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.

Unbroken, by Gila Ross: Book of the Month, Elul 5786

Our final Book of the Month selection for 5786 is Unbroken, by life strategist Gila Ross. Published earlier this year by Mosaica, it's not a long book -- a speedy reader can devour it in a single sitting -- but it's one that has some positive and constructive advice for anyone facing a personal struggle right now and who is wondering how best to get to grips with it.

Gila Ross, who is married to Rabbi Samuel Ross and the mother of eight children, may be known to some of our members as the author of a rather longer book based on Pirkei Avot, Living Beautifully, has produced a very different work this time round. At its core lies a collection of interviews with people who have had to cope with challenges. Some are counselors whose task has been to assist and support those who are confronted by difficulties and hardships; others are the people who have been challenged. 

One of the personalities featured in this book is Beatie Deutsch, the remarkable Israeli Olympian marathon runner. In her interview Beatie speaks of how she combines her faith with her career and how she has to handle injury. She comments that "faith, or emunah, is a muscle that needs to be worked on and developed, just like any other muscle", adding: "Every situation we go through is tailored for us to work on building that faith". There's a very special connection between Beatie and Beit Knesset Hanassi, by the way: her parents, Doug and Vivian Rabin, are members of our shul.

Learning to See Through the Eyes of Torah

 In this piece by our member Rabbi Paul Bloom, we are invited to consider the quality of sight, its relationship to hearing and our ability to choose, and its role in our spiritual development as Jews.

"See, I place before you today a blessing and a curse." (Devarim 11:26). Every day we recite the words of the Shema:

"Hear, O Israel..."

Listening is one of the Torah's central themes. Faith begins by hearing Hashem's word. Yet Parashat Re'eh opens differently. Not with Shema—hear. But with Re'eh—see. Why the sudden change? After all, at Har Sinai the Jewish people heard the voice of Hashem but saw no image. Judaism rejected the pagan notion that God could be represented by something visible. If Hashem cannot be seen, what exactly is Moshe asking us to look at? The Torah's answer is profound. Hashem Himself cannot be seen—but His presence can be recognized through the lives we choose to live.

Seeing a Life of Blessing

Moshe tells the nation:

"See, I place before you today a blessing and a curse."

Notice that he does not merely describe blessing and curse. He says they can be seen. A life dedicated to Torah leaves visible footprints. You can see it in a family that honors parents. You can see it in communities built upon kindness and charity. You can see it in justice that protects the weak. You can see it in marriages strengthened by commitment, in children raised with purpose, and in lives filled with meaning. The Torah is inviting us to observe the results.

Leadership Begins with Example

The Ba'al HaTurim offers a beautiful insight. Moshe is saying, in effect: "Look at me." The greatest leaders do not merely teach—they model. Gideon used exactly this approach before battling Midian. Vastly outnumbered, he instructed his soldiers:

"Watch me, and do what I do." (Shofetim 7:17)

Those four words define authentic Jewish leadership. Parents influence children more through their actions than their lectures. Teachers educate by personal example. Communities rise because individuals quietly live the values they hope others will embrace. The Torah reminds us that every Jew is someone's role model.

Moshe Knew Both Worlds

The Kli Yakar deepens this lesson. Many people assume that spiritual leaders dismiss wealth because they never experienced it. Moshe Rabbeinu could never be accused of that. He grew up in Pharaoh's palace, surrounded by unimaginable luxury and power. Later he ascended Mount Sinai and experienced unparalleled closeness to Hashem. He had lived both lives. His testimony carries enormous weight. He knew firsthand that material success alone cannot satisfy the human soul. Real blessing comes from purpose. From holiness. From serving something greater than ourselves.

As Kohelet concludes after exploring every worldly pleasure:

"The end of the matter, when all has been heard: Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole purpose of man." (Kohelet 12:13)

The Freedom to Choose

The Rambam, in Hilchot Teshuvah (Chapter 5), identifies this opening verse as one of the Torah's clearest declarations of human free will. Hashem gives us the dignity of choice. This idea distinguished Judaism from many philosophies of the ancient world, and it remains revolutionary today. Modern society often explains human behavior through genetics, psychology, economics, or environment. Judaism recognizes the influence of these forces but insists they never eliminate personal responsibility. Every person possesses the ability to choose. Blessing is not imposed. Neither is curse. Hashem places both before us and lovingly says:

"Choose."

As Moshe later declares:

"I have placed before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore choose life." (Devarim 30:19)

Seeing Eretz Yisrael

There is another remarkable dimension to Moshe's opening command. The Ramban teaches that dwelling in Eretz Yisrael is itself a mitzvah, one that enables the Jewish people to live the Torah in its fullest expression. This idea is reflected throughout Parashat Re'eh. No other parashah emphasizes so repeatedly "the place that Hashem will choose." Again and again the Torah directs our attention toward the future spiritual center of Jewish life—Yerushalayim. The parashah concludes with the mitzvah of Aliyah l'Regel, ascending to Jerusalem on the three pilgrimage festivals. There, the Jewish people would literally see holiness. They would see the Beit HaMikdash. The Kohanim performing the Avodah.The Menorah shining. They would hear the songs of the Levi'im. They would experience the Shechinah in a way unlike anywhere else on earth. The opening "Re'eh" reaches its fulfillment in Jerusalem.

Rav Hirsch: Seeing Beyond the Surface

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch explains that Torah demands more than physical sight. It asks us to develop moral vision. Anyone can observe events. The Torah teaches us to recognize their meaning. Two people can witness the same history. One sees politics. The other sees Hashgachah. One sees coincidence. The other sees Divine Providence. The challenge of Re'eh is to cultivate eyes that perceive Hashem's hand within history.

A Message for Our Generation

Perhaps no generation since the destruction of the Second Temple has witnessed what ours has. After nearly two thousand years of exile, millions of Jews have returned home. The Hebrew language has been reborn. Jerusalem is once again the heart of Jewish life. The Land has flourished exactly as the prophets foretold. These are not merely historical events. They are invitations to see. To recognize Hashem's faithfulness unfolding before our eyes.

The Sifrei teaches that every generation must view the Torah as if it were given today. Moshe therefore says not only "See," but "See...today." Every day presents the same choice. Will we see the world through the lens of convenience—or through the lens of covenant? Will we pursue comfort alone—or purpose?

Will we recognize that the greatest blessing is not simply living well, but living a life connected to Hashem, His Torah, His people, and His Land? That is the enduring challenge of Parashat Re'eh.

May Hashem open our eyes to recognize His blessings, strengthen our commitment to His Torah, and enable us to witness the complete redemption, when all of Israel will once again ascend to Yerushalayim in joy and behold the beauty of His Presence restored in Zion.

A Message for Me: Parashat Re'eh 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was originally published in the Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 6 August 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

The opening verse of Parshat Re'eh contains a curious grammatical shift:

"Re'eh anochi noten lifneichem hayom berachah u'kelalah" – "See, I place before you today a blessing and a curse."

The word re'eh is singular, yet lifneichem is in the plural. Why the inconsistency?

The Kli Yakar explains this based on a statement of the Gemara in Masechet Kiddushin (40b). A person should always view the world as perfectly balanced between merit and guilt. One mitzvah can tip the scales in favour of the entire world; one aveirah can tip them the other way. That is why the Torah begins this verse in the singular. Every one of us must hear these words as though they are addressed to us personally. It is tempting to think that one individual can hardly make a difference. After all, what effect can one person's actions really have among millions of Jews and billions of people?

Yet the Torah's answer is: more than you imagine. The verse does not remain in the singular. It immediately becomes plural: lifneichem. The choices I make are never only about me. Every act of kindness, every moment of integrity, every mitzvah and every aveirah has consequences far beyond what I can see. We rarely know how our actions influence those around us, and we certainly cannot measure their spiritual impact. Yet the Torah asks us to live with the awareness that they do.

This perspective runs counter to the way we usually think. We naturally measure our actions by what we can see: Did anyone notice? Did it make a tangible difference? Did it change anything? The Kli Yakar reminds us that this is not how the Torah measures a person's life. We are not in a position to calculate the ultimate impact of our deeds. That is Hashem's domain. Our responsibility is simply to recognise that no action is ever insignificant.

There is a powerful tension here. Judaism does not encourage us to think that we are the centre of the universe. At the same time, it asks us to live with the awareness that our choices genuinely matter. We are neither insignificant nor all-important. We are individuals whose actions form part of a much larger story.

Hashem speaks to each of us personally. No one can serve Him on our behalf, and no one else can make our choices for us. At the same time, those choices are never ours alone. Every individual decision contributes, in some small but immeasurable way, to the spiritual direction of the Jewish people and of the world.

That is both a great responsibility and an extraordinary privilege.

Shabbat Shalom!

A Legacy of Sight, A Lifetime of Vision

In addition to our report on the First Yahrzeit event for Rabbi Wein zt'l, we bring you a most moving tribute to our late Mara d'Atra from someone who knew him closely -- Rebbetzin Ariella Goldwicht. This is what she writes:

A tribute to Rabbi Dov Berel Wein

 Rabbi Wein, among the many things I learned from you was that expressing a personal truth often outweighs the comfort of remaining conventional.

 Here goes my truth.

Thank you, Rebbe, for being a role model for me and my family, but so much more. I cared for you so deeply as a dear loving grandfather, not biological but chosen. Rabbi Wein, you were my Rav and esteemed mentor, but in my heart you were family to me. I merited the company, warmth and depth of you the person, not just the persona. Once you became family, there was no going back, and there isn't a week that goes by that we don't speak of you with that pang of longing and heartache. Your loss has left an empty place at our table, and an empty space in our hearts. I cared for you perhaps less conventionally than one might expect, but for me it felt right and I feel your stamp on my soul for eternity.

 

You were a man of deep truth and profound Godliness, of clear understanding and careful articulation. We reflected on your unequivocal understandings, we laughed at your jokes, and we took to heart the gentle way you challenged us to become better.

Not many people can express two seemingly opposing ideas with utmost clarity and live them both as certain truths. The following are two significant ideas that I have gleaned from you, Rebbe, as I navigate my roles as a mother, rebbetzin and teacher.   

‘To be an observant Jew, you must be observant.’

 And yet 

 ‘As a rabbi (and I understood that as anyone in a leadership role), one must know not to see and hear everything.’

At first glance, these ideas appear contradictory. Yet watching you live them, I came to understand that they are, in fact, inseparable. You taught us to notice deeply, to pay attention to people, to history, to the subtle workings of Hashem in the world. But you also taught us restraint, to overlook what would only diminish. Discernment is not seeing everything. It is knowing what deserves to be seen. Thank you for living that balance so beautifully. 

Thank you for being the anchor in our lives at a time when we experienced personal, national, and worldly shifts and transitions. We climbed onto the roller-coaster of history, joining the ride of momentous times with the master himself. We experienced corona, the pangs of 7 October and the subsequent wars, political unrest and heightened antisemitism, all through a masterful lens and broad perspective that only you, Rabbi Wein, could provide.

 

History was not in the past

 

Perhaps that is why your understanding of history brought such comfort. You taught us to look beyond the urgency of the moment and recognize that we were living one chapter in a much greater story. Thank you for reminding us that the best way to settle in Eretz Yisrael is by choice and not by fear. Thank you for clarifying that "Never Again" is not a principle we can rely on, but that true security requires both faith in Hashem and the wisdom to act responsibly.

Together we experienced what was, what is, and what will be as one guided and truthful journey. There is so much comfort in plowing forward into the future on the shoulders of the past; experiencing the present with faith and certainty, precision and a sense of rightful destiny. The security, safety, and reassurance that you, our great rebbe, provided became the food for the soul, the ultimate shabbos treat, the nourishment that fueled us week after week. The cravings intensified the more we were fed, the more we were nourished in a way that only you could provide.

To experience the warmth and love of a grandfather, the counseling and guidance of a Rav, the deep wisdom and depth of understanding of a historian, the personal advice and direction of a kind and thoughtful mentor, the bridge to previous generations; a window into the greatness of yesteryear—all from one individual—is truly the most remarkable and understated gift.

Rebbe, the gift you have given us and our children is the gift that keeps giving. Your wisdom—your voice of reason in a liberal and often confused world—has brought us to new clarity.

 While your vision was indeed waning, you left us all with the gift of sight

I read the words of your longtime editor who painted the picture of your last meetings together in your most recent, and I believe most beloved, work about your mentors. In her description, she enumerated that you met together in person to review the chapters as she worked on them. She noted that the Rav would listen intently as she read the chapters aloud, often nodding and smiling, sometimes even laughing heartily. As she writes, “It was clear that he was reliving these episodes of his life and envisioning the people he so loved and admired.”

Reading those final encounters only reinforced what I had witnessed for years. Memories, anecdotes, and meaningful interactions do not simply become history. They become the essence of who we are, and if we allow them, the tools with which we shape the future.

To me, you truly exemplified a life of the great Rambam's understanding of the ‘shvil hazahav’. You embodied Torah values at their utmost, and had a delicate way of making everything relatable, bite-sized, and, most importantly, human. You loved and cherished each mitzvah and took a real ‘chai bahem’ approach. You lived with them and they lived through you.

 Perhaps this is less conventional than expected, but it is the truth of my heart.

I would be honored to serve you just one last meal—and to be served so many delicacies in return.

 

Rebbe, as history does repeat itself, we will meet again.