Giving Thanks Before the Story Is Over (Ki Tavo 5786)

 This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg on the week's Torah reading was first publlished in Hanassi Highlights, 27 August 2026. Thanks to ChatGPT you can also read it in Hebrew, here.

Parshat Ki Tavo opens with the mitzvah of Bikkurim, the bringing of the first fruits to the Beit HaMikdash. The Mishnah describes the elaborate procession as farmers travelled to Yerushalayim with their first fruits. An ox walked before them with its horns covered in gold, a flute played as they travelled and, when they approached Yerushalayim, dignitaries came out to greet them. Even the craftsmen of the city would stop their work and welcome the arriving pilgrims. All this for a few figs and grapes?

Perhaps the answer lies in something unusual about the timing of Bikkurim. Rashi describes how a farmer would walk into his field, see the first fig beginning to ripen, tie a reed around it and declare: "Harei zo Bikkurim"—"This is Bikkurim." At that point, the farmer has no idea what kind of harvest lies ahead. Perhaps it will be abundant; perhaps disappointing. There may be too much rain or too little. Unlike teruma and ma'aser, which are separated once the crop has been harvested, Bikkurim begins while the outcome is still uncertain. And yet, already then, the farmer stops to say thank you.

There is another unusual feature of Bikkurim. When the farmer eventually reaches the Beit HaMikdash, he does not simply say, "Thank You, Hashem, for the fruit." Instead, he tells a story: "Arami oved avi..." He speaks about Yaakov Avinu, the descent to Egypt, slavery, the Exodus and finally arrival in Eretz Yisrael.

Why the history lesson? Because gratitude requires perspective. If the farmer looks only at this year's harvest, he may see plenty of reasons to complain. Perhaps his neighbour's crop was larger. Perhaps the weather could have been better. But when he steps back and considers the extraordinary journey that brought him to this moment—a  Jew standing on his own land in Eretz Yisrael, holding its produce in his hands—the picture looks very different.

This is a particularly important message as we approach Rosh Hashana. Naturally, we enter the Yamim Noraim thinking about what we hope will be different next year. We have requests, concerns and things in our lives that remain unresolved. We pray that the coming year will bring greater health, happiness, security and success. Bikkurim does not tell us to ignore any of those concerns. It teaches us that we need not wait until everything is resolved before giving thanks. The farmer brings his first fruit before he knows how the harvest will end. And when he brings it, he looks beyond the immediate moment and sees the larger story of which he is a part.

Perhaps that is something worth taking with us into Rosh Hashana. Alongside all that we hope and pray for in the year ahead, we can pause to recognise how far we have already come, and how much we have already been given. Gratitude does not mean pretending that everything is perfect. It means recognising the blessings we have even while the story is still being written.

Shabbat Shalom!

When Blessings Catch Up With Us

Parashat Ki Tavo opens with one of the Torah’s most inspiring visions of Jewish life. Rabbi Paul Bloom describes this vision and probes its deeper meaning.

If we listen to Hashem and faithfully observe His mitzvot, the Jewish people will be elevated among the nations and surrounded by blessing. But what does it mean for us to be “elevated”? It does not necessarily mean that we will possess the greatest military power, the strongest economy, the most successful start-ups, or the most advanced medical research, important as all those achievements may be. The Torah describes something deeper. The nations will recognize that the Jewish people live differently. They will see a nation guided by Torah: a people whose personal lives, families, communities, and national institutions reflect a higher set of values.

This is the magnificent promise at the beginning of the parashah. Yet one unusual word in that promise deserves our attention:

“All these blessings will come upon you and overtake you, if you listen to the voice of Hashem your God” (Devarim 28:2).

The Hebrew word vehisigucha means that the blessings will reach us, catch us, or overtake us. This seems strange. We might have expected the Torah to tell us to pursue blessing. Instead, it pictures the blessings pursuing us. That word contains a profound lesson: a blessed life cannot be attained by making blessing itself our primary goal. Genuine happiness and blessing are not prizes we can seize directly. They are the natural results of a life lived meaningfully, purposefully, and in accordance with ratzon Hashem—the will of God.

Happiness as a Byproduct

Gemara Shabbat discusses an apparent contradiction in Kohelet. One verse praises happiness, while another asks, “Of joy, what does it accomplish?” The Gemara resolves the contradiction by distinguishing between simchah shel mitzvah—the joy that accompanies a mitzvah—and happiness pursued merely for its own sake. When happiness itself becomes the goal, it is often shallow and temporary. It is here today and gone tomorrow. But when we concentrate on creating a beautiful Shabbat, celebrating Rosh Hashanah with meaning, giving tzedakah, praying with sincerity, helping another person, or performing any mitzvah with care, joy emerges naturally. We do not manufacture it. We experience it as the fruit of doing something worthwhile.

Some of life’s most valuable outcomes work this way. Trust grows when we act honestly. Respect develops when we treat people with dignity. Fulfillment comes when we dedicate ourselves to a purpose larger than ourselves. And happiness appears when we stop demanding that life make us happy and begin asking what meaningful contribution we can make. That is the message of vehisigucha. When we pursue Torah, mitzvot, and purpose, the blessings pursue us. They catch up with us and remain with us.

The Spiritual Audit

Earlier in Parashat Ki Tavo, the Torah describes the declaration made after completing the cycle of agricultural tithes. During the preceding years, a farmer may have harvested wheat, barley, grapes, and olives. His fields may have brought him considerable prosperity. But at the end of the cycle, he must conduct an audit—not merely an accounting of his earnings, but a spiritual accounting of how he used them.

This audit poses questions that demand an answer. Did he properly separate the required tithes? Did he support the Kohen and the Levi? Did he care for the stranger, the orphan, the widow, and others in need? Did he recognize that his harvest was not simply his private possession, but a gift that carried responsibility?

After completing these obligations, he declares:

“I have done according to all that You commanded me” (Devarim 26:14).

Rashi offers a beautiful explanation: samachti vesimachti bo—“I rejoiced with it, and I enabled others to rejoice through it.” This is a remarkable definition of success. The farmer does not measure his accomplishment only by how much he accumulated. He asks whether his blessings became a source of blessing to others. He can stand before Hashem with satisfaction because he used what he received to strengthen the Jewish people, support Torah, relieve suffering, and create joy.

That is the purpose of every gift Hashem gives us. Wealth, intelligence, influence, time, professional ability, and personal talent all come with the same question: Did I use this gift only for myself, or did I use it to bring goodness and joy into other people’s lives?

The Joy We Do Not Chase

Even the joy we receive from our children follows this pattern. We do not bring children into the world simply because we want them to make us happy. We bring them into the world to love and nurture them, to transmit our family’s mesorah and the faith of the Jewish people, and to help raise the next generation. The tremendous simchah they bring us is real, but it is the result of love, commitment, sacrifice, and purpose.

Parashat Ki Tavo contains severe warnings about the consequences of abandoning our covenant. Yet it begins with fourteen verses of blessing, reminding us of the destiny that is possible for Klal Yisrael. We are called to become a people whose way of life demonstrates the wisdom, compassion, and holiness of Torah—a nation capable of elevating the world through its example.

As Rosh Hashanah approaches, we naturally pray for a year of happiness and blessing. But perhaps the parashah asks us to add another prayer: that Hashem help us live lives worthy of those blessings. May we use every resource entrusted to us to serve Hashem and help others. May we be able to say samachti vesimachti bo—I found joy in what I was given, and I used it to bring joy to others. And when we pursue meaning rather than happiness, responsibility rather than recognition, and Torah rather than comfort, may Hashem’s blessings come upon us, overtake us, and remain with us.

It Could Never Happen to Me (Ki Teitzei 5786)

This parashah piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in our Hanassi Highlights on Thursday 20 August. Thanks to Chat GPT you can also read it in Hebrew here.

Parshat Ki Teitzei introduces one of the most puzzling mitzvot in the Torah: the ben sorer u'moreh, the rebellious son.

The Torah describes a young man who refuses to listen to his parents and develops a pattern of excessive eating and drinking. His parents bring him before Beit Din, where the Torah prescribes an extraordinarily severe punishment. The Gemara in Masechet Sanhedrin famously records the opinion that ben sorer u'moreh lo haya v'lo atid lihyot—there never was a rebellious son who met all the Torah's criteria, and there never will be. Why, then, does the Torah teach us these laws? Derosh v'kabel sachar—study them and receive reward.

Interestingly, the Gemara makes the same claim regarding two other unusual areas of halacha: the ir hanidachat, an entire city led astray into idolatry, and nigei batim, the appearance of tzara'at on the walls of a house. Yet in each case, the Gemara also records a dissenting opinion. There were Sages who insisted that these cases could indeed occur.

The Chatam Sofer finds an important lesson within this disagreement. Sometimes the greatest danger begins precisely when we convince ourselves: "It could never happen." A parent who believes that his or her child could never lose their way may stop noticing the warning signs. A community convinced that serious problems could never develop within it may fail to recognise the cracks when they first appear. The assumption that something is impossible can itself prevent us from taking the steps necessary to ensure that it remains so.

Perhaps this explains why the Torah teaches us laws which, according to some opinions, were never actually applied. Derosh v'kabel sachar does not simply mean that we receive reward for the theoretical study of Torah. The study itself may help ensure that the situation never arises. By contemplating where things can lead, we become more sensitive to where they begin.

The same theme appears at the end of our parsha. The Torah commands us regarding Amalek: "Zachor... lo tishkach" —"Remember... do not forget." Memory guards against complacency. What happened before cannot simply be dismissed as belonging to another time or another generation.

This message takes on particular significance during Chodesh Elul. The work of Elul begins with honest self-examination. It is very easy to recognise weaknesses in other people. It is harder to acknowledge that we ourselves may have habits that need changing, relationships that need repairing or areas of our religious lives that have gradually become weaker.

The words "It could never happen to me" are comforting, but they can also be dangerous. Elul asks us to replace them with a different question: Could it be happening already, in ways that I have simply stopped noticing?

 The Torah does not ask that question in order to frighten us. It asks because recognising a problem while it is still small gives us the opportunity to change its course. That may be the greatest reward of derosh v'kabel sachar: sometimes, by learning what can happen, we can ensure that it never does.

 Shabbat Shalom!

The Mitzvah That Opens the Door to More

 In his parashah contribution to The Hanassi Blog this week, Rabbi Bloom writes of Shiluach HaKen, self-restraint, and the infinite power of a single mitzvah

Parashat Ki Teitzei contains more mitzvot than any other parashah in the Torah—seventy-four of the Torah’s 613 commandments. Among them is one of the most intriguing: shiluach haken, sending away the mother bird before taking her eggs or young.

The Torah describes a person who happens upon a bird’s nest along the road, in a tree or on the ground. The mother is sitting upon her eggs or fledglings. If the passerby wishes to take the young, the Torah commands: “You shall surely send away the mother, and the young you may take for yourself, so that it will be good for you and you will lengthen your days” (Devarim 22:6–7).

At first glance, the mitzvah is puzzling. The Torah permits us to eat kosher birds and animals. Why, then, must the mother bird be sent away before the eggs or young are taken? What deeper lesson lies within this apparently simple act?

Honoring the Maternal Instinct

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch focuses on the bond between the mother bird and her young. Why does the bird remain on the nest when a human being approaches? Ordinarily, instinct would cause her to flee from danger. Yet her maternal devotion holds her in place.

That instinct—the willingness of a mother to remain with and protect her offspring—is one of the foundations upon which life is built. When we encounter it in nature, we must not exploit it. We may not take advantage of the mother’s devotion in order to seize both her and her young. The Torah therefore commands us to send her away.

The mitzvah trains us to recognize the dignity of motherhood even in the animal world. If we learn to respect sacrifice, loyalty, and maternal care wherever they appear, we become more sensitive to those qualities in human life as well.

A Torah Model of Sustainability

Another approach sees shiluach haken as an expression of responsible stewardship. In modern language, we might call it sustainability.

The Torah allows a person to benefit from the natural world, but it does not grant permission to consume without limit. You may take what you need, but you may not destroy the source from which future life will come. Take the eggs or fledgling  but release the mother so that she can nest again and produce another generation.

This is an act of chesed whose beneficiary is not one identifiable person. It is kindness extended to humanity as a whole and to generations not yet born. Nature is not merely a resource to be exhausted for immediate satisfaction. It is a Divine gift entrusted to us, and we are responsible for passing it forward.

At the heart of this lesson is self-restraint. Human beings naturally want to take what is available, especially when it is within easy reach. The Torah teaches us that the fact that we can take everything does not mean that we should. Holiness is often expressed by the ability to stop—to recognize a boundary, leave something behind, and consider needs beyond our own.

Strikingly, shiluach haken requires little financial sacrifice. The bird is ownerless; the person is not giving away something that already belongs to him. Nevertheless, the Torah promises, “so that it will be good for you and you will lengthen your days.” Even a small act of restraint, when performed because it is Hashem’s will, carries both benefit in this world and eternal spiritual value.

Why So Many Mitzvot?

This leads to a broader question. Why does the Torah contain so many commandments, with so many details?

The final Mishnah in Makkot teaches: “Rabbi Chananya ben Akashya says: The Holy One, blessed be He, desired to confer merit upon Israel; therefore, He gave them Torah and mitzvot in abundance.” The abundance of mitzvot gives us an abundance of opportunities.

The Hebrew word lezakot can mean to grant merit, but it also suggests zach—purity and refinement. Mitzvot do more than add credits to a spiritual account. They educate us. They purify our instincts, refine our character, and train us to see the world differently.

When shiluach haken teaches us to honor maternal devotion, exercise restraint, and preserve creation for the future, the mitzvah is changing us. We emerge from the act more compassionate, more disciplined, and more conscious of our responsibility to Hashem’s world.

The Rambam adds a powerful dimension. He explains that the multitude of mitzvot makes it possible for every person, whatever his temperament, strengths, or circumstances, to encounter at least one mitzvah that he can perform with complete sincerity. Not merely out of habit or for social approval, but lishmah—solely because it is the will of Hashem. A person may fulfill that mitzvah in all its detail, with pure intention, and even with self-sacrifice when it carries him beyond his comfort zone.

There is therefore both quantity and quality in Jewish life. We seek to perform many mitzvot, but we must also aspire to perform at least one with our entire being.

Every Mitzvah Contains Another

Rashi highlights an additional principle: mitzvah goreret mitzvah—one mitzvah leads to another.

The commandments in Ki Teitzei may appear unrelated, yet Rashi shows that an invisible network connects them. After the mitzvah of sending away the mother bird, the Torah speaks about building a new home and placing a protective parapet around its roof. It then discusses planting a vineyard, working a field, and placing tzitzit on a four-cornered garment.

Rashi explains that if a person fulfills the mitzvah of shiluach haken, Hashem will grant him the opportunity to fulfill additional mitzvot. He may merit to build a house, plant a vineyard, own a field, and acquire a garment requiring tzitzit. Each new blessing becomes a new spiritual opportunity.

Every mitzvah contains, as it were, the spiritual DNA of all the others. Within each act is a doorway leading to another act of holiness.

This is not only a theological idea; it can be seen in ordinary life. A man once explained how his daughter’s marriage resulted from one seemingly small decision. Although he generally prayed at home on weekday mornings, one cold winter day he felt moved to get out of bed and attend shul.

Going to shul is itself a classic example of one mitzvah leading to another. A person arrives to pray, but while there he may answer Kaddish, hear the Torah reading, learn a Torah thought, give tzedakah, comfort someone, or offer needed advice.

On that particular morning, the man learned that someone in the community was sitting shiva. The following day, he paid a condolence call. During the visit, he met the mourner’s fine unmarried son and mentioned his own unmarried daughter. A match was suggested—and ultimately, the families gathered to celebrate their wedding.

One decision to attend shul opened a path to prayer, nichum aveilim, a shidduch, and the establishment of a new Jewish home. That is mitzvah goreret mitzvah in living form.

Pray for Opportunities

As Rosh Hashanah approaches, we pray that we be “filled with merits like a pomegranate.” The pomegranate, crowded with seeds, symbolizes not only reward but opportunity—the hope that our lives will be densely filled with meaningful acts.

Parashat Ki Teitzei, overflowing with mitzvot, reminds us that every moment may conceal such an opening. A small act of restraint can teach stewardship. A gesture toward a bird can cultivate reverence for motherhood. A winter morning in shul can help create a Jewish family.

No mitzvah is isolated, and no mitzvah is truly small. Each connects us more deeply to Hashem; each carries a dimension of the infinite; and each may open a door that leads farther than we could ever have imagined.

Follow the Lady

Here's the text of a Minchah-Maariv mini-shiur given by Jeremy Phillips on Tuesday 18 August 2026, during Rabbi Kenigsberg's summer vacation. 

In last week's shiur I introduced you to a roaming Rav, Rabbi Yose ben Kisma, and we discussed whether he should stay home at Kisari and learn there, or leave for a much more remunerative position where his prospects for personal advancement in Torah were less certain. This evening we look at another rabbi who faced a travel decision.  But, in our mishnah today—Avot 4:18—the incentive to move was not the prospect of gold and silver: it was likely the lure of a lady.

The mishnah reads like this:

רַבִּי נְהוֹרָאִי אוֹמֵר: הֱוֵי גוֹלֶה לִמְקוֹם תּוֹרָה, וְאַל תֹּאמַר שֶׁהִיא תָבוֹא אַחֲרֶֽיךָ, שֶׁחֲבֵרֶֽיךָ יְקַיְּמֽוּהָ בְיָדֶֽךָ, וְאֶל בִּינָתְךָ אַל תִּשָּׁעֵ

Rabbi Nehora'i used to say: Exile yourself to a place of Torah; do not say that it will come after you, because it is your colleagues (your chaverim) will fix it into you—and do not rely on your own understanding.

This is a mishnah that leaves out a crucial piece of information, something for which we have to look to the Gemara. Who was Rabbi Nehorai, and why does it matter to us?

The basic message of the mishnah needs no great explanation. It is axiomatic that, if you are going to learn Torah, you don’t need books, smart phones or a good internet connection—you need human resources: at least one Rav, a teacher, and at least one chaver, someone with whom you can learn. If you are where they are not, or they are where you are not, you aren’t going to learn much Torah. What’s more, if you have already learned some Torah, you need to keep it fresh by going over it, revising it and discussing it with others. Otherwise, with the best will in the world, you will find yourself eventually getting muddled, getting it wrong—or forgetting it completely. So, if we know what this mishnah teaches, why does it matter who its author is?

As the Gemara indicates, the later Tannaim were in agreement that Nehorai was not Rabbi Nehorai’s real name, and were speculating as to who he really was. One suggestion was that he was really Rabbi Nehemiah. Why, because Rabbi Nehemiah was one of the five prime talmidim of Rabbi Avika and, in the fourth perek of Avot where we find our mishnah, it just so happens that the previous four mishnayot were taught in the names of each of the other four. The second suggestion is that Rabbi Nehorai is Rabbi Meir, because the name Nehorai in Aramaic means “the one who illuminates”, which is also the meaning of “Meir”.  A third suggestion—and this to me seems the most plausible—is that Rabbi Nehorai is actually Rabbi Elazar ben Arach. Why? Because of a piece of aggadah that attaches to Rabbi Elazar ben Arach, alluded to near the end of Gemara Shabbat and fleshed out by midrashim in Kohelet Rabbah and Yalkut Shimoni.

The story goes like this. Al regel achat, we are taught that Rabbi Elazar ben Arach was one of the five top talmidim of Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai, who described him as a ma’ayan hamitgaber—an unceasingly-flowing spring, full of original ideas. He was, according to Abba Shaul at Avot 2:12, the most brilliant of them all. There we learn that, if all the talmidei chachamim—including Rabbi Eliezer HaGadol—were placed in one pan of the scales, with Rabbi Elazar ben Arach put in the other, he would outweigh them all. But curiously, given the man’s scintillating brilliance, we appear to learn very little from him. Why might this be the case?

After Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai died, his celebrated talmidim went off in their own directions and Rabbi Elazar ben Arach followed his wife to Diomsit—a holiday resort that was famous (perhaps ‘notorious’ would be a better word) for its warm springs, sensuous mud and luxurious living. This was manifestly not a place for Torah scholarship. As the Gemara at Shabbat 147b puts it, “Rabbi Chiya ben Abba said in the name of Rabbi Yochanan that one should never immerse oneself in the mud of Diomsit, since it stimulates the body and loosens the bowels”.

Alas, for the good rabbi, he settled down in Diomsit but neither his chaverim nor his talmidim followed him there. Diomsit was not a makom Torah and, while they never lost their respect and affection for Rabbi Elazar, they had better places to learn, presumably with fewer attractions and fewer pleasures of the flesh.

So what happened to Rabbi Elazar? He quite forgot his Torah. Rabbi Chelbo picks up the story from there: When eventually he did return, he got up to lein and suffered the indignity that many of us have experienced: he thought he could do it but then he tried to do it and got it wrong. He tried to read Hachodesh hazeh lachem (“This month shall be for you”) but he misidentified one letter in each word and what came out was haharesh hayah libbam (which sort of means “Their hearts were silent”).  But the scholars prayed for him and, mirabile dictu, his learning returned. At this point the Gemara then quotes our mishnah in full. If Rabbi Elazar ben Arach is indeed the Rabbi Nehorai of our mishnah, this makes sense because he would be teaching us on the basis of his own personal experience.

So that’s the story. But is this all that the mishnah has to offer? No! So let’s look into it more deeply. In the first place, can it really be true that the Tanna is telling Torah scholars to go into exile in order to learn Torah? No, says Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau in his monumental Yachel Israel. There’s no positive mitzvah to go into exile and no-one is supposed to leave Israel anyway. But, citing Rabbi Akiva’s 24-year absence from home, he suggests that if you really want to seek out Torah and learn it properly, and can’t do that where you are, you have to cultivate the mindset of someone who is prepared to shift themselves and go off to where Torah can be found.  

Several other commentators agree that the place of exile is only really a state of mind rather than a physical location at all. In other words, it’s the metaphorical ‘place’ one arrives at if you travel back in time,  along the spiritual path of your forefathers who accepted upon themselves the yoke of learning Torah and of keeping its commandments. Thus, explains the Mahari’a (Rabbi Yehudah Assad), only once you have arrived at that notional point are you then fully entitled to engage in investigating the deepest meanings of the Torah, subject only to the proviso that you should not rely solely on your own intellective activity but should measure it against the path of Torah and mitzvot along which you travel.

So far as Rabbi Shmuel di Uceda is concerned, going into exile is not just a state of mind. It’s part of a psychological drama to which the talmid chacham subjects himself. This is how it goes. Just imagine that you have accidentally killed someone. There’s blood on your hands. You’ve got to flee. Drop everything and run, or the go’el hadam will come after you and kill you if he can. This is a matter of life and death—and the life or death we’re talking about are yours! You don’t waste time packing and looking for your favourite possessions. You don’t even think of gathering up your essentials. You just run, run, run till you get to the city of refuge. Now that’s what exile to a place of Torah means. Run to a makom Torah. Forget your worldly possessions, jettison your toys—just run to the place where you can learn Torah. Yes, it will be uncomfortable, yes it will be inconvenient. But you are alive. Alive to the prospect of learning Torah, and that’s what matters. And you will have incidentally ticked another Avot box: as we learn at Avot 6:4,

פַּת בְּמֶֽלַח תֹּאכֵל, וּמַֽיִם בִּמְשׂוּרָה תִּשְׁתֶּה, וְעַל הָאָֽרֶץ תִּישָׁן, וְחַיֵּי צַֽעַר תִּחְיֶה, וּבַתּוֹרָה אַתָּה עָמֵל, אִם אַתָּה עֽוֹשֶׂה כֵּן, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ וְטוֹב לָךְ, אַשְׁרֶֽיךָ בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, וְטוֹב לָךְ לָעוֹלָם הַבָּא

Not every commentator takes so dramatic a view of our mishnah. Taking a more measured approach, neither the Meiri nor the Bartenura are in such a hurry. The first thing you should do, they agree, is to look around and see if you are already in a place where you can learn Torah. The reason for exiling yourself is to enable you to get the benefit of Torah scholars and chavrutot in your vicinity. If you already have them, then don’t go anywhere. This is good news for anyone who lives in Lakewood, Gateshead, Bnei Brak or any other established Makom Torah.

A curious view of going into exile is espoused by Rabbi Yisrael Lifschitz in his Tiferet Yisrael. What he learns is that a young man learning Torah should exile himself from his home and get away from his parents. Why? Because living at home is bad for you. He gives three reasons: (i) parents reinforce or at least validate the childish habits of their offspring; (ii) they continue to treat their children as children, spoiling them and thus impeding their growth and independence; (iii) children living at home don’t cultivate the art of self-reliance. No other rabbi comes close to saying anything like this.

Another rabbi who made domestic relations the basis of his commentary on this mishnah is Rabbi Eliezer Papo. Some 200 years ago this rabbi was the Rav of Silistra, Bulgaria, ministering to a small and largely peasant community whose great pleasures in life, as recorded in is best-known book, the Pele Yo’etz, were chatting outside shul when they should be davening inside it, smoking tobacco, singing non-Jewish songs, drinking so much coffee late at night that they couldn’t get up in time for shul the next morning, and beating their wives.

This colourful and imaginative rabbi addresses a facet of this mishnah that we have so far left unexplored. It teaches וְאַל תֹּאמַר שֶׁהִיא תָבוֹא אַחֲרֶֽיך, “don’t say that it [meaning the Torah] will come after you”. We might ask why it doesn’t. The Pele Yo’etz explains by referring to a passage from Mishlei that we recite every Friday night: Eishet Chayil Mi Yimtza (“A woman of valour, who can find her?”). Some people take this passage as an allegory that refers to Shabbat, or to the mother of Shlomo HaMelech or to the Torah. Others sing it to their wives.

So, the Pele Yo’etz asks, when you sing Eishet Chayil have you ever wondered what the difference is between the holy Torah and your wife?  He answers thus. In the first place, he says, when husband and wife have an argument and the husband storms off in anger, the wife will eventually go after him in order to make peace with him; the Torah, however, is different. The Yerushalmi to Berachot says “If you leave me for one day, I’ll leave you for two.” Secondly, a wife has only one husband at a time and may have no-one else to whom to turn if her husband leaves her, while the Torah is always followed by a multitude of admirers and enthusiastic suitors. Thirdly, it is the husband whose role is to support his wife and provide for her needs while, in contrast, as we learn in Mishlei itself, it is the Torah that provides for those who are wedded to it. Finally, the wife is presumed to be less knowledgeable and less intelligent than her husband, while it is the Torah that imparts her knowledge and wisdom to those who pursue her.

This comparison reflects the social and economic reality of the Ottoman-ruled Balkans in the early 19th century and may appear inappropriate, if not offensive, to those who read it two centuries later. However, the punchline is as powerful now as it was then: don’t treat the Torah as though it was dependent on you, for the truth is quite the reverse. The Torah owes you nothing and has no need for you at all. If you do not continue to study its content and you fail to practice its principles, you can hardly expect it to cling faithfully to you – particularly if you run off in pursuit of other activities and pleasures, in places like Diomsit where the light of Torah rarely, if ever, shines.

There is a touch of irony in the Pele Yo’etz’s explanation here since this Mishnah reflects an element of role reversal: if the Rabbi Nehorai of our mishnah is indeed Rabbi Elazar ben Arach, it was his wife who decided to live in Diomsit, and he who followed after her.

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As a footnote to this shiur, one might ask why, if it’s so deleterious to a talmid chacham’s Torah learning and spiritual health, would he ever consider going to places that are Torah-free zones like Diomsit at all. This question clearly troubled the Maharal, since he discusses it in his Derech Chaim.  The Maharal’s approach to this question reflects a degree of sensitivity to the human condition. He points out that, for people in general, the attraction of leaving a spiritual citadel in pursuit of a more earthly paradise needs no deep explanation. We know it in our own lives. After all, we like to think of ourselves as being committed to Torah; we learn; we keep the mitzvot and so on—but how many of us seek to spend our vacations and share quality time with our families in seaside resorts with comfy hotels in preference to trooping off to Lakewood, Gateshead or Bnei Brak. The Maharal understood this. Humans, being gashmi (inherently physical rather than spiritual beings), are drawn by their natural desires to that which is also gashmi. When a person who is gashmi encounters that which is gashmi, the spiritual dimension of Torah—which is the complete antithesis of man’s earthly instincts and desires—can easily be not just ignored but forgotten. This unfortunate consequence is best avoided by relocating in a stronghold of Torah, a place where the power of the ruchni is strong enough to overcome the powerful appeal of the gashmi.

As a further footnote, it’s worth considering the final words of Rabbi Nehorai’s advice in this mishnah: וְאֶל בִּינָתְךָ אַל תִּשָּׁעֵ (“don’t rely on your own understanding”). These words come straight out of a verse from Mishlei (at 3.5), but they are not treated  as a proof pasuk: rather, our Tanna has simply incorporated the last part of the verse into his own mishnaic advice.  The full verse actually suggests the exact opposite of what he’s teaching: you don’t need to rely on rabbis or chaverim at all. The full verse reads

 בְּטַח אֶל-יְהוָה, בְּכָל-לִבֶּךָ וְאֶל-בִּינָתְךָ אַל-תִּשָּׁעֵן

(“Trust in God with all your heart, and don’t rely on your own understanding”). In case you are wondering, the view that all understanding comes from God and his hashgachah over any individual is reflected in the Mikra’ot Godolot, in the commentaries of the Metzudat David, the Ralbag and the Malbim—none of whom make any reference to our mishnah and the need to enhance one’s understanding by engaging with any other mortals.

The Destructive Power of Division

  This piece on parashat Shofetim by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 13 August. If you would like to read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, just click here.

There is a fascinating Midrash related to a verse in Parshat Shofetim that describes the procedure to follow when a particularly difficult halachic question arises:

"Ki yipalei mimcha davar lamishpat, bein dam l'dam, bein din l'din u'bein nega lanega... divrei rivot bish'arecha..."

"If a matter of judgement is beyond you to decide—between blood and blood, between law and law, and between lesion and lesion, matters of dispute within your gates—you shall arise and go up to the place that the Lord your God will choose." (Devarim 17:8)

On the simple level, the verse refers to cases that must be brought before the Sanhedrin in Jerusalem for a definitive ruling.

The Midrash, however, reads the verse differently. Quoted by Rav Chaim Vital in the name of the Arizal, it imagines a conversation between the ministering angels and Hashem at the time of the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash.

The angels ask a piercing question. How could the destruction have been so complete? Doesn't the Torah itself teach compassion?

"Bein dam l'dam"—the Torah commands that the blood of a slaughtered animal be covered with earth, yet the blood of the Jewish people was spilled like water.

"Bein din l'din"—the Torah prohibits slaughtering an animal and its offspring on the same day, yet King Tzidkiyahu and his sons were killed together.

"Bein nega lanega"—before a house afflicted with tzara'at is dismantled, its contents are first removed to spare them from destruction. Yet the Beit HaMikdash itself was destroyed together with all of its precious vessels.

Where, ask the angels, is the attribute of Divine mercy?

Hashem's answer is striking. The explanation lies in the next words of the verse: "Divrei rivot bish'arecha"—there was conflict within your gates. Internal division had become so pervasive that it undermined the very foundations of the nation.

This Midrash is not suggesting that every disagreement is wrong. Judaism has always cherished debate. The pages of the Gemara are built upon respectful argument, and genuine differences of opinion are often a sign of a vibrant Torah life.

The danger begins when disagreement turns into hostility; when we stop arguing about ideas and begin judging people; when we forget that someone who sees the world differently remains our brother or sister.

The Torah does not ask us to think alike. It asks us to remain one people even when we think differently.

That is an important message at every stage of Jewish history. Communities will always contain a diversity of personalities, perspectives and priorities. The real test is not whether disagreements arise—they inevitably will—but whether we allow them to become divrei rivot bish'arecha, the kind of conflict that tears a community apart.

The Midrash reminds us that the strength of the Jewish people lies not in uniformity, but in our ability to preserve mutual respect, shared purpose and genuine concern for one another, even when we disagree.

Shabbat Shalom!

A King, Amalek, and a Sanctuary

Parashat Shofetim presents a mitzvah that has generated centuries of discussion: “You shall surely appoint a king over yourself” (Devarim 17:15). Is appointing a king an absolute obligation, or does the Torah permit it as a concession to human weakness? Whatever position one takes in that debate, the institution of Jewish kingship was central to the establishment of Am Yisrael in Eretz Yisrael. It began with Shaul, reached its enduring form through David HaMelech, and remains part of our vision of redemption through the restoration of Malchut Beit David. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom tells us more about this and about the national mitzvot that map our personal journal through Chodesh Elul.

The mitzvah of appointing a king does not stand alone. Chazal place it within a sequence of three national mitzvot that together define the spiritual establishment of the Jewish people in their Land. Remarkably, the same sequence also provides a map for the inner work of Elul and the Yamim Nora’im.

Three Mitzvot, One National Mission

The Gemara teaches that, upon entering Eretz Yisrael, the Jewish people were commanded to fulfill three mitzvot: appoint a king, eradicate Amalek, and build the Beit HaMikdash (Sanhedrin 20b). The Rambam codifies this at the very beginning of Hilchot Melachim (1:1) and emphasizes that these mitzvot must be performed in that order.

First comes national leadership: “Som tasim alecha melech”—appoint a king. Next comes the struggle against Amalek, the force that attacks Israel and seeks to sever the bond between the Jewish people and Hashem. Only after that enemy has been overcome can the nation build the Beit HaBechirah, the sacred dwelling place of the Divine Presence.

This sequence is woven through the closing parshiyot of Sefer Devarim. Re’eh speaks of the place Hashem will choose for His dwelling. Shofetim commands the appointment of a king. Ki Teitzei concludes with the obligation to erase the memory of Amalek. Moshe Rabbeinu, preparing the nation to enter the Land, was not merely listing isolated commandments. He was laying out the architecture of Jewish nationhood.

The Rambam’s placement of these laws is itself striking. Hilchot Melachim concludes the Mishneh Torah, his monumental codification of Jewish law. Its final chapters move from the responsibilities of kings to the laws of Mashiach. Jewish kingship is therefore not a historical curiosity. It belongs to the past, present, and future of our people. It begins with establishing Hashem’s rule in national life and culminates in the redeemed world for which we pray.

From National History to Personal Avodah

These parshiyot are always read as Elul approaches or begins. Elul is a time of preparation, self-examination, and spiritual resolve. We take stock of who we are, identify where we have fallen short, and prepare to stand before Hashem on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

The three national mitzvot can also be understood as three stages in that personal journey.

The first stage is appointing a king. Rosh Hashanah is, above all, the day of Hashem’s coronation. The shofar does more than awaken us; it proclaims the sovereignty of the King. Before asking what we want from the coming year, we must ask whom we serve. Teshuvah begins when we cease placing ourselves at the center and accept that our lives have a higher purpose. “Appointing a king” means renewing our allegiance to Hashem and allowing His will to direct our choices.

The second stage is eradicating Amalek. On the personal level, Amalek represents the coldness, doubt, cynicism, and spiritual inertia that weaken our relationship with Hashem. Each person knows the tendencies that pull him or her away from the life he or she wishes to lead: careless speech, neglected prayer or Torah study, impatience, resentment, unhealthy habits, or simple indifference.

We may not be able to transform ourselves overnight. Elul does not demand dramatic promises that disappear a few weeks later. It asks for honesty and movement. We identify one area of negativity and begin to weaken its hold. That is the work of the Aseret Yemei Teshuvah: confronting the inner adversary and choosing one concrete step toward becoming better.

The third stage is building the Mikdash. After accepting the King and beginning to remove what obstructs us, we can create a place for holiness. Yom Kippur represents entry into the Kodesh HaKodashim. On that day, stripped of ordinary physical concerns, every Jew is invited into an atmosphere of purity, forgiveness, and closeness to Hashem. The personal Beit HaMikdash is built when our heart, home, and daily life become places in which the Shechinah can dwell.

The Light of Psalm 27

This progression helps explain why Psalm 27, LeDavid Hashem Ori Veyishi, accompanies us through Elul and the festival season. The Midrash associates its opening words with these sacred days: “Hashem is my light” points to Rosh Hashanah; “my salvation” to Yom Kippur; and the later image of being sheltered in His sukkah points to Sukkot.

The psalm acknowledges danger without surrendering to fear. Enemies may surround us, but our attention remains fixed on Hashem: “One thing I ask of Hashem…that I may dwell in the house of Hashem all the days of my life.” Its movement mirrors the three mitzvot. We recognize the true King, resist the forces that threaten us, and yearn to dwell in His sanctuary.

Building the Sanctuary Within

We live in a time when the Jewish people know both profound darkness and remarkable light. We have witnessed cruelty, loss, war, and captivity. We have also witnessed courage, unity, prayer, sacrifice, and an unbreakable attachment to Am Yisrael and Eretz Yisrael.

Elul asks us not merely to admire that light in others, but to kindle it within ourselves. The path is clear: accept the King, confront the Amalek within, and build a sanctuary for Hashem in our lives.

Rosh Hashanah calls us to offer our allegiance. The Aseret Yemei Teshuvah call us to change. Yom Kippur calls us to holiness. Sukkot then gathers us beneath the shelter of Hashem’s presence.

These are not disconnected holidays, nor are the Torah’s three national mitzvot disconnected commands. Together they describe the journey of a nation and the journey of every Jewish soul: from sovereignty, through struggle, to sacred space.

May we recognize the light Hashem sends even in difficult times. May that light guide our teshuvah, illuminate the year ahead, and hasten the day when the national journey is completed with the restoration of Malchut Beit David and the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash.

On the Derech

Here's the text of a Minchah-Maariv mini-shiur given by Jeremy Phillips on Tuesday 11 August 2026, during Rabbi Kenigsberg's summer vacation. 

Let’s look at a teaching from Avot that, in very different ways, relates to the value of Torah and not why, or how, but where you should learn it. It’s a baraita at Avot 6:9 that goes like this (omitting the proof pasukim):

אָמַר רַבִּי יוֹסֵי בֶּן קִסְמָא: פַּֽעַם אֶחָת הָיִֽיתִי מְהַלֵּךְ בַּדֶּֽרֶךְ, וּפָגַע בִּי אָדָם אֶחָד, וְנָתַן לִי שָׁלוֹם, וְהֶחֱזַֽרְתִּי לוֹ שָׁלוֹם, אָמַר לִי: רַבִּי, מֵאֵיזֶה מָקוֹם אָֽתָּה, אָמַֽרְתִּי לוֹ: מֵעִיר גְּדוֹלָה שֶׁל חֲכָמִים וְשֶׁל סוֹפְרִים אָֽנִי. אָמַר לִי: רַבִּי, רְצוֹנְךָ שֶׁתָּדוּר עִמָּֽנוּ בִּמְקוֹמֵֽנוּ, וַאֲנִי אֶתֵּן לָךְ אֶֽלֶף אֲלָפִי דִּנְרֵי זָהָב וַאֲבָנִים טוֹבוֹת וּמַרְגָּלִיּוֹת. אָמַֽרְתִּי לוֹ: אִם אַתָּה נוֹתֵן לִי כָּל כֶּֽסֶף וְזָהָב וַאֲבָנִים טוֹבוֹת וּמַרְגָּלִיּוֹת שֶׁבָּעוֹלָם, אֵינִי דָר אֶלָּא בִּמְקוֹם תּוֹרָה

Rabbi Yossei ben Kisma said: Once I was traveling and I encountered a man. He greeted me and I returned his greetings. He said to me: "Rabbi, where are you from?" I said to him: "From a great city of sages and scholars, am I." He said to me: "Rabbi, would you like to live with us in our place? I will give you a million dinars of silver, gold, precious stones and pearls." I said to him: "If you were to give me all the silver, gold, precious stones and pearls in the world, I would not live anywhere but in a place of Torah.

Incidentally, it’s not clear whether this baraita should be here in Avot at all.  Some editions of Avot leave it out—and, while it’s also found in Kallah Rabbati, it’s not in Eliyahu Zuta.

Be that as it may, on the surface this looks like a straightforward message. A rich man meets talmid chacham, asks him to come to his town as the rabbi and offers a large inducement. The talmid chacham says no. The moral of the story? Torah is worth more than any money can buy. The first of the proof pasukim cited in support of this baraita validates this understanding. As we sing on Simchat Torah, טוֹב לִי תוֹרַת פִּֽיךָ, מֵאַלְפֵי זָהָב וָכָֽסֶף

But things are never as easy as they seem.

First, let’s look at the man himself. Who was Rabbi Yose ben Kisma?. We only know a little about him, but what we know is quite significant. He lived in Kisari, now Caesarea. Was this a “great city of sages and scholars?” That’s a tricky one. It may well have been originally a great city of sages and scholars—but it was not at the time Rabbi Yose was there. He lived there in the middle of the 2^nd century, when what was formerly a city with an active Jewish population had become a prosperous Roman market town. It was not to become an עִיר גְּדוֹלָה שֶׁל חֲכָמִים וְשֶׁל סוֹפְרִים until more than a century later, under the influence of Rabbi Abbahu and the third generation of Amoraim. Anyway, when Rabbi Yose died, some time after the Bar Kochba revolt, Kisari was a veritable citadel of Roman culture. Rabbi Yose was himself on good terms with the Romans. Indeed, a Gemara in Avoda Zara tells how the local Roman administrators attended his funeral as a sign of respect.

So where was Rabbi Yose going on his journey? If Kisari was a great city of scholars and sages, he wouldn’t need to be going anywhere. According to Rabbi Shmuel di Uceda, author of the Midrash Shmuel, this was indeed the case, as the opening words of the narrative suggest. Says the Midrash Shmuel, don’t think the words pa’am achat mean “once upon a time”; they mean this: “Look at me! I only left the Beit Midrash once and suddenly I was beset by all these temptations – gold, silver, kavod”. This leaves an interesting question, though. If Rabbi Yose hardly ever left the Beit Midrash and the Roman governors probably never had any reason to enter it, how did they become such good friends that the Romans turned up at his funeral?

But let’s leave Rabbi Yose aside and take a look at the man who encounters him on his journey and tries to buy him. Who is this man? Do we even need to know? No, we don’t, if all we are supposed to learn from this baraita is that we shouldn’t sell out and make our Torah subordinate to our material wealth. But the Maharal of Prague disagrees. In his Derech Chaim, the Maharal regards it is highly significant that we don’t know who this man is because, paradoxically, the fact that we don’t know who he is means that we do know who he is. Who turns up in many stories when no-one recognizes him? Why, of course, it’s Eliyahu haNavi! Several times in aggadic passages in the Gemara, Eliyahu turns up incognito. This man who encounters Rabbi Yose must therefore be Eliyahu. Since Eliyahu is an emissary of Hashem, it follows that Rabbi Yose is being tested by God himself, the implication being that even if the gold and silver that you are offered is a reward, as it were, for services rendered in this world, you should have the strength of character to refuse it.

In case the Maharal is wrong about this, and the mysterious man is not Eliyahu haNavi, there’s someone else he might be, someone else who alsoturns up incognito offering great things. And that’s the Satan. This hypothesis is also quite plausible since the level of the bribe to take the position of town rabbi is so great and no other terms of engagement are specified. This suggests that the magnitude of the wealth on offer should be sufficient to blind Rabbi Yose to all other considerations.

So, we’ve dealt with the basic story and we’ve said a bit about Rabbi Yose and the stranger he encounters. Now let’s look at the moment they meet.

Strangely, the first person to speak is the stranger, who greets the rabbi. Isn’t this wrong? It’s axiomatic that a learned rabbi who knows his Pirkei Avot should implement the teaching of Rabbi Masya ben Chorosh in perek 4 and be the first to greet others—and the Gemara teaches that Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai was first to greet everyone—even the non-Jews he met in the shuk—so why doesn’t Rabbi Yose do the same? Now here the Maharal’s explanation comes in handy. Whether the stranger is Eliyahu haNavi or the Satan, he would simply have appeared before the rabbi’s eyes without giving the latter a chance to see him coming! And even if this is wrong, we may conjecture that Rabbi Yose—even on his journey—was so engrossed in his Torah learning that he wasn’t looking around to admire the scenery (which might incur a spiritual death penalty if he stopped learning long enough to admire the scenery: per Rabbi Yaakov in Avot perek 3), and he wouldn’t have seen anyone coming at all.

Another mystery is why the stranger opens the dialogue by asking Rabbi Yose straight away where he comes from. It’s much more normal to say something like “who are you? What’s your name? even “Where are you heading?” I’ll come back to this later.

But perhaps the biggest mystery in this baraita, at least for the many rabbis who have commented on it, is the size of the booty offered to Rabbi Yose to go with the stranger and take the job. Put at its simplest level—and this is good news for Rabbi Kenigsberg—there is no halachic limit to the amount a rabbi can earn or own. The Gemara in Kiddushin cites the case of Rabbi Elazar ben Charsom, whose name was a byword for unimaginable affluence and he was praised for being able to learn Torah despite the responsibility he bore for his massive wealth. While Rabbi Tzadok in the fourth perek of Avot, citing Hillel, insists that one must not use one’s Torah as a spade to dig with, there’s no problem with anyone showering their favourite rabbi with gold, silver, share stock in AI start-ups or even tickets to fly El Al. But while the good news for Rabbi Kenigsberg is that the sky is the limit for what he can earn, there’s some bad news too. Nobody in the real world pays rabbis that much. And if you ask rabbis if they are same’ach b’chelkom, contented with their lot, they may ask you what you mean by “lot”. In short, their lot is not usually a happily affluent one.

This factor has coloured commentaries on our Baraita. Rabbi Yisrael Lipschitz, for example, the Tiferet Yisrael, says that the million gold dinars, gold, pearls and precious gems were never intended to be taken literally. No, he says, they are simply an invitation to Rabbi Yose to name his price, presumably on the normal rabbinical scale of his time. Rabbi Shmuel di Uceda takes a different line. When the stranger offers to give Rabbi Yose the million dinars and so on, what he really means to do is to comfort Rabbi Yose by saying “don’t worry. You won’t have to go collecting door-to-door to collect your pay. I’ll do that for you”. I suspect that this was not intended as a serious explanation of our baraita. Rather, it was a cry from the heart from Rabbi Shmuel di Uceda, who lived in Safed at the time when Sultan Murad III deported the city’s 1,500 richest Jewish citizens to Cyprus and left the poor man having to go knocking on doors to collect his own pay.

Now, if Rabbi Yose had accepted the offer and become rabbi in the stranger’s town, what would his job have looked like? The key word here is bimkomeinu; “in our place”. This word is double-edged. It can either mean “right here in our town” or it can mean “in place of us”. This double meaning was almost certainly unknown to Rabbi Yose in his day and age, where the concept of the “middle of the road”, nominally orthodox Jewish community had yet to develop. But we do know, particularly in some English-speaking parts of the diaspora, that there are places where people would really like to say: “We want a rabbi to be frum” in our place”, meaning “in place of us”. He can do all the religious stuff—we are happy to leave that to him, so long as he lets us get on with our lives and do our own thing”. In this sense a rabbi can earn a large salary and enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, though he may find that he is the only member of his community to keep Shabbat, observe the laws of kashrut outside as well as inside the home, or to do any Torah learning.

Incidentally, the tendency of all commentators is to side with Rabbi Yose and praise him for his principled approach in refusing any amount of money and treasure for the sake of Torah. Not one commentator that I know of has a kind word for the stranger who tries to buy Rabbi Yose’s knowledge and scholarship though. I think this is really sad. Here’s a man who, it is assumed, comes from a place that is not a makom Torah—and just look how much he is prepared to part with in order to get a Rav! How many of us would pay so much under similar conditions. The outrageously large sum offered to Rabbi Yose for his Torah presence is as much a praise for the value of the Torah as is his rejection of it.

Now to close with a few random points.

First, is the position of this baraita within the sixth perek significant? Some mefarshim make a great play of learning each mishnah or Baraita from what the one that came before it says. The Baraita that comes before ours, learned by Rabbi Shimon ben Yehudah in the name of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, sings the praises of both wealth and honour as being things that are no’eh latzadikim, things that befit the righteous and which, therefore, are things that holy rabbis are entitled to enjoy. Our teaching says yes, wealth and honour are indeed befitting for a tzaddik—but you shouldn’t compromise your Torah learning in order to get them.

Secondly, we have no idea whether the events recorded in this baraita ever happened. From the strange circumstances of the encounter and the many questions that arise from the dialogue, it may be that this whole thing is an invention of Rabbi Yose, a teaching device that conveys a powerful message: that our Torah is a treasure beyond worth.

In this context, we may be reading here a parable for the workings of the human mind.  Let’s read it like this: when Rabbi Yose says הָיִֽיתִי מְהַלֵּךְ בַּדֶּֽרֶךְ, he isn’t on a physical journey at all: he is telling us that he was on the derech, the derech yasharah, the straight and narrow. The adam who meets him is his own yetzer yara, who was poga, who encounters him unexpectedly (we daven on a daily basis for this sort of meeting not to happen when we ask to be spared a pega ra). Rabbi Yose and his yetzer hara don’t need to exchange names since they already know each other pretty well. The yetzer hara then challenges Rabbi Yose to look at where he is in life and to ask him: “don’t you think you could do better for yourself than to be a big rabbi in this relative Torah desert?” Rabbi Yose realizes that he could do much better in material terms, but he also recognizes that he has a good routine for learning Torah where he is, and that he doesn’t need to exchange the routine he knows for the uncertainties of a move to another place—particularly if it involves the disruptions involved in becoming the local celebrity Rav somewhere else. That would be like using the Torah as a spade to dig with.

Finally, here’s the question that troubles many laymen. Why didn’t Rabbi Yose just take the money and use it to set up a well-funded Beit Midrash from where he could be marbitz Torah and create a new generation of talmidei chachamim? I leave the answer to you.