Seeing is believing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

Bee in the Bathroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

אַל תְּרַצֶּה אֶת חֲבֵרֶֽךָ בְּשַֽׁעַת כַּעֲסוֹ

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

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

When Good Intentions Go Wrong: Pinchas 5786

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

From Israeli to Jew: Rami Sherman speaks on Entebbe 1976

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

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

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

From Israeli to Jew

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

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

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

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

1. We shoot first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seeing the Bigger Picture: Balak 5786

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

Why Couldn’t Moshe Enter the Land?

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

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

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

Moshe Was Not Being Punished

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

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

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

The Missing Thirty-Eight Years

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

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

From Open Miracles to Hidden Miracles

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

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

A New Leader for a New Era

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

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

The Message for Our Generation

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

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

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

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

Standing from Afar: Chukat 5786

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

Shabbat and the Engineering Profession

The following is a recently revised version of a Shabbat talk given in shul by our member Professor George Moschytz on 14 July 2018. Though George and his wife Brenda (a former President of our Women’s League) are not known to most of our newer and (dare we say it, younger) members of Beit Knesset Hanassi, they are part of the history of our shul and, as George’s talk reveals, part of the history of Israel itself. This is what he has to say.

I was asked to say something about the Faculty of Engineering at Bar Ilan University (to fill out the time until lunch is ready downstairs). This is quite a challenge, since engineering is hardly a subject for a Shabbat drasha. But I don't like turning down a challenge—which is why, incidentally, I foolishly accepted to take on the Founding of the Bar Ilan Engineering Faculty 18 [now 26] years ago. This ended up being the biggest challenge of my entire career – so, again, probably foolishly, I also accepted this challenge.

One might envisage a loose connection between Shabbat and Engineering. It could be to quote Rabbi Samson Rafael Hirsch, on his interpretation of melacha and creative activity. He takes melacha to be a creative activity, which must stop on Shabbat, just as Hashem stopped creating on the seventh day. This, in turn is related to the principle used often by Rav J.B. Soloveitchick, of man being required to imitate Hashem, or 'imitatio dei'.

So I could have tried to somehow develop analogies between engineering, which is a supremely creative activity, and Shabbat – but it’s a bit of a stretch, and I am not going to do so. Besides, plenty has been said and written about Creative Activity, melacha and Shabbat, for example, in the excellent book The Sabbath by Dayan Grunfeld, which I am sure is well known to most of the British here.  So I am not going to talk about Creativity, Shabbat melacha and Engineering — although it does sound like an interesting title. I could also talk about how technology has eased restrictions on Shabbat, such as the Shabbat clock, the Shabbat elevator, the motor-driven wheel-chair, or that incredible invention, the Shabbat Platte. But I’ll leave that topic for another time…

So, what I am going to talk about instead is Shabbat and the Engineering Profession, because Shabbat has indirectly had a profound impact on the engineering profession in the Shabbat- observing world.

What then is this connection between Shabbat and the Engineering Profession? Let me begin with some personal experiences.

 When I was in high school, mathematics was my favorite subject, but my maths teacher warned me that the profession of the mathematician was a hard one in terms of finding a job, and that I should study electrical engineering instead. I came home and informed my parents that that was what I was going to do, and they did not object—since neither they, nor I, had the faintest idea what engineering was all about. Nor were we cognizant of the fact that, in many circles, engineering was not considered a profession for a nice Jewish boy—and for good reason.

The fact is that, back then, the engineer was invariably doomed to being employed, rather than independent—independent like in my father's generation: Of the four brothers, one, my father, was a medical doctor, one a surgeon, one a lawyer, and the fourth an independent pharmacist—all nice independent Jewish professions. At least after completing their studies, no problems were anticipated for a Shabbat-observing professional Jew.

 I'm sure I need not tell you, at least those of you who grew up outside Israel, about being employed in the fifties and sixties in the non-Jewish world—with all the complicating ramifications of Shabbat, Yom Tov, early winter Erev Shabbat, and so on. I am going to spare you all the many problems that I had in getting my engineering education and the numerous times it was literally in jeopardy.

 However, I will treat you to just a few of the more memorable examples.

The final matriculation exam of the private high school in Davos where we lived (the Swiss Alpine Middle School, Davos, or SAMD) was, as always, to take place in the fall. To my relief it first looked as though all the exams could slip through the Chagim except, to my horror, the written math exam which fell on Simchat Torah, a festival no one there had ever heard of! This was particularly embarrassing because we were only 14 students in the class and I happened to be very good at math. This mattered because our alpine school had finally received approval to conduct the Federal Matriculation Exam in Davos, instead of the students having to travel to the capital, Berne, to take the federal exam there. The school headmaster and teachers were very nervous, especially because officials from Berne were to be sent to the SAMD to see whether the school met the required high standards for the federal instead of the previously accepted cantonal examination.

This was an important and long sought after opportunity for the SAMD, and math was a subject that counted heavily. I told them that I would be unable to take the exam on the specified day because it was a Jewish Holiday, Simchat Torah. Rector and math teacher were beside themselves. ‘Find a Rabbi to get a dispensation for goodness’ sake’. I could not help them. I finally told them that the only way out for me was to take the exam the next year and hope for the best. They realized that I was serious. Finally, the math teacher said: ‘what if I ask you the questions at the blackboard, and I write your oral answer on the board?’ I said that I would have to ask my rabbi. I came home and asked my father, and he told me to go ahead. The exam was very embarrassing. I can only imagine what the Bernese delegation thought or said, but my matriculation was save [At the federal ETH university, the end-of- year exams were inevitably also on the Chagim, but the school was accommodating enough to ask for a letter naming the dates of the Jewish holidays and putting us all in one group.]

Having got through the matriculation, I had to find a place in industry to do the obligatory nine-month industrial ‘Stage’ before beginning my studies at the ETH in Zurich. We were expected to find an opening from a list of acceptable companies from the university. No one would take me when they heard that I do not work on Saturdays. ‘What would the (regular) apprentices with whom I would work—for no pay— say?’ Finally, after looking for a week in Zurich, and when it once again looked hopeless, I found one employer who had just been to the newly created State of Israel, was impressed, and saved my engineering career.

But it did not end there. One event stood out during the pre-engineering stage for which I was finally accepted in spite of not working on Saturdays. An event that has stayed with me to this very day. I was working in my blue overalls and grubby hands in the factory hall when I was told that the CEO of the company wanted to see me. My heart sank. I was 19 years old, a temporary apprentice in the company, so what could possibly have gone wrong? We reached the uppermost floor and the large heavily carpeted, beautifully furnished office of the CEO. The secretary left me, dressed in my working clothes, and I waited nervously wondering what on earth was going to happen next. After a little while a tall, grey-haired gentleman entered the room and asked me to sit down. It turned out that the gentleman had heard that I was an orthodox Jew who does not work on the Sabbath. He had never met an orthodox Jew he said, and being a devout Christian, he had always wondered what role his ‘Savior’ played in our religion? This, he felt, was his lucky chance to find out.

I was caught entirely off guard. I considered myself an orthodox Jew but, at nineteen years old, not exactly a learned one, nor one who had ever discussed my religion with a gentile. In our exile from Germany, in Abingdon UK, and Davos in Switzerland, we had always avoided such discussions, or perhaps they simply never came up for debate. And yet, for me the most extraordinary feature of this encounter was that any Jew, learned or not, orthodox, conservative, reform, liberal or whatever, is bound to answer the following crucial question more or less in the same way. ‘What does the Christian Savior mean to a Jew?’ The answer, as politely as possible, is: ‘Nothing!’

I was in this kind but frustrated gentleman’s office for over three hours! I walked out of his office, perspiring. We went through the hierarchy of possible ‘saviors’ such as Saint, Divine Offspring, King, Prophet, and so on, but I could not help him. None of them fit the image that this CEO was looking for. I could go no further than to say that for us he was a well-meaning, but misguided (expressed more gently) Jew. I was partly embarrassed, and partly regretful that I could not ease this good man’s anguish. For yes, there was anguish in his ‘pleading’ for recognition of his Savior.

As I left the CEO’s office, I realized that what I had just experienced was a genteel and respectful version of the Inquisition, and of all the other pogroms, and outbreaks of hatred and resentment of this ‘Am k'shei oref’ (stiff necked people) that has infuriated the world ever since our being selected as the Chosen People at Sinai. I also recognized the wisdom of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, who in his classical essay ‘Confrontation’ (Tradition: A Journal of Orthodox Thought, 1964 volume 6, #2) advises us to be involved in all matters of social improvement and benefits to mankind, but to stay away from any discussions on religion, because they are useless and lead absolutely nowhere. After I left the office of the CEO, I never saw or heard of this man ever again.

Even when, having completed my studies and started my ten years at AT&T Bell Telephone Laboratories in New Jersey, not long after they began to hire Jews at all, and Shabbat was no longer a working day —I was still considered a pre-historic relic when I told them that I am an orthodox Jew and need more than ten working days' vacation (ten being the rule) because of the Chagim—all of which in the Galut add up to 13 days. (They had never heard of Shavuot or Sukkot!)  At the time there were already plenty of Jewish engineers and scientists at Bell Labs. However at least at Holmel, New Jersey, where I worked—with over 4,000 employees beside myself— I believe there was not a single dati Jew.

Not surprisingly the ‘Shabbat problem’ did not stop there. A year or so after joining Bell Labs I was told that I was being considered for promotion but that it had come to the director’s and higher up’s attention that I do not work on Saturdays, our Sabbath. So I was asked, as a leader of a group, ‘what would I do in an emergency taking place on a Saturday?’ Since we did not work on Saturdays, his question surprised me, nor could I imagine what kind of emergency we could possibly encounter in this research establishment. I answered that it would depend on what the emergency was. The unlikely answer was that if President Johnson, who was from Texas, needed a telephone line immediately from the White House to Texas, they would send the CEO of AT&T, Fred Kappel, climbing up a telephone pole to get the line immediately installed. I answered politely that this would not count as an emergency on the Sabbath, but that I would be available right after the Sabbath to do whatever was needed of me, adding (as usual when this type of question came up) that instead of Saturday, I could pitch in on Sundays, Christmas, or any other time, as required, and that the only likely emergency could be that of a life and death situation, in which case my restrictions would be loosened up according to the severity of the situation. It seemed to me that the department head, a very kind and well-meaning boss, who identified with his Jewish heritage (they belonged to the local Conservative community) was clearly put into this rather awkward situation by someone higher up in the hierarchy, who was either sincerely worried about a fictitious emergency, or was not quite partial to the reason for my Sabbath-free restrictions. He said that he would have to relay my answer up the line and would get back to me. I felt, and gently insinuated, that the problem was theirs to solve, not mine. By now the whole group was, in fact, working for me already and, to keep the project going, they would almost have to make me their supervisor which, in practice, I already was. Several days later, without coming back to me, the notice of my promotion to supervisor was posted on the central notice board in the elevator tower.

Nevertheless, my Shabbat restriction did once cause an embarrassing situation for me, and it was the result of an ‘emergency’ of sorts. Towards the end of every year, each supervisor, each department head, and so on up the line, had to ‘rate’ the performance of the employees working under him (still no ‘her’). This rating, which spared no one, would determine the salary raise that each employee would receive at the end of the year. The rating was a committee effort, in our case with our department head, and the three supervisors working under him, which included me., One year, due to unusual circumstances, our rating session had not taken place during normal working hours and had to be conducted out of hours, i.e., on a Saturday! I explained that there was no way that I could come in for the rating session on a Saturday. Bell Labs was a huge enterprise that operated under strict, inflexible rules, and the rating lists had to be reported to the personnel office at latest by the coming Monday. Since I had no choice but to make clear that the rating session could not be considered an emergency for which I could violate the Sabbath, we had no alternative but to meet at the Labs on the following Sunday. Everyone, including one devout Catholic, were equally loth to come in to work on a Sunday—but I could leave them no other choice. They all gamely came in on Sunday, showing no hint of resentment or anger towards my Sabbath rules, but I felt terrible! It was this experience that made me realize the legitimate limits of my working at Bell Labs. I was determined that, if I was ever offered the next promotion, which some years later I was, I would have to decline. I realized that there really were ‘emergencies’ that could come up, and that in general they would in no way qualify transgressing Shabbat. So, I resolved that in future, the only fair decision on my part would be to never get into such a situation again, and to turn down any promotion that may be offered to me.

I could give you many more examples in my career, but now I want to get to the Engineering Faculty of Bar-Ilan University which opened only in 2001.

 But why only in 2001 when the Technion, Tel-Aviv, and Ben Gurion had Engineering Faculties long before? And why is there no engineering at Yeshiva University to this day? The students take the maths and physics courses at YU, and the engineering courses at Columbia. The answer is: all for the same reasons!

When the founders of Bar-Ian University, Prof. Pinchas Churgin and other leading American Mizrachi leaders, founded Bar-Ilan University in 1950 to 'establish a university that combines Jewish values and academic excellence', engineering was not one of the disciplines they even considered. Again, this was for good reason, because Shabbat-and Yom-Tov-observance and the engineering profession seemed a contradiction; Shabbat observance would be impossible. The engineering profession was considered too risky and difficult to promote on a large scale, because the engineering graduate would not find Shabbat-free employment. It took over fifty years after its beginning—not until 2001— till Bar-Ilan asked me to start the Engineering program. And by the way, before I go on, and not necessarily related to Shabbat, engineering was certainly not considered a profession for a girl! Jewish or not! In my semester at the ETH in Zurich there was not a single female student, nor a single female faculty member!

----------------------------------------

How things have changed!

The apprehension and reluctance with regard to the engineering profession, in the Shomer-Shabbat community, is entirely out of place today—obviously in Israel, but even in the Galut.

Clearly, being employed as an engineer is no problem in Israel, and ever less, also in the non-Jewish world. (Many years after I had left Bell Labs, the president of Bell Labs wore a Kippa). Furthermore, the independent self-employed engineer, whether in a start-up company, or simply as a consultant on his or her own, is now common. More and more dati young students, boys and girls, can be seen in the Engineering Faculties, but particularly at Bar-Ilan. Young women with kissui Rosh are working for their PhDs, and young dati mothers and fathers carry their infants in their arms as they come up to the stage to receive their Diploma. I always had to pay attention to whose female student's hand I would shake, and whose I should not.

In the academic world, Bar-Ilan University has managed to maintain its mission of combining Jewish values with academic excellence, and this includes the now well-established Bar-Ilan Engineering Faculty—with over fifty faculty members today—from one faculty member at the beginning – me! It is the only university faculty anywhere that consciously and deliberately adheres to this mission.

However, I will mention that this mission, at least for an engineering faculty, is still not without problems, and again for the same reasons. Why’s that?

My mandate was to start a high-level faculty, with, if possible, dati professors. Well, for the reasons just mentioned, that mandate was almost impossible. If there are no dati engineering students, then there will be no dati engineering professors. It is relatively easy to find shomer Shabbat mathematics, physics and chemistry faculty members (the exact sciences have somehow always been more acceptable), but almost impossible to find shomer Shabbat engineering faculty members! On confronting me with this dilemma over and over again, the Bar-Ilan president and I finally settled on the mantra, ‘those dati engineering professors will some day come from our graduate crop’. This is quite a reasonable assumption!

But getting back to the students: approximately one third of the engineering students at Bar-Ilan are dati. The percentage of female students, because of the more Jewish atmosphere than elsewhere, is, I believe, larger than anywhere else. One day a week was free of classes to enable the students to attend the Kollel or the Midrasha. [That was then; I don’t know whether this is the case today]. The emphasis on Jewish values in the engineering curriculum is maintained, for example, by the fact that the general non-engineering culture classes that are required in engineering faculties everywhere—in order to prevent engineering nerdiness— consists at Bar-Ilan of Jewish studies [Then, I don’t know whether this applies today]. In the non-Jewish universities those courses consist of liberal arts, literature, music, philosophy, and much else.

So to wrap up my Shabbat musings on the historical interplay between Shabbat and the engineering profession, the good news is that any young shomer Shabbat student, male or female, who has a half- way affinity to mathematics—this still being one of the most important litmus tests for the engineering profession— such a young dati person can have a wonderfully creative, interesting, and needless to say well-salaried, profession in today's world of hi-tech engineering.

In Israel, and abroad, as some of you may have read in the papers recently, more engineers are desperately needed everywhere – Israel is at least 10,000 short—so getting a good job after graduation is almost guaranteed.

We keep a follow-up tab on our graduate students and are very happy to find that they, our graduates, are eagerly sought in industry—and with rare exceptions find employment soon after graduation.

So to summarize: Engineering has today become a wonderful profession for a nice Jewish boy – and girl!

Democracy in the Tanach

This month's meeting of the Men’s Rosh Chodesh Lunch Club had as its guest speaker Dr Yael Ziegler, Rosh Beit Midrash at Matan Women’s Institute for Torah Studies and the author of two major tomes on Tanach, one on Megillat Rut and the other on Megillat Eicha. The subject of her lecture for Rosh Chodesh Tammuz was 'Democracy in the Tanach’ -- a title that promised some surprises since anyone who is familiar with the canon of holy Jewish texts will know that the concept of democracy as an ideal form of government is nowhere to be found.

Having confessed that democracy as we know it is not a bible-based label, Dr Zeigler built her case on the thesis that Judaism, as evidenced by Tanach, establishes and endorses values and attitudes that themselves underpin democracy -- and indeed any other form of government advocated for the Jewish people. 

First of these values is that of human dignity: we are all created betzelem Elokim. in the image of Hashem, and this proposition makes no distinction based on age, gender, or status. Acceptance that we are all created betzelem Elokim carries with it an obligation to protect the vulnerable and minorities, as halachah requires. This commitment to the value of every human life is in sharp contrast with the values reflected in the laws of other ancient societies, where economic rather than moral considerations were foremost and the murder of an individual was addressed as a question of how much financial compensation the victim's family was prepared to accept.

The second of these values was that of due process before the law. Justice must be dispensed on the basis of a proper investigative process, and judicial proceedings should be based on impartiality as between disputing parties, leaning neither towards the favor of the rich or the preference for the poor.

The third value reflected in the Tanach is that of civic responsibility. Our duties towards other people extend beyond simply preventing ourselves from harming them but lean towards proactive measures. The return of lost property and assisting another whose donkey is overburdened illustrate this as, on a different level, does the confession of the eglah arufah.

Dr Ziegler then led the audience through the various forms of leadership that were tried throughout the days of the Tanach. It was plain that none was perfect in practice and that the takeaway message was that we should be suspicious of all power, regardless of its form, if it does not match up to the Tanach's underlying values. 

The grand finale of Dr Ziegler's talk was a visit to Megillat Rut and a close examination of its contents. This revealed that the ideal form of leadership is one in which the leader serves the people to the point at which he empties himself out of any personal agenda and devotes himself to the people whom he leads.

You can watch and listen to Dr Ziegler's lecture here. 

Making It Relevant (Book of the Month, Tammuz 5876)

 Making it Relevant is the striking title of a striking book that has just been published by Mosaica Press. Its author, Katia Bolotin, is a great enthusiast for life -- and in particular for making the most of our Jewish lifestyle commitments. As the publisher's webpage tells us:

We all seek relevance. Without it, life can feel aimless and unfulfilling. Instead of living with purpose, we feel as if we merely go through the motions. Relationships seem static, and life loses its vitality.

In a world of constant change, where can we find true, lasting significance? The Torah—our Divine guide to spiritual and personal growth—meets us where we are. Based on the weekly parashah, this sefer provides thought-provoking insights tailored to today’s challenges and offers actionable, transformative steps for anyone striving to elevate their life. Whether you are a seasoned scholar or new to these ideas, Making It Relevant is a powerful and accessible guide to living with meaning.

Fine words, if you make the effort to internalize them and take them on board. The author is clearly a person who practices what she preaches. Abaout Katia Bolotin the book's website tells us this:

Katia Bolotin is a Torah educator, speaker, and writer who inspires Jews of all backgrounds. Her thought-provoking lectures and articles show the enduring relevance of Torah in a changing world. She focuses on personal growth rooted in Torah’s wisdom and practical ways to cultivate and sustain it. Katia is also a pianist, songwriter, and composer of contemporary classical music.

We have a copy of this book in our Beit Midrash library. Pick it up and you will find a parashah-by-parashah program of messages that are, as the author tells us, relevant to our daily lives. The message is clear -- and so is the book itself: good-sized print, no footnotes and written with intent to be understood. It's available on Amazon too. 

A Community, Not a Crowd: Korach 2026

 This piece was first published in our Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 11 June 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, by clicking here.

One of the most striking questions about Korach's rebellion is deceptively simple: what exactly was Korach fighting for? At first glance, his claim seems straightforward. He challenges Moshe and Aharon, declaring, "The entire congregation is holy" and questioning why they should hold positions of leadership. Yet, when we look more closely, the picture becomes surprisingly complicated.

Korach wanted the Kehunah Gedolah for himself. Datan and Aviram had their own grievances about leadership. The 250 men who joined the rebellion had different aspirations altogether. Each group was pursuing its own agenda. What appeared to be a united movement was, in reality, a coalition of competing interests.

This observation helps explain a curious phrase in Pirkei Avot. The Mishnah does not describe this episode as "the dispute between Korach and Moshe." Instead, it calls it "the dispute of Korach and his congregation." Even within Korach's camp there was disagreement. As the Malbim notes, each participant was motivated primarily by his own ambitions rather than by a shared vision.

A closer look at the language of the Torah reveals an even deeper lesson. Twice in the parashah we encounter the root קהל, "to gather." Korach and his followers gather against Moshe and Aharon. Later, after the rebellion has been crushed, the people once again gather against them. The same language appears earlier in the Torah at the episode of the Golden Calf, where the people gather around Aharon.

Yet there is another famous gathering in the Torah: "Vayakhel Moshe"—Moshe assembled the people in order to build the Mishkan. The same root. The same act of gathering. But two entirely different realities.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l drew a distinction between a crowd and a community. A community is united by a shared purpose, guided by values, and committed to something greater than itself. A crowd may appear united, but it is often driven by emotion, frustration, fear, or anger. Its members stand together physically, yet remain divided in what truly motivates them.

The builders of the Mishkan formed a community. Korach's followers formed a crowd.

Korach teaches us how easily people can gather around what they oppose. Moshe teaches us how people can gather around what they seek to build.

This distinction remains as relevant today as it was in the wilderness. Communities inevitably contain differing opinions, strong personalities, and legitimate disagreements. The challenge is not to eliminate disagreement but to ensure that those differences are harnessed in the service of a shared purpose.

Shabbat Shalom!