explains that this was to silence the “leitzanei hador” —the scoffers of the generation—who questioned whether Avraham had truly fathered Yitzchak. Rav Soloveitchik explains that the critics of the time were not merely questioning biological lineage. They were doubting whether Avraham’s achievements could truly be transmitted. Could a new generation genuinely carry forward the ideals of the previous one? Would Avraham’s covenant endure, or would it fade with him?

The Torah’s emphatic answer, “Avraham holid et Yitzchak”, affirms that the legacy did, in fact, take root. The values endured. The wells flowed again.

This remains one of the central tasks of Jewish life. Each generation receives a precious inheritance, yet each must dig again. Circumstances shift, language shifts, cultural assumptions shift—but the underlying waters remain unchanged. The work of preserving the mesorah is not passive; it calls for sensitivity, wisdom, and creativity.

Yitzchak reminds us that continuity is courageous. It is the quiet heroism of ensuring that something ancient remains vibrant and life-giving even as the world changes around it. May we continue to draw from those wells with strength and clarity.

Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

Non-Jewish wisdom and personal growth: a Torah perspective

 “Chochmah Bagoyim Ta’amin”: A Torah Perspective on Modern Classics of Personal Growth” was the title of the Munch & Lunch discussion led by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg for the members of Beit Knesset Hanassi last Sunday. The following are notes on this sesssion that were kindly taken by Dr Pessy Krausz:

In his fascinating combination of sources, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg laced his introduction to the subject with ideas drawn from a non-Jewish author, Greg McKeown.  Although McKeown’s basic concepts were published as a self-help book as recently as 2014, Rabbi Kenigsberg developed them further by drawing on Judaism’s more ancient sources—among them the writings of Rabbis Aharon Lichtenstein and Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, Avraham Kook, the Rambam as well as Kohelet and the Shulchan Aruch. 

Rabbi Kenigsberg introduced the topic pointing to Avraham’s response to the Hittites living in Canaan, "ger v'etoshav anochi imachem" (“a stranger and a resident am I among you”), when he was negotiating the purchase of a burial place for his wife Sarah (Bereishit 23:4). This phrase highlights Abraham's status as an outsider who was living among the local population but did not yet own any land there. His situation mirrors a primary as well as secondary aspect: he was a stranger and resident. Which was more essential for Abraham? The topic led to considering the viewpoint of Rabbi Hirsch that Torah study should be a primary objective which can be applied to scientific studies since Torah contains intrinsic truths. The problem arises when the reverse exists. Therefore individuals must decide which is essential and which secondary—and  how to apportion time and focus. 

Rabbi Kenigsberg discussed how this dilemma has echoes in the concept of McKeown’s  Essentialism, where he makes a compelling case for achieving more by doing less. The author aks: 

Have you ever found yourself struggling with information overload? Have you ever felt both overworked and underutilised? Do you ever feel busy but not productive? If you answered yes to any of these, the way out is to become an essentialist—the pursuit of less. Acquiring clarity of focus which requires the ability to say 'no'.  

 More easily said than done!

 A 2012 New York Times article, “The busy track”, suggested that being busy is a boast disguised as a complaint. The problem is to prioritise. Rather than do more, try to do less.

This idea is reflected in Kohelet Rabbah. When a person leaves this world, he has not fulfilled half of what he wanted to achieve. Activity and spirituality may not be in accord. But for Mesillat Yesharim, one’s spiritual drive is to be ever closer to Hashem. 

Rabbi Kenigsberg drew on four guidelines in Essentialism, linking them to Jewish sources.

 1. Zehirut = Mindfulness. Be aware of what we are doing. Sometimes we are doing so much it could be called “Motion sickness”! Rambam’s chilling insight into “busy-ness” is that, at the end of the day, we have nothing to show for it.

 2. Saying No. It takes courage to eliminate the inessential. Kohelet offers a framework. For everything there is a season under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck, a time for war and a time for peace. This suggests there is a time for everything—but not all at the same time. Even though there is a time to laugh and a time to cry during the this traumatic war in Israel and Gaza which began on 7 October 2023 we sadly seem to laugh and cry at the same time. 

3. Trade-offs. Life is said to be a process of trade-offs. When we say “yes” to something we say “no” to something else.  We must know our priorities. A non-essentialist approaches every trade-off by asking, "How can I do both?" Essentialists ask the tougher but ultimately more liberating question, "Which problem do I want?" An essentialist makes trade-offs deliberately. A Torah example of priorities comes in the request of the tribes of Gad and Reuven (later joined by the half the tribe of Manasseh) They declare to Moses their wish to remain on the east side of the Jordan River, reasoning that it would provide a fertile environment for their cattle and children. Assuring Moses that they would leave all, should war be declared, joining their brethren and leading the fight. In repeating their claim Moses inverted the order, putting children before cattle and thus highlighting priorities.   

 4 Margins. We see margins round the edges of articles in books and between paragraphs. These create space and make words meaningful. In the same way we need to create marginal space in life to help us focus. Shabbat and Shmittah make us pause and give us built-in opportunities to reflect. 

Rabbi Kenigsberg concluded this exercise by quoting Hillel’s guideline (see Avot 2:5):

 Do not say “I will study Torah when I have time frfom my obligations”. Rather, “I will make time for Torah study and then continue with my other obligations”.