Personal space, personal time

 Below are the notes from the talk given by Jeremy Phillips between Minchah and Maariv on Tuesday 1 September.

In modern secular society we often hear people speaking of the invasive way that other people behave. For example, we don’t like people standing too close to us when we are talking to them. What constitutes an acceptable space varies from culture to culture and also depends on where you are at the time. You can see this in shul every Shabbat morning, when people don’t like to have other people brushing up against them when they are davening their Shemon’Esrei, but they have no inhibitions about pushing up against others during kiddush when they are jostling to get closer to the cholent or hot kugel.

What applies to space also applies to time. There are times when we want people to be close and we want to feel their love or support, and other times when we want those same people to just disappear for a bit, or simply to be quiet and not say anything. A sensitive, empathetic person knows when to come close and when to stand back; when to open his mouth and when to shut it.

When you are dealing with people, getting your timing right is important. So is knowing what’s in good taste and what isn’t. Rabbi Mordechai Ginsbury, who spoke at Beit Knesset Hanassi recently, explains this in his book. Someone might be in the depths of despair having lost a loved one or a business partner; you don’t go up to him and try to cheer him up by saying “What are you so worried about? This might look like a tragedy but can’t you see what a golden opportunity it gives you for the future? You can really cash in on it if you play your cards right”. We just don’t say that sort of thing so an avel, for example, even if it’s totally true. It’s totally in bad taste.

Pirkei Avot has something to say about this. At Avot 4:23 Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar says

אַל תְּרַצֶּה אֶת חֲבֵרְךָ בִּשְׁעַת כַּעְסוֹ, וְאַל

תְּנַחֲמֵֽהוּ בְּשָׁעָה שֶׁמֵּתוֹ מֻטָּל לְפָנָיו, וְאַל תִּשְׁאַל לוֹ בִּשְׁעַת נִדְרוֹ, וְאַל

תִּשְׁתַּדֵּל לִרְאוֹתוֹ בִּשְׁעַת קַלְקָלָתוֹ

What we have here are four classes of action that are not prohibited in the Torah, but which you still shouldn’t do. Let’s run through them in English translation.

“Don’t appease your friend in his time of anger; don’t console him at the time when his dead is laid out before him; don’t question him when he’s taking a vow; and don’t try to see him at the time of his degradation.”

Why doesn’t the Torah prohibit them, one might ask? One answer is that sometimes these things are the right thing to do, not the wrong one.  If you know the person and the circumstances, and you have the right degree of empathy and common sense, you will certainly do them. Rabbi Ya’akov Shlomo Landman, in his Mussar Avot, cites an instance when Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach visited a woman whose husband had just been murdered on the very same day she gave birth to a son, in order to give her strength and support. But this sort of intervention in another’s grief can easily go wrong, which is why this mishnah is framed as four negative guidelines. Basically, if you don’t know whether you should intervene, the rule of thumb is the rule of “better not”.

Many questions can be asked on this mishnah. For example: are the four guidelines listed by Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar an exhaustive list of things we should take care not to do, or are they just examples of a wider rule that we can express as “Take care not to trespass on other people’s feelings and personal space”? or “Be patient and careful before you interfere with other people’s feelings”?

I like to think that they are simply samples of the sort of situation that most commonly arises in normal human relationships. For example, people do get angry and lose their tempers to the point at which they quite lose control of themselves. Think of the spectacle of seeing a school teacher, having being wound up in class by a pupil who is brighter than he is, totally exploding and then saying or doing the most extraordinary things. Likewise, all of us have probably gone through the process of losing one or more loved relative and have known the devastating and immobilising power of grief. As for oaths and vows, we may not take them in the Torah sense these days but we take important decisions that have an impact on the lives of others as well as ourselves. And as for those moments of shame and degradation—we pray that they will never happen to us but know that we should not want to show our face at such a time.

However, these four things surely don’t constitute a complete list of situations in which people invade each other’s time, space and feelings—and really hurt them. For example, a clumsy attempt to comfort and console a bereaved person even after the burial of a loved one can be just as painful as one that is made while the avel is still preoccupied with the burial arrangements. A good example is the person who turns up at a shiva for someone who had been ill and bedbound for years and comes up with classic lines like “It must be a relief for you, now you don’t have the responsibility of looking after the niftar day and night”. The same applies to people who remind others of their former humiliation or degradation even years after the event. Into this category go people who remind gerim of what they used to get up to before they converted to Judaism, and the same applies to ba’alei teshuvah.

Anger

A time for anger

The Noda BeYehuda takes a close look at the words of the mishnah. It doesn’t say “don’t appease your friend when he is angry.” It actually says “don’t appease your friend in his time of anger.” This is significant, because it sends out a note of caution. If you think about it, there’s no need to warn people not to try to calm someone down when they’re in a rage. You can get your head bitten off—or worse! What we learn here is that we should be alert to those times when it would be quite normal for someone to be angry—but they don’t appear to be. Perhaps they are so totally in control of themselves that they have conquered their anger or, more likely, they are smouldering like a volcano waiting to erupt. If they are like that, just leave them alone. Wait until the time for exploding in fury has passed and then calm them down. This is definitely a subtle approach to our mishnah, but I wonder if it’s of any practical value. Calming a person down when the time he ought to have been angry has passed is like waiting till the rainstorm that never came is no longer coming and only then putting up your umbrella.

At whom is the anger aimed?

The mishnah doesn’t say who the angry person you shouldn’t try to placate is angry with. Does it matter? That depends who you are. Both the commentary ascribed to Rashi and R’ Yitzchak Magriso in the Me’am Lo’ez say yes, we are talking here about a guy who is trying to calm down someone who is angry with him. If you are the person that caused the anger in the first place, any premature attempt to restore peace might go unnoticed in the red mist of rage or, if noticed, may make things even worse. The Sforno disagrees: this mishnah assumes that the person who is in a rage is angry with someone else—his mother-in-law, perhaps—or maybe he is angry because somebody else got maftir. We know this because if it’s you who has upset the angry person and it’s your fault—let’s say you drove into the back of his brand new car—you have a duty to apologize, to seek forgiveness and to put things right. So this mishnah must apply in a different scenario, for example where someone else rammed his brand new car. Since there’s no halachic imperative to smooth his ruffled feathers, you need a mishnah in Avot to fill the gap.

Why is the angry man angry?

This question is really important. You can do more harm by pacifying him than by letting him rant and rage. Rabbi Avraham Azulai makes this point in his Ahavah BeTa’anugim and it’s such an obvious point that it’s surprising that many commentators have not taken it up themselves. So why is the person angry? Listen to him. If he is angry because he hasn’t got a sword, don’t let him have one. Giving him a sword may shut him up, and even make him happy, but do you know what he is planning to do with it?  We sometimes encounter a rather sad variant of this on Purim, when someone who is very drunk gets angry because he has been refused yet another drink. Giving it to him may silence his shouting and assuage his anger on at least a temporary basis. But, against that, there is the question of what damage he might do to himself and others if he is given his way.

Disgrace and degradation

Anyone who remembers being a small child, or who has ever taken a child to any public place, will know how firmly anything that is strikingly unusual will attract and rivet the child’s attention. It can be anything, because the world is full of fascinating sights. Anyone who is unusually tall, short, thin, fat, covered in tattoos or who doesn’t have the standard number of arms and legs becomes the centre of a child’s attention. They won’t stop staring and you have to pull them away. That’s why, from an early age, our kids receive the familiar parental mantra of “It’s rude to stare”. This doesn’t usually make much of a difference, because children soon learn to do what we grown-ups do, and exchange a full-frontal stare for a series of stealthy, sideways glances when we try to pretend we’re not really looking. But for most of us, we don’t appreciate how important this is until we are the people who are being stared at.

Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar does not say that one should never look, or see, when somebody else is in a state of degradation. These reactions are difficult to avoid in any society that is populated by humans who possess normal human curiosity, feelings and reflexes. Nor does he teach that one should go to great lengths to avoid such sights. What he does say is that one should not try to see; it is wrong to make the effort, to go out of one’s way to see what it looks like when a person is degraded and humiliated.

The principle that we should take care to spare the feelings of others in their moment of shame is not something that was suddenly invented by Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar: it is fundamental to the Written Torah itself. Thus we learn how two of Noah’s sons took pains not to look on his nakedness when he lay drunk in his tent, walking backwards towards him when they covered him up, while the third son – who did not – was cursed.

If the Torah has already taught this principle, why should our Tanna feel any compunction to repeat it? I can offer a possible answer, that he is conveying a more subtle message than “don’t look!” What he is actually saying is “don’t just look!” In other words, don’t just stand and stare, like a curious spectator. No! Act upon what you see, do something about it; try to relieve the distress or at least offer moral support and comfort. This idea focuses on how we understand the word lir’ot in our mishnah, which has a parallel in Tehillim, in a verse that has been incorporated into Birkat HaMazon: na’ar ha’iti, gam zokanti, velo ra’iti Tzadik ne’ezav vezaro mevakesh lachem (“I was young once and now I’m old, and I’ve not seen a righteous man abandoned and his children begging for bread”.   This verse has upset many people, especially among those who, having survived the horrors and starvation of the Second World War, either refuse to say it at all or won’t say it out loud. But Rabbi Yehudah HaChasid says it doesn’t mean what they think it does at all. What it means is really “I’ve not seen a righteous man abandoned and his children begging for bread and then stood by without doing anything about it.” Whatever one feels about the validity of this interpretation, which has been enthusiastically endorsed by Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks a.h,, it cannot be denied that offering some form of help or assistance is a bigger, better gesture towards self-improvement than merely staring or indeed averting one’s gaze.

The case against paparazzi

Twenty-first century Western culture is fed on a constant diet of news. With constantly-updated coverage of events across the world, the traditional mass media and the social media provide their own accounts of political, military, economic, environmental and other developments on a scale unparalleled in history. Because of its ever-changing nature, news is popular with the public – never more so than when it is about people whose names and faces are familiar to them. Once a person has featured in the media to a sufficient extent, he or she obtains the status of a “celebrity,” effectively a person who is well known on account of being well known.

Once a person is well known, media intrusion into his or her private life is a frequent and often much resented occurrence. This intrusion is often inflicted by paparazzi, opportunistic photographers who seize the moment at which a celebrity may be taken unawares and then sell their photographs to those who distribute the images across the media in an attempt to attract or retain the attention of their public. Photographs of celebrities at times when they are behaving inappropriately, whether in public or in private, or at times of stress or grief, are likely to fetch the highest prices; despite the enactment of secular laws to prevent the invasion of personal privacy and the unlawful commercial exploitation of another’s image, this practice continues largely unabated. Often it causes much distress to the celebrity victim, as well as to his or her family and friends.

This Mishnah has a message for these paparazzi: don’t do it! The embarrassment and humiliation of another human being can inflict untold pain and damage – and the pain of other people knowing can be far worse than the suffering which is so apparently newsworthy in the first place. The facts that the general public regards the suffering of others as a form of entertainment, and that the public exposure of private pain generates lucrative profit, are not justifications. Rather, they underline the sad truth that what these people are doing is a reflection of their own lack of sensitivity towards fellow human beings.

Our mishnah teaches us to cultivate that sensitivity if we can, and to show that everyone should show sensitivity when dealing with the grieving, the afflicted, the angry and the vulnerable—and even with the honorary officers of Beit Knesset Hanassi! 

An Eternal Covenant Across Generations

The Land of Israel and the enduring promise of Rosh Hashanah—see how they fit together in parashat Nitzavin. Rabbi Paul Bloom explains.

The final four parashiyot of the Torah bring us into the closing day of Moshe Rabbeinu’s life and reveal the legacy he leaves to every future generation. Before blessing the tribes individually, Moshe gathers the entire nation and delivers one of the Torah’s most consequential declarations: “Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem”—“You are all standing today, all of you, before Hashem your God.”

The word nitzavim means far more than simply standing rather than sitting. It conveys standing firm, immovable and attentive—ready to report for duty. At the Yam Suf, with the sea before the people and the Egyptian army behind them, Moshe tells Israel, “Hityatzvu u’re’u et yeshuat Hashem”—stand firm and witness Hashem’s salvation. At Har Sinai, the people stood at the foot of the mountain, prepared to receive the Torah. Now, after forty years in the wilderness and on the threshold of entering Eretz Yisrael, Moshe again asks them to stand firm. Why has Moshe assembled them? To enter into a brit, a covenant, with Hashem.

What Is New About This Covenant?

The commentators—including the Malbim, Kli Yakar, and Abarbanel—ask an obvious question. Covenants have appeared throughout the Torah. What is unique about the covenant of Nitzavim?

The first covenant was made after the Flood. Through the rainbow, Hashem established a covenant not only with the Jewish people but with all humanity. The Seven Noahide Laws expressed the fundamental moral responsibilities of humankind.

A later covenant was forged with Avraham Avinu through brit milah. This was a more intimate relationship between Hashem and Avraham’s descendants. Rashi explains that it embodied the special bond of love between Hashem and Israel. Yet that covenant was also inseparable from Eretz Yisrael, promised to Avraham’s children as an eternal inheritance.

The third great covenant came at Sinai, when Israel accepted the Torah and its mitzvot.

Human morality, the special relationship between Hashem and Israel, Eretz Yisrael, Torah and mitzvot—all had already been established. What, then, did Nitzavim add?

A Covenant With Those Not Yet Born

The answer lies in Moshe’s startling words: “Not with you alone do I seal this covenant and this oath, but with whoever is here standing with us today before Hashem our God, and with whoever is not here with us today.” This covenant was not limited to the men and women listening to Moshe. It bound every future generation of Klal Yisrael. We were included. Our children and grandchildren were included. From that moment until the end of history, every Jew became a participant in the covenant.

Moshe begins by naming all who are assembled: the heads of the tribes, elders, officers, children, women, and converts—“from the chopper of your wood to the drawer of your water.” Ordinarily, we understand this phrase as spanning the entire social order, from its leaders to its laborers. Yet the wording is unusual. Woodchoppers and water drawers appear to occupy the same category. Why say “from” one “to” the other?

From Avraham to Eliyahu

A beautiful interpretation reads these occupations not only socially, but historically. Who was the great chopper of wood at the beginning of Jewish history? Avraham Avinu. On the morning of the Akeidah, “Vayevaka atzei olah”—he split the wood for the offering and carried it toward Har HaMoriah.

Who was the great drawer of water? Eliyahu HaNavi. At Har HaCarmel, before calling upon Hashem to send fire from Heaven, Eliyahu ordered that water be poured repeatedly over the offering and the wood until everything was thoroughly drenched. Only then did the heavenly fire descend, revealing Hashem to the people.

The Torah may therefore be hinting that this covenant extends from Avraham, who stood at the beginning of our national story, to Eliyahu, who will herald the Redemption. From the dawn of Jewish history to its ultimate fulfillment, every member of Israel stands within the same brit.

How Can One Generation Bind Another?

This raises a profound legal and spiritual question. Ordinarily, a person cannot make a vow that obligates his children. How could one generation accept a covenant on behalf of every generation that would follow?

One answer, rooted in the Midrash, is that the souls of all future Jews were mystically present. “Those who are not here with us today” were not absent in the deepest sense. Every Jewish soul participated in accepting the covenant.

The Malbim offers another approach based on the principle of zachin l’adam shelo b’fanav: one may acquire something for another person, even without that person’s knowledge, when it confers an unqualified benefit. If someone wishes to give another person a great gift, it may be accepted on the recipient’s behalf. The generation standing before Moshe accepted for us the priceless privilege of an eternal relationship with Hashem.

A third approach connects the covenant directly to Eretz Yisrael. One cannot impose a vow upon future children, but one can pass an inheritance to them that is subject to conditions. The generation of the wilderness was about to acquire the Land and transform Eretz Canaan into Eretz Yisrael. They would bequeath that inheritance to future generations on the condition that Israel remain faithful to the covenant of Torah, mitzvot, and service of Hashem. This interpretation unites the covenant, the Torah, and the Land. Eretz Yisrael is not merely property received from our ancestors. It is a sacred inheritance entrusted to each generation, together with the responsibility that gives the inheritance its meaning.

Standing Before Hashem on Rosh Hashanah

Parashat Nitzavim is always read as Rosh Hashanah approaches. That timing deepens its message. In the Rosh Hashanah prayers, we ask Hashem to remember us. Hashem does not forget; rather, we ask Him to remember us at our finest moments. We have had weak moments, but we have also had moments of extraordinary faith and commitment. Among our greatest moments were those in which we stood before Hashem and accepted His covenant.

During the Mussaf service, we invoke the covenant because we are the people of that covenant. We ask Hashem to remember the devotion of our ancestors—and to remember that our souls, too, were part of that commitment. Just as Israel pledged enduring faithfulness to Hashem, Hashem pledged to sustain, protect, and ultimately redeem Israel.

Nitzavim therefore speaks directly to us: Stand firm. Report for duty. Recognize that you are not a spectator to Jewish history, but a participant in an eternal promise. The covenant began before us, yet it is ours to renew. The Land was inherited from those before us, yet it is ours to cherish and transmit. The Torah was accepted by our ancestors, yet it calls upon us today.

May Hashem remember that covenant in the year ahead. May He protect His people from suffering, antisemitism, and hatred, and may those evils disappear like smoke. May the coming year be one of blessing, salvation, and geulah—and may we merit to stand together, firm and faithful, in Eretz Yisrael.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

When Blessings Catch Up With Us

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

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

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

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

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

Happiness as a Byproduct

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

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

The Spiritual Audit

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

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

After completing these obligations, he declares:

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

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

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

The Joy We Do Not Chase

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

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

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

It Could Never Happen to Me (Ki Teitzei 5786)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Shabbat Shalom!

The Mitzvah That Opens the Door to More

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

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

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

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

Honoring the Maternal Instinct

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

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

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

A Torah Model of Sustainability

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

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

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

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

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

Why So Many Mitzvot?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every Mitzvah Contains Another

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pray for Opportunities

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

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

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

Follow the Lady

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

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

The mishnah reads like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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