Planting the Future: Parshat Terumah 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 19 February 2026. An Ivrit translation, via AI, can be found here.

Parshat Terumah opens with an extensive list of materials required for the construction of the Mishkan: gold, silver, copper, wool, skins—and wood. The Torah instructs that “atzei shitim”—acacia wood—should be used for the beams that would form the Mishkan’s structure. One of the classic questions raised by the commentators is simple yet striking: where did this wood come from? Bnei Yisrael had just left Egypt and were traveling through the wilderness. Forests were hardly abundant. How did they obtain the materials needed to build the sanctuary?

Rashi, quoting the Midrash Tanchuma, offers a remarkable answer. Yaakov Avinu, when he descended to Egypt generations earlier, planted cedar trees there. He foresaw, through ruach hakodesh, that his descendants would one day build a Mishkan in the wilderness, and he ensured they would have the necessary materials. According to another Midrashic tradition, these trees were first planted by Avraham in Be’er Sheva and later transported by Yaakov to Egypt, carefully preserved for this very purpose.

When Yaakov arrived in Egypt, he knew his family was entering exile. Egypt offered stability and prosperity—but it was not home. Yaakov emphasized this explicitly at the end of his life, insisting his descendants take an oath not to bury him in Egypt. He wanted them to understand that their presence there was temporary. The trees he planted gave concrete expression to that message. They stood as a quiet but constant reminder that redemption would come, that Egypt was only a chapter in a much larger story.

But the trees served another purpose as well. When Bnei Yisrael later built the Mishkan, they were not using anonymous materials gathered along the way. They were using beams planted generations earlier by their forefathers. Every plank carried memory. Every beam testified that this moment had been anticipated long before. The Mishkan was not only a response to the present—it was the fulfillment of a vision planted in the past.

Yaakov Avinu did not leave his descendants only a promise of redemption. He left them its raw materials. He ensured that when the moment came, they would not only remember their destiny—they would be able to build it.

We, too, are the beneficiaries of foundations laid by earlier generations, and we are entrusted with the responsibility to continue building. Living in Jerusalem, seeing Jewish life flourish once again in our ancestral home, reminds us that we are part of a story far larger than ourselves. Like Yaakov Avinu, we plant seeds whose full impact we may never see—but which ensure that the future of our people will stand strong and endure.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Mishkan: Where Heaven, Torah, and Love Converge

This week's Torah reading does more than just lay out a blueprint for the building of a focal point for God's relationship with His people. It establishes the ground rules for an enduring relationship based on three key principles. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains:

With just a few opening words, the Torah introduces us to an entirely new era in the life of Klal Yisrael:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם

“They shall make for Me a Sanctuary, and I will dwell among them” (שמות כה:ח).

After Yetziat Mitzrayim, Kriat Yam Suf, Ma’amad Har Sinai, and the thunderous revelation of the Aseret HaDibrot, one might have imagined that the spiritual climax had already occurred. Heaven had descended to earth. The Jewish people had heard the direct word of Hashem. Yet the Torah now calls them to something even more demanding: a collective project — the building of the Mishkan.

This was not an architectural endeavor. It was not merely craftsmanship. It was the creation of a sacred center that would channel Divine Presence into the physical world. If Har Sinai was a moment of revelation from above, the Mishkan was a mission of sanctification from below.

Betzalel: Building a Microcosm of Creation

The Torah describes the appointment of Betzalel in extraordinary terms:

וָאֲמַלֵּא אֹתוֹ רוּחַ אֱלֹקִים בְּחָכְמָה בִּתְבוּנָה וּבְדַעַת

“I have filled him with the spirit of God, with wisdom, understanding, and knowledge” (שמות לא:ג).

Chazal explain (ברכות נה) that Betzalel possessed a profound, almost mystical understanding. Just as Hashem created heaven and earth through the letters of the aleph-bet, so too Betzalel understood the spiritual correspondences embedded in every component of the Mishkan. Rashi notes that da’at here refers to ruach hakodesh — divine inspiration.The world itself was created as a physical universe. The Mishkan was constructed to introduce kedushah — sanctity — into that universe. Every beam, every socket, every vessel mirrored some aspect of creation. The Mishkan was, in a sense, a repaired and sanctified cosmos. From that point forward, Jewish history would revolve around this sacred center.

At the Heart: The Aron and Its Mystery

At the epicenter of the Mishkan stood the Aron HaKodesh — a sealed ark of acacia wood overlaid with gold, containing the Luchot HaBrit. It was hidden, inaccessible, entered only by the Kohen Gadol once a year on Yom Kippur. And yet it was the silent generator of holiness for the entire Mishkan.

On top of the Aron rested the Kaporet — the golden cover — and upon it stood two Keruvim:

וְעָשִׂיתָ שְׁנַיִם כְּרוּבִים זָהָב… וְהָיוּ הַכְּרוּבִים פֹּרְשֵׂי כְנָפַיִם לְמַעְלָה… וּפְנֵיהֶם אִישׁ אֶל־אָחִיו

“You shall make two cherubim of gold… The cherubim shall spread their wings upward… and their faces shall be toward one another” (שמות כה:יח–כ).

Their wings reached upward toward Heaven. Their faces turned toward one another.
Their gaze inclined downward toward the Luchot beneath them. What do these mysterious figures mean?

A Suspension of the Ordinary

The Keruvim pose an immediate halachic question. The Second Commandment prohibits graven images:

לֹא תַעֲשֶׂה לְךָ פֶסֶל…

“You shall not make for yourself a sculptured image…” (שמות כ:ד).

Yet here the Torah commands sculpted human forms. The Chizkuni explains that the Mishkan and later the Beit HaMikdash operated in an otherworldly dimension. Within its walls, certain prohibitions were suspended in service of a higher sanctity. Melachot normally forbidden on Shabbat — slaughtering, burning, baking, lighting fire — were performed daily in the Temple service. The prohibition of sha’atnez was suspended in the priestly garments, which combined wool and linen. So too, the prohibition against sculpted forms was suspended for the Keruvim.

Entering the Mishkan meant stepping into a different plane — a realm where the Divine order superseded the ordinary structure of law. It was Heaven touching earth.

The Two Halves of Torah

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch offers a powerful interpretation. Why two Keruvim? They represent the two great categories of mitzvot:

●      Bein Adam LaMakom — between man and God.

●      Bein Adam LaChaveiro — between man and fellow man.

One Keruv symbolizes our vertical relationship: Shabbat, tefillin, tzitzit — the mitzvot that anchor us in awareness of Hashem. The other symbolizes our horizontal relationship: kindness, justice, compassion — the mitzvot that build society.

Their faces turned toward one another — panim el panim — teach that these two dimensions must work in harmony. Spiritual devotion without ethical sensitivity is incomplete. Social ethics without reverence for Hashem is rootless. The Torah’s sanctity depends on their integration.

Torah Shebichtav and Torah Shebe’al Peh

A Midrashic teaching (Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer) offers another layer. The Luchot inside the Aron represent Torah Shebichtav — the immutable written Torah. But the Keruvim, facing one another, symbolize something dynamic: two scholars engaged in Torah dialogue — shnayim shenosnim v’nosnim b’divrei Torah. The written Torah is eternal truth — Torat emet. But Torah also lives in discussion, analysis, application, and debate — Torah Shebe’al Peh.

When we recite the blessing after an aliyah, we say:

וְנָתַן לָנוּ תּוֹרַת אֱמֶת וְחַיֵּי עוֹלָם נָטַע בְּתוֹכֵנוּ

“He has given us a Torah of truth and planted eternal life within us.”

The eternal truth lies in the Luchot; the “eternal life within us” lies in the living transmission of Torah. The Keruvim embody that vitality — Torah not as static text, but as vibrant, generational engagement.

The Language of Love

A third interpretation, drawn from the teachings of the Baal Shem Tov and his disciples, sees the Keruvim as symbols of love. Chazal describe them as youthful figures, at times like a boy and a girl, facing each other with affection. Their image evokes Shir HaShirim — the love between husband and wife — which Chazal understand as a metaphor for the love between Hashem and Israel.

The Baal Shem Tov summarized his mission in three loves:

1. Ahavat Hashem — love of God.
2. Ahavat Yisrael — love of fellow Jews.
3. Ahavat Torah — love of Torah.

The Keruvim capture all three:

●      Their wings stretched upward — Ahavat Hashem.

●      Their faces toward one another — Ahavat Yisrael.

●      Their gaze downward toward the Luchot — Ahavat Torah.

Love is not peripheral to the Mishkan. It is its core.

The Voice Between the Keruvim

Most striking of all is where the Divine voice emerged:

וְנוֹעַדְתִּי לְךָ שָׁם… וְדִבַּרְתִּי אִתְּךָ מֵעַל הַכַּפֹּרֶת מִבֵּין שְׁנֵי הַכְּרוּבִים

“There I will meet with you… and I will speak with you from above the Kaporet, from between the two Keruvim” (שמות כה:כב).

The word of Hashem came from the space between them.

Not from the Luchot alone, not from Heaven alone, but from the space between love of God, love of Torah, and love of one another. That is where revelation continues.

A New Beginning

The building of the Mishkan marked a new chapter in Jewish destiny. Sinai was an overwhelming moment of Divine initiative. The Mishkan was an enduring structure of human participation. Klal Yisrael was called upon not merely to witness holiness, but to build it — to create a space in the physical world where sanctity, truth, and love converge.

At the heart of that sacred space stood two figures facing one another.

The message is timeless.

Torah must be held firmly. Love must flow generously. Heaven must be reached for. And the Divine voice emerges when these elements meet.

May we learn to recreate that inner Mishkan — where Ahavat Hashem, Ahavat Yisrael, and Ahavat Torah stand face to face — and may the voice that once spoke between the Keruvim continue to guide Klal Yisrael forward.

Hearth and Home

Have we already ticked the box, as it were, for building the Beit HaMikdash withour realizing it? Our member Rabbi Steve Ettinger looks behind the Mishkan's construction plans and asks some probing questions.

The Mishkan/Bet Hamikdash is likely the single most holy place in the Jewish religion. It is the focal point for our service of Hashem. In its heyday, it was the resting place of the Shechinah, the Divine presence, and was filled with miracles. Today, millions flock to the site where the first two Temples stood, to pray and to feel a greater connection to God’s “home.” However, if we delve into how Hashem described this structure (the Mishkan) and, more specifically, its special vessels, it could well be that, in fact, none of what many may think and believe about the function of this structure and this place is relevant. Hashem may have had a very different lesson in mind when He commanded us to build the Mishkan.

When you stop and think, Hashem certainly does NOT need or require a home. Before the Chet Ha’egel, according to some opinions, He might not have even commanded that Moshe build it. Maybe it was merely a part of the atonement process or a concession to the fact that the Bnei Yisrael were acculturated in a pagan world. For most of history, our religion has functioned and survived quite well without a Temple and without its service. In fact, His very command to construct it hinted at a spiritual rather than physical dwelling: וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם (“And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them”). Effectively, He wants to dwell “within” each Jew, not in some structure.

It is possible that the building or place itself is NOT at all important. Perhaps it is NOT intended to be or to represent Hashem’s abode on Earth or where He dwells. Rather, He may be giving an example of how and where the Jewish religion should primarily be observed. He is providing a visual representation so we can create homes where He can live with us and with our families.

This notion may seem radical but, before examining the minutiae of the Mishkan, stop and consider: we might be a nation, but it might be more accurate to characterize the Jewish People as a family. Our foundation is not built on rabbis, kings and priests but on Avot and Imahot, fathers and mothers.

Note that the laws of Mishkan construction are juxtaposed with the command to observe the Shabbat (Shemot Chapter 35). Accordingly, we derive all of the laws of prohibited work on the Shabbat (the 39 categories) from how the Jews built the Mishkan. Thus, it should be no mystery why the command to observe the Shabbat is listed on the tablet with the first five Commandments—those reserved for the relationship between Man and God. This placement illustrates this same connection between the holy day and Hashem’s “place.”

However, the commandment to honor our parents is also on that first Tablet. In fact, THIS is the commandment that is juxtaposed to the Shabbat!   Parents – family on the Luchot – are in the same relative position to the Mishkan and the Mikdash as Shabbat was in the Torah – they are identified as part of the Man-God relationship.

Keeping this in mind, let us examine the Mishkan/Mikdash more closely. Tthe structure itself is a tent (ohel), dwelling (mishkan) or house (bayit). Historically (other than the more affluent “modern” era), most dwellings had two basic areas – a larger main space where all of the daily living activities were conducted and a private sleeping area for the parents (or perhaps one large area with the parents’ beds behind a curtain for privacy). The Mishkan/Mikdash had a similar floorplan – a large outer chamber with multiple vessels and an inner chamber (or a section separated by a curtain).

Homes, of course, require illumination. For centuries the source of this light was candles and oil lamps. The menorah, an oil candelabra, provided this light. Families must also eat. The staples of the human diet have historically been bread and meat. Two of the other primary vessels found in the Mishkan/Mikdash are the shulchan (table) upon which the kohanim placed the lechem hapanim (show bread) every week and the outer mizbe’ach (altar) where animals (meat) were sacrificed. A home, of course, requires sanitary facilities. A large water basin called the kiyor was likewise situated within the confines of the Mishkan/Mikdash complex.

As mentioned above, people sleep in their homes. It certainly would not have been appropriate to situate beds or couches within the structure. In the presence of Hashem, one must be completely alert. However, sleep is the most intangible or ephemeral human state. A person is simply breathing when asleep and he is most closely connected his subconscious. A great metaphor for this could be the burning of the ketoret (incense). It is basically intangible, it is diffuse, one can only breathe it in -- yet it has so many physical components -- and it soars freely heavenward.

Finally, we turn to the Kodesh Kodashim. In the Mishkan and the Mikdash this is the abode of the Aron HaKodesh (the Holy Ark) that contains the two sets of tablets – both the broken ones and the complete ones. The Ark is topped with the two Cheruvim, child-faced angels (asexual), that are turned toward each other.

As noted, historically the second room for most homes (or the space separated by the curtain) was the parents’ bedroom. This is where they become partners with Hashem, where they are required to vigilantly keep the sanctity of the family through the laws of taharat hamishpacha (ritual purity).  The two angels, representing two generic children, are symbolic of their sacred duty of “peru urvu” (”be fruitful and multiply”). Marriage is called kedushin. The Aron has both the complete and broken tablets – some relationships, some families, are whole and some unfortunately can be broken and in His Mishkan/Mikdash Hashem acknowledges this reality as well.

Every time we complete the Amidah (and at other times, as well), we pray for Hashem to rebuild of the Bet HaMikdash speedily and in our days. However, it could be that we have overlooked that He has already built one for each of us and that He already dwells in it. Our homes should be the true Batei Mikdash. Our homes copy the blueprints that He commanded. However, they can either be empty shells (eitzim ve’avanim – wood and stone) or they can be places where the Shechinah resides. The difference is whether we perceive our homes as a Mishkan or Mikdash, or as mere shelter. Hashem does NOT require shelter. He will choose to dwell in a Mikdash that follows his blueprint. There is no need to wait – you can build it!

Menoras HaMaor: The Light of Contentment (Book of the Month, Adar 5786)

Our Book of the Month for Adar this year is Menoras HaMaor: the Light of Contentment. This is a translation of the celebrated work of Rabbenu Yitzchat Abohav by Rabbi Yaakov Yosef Reinman.

Rabbenu Abohav was an early 14th century Spanish Talmudic scholar and Kabbalist. He is known for his intellectual approach to rabbinic literature, which he juxtaposed with contemporary Spanish Kabbalah. Of his many works, the Menorat HaMaor survived and won considerable fame for the author, though in his humility he assures his readers that he composed it chiefly for his own use as a public speaker. But besides this it has contributed probably more than any other medieval book to the popularization of rabbinical lore and to the religious edification and elevation of the masses. It belongs to that class of ethical works which sprang up in the 13th century in a time of reaction against the one-sided manner in which Talmudic studies had been previously pursued.

"These Talmudists consider it their duty to propose difficult questions and answer them in a witty and subtle manner, but leave unnoticed the precious pearls that lie upon the bed of the Talmudic ocean, the aggadic passages (similar to Midrash) so rich in beauty and sweetness."

He conceived the plan of grouping together the rich material stored up in the vast treasure-house of Aggadah from the religious and ethical point of view, and of presenting it in a book, intending by it to illumine the minds and the hearts of his coreligionists. Alluding to the seven-armed Menorah in the Tabernacle, he divided the book into seven sections, each of which bears the title of Ner or "Lamp" subdivided into seven separate parts and chapters.

This English-language edition is translated by Rabbi Yaakov Yosef Reinman, is part of the Marvin N. Hirschhorn Collection, which is housed in our Beit Midrash library.

From Revelation to Responsibility: Parashat Mishpatim 5686

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 12 February 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit, thanks to AI, by clicking here.

After the drama of Ma’amad Har Sinai—the thunder, fire, and overwhelming revelation—Parshat Mishpatim can feel like an anticlimax. We move abruptly from the Ten Commandments to a long and detailed list of civil laws: damages, property, loans, lost objects, and interpersonal disputes. It is hardly the soaring spiritual vision one might expect to follow Sinai.

“Ve’eleh hamishpatim asher tasim lifneihem” — These are the laws you shall place before them. Why does the Torah descend so quickly from revelation to regulation?

The commentators note the Torah’s deliberate use of the connecting vav—ve’eleh hamishpatim. These laws are not a new chapter but a continuation of what happened at Sinai. Revelation was never meant to remain abstract or confined to lofty ideals. It was meant to shape real life.

Rashi sharpens the question even further. Parshat Mishpatim follows immediately after the command to build the mizbe’ach , the altar. Why place detailed civil law next to the symbol of divine worship? What do courts, contracts, and damages have to do with sacrifices and holiness?

The answer emerges from a scene at the end of the parsha—one that Rashi explains actually took place before Sinai (invoking the principle that events in the Torah do not necessarily follow chronological order). As Bnei Yisrael entered into a covenant with Hashem and declared na’aseh venishma, korbanot were brought. Their blood was divided: half sprinkled on the mizbe’ach  and half on the people.

Rashi adds a striking detail: an angel was required to divide the blood precisely in half. Rav Hutner zt”l explains why this mattered. This moment defined the essence of Torah itself. The mizbe’ach  represents bein adam laMakom—our relationship with God. The people represent bein adam laChaveiro—our responsibilities to one another. The blood, the symbol of life, had to be shared equally. Neither dimension outweighs the other. Without both, the covenant is incomplete.

History shows the danger of forgetting this balance. The Mishnah describes how competition among Kohanim in the Beit HaMikdash once degenerated into violence—even murder—at the foot of the mizbe’ach  itself. Religious devotion severed from ethical responsibility can become deeply distorted.

This is why Parshat Mishpatim follows the mizbe’ach . Serving Hashem is not limited to moments of prayer or ritual. It is expressed just as powerfully in how we conduct ourselves at home, at work, and in society. The Torah insists that holiness must permeate our everyday interactions.

Ve’eleh hamishpatim are not a step down from Sinai. Rather, they are its fulfillment: the blueprint for building a holy society and bringing God’s presence into every corner of our lives.

Shabbat Shalom!

From Revelation to Covenant: Maggid Devarav leYaakov

Three millennia ago, God gave us the Torah. The way in which He did this, and the significance of the division between the Ten Commandments and the large body of rules that closely govern our daily lives has continued to fascinate us. What does this historical teach us for our lives today? Here our member Rabbi Paul Bloom reflects on this topic.

Every morning, in Pesukei deZimra, we recite familiar words from Tehillim:

מַגִּיד דְּבָרָיו לְיַעֲקֹב חֻקָּיו וּמִשְׁפָּטָיו לְיִשְׂרָאֵל

“He relates His words to Yaakov, His statutes and laws to Israel.”

On a simple level, the verse describes God transmitting Torah and law to the Jewish people. But Chazal, and later commentators, hear something far deeper embedded within this single pasuk. The Midrash understands this verse as referring to two great Torah moments, read in close proximity in the annual cycle: Parashat Yitro and Parashat Mishpatim:

• “Maggid devarav leYaakov” refers to the dibbur—the divine speech of Sinai, the Aseret HaDibrot, the overwhelming revelation of God breaking into human history;
  
  
• “Chukav umishpatav leYisrael” refers to Mishpatim—the detailed laws governing civil society, Shabbat, festivals, damages, property, and responsibility.

The Torah itself forges an indelible link between these two events.

Revelation Must Enter Life

Sinai is transcendence: thunder, fire, sound without source, heaven touching earth.
Mishpatim is immanence: courts, contracts, workers’ rights, personal injury, agricultural rhythms, Shabbat observance. Judaism insists that these are not two stages, but one unified Torah. Indeed, Rashi famously comments on the opening word of Mishpatim—וְאֵלֶּה (“and these”) — that the letter vav connects what follows directly to Sinai. These laws are not social convention; they are divine. The light of revelation must flow into the texture of daily life. This is precisely what Judaism has often been accused of: too much law, too much detail. But in truth, this is the genius of Torah. Infinite ideas—about God, faith, providence, redemption—are not left abstract. They are translated into action, embedded into how we treat one another, how we rest, how we eat, how we work the land.

Shemitah: Holiness Through Withdrawal

It is no accident that Mishpatim introduces Shemitah—the command to release the land, relinquish ownership, and step back from productivity. Shemitah teaches that holiness is not only expressed through action, but sometimes through restraint. By withdrawing our claim over the land, we declare that Eretz Yisrael belongs to God, and that our relationship with it is covenantal, not exploitative. Again: transcendent ideas, expressed through concrete law.

From Commandments to Covenant

This connection reaches its climax at the end of Parashat Mishpatim, in Chapter 24, with the Jewish people’s defining declaration:

נַעֲשֶׂה וְנִשְׁמָע

“We will do, and we will hear.”

Interestingly, many people assume these words appear in Parashat Yitro. They do not. At Sinai, the people say only na’aseh—we will do. Only after Mishpatim, only after law has entered lived reality, do we hear na’aseh venishma. This is no accident. At that moment, the mitzvot cease to be merely commands. They become a brit, a covenant. A covenant is not obedience; it is relationship. It creates an eternal bond between God and Am Yisrael—one that guarantees the indestructibility of the Jewish people.

Four Understandings of Na’aseh veNishma

Chazal and the Rishonim offer multiple layers of meaning to these two words:

1. Action and Restraint
   Na’aseh refers to positive commandments; nishma to refraining from prohibitions. Together, they form the full structure of Torah life.
   
   
2. Commitment and Desire
   We will do what we have heard—and we want to hear more. Torah is not a burden; it is a longing to fill every moment with connection.
   
   
3. Love Without Calculation (Sforno)
   We will perform mitzvot not for reward, not for self-interest, but purely out of ahavat Hashem. Obedience motivated by love transforms action into devotion.
4. Action and Understanding (Zohar, Beit HaLevi)
   
   Na’aseh is commitment to practice. Nishma is commitment to learning—to understanding, analyzing, plumbing the infinite depth of Torah. Judaism is not blind obedience; it is engaged, intellectual avodat Hashem.

Crucially, the order matters. We do not say nishma vena’aseh. First we act מתוך אמון—out of trust and love. Then we seek understanding.

One Torah, One Flow

This is the deeper meaning of maggid devarav leYaakov. First comes divine speech. Then comes law. Revelation must become halacha, and halacha must always remember its source. On a lighter note, during a rare heavy snowfall in Efrat, someone once asked where snow appears in the Torah. The answer lay right there in Tehillim—just before our verse:

הַנֹּתֵן שֶׁלֶג כַּצָּמֶר

“He gives snow like wool.”

Even the snow, blanketing the land, finds its echo in Torah—reminding us that everything in the world has a place within it. Na’aseh venishma was the moment when commandments became covenant, when law became relationship, and when Am Yisrael was bound eternally to God. And that covenant—born from revelation and lived through law—remains unbroken.

Changing the Theory, Not the Facts: Yitro 5786

This piece was first published in the Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 5 February 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, by clicking here.

At first glance, Parshat Yitro can feel like a collection of unrelated episodes. The arrival of Yitro, an administrative restructuring, and the thunderous revelation at Har Sinai do not obviously belong together. Yet when we look more carefully, a unifying thread emerges—one that speaks powerfully to human growth, leadership, and faith.

There is a quote attributed to Albert Einstein: “When the facts don’t fit the theory, change the facts.” This line captures a very human tendency: to protect our assumptions even when reality challenges them. Parshat Yitro presents the opposite model. Three times in this parsha, we encounter individuals or a nation willing to revise their “theory” in the face of compelling truth.

The first is Yitro himself. The Torah tells us that Yitro heard, and he came. Chazal describe Yitro as someone who had worshipped every form of idolatry known to the ancient world. He was not ignorant, naive, or sheltered; on the contrary, he was experienced and worldly. And yet, when he heard what had happened to Bnei Yisrael—the Exodus, the miracles, the survival against impossible odds—he  did not explain it away. He listened, he processed, and he changed. In a world where most people doubled down on their beliefs (much like our world today), Yitro was willing to say: I was wrong.

The second example is Moshe Rabbeinu. Yitro observes Moshe judging the people alone, from morning until night, and offers unsolicited advice: this is unsustainable. Moshe could easily have rejected the suggestion of the outsider. Yet instead, the Torah emphasizes that Moshe did everything Yitro suggested. For the greatest leader and prophet in history to accept guidance from an outsider is not a small detail—it is a profound statement about humility and openness. True leadership is not threatened by new perspectives; it is strengthened by them.

The third, and most dramatic, transformation is that of Bnei Yisrael at Ma’amad Har Sinai. We often forget just how revolutionary this moment was. In the ancient world, gods were visible, tangible, and embodied—statues, images, faces carved into stone and metal. To worship an invisible God, with no physical representation, was not only new; it was deeply counterintuitive. It is small wonder that throughout Tanach, the struggle against avodah zarah continues incessantly. Seen in this light, the commandment immediately following the revelation at Sinai—“Do not make with Me gods of silver or gods of gold”—is not incidental. It is a deliberate reinforcement of a radically new way of relating to God.

Parshat Yitro challenges us to ask ourselves: where might we be clinging to old patterns, assumptions or habits that no longer reflect the truth we know? Do we change the facts to fit our theories, or do we have the courage to revise the theory itself?

May we learn from these examples: to listen honestly, to remain open, and to live our lives guided not by inertia or convenience, but by what is right and true.

Shabbat Shalom!

Hearing the Truth from Afar: Yitro and the Meaning of Revelation

Yitro is one of the most unexpected figures in the Torah. He comes from a great distance—geographically and spiritually. A Midianite priest, immersed in pagan culture, he stands outside the story of Israel both by birth and by belief. And yet, it is precisely he who hears. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom takes up the tale:

The Torah tells us that Yitro heard all that God had done for Israel and, in response, the verse uses an unusual word to describe his reaction: vayechad. Chazal struggle with its meaning, and Rashi presents several interpretations, each illuminating a different dimension of Yitro’s spiritual transformation.

One explanation connects the word to joy. Yitro rejoiced—with simcha—at what Israel had achieved. For the first time in human history, an entire nation had heard the voice of God. Revelation was no longer reserved for isolated individuals; it had become a shared human experience. Yitro could celebrate that achievement, even though it did not originate from his own people.

A second explanation offered by Rashi moves in the opposite emotional direction. Yitro trembled. He shook with fear upon hearing the fate of Egypt, a nation to which he had once been close. The destruction at the Sea was not merely a triumphant story—it was also a sobering one. Yitro possessed the moral depth to rejoice in Israel’s salvation while simultaneously feeling shock and awe at the downfall of Egypt.

A third interpretation sees the word as intellectual rather than emotional. Yitro arrived at a recognition of God’s uniqueness. After a lifetime of pagan worship, he achieved clarity: monotheism is true. This was no small step. Yitro had explored many belief systems, and precisely because of that journey, his recognition carried unique weight.

A fourth interpretation is even more radical. The word is linked to sharpness—to a knife. According to this view, Yitro circumcised himself and formally converted. The Gemara identifies him as the first ger whose conversion is described explicitly in the Torah. He did not merely admire the truth from afar; he bound himself to it physically and covenantally.

Later, the Torah records that Yitro returned to his land. Rashi explains that this was not abandonment but mission. He went back to bring his family—and perhaps others—closer to the truth he had discovered. Yitro never left Israel in spirit.

One of the most striking questions in the Torah is structural: why does the revelation at Sinai—Matan Torah, the foundational moment of Jewish existence—begin with the story of Yitro? Why frame the thunder, lightning, and national covenant with the quiet arrival of a Midianite priest?

One answer is that Yitro’s story complements Sinai. Sinai is a public, overwhelming event—a national acceptance of Torah. Yitro represents something different but equally essential: personal recognition, voluntary acceptance, and inner clarity. Revelation is not only about what happens when God speaks loudly to a nation; it is also about what happens when a human being truly listens.

Yitro teaches that Torah is not sustained by spectacle alone. It requires individuals who can hear truth even when it does not flatter their past, their culture, or their comfort. His presence frames Sinai with humility and openness, reminding us that covenant without understanding is incomplete.

There is something profoundly contemporary about Yitro’s legacy. In modern Israel, the Druze community—non-Jews who live primarily in the North—have demonstrated extraordinary loyalty to the Jewish people and the State of Israel. They serve, they sacrifice, and they stand shoulder to shoulder with Jews in defense of the land. Many Druze maintain an ancient tradition that they descend from Yitro himself. Whether historically verifiable or not, the symbolism is powerful.

Yitro heard the truth. He was overwhelmed by it. And he responded—not with indifference, not with partial admiration, but with commitment. That ability to hear, to truly listen across distance and difference, may be one of the deepest prerequisites for receiving the Torah at all.

In that sense, Yitro does not merely introduce Sinai. He makes it possible.

Undeserved Praise

 Once again our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger takes a close look at the Torah narrative and asks whether its actual words are capable of supporting a popular explanation. This is what he writes:

If one were to survey Rabbinic literature throughout the ages to determine the greatest single action or merit associated with the Jewish people, the result would likely be that they proclaimed “na’aseh venishma” (“we will do and we will (then) listen”) at Sinai. They have been eternally praised for their willingness to blindly accept whatever Hashem might command, even before hearing the scope of or reasons for His commandments. The Talmud (Shabbat 88a) even describes how the angels descended and placed 1.2 million crowns on the heads of the 600,000 Jewish men – one for na’aseh and one for nishma (see also Likutei Moharan 9:22). There is only one problem. If you read the Torah, plainly, simply, with no derash or fancy Biblical exegesis, it seems clear that this never actually happened.

As an aside, but something to keep in mind as we move forward, the people leaving Egypt were a nation of freed slaves. Logically, we would expect their only response to any instruction to be “yes sir.” For a slave there is nothing other than doing. The reason for any command does not matter. Many times, there is no reason for a master’s demand other than to demean, to subjugate or to punish. A slave tolerates.  A slave never needs to understand, just to obey! Thus, they most likely would not have responded “na’aseh venishma,.” They simply were not conditioned to think that way!

After that shocking assertion, one that may have many of you “seeing thunder,” we must explore what really happened. The facts that emerge from the Torah’s narrative and the real meaning, in proper context, will allow us to better understand the mindset of the nation that received the Torah and why Hashem chose Moshe as his vehicle to transmit it.

We begin with parashat Yitro, at the beginning of Shemot Chapter 19, on Rosh Chodesh Sivan when Moshe receives a message from Hashem. Part of the message involves telling Bnei Yisrael that they will be special, and part involves the procedures for receiving the Torah (where to stand, how to dress, sexual conduct, etc.). To these rules and not to any part of the Torah itself, they reply, “whatever Hashem has spoken, we will do.” (Shemot 19:8). Thus, the first time they respond to a set of instructions – something that occurs before they were standing at Har Sinai, they simply respond “na’aseh” – “we will do” -- as one would expect from slaves. They receive these instructions on 3 Sivan.

On the third day after receiving these instructions, on 6 (or perhaps 7) Sivan. Moshe orally delivers the “Aseret Hadibrot” (Shemot Chapter 20). Nowhere from Shemot 19:8 through the end of the recitation of the Dibrot (or in the rest of parashat Yitro) do we find another stated acceptance by the people or the phrase “na’aseh vnishma”. Quite the contrary, chronologically, from this point until Moshe’s first return from Sinai, rather than accepting Hashem and his Torah, a portion of the people forge and worship the golden calf!

After destroying the first luchot, Moshe ascends Sinai two more times, once to beg forgiveness for the Jewish people and once more to re-present the Torah to the people. Parashat Ki Tisah fully narrates these events. Surprisingly, during this entire lengthy narrative of Matan Torah, the nation is not gathered together; nor is it asked to accept the Torah—and it does not declare “Na’aseh venishma.”

 However, there is an interesting aside found earlier in parashat Mishpatim. In Chapter 24, there is an abbreviated version of the second matan Torah. This narrative ignores the golden calf, it ignores the second luchot, it ignores Moshe’s interactions with Hashem. In fact, it most likely happened after all of those events – or it is an expansion, of sorts – where Moshe teaches more than just the Ten Commandments.

Moshe goes up the mountain accompanied partway by Aaron, his sons and the elders. He continues the rest of the way alone. Moshe comes down and teaches the people all of Hashem’s commandments. “Then the people said all that Hashem has commanded “na’aseh” “we will do” (Shemot 24:3). In other words, AFTER Moshe had gone up twice to receive the Torah (four times in total to speak to Hashem on Har Sinai), and AFTER he already taught them the commandments. Even then, all they said—which is what slaves would be expected to reply—was NA’ASEH!

The narrative does not end there.  It seems that Moshe does something that he was not directly commanded to do. He was commanded to fashion the ten commandments (“Carve for yourself two tablets of stone like the first” Shemot 34:1). He goes one step further; he writes down all of the commandments (Shemot 24:4) and “he reads it aloud to the people” (Shemot 24:7). Then, he does something else that seems strange. He builds an altar and sets up twelve pillars (one for each tribe), and has assistants offer animal sacrifices, specifically bulls.

After hearing the commandments, now a second time, from the written text, a text called the “sefer habrit” (book of the covenant), the people FINALLY say “all that Hashem has spoken, na’aseh venishma” (“we will listen and we will do”). Bottom line, this is a far cry from a praiseworthy nation that boldly and faithfully placed their desire to serve Hashem before they had any need to understand what He was asking from them! Instead, this is much more like students that failed an exam twice times and then passed after the teacher sat them down and spoon-fed them the answers.

There may be no good answer here. The sequence of events and the text simply contradict the Rabbinic narrative in a definitive manner. But perhaps an approach can be derived from the actions that Moshe takes, seemingly at his own initiative.He has listened as the people time and time again respond as slaves – blindly accepting commands. He knows their psychology and the nuances of Egyptian culture – their gods and the symbolism well. He knows that they cannot be true servants of Hashem, with free will, unless they break out of their slave mindset.  

He erects pillars for each tribe – the Pharaohs of Egypt had pyramids and monuments – on the basis that the newly freed nation likewise was deserving of monuments of its own. He builds an altar to sacrifice bulls. The bull was one of the Egyptian gods but, more importantly, it represented the strongest, most developed manifestation of a calf! In slaughtering and burning that bull and offering it to Hashem, Moshe was laying waste to the notion of Egyptian power before their eyes.

Finally, and for the last time, Moshe read Hashem’s commandments to them. He read these commandments from a book and they were not the oral commands of a task master. They were however part of a covenant. A covenant is not unilateral – it has two parties. In a sense they are not being commanded or coerced; they are agreeing.  When they heard this, when they understood that this Torah was a code of respect for them. Then they transformed their “na’aseh” their expression of a slave’s blind supplication, to “na’aseh venishma” – we obey and we are willing to listen, to learn, to understand. Perhaps that was why the angels gave them crowns: they had finally evolved from slavery to Hashem’s royalty, “mamlechet kohanim.”

 

 

 

Two Ways of Seeing: Beshalach 5786

 This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 28 January 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit (translation by AI) here.

Parshat Beshalach opens with a striking tension. On the one hand, the Torah tells us that Bnei Yisrael left Egypt chamushim—armed, prepared, and resolute. On the other hand, the very same passage explains why God deliberately avoided leading them by the direct route: lest they see war and lose heart, and return to Egypt.

Which was it? Were they strong or afraid? Courageous or hesitant?

The Torah does not resolve the contradiction—because it is not a contradiction at all. It reflects a complexity of perspective. The same people who carried weapons were also capable of fear. At the sea, they cried out to God in faith—and moments later accused Moshe of leading them to their deaths. The Ramban notes that the Torah itself alternates between two descriptions: sometimes they are called Bnei Yisrael, a people bound by covenant and destiny; at other times, simply ha’am, a frightened crowd reacting to danger.

Those who saw themselves as ha’am experienced only threat and uncertainty. Those who remembered they were Bnei Yisrael—part of something larger than the moment—were able, even amid fear, to sense that history was moving.

Our own time carries a similar emotional complexity. We have lived through prolonged anxiety, grief, and exhaustion. Moments of relief have arrived alongside pain; closure has come without simplicity; gratitude has not erased loss. It is entirely human to hold contradictory emotions at once—sorrow and relief, pride and fragility, hope and weariness.

And yet, despite this complexity, something unmistakable has emerged. Again and again, we have seen faith, resilience, and courage rise to the surface. We have witnessed extraordinary bravery—soldiers leaving families and livelihoods, time after time, to defend Am Yisrael without hesitation. Alongside them, we have seen a nation mobilize and a quiet awakening of faith. Far from paralysis or despair, what has defined this period has been courage, responsibility, and emunah.

This, too, is a way of seeing: choosing not to view ourselves merely as ha’am, caught in and reacting to the immediacy of events, but as Bnei Yisrael—a people who understand that even painful chapters sit within a far longer story.

In 1991, during the Gulf War, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l addressed a British solidarity delegation visiting Israel. He reminded them of the debate in the Talmud whether Yetziat Mitzrayim would remain central in Jewish memory, or whether a future redemption would eclipse it. The prophet Yirmiyahu speaks of such a moment—a return so powerful that it would reshape Jewish consciousness.

Rabbi Sacks observed that, in Moshe’s time, God Himself feared that if Bnei Yisrael faced war, they would lose heart and turn back. Yet in his own day, as missiles fell and commercial flights were cancelled, one set of flights never stopped—those bringing Soviet Jewry back home to Israel. People knew the risks. And they came anyway.

That, he said, was an Exodus of a different kind.

In this past week, we have experienced a moment that captures the complexity of our time: relief alongside pain, gratitude intertwined with grief. Like those who left Egypt chamushim, we move forward as Bnei Yisrael—carrying our past, sustained by faith, and confident that our story is still unfolding.

Shabbat Shalom!