New Trumpets for a New Generation

In this week’s parsha, the Torah introduces a mitzvah that at first glance seems merely technical: “עשה לך שתי חצוצרות כסף” (“Make for yourself two silver trumpets” ( במדבר י:ב).  These trumpets were not decorative. They were functional. They were the communication system of Klal Yisrael in the desert. What does this mean? Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom elaborates:

When Moshe Rabbeinu needed to gather the people, a tekiah was sounded. When it was time to travel, a teruah was blown. Different sounds carried different messages.

The Jewish people camped around the Mishkan in a vast desert. There were no telephones, no radios, no text messages. The silver trumpets unified the nation. They told the people when to assemble, when to travel, when to prepare for battle, when to celebrate and when to move forward. These chatzotzrot were the instruments through which Moshe communicated direction to the nation.

But Chazal notice something extraordinary. The Torah says “עשה לך” — “Make for yourself.” And the Gemara teaches that these particular trumpets belonged uniquely to Moshe Rabbeinu. The Aron, the Menorah, the Mizbe’ach — all the holy vessels of the Mishkan continued for generations. Shlomo HaMelech still used many of them centuries later. But not the trumpets. Every generation needed new trumpets. Why? What is the Torah teaching us?

The Eternal Torah and the Changing World

Rav Yechezkel Abramsky explained a profound idea. The essence of Torah never changes. The Torah is eternal. The Rambam writes that if a prophet would arise and claim that one mitzvah has changed — even one detail — that prophet is false. Torah is immutable. We believe with complete faith: “זאת התורה לא תהא מוחלפת” (“This Torah will never be exchanged.”) The principles of Torah are eternal truth. But Rav Abramsky explained that while the Torah itself never changes, the way Torah is transmitted sometimes must change. The “trumpets” change. The method of communication changes. The needs of the generation change. Reality changes. This is why great Torah leaders throughout history understood that in order to bring Jews closer to Torah, they sometimes needed new chatzotzrot — new ways of reaching the Jewish people. Not a new Torah, but new trumpets.

Boaz and the Sanctification of Everyday Life

Chazal connect this idea to an extraordinary scene in Megillat Rut. Boaz walks into the field and greets his workers: “ה׳ עמכם” (“Hashem be with you.”) and they answer: “יברכך ה׳” (“May Hashem bless you.”).

The Mishnah asks: Why was Boaz using the Name of Hashem in ordinary greeting? Would that not appear disrespectful? Would that not diminish reverence for the Divine Name? And Chazal answer: “עת לעשות לה׳” (“There are times when action must be taken for Hashem.”)  There are moments in history when leadership must respond to the spiritual needs of the generation. Boaz understood that his generation needed something. The Jewish people needed to feel the presence of Hashem not only in the Beit HaMikdash, not only in formal prayer, but in everyday life. In the marketplace. In the fields. At work. In ordinary conversation.

So Boaz introduced a new “trumpet.” He taught people to greet one another with awareness of Hashem. Not because Torah changed, but because the generation needed a different language of connection.

Kohelet and the Wisdom of Timing

Shlomo HaMelech writes in Kohelet: “לכל זמן ועת לכל חפץ תחת השמים” (“Everything has its season, and every matter has its appointed time beneath the heavens.”) There is:

●     A time to speak, a time to remain silent

●     A time for wa, a time for peace

●     A time to build, a time to rebuild

The eternal values remain the same, but wise leadership understands timing. And throughout Jewish history, our greatest leaders recognized moments when the “trumpets” needed to sound differently.

First Example: Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi and the Mishnah

For centuries, Torah Sheba’al Peh was not written down. A student learned directly from a rebbe. Torah was transmitted personally. Living Torah. Breathing Torah. Not just information, but character, humility, fear of Heaven, and spiritual warmth.

Then came the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. Exile spread the Jewish people across the world. Roman persecution intensified. Torah was in danger of being forgotten. And Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi made a revolutionary decision: He wrote down the Mishnah.

In one sense, this violated the longstanding tradition against writing Torah Shebe’al Peh. But Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi understood: If we continue using the old trumpets, Torah may be lost. The Torah itself would remain eternal but the transmission system needed to change. And because of that courageous decision, Torah survived. From the Mishnah came the Gemara. Then Rashi. Then Tosafot. Then Rambam. Then Shulchan Aruch. The entire world of Torah learning we know today grew from that decision—a new trumpet for a new generation.

Second Example: Paying Rabbanim and Teachers

The Rambam writes that Torah should not be taught for money. Ideally, Torah leaders supported themselves independently. Teaching Torah was never meant to become a profession for personal gain. But centuries later, Rav Yosef Karo — the author of the Shulchan Aruch — recognized a new reality. Communities were becoming more complex. The demands on rabbanim increased. If Torah teachers could not dedicate themselves fully to Torah leadership, Torah itself would weaken. And therefore a new model emerged:

Communities would support rabbanim, roshei yeshiva, and dayanim. Again, this was not a change in Torah but a change in the “trumpets.” A new structure for a new reality. And because of that decision, Torah institutions flourished across the Jewish world.

Third Example: Rav Kook and Ahavat Yisrael

Perhaps one of the most dramatic examples came in the previous century with Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook. In Europe, Jews who abandoned Torah were often seen as actively fighting against Judaism. They promoted assimilation. They opposed traditional observance. They weakened Jewish commitment.

But Rav Kook arrived in Eretz Yisrael and saw something different. He saw Jews who were not observant… yet they were draining swamps, building farms, reviving Hebrew, defending Jewish lives and rebuilding the Land of Israel.

Rav Kook said: We must relate to them differently. Not because Torah changed. Not because mitzvot changed. But because history changed. Reality changed. The generation required a new trumpet, a new language, a new way of connecting Jews to one another and to redemption.

This approach was controversial. But so was Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s innovation. So was Rav Yosef Karo’s. True leadership often requires courage.

Our Generation’s Trumpets

And now we come to our own generation. We are living through extraordinary times. For nearly 2,000 years Jews dreamed of returning to Eretz Yisrael. Today we are witnessing Kibbutz Galuyot, the rebuilding of Jewish sovereignty, the flourishing of the Land, the revival of Hebrew and the protection of Jewish life by Jewish soldiers

We are living inside pages of Tanach. And yet our generation is deeply fragmented: Religious and secular, right and left, Israeli and Diaspora--different communities, different languages, different fears.

And perhaps the lesson of the silver trumpets is this: We must learn how to call Jews together. The purpose of the trumpets was not division. It was unity: to gather the nation around a shared mission.

Moshe Rabbeinu used the trumpets to move Klal Yisrael toward the Mishkan — toward the presence of Hashem. That remains our challenge. How do we speak to fellow Jews? How do we inspire? How do we communicate Torah in a language the next generation can hear? Not watered-down Torah, nNot compromised Torah—but eternal Torah communicated with wisdom, sensitivity, and love.

The Torah gives the trumpets another role as well. Not only communication. Not only gathering the people. The trumpets were also instruments of spiritual awakening. The Torah says: “וְכִי תָבֹאוּ מִלְחָמָה בְּאַרְצְכֶם עַל־הַצַר הַצֹּרֵר אֶתְכֶם וַהֲרֵעֹתֶם בַּחֲצֹצְרֹת וְנִזְכַּרְתֶּם לִפְנֵי ה׳ אֱלֹקֵיכֶם וְנוֹשַׁעְתֶּם מֵאֹיְבֵיכֶם” (“When you wage war in your Land against an enemy who oppresses you, you shall sound a teruah with the trumpets, and you shall be remembered before Hashem your God, and you shall be saved from your enemies.”).

Notice something remarkable. The Torah does not say: “Strengthen your weapons.” It says:  “Sound the trumpets.” Why? Because the essential battle is spiritual before it is military. The Rambam writes in Hilchot Ta’aniyot that when suffering or war comes upon the Jewish people, there is a positive mitzvah to cry out and sound the trumpets. Why? Because the purpose is to awaken the people to teshuvah. The Rambam explains that when Jews cry out before Hashem, they recognize that events are not random: “Everyone realizes that the evil occurred because of their deeds… and this will cause the trouble to be removed.” The trumpets were therefore not merely military instruments. They were spiritual alarms—a wake-up call, a reminder that Jewish survival ultimately depends not only on armies, but on our relationship with Hashem. And perhaps this message has never been more relevant than in our own generation.

The Challenge of Communication

Sometimes religious Jews become frustrated. “How can they not understand?” “How can they not see?” But every generation requires different language, different methods, different pathways. Some Jews connect through learning. Others through kindness. Others through Israel. Others through history. Others through community. Others through acts of courage.

The Torah does not change. But the trumpet may. And perhaps this is one of the greatest lessons for parents, educators, rabbis, and leaders. You cannot always speak to this generation the same way previous generations were addressed. You must understand the soul of the generation. You must understand its struggles, its distractions, its fears, its opportunities—and then sound the trumpet clearly.

One might ask: How can anyone speak about Aliyah during dangerous times? How can Jews consider moving to Israel precisely when there is war, terror, uncertainty, and fear? But perhaps the parsha itself answers that question. Immediately after the discussion of the trumpets, the Torah describes the complaints of the Jewish people in the desert: “וַיְהִי הָעָם כְּמִתְאֹנְנִים” (“The people were like complainers.”) Rashi explains that they complained about the hardships of the journey toward Eretz Yisrael.

Earlier, the Torah says: “וַיִּסְעוּ מֵהַר ה׳ דֶּרֶךְ שְׁלֹשֶׁת יָמִים” (“They traveled from the Mountain of Hashem a three-day journey.”). Rashi explains something astonishing: Hashem compressed a three-day journey into one day because He wanted to bring the Jewish people into Eretz Yisrael immediately.

The Da’at Zekenim explains that beneath the complaints was a deeper issue: Fear. Fear of war, fear of what awaited them in the Land, a lack of emunah.

The Chiddushei HaRim asks a powerful question: If Hashem wanted to bring them quickly into Eretz Yisrael, why make the journey difficult at all? And he answers with a profound principle: It is impossible to acquire Eretz Yisrael without suffering.

The Gemara says: “שלוש מתנות טובות נתן הקב״ה לישראל וכולן לא נתנן אלא על ידי יסורין” (“Three precious gifts were given to Israel only through suffering.”) And one of them is Eretz Yisrael. Hashem was actually trying to shorten the suffering.  Had the Jewish people accepted the temporary hardship with love and faith, they would have entered the Land immediately. But instead they complained—and that ultimately led to the sin of the spies, the rejection of the Land, and forty years in the wilderness. Sometimes the difference between redemption and delay is the willingness to endure temporary discomfort for eternal gain.

Aliyah and the Call of the Trumpets

There is another dimension here as well. The trumpets were used when it was time for Klal Yisrael to journey> to move forward, to leave the comfort of one encampment and continue toward the Promised Land.

Sometimes Jews become spiritually comfortable in exile. But the trumpets remind us: Judaism is a journey. History is moving. Hashem is calling Am Yisrael forward—toward redemption, toward responsibility, toward Eretz Yisrael and toward national destiny.

Every generation hears that call differently. For one Jew it may come through Torah learning. For another through antisemitism. For another through love of Israel. For another through children and grandchildren. But the call is sounding. The question is whether we are listening.

Too often in Jewish history, we have resisted difficult transitions. We prefer comfort, familiarity, security, predictability. But Jewish history teaches again and again: “No pain, no gain.” Growth requires sacrifice. Redemption requires courage. Returning home requires faith. And perhaps the trumpets of our generation are calling us not merely to survive Jewish history — but to participate in it.  Perhaps this also explains Moshe Rabbeinu’s extraordinary plea to Yitro. Moshe says: “נֹסְעִים אֲנַחְנוּ אֶל־הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר אָמַר ה׳ אֹתוֹ אֶתֵּן לָכֶם לְכָה אִתָּנוּ וְהֵטַבְנוּ לָךְ (“We are traveling to the place that Hashem promised to give us. Come with us and we will do good to you.”) Yitro hesitates. The commentators suggest many reasons: Fear of leaving familiar surroundings, concern about livelihood, concern for family, fear of war and fear of uncertainty

How contemporary those fears sound. They are the same concerns many Jews still express today. But Moshe continues urging him. Why? Because Moshe understood something fundamental: Living in Eretz Yisrael is not merely about convenience. It is about destiny. One commentary explains that Moshe was telling Yitro: “If you come with us, your very presence will create a Kiddush Hashem. Others will be inspired by your courage and commitment.” Sometimes the greatest inspiration comes not from speeches — but from action. From Jews willing to journey toward the future of the Jewish people despite uncertainty.

Conclusion

The silver trumpets teach us something profound. The Torah is eternal. But every generation requires leaders who know how to communicate eternal truths in ways the generation can hear. Moshe had his trumpets. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi had his. Rav Yosef Karo had his. Rav Kook had his. May we merit to hear the trumpets of our generation clearly!

The trumpets calling us to a deeper emunah, greater unity, spiritual courage, responsibility for Am Yisrael, and renewed connection to Eretz Yisrael. And may we have the wisdom not to repeat the mistakes of the wilderness generation — not to allow fear, comfort, or hesitation to delay redemption.

May we instead respond with faith, courage, and vision, and merit to see the complete Geulah במהרה בימינו. Amen.

 

Keeping the Flame Alive: Beha'alotecha 5786

 This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 28 May 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, here.

Sometimes an entire philosophy of religious life can be hidden inside just three words. One such example appears at the beginning of Parshat Beha’alotcha. After commanding Aharon to light the Menorah in the Mishkan, the Torah concludes simply: “Vaya’as ken Aharon”—“And Aharon did so.” Rashi comments: “Lehagid shivcho shel Aharon shelo shinah”—the verse comes to praise Aharon for not deviating from what he had been commanded.

 At first glance, the comment is puzzling. Is this really Aharon’s great praise? Aharon—the first Kohen Gadol, the brother of Moshe, the man renowned for his holiness and love of Am Yisrael—deserves praise simply because he followed instructions? The commentators suggest that hidden within these few words are several enduring lessons.

 The first is offered by the Sfat Emet. Aharon’s greatness was not merely that he lit the Menorah correctly once, but that he maintained the same sense of enthusiasm and devotion every single day. The lighting of the Menorah could easily have become routine. What begins with excitement often becomes habit; what once inspired us can slowly become stale. Yet Aharon approached the mitzvah each day with renewed passion and freshness.

 This challenge is familiar to all of us. The routines of religious life can gradually lose their vitality if performed mechanically. Chazal teach that the words of Torah should feel new each day. Spiritual growth depends not only on commitment, but on the ability to preserve a sense of wonder and meaning within the familiar.

 A second lesson emerges from the tragic background of Aharon’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. Passion in avodat Hashem is essential, but passion alone is not enough. Nadav and Avihu possessed enormous spiritual yearning, yet their desire led them beyond the boundaries Hashem had set. Aharon’s greatness lay precisely in his discipline—in his ability not to deviate, despite his inner yearning, and to channel devotion within the framework of command.

 Finally, the Alter of Kelm notes that true spiritual greatness is often revealed not in dramatic moments, but in ordinary, consistent acts. Lighting the Menorah was not the most public or glamorous service in the Mishkan. It involved daily preparation, care, and repetition. Yet Aharon understood that holiness is built precisely through those quiet acts performed faithfully over time.

 We often imagine greatness in terms of rare, transformative moments. The Torah reminds us otherwise. A meaningful life is often shaped less by dramatic gestures than by steady dedication: a daily tefillah, a kind word, a small act of responsibility, a mitzvah performed carefully even when no one notices.

 That was the praise of Aharon—shelo shinah. Not merely that he lit the Menorah once, but that he returned each day with the same sense of purpose, discipline and devotion. The greatest spiritual achievements are rarely sudden flashes of inspiration; they are flames tended faithfully over a lifetime.

 Shabbat Shalom!

The sweet aura of family learning

If you turned up in shul for the Leil Shavuot Learning Program which we offered in cooperation with our friends at OU Israel, you might have detected the happy atmosphere that pervaded the premises ahead of the main event. No, it wasn't the allure of the plastic floral decorations or the scent of the fruit platters; it was the detectable aura of learning that was left in the building by a very special event which took place earlier and that you may never have heard about. Let one of the participants, Keren Simon tell you about it. She writes:

On Leil Shavuot BKH, in partnership with OU Israel, hosted the annual Shavuot Se'udah for families with young children. Families from the neighborhood, Katamon and the City Center joined Rav and Rebbetzin Kenigsberg for a delicious dairy spread including salads, salmon, noodles and potatoes.

Next on the agenda was some learning. Children then impressed their parents with a fast-paced chidon led by Rabbi Kenigsberg. This was followed  by parent-child learning with OU Israel’s Rabbi Sam and Henny Shor. Finally, the children (and adults!) were treated to ice cream and many parents then joined the Shul’s Tikun Leil Shavuot program.

The evening was a wonderful beginning to the Shavuot Chag -- and we look forward to seeing everyone again at the upcoming Intergenerational Shabbat in June. 

Thanks, Keren, for opening a window on this lovely and deservedly popular program. We hope it will long remain a fixture on the Hanassi calendar.

The Unexpected Message of Shavuot

This post by Rabbi Kenigsberg was written for Hanassi Highlights, Shavuot and parashat Naso. 

What is the ideal way to spend Yom Tov?

Should the day be devoted entirely to spiritual pursuits—hours of tefillah, intensive Torah learning, and complete immersion in avodat Hashem? Or should Yom Tov also include physical enjoyment: good food, rest, and celebration?

The Gemara (Pesachim 68b) records a fascinating debate between Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua. Rabbi Eliezer maintains that a person may choose one of two paths: “kulo laHashem”—entirely devoted to spiritual pursuits, or “kulo lachem”—entirely devoted to personal enjoyment. Rabbi Yehoshua disagrees, arguing that Yom Tov should be divided: “chetzyo laHashem ve’chetzyo lachem”—half for Hashem and half for ourselves.

Yet remarkably, the Gemara says that on Shavuot there is one point on which everyone agrees. “Hakol modim be’Atzeret de’ba’inan nami lachem”—on Shavuot there must also be an element of “lachem,” of physical enjoyment and celebration.

At first glance, this seems surprising.

Surely Shavuot—the anniversary of Matan Torah—should be the day most completely devoted to Torah learning. We stay up for Tikkun Leil Shavuot, immerse ourselves in Torah, and relive the moment of revelation at Har Sinai. Why, then, does the Gemara insist specifically on festivity and physical enjoyment?

The answer is that Shavuot is not only about accepting the Torah, but about rejoicing in it. The Torah was never meant to be experienced merely as an obligation reluctantly carried. The inclusion of simchat Yom Tov within the experience of Shavuot reflects something deeper: that Torah is meant to shape and enrich life itself. Celebration becomes part of the religious experience, not a distraction from it.

The Gemara stresses “lachem” specifically on Shavuot. Physical enjoyment on this festival is not simply permitted; it expresses something essential about the relationship between Am Yisrael and Torah. A person celebrates what they value. The festive meals, hospitality, and atmosphere of the chag are themselves part of how we mark the preciousness of Torah.

Perhaps that is part of what Chazal wanted us to experience: not a Judaism detached from ordinary life, nor a spirituality that rejects joy and physicality, but a Torah woven naturally into the fullness of human experience.

That may be why Shavuot is celebrated not only through learning, but also through simcha—because the deepest relationship to Torah is marked not only by commitment, but by joy.

On Shavuot, we celebrate a Torah that is not detached from life, but one that elevates it. However we celebrate this chag, may we remember the enduring message of Kabbalat HaTorah: ki hem chayenu ve’orech yameinu—“for they are our life and the length of our days.”

 Chag Sameach and Shabbat Shalom!

From Mishkan to Matan Torah: Becoming a Vessel for Kedushah

As we approach the Yom Tov of Shavuot — the time of Matan Torah — there is a profound idea in this week’s Torah reading that speaks directly to the essence of the chag and to the mission of the Jewish people. What is this profound idea? Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom reveals all.

The Torah describes the completion of the Mishkan with the words:

“וַיְהִי בְּיוֹם כַּלּוֹת מֹשֶׁה לְהָקִים אֶת־הַמִּשְׁכָּן”

“And it was on the day that Moshe completed the erection of the Mishkan…”
(Bemidbar 7:1)

At first glance, the word “כַּלּוֹת” simply means “completion.” But Chazal detect in this unusual word layers of extraordinary meaning. Rashi, citing a Midrash, connects the word “כַּלּוֹת” to the word “כַּלָּה” — a bride. The Mishkan represented the moment of intimate union between HaKadosh Baruch Hu and Klal Yisrael. The Jewish people, standing beneath the “chuppah” of the Mishkan, entered into a spiritual marriage with the Ribbono Shel Olam.

This imagery immediately evokes another great moment of covenantal closeness: Har Sinai. Chazal often describe Matan Torah itself as a wedding between Hashem and the Jewish people. Har Sinai was the chuppah. The luchot were the ketubah. Shavuot is not merely the anniversary of receiving laws and commandments; it is the anniversary of a relationship. But there is an even deeper dimension hidden within the word “כַּלּוֹת.”

The Universe as a Vessel

There is a remarkable parallel drawn by Chazal between the creation of the world and the construction of the Mishkan. Just as Bereishit culminates with the completion of creation, so too the Mishkan reaches completion with the phrase כַּלּוֹת משה. The same language is deliberately used because the Mishkan represents the fulfillment of creation itself. One of the mefarshim cited explains that the word “כַּלּוֹת” is related to the word “כְּלִי” — a vessel. Until this moment, the universe was magnificent — galaxies, oceans, mountains, the intricate design of life itself — but it still lacked purpose. It was a beautifully crafted container waiting to be filled.

The Mishkan changed that. When the Shechinah descended into the Mishkan, the entire universe became a vessel for kedushah. The world was no longer merely a physical reality; it became a dwelling place for the Divine Presence.

This idea lies at the very heart of Shavuot. Matan Torah was the moment when the world received its spiritual content. Torah transformed existence from something biologically and materially impressive into something meaningful and holy. The world became a place where humanity could encounter Hashem. Without Torah, civilization can achieve technological brilliance while remaining spiritually empty. With Torah, every aspect of life — eating, עבודה, family, business, speech, kindness — becomes infused with eternal significance. The Mishkan was not merely a building. It was the revelation that physical reality itself can become a keli for kedushah. And that is precisely the mission of Torah.

Birkat Kohanim: The Purpose of the Mishkan

Immediately after the completion of the Mishkan, the Torah presents one of the most beloved passages in all of Tanach: Birkat Kohanim.

יְבָרֶכְךָ ה׳ וְיִשְׁמְרֶךָ

יָאֵר ה׳ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וִיחֻנֶּךָּ

יִשָּׂא ה׳ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם

These fifteen words encapsulate the mission of Klal Yisrael. From the very beginning, Avraham Avinu was told: “וֶהְיֵה בְּרָכָה” (“You shall be a blessing.”) The Jewish people were never meant to exist only for themselves. We are called upon to become transmitters of blessing to the world. The Mishkan therefore was not simply a place of ritual. It was the spiritual generator through which Divine blessing would flow into creation.

This too connects profoundly to Shavuot. The Torah was not given merely to create scholars. It was given to create a nation capable of bringing Hashem’s Presence into the world — into homes, communities, business ethics, acts of kindness, and national life.

The Central Theme of Each Sefer

We can also develop a beautiful idea from the writings of the Arizal: that each of the five books of the Torah has a central foundational verse — a “klal gadol.” Bereishit teaches that the world has a Creator and a purpose. Shemot teaches the chosenness and mission of Klal Yisrael. Vayikra centers on holiness and closeness to Hashem. Bemidbar emphasizes אהבת ישראל — the unity and interconnectedness of the Jewish people. And Devarim culminates in שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל ה׳ אֱלֹקֵינוּ ה׳ אֶחָד, the recognition of Hashem’s oneness.

This progression is deeply meaningful during the days leading into Shavuot. Torah can only truly be received by a united people. Chazal tell us that Bnei Yisrael camped at Sinai: “וַיִּחַן שָׁם יִשְׂרָאֵל” (“And Israel encamped there”) — singular. Rashi famously comments: “כאיש אחד בלב אחד” (“Like one person with one heart.”) The Torah was given not to isolated individuals, but to a nation bound together by responsibility, love, and shared destiny.

The Hidden Message of “באהבה”

The כהנים conclude their blessing: “לברך את עמו ישראל באהבה” (“To bless His nation Israel with love.”) There is a beautiful explanation that the word “באהבה” is unusual because berachot typically avoid descriptive adjectives. Yet here, the Torah emphasizes that blessing must flow through love. The gematria of “באהבה” is fifteen — corresponding to the fifteen words of Birkat Kohanim. The structure of its letters alludes to the three pesukim of the blessing itself.

The message is powerful: Torah without love becomes brittle. Religious observance without אהבת ישראל loses its soul. The Mishkan itself could only become a resting place for the Shechinah when the Jewish people stood together in unity. Perhaps this is one of the greatest messages of Shavuot in our generation.

We live in a time of enormous polarization — politically, religiously, socially, and nationally. Jews argue fiercely over ideology, policy, and identity. Yet the Torah reminds us that beneath all disagreement lies a deeper truth: We are one people. Klal Yisrael is ultimately like one great נשמה with many limbs. That does not erase differences. But it does demand underlying love, responsibility, and mutual concern.

Becoming a Vessel Again

Perhaps the central question of Shavuot is this: Are we willing to become vessels for Torah? The Mishkan teaches that even the most perfectly constructed structure remains empty unless filled with kedushah.

So too with our lives. A person may achieve success, wealth, education, influence, and accomplishment — but the deeper question remains: what is it all for?

Torah transforms the human being into a keli for the Divine Presence. Every Jewish home can become a Mishkan. Every act of chesed can become an expression of the Shechinah. Every word of Torah can bring meaning into a world desperately searching for purpose.

As we prepare for Shavuot, may we merit not merely to commemorate Matan Torah, but to truly receive it anew — to become vessels capable of carrying berachah, kedushah, and the Presence of Hashem into our families, our communities, Israel, and the entire world.

Different Flags, One Mission (Bemidbar 5786)

This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first posted in the Hanassi Highlights on Thursday 14 May. You can also read it in Hebrew here and in Yiddish here.

As we approach Chag HaShavuot and the memory of standing together at Har Sinai, Parshat Bamidbar offers a striking image of the Jewish people in the wilderness. The Torah describes in meticulous detail the arrangement of the camps: each tribe with its own banner, its own position and its own identity, encamped around the Mishkan at the centre.

At first glance, it seems almost contradictory. Chazal describe the Jewish people at Sinai as standing “ke’ish echad belev echad”—“like one person with one heart.” If unity was the prerequisite for receiving the Torah, why does the Torah now emphasize distinction and separation? Why the need for different flags, different camps and different identities?

Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky explains that the tribal arrangement only took place after the completion of the Mishkan. Before the nation could express its individuality, there first had to be a shared centre. The Mishkan represented a common mission, a spiritual anchor that transcended the differences between the shevatim. Only once that centre existed could diversity become a source of strength rather than fragmentation.

Perhaps this also sheds light on a cryptic story told by Chazal. The Gemara (Zevachim 116a) recounts that at the time of Matan Torah, the nations of the world were terrified by the sounds and upheaval surrounding Har Sinai. They ran to Bilam and asked whether Hashem was bringing another flood upon the world. Bilam answered: “Hashem oz le’amo yiten”—this was not destruction, but revelation. The Jewish people were receiving the Torah.

 Why would Matan Torah resemble a flood?

Rav Meir Shapiro of Lublin offers a profound insight. During the flood, predators and prey coexisted peacefully inside the teivah. But that was not true harmony; it was unity born of necessity. The lion did not devour the lamb, simply because there was nowhere else to go. In the future, however, when “the wolf will dwell with the lamb,” the peace will be different. It will not emerge from fear or survival, but from shared purpose.

 That, Rav Meir Shapiro explains, was the nations’ misunderstanding at Sinai. They saw an entire people standing together in extraordinary unity and assumed it must have been driven by crisis. What else could produce such cohesion? But the truth is that this was not the unity of desperation. It was the unity of mission.

That challenge remains deeply relevant for us today. Over the past difficult years, Am Yisrael has shown extraordinary solidarity in moments of pain and crisis. The question is always whether we can transform that into something deeper and more enduring.

Parshat Bamidbar reminds us that Jewish unity does not require uniformity. We do not all think alike or act alike. Each tribe had its own flag and its own role. But all faced the same Mishkan.

As we prepare for Shavuot, let us strive for a unity rooted not in crisis, but in shared purpose—a unity that embraces difference while binding us together in a common mission.

Shabbat Shalom!

A Lifetime of Learning: Book of the Month, Iyar 5786

We usually nominate our Book of the Month at the new month's inception -- but the chance to honor Rabbi Berel Wein zt'l on the occasion of his book launch was too good to miss. A Lifetime of Learning, Great Mentors Who Shaped My Mind and Heart was completed shortly before our beloved Mara d'Atra passed away. 

This handsome and eminently readable tome reviews the impact upon one of the leading Jewish personalities of our era of some 15 remarkable individuals split between Rabbi Wein's family, his teachers and his mentors. There are of course some familiar names to be found; these include Rabbis Yaakov Kamenetzky, Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Yoel Teitelbaum and Yosef Shlomo HaKohen Kahaneman. Copies of the new book were selling well at the launch, possibly because there were many purchasers in shul who felt that it was not merely a book they were buying but a tangible chelek in its author himself and a memento of his immense contribution to Jewish history, mussar and community building across two continents.

Today's book launch saw a packed Beit Knesset Hanassi, sitting to rapt attention while the two speakers talked of Rabbi Wein, his life and the book that so eloquently sums it up. Rabbi Kenigsberg opened the proceedings by reminiscing over the impact Rabbi Wein had made upon him. He employed the analogy of a bridge to explain Rabbi Wein's unique quality of linking the glorious era of the pre-Second World War Torah scholars to us in our own generation in order to enable us the better to address the challenges of the future. He also observed that the qualities that Rabbi Wein identified in those who influenced him quite aptly described Rabbi Wein himself: he was the epitome of a real "influencer".

Rabbi Kenigsberg then referred to this week's Torah reading for parashat Bemidbar, where we learn how Israel's tribes were arranged by flag and allowed to cultivate their separate identities. One of Rabbi Wein's major inspirations, Rabbi Yaakov Kamenetzky, asks a question that should have been obvious: why only now, in the fourth book of the Chumash, do these instructions come, rather than in the book of Shemot when we took our first steps into the unknown paths of the desert? The answer is that separation into different tribes, each with its own identity and ethos, can be ruinously divisive. But once there is a Mishkan in place, a focal point for all the tribes, they can develop their own character while sharing a unifying common goal. Rabbi Wein too displayed uniquely unifying qualities; he was like a backbone, the beriach htichon of the Mishkan that underpinned our common interests and held them together.

Next to speak was Rabbi Wein's youngest child, his daughter Rebbetzin Sori Teitelbaum. She opened with some highly pertinent comments on the problems of performing as a public speaker, and then demonstrated how good she was at doing it when she proceeded to the main part of her address. 

With Shavuot looming large on our horizons, she led us through a memorable set of Aseret HaDibrot of her own. These were ten maxims for a good and meaningful Jewish life that Rabbi Wein either articulated or exemplified in his own life. These maxims were drawn partly from Pirkei Avot, partly other from the realms of practical psychology, self-control and the importance of personal growth and self-esteem. Each maxim was accompanied by an anecdote or vignette depicting a moment in the Wein household, and the importance of not criticizing others was elegantly emphasized by a recitation of the poem, "A Little Walk Around Yourself". The Rebbetzin also took great care to acknowledge a personality who, though not accorded a chapter of her own in A Lifetime of Learning, was plainly a major figure in Rabbi Wein's spiritual growth -- her own mother and Rabbi Wein's first wife Jackie. 

In summary, this afternoon was more than a book launch. It was an education in Rabbi Wein's approach to life, offering a rare and precious glimpse of the Rabbi as a father and a friend. It was a remarkable occasion that those of us who were privileged to attend will never forget.

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You can access Rabbi Kenigsberg's speech here
You can access Rebbetzin Teitelbaum's speech here
Copies of the book may be purchased from Pomeranz Books, Jerusalem

More Than a Book of Numbers

This week's Torah reading begins with counting: counting tribes, soldiers, families and organizing the nation. But the truth is, this counting in itself is not new. We already counted Klal Yisrael in Sefer Shemot. What is new in Bamidbar is something far deeper: for the first time, the Torah describes how Klal Yisrael was structured around the Mishkan. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom looks beyond the numbers and finds form and structure throughout the parashah.

Bemidbar: The Structure of a Holy Nation

Each tribe had a place, a direction, a flag, an identity and a relationship to the center. This was not merely military organization. It was spiritual architecture. The Torah was teaching us what a holy nation looks like.

Four Levels of Meaning

Like many sections of Torah, the encampment in the Midbar can be understood on multiple levels.

In many ways, the parashah unfolds like Peshat, Remez, Derush and Sod. Each level reveals another dimension of who Klal Yisrael truly is.

Peshat — A Nation Preparing for Destiny

On the most basic level, the encampment was practical. The Jewish people were preparing to enter Eretz Yisrael. They would need order, discipline, military structure, leadership, and coordination. The tribes were divided into four major camps, each consisting of three shevatim. This was a nation preparing not merely to survive — but to build a homeland.

The Torah is teaching us something important: Holiness does not reject structure. קדושה requires organization. Even spiritual greatness needs order. The Mishkan stood at the center, but around it stood a disciplined nation ready to fulfill its mission in history.

Remez — Connected to the Avot

But Chazal reveal a deeper layer. Rashi explains that the arrangement of the tribes around the Mishkan mirrored another sacred moment in Jewish history: the funeral procession of Yaakov Avinu. When Yaakov was carried from Egypt to Me’arat HaMachpelah, the sons surrounded his aron in a precise formation: three on one side, three on the other, three in front, and three behind. The same structure reappears in the Midbar. Why? Because Klal Yisrael is never disconnected from its roots. Even as they prepare for the future, they carry the legacy of the Avot. The Mishkan was not simply surrounded by tribes. It was surrounded by the continuation of Yaakov Avinu. Every Jewish generation moves forward only when it carries its past with dignity.

Derush — The Flags and the Choshen Mishpat

Then Chazal take us deeper still. The Torah says: “איש על דגלו” (“Each man under his flag”). What were these flags? Rashi explains that each tribe’s flag matched the color of the corresponding stone on the Choshen Mishpat — the breastplate of the Kohen Gadol. One tribe was represented by sapphire. Another by ruby. Another by emerald.

Every shevet had its own unique color. its own identity. its own spiritual mission. But all the colors were worn together on the heart of the Kohen Gadol. That is the secret of Klal Yisrael. Unity does not mean uniformity. A healthy nation does not erase differences. Each tribe had different strengths, different personalities, different missions, different symbols—and yet they all surrounded one Mishkan.

Today as well, Klal Yisrael contains many types of Jews: different communities, different customs, different personalities and different approaches. The challenge is not to become identical. The challenge is to remain united around the center: around Torah, around the Shechinah and around the Mishkan.

Sod — Klal Yisrael and the Heavenly Chariot

But then comes the most astonishing insight. Ibn Ezra connects the encampment in the Midbar to one of the most mysterious visions in all of Tanach: the vision of Yechezkel’s Merkavah. The Navi describes four heavenly beings surrounding the Kisei HaKavod: the lion, the eagle, the ox, and the human face. Ibn Ezra explains that these same symbols appeared on the banners of the tribes. Thus Yehudah carried the lion, Reuven corresponded to man, Ephraim carried the ox and Dan carried the eagle.

What does this mean? Klal Yisrael in the Midbar was not merely organized like an army. They were being shaped into a reflection of the heavenly order itself. Just as the malachim surround the Heavenly Throne, Klal Yisrael surrounded the Mishkan. The Mishkan below reflected the Kisei HaKavod above. Suddenly Bamidbar becomes something extraordinary. The Torah is teaching us that the Jewish people are meant to create a bridge between heaven and earth.

The Connection to Shavuot

This is why Bamidbar is always read before Shavuot. Before receiving the Torah, Klal Yisrael needed structure. Not merely physical structure but also spiritual structure.

Matan Torah was not given to isolated individuals. It was given to a nation encamped סביב להר — surrounding holiness together. And perhaps this is the deeper meaning of preparing for Shavuot. We do not come merely as individuals seeking inspiration. We come as part of Am Yisrael. We may be different tribes with different personalities. different colors and different strengths. But we are all standing around one center: the Torah.

The Danger of Losing the Center

One of the great dangers in modern life is fragmentation. People define themselves by their politics, ideology, culture, profession and by their social tribe. But the Midbar teaches us this: a nation survives only when the center holds. The tribes could only remain united because the Mishkan stood in the middle. When the center disappears, the camps drift apart. The Mishkan created unity not by eliminating individuality, but by giving everyone a shared destination. That remains true today.

In closing

Perhaps that is why the Torah begins Sefer Bamidbar not with speeches, but with formation. Before revelation comes alignment, before Torah comes unity, before entering Eretz Yisrael comes identity. On this basis every Jew had a place, every tribe had a mission, every banner mattered. And the Mishkan stood at the center of them all.

May we merit this Shavuot to rediscover our place within Klal Yisrael:

●      to value our uniqueness,

●      to honor the uniqueness of others,

●      and to center ourselves once again around Torah and the Shechinah.

And may we become worthy of the vision described by Yechezkel — a people who bring the Divine Presence into this world.