Preparing for the Greatest Challenge of All—Success

As we begin Sefer Devarim, the Torah opens with a seemingly simple phrase:

"These are the words that Moshe spoke to all Israel..." (Devarim 1:1)

Chazal teach that these words mark far more than the beginning of another book. They represent an entirely new stage in Jewish history. For forty years, Moshe Rabbeinu had guided a nation through the wilderness. They experienced miracles every day—the manna from Heaven, the Clouds of Glory, water from Miriam's well, and Divine protection at every step. Now everything was about to change. What was this change and how fundamentally does it affect us? Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains.

The Jewish people were preparing to enter Eretz Yisrael. They would no longer live sustained by open miracles. They would plow fields, build homes, establish courts, raise families, defend borders, and create a society rooted in Torah. Moshe understood that this new generation faced challenges unlike any before them. Therefore, he repeated the Torah—but from an entirely different perspective.

The Torah Never Changes—Its Application Does

Many mitzvot taught during the forty years in the desert could only be understood in theory. Agricultural laws. Property ownership. The mitzvot dependent upon the Land of Israel.For an entire generation, these concepts were academic. No one owned land. No one harvested crops. No one dealt with the complexities of building a Jewish society.

Now theory was about to become reality. Moshe's final thirty-six days became a master class in applying eternal Torah to an entirely new environment. Every generation faces this challenge. The Torah itself never changes. Yet each generation must understand how timeless principles apply to new realities. Rabbi Moshe Feinstein confronted electricity, organ transplants, modern medicine, and air travel. Today's posekim grapple with artificial intelligence, genetic engineering, and digital communication.

The questions change. The Torah does not.

The Mystery of "Di Zahav"

The opening verses of Devarim mention several locations unfamiliar to us. Chazal explain that many of these are not geographical places at all, but subtle references to events in Israel's history. One of the most intriguing is "Di Zahav"—literally, "abundance of gold." There is no known location by that name. The Gemara (Berachot 32a) explains that Moshe was referring to the sin of the Golden Calf. But surprisingly, Moshe was not merely rebuking the Jewish people. He was defending them. Moshe argued before Hashem that the extraordinary wealth given to the Jewish people when they left Egypt contributed to their failure. They possessed enormous riches before they had developed the spiritual maturity to handle them. Their sin remained their responsibility—but the circumstances mattered.

Like a loving advocate, Moshe asked Hashem to judge them with mercy. This remarkable perspective teaches an important lesson: while we are always accountable for our choices, Judaism also recognizes that environment and circumstance influence human behavior.

The Greatest Spiritual Danger

Most people assume Judaism's greatest challenge is persecution. History teaches otherwise. Yes, countless Jews suffered under oppression, expulsions, and inquisitions. But even more Jews were lost through comfort, prosperity, and assimilation.

Moshe understood this long before anyone else. Throughout Sefer Devarim, one warning appears repeatedly: "You will build beautiful houses... your silver and gold will increase... your wealth will multiply... and your heart will become haughty, and you will forget Hashem." (See Devarim Chapter 8.)

The greatest danger was never poverty. It was success without gratitude. Freedom without purpose. Prosperity without spiritual discipline. Di Zahav is not merely a reference to the Golden Calf. It is the central theme of Sefer Devarim.

The Challenge of Our Generation

Never before in Jewish history have so many Jews lived with the freedom and prosperity enjoyed today. Particularly in North America, generations have been blessed with opportunities unimaginable to previous centuries. This is an extraordinary blessing.

Yet blessings also create tests. Comfort can dull urgency. Prosperity can weaken identity. Success can create the illusion that we no longer need Hashem. Moshe's words to the generation entering Israel are remarkably relevant to our own. The challenge is not simply to survive. It is to remain spiritually vibrant while living in a world of unprecedented abundance.

Why Eretz Yisrael Matters

The Book of Devarim is fundamentally a preparation for life in Eretz Yisrael. Almost every major theme revolves around building a Torah society in the Land. The mitzvot are no longer theoretical. They become a blueprint for national life. Living in Israel demands responsibility, gratitude, and constant awareness that our material success is a gift from Hashem. Perhaps that is why so many of the Torah's strongest warnings—and greatest promises—are found in Sefer Devarim.

The Eternal Guardians of Jerusalem

The Radak offers a beautiful insight on the verse describing the guardians of Jerusalem.

Who truly protected Jerusalem throughout the centuries? Not armies. Not walls. Not kings. The Jewish people themselves. Every day, for nearly two thousand years, Jews prayed for Jerusalem. Three times daily in the Amidah. After every meal in Birkat HaMazon. On Tisha B'Av.At weddings. At moments of greatest joy and deepest sorrow.

Generation after generation, Jews refused to forget Jerusalem. Those prayers sustained the dream. And because the dream never died, the Jewish people were able to return home.

Today, we witness something previous generations could only imagine. Jerusalem has been rebuilt. The Land of Israel flourishes. Millions of Jews have returned. The challenge before us is no longer merely to pray for Jerusalem. It is to strengthen it—physically, spiritually, and demographically. That may be the greatest message of Sefer Devarim.

The Torah prepares us not only to enter the Land but to build a society worthy of it. May we merit to use the blessings Hashem has given us—not as distractions from our mission, but as tools to fulfill it—and may we continue to strengthen Jerusalem and the Land of Israel for generations to come.

From Caution to Panic: The Lesson of the Spies (Devarim 5786)

This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 16 July 2026. Thanks to AI, you can also read it in Hebrew (click here).

Parshat Devarim retells many of the events recorded earlier in the Torah, yet often with subtle differences. Those differences are not accidental. They invite us to look more deeply and uncover a new dimension of the story.

One striking example is the episode of the spies. In Parshat Shelach, the emphasis falls squarely on the spies themselves and the disastrous report they bring back from the Land of Israel. The narrative already hints that something has gone wrong. Rashi explains that when God says "Shelach lecha" -- "Send for yourself" -- it is not a command but a concession. Moshe Rabbeinu even changes Yehoshua’s name, praying that he be saved from the counsel of the spies.

Yet when Moshe recounts the same events in Parshat Devarim, the focus shifts. He recalls that the people approached him with the request to send spies, and he concludes, "Vayitav be'einai hadavar" ("The matter seemed good in my eyes).

How can these two accounts be reconciled? Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky points to a single word in Rashi that changes the entire perspective. Describing the people's approach to Moshe, Rashi explains that they came be'irbuvya—in confusion and disorder. The young pushed past the old, the old pushed past the tribal leaders. There was no calm discussion, only urgency and panic.

The rebuke, Rav Kamenetsky explains, is not directed merely at the decision to send spies. Sending a reconnaissance mission before entering the Land could have been entirely reasonable. The problem was the atmosphere in which the request was made. Their panic revealed something deeper. They had lost perspective. They forgot where they stood, what God had already done for them, and what He had promised for the future. Their practical efforts no longer flowed from faith; they flowed from fear.

That distinction remains as relevant today as it was then. The Torah encourages responsibility, planning and prudent action. We make thoughtful decisions and prepare for the future. But there is a profound difference between taking sensible precautions and allowing fear to shape our outlook. The former is an expression of wisdom; the latter can gradually erode our sense of purpose and trust.

As we stand on the threshold of Tisha b'Av, we naturally reflect on the great national failures that brought about the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. Yet the Torah reminds us that, long before the tragedy itself, there was a subtler failure: a nation that momentarily lost confidence in the path God had set before it. The spies were not the beginning of the story. They were the consequence of a people who had already begun to see the future through the lens of fear rather than faith.

Tisha b'Av calls upon us to mourn what was lost,  and also to remember the covenant that was never broken. Even in times of uncertainty, the Jewish people continue to walk forward sustained not only by careful planning but by the enduring confidence that the God who has guided our history in the past continues to guide it still.

Shabbat Shalom!

Job: A New Translation (Book of the Month, Menachem Av 5786)

The solemnity of Tisha b’Av is compounded for many people by the severe restrictions that our Sages have placed on what we can read or learn on that solemn, tragic date. One work that is however permitted is the Book of Job on account of its sad and troubling content and the relevance the questions it poses to the life we lead today. For this reason we have chosen as our Book of the Month for Menachem Av Job: A New Translation, by our member Professor Edward Greenstein.

This work is actually a lot more than a translation, as Ed explains in his lengthy (21 page) Introduction. Essentially, when seeking to extract meaning from the Book of Job we are faced with a text that was written for readers who are separated from us by millennia. These readers not only spoke a different language; their social, cultural and spiritual reference points were different too. Interwoven within the text there are words with resonate with others, puns, allusions and metaphors which we are not in a position to appreciate on a superficial basis. Comprehension of this difficult work also requires a passing familiarity with Aramaic and other Semitic languages, in much the same way as a work written today in English might expect the reader to be familiar with some words in French, Latin tags, Greek and Roman mythology and so on.

Ever since the time of Onkelos it has been accepted, sometimes happily and sometimes with reluctance, that there is no such thing as a translation that is not also a commentary. That this work too is more than a mere word-for-word rendition of the original is affirmed by the online blurb for Job: A New Translation, which describes the book thus:

The book of Job has often been called the greatest poem ever written. The book, in Edward Greenstein’s characterization, is “a Wunderkind, a genius emerging out of the confluence of two literary streams” which “dazzles like Shakespeare with unrivaled vocabulary and a penchant for linguistic innovation.” Despite the text’s literary prestige and cultural prominence, no English translation has come close to conveying the proper sense of the original. The book has consequently been misunderstood in innumerable details and in its main themes.

Edward Greenstein’s new translation of Job is the culmination of decades of intensive research and painstaking philological and literary analysis, offering a major reinterpretation of this canonical text. Through his beautifully rendered translation and insightful introduction and commentary, Greenstein presents a new perspective: Job, he shows, was defiant of God until the end. The book is more about speaking truth to power than the problem of unjust suffering.

Ed’s translation has a refreshingly modern feel to it, but meaning is not sacrificed on the altar of modernity. It is also sustained by a regular flow of footnotes that point the reader to, among other things. allusions to other canonical texts that are found in the original Hebrew but which would be concealed from an English reader.

So, to conclude: if you struggle with the “these” and “thous” of older, more formal English translations and are daunted by the sheer bulk of the heavily annotated ArtScroll, which where the commentary is in danger of getting in the way of the narrative, this book could be your ideal solution.

Every Journey Has a Purpose

One of the more puzzling passages in the Torah appears near the end of Sefer Bemidbar. In Parashat Masei, the Torah meticulously lists each of the forty-two places where Bnei Yisrael encamped during their forty years in the wilderness. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom asks why this should be necessary.

At first glance, this lengthy list seems unnecessary. Why devote an entire chapter to names of places that no longer exist, many of which are never mentioned again anywhere in Tanach? These were not cities with permanent populations or historical landmarks. They were temporary encampments in a barren desert. Why preserve their names for eternity?

Rashi himself raises this question at the opening of the parashah. If we already know that the Jewish people wandered in the wilderness for forty years, what is gained by recording every stop along the way?

Our commentators offer several remarkable answers, each revealing a different dimension of the Jewish journey.

Remembering Hashem's Kindness

Rashi explains that the list is intended to highlight Hashem's compassion. One might imagine that the Jewish people wandered endlessly through the desert like nomads, constantly uprooting themselves. In reality, that was not the case. Of the forty-two encampments, fourteen occurred during the first year after leaving Egypt and eight during the final year before entering Eretz Yisrael. During the intervening thirty-eight years there were only twenty journeys. The nation often remained in one location for extended periods, allowing families to establish stability while learning Torah from Moshe Rabbeinu. Rather than emphasizing hardship, the Torah reminds us how Hashem cared for His people throughout the wilderness.

Celebrating the Faith of Klal Yisrael

The Netziv offers another perspective. The list of encampments demonstrates the extraordinary faith of the Jewish people. They willingly followed Hashem through an unknown wilderness with no maps, no permanent settlements, and no visible destination. Every time the Cloud lifted, they packed their belongings and journeyed onward. Their greatness was not merely that they reached the Land of Israel, but that they trusted Hashem every step of the way. The relationship between Hashem and Klal Yisrael has always been built upon this mutual bond of love and trust. The wilderness became the classroom in which that relationship matured.

A Testimony to Miracles

The Ramban cites the Rambam, who explains that recording the locations also serves as historical testimony . Future generations might question whether an entire nation could truly survive for forty years in one of the harshest environments on earth. By carefully documenting every encampment, the Torah anchors the miracle in real geography and history.

Yet the Ramban concludes that there remains a deeper mystery. Ultimately, the precise reason these names appear in the Torah belongs to the hidden wisdom of Hashem. Not every aspect of Torah can be fully explained through human logic alone.

Leaving Egypt Behind

The Malbim notices an important phrase in the opening verse:

"These are the journeys of Bnei Yisrael who left Egypt..."

Why does the Torah emphasize where they came from rather than where they were going? His answer is profound.  The forty-two journeys were not simply about traveling to Eretz Yisrael. They were about removing Egypt from within the Jewish people. Physical redemption occurred in a single night., but spiritual redemption required forty years. A generation raised in slavery had to become a generation capable of living by Torah in the Land of Israel. Each stop represented another stage of purification—shedding the mentality of bondage and replacing it with faith, responsibility, and national purpose. The destination mattered, but so did the transformation.

The Story of Jewish History

The Abarbanel broadens the discussion even further. Having personally experienced the Expulsion from Spain in 1492, he saw the forty-two journeys as a model for all of Jewish history. Generation after generation, Jews have been forced to move—from Spain to Portugal, from England to France, from Eastern Europe to America, from Iraq, Morocco, Algeria, and countless other lands. Every exile became another station on the national journey toward redemption.

The prophet Yechezkel describes this process in powerful language. In Chapter 20, Hashem speaks of leading the Jewish people through "the wilderness of the nations," where they would be refined before returning home. The wilderness did not end with Moshe Rabbeinu. In many ways, Jewish history itself became an extended wilderness journey. Every exile prepared us for the next stage of redemption. Today, as millions of Jews have returned to Eretz Yisrael after nearly two thousand years, we are witnessing another major encampment on that long journey—a stage that our ancestors could scarcely have imagined.

Our Personal Forty-Two Journeys

The Baal Shem Tov brings this idea into every individual's life. He teaches that every Jew experiences his or her own "forty-two journeys." Life is filled with stages. Some are joyful; others are painful. Some feel like Marah, where everything seems bitter. Others resemble Eilim, where twelve springs of fresh water suddenly appear and hope returns. Every experience teaches us something new. Every challenge develops another spiritual strength. Even the difficult stations become necessary parts of our growth.None of the journeys are wasted.

Every Stop Brings Us Closer Home

Parashat Masei reminds us that Hashem never wastes a journey. Every encampment had a purpose. Every move prepared the Jewish people for the next stage. The same is true for Jewish history. The same is true for each of our lives. And perhaps it is also true for our generation. After centuries of wandering through the wilderness of exile, the Jewish people have once again returned to Eretz Yisrael. The journey is not yet complete, but every step brings us closer to the fulfillment of Hashem's promises.

The forty-two journeys were never merely about traveling through the desert. They were about becoming the people destined to come home.

From I to We: Mattot-Masei 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 9 July 2026. Thanks to ChatGPT you can also read it in Hebrew if you click here.

As Sefer Bemidbar draws to a close, the Torah discusses the laws of the Arei Miklat—the cities of refuge. A person who causes a death unintentionally must flee to one of these cities, where he remains protected from the go'el ha-dam, the bereaved relative seeking justice. Yet the Torah adds an unexpected condition: he may not return home until the death of the Kohen Gadol. The connection is puzzling. What does the passing of the Kohen Gadol have to do with an accidental killing?

The Gemara (Makkot 11a) offers one explanation: the Kohen Gadol should have prayed more fervently that such tragedies would never occur during his lifetime. As the spiritual leader of the nation, he bore responsibility not only for the Temple service but for the welfare of the people as a whole.

The Rambam, however, takes an entirely different approach. In the Moreh Nevuchim, he explains that the killer remains in exile simply because, with the passage of time, the anger of the victim's family subsides. The death of the Kohen Gadol marks the moment when the accidental killer may safely return. But this raises an obvious question. What if the Kohen Gadol dies only days after the tragedy? Surely grief does not disappear so quickly.

Perhaps the answer lies not in the amount of time that has passed, but in the significance of the event itself. The death of the Kohen Gadol is not merely a personal loss; it is a national tragedy. The entire nation mourns together. In that moment, the bereaved family discovers that it is no longer carrying its pain alone. Their personal grief is not erased, but it is placed within the larger story of Klal Yisrael.

The Kohen Gadol embodied precisely this perspective. On Yom Kippur, as he entered the Kodesh HaKodashim on behalf of the entire nation, one of his prayers was that Hashem should not accept the prayers of travellers asking for the rain to stop. Their request was understandable, but the needs of the nation came first. The role of the Kohen Gadol was always to elevate the perspective from the individual to the collective.

As we enter the month of Av, this message feels especially timely. At the root of the Churban stood sinat chinam—a failure to see ourselves first and foremost as members of one people.

Over these past years, we have witnessed remarkable examples of the opposite. Bereaved families, despite unimaginable personal loss, have repeatedly spoken not only of their own pain but of the strength, unity, and future of Am Yisrael. They have reminded us that while grief is deeply personal, it can also become a source of national resilience.

Perhaps that is one of the enduring lessons of these days. Healing begins when we move from "I" to "we." As individuals we carry our own joys and sorrows, but as members of Klal Yisrael we carry one another as well. That shared sense of responsibility is not only what sustained our people throughout history; it is also what will enable us, with Hashem's help, to rebuild once again.

Shabbat Shalom!

Seeing is believing

 Here's a piece on Pirkei Avot by our member Jeremy Phillips on a thought that was sparked off by the current FIFA World Cup soccer tournament hosted this year on the far side of the Atlantic.

“Seeing is believing” is a mantra that has been repeated so often that many people, myself included, often forget to think about what it means. But recently I was jolted out of my intellectual somnolence on this point by a small and (in the great course of things) trivial occurrence.

One of my grandkids, aged 6, was watching a sports program that featured highlights of soccer games from the FIFA World Cup. The program showed some of the goals—not just once but a second time as action replays. This juvenile spectator, seeking to make sense of what he viewed, believed that each of what we know to be action replays was in reality an additional goal, though identical to the goal that preceded it.

At first I thought this was an amusing mistake based on an inadequate perception of what the child had seen. On further reflection I concluded that this inference—though fallacious—was not in itself illogical. After all, if we watch traffic lights go several times through their sequence of changes, we recognize that the second and subsequent changes are not “action replays” but separate, if identical, events. From this it seems that the value we derive from what we see with our eyes depends not only on what we see but what we know or infer when we see it.

This led me to ask: what does Pirkei Avot have to say about how we should see things? I was surprised by what I found.

My first port of call was the all-embracing baraita at Avot 6:6, which lists the 48 things that facilitate the acquisition of Torah. This baraita has something to say about what one hears, says, feels, understands and even thinks—but is silent concerning what one sees. Working my way back into the five chapters of mishnah, I gradually realized that sight, despite its significance in our daily lives, was a subject from which Avot appears to consciously distance itself.

While sight is a regular human faculty for which most of us are grateful, we are warned how dangerous it can be for us to use it. Thus at Avot 3:9 Rabbi Yaakov cautions that someone who breaks off from his learning to admire a beautiful tree or field is regarded as having forfeited his soul. Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar adds (Avot 4:23) that we should not seek to look at a person at the time of his degradation. Indeed, even when we do look at something, we should not accept the evidence of our eyes at face value: Rabbi Meir says as much in Avot 4:27 when he teaches:

אַל תִּסְתַּכֵּל בְּקַנְקַן, אֶלָּא בְּמַה שֶּׁיֶּשׁ בּוֹ, יֵשׁ קַנְקַן חָדָשׁ מָלֵא יָשָׁן, וְיָשָׁן שֶׁאֲפִילוּ חָדָשׁ אֵין בּוֹ

Don’t look at the vessel, but at what it contains. There are new vessels that are filled with old wine, and old vessels that don’t even contain new wine.

These negative teachings with regard to human sight stand in sharp contrast to Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi’s mishnah at Avot 2:1, when he references a higher form of vision:

הִסְתַּכֵּל בִּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים, וְאֵין אַתָּה בָא לִידֵי עֲבֵרָה, דַּע מַה לְּמַֽעְלָה מִמָּךְ, עַֽיִן רוֹאָה וְאֹֽזֶן שׁוֹמַֽעַת, וְכָל מַעֲשֶֽׂיךָ בְּסֵֽפֶר נִכְתָּבִים

Contemplate three things, and you will not come to the grip of transgression. Know what is above you: a seeing eye, a listening ear, and all your deeds being inscribed in a book.

The message here is unambiguous. We cannot see this “seeing eye”. It is a quality possessed by God alone. This is the ability to perceive that lies above us and which lies normally well beyond our reach. It is metaphorically speaking, the eye of God and it is only this eye that truly comprehends what it views. When someone has this gift, having been touched by Ru’ach haKodesh (a spirit of holiness), we have a special word for that person. He is a ro’eh—literally a “seer”.

There is an allusion to the seer in Avot itself. Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel, when asked at Avot 2:13 to identify the ideal path to which a person should cling, answers הָרוֹאֶה אֶת הַנּוֹלָד (haro’eh et hanolad, “one who sees the outcome of that which has yet to emerge”). In other words, he is one who sees, or foresees, that which is not yet visible—something that falls within the capabilities of the seer.

Is seeing then to be relegated to playing a relatively insignificant role in our lives as practising Jews and in our relationships with God and man? Yes, according to Rabbi Dr Jonathan Sacks who has repeatedly and consistently argued that Judaism is fundamentally a religion of sound over sight. While the Greeks and other ancient civilizations viewed seeing as a form of knowledge, Judaism takes the contrary view. God cannot be seen, only heard, which is why the Shema, a declaration of faith based on listening, not seeing, provides us with the supreme means of linking us to God and to our fellows.

Bee in the Bathroom

We all feel anger from time to time and our sages have plenty to say on the subject. Here's a thought from our member Jeremy Phillips that was triggered by a recent event in his life.

A few days ago we had an uninvited visitor. A bee had found its way through our insect-proof netting and into our bathroom. If we were unhappy at this intrusion, the bee was even more so, emitting a harsh, unremitting buzz as it furiously circled the confines of its prison in search of a way out.  It took a day or so before the bee had calmed down, settled on a hand-towel in sullen silence and allowing me to trap it inside a drinking glass and ease it gently out of the window.

I do not know whether bees actually feel anger, though in human culture it is easy to label their frenetic buzz as a sign of anger. Indeed, “angry buzzing” is something of a literary cliché. What I do know is that this episode resonates with my understanding of Pirkei Avot.

While our sages, the foremost of whom is Rambam, are unanimous in condemning anger, and we learn that anger is even a form of avodah zarah (Shabbat 105b), the Tannaic authors of the mishnayot in Avot accept both that anger exists and that we feel it. This is why Rabbi Eliezer does not demand us never to be angry but instead urges us (at 2:15) אַל תְּהִי נֽוֹחַ לִכְעוֹס (“Don’t be easy to anger”). Going well beyond that, the anonymous author of Avot 5:17 teaches:

אַרְבַּע מִדּוֹת בְּדֵעוֹת: נֽוֹחַ לִכְעוֹס וְנֽוֹחַ לֵרָצוֹת, יָצָא הֶפְסֵדוֹ בִּשְׂכָרוֹ. קָשֶׁה לִכְעוֹס וְקָשֶׁה לֵרָצוֹת, יָצָא שְׂכָרוֹ בְּהֶפְסֵדוֹ. קָשֶׁה לִכְעוֹס וְנֽוֹחַ לֵרָצוֹת, חָסִיד. נֽוֹחַ לִכְעוֹס וְקָשֶׁה לֵרָצוֹת, רָשָׁע

There are four types of temperaments. One who is easily angered and easily appeased—his loss cancels out his reward. One whom it is difficult to anger and difficult to appease—his reward cancels out his loss. One whom it is difficult to anger and is easily calmed down is a chasid. One who is easily angered and is difficult to calm down is wicked.

This clearly acknowledges that even a chasid will feel anger. But he is not alone. Earlier in the fifth perek, at Avot 5:2-3, we learn that God too gets angry—and that He is able to restrain His anger for generation after generation.

All of this points to a principle that emerges from Rambam’s Moreh Nevuchim: we can’t stop having feelings, ideas and emotions entirely. If we could, we would no longer be functionally human. However, what we can do is to take control over them once we have them.

The bee coming into my bathroom and buzzing around in apparent rage and desperation is analogous to a powerful surge of anger that comes into one’s head. At this point we may not be amenable to rational thought. This is why Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar teaches (Avot 4:23)

אַל תְּרַצֶּה אֶת חֲבֵרֶֽךָ בְּשַֽׁעַת כַּעֲסוֹ

Do not appease your friend at the height of his anger.

But, once we have controlled our anger and composed ourselves, we can view things—including our own feelings and the circumstances that generated them—in a more reasonable manner.  To put it another way, once the bee calms down, its problem can be addressed with a happy outcome for bee—and me.

When Good Intentions Go Wrong: Pinchas 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 2 July. Thanks to ChatGPT you can also read it in Hebrew, here.

Parshat Pinchas introduces us to the remarkable daughters of Tzelafchad—five sisters who courageously approached Moshe Rabbeinu to request a share in the Land of Israel after their father died without sons. Their request was unprecedented, yet God Himself affirmed their claim: "The daughters of Tzelafchad speak correctly." The Torah presents these women as models of faith, courage, and love of Eretz Yisrael. Chazal praise them for their wisdom and righteousness, and their story is forever enshrined in the Torah. Yet this raises an intriguing question. Who was their father?

The Torah tells us that Tzelafchad died because of his own sin, while stressing that he was not part of Korach's rebellion. Chazal debate the nature of that sin. According to Rabbi Shimon, Tzelafchad was among the ma'apilim—those who attempted to enter the Land of Israel after God had forbidden them to do so following the sin of the spies. According to Rabbi Akiva, he was the mekoshesh etzim—the man executed for gathering wood on Shabbat (Bava Batra 119b).

Rabbi Shimon's opinion is easier to understand. Tzelafchad's mistake was driven by an overwhelming desire to enter the Land of Israel. His daughters inherited that same passion, but expressed it in the proper way. Rabbi Akiva's view is far more surprising. How could the Torah's first public Shabbat desecrator become the father of five of its greatest heroines?

Tosafot offer a remarkable explanation. They suggest that Tzelafchad acted leshem Shamayim—for the sake of Heaven. Immediately after the decree that the generation of the wilderness would not enter the Land, some mistakenly concluded that they were no longer obligated to keep the mitzvot. Tzelafchad deliberately violated Shabbat, knowing he would be punished, so that the nation would see that the Torah's commandments remained fully binding. His conclusion was tragically mistaken, but his motivation was to preserve the Jewish people's commitment to Torah.

Whether or not this is the plain meaning of the story, it offers a profound insight into religious life. Tzelafchad was not acting out of selfishness or rebellion. On the contrary, he was prepared to sacrifice everything for what he believed would strengthen the Jewish people. His mistake lay elsewhere: he assumed that his own understanding of God's will was sufficient.

Passion is one of Judaism's greatest virtues. Without it there can be no growth, no courage, and no spiritual ambition. Yet passion untethered from Torah can easily lose its way. The greatest religious danger is not only serving God for the wrong reasons; sometimes it is serving Him for the noblest of reasons, while allowing our own judgment to replace His.

The story of Tzelafchad reminds us that authentic avodat Hashem requires both a heart that burns with devotion and the humility to recognise that God's will—not our own enthusiasm—is the final measure of what is right.

Shabbat Shalom!

From Israeli to Jew: Rami Sherman speaks on Entebbe 1976

On Monday 22 June Rami Sherman, Operations Officer in Operation Entebbe, visited us in Rechavia and gave a full and moving account of the events leading up to one of the most audacious military operations in history. 

The summary of Rami's talk that follows was composed by our member Pessy Krausz. Thank you, Pessy, for your assiduity in note-taking! You can also watch and listen to Rami's talk, which is in two parts, here and here.

This event was kindly sponsored by Mark and Rivka Kaplow to mark their 50th wedding anniversary. Thank you, Mark and Rivka, may you share many more happy years together.

From Israeli to Jew

Major Rami Sherman, who served as Operations Officer in Operation Entebbe, was invited by Beit Knesset Hanassi to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the dramatic rescue. Rami, as all call him, said the event gave him the deepest understanding of what truly happened that day and what it meant for Israel, then and now. Speaking to an overflowing audience, this child of Holocaust survivors lived originally on Kibbutz Lehavot Habashan, a historically secular community in the upper Galilee. He was denied a barmitzvah as its members wished to be universally “modern”. Only as an adult and after much heart-searching did Rami finally celebrate his Jewish coming of age.

The interweaving of the impact of the mission with Rami’s transformed identity from an Israeli to a Jew, and its relevance for present times, often felt like a morality tale. This prompted me to pick a few nuggets from his almost two-hour riveting presentation.

Rami recounted how at age 17, he and all the kibbutz members worked on Yom Kippur. As proud Israelis, rather than Jews, they produced families, fought and died for our country. He was therefore at a complete loss when invited for Shabbat by a family in later years and was asked to recite a blessing.

Army service led him to become second in command of the elite Sayeret Unit under its commander, Yoni Natanyahu in the legendary Entebbe mission.  Ringing in his ears to this day are the words of Yoni, whose words as commander are of greatest importance. Yoni made three points.

1. We shoot first.

2. Don’t stop running – even if someone shoots.

3. It is the responsibility of every Jew to help each other.

These words, Rami said, were not only crucial at the time, but changed his life 40 years later. Entebbe, Rami maintained, is the story of our history. When the Air France Flight 139 Airbus, initially en route from Tel Aviv to Paris, made a stopover in Athens, 50 alighted and 50 others got on. An old woman screamed: there are terrorists aboard.  But who, he asked, listens to an old woman! Indeed. On 7 October 2023 a unit of young female soldiers warned of a big attack. They were among the first Hamas killed on that date. Who listens to young women? Who follows the Biblical injunction to listen to the voice of Sarah? Even though research indicates that women have the greater intuition, apparently they are still not taken seriously.

Thus, on June 27, 1976, four armed hijackers, two from Germany and two members of the PLO, entered the plane, screaming none should move. Passengers were rooted to their seats for 18 hours. The butt of a gun hit the captain across the face, which was covered in blood. They forced him to re-route the aircraft to Entebbe, Uganda, holding the 248 passengers and 12 crew members hostage.

When the pilot heroically landed the plane in Entebbe, 148 Christian hostages were released, leaving 106 Jewish and Israeli hostages. This, said Rami, was selection—a process which some of the hostages, as Holocaust survivors, had experienced in their traumatic history. He emphasised the heroism of the non-Jewish captain, Michel Bacos. He refused the hijackers' offer to release him and his crew. Instead, he chose to stay and protect his Jewish and Israeli passengers. This, said Rami, is humanitarianism. Likening it to that of Janusz Korczak, who was repeatedly offered exemption from the death camp because he was internationally famous for his innovations in child education. Yet this Polish Jewish doctor gave his life to be with the children. He was transported together with them to death at Treblinka. Rami pointed out that then, just as on 7 October, the Western World was silent.

Until this point the resolution of the hijack had been considered the responsibility of the French Government since it was a French Airbus which had been hijacked. Now, however, Israelis and Jews had been selected. This was Israel’s wake-up call to take responsibility. But how? A decision-making group was formed. This included Lieutenant General Mordechai "Motta" Gur, who was Chief of Staff of the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) during this operation. He was against military action, arguing that there was not enough information. Defence Minister, Shimon Peres, insisted Israel must act. The Diaspora must hear Israel’s voice. Israel must defend every Jewish life anywhere and never again allow helpless echoes of the Holocaust to be heard again. Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin considered Israel should negotiate with the terrorists. They had demanded a $5 million ransom for the release of the plane and the freeing of 53 imprisoned Palestinian and pro-Palestinian militants. Failure to comply would result in the killing two hostages daily. Rami confided that he personally felt fight was the answer. 

Brigadier General Dan Shomron, head of the forces, chief infantry and paratrooper officer, was appointed to plan the mission to Uganda. He issued the order: prepare to fly to Entebbe!

 Rami’s description of the mission could put a James Bond film to shame, if indeed the cost had not been so tragically high. To infiltrate Entebbe it was necessary to imitate the airport procedures there. The car used by Idi Amin in the cruel Ugandan’s president’s motorcade was a black Mercedes-Benz. Israeli soldiers found a white Mercedes (without wheels) which they then painted black. On Shabbat they found fourwheels in Tel Aviv. But the poor soldiers had no money. “We don’t do business on Shabbat” solved that problem! The Mercedes was used as a ruse to disguise the commandos as Idi Amin's motorcade. It was loaded onto one of four Hercules plane; on the others there were three Land Rover jeeps (used as escort vehicles), 33 soldiers and 12 paramedics. The crew switched into Ugandan uniforms; seats in the planes were removed; there was no air conditioning on board, and no toilets other than empty Coca-Cola bottles.

 Altogether the three planes were packed with vehicles and equipment, approximately 100 Israeli commandos, accompanied by air crews and medical and support personnel, totalling just over 200 personnel. But the fourth flew empty—for the hostages. Two Boeing 707 aircraft accompanied the Hercules fleet. One acted as an airborne communications and command post, while the other served as a hospital.

Hearing Rami describe the precautions taken to avoid detection flying to Uganda sounded like Mission Impossible. The Israeli task force flew low in a covert 4,000 km (2,500 mile) flight from Israel to Entebbe, Uganda. The route down the Red Sea and through East Africa had to avoid hostile radar. Over high mountains, a tropical storm hit, subsiding as the Hercules reached Lake Victoria. 

Emergency refuelling had to be secured, without which no continued flight would be possible. For the Entebbe mission, named Operation Thunderbolt, Ehud Barak served as the Head of the Planning Directorate and was a principal architect of the daring hostage rescue plan. He was secretly dispatched to Nairobi. There he met directly with senior Kenyan officials to ensure the Israeli planes would be able to refuel on both the inbound and outbound legs of the operation. Barak also coordinated contingency plans for evacuating the wounded.

Rami described the breathtaking speed with which the preparations for the Entebbe mission took place, taking roughly 48 to 72 hours (about 2 to 3 days). The IDF conducted rehearsals from when the terrorists issued their ultimatum around 29 June 1976.

The journey was complicated and left little time for food or sleep. It was further complicated by the fear factor. The crew had no knowledge of Africa and once on board, had to crouch on the floor or under the vehicles which some lucky ones sat in! Neither were they immune to the bumpy ride and some even vomited.

Reaching Uganda the rescue team was given permission to land. The operation, from the commandos' arrival in Uganda to their departure with the freed hostages took only 58 minutes. Unlike the darkness through which the planes had travelled, touching down on Entebbe’s runway they were faced with bright lights in the terminal. The Israeli commandos knew the exact layout of the Entebbe Terminal because the airport was originally built by an Israeli construction company, allowing planners to study the architectural blueprints.

Unloading cars and equipment, the crew ran towards the area where the hostages were housed. Yoni led, shooting and killing two of the guards. One managed to shoot him and he was badly wounded. Rami eventually got Yoni into his jeep and made for the hospital plane. But Yoni could not be saved. However, his words of operation rang in the ears of the commandos. They ran, killing guards on the way while being shot at from the control tower. In seven minutes 20 Ugandan soldiers and 11 terrorists were killed. Two hostages were mistakenly killed trying to escape. To their dismay, the hostages were afraid to leave their captivity, fearing that the commandos, who were dressed in Ugandan uniform, were killers. They were however reassured when they were spoken to in Yiddish and Hebrew.

Counting the hostages, one was missing. Dora Bloch's son, Ilan Hartuv, who was with her on the hijacked Air France flight, explained she was hospitalised in Kampala. Dora was later tragically shot in revenge for Israel’s successful mission. In their haste to escape, many of the hostages jumped into the Jeeps, making it impossible to drive them. This left them with no option but to walk 600 metres with 105 hostages to the Hercules plane reserved for them.

Rami softly told his spellbound audience that, as he managed to help the hostages evacuate, he heard a voice. Where it came, from he did not know. But it spoke clearly, saying: “Rami you saved the lives of Jews”. Even more softly, as we all sat in awe, Rami said “I cannot explain”.

The BBC, in an endangering scoop, announced that Israel released the hostages. So, when the hostages finally landed in an Israeli army base, the hostages were briefed as to what to say and what NOT say. Even so, details of the ‘secret’ mission spread like wildfire. The returnees finally landed in Lod (now Ben Gurion) airport.

Next day Rami went to his Kibbutz Maagan Michael, where he now lives with his family and where his sister anxiously awaited him. “Where have you been?”, she cried. “We heard that some have been shot. Are you alive?” Then he called his parents who were on a trip in Australia. “I’m alive!”, he exclaimed.  The following day he was back at work as usual, taking time off only to go to Har Hertzl for Yoni’s funeral.

Rami has now spoken some 800 times since Entebbe and realises how important it is that here, in Israel, we have a home. He said “I went into Entebbe as an Israeli and came out as a Jew”, he stated adding: “It took me 40 years to realize that meaning.”

His transformation might well be compared to those many people worldwide who, during and since the Swords of Iron war, have been blessed with an awakening of their Jewish identity. Seemingly, tragically, it takes a national trauma to create spiritual awakening.

Fittingly the operation was retroactively renamed named Operation Yonatan in memory of the mission's fallen commander, Lt. Col. Yonatan "Yoni" Netanyahu.

For 40 years Rami bottled up his Entebbe experience. Finally he felt he could contain it no longer. For 40 years we wandered in the Wilderness. Finally, as Rami did, we arrived in our spiritual and physical homeland. Am Yisrael Chai!

Seeing the Bigger Picture: Balak 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first posted in our Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 25 June 2026. Thanks to ChatGPT, you can also read the Ivrit translation here.

Seeing is not the same as understanding. Two people can look at the same reality and perceive entirely different worlds. One sees a collection of isolated events; the other sees a story. One sees only human action; the other discerns a deeper purpose.

Few examples illustrate this more clearly than the contrast between Yitro and Balak. Both were outsiders who encountered the extraordinary rise of the Jewish people. Both were confronted by the same historical reality. Yet one chose to join that story, while the other sought to destroy it.

The Torah hints at the difference in the opening verses of their respective parshiyot. Parshat Balak begins: “And Balak son of Tzippor saw all that Israel had done to the Emorites”. Parshat Yitro begins: “And Yitro heard all that God had done for Moshe and for Israel His people”.

The distinction is subtle but profound. Balak saw what Israel did. Yitro understood what God did. Balak focused on the immediate events unfolding before him. He saw military victories, political developments, and shifting balances of power. Some note that he saw what Israel had done to the Emorites, but failed to consider what had brought those events about. He saw the latest chapter of the story but ignored the chapters that came before it.

Yitro looked at the same reality and reached a completely different conclusion. He recognized that something larger was unfolding before his eyes. The story was not simply about a nation emerging from slavery and defeating its enemies. It was about God's presence in history and His relationship with His people.

This contrast reappears later in the parsha. When Balak sends messengers to Bilam, he describes Israel as a nation that "came out of Egypt." For him, the Exodus was an event of the distant past.

Yet when Bilam speaks prophetically, he describes God as the One who "brings them out of Egypt" (Bamidbar 23:22). Not who brought them out in the past, but who brings them out. The redemption from Egypt is described in the present tense.

The message is striking. Yetziat Mitzrayim is not merely a historical memory. It is an ongoing reality. The covenant forged at the Exodus did not end thousands of years ago. The story continues to unfold.

Perhaps this idea lies behind the Mishna's contrast between the ayin tovah of Avraham Avinu and the ayin ra'ah of Bilam (Avot 5:19). An ayin ra'ah sees only the surface. It sees isolated facts, detached from context and meaning. An ayin tovah sees more deeply. It recognizes the larger picture and understands that individual moments are part of a greater whole.

We live in a world saturated with headlines, analysis, and endless commentary. It is easy to become consumed by the events immediately before us. The challenge is to cultivate the perspective of Yitro rather than that of Balak—to look beyond the surface and to search for the deeper story.

The great story of the Jewish people did not end with the Exodus. It continues in every generation. The question is whether we see only the immediate events around us, or whether we recognize that there is a far greater story unfolding—of which we are privileged to help write the next chapter.

Shabbat Shalom!

Why Couldn’t Moshe Enter the Land?

Parashat Chukat contains one of the greatest mysteries in the entire Torah. Moshe Rabbeinu—the greatest leader the Jewish people have ever known—is informed that he will not lead the nation into Eretz Yisrael. Few questions have occupied the commentators more intensely. Moshe brought the Torah down from Har Sinai. He interceded for the nation after the sin of the Golden Calf. He guided the Jewish people through every crisis of the wilderness. Yet, just as they stand at the threshold of the Promised Land, he is told that his journey will end. “Why?” asks our member Rabbi Paul Bloom.

The Torah's language is strikingly severe. Moshe is told that he failed to sanctify Hashem's Name properly and that he will therefore not bring the people into the Land. But what exactly was his sin? The commentators struggle to identify it. The Midrash and later commentators offer numerous explanations. The Abarbanel famously lists eleven different approaches, concluding that no consensus exists.

Perhaps the reason for this lack of agreement is that the Torah's primary message is not the precise nature of Moshe's error. Rather, it is teaching us something far deeper about leadership, faith, and the transition from one stage of Jewish history to another.

Moshe Was Not Being Punished

The Meshech Chochmah offers a remarkable perspective. He suggests that Moshe's exclusion from the Land was not fundamentally a punishment at all. Moshe's entire mission was to bring the Jewish people close to Hashem. Had he completed the conquest and settlement of the Land, his stature among the nation would have become unparalleled. The danger was that future generations might begin to view him as more than human—as a semi-divine figure whose powers transcended ordinary human limitations. The Torah therefore teaches a crucial lesson: even Moshe Rabbeinu was mortal.

Judaism reveres great leaders. We honor Torah scholars, prophets, and tzaddikim. But we never worship them. We do not believe they possess independent supernatural powers. We do not consider them infallible. Ultimate authority belongs only to Hashem. By recording Moshe's mistake—even one so subtle that the greatest commentators struggle to define it precisely—the Torah reminds us that even the greatest human being remains human.

This lesson has profound relevance in every generation. We must respect our leaders, learn from them, and seek their guidance. At the same time, our faith must always be directed toward Hashem rather than toward any individual, no matter how great.

The Missing Thirty-Eight Years

A second perspective emerges from the Netziv and other commentators. At the beginning of parashat Chukat, Rashi notes that the Torah suddenly jumps from the second year after the Exodus to the fortieth year. Nearly thirty-eight years disappear from the narrative.

Those years represented a period of waiting. The generation that left Egypt gradually passed away, while a new generation grew up in the wilderness learning Torah from Moshe and Aharon. Now, in the fortieth year, the Jewish people stand on the eastern bank of the Jordan River opposite Jericho, preparing to enter Eretz Yisrael. Something dramatic is about to change.

From Open Miracles to Hidden Miracles

The generation of the wilderness lived in a world of open miracles. The sea split before them. Manna descended from Heaven. Water flowed from Miriam's well. Clouds of Glory protected them. Moshe Rabbeinu was the leader perfectly suited for such a reality. But life in Eretz Yisrael would be different. In the Land, the Jewish people would need to farm, build cities, establish governments, raise armies, and defend themselves. They would no longer live on daily miracles. Instead, they would have to engage fully in the natural world while recognizing that all success ultimately comes from Hashem.

This transition lies at the heart of the episode of Mei Merivah. Hashem instructed Moshe to speak to the rock. The commentators explain that the purpose was not simply to produce water. Rather, the nation was meant to learn that prayer, Torah, and spiritual connection to Hashem would sustain them in their new reality. Instead, Moshe struck the rock and water emerged miraculously. The miracle itself was not the problem. The problem was the message. The people needed to learn that they were entering a new era—an era in which faith would operate through the natural world rather than through constant supernatural intervention.

A New Leader for a New Era

Seen in this light, Moshe's exclusion from the Land takes on a different meaning. Moshe was not the wrong leader. He was the perfect leader for the wilderness. But the next stage of Jewish history required a different kind of leadership.

Yehoshua would lead military campaigns. He would oversee the conquest and settlement of the Land. His leadership reflected the partnership between human effort and Divine assistance that would characterize Jewish life in Eretz Yisrael. The Malbim explains that the issue was not Moshe's greatness. Rather, the needs of the nation had changed. A new era required a new leader.

The Message for Our Generation

This lesson remains deeply relevant today. Throughout Jewish history, and especially in modern Israel, we witness extraordinary achievements accomplished through human courage, ingenuity, and determination. Soldiers defend the nation. Scientists develop life-saving technologies. Farmers make the desert bloom. Pilots undertake missions that seem almost impossible.

A Jew recognizes two truths simultaneously. First, we admire and appreciate the people who accomplish these remarkable feats. Second, we understand that every talent, every success, and every victory ultimately comes from Hashem. These ideas are not contradictory. They are complementary.

The generation entering Eretz Yisrael had to learn how to live in a world where Divine providence would often be hidden beneath natural events. The miracles would continue, but they would appear in a different form.

This is the world in which we still live. Each day we thank Hashem for "ניסיך שבכל יום עמנו"—the miracles that are with us every day. Most are not revealed through splitting seas or water emerging from rocks. They come through ordinary events infused with extraordinary Divine guidance. Parashat Chukat teaches us that true faith is not merely believing in open miracles. It is recognizing Hashem's hand within the natural world, engaging fully in human responsibility while never forgetting the Source of all blessing. That was the challenge facing the generation entering Eretz Yisrael. And it remains our challenge today.

Standing from Afar: Chukat 5786

This piece was first posted on the Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 18 June 2026. Thanks to ChatGPT you can also read it in Hebrew, here.

Parshat Chukat marks a profound turning point in the story of the Jewish people.

Within a single parashah we encounter the deaths of Miriam and Aharon, and the episode of Mei Merivah, after which Moshe is told that he will not lead the nation into the Land of Israel. More than any other parashah, Chukat represents the transition from one generation of leadership to the next.

Moshe, Aharon and Miriam were not merely great leaders. Chazal teach that they were each associated with one of the miraculous gifts that sustained the nation in the wilderness. The Gemara states: “Three good leaders arose for Israel—Moshe, Aharon and Miriam—and through them came three gifts: the manna, the Clouds of Glory, and the well” (Ta'anit 9a). When Miriam died, the well disappeared. When Aharon died, the Clouds of Glory departed. The obvious question is: why was Miriam specifically associated with water?

Rabbeinu Bachaye points us back to an earlier scene. As an infant, Moshe was placed in a basket upon the Nile, and the Torah tells us:

"Vatetatzav achoto merachok"—“His sister stood from afar to know what would become of him” (Shemot 2:4).

In the merit of that act, Miriam was rewarded with the well that accompanied the Jewish people throughout their forty years in the desert. But the connection runs deeper than reward alone. Rav Soloveitchik explains that Miriam was not merely watching a basket floating on a river. She was watching Jewish destiny unfold. Standing “from afar” means seeing beyond the immediate moment, beyond uncertainty and hardship, toward a larger future that has not yet revealed itself.

This quality characterises Miriam throughout her life. She encouraged hope during the darkest years of Egyptian slavery. She anticipated redemption even before it arrived. She possessed the ability to see possibilities where others saw only obstacles.

Yet there is another lesson as well. For forty years the people benefited from Miriam's well, but many may never have realised that the blessing came in her merit. Only when she was gone did they understand what she had provided.

So often the most significant contributions are the least visible. A word of encouragement, a quiet act of kindness, a moment of attention to another person —these rarely attract headlines, yet they shape lives in ways we may never fully know. The greatness of Miriam lay not only in her vision of the future, but in her willingness to perform a seemingly small act whose consequences would be felt generations later.

"Vatetatzav achoto merachok." Miriam stood from afar. She teaches us to look beyond the present moment, to recognise potential where others see uncertainty, and to remember that even the smallest acts can become sources of blessing far greater than we imagine.

Shabbat Shalom!