Counting Days, Transforming Life: The Journey of the Omer

Sefirat HaOmer is more than an exercise in practical Jewish arithmetic: it is a process that has layers of significance for each of us individually, if we open ourselves to its message of self-improvement through internalization. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains.

The Question of Time

The pasuk in Tehillim says:

לִמְנוֹת יָמֵינוּ, כֵּן הוֹדַע; וְנָבִא, לְבַב חָכְמָה

“Teach us to count our days, and we will come to a heart of wisdom (Tehillim 90:12)

At first glance, it sounds simple. Count your days. But the more you think about it, the more difficult it becomes. What does it mean to count days? We don’t just count days like numbers—1, 2, 3. We live them. So what does the Torah want from us when it commands us—once a year—to count every single day? Because right now, we are in the middle of a mitzvah that appears deceptively simple, ספירת העומר. And yet, it is one of the most profound avodot of the entire year.

The Great Contradiction – Chametz and Matzah

Let us begin with a basic question. Pesach demands something radical. the total elimination of chametz. Not just avoidance—but destruction. Chametz represents ego, inflation, physical desire and the yetzer hara. We burn it. We nullify it. We remove it completely.

But then, only 50 days later, on Shavuot, what is the central korban? שתי הלחם — two loaves of chametz, not matzah. And this chametz is not only allowed; it is brought into the Beit HaMikdash itself.

How is this possible? How do we go from total rejection of chametz to elevation of chametz? What bridges that gap? The answer is ספירת העומר.

Why Is It Called “Omer”?

Let’s ask a second question. Why do we call this mitzvah ספירת העומר? “Omer” is just a measurement, like a kezayit or a revi’it. We don’t call kiddush “the mitzvah of the revi’it”; we don’t call matzah “the mitzvah of the kezayit.” So why here is the mitzvah defined by a measurement? Clearly “omer” means something deeper.

A Radical Insight: The Meaning of “Omer”

The deeper explanation—based on classical מפרשים—is that the word “עומר” is related to התעמר – to dominate, to subjugate, to take control. The Torah uses this word in the context of enslaving or dominating another person. This sounds negative—but here is the transformation. Sefirat HaOmer is the process of learning to dominate not others but yourself. your instincts, your impulses and your desires—day by day, step by step.

The Journey – From Rejection to Transformation

Now we understand the journey. Pesach is not the goal. Pesach is just the beginning. At Pesach, we say “Remove the chametz; separate from it; distance yourself.”. But that is not the end. because Judaism does not believe in escaping the physical world: Judaism believes in transforming it. And that is the purpose of the Omer: to take everything that chametz represents—desire, drive, ego and ambition—and slowly refine it, not to destroy it but to elevate it.

Serving Hashem with Both Yetzarim

This leads us to a famous teaching of Chazal:

וְאָהַבְתָּ אֵת ה׳ אֱלֹקֶיךָ בְּכָל לְבָבְךָ

בשני יצריך – ביצר טוב וביצר הרע

“You shall love Hashem with all your heart”—with both inclinations” (Berachot 54a).

But how is that possible? How can the yetzer hara be used for Hashem? The answer is that you don’t eliminate it. you redirect it. Aggression becomes courage. Desire becomes passion for mitzvot. Ambition becomes drive for growth.

The Rambam – A Life of Total Integration

Maimonides writes: שֶׁיְּהֵא כָּל מַעֲשֶׂיךָ לְשֵׁם שָׁמַיִם (הלכות דעות ג׳:ב׳): “All your actions should be for the sake of Heaven”. This is how he explains it: even: eating. working. exercising and earning a living can all become avodat Hashem if they are directed toward serving Hashem. That is the goal of Sefirat HaOmer: to transform life itself into avodat Hashem.

The Deeper Meaning of Counting

Now we return to our opening pasuk: לִמְנוֹת יָמֵינוּ כֵּן הוֹדַע. Why does it say “count our days”? The answer is that counting is not about numbers: ounting is about value. When something matters—you count it. When something is precious—you don’t let it pass unnoticed. Sefirat HaOmer teaches us that every day matters, every day can elevate, every day can transform.

Conclusion: From Matzah to Chametz

Now we understand the journey. Pesach says:”Leave Mitzrayim” but Shavuot says: “Transform yourself” Pesach removes chametz, while Shavuot brings chametz into the Beit HaMikdash. This is because the goal is not to escape the world but to elevate it.

Final Message

Each night we say: “Today is day 1… day 2… day 3…” but we are not counting days. We are building a person, day by day, layer by layer. In doing so we take everything we are—and slowly transforming it into something holy. This is so that, by the time we reach Shavuot, we are no longer the same person who left Pesach. We are someone who has learned not just how to reject the negative but how to transform it into Kedusha.

If we live that way, then we are not just counting the Omer. We are becoming it.

 

The Discipline of Being Seen

 In the lives of every one of us we find ourselves occupying a space in which what we are does not match the image we seek to project or the person we purport to be. Which is the role, which is the reality--and is there a way to bridge or synthesize them? Starting with the position of the kohen in parashat Emor, our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger probes this fascinating topic.

There are moments when a person becomes aware of himself in a way he wasn’t a moment before. He is speaking casually, saying something he would not normally think twice about, when he realizes something: someone else is listening. Not just present, but listening closely. The sentence finishes differently than it would have otherwise. His tone shifts, almost without deciding to. Or he walks into a room, expecting to pass through unnoticed, and sees someone watching him—someone whose opinion matters to him—and suddenly the way he stands, where he looks, even how he moves his hands feels less automatic. Nothing external has changed. But it is no longer entirely his own.

Most of life moves without that kind of awareness. He acts, corrects himself, adjusts quietly. But there are moments when that space narrows, and what he does begins to carry a different weight.

The Torah opens parashat Emor by placing the kohen into that kind of life. “לְנֶפֶשׁ לֹא יִטַּמָּא”—he is not to become impure through contact with the dead. It is a simple instruction, but it draws a line. Not everywhere, not always—but in certain moments, he must hold himself back. And he must do so not because he fully understands why, but because this is now part of the life he carries.

At first, that kind of boundary feels external, something imposed. A rule to follow, a line not to cross. Over time, it begins to work more quietly. It changes how a person moves through the world. He starts to notice things differently, hesitating in places he once would have passed through without thought. What began as restraint becomes part of how he sees.

The kohen lives inside that shift. His life does not disappear into the ordinary flow around him, because the boundaries he carries are not occasional—they shape where he goes, what he enters into, and what he holds back from. There are moments others pass through without thinking that he must pause before, or step away from entirely. Over time, those pauses begin to form a pattern. They do not constantly draw attention, but they are enough to give his life a different contour. The Maharal describes kedushah as a kind of separation that allows something to become defined (Tiferet Yisrael, ch. 2). It is not distance for its own sake, but the kind that gives form. Without it, everything blends together. With it, a life begins to take on clearer lines.

It carries a quiet weight. Most of us move with the ability to adjust quietly, to shift, to correct, to hold contradictions without anyone fully seeing them. The kohen has less of that space. His life leaves less room for that kind of quiet revision. The question for him is not only what is right, but how it appears in practice.

Rav Hirsch writes that the kohen’s role is not to escape the world, but to give form to it—to live in a way that makes certain values visible, almost tangible (Horeb, §467). The discipline is not about distance for its own sake. It is about living in a way that can be recognized without needing explanation. It is possible to learn where to stand, what to avoid, how to carry oneself within clear lines. But that kind of formation does not always move inward at the same pace. Sometimes the pattern settles first, and the person is still catching up to it.

And that is where a quieter tension begins to appear. Form can arrive before alignment. A life can take on the appearance of precision before the inside has settled into it. When that happens, the structure does not collapse—it holds. What begins to thin is something less visible: the sense that the life being lived is actually one’s own.

This tension is not unique to the kohen. It appears whenever a person is asked to live inside a form that carries more than he has yet made his own. Sometimes the structure holds steady, while the person within it is still trying to settle into it. And when that gap widens, it does not always show on the surface right away—but it is there.

Black Swan (2010) follows that movement from the inside. The film centers on Nina, a young ballerina cast in the lead role in Swan Lake, a ballet that demands not only technical precision but emotional transformation. From the outside, her life looks like discipline carried to its highest form—hours of practice, relentless control, exact movement. But as the pressure of the role intensifies, something inside begins to fracture. She can execute every movement flawlessly, but she cannot hold herself together in the same way. The more she perfects what can be seen, the less stable she becomes beneath it. The structure does not fail her. It moves ahead of her.

The kohen is asked to live close to that edge, but not to cross it. Not to become perfect, but to become aligned—to allow the outer form to grow out of something inward that has stopped pulling in different directions. That does not happen all at once. It does not even happen cleanly. It develops unevenly, often in ways that are difficult to measure from the outside.

There is a story told about Yisrael of Ruzhin that captures this in a way explanation does not. His court was known for its refinement—everything deliberate, measured, almost regal. To some it felt elevated; to others, distant. One winter evening, after days of travel over frozen roads, a young man arrived at the edge of the beit midrash. He stood there for a long moment before stepping in, letting his eyes adjust to the light, taking in the stillness of the room.

When he moved forward, his boots left faint traces of slush on the wooden floor. He noticed it immediately and shifted, as though he could erase it by standing differently. The Rebbe was sitting among a small group, speaking quietly. Nothing about the scene called attention to itself. That was part of what unsettled him.

When the room thinned, the young man came closer. “Rebbe,” he said, his voice low, “I don’t know how to be here. Everything feels so…put together. I try to hold myself like this, to be more careful, more exact. But it doesn’t feel real. It feels like I’m copying something that isn’t mine.”

The Ruzhiner looked at him—not quickly, not searchingly, just long enough that the young man felt himself slow down. “You think this begins here,” he said, motioning lightly around the room.

The young man did not answer.

The Rebbe reached out and adjusted the edge of the tablecloth, almost without thinking. “What you see,” he continued, “is what remains when something inside has stopped arguing with itself.”

The words did not resolve anything immediately. The young man stood there, unsure whether he understood. “Don’t try to live like this,” the Rebbe added. “You will only learn how to look like it. Find the place where you are not divided—even if it is small. Stay there. Let that grow. The rest will come when it can.”

Nothing in the room changed. The same order remained. But it no longer felt like something he had to imitate. It felt, instead, like something that could emerge.

The Beit Yaakov of Izbica warns that the danger of visible kedushah is not that it is insincere, but that it can be misunderstood—that a person can begin to live toward the form instead of from the source (Beit Yaakov, Emor). When that happens, the structure holds, but the life inside it becomes increasingly thin.

The Torah seems to anticipate that risk. It does not begin by asking the kohen to feel different. It asks him to live differently—to hold a boundary, to remain within it, to let it shape him slowly until the outer line and the inner life begin to meet. The movement is quiet, almost invisible. Over time, something changes—not only in what is done, but in who is doing it.

At the end of Black Swan, Nina reaches the performance she has been chasing. From the outside, it is flawless. Every movement lands. Every gesture aligns. For a moment, everything holds. “I was perfect,” she says.

But it is not clear who remains to say it.

The Torah asks for something quieter, and in some ways more demanding—not perfection, but wholeness. A life in which what is seen is not ahead of what is lived, and what is lived does not need to hide behind what is seen.

That kind of life does not arrive all at once. It grows slowly, often in ways that are difficult to recognize while they are happening. He begins to find a place where he is a little less divided than before, holds it, returns to it, and gradually allows more of his life to gather there.

The kohen lives inside that process. Not fully resolved, not hidden—just steadily becoming. And perhaps that is the deeper demand—not that the form already be complete, but that it become real enough that, over time, nothing needs to be added to it from the outside.

 

The Many Dimensions of Kedusha

What does Kedusha really mean? Is it just a word on the page, a theoretical concept  or an object of reverence and awe? No, says our member Rabbi Paul Bloom, it's a valuable component of our daily lives -- or should be. Here's how he puts it:

There is a pasuk, almost hidden in the middle of the parashah, that at first glance seems like just another line—but in truth, it is a foundation stone of Jewish life. The Torah says:

וְנִקְדַּשְׁתִּי בְּתוֹךְ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל

 “I shall be sanctified among the Children of Israel” (Vayikra 22:32).

This pasuk appears just before the Torah launches into the entire system of the מועדים—the rhythm of Shabbat and Yom Tov that shapes the Jewish year. But why here? Why does the Torah place this seemingly general command right at this transition point? Because this pasuk is not just one idea—it is three layers of Kedusha, each deeper than the next.

Kedusha Requires a Community

Chazal derive from here a powerful halachic principle:

דבר שבקדושה אינו נאמר בפחות מעשרה

Matters of sanctity—Kaddish, Kedusha, Barechu—require a minyan.Why? Because true Kedusha is not achieved alone. A person can daven alone. A person can learn alone. But there is a higher level—a moment where we are lifted beyond ourselves—where we stand not as individuals, but as part of Klal Yisrael: “ונקדשתי בתוך בני ישראל”—within Bnei Yisrael.

Kedusha happens in the midst of the people. This is a profound idea: holiness is not just an internal feeling. It is something that emerges between people, in connection, in shared purpose.

Kedusha as Mesirut Nefesh – Kiddush Hashem

Chazal understand that this pasuk also speaks about something far more extreme: קידוש השם—the willingness to give up one’s life rather than desecrate Hashem’s Name. Maimonides, in Hilchot Yesodei HaTorah (Chapter 5), explains when a Jew is obligated, רח״ל, to sacrifice his life rather than transgress. Throughout history, countless Jews have done exactly that—choosing faith over survival. But this idea is not just historical. It is alive today. We see it in the soldiers of the IDF—young men and women who knowingly place themselves in danger to protect Klal Yisrael.

The Inner Meaning – Avoiding Emptiness

But there is a third, deeper interpretation, brought by the Maharal of Prague.The word “חלול”—desecration—also relates to חלל, an empty space. The Torah is telling us:

ולא תחללו את שם קדשי

 Do not make your life into a vacuum—an empty space devoid of Hashem.

Every person experiences moments of emptiness—moments of disconnection, lack of meaning. When that happens, the instinct is to distract ourselves, to numb the feeling. But the Torah says: that is not the solution.The solution is ונקדשתי: Fill the space—not with distraction—but with Kedusha. Reconnect through Torah, Tefillah amd connection to Klal Yisrael. These are not just mitzvot—they are the antidote to emptiness.

Three Levels, One Life

This single pasuk now emerges as a blueprint for life:

1. Communal Kedusha – You cannot reach the highest levels alone
2. Mesirut Nefesh – A life devoted to something greater than yourself
3. Inner Kedusha – Filling the emptiness with connection to Hashem

And perhaps that is why this pasuk introduces the מועדים. Because Shabbat and Yom Tov are exactly this: communal. Elevating and deeply meaningful. They teach us how to live a life that is not empty—but full.

Takeaway

When a person feels distant… disconnected… empty…the Torah does not say: distract yourself. The Torah says:ונקדשתי בתוך בני ישראל Find Kedusha. Reconnect—to Hashem, to Torah, to Klal Yisrael. And in doing so, we transform not only moments but our entire lives into a living Kiddush Hashem “בתוך בני ישראל” – In the midst of the People.

Let me close with a story, not from long ago. not from history—but from now. A young man—19 years old—leaves his home, his family, everything familiar, and enters the battlefield. He is not a general.  He is not a hero in the conventional sense.  He is just one individual—one Jew.

In the chaos of battle, a fellow soldier is struck and falls—wounded, exposed, completely vulnerable. There are snipers.  There is crossfire.  No one can reach him. And in that moment, everything we spoke about becomes real. This young man has a choice. He can stay safe—after all, what can one person do? Or he can act.

He jumps out.He runs into danger. He reaches the fallen soldier—but he cannot lift him—too heavy, too exposed, too dangerous. So what does he do?

He wraps his arms around him, holds him tightly and begins to roll. Slowly. Painfully. Dangerously. Rolling together—one Jew holding another—until they reach safety.

Later, they asked him:“What were you thinking?” And he answered with words that capture the entire drasha: “He’s one of us.”

The Closing Message

That is the meaning of:וְנִקְדַּשְׁתִּי בְּתוֹךְ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל. Kedusha is not abstract. It is not theoretical. It is not something we only find in a ספר. It is what happens when a Jew sees another Jew and says:“He’s one of us.”

At the beginning, we asked:why the Torah says that Kedusha must be “בתוך בני ישראל” Now we understand. Because Kedusha is not created in isolation. It is created in a minyan, in mesirut nefesh, in moments of connection and in refusing to live a life of emptiness. And sometimes—it is created when one Jew is willing to roll through danger just to save another.

Epilogue

If we can live with that awareness— If we can see every Jew as “one of us”—then our lives will not be empty. They will be filled with Kedusha. And we will not only speak about Kiddush Hashem—we will become it.

Sacred Time and Real Life: Where Ideals Meet Reality (Emor 5786)

This post is also available on Hanassi Highlights and, in Ivrit (thanks to ChatGPT) here.

 At first glance, the Torah’s presentation of the festivals in Parshat Emor appears carefully structured and complete. From Pesach, through Sefirat HaOmer to Shavuot, and onward to the Yamim Noraim and Sukkot, the parsha maps out the sanctity of Jewish time with precision. Yet in the midst of this ordered sequence, a seemingly unrelated verse appears:

“When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not completely remove the corners of your field… you shall leave them for the poor and for the stranger.”

Why interrupt a discussion of sacred time with agricultural laws of charity?

One approach, offered by the Ramban, reframes the question entirely. This verse, he suggests, is not a general repetition of the laws of pe’ah and leket, but refers specifically to ketzirat haOmer—the harvest performed for the sake of bringing an offering in the Beit HaMikdash. The Torah is teaching that, even when one is engaged in a lofty spiritual act, one must not lose sight of the needs of others. Devotion to Hashem does not exempt us from human responsibility; it demands it.

But the message does not run in only one direction. The Torah is not diminishing the importance of mitzvot or spiritual aspiration—far from it. The festivals themselves, and the entire surrounding framework, testify to the centrality of sacred time and divine service. Rather, the Torah is weaving together two dimensions that must remain inseparable: commitment to Hashem and sensitivity to people.

A second approach helps sharpen this point further. The placement of these laws here may indeed relate to Shavuot – the time of the giving of the Torah. The Torah deliberately shifts from the Beit HaMikdash to the field, from sacred ritual to the demands of physical labor. Because the true test of Torah is not in a protected, “sterile” environment, but precisely there—in the sweat and strain of a long day’s work.

It is relatively easy to live a life of Torah in moments of inspiration, in the Beit Midrash, or immersed in the sanctity of Yom Tov. The real question is whether that same Torah accompanies us into the field—into the pressures of work, the frustrations of daily life, and the complexity of human interaction. Does it still guide us when we are tired, preoccupied, or stretched? Does it shape not only what we aspire to, but how we act?

That is why this verse appears here. The journey from Pesach to Shavuot is not only a movement through sacred time; it is a movement toward integrating Torah into life itself. The mitzvot of the festivals and the mitzvot of the field are not competing values, but complementary ones. One without the other is incomplete.

Parshat Emor reminds us that a life of Torah is measured not only by moments of elevation, nor only by acts of kindness, but by the ability to hold both together—faithfully, consistently, and even under pressure.

Shabbat Shalom!

When the Sacred Becomes Familiar: Acharei Mot 5786

 This piece was originally posted in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 23 April 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

Parashat Acharei Mot opens with a striking instruction. Before describing the sacred service of Yom Kippur, the Torah warns that even Aharon, the Kohen Gadol, may not enter the Holy of Holies “at all times.” Rashi explains that it is precisely because the Divine Presence rests there that one must avoid becoming too accustomed to it. The greatest spiritual experiences lose their impact when they become routine. Even holiness can be dulled by familiarity.

A similar idea appears in the Navi: one who enters the Beit HaMikdash through one gate must leave through another. Even retracing the same steps risks diminishing the uniqueness of the encounter. The Torah alerts us to a basic truth about human nature: habit reshapes perception. What is repeated often enough begins to feel ordinary—even when it is anything but.

This challenge is not confined to the Beit HaMikdash. It is woven into the fabric of everyday life. Moments that once felt extraordinary—moments of clarity, gratitude, even transformation—gradually recede as routine reasserts itself. The intensity fades, not because the reality has changed, but because we have grown used to it.

And that same dynamic shapes our relationship to Eretz Yisrael. Living through the miraculous return to our homeland after centuries of exile, do we still experience a sense of wonder? Or has the extraordinary quietly become familiar?

In 1967, in the immediate aftermath of the Six-Day War, Rabbi Norman Lamm cautioned that if we do not open our eyes, we may fail to recognize a “giluy Shechinah” unfolding before us. The danger is not only denial—it is habituation. When something becomes part of the texture of daily life, we cease to see it for what it truly is.

Perhaps the avodah of our time is not to seek constant intensity, but to guard against indifference.

To notice again what we have begun to take for granted. To approach familiar mitzvot with fresh attention. To speak and think in a way that reflects awareness rather than assumption. Above all, to ensure that what is sacred does not become merely routine.

The Torah’s message is both simple and demanding: do not become too familiar. Because when we preserve that sense of awareness, we allow even the ordinary to become a space in which the Divine presence can once again be felt.

Shabbat Shalom!

Where the Same Life Begins to Move

 How do we measure change in a lifestyle that appears to consist of nothing but endlessly repeating cycles of action and consequence? Is growth even possible in such a cycle? Perhaps it is not merely possible but essential. Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger explains.

There are stretches of life that feel settled long before anything has actually settled. Not peaceful—just patterned. A person moves through the same responses, restrains himself where he knows he must, fails where he has failed before, and returns again without anything clearly breaking or resolving. It does not feel like movement. It feels like continuation.

Into that eixtence the Torah speaks without waiting for proof—kedoshim tihyu. Not after change, not once something has shifted, but as if the shift is already underway—and as if it is meant to reach a place where it can remain. This makes the Ramban’s warning harder to ignore: a person can live fully within the framework of Torah and remain essentially unchanged—not because he is doing anything wrong, but because nothing in him is actually moving. The actions may be correct, even consistent, yet they can settle into a kind of spiritual stillness where a person is no longer growing, only subsisting. And that is the danger—not failure, but stagnation; not distance, but sameness. A life that appears complete can quietly lose its sense of becoming.

From the inside, though, that sameness is not experienced as a concept but as repetition. You return to the same impatience, the same lapse in attention, the same quiet compromise. You try again, and it unfolds again. After a while, even effort begins to feel like part of the pattern—movement that does not seem to lead anywhere.

Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen writes that the deepest forms of change often take place beneath the level at which a person expects to recognize them, so that from within they can feel indistinguishable from standing still (Pri Tzadik, Kedoshim). That claim is difficult not because it is abstract, but because it asks a person to take seriously what he cannot yet see.

Still, something begins to give—not in the outcome, which may return as before, but in the experience of it. There are moments, brief and unsettled, in which a person registers what is happening even as it unfolds. He does not stop it. He does not redirect it. But he is no longer entirely carried by it. That does not resolve the pattern. But it alters it. The next time he returns, it is not quite untouched. Something of what was seen remains, and the repetition, though familiar, no longer feels entirely closed.

The Noam Elimelech describes holiness not as leaving the ordinary, but as refusing to disappear completely into it (Noam Elimelech, Kedoshim). Not escape—interruption. And what interrupts does not vanish. It leaves something behind, subtle but persistent, that begins to gather across returns.

In Whiplash (2014), a young drummer is driven back into the same passages again and again, each return stripping away whatever sense of mastery he thought he had achieved. The music itself does not change, but his encounter with it does. With each repetition, he becomes more precisely aware of where control breaks—not once, but in a way that begins to accumulate. The failure remains, but it no longer lands on untouched ground.

That awareness does not protect him. It unsettles him. He is no longer carried by habit, but not yet able to hold something new. And yet the repetitions are no longer empty. Each return sharpens something, builds something, even as it destabilizes him.

Rabbi Shlomo Wolbe once listened to a student describe how he kept returning to the same struggles despite sustained effort—the same lapses, the same inability to hold onto clarity.

“I don’t see that anything is changing,” the student said.

Rav Wolbe was quiet.

“When you return,” he asked, “is it exactly the same place?”

“It feels the same.”

“Does it feel as comfortable as it once did?”

The student paused.

“No. I notice it more.”

Rav Wolbe nodded.

“Then you are not in the same place.”

He did not say the pattern would break. Only that something within it had already begun to shift—and that what shifts, even without stabilizing, is not without direction.

And over time, that direction begins to register. Not as a clear transformation, and not as something that can yet be held, but as a quiet certainty that the effort is not empty. That what once felt like circling has begun, almost without announcement, to move forward. The same struggles remain—but they no longer feel meaningless. There is something in them now that points beyond them.

The Kedushat Levi writes that holiness is not something a person enters and remains within at once, but something he turns toward repeatedly until it can begin to hold (Kedushat Levi, Kedoshim). This means that the repetition is not a failure of change—it is the form that change takes before it becomes strong enough to remain.

At the end of Whiplash, nothing is resolved. The performance does not prove stability or mastery. But it reveals something that cannot be undone: the same act is no longer inhabited in the same way. What has been built—uneven, incomplete—has begun to take form.

And perhaps that is what the Torah is naming—not a holiness that appears all at once, but one that is formed through returns that are never entirely the same, until, at some point that cannot be clearly marked. What once felt like repetition is recognized as progress— and the life that seemed to be circling begins, quietly, to move toward and is now something that can endure eternally.

Seeing the Extraordinary: Tazria-Metzora 5786

This devar Torah by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first posted in the Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 16 April 2026.  You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

Parashat Tazria–Metzora confronts us with one of the Torah’s most unusual phenomena: tzara’at. Often (mis)translated as “leprosy,” it was far more than a medical condition. It affected not only the body, but even clothing and homes.

There were those who sought to explain it in purely natural terms. Some suggested that discoloration in houses was simply the result of damp or mould. However, the dominant voice of our mesorah—including such giants as the Ramban and the Rambam—insists that tzara’at was not a natural illness at all, but a Divine sign: a spiritual phenomenon requiring the intervention not of a doctor, but of a Kohen.

What is remarkable is not only the phenomenon itself, but the disagreement about how to understand it.

The striking point is this: even something as extraordinary as tzara’at could be explained away. Throughout the generations, there were those who reduced it to a natural occurrence. When a person’s vision is limited, even the most remarkable events can appear mundane. Even what is meant to awaken us can be dismissed as ordinary. The question is not only what is happening before our eyes—but whether we are prepared to see it for what it is.

The Gemara (Arachin 16a) teaches that tzara’at comes as a consequence of various moral failings, most notably lashon hara. Among them appears a less obvious trait: tzarut ayin—narrowness of eye. Beyond stinginess, it reflects a constricted way of seeing the world: a failure to recognize significance, to appreciate what lies before us.

That insight is deeply relevant to the days in which we find ourselves.

We stand once again in the shadow of uncertainty. Ongoing conflict has brought disruption, tension, and a fragile reality that may yet shift again.

And yet, at the same time, we approach Yom Ha’atzmaut—the anniversary of the restoration of Jewish sovereignty in our land after nearly two thousand years, something that within living memory seemed impossible.

The danger is not that we see the challenges—it is that we see only the challenges.

To live with tzarut ayin is to look at the events of Jewish history unfolding before our eyes and interpret them as merely political, merely military, merely coincidental. To see with openness is to recognize something larger at play: the ingathering of exiles, the rebuilding of a homeland, the resilience of a people under fire.

We are living through a chapter of Jewish history that previous generations could scarcely imagine. Like tzara’at, it can be viewed in different ways. One can explain it away. Or one can recognize it for what it may be: an extraordinary unfolding of Divine providence.

In a week that moves from remembrance to celebration—from Yom HaShoah to Yom HaZikaron and Yom Ha’atzmaut—the challenge is not only to feel, but to see.

To resist tzarut ayin.
To widen our vision.
And to recognize the fulfillment of Divine promise unfolding before our very eyes.

Shabbat Shalom!

Weighed in the balance

This week's Pirkei Avot reading is perek 2. Here for this Shabbat is a post from that chapter that discusses an unusual issue: an apparent dispute between two rabbis over which of two distinguished sages is "weightier".  

In Avot 2:11 Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai praises the different qualities of two of his five best talmidim. Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus is the "sealed cistern" who retains his vast corpus of learning, while Rabbi Elazar ben Arach is the "irrepressible spring" from which fresh Torah continues to gush. Which of these rabbis is the greater scholar?

According to Avot 2:12:

He [i.e. Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai] used to say, “If all the wise men of Israel were on one side of the scales and Eliezer ben Hyrcanus was on the other side, he would outweigh them all.”

Abba Sha’ul says in his name, “If all the wise men of Israel were on one side of the scales, and Eliezer ben Hyrcanus was with them too, but Elazar ben Arach was on the other side, he would outweigh them all.”

How might we account for this apparent discrepancy between Rabban Yochanan’s words as cited by him with those quoted by his contemporary, Abba Sha’ul? There are several possible explanations. For example, it could be that

1. The original version is correct and Abba Sha’ul’s is not;

2. The original version is wrong and Abba Sha’ul’s is right;

3. A muddle has arisen on account of the similarity of the frequently-confused names of Eliezer and Elazar, with Abba Sha’ul seeking to clarify that it was Rabbi Elazar and not Rabbi Eliezer upon whom Rabban Yochanan wished to confer the accolade;

4. Both versions were correct at the time when they were spoken: Abba Sha’ul records the fact that, while Rabbi Yochanan initially held Rabbi Eliezer in higher regard than Rabbi Elazar, he subsequently changed his mind;

5. Both versions were correct at the time when they were spoken: the first statement was made before Rabbi Elazar appeared on the scene, but later revised in order to take his learning into account;

6. The first version was intended for public consumption, while the second was intended for the ears of Abba Sha’ul alone;

7. Both versions are correct: Rabban Yochanan however said them in different circumstances and they relate to different qualities possessed by Rabbis Eliezer and Elazar.

Given that both statements have been collated in Avot and passed down faithfully for getting on for two millennia, it is suggested that the correct approach to them should be to seek to validate and reconcile them both, if that is possible. In evaluating the possibility of a reconciliation, we should also recognize that, while argument and dispute are the life-blood of the Oral Torah, it is not normally the way of the Mishnah for any Tanna to seek to embarrass or overtly contradict another. Appreciating that the reputations of Rabban Yochanan, Abba Sha’ul, Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Elazar are at stake, we should not be quick to assume that Abba Sha’ul was either correcting Rabban Yochanan or trying to catch him out—or indeed that the praise of Rabbi Eliezer was given at the expense of Rabbi Elazar, or vice versa.

Seeking a positive reconciliation of the two statements, Rabbi Ovadyah Sforno points to a dispute in the Talmud (Berachot 64a, Horayot 14a) over whether it is better to be “Sinai”—the mountain on which the Torah was given to Israel—or “one who uproots mountains.” Here “Sinai” is a shorthand expression for a person who possesses a vast and all-encompassing database of Torah knowledge, while the “uprooter of mountains” is the master of dialectics who, with that database at hand, can deduce fresh rules and correctly apply them.

Rabbi Eliezer, the cemented cistern that retains everything, would appear to be the epitome of “Sinai,” while the irrepressible spring symbolizes the spontaneous application of reasoning techniques by Rabbi Elazar.

Before any Torah can be taught and transmitted, “Sinai” is preferable since it is impossible to derive fresh concepts from earlier ones if that earlier, necessary knowledge is unavailable. However, once that necessary Torah data is supplied, the “uprooter of mountains” comes into his own since he can raise our understanding of Torah to new heights. In other words, in terms of raw Torah data, Rabbi Eliezer outweighs the rest, while Rabbi Elazar tips the balance when it comes to deductive prowess. Which takes precedence? We rule in favour of the Tanna Kama of Rabban Yochanan against Abba Sha’ul (see discussion of Maharam Shik on this point).

The idea that, without Torah, there is no basis for reasoning but, without reasoning, there is no functional utility in learning Torah, is echoed by a metaphor in a later Mishnah (“… if there is no flour, there is no Torah; if there is no Torah, there is no flour”: Avot 3:21). Torah is the wheat, as it were, which is only made digestible when it is ground into flour—but without Torah there is no intellectual grist for the mill.

The Hidden Beginning: Life Before It Is Seen

 In this provocatively original post, our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger ties together superficially diverse strands of thought found in parashat Tazria, several Chasidic masters and The Truman Show. For more, read on.

There are moments in the Torah when something profoundly consequential is introduced almost quietly, as if the text itself is reluctant to draw attention to it too quickly. The opening of parashat Tazria is one of those moments. It speaks of birth—of the emergence of life into the world—but it does so in a way that is both direct and restrained. There is no extended narrative, no dramatic framing. Instead, there is a simple acknowledgment: something has come into being, and with that emergence comes a process.

But the Torah’s concern here is not only the moment of birth itself. It is what surrounds it—the period before and after, the transitions that are not immediately visible but are no less real. The language of impurity that appears in this context can easily be misunderstood if taken superficially. It is not describing something degrading or undesirable. Rather, it is pointing to a state of intensity, of transition, of movement between hidden and revealed life. In those first moments, what has emerged is still not fully settled into the world. There is a kind of distance between existence and recognition, between being and being known. The Torah seems to be asking us to pay attention to that space—not only to the visible arrival of life, but to the quieter process through which it becomes integrated, acknowledged, and understood.

This sensitivity to beginnings—especially those that are not yet fully visible—appears repeatedly in the teachings of the Hasidic masters. The Baal Shem Tov speaks of the significance of the reshit, the beginning, not as a fixed point in time but as a continuous reality. Every moment contains within it the possibility of beginning again, though that beginning may not yet be apparent. It exists first in concealment, as a potential that has not yet taken form.

The Sfat Emet, reflecting on this parashah (Tazria 5643), suggests that what appears in the world is always preceded by something deeper that remains hidden. The visible is only the final stage of a longer process. What we encounter outwardly has already been forming beneath the surface, gathering coherence before it reveals itself. And because of this, the Torah’s attention to these early stages is not incidental. It is essential. If one wishes to understand what is revealed, one must learn to recognize what precedes revelation.

There is something deeply human in this as well. Much of what defines a person does not begin in visible action. It begins in thought, in inclination, in quiet internal movement. These early stages are often overlooked precisely because they are not yet concrete. But they are no less real. And in many ways, they are more formative than what eventually appears.

This dynamic—of something forming beneath the surface before it becomes visible—finds a striking expression in The Truman Show (1998), directed by Peter Weir. The film presents the life of Truman Burbank, a man who appears to be living an ordinary life in a carefully constructed seaside town. What he does not know is that his entire existence has been staged. Every interaction, every relationship, every detail of his environment has been orchestrated for the sake of a global audience.

At first, Truman accepts his world as given. There is no reason, from within his experience, to suspect otherwise. But, gradually, small inconsistencies begin to appear. A light falls from the sky. A radio frequency seems to describe his movements in real time. People repeat patterns that feel slightly off. None of these moments, taken alone, is conclusive. But, put together, they begin to create a sense that something deeper is at work, something not yet fully visible but increasingly difficult to ignore.

What is striking about these moments is their subtlety. The truth does not arrive all at once. It emerges slowly, almost reluctantly, through hints and fragments. Truman does not immediately see the full picture. Instead, he begins to sense that what he sees is not all that there is. There is a growing awareness that precedes understanding—a recognition that something is unfolding beneath the surface of his experience.

One of the most powerful scenes in the film occurs when Truman begins to test the boundaries of his world. He deviates from expected patterns, drives erratically, observes the reactions of those around him. The environment responds, but not seamlessly. There are cracks—small, but revealing. In those moments, Truman is not yet fully aware of the truth, but he is no longer fully contained within the illusion. He stands at the threshold between what is hidden and what is revealed.

This threshold is precisely what the Torah is pointing toward in its discussion of beginnings. Not everything that exists is immediately visible. Not everything that is forming has yet taken shape. But the process is real, and it leaves traces. The question is whether one is attentive enough to notice them.

The Mei HaShiloach teaches that truth often begins as a disturbance—a subtle sense that something is not aligned. It does not present itself as a fully formed conclusion. It appears as a question, a hesitation, a moment of uncertainty. And it is in that moment that one is given a choice: to ignore the disturbance and return to familiarity, or to follow it, even without knowing where it will lead.

There is a story told about Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev that captures this sensitivity to beginnings. A man once approached him, troubled by a persistent feeling that something in his life was not as it should be. There was no clear problem, no identifiable crisis—only a quiet unease that he could not explain. He had tried to dismiss it, to continue as usual, but the feeling remained.

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak listened and then asked a simple question: “When did you first notice this?”

The man thought for a moment and described a seemingly insignificant incident—a conversation, a reaction, something that had unsettled him slightly but that he had not taken seriously at the time.

“That,” Rabbi Levi Yitzchak said gently, “was the beginning.”

The man seemed confused. It had been such a small moment, barely worth noting.

“Beginnings are always small,” the rabbi continued. “If they were not, they would not be beginnings.”

The point was not to magnify the moment, but to recognize it. What had appeared insignificant was, in fact, the first visible trace of something deeper that had already been forming. And if one wished to understand what was now unfolding, one had to return—not to the external event itself, but to the inner movement that had preceded it.

In this sense, the Torah’s attention to the earliest stages of life is not limited to birth. It is a broader invitation to notice what is forming before it becomes fully visible—to pay attention to the beginnings that are easy to overlook precisely because they do not yet demand attention. There is a quiet discipline in this kind of awareness. It requires patience, humility, and a willingness to engage with what is not yet clear.

And perhaps most importantly, it requires trust—that what is forming beneath the surface is not random, not meaningless, but part of a process that, if followed with care, will eventually come into view.

Approaching with Humility: Shemini 5786

 This item is also published in today's Hanassi Highlights. An AI-generated version of the text in Ivrit is reproduced here.

Parashat Shemini brings us to a moment of culmination. After the long process beginning with the Exodus, the construction of the Mishkan is complete, and the eighth day finally arrives—the moment at which the Divine Presence will dwell among the people.

At the centre of that moment stands Aharon HaKohen, the same Aharon who is praised for fulfilling the command to light the Menorah without deviation. Aharon is the model of zerizut, of faithful and consistent avodat Hashem without hesitation.

And yet, here, at the very inauguration of his service, he hesitates.

Aharon must be encouraged: “Krav el hamizbe’ach”—“Come forward to the altar.” The wording is striking.

Rashi explains that he was overcome with shame and fear. The Ramban adds that the appearance of the mizbeach evoked for him the image of the Golden Calf. At the threshold of his greatest role, Aharon is confronted by a lingering sense of failure. How could he be the one to bring about the resting of the Shechinah?

Yet he is told: “Why are you ashamed? For this you were chosen.” Chazal’s formulation can be read in more than one way: not only that Aharon was chosen for this service, but that he was chosen for it precisely because of his reluctance.

Aharon’s hesitation is not incidental. It reflects a profound awareness of the gravity of avodat Hashem. He does not approach the mizbe’ach lightly. He is conscious of the responsibility, and of his own limitations. That very awareness is what qualifies him.

This becomes clearer when set against the later episode of Nadav and Avihu. They bring an esh zarah, a fire that was not commanded, and suffer tragic consequences. Chazal offer a range of explanations, but a common thread emerges: a failure of restraint, an element of overconfidence. Where Aharon hesitates before acting, they do not.

The contrast is sharpened further by Aharon’s response to their tragic deaths: “Vayidom Aharon”—“Aharon was silent.” Even in the face of personal tragedy, he does not presume to explain. His silence reflects the same humility that marked his hesitation at the outset.

Aharon’s greatness lies not in certainty, but in perspective—the ability to carry responsibility without the illusion of complete mastery.

“Krav el hamizbe’ach.” The call to step forward remains. It is a call to step forward with awareness—with the knowledge that what we are doing matters, and that even when we do not feel fully equal to the task, we are called nonetheless.

Perhaps that is the enduring lesson of Aharon’s first step: not that one must feel ready, or certain, or even worthy, but that one must be willing to approach, carrying that very sense of hesitation.

For it is not despite that hesitation that a person is able to step forward—but sometimes precisely because of it.

Shabbat Shalom!

 

A tangible silence

This Shabbat we resume the weekly study of Pirkei Avot, which is traditionally studied from Pesach till at least Shavuot, if not till Rosh Hashanah. We start with a mishnah from the first perek.

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel teaches, at Avot 1:17:

כָּל יָמַי גָּדַֽלְתִּי בֵּין הַחֲכָמִים, וְלֹא מָצָֽאתִי לְגוּף טוֹב מִשְּׁתִיקָה, וְלֹא הַמִּדְרָשׁ עִקָּר אֶלָּא הַמַּעֲשֶׂה, וְכָל הַמַּרְבֶּה דְבָרִים מֵבִיא חֵטְא

Translation: “In all my days I have been brought up among the wise, and I have found nothing better for the body than silence. The essential thing is not study, but action. And anyone who talks too much brings on sin”.

The main message of Rabban Shimon is clear: it is good to be sparing with one’s speech and to prioritise the performance of good deeds even when one is committed to the study of Torah. However, there is still scope for questions and discussion.

Two issues spring out at us. The more obvious one arises from the curious reference to “the body”. Would not Rabban Shimon’s message be just as clear if those words were omitted? And why should anything as intangible as human speech be thought to have an impact on a person’s corporeal wellbeing?

The other issue arises from the inclusion of the first part of Rabban Shimon’s teaching in Avot, when the final part cautions against excessive verbiage and the redactor has also included other teachings about the need to limit one’s speech (Avot 1:5, 1:11, 3:17).

An explanation that both accounts for the reference to “body” and vindicates the inclusion of the apparently repetitive teaching in this Mishnah is offered by the Sefat Emet (as brought by Rabbi Gedaliyahu Schorr, Or Gedaliyahu, parashat Behar). According to this explanation, when Rabban Shimon refers to silence that is good for the body, he is referring to a person’s need to silence the internal voice that advocates for those urges and desires that relate to one’s physicality. How does one silence this internal voice one? By subjugating it through the force of one’s neshamah, one’s spiritual strength.

If one accepts this view, the mishnah teaches of Rabban Shimon’s own personal experience of exercising self-discipline regarding the body. This presumably means curbing excessive eating, drinking and other pleasures that are permitted but potentially harmful when there is over-indulgence. It does not suggest that silence is better than any form of speech; nor does it overlap with the other mishnayot concerning the desirability of limiting one’s verbal output.