Following in Their Ways – The Eternal Struggle Against Avodah Zarah

This parashah shiur is based on a Shiur given by Rabbi Wein ztz’l on August 30,2024

 In this week’s parashah, we encounter a passage that reverberates throughout Jewish history and Jewish life. Moshe warns the people:

הִשָּׁ֣מֶר לְךָ֗ פֶּן־תִּנָּקֵשׁ֙ אַֽחֲרֵיהֶ֔ם אַֽחֲרֵ֖י הִשָּֽׁמְדָ֣ם מִפָּנֶ֑יךָ וּפֶן־תִּדְר֨שׁ לֵאלֹֽהֵיהֶ֜ם לֵאמֹ֗ר אֵיכָ֨ה יַֽעַבְד֜וּ הַגּוֹיִ֤ם הָאֵ֨לֶּה֙ אֶת־אֱלֹ֣הֵיהֶ֔ם וְאֶֽעֱשֶׂה־כֵּ֖ן גַּם־אָֽנִי

“Take heed… lest you inquire after their gods, saying: ‘How did these nations serve their gods, that I may do the same?’” (דברים י״ב:ל)

 This verse is not merely a historical warning about ancient idolatry. It points to a deep spiritual and cultural struggle that the Jewish people have faced in every generation: the temptation to imitate the practices, priorities, and lifestyles of the nations around them.

 How Far Does Avodah Zarah Go?

 Rashi, citing the Gemara (סנהדרין ס׳ ע״ב), explains: 

“כְּגוֹן מַרְקוּלִיס שֶׁדַּרְכּוֹ לְהַשְׁלִיךְ לוֹ אֲבָנִים, וְהַשּׁוֹלֵךְ לוֹ אֶבֶן, חַיָּיב”

 “For example, the idol Marculis, whose way of worship is to throw stones at it—one who throws even a single stone is liable.”

 Even though such an act appears disrespectful, when done as ritual it becomes idolatry. But what if someone bows to Marculis, even though its typical service is throwing stones? Rashi notes that bowing itself is universally considered an act of worship, so it too constitutes avodah zarah: 

“אֲבָל הַמִּשְׁתַּחֲוֶה לוֹ—אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁאֵין דַּרְכּוֹ בְּכָךְ—חַיָּיב”

 “But one who bows to it—even though that is not its way—he is liable.”

 The Rambam expands on this principle: 

“כָּל עֲבוֹדָה שֶׁהִיא דֶּרֶךְ כָּבוֹד—אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁאֵינָהּ דֶּרֶךְ עֲבוֹדָתוֹ—חַיָּיב עָלֶיהָ”

 “Any form of service that is a way of honor—even if not the idol’s usual service—one is liable for.” (הלכות עֲבוֹדַת כּוֹכָבִים ג:ג)

The Torah’s purpose, says the Rambam, is to distance us from avodah zarah entirely, for it has always exerted a powerful psychological pull. 

The Pressure of the Majority

Moshe’s warning is not only theological but deeply psychological: How could it be that so many nations are wrong? How can a tiny minority insist on saying “no” when the whole world seems to say “yes”?

כִּי עַם־קָדוֹשׁ אַתָּה לַה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ… וּבְךָ בָּחַר ה׳ לִהְיוֹת לוֹ לְעַם סְגֻלָּה

 “For you are a holy people to Hashem your God… and Hashem has chosen you to be His treasured people.” (דברים ז:ו)

 The Torah recognizes that it is hard to be a despised minority, mocked for standing apart. Yet that is precisely the Jewish destiny: to remain faithful even against the tide of the majority. 

Darkei Emori – The Ways of the Nations 

Beyond worship itself, the Torah forbids imitating pagan practices—darkei Emori. The Mishnah teaches: 

“דַּרְכֵי הָאֱמוֹרִי—כָּל מִינֵי נִחוּשׁ שֶׁהָיוּ אוֹמְרִים…”

“The ways of the Emorites—these are all forms of superstition that they would practice…” (שבת סז ע״א)

 Throughout Jewish history, this principle sparked debate:

● In 19th-century Germany, Reform synagogues introduced organ music to imitate churches. Orthodox authorities banned it, declaring it darkei Emori.

● Rabbi Yaakov Emden forbade decorating synagogues with flowers on Shavuot because it resembled Christian Easter celebrations—though most communities kept the custom, claiming Jewish precedent.

● The Rambam insisted that all superstition—lucky numbers, red strings, omens—is forbidden: 

“כָּל הַמְנַחֵשׁ אוֹ מְעוֹנֵן—לוֹקֶה. וְאֵין בְּדְבָרִים הָאֵלּוּ דָּבָר שֶׁל חָכְמָה כְּלָל”

 “Anyone who practices divination or soothsaying is liable to lashes. There is no wisdom in these things whatsoever.” (הלכות עֲבוֹדַת כּוֹכָבִים יא:טז)

 The reasoning is clear: imitation in custom can lead to assimilation in spirit.

 Drawing the Line 

Where, then, do we draw the line?

● Should rabbis wear clerical robes like priests? Some German communities said yes; Eastern European Jews said no.

● Should synagogues adopt church-like decorum? Opinions diverged.

● Even the simple presence of a clock in a synagogue once sparked a Lithuanian rabbi to quip: “I see Reform has already arrived here!” 

The Rambam provides a guiding principle: 

כָּל מַה שֶּׁנִּמְצָא שֶׁיֵּשׁ בּוֹ תּוֹעֶלֶת מִנִּימוּסֵי הַגּוֹיִם—אֵין בּוֹ מִשּׁוּם חֻקּוֹתֵיהֶם. וְכָל מַה שֶּׁאֵין בּוֹ טַעַם רָאוּי—אָסוּר

 “Anything found among the nations that has a clear benefit is not included in the prohibition. But anything with no rational basis is forbidden.” (הלכות עֲבוֹדַת כּוֹכָבִים יא:א)

 Thus, medicine is permitted because it heals, while quack remedies—once tied to superstition—are forbidden. 

The Eternal Struggle 

Moshe’s words echo through the generations: the Jewish people must often stand apart, resisting the lure of majority culture. This has never been easy. 

הֶן־עָם לְבָדָד יִשְׁכֹּן וּבַגּוֹיִם לֹא יִתְחַשָּׁב

 “Behold, it is a people that dwells alone, and is not reckoned among the nations.” (במדבר כג:ט)

 The idols of today are different: money, fame, power, ideology. Yet the temptation to bow to them, to imitate the world, remains just as strong. The Torah reminds us to guard our uniqueness, to hold fast to truth, and to avoid being swept away by borrowed customs.  

שַׁבָּת שָׁלוֹם

One Mitzvah or All Mitzvot? The Singular Lesson of Parashat Eikev

In his devar Torah this week, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom focuses on a small, unexpected piece of phraseology in our Torah reading and shows how much we can learn from it. He writes:

In parashat Eikev, the Torah speaks about the benefits and consequences of living a life of Torah and mitzvot. One fascinating detail is the way Moshe Rabbeinu refers to “כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה” — the commandment — in the singular, rather than the expected plural form:

 (דברים ח:א) "כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מְצַוְּךָ הַיּוֹם תִּשְׁמְרוּן לַעֲשׂוֹת"

Why use the singular when referring to the entire system of mitzvot? Many commentators ask this, and their answers reveal a profound key to our avodat Hashem.

All Mitzvot as One Unified System

The Ramban and others explain that “כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה” in the singular emphasizes that the mitzvot form one integrated, inseparable system. The Torah is not a menu from which one can select a few favorite commandments and consider oneself fulfilled.

They draw on the Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 18:21) which teaches that the 248 positive mitzvot and 365 prohibitions correspond to the 248 limbs and 365 sinews of the human body. If one finger is broken, the whole body is affected. Likewise, if one mitzvah is missing, the entire spiritual structure is impaired:

"אִם חִסֵּר אֵחָד מֵאֵבָרָיו — נִפְגָּם כֻּלּו"

This is a demanding — even daunting — interpretation. It means that partial observance misses the Torah’s goal. The mitzvot are designed to work together as a whole; only by fulfilling all of them does one achieve “כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה,” the one great commandment in its entirety.

The Infinite Value of One Mitzvah

The Kli Yakar and Rashba reverse the focus entirely. They read “כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה” as meaning that even a single mitzvah contains within it the value of the whole. Every mitzvah is a direct connection to the Ribono Shel Olam.

The Mishnah teaches:

"רצה הקדוש ברוך הוא לזכות את ישראל לפיכך הרבה להם תורה ומצוות"
 (מכות ג:טז)

The Rashba explains: this is not to burden us, but to multiply opportunities. Even if a person does just one mitzvah with pure intent (לשמה), from beginning to end, it has infinite significance.That single achievable goal of doing one  mitzvah and once there, often brings  you to do many more. This is exactly the Kli Yakar’s point: even one mitzvah is worth worlds.

Two Paragraphs of Shema: Maximum and Minimum

This interplay between “all” and “one” appears again in our parashah, in the second paragraph of Shema. The first paragraph (דברים ו:ד–ט) is written in the singular, addressed to the individual:

"וְאָהַבְתָּ אֵת ה' אֱלֹקֶיךָ בְּכָל־לְבָבְךָ וּבְכָל־נַפְשְׁךָ וּבְכָל־מְאֹדֶךָ"

This is the maximum ideal — serving Hashem with total love, unconditionally, with no mention of reward or punishment. It is pure, selfless devotion, as exemplified by Rabbi Akiva, who gave his life על קידוש השם.

The second paragraph (דברים יא:יג–כא), found in Parashat Eikev, shifts to the plural, addressing the nation:

"וְהָיָה אִם־שָׁמֹעַ תִּשְׁמְעוּ... וְנָתַתִּי מְטַר־אַרְצְכֶם בְּעִתּו"

Here mitzvah observance is tied to tangible rewards — rain, produce, security, and long life for us and our children. This is the realistic framework for a community: the motivation of blessing alongside the responsibility of obedience. The first paragraph presents the aspirational summit; the second provides the practical, accessible baseline.

Living Between the Minimum and the Maximum

The Torah thus sets two guiding poles:

●       Aim for the maximum — see the mitzvot as one complete system, serve with unconditional love, and aspire to total observance.

●       Value the minimum — recognize that even one mitzvah done purely connects you to Hashem in an eternal way.

Both poles are essential. Without the maximum, we lack vision; without the minimum, we lose accessibility.

May we merit to live with both אהבה and יראה, to integrate all mitzvot as one whole, and to treasure even a single act of connection to our Creator.

What are we doing when we say Shema?

Sometimes our own familiarity with the things we daily say, see and hear can cause us to stop thinking about their meaning and significance. We say Shema each day, but must never take it for granted. Our member Paul Bloom looks further into this mitzvah and points out things we may easily miss.

One of the most famous sentences in the entire Torah is:

 שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל ה׳ אֱלֹקֵינוּ ה׳ אֶחָד

This pasuk is found in our parashah. We say it every day. But what does it really mean?

Rabbi Alan Kimche explains something powerful: even though Shema appears in the siddur, it’s not actually a prayer — at least not in the way we usually think of prayer. Normally, in tefillah, we ask Hashem for things: health, peace, livelihood, wisdom, redemption. But Shema is different. It’s not a request — it’s a declaration. A pledge of allegiance.

Just like soldiers pledge loyalty to their country, when we say the Shema, we are pledging our loyalty to Hashem, to the Jewish people, and to our mission in this world. And those first two words — “Shema Yisrael” — aren’t just a poetic beginning. They’re a command: Listen. Pay attention. Tune in.

Why “listen”? Why not “see”? Rav Yitzchak Hutner points out that seeing can mislead us — it’s easy to be fooled by appearances. Just think back to the very first sin in the Torah: Chava saw the fruit and it looked good — and we all know where that led. But true understanding, true depth, comes from listening. Hearing the voice of Hashem, hearing the wisdom of Torah, listening to the truth that often can’t be seen with the eye, only felt in the heart. That’s why we cover our eyes when we say Shema — because the truths we’re affirming aren’t visible in the world around us. The world today looks divided, broken, chaotic. But we say “Hashem Echad” — we declare that beneath it all, there is unity. There is a Divine plan.

Another beautiful idea comes from the Maharal of Prague. He explains that when we say “Shema Yisrael,” we’re not talking to Hashem — we’re talking to each other. To all of Am Yisrael. This isn’t just a personal statement. It’s a national mission. I don’t say Hashem is my God — I say He’s our God. We’re in this together.

There’s a third layer — from the Sfas Emes. He reminds us that we actually heard the first two commandments directly from Hashem at Har Sinai — not through Moshe, but with our own ears. That voice of Hashem still echoes in the world, even if we can’t hear it in the usual sense. When we say the Shema, we’re reconnecting to that eternal voice.

And finally, the Gemara tells us something beautiful: the very first people who ever said “Shema Yisrael” were the sons of Ya’akov Avinu. When Ya’akov was on his deathbed, he asked his sons if they shared his faith — and they replied: “Shema Yisrael” — Listen, our father Yisrael, Hashem is our God, Hashem is One. In that moment they were saying, “We are with you. We carry your faith forward.” And so when we say Shema today, we’re also speaking to our ancestors — saying to them: “We are still here. We believe. We continue your path.”

We are part of that eternal chain. When we say “Shema Yisrael”, and we connect to Ya’akov, to Har Sinai, to thousands of years of Jews who came before you — and, IY”H, to generations who will come after us.

Moshe’s Final Message and the Challenge of Success

 “These Are the Words”: Moshe’s Final Message and the Challenge of Success

 As Sefer Devarim begins, a profound shift in tone, audience, and mission unfolds. The Torah introduces this book with the phrase “אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר דִּבֶּר מֹשֶׁה” – “These are the words that Moshe spoke.” The Sages note that this introductory phrase marks a break from the style of the previous four books of the Torah, which were relayed directly by God through Moshe. In contrast, Sefer Devarim is Moshe’s own voice – his reflections, his warnings, and his reinterpretations. It is a Torah for a new generation. In this article Rabbi Paul Bloom reveals what it is that Moshe has in mind. 

This fifth book of the Chumash is addressed not to the Israelites who left Egypt, but to their children, a generation born in the wilderness, destined not for wandering but for conquest and settlement. Their challenges are different: not slavery and survival, but sovereignty and success. And Moshe, having led them for forty years, now must begin again—not with new laws, but with new perspective.

The Or HaChaim HaKadosh notes that the word “אֵלֶּה” (“These”) has a gematria of 36, signifying that the entire book of Devarim was spoken by Moshe over the last 36 days of his life, from Rosh Chodesh Shevat to his passing on 7 Adar. In these final weeks, Moshe condenses a lifetime of teaching into a series of powerful addresses, culminating in VeZot HaBerachah, his final blessing to the people.

Hidden Messages in Names: What Is “Di Zahav”?

At the outset of Sefer Devarim, the Torah presents a list of six mysterious place names. Some are familiar, but others are either unknown or symbolic. One such place is “Di Zahav” – literally, “enough gold.”

The name “Di Zahav” appears nowhere else in the Torah, and it does not refer to a real geographic location. What is it, then? Chazal, in Berachot 32a, offer a stunning interpretation: Moshe is not criticizing Bnei Yisrael – he is defending them.

Moshe is subtly alluding to the sin of the Golden Calf (Egel HaZahav), suggesting that part of the blame rests not with the people, but with God Himself. “You gave them too much gold,” Moshe argues. They were like children overwhelmed by sudden wealth. Just as a spoiled child, given too much and too soon, is likely to falter, so too did Bnei Yisrael stumble under the weight of affluence they could not yet handle.

This is a radical idea. Moshe, as a sanegor, a defender, pleads for mercy and understanding. In doing so, he raises a crucial theme that reverberates throughout Sefer Devarim: the spiritual danger of prosperity.

The True Test: Affluence and Forgetting Hashem

While generations of Jews have perished al kiddush Hashem, martyred through persecution and hatred, far more have been lost through comfort, wealth, and cultural assimilation. In Devarim, Moshe warns again and again:

“You will eat and be satisfied… your silver and gold will increase… and your heart will become haughty, and you will forget Hashem your God.” (Devarim 8:10-14)

Affluence brings independence, and independence breeds spiritual amnesia. This is the underlying current of Sefer Devarim. Moshe’s great fear is not Canaanite armies or desert thirst. It is that, once the people have vineyards and villas, they will forget their Source.

The placement of “Di Zahav” at the beginning of the book is Moshe’s coded message : “Success will be your greatest test.” And it remains ours today.

From Theory to Practice: Preparing for Life in the Land

Another major shift in Sefer Devarim is the transition from theoretical halachah to practical mitzvah observance. For 40 years, many commandments – especially those concerning land ownership, agriculture, and social justice – remained abstract. The people had no private property in the wilderness, no fields to tithe, no courts of inheritance.

Now, as they stand on the eastern bank of the Jordan, Moshe begins again: “הוֹאִיל מֹשֶׁה בֵּאֵר אֶת הַתּוֹרָה הַזֹּאת” – “Moshe began to explain this Torah…” (Devarim 1:5). Rashi says this means he explained it in 70 languages but, on another level, he translated Torah into real life. He taught them how to live the Torah not as wanderers, but as a sovereign society.

The Sefas Emes sees in Devarim the beginning of Torah Shebe’al Peh – the Oral Law. While it is still part of the Written Torah, the style and substance of Devarim begin to reflect human articulation and interpretation. This marks the evolution of Torah – from divine dictation to human integration.

Modern Echoes: The American Dream and the Torah Challenge

We live in a time of remarkable affluence. In Western countries – especially in America – Jews enjoy freedoms, wealth, and opportunities unprecedented in our history. We should be deeply grateful for this. But we must also remember: Di Zahav – “too much gold” – is not a blessing without risks.

Comfort can dull conviction. Success can weaken memory. The challenge Moshe foresaw in Devarim is no less real today: How do we hold on to our spiritual identity in a world that gives us everything?

Yom Kippur’s Vidui ends with the double expression: “תִּעִינוּ וְתִּעְתָּנוּ” – “We have strayed and You have let us stray.” Built into our confession is an acknowledgment of environment. We ask Hashem to judge us not only by our choices, but by the context in which they were made, a theme Moshe introduced with Di Zahav.

The Watchmen of Yerushalayim: Who Guards Our Spirit?

The Radak, commenting on a verse in Yeshayahu, offers a poetic insight: Who are the true guardians of Yerushalayim? Not only soldiers, but those who remember it in their daily prayers. Those who cry for its loss and long for its restoration.

Through centuries of exile, the spiritual memory of Yerushalayim, recited in every birkat hamazon, every tefillah, every Tisha b’Av – kept the dream alive. That memory brought us home.Today, as we rebuild Yerushalayim with stone and steel, we must also rebuild it with soul and memory. The walls will stand strong only if the spirit within remains rooted in Torah.

Conclusion: A New Beginning

Sefer Devarim is not a mere repetition; it is a reinvention. Moshe Rabbenu takes the eternal truths of Torah and adapts them for a new generation, a new landscape, a new spiritual battleground.

We are that generation. The affluence of our time is both a blessing and a burden. Moshe’s voice, echoing across millennia, reminds us: Don’t forget. Don’t let the gold distract you. Don’t mistake comfort for purpose.

May we hear Moshe’s words anew. May we rise to the challenge of our own Di Zahav, and live lives of gratitude, commitment, and clarity.

“These are the words…”

Let us listen. Let us remember. Let us build.

The Sacred Power of a Promise: Parashat Mattot and the Covenant of Words

Among the most extraordinary gifts bestowed upon the human being is the power of dibbur—speech. Not merely the ability to communicate, as animals do through sounds and signals, but the unique human capacity to use language to create, to bind, and to transform reality. Rabbi Paul Bloom explains.

In Parashat Mattot, the Torah unveils one of the deepest expressions of this power: the laws of nedarim (vows) and shevuot (oaths). Through speech, people can obligate themselves, restrict themselves, or take on commitments that become sacred. The Torah’s message is unequivocal: words are not just words. Words are creative forces. They are acts of covenant.

The Covenant of Words

Judaism is a covenantal religion at its core. Our national relationship with Hashem was forged not in a battlefield or a marketplace, but at Har Sinai through a brit, a covenant—a mutual declaration of loyalty, responsibility, and destiny expressed through speech. As the Torah records:

"וַיֹּאמֶר יְהוָה אֶל־מֹשֶׁה... כֹּה תֹאמַר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל..."

"And Hashem said to Moshe... thus shall you say to the Children of Israel..." (Shemot 19:3)

This exchange of words—Na’aseh venishma, “We will do and we will listen”—was the founding act of our national existence. In this moment, we became a people not merely through bloodline or geography, but through the binding force of language and commitment.

The Gemara in Nedarim teaches that if someone swears not to perform a mitzvah—say, not to wear tefillin or sit in a sukkah—the oath is invalid. Why? Because we are already under oath, having taken a collective shevuah at Sinai to keep the Torah. A later oath cannot uproot an earlier one. The shevuah of Sinai binds us all, forever.

Speech and the Tzelem Elokim

This ability to create reality through speech is an expression of the Tzelem Elokim, the divine image, within us. Hashem created the world through speech: "Vayomer Elokim—Yehi or," “And God said, ‘Let there be light.’” Human beings, created in His image, wield a similar tool—our words can shape our world. We forge marriages, form contracts, seal agreements, and found societies—all through spoken commitments.

No animal, no matter how intelligent, can make a promise. Communication is not covenant. But when a chatan says under the chuppah, "Harei at mekudeshet li...", he creates a new legal and spiritual entity—a bayit ne’eman beYisrael, a Jewish home. Reality changes with those words.

This is the power the Torah warns us about in  Mattot: if you make a neder or a shevuah, do not take it lightly. You are exercising the deepest aspect of your humanity—your ability to partner with Hashem in building a moral and holy society through the sanctity of speech.

The Request of Reuven and Gad: A Deeper Story

The parashah concludes with a fascinating and complex narrative. The tribes of Reuven and Gad approach Moshe Rabbeinu with an astonishing request: to remain on the eastern side of the Jordan River, outside of the Promised Land proper. After journeying forty years through the desert, yearning for Eretz Yisrael, how could they suddenly settle for greener pastures in Transjordan?

At first glance, it seems petty—choosing grazing land for cattle over the land promised by Hashem. But the Meshech Chochmah and others suggest a deeper layer.

Reuven and Gad had a unique relationship with Moshe. They knew he would not be entering Eretz Yisrael. They couldn’t bear to leave him buried outside the land, abandoned. So they devised a plan: if they remained in Transjordan, and Moshe gave them that land directly, perhaps they could confer kedushah upon it. Maybe Moshe, though barred from crossing the Jordan, could still be buried in holy ground.

Indeed, in Devarim (33:21), Moshe later blesses Gad for choosing reishit, the beginning of the inheritance. He understands that they weren’t rejecting Israel—they were embracing him. The Gemara in Sotah 13b even explains that Moshe died in Reuven’s territory and was buried in Gad’s, thereby sanctifying the area.

But how did this arrangement take root? Through words. Reuven and Gad promised Moshe: “We will cross over before Bnei Yisrael… until every one of them has taken possession of his inheritance” (Bamidbar 32:17–18). And they kept their word. Their promise—dibbur—granted them a stake not only in the land, but in the spiritual destiny of the people.

A Legacy of Promise

What emerges from this is a powerful message for all generations: the Jewish people are built not only on action, but on commitment. And commitment is expressed through language.

Each neder, each shevuah, each promise, is a miniature reenactment of Na’aseh venishma. It is a declaration of trust and responsibility before God and before our fellow human beings. When we keep our word, we affirm our divine likeness. We create a society grounded not in force, but in faithfulness.

We are, all of us, bound by the oath of Har Sinai. That shevuah, etched into our collective soul, obligates us not only to observe mitzvot, but to speak and act with integrity, to honor our commitments, and to uphold the sacredness of our words.

In a world that too often treats words as disposable, Mattot reminds us: words are sacred. And when we live by them, we live as Hashem intended—creators of holiness in a world hungry for truth.

"דבר איש אל רעהו אמת" — "Each person shall speak truth to his fellow" (Zechariah 8:16)

May we live up to the power of our words, and may our speech be a source of holiness, connection, and covenant.

Pinchas, the Covenant of Peace, and the Broken Vav: A Message for Our Times

In this timely piece for the coming Shabbat, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom reflects on one of the most profound figures in the Torah—Pinchas—and on how his legacy continues to resonate deeply, especially in light of the challenges facing Am Yisrael in our own generation.

The Soul of a Warrior-Saint

Pinchas emerges in Sefer Bamidbar as a zealot who, in a moment of national spiritual collapse, acts decisively. His actions—stopping a public desecration of Hashem's covenant—may seem violent at first glance. Yet the Torah does not describe him as an aggressor or a vigilante. Instead, he is granted a unique divine reward:

"Therefore say: Behold, I give him My covenant of peace (בריתי שלום)."
 — Bamidbar 25:12

This brit shalom—a covenant of peace—contains remarkable depth, and reveals layers of meaning about the nature of true peace, divine protection, and moral integrity in times of conflict. Let us explore three classic interpretations of this phrase through the eyes of Chazal and later commentators.

1. Peace from One’s Enemies – Protection in the Face of Backlash

The first interpretation, brought by the Midrash and many commentators, focuses on the immediate aftermath of Pinchas’s act. He had slain Zimri, a prince of the tribe of Shimon, and Kozbi, a Midianite princess. Their families and supporters could have easily sought vengeance.

The covenant of peace here is understood as divine protection: "Peace"—from retaliation. Hashem promises that no harm will come to Pinchas from those who would otherwise be motivated by revenge.

This is a lesson for us in today's Israel as well. Surrounded by enemies who glorify death while we sanctify life, we too yearn for the peace of protection. Prime Minister Netanyahu recently remarked before Congress that the war against Hamas is not merely a clash of civilizations, but a battle of civilization versus barbarism. In such times, we ask for Hashem’s brit shalom—that our soldiers and our nation be shielded from those who seek to destroy us.

2. Peace from Death – A Gift of Endurance

The second interpretation, found in the commentary of the Sforno, sees the brit shalom as a promise of longevity. Pinchas is later identified with Eliyahu HaNavi, and he lives on for centuries, appearing again in Sefer Shofetim and even at the end of Sefer Malachi.According to the Sforno:

Hashem's covenant of peace was a promise of life itself—a miraculous protection from death.

In reward for halting a spiritual and moral collapse, Pinchas is granted enduring life. His zeal, channeled for the sake of Klal Yisrael and the sanctity of the nation, was met not with condemnation, but with a unique blessing: immortality. This is a model for how deep personal sacrifice in the name of Hashem’s honor can lead to profound spiritual elevation.

3. Peace of the Soul – Guarding Moral Integrity in Battle

The third and perhaps most psychologically profound interpretation is that of the Ha’amek Davar (Netziv of Volozhin). He explains that the brit shalom promised Pinchas inner peace and emotional protection:

When one engages in necessary violence—even in a just war—it can damage the soul. The divine covenant was a safeguard for Pinchas’s inner world.

In other words, Hashem promised him that his neshama would not be coarsened or brutalized by the violent act he had committed.

We see this struggle vividly today. Soldiers returning from battle zones in Gaza often describe the psychological toll of warfare. One soldier recently told Rabbi Kimche that he had spent weeks in “a world of darkness and death.” And yet, the Rabbi met him again at a simcha—davening, playing with his children, and engaging with Torah with clarity and joy. This, I believe, is an expression of the brit shalom granted to those who fight with purity of heart, leshem shamayim.

The Broken Vav: A Flawed Peace

But there is yet another layer, hidden in the Torah scroll itself. If you look closely at the word shalom (שלום) in the pasuk, you’ll notice that the letter vav is broken—split in the middle. This is highly unusual. Any other broken letter in a Sefer Torah invalidates the scroll. Yet here, it is halachically acceptable, even deliberate. Why? Because this teaches us a deep truth: peace that is achieved through violence is inherently incomplete. It may be necessary. It may be justified. But it is not the ultimate vision of shalom.

True shalom—the kind we pray for in Sim Shalom, in Oseh Shalom, and in the Birkat Kohanim—is wholeness. It is harmony without swords, tanks, or pain. The broken vav reminds us that the peace we achieve through war is still fractured. It is not the Messianic peace we long for, but rather a temporary reprieve born of tragic necessity.

Carrying the Legacy Forward

Pinchas became the Mashuach Milchama, the spiritual guide who inspired soldiers before battle. He represents the ideal of purity of intent in times of struggle. His covenant continues to inspire generations of Jewish soldiers and leaders—those who fight not for conquest or cruelty, but for the sanctity of life, the holiness of Eretz Yisrael, and the safety of Am Yisrael.

We stand today as inheritors of this complex but uplifting legacy. May we merit to see the day when the covenant of peace is complete, when the vav is whole, and when the sword can finally be laid to rest.

"וְחָרְבוֹתֵיהֶם יִתְּכְּתוּ לְאִתִּים" — “And they shall beat their swords into plowshares.”
 (Yeshayahu 2:4)

May that day come soon—bimhera beyameinu.

Who Are These People With You?

In this piece on this week's parashah, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom takes a deeper look at Hashem’s question to Bilaam and explains how some of our most valued Torah commentators have understood it.

In parashat Balak, the enigmatic prophet Bilaam receives an offer from the emissaries of Balak, king of Moav: to become a royal advisor and curse Israel. Immediately, we see that Bilaam is not an ordinary man; he possesses extraordinary spiritual gifts, a reputation for words that shape reality, and a unique connection to the Divine.

That night, Hashem appears to Bilaam in a dream and opens their conversation with a strikingly simple question:

 “Who are these people with you?”

 On the surface, it sounds like small talk or a naive inquiry. But, as Chazal show us, this question brims with profound meaning. How could the Omniscient One not know who they are? The question itself demands exploration.

Three Classic Interpretations

(1) The Kli Yakar: A Rhetorical Rebuke

The Kli Yakar explains that Hashem’s question is rhetorical and scornful. Read properly, it isn’t a request for information but a rebuke:

“Who are they? They are nothing.”

Hashem is telling Bilaam: These emissaries represent corruption and moral decay. Why are you giving them respect? Why are you entertaining their mission to curse a people blessed by God? The Torah warns that keeping corrupt company corrupts the soul—just as Rambam teaches that a person’s environment profoundly shapes their character. Hashem’s question here serves as a piece of mussar: Choose your company wisely. The emissaries’ presence with Bilaam is already bringing out his worst impulses.

(2) Rashi: The Illusion of Divine Ignorance

Rashi, citing Chazal, sees in this question a test of Bilaam’s beliefs. By asking “Who are these people?” Hashem gives Bilaam space to entertain a dangerous idea: perhaps there are things God doesn’t know. This aligns with what some ancient philosophers, like Aristotle, believed—that God, perfect and infinite, is too lofty to care about or know the trivial details of human life. If Bilaam embraced this mistaken theology, he might believe he could curse Israel when God “wasn’t paying attention.”

This question opens a door for Bilaam to exercise his bechirah—his free will—to choose between recognizing God’s intimate involvement in the world or adopting a worldview that divorces God from human affairs. And indeed, Bilaam’s story is about the paradox of free will: his intentions are evil, yet Hashem turns his curses into blessings for Israel.

(3) The Sforno: A Call for Self-Reflection

The Sforno offers a more practical interpretation: Hashem wasn’t saying He didn’t know who the emissaries were; rather, He was pushing Bilaam to ask himself what their intentions were. Were they genuinely seeking his wisdom, or were they merely using him as a blunt instrument to harm Israel?

This is a timeless lesson: we must learn to distinguish between people who seek us out with sincerity and those who merely wish to exploit our abilities for their own agendas. It’s a call to be vigilant about relationships and not be blinded by flattery or ambition.

A Deeper Layer: Who Are They For You?

There’s also a deeper, existential reading: Hashem’s question echoes the question He posed to Adam in the Garden: “Ayeka – where are you?” It’s not about physical location but spiritual awareness. Here, Hashem is asking Bilaam:

“Who are these people in your eyes? What do they mean to you?”

Do you see them as partners in a just cause, or are you being seduced by their offers of honor and wealth? This question challenges Bilaam—and us—to examine our motives and relationships honestly.

Bilaam v Avraham: A Clash of Worldviews

The Mishnah in Pirkei Avot (5:19) compares the students of Avraham Avinu with those of Bilaam HaRasha. Despite their shared spiritual gifts and intellectual brilliance, they stand as polar opposites:

●      Avraham exemplified generosity (ayin tovah), humility, and a desire to bring blessing to the world.

●      Bilaam embodied greed (ayin ra’ah), arrogance, and a drive to destroy what he envied.

Bilaam’s insatiable lust for honor and wealth led him to try to curse Israel. Yet, in a stunning twist, God transformed his curses into some of the Torah’s most beautiful blessings—visions of Israel’s family life, tents of learning, and dedication to God. These blessings remain with us as enduring praise of the Jewish people, despite their source being a man intent on their destruction.

Conclusion

The seemingly simple question “Who are these people with you?” encapsulates a wealth of moral and theological teachings:

●      It’s a reminder to choose our company wisely.

●      It challenges us to clarify our beliefs about God’s role in our lives.

●      It urges us to discern whether others value us for who we are or merely what we can do for them.

●      And it calls us to confront our own motives honestly.

The story of Bilaam teaches that even someone with great talents can fall prey to greed and ego if they fail to align their gifts with a higher moral purpose. But it also teaches that God’s plan will always prevail—and, sometimes, He uses even the most unlikely people to reveal profound truths.