From Yaakov’s Dream to a Jewish Home in Israel

Here, ahead of Rabbi Paul Bloom's book-signing event for Coming Home: 101 Reasons to Make Aliyah, is a reasoned piece on the relevance of Aliyah to the coming week's Torah reading for parashat Vayeitze. For details of Paul's book and the signing event, click here.

From Yaakov’s Dream to a Jewish Home in Israel

The opening question

There is a moment in the life of Yaakov Avinu that speaks to anyone who has ever wondered whether the next chapter of life could still hold something extraordinary. He is leaving his parents’ home. His brother is threatening his life. The future is uncertain. He has received the berachot, but his immediate circumstances hardly look like a blessing. He is alone, traveling toward a place where he will have to begin again.

Then he stops for the night. He takes stones from the place, lies down, and dreams of a ladder standing on the earth with its top reaching heaven. Malachim ascend and descend. Hashem speaks to him about the land, his descendants, and the blessing they will bring to the families of the earth. And Hashem promises to accompany him and bring him back.

When Yaakov wakes, he says, “אָכֵן יֵשׁ ה׳ בַּמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה וְאָנֹכִי לֹא יָדָעְתִּי”. Surely Hashem is in this place, and I did not know it. The place has not changed overnight. The stones are still stones. The road ahead is still difficult. What has changed is Yaakov’s awareness of where he stands and what his life can mean. He discovers that an uncertain journey can be part of a divine purpose.

That is what I would like us to consider together. How does a person carry a dream through the ordinary difficulties of life? How does a Jewish family move from loving Eretz Yisrael to thinking seriously about a future here? And for those of us who have already come home, what responsibility do we have toward the people we love who are still asking those questions?

These questions are close to my heart as I prepare for the signing of Coming Home: 101 Reasons to Make Aliyah this week. A book can begin a conversation. The more important question is what that conversation might make possible in someone’s life.

A ladder planted on the ground

The Torah describes the ladder as “מֻצָּב אַרְצָה”, planted on the earth, while its head reaches heaven. We tend to remember the heavenly part. It is a magnificent vision. But the bottom of the ladder matters too. It rests on the ground. A ladder suspended somewhere above our heads would be inspiring to look at, but impossible to climb.

I would suggest that this gives us an image of how Torah asks us to live. Our aspirations must reach beyond convenience and habit. Yet those aspirations have to enter the world of actual decisions: where we live, how we earn a living, how we raise children, and what we do with the hours Hashem gives us. A dream becomes consequential when there is somewhere to put our foot.

That is especially relevant to Aliyah. We can speak movingly about Jewish history and destiny. We can feel something profound when we hear Hebrew in the streets or stand at the Kotel. Those feelings matter. But eventually someone asks about employment, a school, an aging parent, a spouse’s concerns, or the ability to manage a medical appointment in Hebrew. These are the places where the ladder touches the ground.

If we respond to those questions only with another inspiring speech, we may leave the person with a beautiful ladder that he cannot reach. A serious response respects the aspiration and helps make the next step possible. Sometimes that step is a conversation with an experienced oleh. Sometimes it is learning Hebrew, investigating a community, or spending a visit exploring ordinary daily life rather than only touring.

There is no single timetable appropriate for every family. A conversation that begins today may lead to a decision much later. But a distant possibility begins to change when we ask a concrete question about it. The first step does not require us to see the entire staircase. It requires enough clarity to begin responsibly.

Different angels for a different chapter

Rashi asks why the angels in Yaakov’s dream first ascend and then descend. We might have expected angels to come down from heaven before going back up. Rashi explains that the angels who had accompanied Yaakov in Eretz Yisrael were ascending, while the angels who would accompany him outside the land were descending. Yaakov was entering a different spiritual environment.

There is comfort in that explanation. Hashem’s care does not end when Yaakov leaves home. The form of accompaniment changes because the circumstances change. Yaakov will have to serve Hashem in a place very different from the home of Yitzchak and Rivkah. He will need to remain faithful while working for Lavan, building a marriage and family, and dealing with dishonesty.

We should recognize the extraordinary Torah lives Jews have built outside Israel. Our families, schools, shuls, and communities have sustained commitments that deserve respect. When we discuss Aliyah with someone whose life is rooted in such a community, we are speaking to a person who may be giving up something precious. We will understand the conversation better if we acknowledge that honestly.

At the same time, the promise in the dream includes a destination. Hashem tells Yaakov that He will bring him back to this land. Later, in Bereishit 31:3, Hashem tells him to return to the land of his fathers. Divine accompaniment on the journey does not erase the significance of home. For those of us who have made Aliyah, this can also illuminate our own experience. We may have arrived with habits, expectations, and ways of managing life that worked very well elsewhere. Some continue to serve us. Others need adjustment. The need to learn a new way of doing things does not mean that we took the wrong path. It may mean that a new chapter requires new forms of support.

And if Hashem provides accompaniment for Yaakov’s transition, perhaps we should ask how we can provide human accompaniment for someone else’s transition. A person may have all the official information and still need someone to listen. He may need to hear, “I remember finding that difficult too. Let us think through whom you could speak to.”

What the stones teach us

The Torah first speaks of the stones Yaakov places by his head, and later refers to a stone in the singular. Rashi brings the teaching of Chazal that the stones each wanted the tzaddik to rest his head upon them, and they became one. It is a Midrash many of us first encountered as children. Revisiting it as adults invites us to listen for its deeper teaching.

Ramchal cites the image of these stones in Mesillat Yesharim when discussing how the physical world can be elevated through its connection to a person’s service of Hashem. Something ordinary can become part of a holy purpose. The wine used for Kiddush, the money given for tzedakah, and the food offered to a guest all enter a life of mitzvah through what we do with them.

We can apply that thought to the way we regard a home. A home contains ordinary things: a table, chairs, dishes, books, a place to sleep. Yet around that table people can learn Torah, welcome a lonely neighbor, encourage a child, and make Shabbat. The physical setting becomes a place where avodat Hashem happens.

Life in Israel offers many opportunities to see ordinary activity as participation in a larger Jewish story. We work, shop, raise children, care for neighbors, and contribute our abilities to a society whose future matters to the Jewish people. We still have to choose how to conduct ourselves. Geography does not perform our avodah for us. But it gives that avodah a particular setting and responsibility.

There is another thought I would add to the image of the stones becoming one. Each stone wanted to support Yaakov. In the Midrash, they finally do so together. Perhaps we can hear in this an invitation to think beyond our individual contribution. One person can offer encouragement. Another understands employment. Someone knows a community. Someone else can help a family think about schools.

No one has to be the entire support system. Together, however, we can make it easier for a person to move from uncertainty toward an informed decision. The question becomes less about who receives credit and more about whether the family has the support it needs.

Preparing for the life ahead

There is a beautiful explanation associated with Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky about the years Yaakov spent learning in the beit midrash of Ever before arriving at Lavan’s home. Chazal teach that he spent fourteen years there. Why was such preparation necessary? Yaakov had already grown up in a home of exceptional Torah and kedushah.

The explanation is that he needed preparation for the particular environment he was about to enter. Learning in his parents’ home and living faithfully in Lavan’s household would present different challenges. He needed the strength to carry his Torah into a setting where the values around him would often pull in another direction.

This is an important educational lesson. We want our children to know Torah, and we also want them to know how to live by it when circumstances become complicated. How does a person remain honest when dishonesty seems profitable? How does a family protect time for learning when work expands to fill every available hour? How do we respond when the surrounding culture treats our commitments as strange?

Preparation helps a person carry convictions into daily life. That idea also has a practical application to Aliyah, though the challenges are different. Love for Israel is an essential beginning. A family also benefits from preparing for its own circumstances. Which expectations are realistic? What support will a child need? What does a spouse fear losing? How will the family find a community where it can belong and contribute?

It can be tempting to regard those questions as evidence of insufficient enthusiasm. Often they are evidence that someone is taking the decision seriously. Yaakov’s preparation should help us respect the work that comes before a major transition. We cannot derive one universal Aliyah timetable from his story, but we can learn to value thoughtful preparation.

This is part of what I hope the Israel Inspiration Initiative can encourage. People need Torah inspiration, and they need a way to think honestly about their circumstances. Our Aliyah Readiness Insights questionnaire and personalized report are intended to help that reflection. The mentoring effort we are developing aims to add the experience and encouragement of people who have already made Aliyah.

A mentor cannot decide for another family or replace a professional adviser. But a mentor can help someone formulate a better question, recognize an assumption, or find the right person to consult. Sometimes that is the support that allows a conversation to move forward.

The concerns behind the five Buts

Many of us have heard a sentence that begins, “I would love to make Aliyah, but…” The concern may be family left behind, children, earning a living, Hebrew, or fear that things will not work out. These are among the barriers I discuss in Coming Home. They deserve a patient response because they concern people’s real lives.

Consider a parent who worries about leaving children or grandchildren. We should not answer as though attachment to family were a weakness. Or consider a family worried about a child’s adjustment. A child’s needs deserve careful attention. Someone asking about parnassah is asking how to meet responsibilities that the Torah itself takes seriously.

The helpful question is often, “Which part concerns you most?” A general fear can feel overwhelming. A specific concern can sometimes be investigated. “My Hebrew is not good enough” might lead to a plan for regular study. “I do not know where we would fit” might lead to conversations with residents of several communities. “I could never manage this” might become a list of the tasks that require help.

Some difficulties will remain substantial. Some circumstances require time, and some decisions will require guidance beyond anything a friend can give. We can acknowledge all of that while keeping the conversation open. Respect makes it easier for a person to speak honestly. Pressure often makes him protect himself by ending the conversation altogether.

For those of us living here, that asks something of us too. We should share the meaningful parts of our lives and speak truthfully about the difficult parts. If we describe everything as effortless, our words may be less helpful when the person encounters an obstacle. Honest encouragement gives someone a more dependable foundation on which to think.

After we have come home

There is a question that follows Aliyah: now that I am here, what will I build? Yaakov’s journey is a family story, but it becomes part of the formation of Am Yisrael. Our own lives also extend beyond the decisions we make for ourselves. The way we welcome people, conduct business, participate in a shul, and care for neighbors helps shape the Jewish home we are building together.

And our relationships abroad remain part of our lives. Some of us speak regularly with a sibling, a former neighbor, a chavruta, or an old friend who wonders about Israel. That relationship may give us an opportunity no public speaker has. The person knows us. He can ask the question he might hesitate to ask at a lecture.

We do not need to turn every conversation into a discussion of moving. We can make it known that we are available. We can offer to spend time together on a visit, introduce someone to a suitable community, or help locate an experienced professional. We can ask permission to share something that may address a concern the person has already raised.

That is the connection I hope to make through this week’s book signing. Coming Home gathers reasons to think seriously about Aliyah through Torah, Jewish history, and our shared future. For someone still considering the possibility, I hope it can open a door. For someone already here, I hope it can help begin a thoughtful conversation with a person they love.

When we sign a book, we usually write a name and a few words of blessing. Behind each name is a life. There may be a family weighing possibilities, a retiree imagining a different future, or a young couple wondering where to establish a home. The printed words are a beginning. What happens afterward depends on the conversations, decisions, and acts of kindness that follow.

Returning to the ladder

Let us return to Yaakov asleep beside the road. He cannot yet see the family he will establish or the experiences through which he will grow. He does not receive an explanation of every difficulty ahead. He receives a promise of Hashem’s presence and a vision that connects earth and heaven.

When he awakens, he takes a stone and makes it a matzevah. He responds to the dream with an action in the physical world. The place where he felt vulnerable becomes a place marked by commitment. He will still have to travel, work, learn, and face uncertainty. But he goes forward with a different understanding of his journey.

Perhaps each of us can take one practical commitment from that image. If we are considering Aliyah, we can identify one question to investigate. If we are already here, we can think of one person whom we might help with patience and respect. And wherever we stand, we can ask how the ordinary materials of our lives can serve a greater Jewish purpose.

May Hashem help us recognize His presence in the places where we stand. May He give us wisdom to prepare, courage to take the steps that are ours to take, and generosity to accompany one another. And may the homes we build, and the people we help, become part of the continuing story of our people coming home.

Different Paths, Shared Values (Toledot 5787)

This piece was first posted on Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 11 November 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGpT, here.

One of the great mysteries of Parshat Toledot is how two brothers, born to the same parents and raised in the same home, could have turned out so differently. The Torah tells us:

“When the boys grew up, Esav became a skilful hunter, a man of the field, while Yaakov was a quiet man, dwelling in tents" (Bereishit 25:27).

Yaakov would become the father of Am Yisrael, while Esav would take a very different path. How could two children, brought up with the same values and the same opportunities, have developed in such radically different directions? After all, both were grandsons of Avraham Avinu, growing up in a home dedicated to the service of Hashem. Surely, if any family could be expected to pass on its values successfully to the next generation, it would be theirs.

Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch offers a remarkable interpretation. He suggests that the words "when the boys grew up" contain the key to understanding what happened. Their very different personalities and inclinations became apparent as they matured, but perhaps those differences should have been recognised and nurtured much earlier.

Rav Hirsch suggests that the same educational approach was not necessarily appropriate for both children. Yaakov was naturally suited to a life of study and contemplation. Esav possessed different strengths: energy, courage, and a desire for action. 

Right: Jacob and Esau, by Giovanni Andrea de Ferrari (undated)

Had those qualities been recognised and channelled towards Avodat Hashem, perhaps Esav's story would have ended differently. Perhaps the two brothers could have stood together, each contributing his unique strengths to the spiritual legacy of their family.

We should be cautious about drawing conclusions regarding the actions of our Avot. Our purpose is not to pass judgment on Yitzchak and Rivka, but to learn from the profound educational message that Rav Hirsch draws from the Torah's account. It is a powerful interpretation of the words of Mishlei (22:6): "Educate a child according to his way."

True education is not about imposing a single mould upon every child. Each person possesses different talents, different strengths, and a different personality. Our responsibility is to recognise those differences and help each individual develop their potential in the service of Hashem.

Importantly, this does not mean compromising on the values we seek to transmit. The goal remains the same, even if the path towards it may differ. Indeed, recognising those differences may be precisely what enables our shared values to take root and flourish.

As we aim to ensure the transmission of our mesorah from one generation to the next, our task is not to produce identical copies of ourselves, but to ensure that the values we hold dear continue to live on in future generations of the Jewish people.

Shabbat Shalom!

You can also read "The Quiet Strength of Continuity", Rabbi Kenigsberg's parashah piece for Toledot last year, here.

Parashat Toledot and Yitzchak’s Dream of Partnership

 The struggle over the blessings in Parashat Toledot is usually understood as a contest over who would carry forward Avraham’s covenant. Would it be Yaakov, the quiet man of the tents, or Esav, the hunter and man of the field? Yet the blessing at the center of the drama raises a surprising question. If Yitzchak is choosing the spiritual heir to Avraham, why does he speak primarily about agricultural abundance, prosperity, and power? Where is the explicit promise of Eretz Yisrael? Where is the charge to continue Avraham’s relationship with Hashem and bring blessing to others? Rabbi Paul Bloom offers some answers.

In Bereishit 27:28–29, Yitzchak blesses the son before him with the dew of heaven, the richness of the earth, and plentiful grain and wine. He speaks of nations serving him and of authority over his brothers. These are substantial blessings, but their emphasis seems different from what we might expect at the transfer of the covenant. The question becomes sharper when we reach the beginning of chapter 28. There, Yitzchak knowingly blesses Yaakov and explicitly grants him “the blessing of Avraham”, together with the promise of inheriting the land. Reading these two passages together suggests that the Torah is describing two distinct responsibilities.

An interpretation drawing on the Malbim and Sforno understands Yitzchak as envisioning complementary roles for his sons. Yaakov would carry the spiritual mission, while Esav would provide the material strength needed to sustain it. Sforno’s commentary on Bereishit 27:29 distinguishes the blessing intended for Esav from the Abrahamic inheritance reserved for Yaakov. This approach invites us to see Yitzchak’s intentions as more considered than a simple failure to recognize his sons’ differences. He could recognize Yaakov’s spiritual qualities while still hoping that Esav’s abilities would serve the family’s larger purpose.

A nation needs people who teach Torah and cultivate its relationship with Hashem. It also needs people who produce food, conduct business, organize public life, and provide security. Yitzchak’s hoped-for partnership would unite these responsibilities. Esav’s strength and worldly skill could support a mission whose spiritual direction came from Yaakov. His material blessing would therefore have a purpose beyond personal comfort or prestige: it would help sustain the covenantal future of Avraham’s descendants.

The familiar model of Yissachar and Zevulun helps explain the possibility. In the traditional understanding of their relationship, Zevulun’s commercial activity supports Yissachar’s Torah learning. Their different occupations become contributions to a shared undertaking. Such a relationship requires more than a financial arrangement. The person providing support must value the Torah being sustained, and the person learning Torah must appreciate the work that makes that support possible. Without that mutual regard, cooperation can easily become resentment or a struggle for control.

Here lay the weakness in Yitzchak’s plan. Rivkah understood that Esav could not be relied upon to use his power in the service of Yaakov’s mission. The Torah had already described his willingness to sell his birthright for immediate satisfaction and concluded that he despised it (Bereishit 25:34). On this reading, the disagreement between Yitzchak and Rivkah concerned the possibility of partnership. Yitzchak hoped that Esav’s abilities could be directed toward a sacred purpose. Rivkah recognized that granting him greater resources and authority would not create the character needed to fulfill that responsibility.

This also sheds light on Esav’s anguished return. When he discovers what has happened, he pleads for a blessing of his own. Why should a father be unable to bless another son? Surely blessings are not a limited supply of good wishes. Indeed, Yitzchak does subsequently speak about Esav’s future. What cannot simply be repeated is the particular arrangement already pronounced: Yitzchak has granted Yaakov authority and the resources associated with it (Bereishit 27:37). A blessing that assigns responsibility and establishes relationships cannot be duplicated as though those relationships had no consequences.

The episode therefore asks us to think more carefully about what we seek when we ask for a berachah. Health, prosperity, talent, and influence are precious gifts. Their fullest value emerges in what we do with them. Financial success can support families, Torah institutions, and people in need. Scientific knowledge can relieve suffering and improve human life. Leadership can protect a community and help it flourish. The question accompanying every gift is whether we will direct it toward a purpose greater than ourselves.

Yaakov’s future would require him to shoulder both kinds of responsibility. He would leave the tents, work in Lavan’s household, raise a family, manage flocks, and navigate difficult human relationships. The spiritual heir would also have to learn how to sustain a household and protect its future. His life would demonstrate how demanding it can be to bring faith and practical responsibility together.

Yitzchak’s hoped-for partnership remains a compelling aspiration for Jewish life, especially in Eretz Yisrael. Those who teach and learn Torah, those who defend the country, and those who sustain its economy all bear responsibilities for our collective future. Their different roles do not remove the need to recognize one another’s contribution. A society becomes stronger when Torah scholars appreciate the dedication required to provide security and livelihoods, and when those engaged in public and economic life value the Torah that gives our national life its enduring direction.

Parashat Toledot leaves us with a task that reaches beyond the struggle between two brothers. We must develop the character to use our abilities generously and the humility to value abilities different from our own. Yitzchak’s dream calls us to bring spiritual purpose and material strength into a shared service of Hashem and the Jewish people. The blessings we receive become richer when they help us build that future together.

Chanukah: Capturing the Light (Book of the Month, Kislev 5787)

Our Book of the month for Kislev is Chanukah: Capturing the Light by Rabbi Immanuel Bernstein. This handsome tome, published in 2020 by Mosaica, seeks to refresh our appetite for the Festival of Lights.  What’s it all about? Let the book’s web page explain:

The events of the story of Chanukah are well-known: the heroic revolt against Greek oppression, the stunning victory on the battlefield, and the jar of oil which contained only enough to last for one day but miraculously burned for eight. Still, a basic question arises: Jewish history is full of miracles. Few of them become holidays. Why Chanukah?

To become part of the Jewish calendar, a holiday needs to contain core messages of ongoing relevance regarding our national identity and national destiny. Chanukah: Capturing the Light is dedicated to uncovering those messages. Drawing on a vast array of classic and contemporary sources, renowned teacher and bestselling author Rabbi Immanuel Bernstein presents a deep and profound understanding of Chanukah, inspiring the reader to allow its light to illuminate the eight days of the festival — and the entire year.

The author is no stranger to many of our readers. A Londoner by birth and son of the celebrated orator Rabbi Isaac Bernstein zt'l, Rabbi Immanuel Bernstein learned and now teaches in Israel, where he lives with his family and gives a popular weekly Chumash shiur. He has also published several other books on a range of Jewish topics.

You can find this book on the shelves of our Beit Midrash library, but don’t be surprised if you can’t:  it is likely to be extensively borrowed in the lead-up to Chanukah.

Doing What Is Right (Chayei Sarah 5787)

 This piece by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights on 5 November 2026. To read the Hebrew version created by ChatGPT, click here.

In Parshat Chayei Sarah, the Torah devotes an extraordinary amount of space to the story of Eliezer's search for a wife for Yitzchak. The entire episode is recounted twice: first as it unfolds, and then again as Eliezer relates his experiences to Rivkah's family. Chazal explain: “Yafeh sichatan shel avdei avot miToratan shel banim”—the conversations of the servants of our forefathers are more precious than the Torah teachings of their descendants. Even the seemingly ordinary conversations of Eliezer contain profound lessons.

But why does the Torah need to repeat the story? Surely its message could have been conveyed sufficiently the first time around? The answer lies in several subtle differences between the two accounts. When Avraham instructs Eliezer to find a wife for Yitzchak, Eliezer raises a concern: “Ulai lo toveh ha'isha lalechet acharai” – perhaps the woman will not agree to follow me. However, when Eliezer recounts the conversation, the word ulai (perhaps) is written without the letter vav, allowing it to be read as eilai—“to me.” Rashi, quoting Chazal, explains that Eliezer had a daughter of his own, and secretly hoped that she might marry Yitzchak. His question was therefore not entirely innocent.

But if Eliezer had these ulterior motives all along, why does the Torah only reveal them in the second account of the story? Rav Dessler offers a fascinating explanation. Initially, Eliezer himself was unaware of his hidden motives. He genuinely believed that his concerns were entirely justified. Only later, once Rivkah had been found and his daughter's prospects had disappeared, could he recognise that his earlier hesitation had been influenced by personal interests. The eternal message here is how easily we can convince ourselves that our motives are pure, even when our own interests are quietly influencing our judgement.

The Sfat Emet, however, offers a different perspective. He suggests that rather than criticising Eliezer, the Torah is actually praising him. Despite his personal hopes, Eliezer never allowed them to interfere with his mission. He could have undermined the entire endeavour, yet instead devoted himself wholeheartedly to fulfilling Avraham's wishes. Indeed, by revealing his personal interest to Rivkah's family, he was challenging them to do the same: to put aside their own preferences and allow Rivkah to fulfil her destiny.

Eliezer's greatness lay not in the absence of personal desires, but in his ability to rise above them.

We all have personal interests, ambitions and preferences. The real test of character comes when those interests conflict with what we know to be right. True greatness is not always about doing what comes naturally or comfortably. Sometimes it means putting aside what we want in order to do what we know is right.

Shabbat Shalom!

You can read "Rising After the Fall -- Abraham's Model for Resilience", Rabbi Kenigsberg's parashah piece on Chayei Sarah for last year, here.

Bearing Arms

We are delighted to bring you Pessy Krausz's latest poem, "Bearing Arms". No mere poem, "Bearing Arms" received the most votes among the poems in the Jerusalem VOICES poetry group. As a consequence, this poem will go into the national VOICES Newsletter. It's a beautiful, poignant work and we thank Pessy for sharing it with us. "Bearing Arms" goes like this:

Chessed Begins at Home (Vayeira 5787)

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 29 October 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew here, thanks to Chat GPT.

In Parshat Vayeira, we encounter two remarkable acts of hachnasat orchim. Avraham Avinu, recovering from his brit milah, sits outside in the scorching heat, eagerly searching for guests. Despite his pain, he runs to welcome three strangers and personally attends to their every need.

Yet Lot's hospitality appears even more extraordinary. Living in Sodom, a society notorious for its cruelty towards strangers, Lot welcomes two visitors into his home. He knows full well the danger involved. Indeed, when the people of Sodom discover his guests, they surround his house and threaten him. Lot is prepared to risk his very life to protect them. And yet, it is Avraham who becomes our eternal model of chessed, while Lot is remembered as a deeply flawed and ultimately tragic figure. Why?

Perhaps the answer lies not simply in what each of them did, but in the homes they built. When the people of Sodom confront Lot, his response is horrifying. In a desperate attempt to protect his guests, he offers his own daughters to the mob. His commitment to hospitality is extraordinary, but his priorities have become terribly distorted. He is so focused on protecting those outside his home that he loses sight of his most basic responsibilities within it.

Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch draws our attention to another significant difference. Avraham's hospitality is a family endeavour. Sarah prepares the food, while Avraham involves the members of his household in caring for their guests. Lot, by contrast, acts entirely alone. His values, however admirable in this instance, have not become the values of his family. This distinction is reflected in Hashem's description of Avraham:

"For I have known him, because he commands his children and his household after him to keep the way of Hashem, doing righteousness and justice." (Bereishit 18:19)

Avraham's greatness lay not only in his personal acts of kindness, but in his ability to transmit those values to others. And here lies a profound lesson.

We naturally admire those who make a difference in the wider world, who dedicate themselves to helping others and improving society. And rightly so. But sometimes, in our eagerness to influence the world around us, we risk overlooking those closest to us.

Avraham Avinu reminds us that our greatest legacy is not necessarily measured by the extraordinary things we accomplish in the wider world, but by the small, everyday actions through which we instil values in our homes and inspire future generations to carry them forward.

Shabbat Shalom!

You can also read Rabbi Kenigsberg's post on Vayeira last year, "Avraham's Prayer: Seeing the Spark in Sodom" here.  

Do We Only Pray for the Government If it's Good to Us?

Jeremy Phillips asks: Do we have to pray for the success and welfare of a government that we do not like, is not of our choosing, and contains coalition parties or individuals whom we distrust or of whose policies we strongly disapprove?

At Avot 3:2 Rabbi Chanina, Segan HaKohanim, teaches:

 הֱוֵי מִתְפַּלֵּל בִּשְׁלוֹמָהּ שֶׁל מַלְכוּת, שֶׁאִלְמָלֵא מוֹרָאָהּ, אִישׁ אֶת רֵעֵֽהוּ חַיִּים בְּלָעוֹ

“Pray for the welfare (literally 'peace') of the government since, if it were not for fear of it, a man would swallow his neighbour alive".

In principle this sounds perfectly sensible. A government that cannot govern is a recipe for a failed state. Its rule generates anarchy, chaos and the often devastating consequences when individuals and communities have to fend for themselves, taking the law -- or more properly the absence of law -- into their own hands.

But things are never as simple as they seem. Does one pray for the peace of the realm when the government is oppressive, corrupt, selfish and immoral? Opinions are divided. Rabbi Marc D. Angel, for example, writes:

"...praying for the welfare of the government is relevant only if the government itself is just. If the government is immoral, one certainly should not pray for its welfare" (The Koren Pirkei Avot). 

Against this, it is worth considering the background to this teaching. Rabbi Chanina lived, and died, at a time of chaos and anarchy, when the Romans occupied the whole of Israel and the Levant; they were therefore the ruling power in Israel itself. Nowhere in Israel was more anarchic than Jerusalem, where the power struggle between different religious and nationalist factions resulted in the great tragedy of Jew-on-Jew murders, these being deaths that the Roman governors had no great interest in preventing. The Jewish authorities too were powerless to stop this carnage. Indeed, it was a sorry reflection of those troubled times that the members of the Sanhedrin, the supreme Jewish court, absented themselves from the Lishkat HaGazit (the Chamber of Hewn Stone, from which place alone capital cases could be tried) so that they would not be able to pass the death sentence on Jewish murderers. This decision was arguably taken on the basis that, since so many Jewish lives were already being lost and the death penalty was no longer an effective deterrent, it was folly to address the escalating mortality rate among Rome’s Jewish subjects by killing even more of them. If one is to pray for the welfare of only a good government, we may well ask whether Rabbi Chanina was ever able to follow his own advice.

Rabbi Marcus Lehmann (The Lehmann-Prins Pirkei Avoth) takes the view that Rabbi Chanina's teaching does indeed apply to corrupt governments. One does not pray, of course, that their leaders and functionaries should succeed in their evil, but that they should mend their ways and govern justly. This is reflected in the classic formula of the prayer for the King found in the British Authorised Daily Prayer Book:

“May [God] in his mercy put a spirit of wisdom and understanding into his heart, and into the hearts of all his counsellors, that they may uphold the peace of the realm, advance the welfare of the nation, and deal kindly and justly with all the House of Israel.”

This formulation does not endorse the errors and follies of the government. It does however invoke God's mercy -- and it also acknowledges that wisdom and understanding are gifts from God, gifts of which many governments throughout the world are sorely in need.

Judaism and Modernity: some thoughts from Rabbi Wein

TorahAnyTime has compiled a collection of pieces by Rabbi Wein zt’l which it is distributing in printed format. This compilation, under the title Judaism and Modernity: The Opportunities and Challenges of the Modern World, has been put together by Rabbi Elan Perchik, who serves as the Editorial and Publishing Director of TorahAnytime and has spearheaded its weekly TorahAnyTime Newsletter and book publications since 2016.

The compilation, apparently timed to be distributed for parashat Lech Lecha, consists of 38 miniatures, divided into four parts. Frustratingly for connoisseurs of Rabbi Wein zt’l’s oeuvre, there is no indication as to the original sources from which his thoughts were taken, or when, in what form and in what context they were first published.

Having said that, it is always instructive to read the words of our late Rav, and anyone who wishes to avail themselves of this opportunity may do so by clicking here.

For more of TorahAnyTime's offerings, visit its website here.

Taking Care in Government

Jeremy Phillips writes: If we were editing the mishnah in place of Rebbi (Rabbi Yehudah NaNasi), would we have made the same decisions as to what to include and what to leave out? Though this is an entirely academic question, there is a point to it.  Following the well-established methodology of the Tannaic sages, Rebbi was careful to minimize the use of words but to demand in turn that each word and each teaching was given its fullest meaning. No word spoken by a Tanna could be presumed superfluous, and no teaching should be deemed redundant on account of its apparent duplication of another one.

Would we then have admitted the mishnah at Avot 2:3 into our canon. There, Rebbi’s son Rabban Gamliel teaches:

הֱווּ זְהִירִין בָּרָשׁוּת, שֶׁאֵין מְקָרְבִין לוֹ לְאָדָם אֶלָּא לְצֹֽרֶךְ עַצְמָן, נִרְאִין כְּאוֹהֲבִין בְּשַֽׁעַת הַנָּאָתָן, וְאֵין עוֹמְדִין לוֹ לְאָדָם בְּשַֽׁעַת דָּחֳקוֹ

Be careful with the government, for they befriend a person only for their own needs. They appear to be friends when it is beneficial to them, but they do not stand by a person at the time of his distress.

Is this teaching just a verbose extravaganza, amplifying the theme of another, more succinct teaching? Shemayah (at Avot 1:10) has already taught:

אַל תִּתְוַדַּע לָרָשׁוּת

Don’t [even] make yourself known to the government.

Quite apart from that, suspicion and distrust of governments and politicians is a natural phenomenon that is almost as old as mankind itself. We might feel that, just as the common housefly needs no lessons in avoiding the hand that seeks to swat it, so too do most ordinary people instinctively shrink from embracing an institution that demands their support, expects their loyalty, taxes their income and sends them into battle.

Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal  Ethics from Sinai) suggests the importation into Rabban Gamliel’s words of an additional meaning that takes them well beyond their plain meaning while still placing them firmly within the realm of mussar.  He does this by casting the opening words, הֱווּ זְהִירִין בָּרָשׁוּת, as being addressed to politicians and those who wield power and authority.  This means translating them not as “Be careful with the government” but as “Be careful in government”.

What is the significance of this switch? Effectively it turns Rabban Gamliel’s mishnah into a message that goes like this: “Be careful when you are in government. This because you will be perceived as only befriending people when you need something from them. For this reason, don’t provide any basis for this perception to take root. In particular, make sure that you do stand by others at a time of their distress”.

Is this what Rabban Gamliel meant? And is this why Rebbi included this teaching in Avot? We can only guess, and the answer is most likely “no”—but it’s a great lesson nonetheless.

Beyond the Limits of the Present: Lech Lecha 5787

 This devar Torah by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg is published in this week's Hanassi Highlights. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

It can be a great challenge in life to see beyond our immediate circumstances. So much of our attention is naturally focused on the present: the challenges we face, the uncertainties that surround us, and the realities that seem impossible to change. Yet sometimes a different perspective can transform the way we understand both our present and our future.

In Parshat Lech Lecha, Hashem promises Avraham that his descendants will be as numerous as the stars: “He took him outside and said: Look towards the heavens and count the stars… So shall your offspring be” (Bereishit 15:5). Why does the Torah emphasise that Hashem took Avraham outside? Surely it would have been sufficient to tell him to look at the stars.

 Rashi offers two explanations. On a literal level, Hashem brought Avraham outside to look up at the stars. But Rashi also cites the Midrash: Tzei me’itztagninut shelcha – “Go beyond your astrology.” Avraham is being shown that his future, and that of his descendants, is not bound by the ordinary limitations of nature.

 Perhaps there is an additional dimension to this message. When Hashem takes Avraham outside, He is not merely directing his gaze towards the heavens. He is inviting him to contemplate a vision far beyond the immediate present: generations yet to be born, a nation yet to emerge, and a Divine promise that will unfold over thousands of years. The stars represent more than countless descendants. They offer a glimpse of a future whose full significance cannot yet be imagined.

 Hashem is inviting Avraham to see not only what is, but what can be. And perhaps this is a lesson for us as well. We live in a time when the events of each day can consume our attention. Every crisis, disagreement and uncertainty can seem overwhelming. Yet the story of the Jewish people is not defined by any single moment in history.

 We are the descendants of Avraham Avinu, heirs to a covenant that has endured through generations of exile, persecution and renewal. Today, we have the extraordinary privilege of witnessing the return of our people to our ancestral homeland and the rebuilding of Jewish life in Jerusalem.

 These are developments that countless generations could scarcely have imagined, yet they are part of the unfolding promise first given to Avraham beneath the stars.

At times, we too need to lift our eyes beyond the immediate horizon, to appreciate how far we have come, and to recognise the possibilities that still lie ahead.

The story that began with Avraham is not merely a story of our past. It is a story that continues to unfold, and one that we have both the privilege and responsibility to help shape.

 Shabbat Shalom!

You can also read Rabbi Kenigsberg's piece for Lech Lecha last year, "A Matter of Mindsets". by clicking here.

Quest for God: Book of the Month (Cheshvan 5787)

 For our Book of the Month we return to the shelves of our Marvin  N. Hirschhorn collection, which you will find in our Beit Midrash, at the end of the Ezrat Nashim. There you will find a variety of books on Jewish philosophy, history, prayer and thought, including Quest for God by Abraham Joshua Heschel. Subtitled "Studies in Prayer and Symbolism", this slender tome tackles fundamental -- and for many people unanswerable -- questions such as "What is prayer?", a subject to which Rabbi Kenigsberg has repeatedly returned in his series of shiurim on the She'arim beTefillah of Rabbi Shimshon Dovid Pincus. Heschel also asks what actually happens when a person prays, a question to which each reader may offer a unique and personal response.

For Heschel himself, prayer is not merely a request for divine favors or a psychological release. Instead, it is an act of spiritual discipline, expression, and deep empathy. He argues that true prayer requires drawing oneself into an intimate awareness of God's presence, aiming to view reality from a "God's-eye-view".

Heschel also delivers a sharp critique of modern religious institutions, warning against the "spiritual absenteeism of the synagogue". He argues that religion loses its meaning when vital faith is replaced by rigid creeds, dynamic worship is replaced by routine discipline, and love hardens into mere habit.

A central tenet of Heschel's philosophy is that the worship of God requires a dual commitment: inward prayer and outward action. True reverence for God must express itself as ultimate reverence for human beings, meaning that mitzvot, which he terms “ethical deeds”, are themselves an extension of prayer. 

In conclusion, it can be said that there are at least three aspects to prayer that usually concern us: what it does to us when we pray, how it affects the world around us and our relationship with God, and what the words we say actually mean. This work relates in one way or another to all three though, inevitably, it will raise more questions in the reader's mind than answers.

You can access Rabbi Kenigsberg's shiurim on prayer and the She'arim beTefillah on our YouTube channel here.