Hearth and Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Undeserved Praise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

A Nation in Sheep’s Clothing

Sheep are among the most useful of creatures. There is literally no part of them that we cannot use one way or another. But, contrary to popular belief, it seems that the Egyptians didn't worship them at all. So what's the big deal with our forefathers killing them as a prelude to our exit from Egypt? Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger explains.

The first act of defiance that Hashem requested from Bnei Yisrael was for each household to take a sheep on the 10^th day of the newly designated first month of Nisan. They were to safeguard this animal until the 14^th day of the month and then slaughter it. They would then place some of the blood on their doorways and they would roast and eat the meat that evening  (Shemot 12: 3-8).

Many assume that this ritual, which has became a generational fixture as the korban pesach (Shemot 12:23) was symbolic of a rejection or conquest of the Egyptian gods especially since the process in Egypt began with the four-day period of flaunting the restrained sheep. (See, Rashi on Bereishit 46:34).

There is one problem with this. Examining the “pantheon” of Egyptian deities, one will find many animals and human/animal hybrids. A brief search disclosed more than 20 – ranging from crocodiles and hippopotamuses, lions, baboons, wolves, cows, rams (and even frogs) – but NO sheep!!

Why of all animals did Hashem specify/choose the sheep for this important moment – one that would echo through the ages? What was the message for then and now?

The key to unlocking this message is a strange incident that occurred many years earlier, when Yosef invited his brothers to join him for a meal. Bereishit 43:32 relates that he sat separately from them because it was an abomination for Egyptians to break bread with Hebrews. This is quite perplexing.  At most there were seventy Hebrews in the entire world. How is it possible that there was an Egyptian rule of etiquette, a harshly discriminatory practice directed at such an insignificant family (one could not even call them a nation or a people)?

The answer is revealed a few chapters later. In Bereishit 46:32 the Bnei Yisrael are identified as “ro’ei tzon” – shepherds. Bereishit 46:34 reveals, “ki to’avat Mitzraim kol ro’ei tzon” – shepherds were an abomination to the Egyptians. Thus Yosef could not have seated the brothers with him because they, this family of Hebrews, were known as shepherds – and thus were abominations.

When they first met Pharaoh, he segregated them in the Land of Goshen because they were shepherds. This was Yosef’s plan to slow assimilation, but it was also quite consistent with the core values of Egyptian society – to keep the abominations away.

Fast forward through several hundred years. The Bnei Yisrael have been enslaved. They are at best second-class citizens. They are mistreated and addressed in a most derogatory fashion. In modern times, under similar circumstances, the “N-word” garners an intense level of emotional attention and evokes trauma. Considering that the very notion of being a shepherd or a family/people of shepherds was considered an abomination in Egyptian society, it is not a stretch to think that this was a pejorative label used to diminish and dehumanize them.

Thus, when the time of their liberation arrived and it was time for them to take their first action, what could be more fitting than for them to flaunt their association with the lowly sheep. To stick it in the face of the Egyptians, so to speak.

“Look here mighty Egypt – the abominable shepherds are displaying our sheep freely in our yards.” Next, “now look, we are killing it, painting our door with its blood and eating it – and sitting formally TOGETHER.”  We are not compliant sheep; we are not mere shepherds: we are the masters. We are not passive, meek sheep: we are the wolves who spill the blood and eat. We are not abominable sheep; we are social units, a family, a strong nation.

The generation of Hebrews in Egypt understood the symbolism of the sheep and likewise Hashem understood just how defiant and empowering a message it was for them to incorporate it into process of their redemption. For all future generations this message is, perhaps, even more important. Every culture in every era will find an excuse to separate us, isolate us and to identify us as abominations. But Hashem does not want us to hide from or be ashamed of who we, His people, are. He wants us to place our identity proudly out front and to reject any notion that we are sheep. That is how redemption is earned and that is how it is sustained.  

Moses the Anonymous Egyptian

We have read the story of Moshe Rabbeinu so often that we surely haven't missed anything--have we? But the deeper one digs, more the Torah text reveals, and it is the Torah that sweeps away our preconceptions and misconceptions. Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger explains:

Moshe Rabbeinu is perhaps the greatest and most influential figure in the history of the Jewish People. He was their redeemer, lawgiver, leader, prophet, defender, sustainer, and teacher.  While the Torah is blueprint for all of creation, it is also named “the Five Books of Moses.” 

Our perceptions of Moshe are of a larger-than-life figure. Midrashim tell tales of his remarkable youthful exploits – being tested by Pharaoh as an infant and travels and conquests in African lands. Popular culture has even created an image of a “Prince of Egypt.”  A careful reading of the parasha however tells a very different story.  Moses was initially a rather anonymous and inconsequential Egyptian man. His birth story was interesting but, until Hashem’s initial revelation to him, he was basically a nobody.

A Levite man went and took a Levite woman and they had a child. At this point all identities are insignificant, anonymous and irrelevant. The narrative is familiar -- so, skipping ahead, Pharoh’s daughter notices the child floating in the Nile and directs an attending maiden to retrieve him. She is compassionate toward what is obviously (to her) a Hebrew child.

The Midrash and most readers of the text interpret Shemot 7:10 in the narrative as Pharaoh’s daughter (i) adopting the child as her own, (ii) naming him Moshe (“because he was drawn from the water”) and agreeing to his care by Jewish nursemaids (not in that order).  However, as one reads these verses and the subsequent text, this is not what happened.

The child was taken by the princess’s retainer from the water, but he certainly could not have been raised by her. Thus, she was put in the care of nursemaids. After a period of time when he grew (Shrmot 2:10), he was brought before her. This implies that there was no previous relationship between them. Linguistically, the Torah creates a Hebrew narrative that, in fact differs from the actual (and the actual is more consistent with all that follows).

To digress for a moment. The Egyptian suffix mss (or mosses) means “son of” or “child”. The best example of this is the line of Egyptian royalty that adopted the name Ramses – Ra was their main deity, the Sun God – thus Ramses was the “son of” the Sun God. In this instance, to Pharoh’s daughter this boy was NOT a son, he was merely moses (with a small m), a child that she had compassion for.

This conclusion is supported by logic, by fact and by the six verses that follow:

1.     In ancient times a princess was currency, a political asset to be married off to rulers of other kingdoms or to important noblemen.   Logic dictates that such a princess could not have had a son identified with her.

2.     In Shemot 2:11, Moshe goes out to see his “brothers” and he sees their burdens (“sivlotam”). This word, sivlotam is used only one other place, in Shemot 1:11 – and it refers to the burdens of the Egyptians (see Rashi on that verse).  This being so, the main burden of the work and taxes was on the Egyptians (as they were the vast majority of the population, the Jews were still a small minority). They were also involved in the harsh labor; It was their burdens that Moshe went out to witness!  He was a compassionate person and reacted to the scene he was witnessing. Had he been a prince, he would have been able to order the taskmaster to stop – but he was merely an “ish” an Egyptian commoner!

3.     In Shemot 2:14 as he witnesses the two Jews fighting, they refer to him simply as an “ish”. Moshe is afraid, again, as we see in the next verse (Shemot 2:15), because he is merely a common Egyptian.  He is not viewed as the son, real or adopted, of Pharaoh’s daughter.  He has no privilege.

4.     Finally. as he flees to exile in Midian, in Shemot. 2:19 Yitro’s daughters identify him as an Egyptian man (“ish Mitzri”).

In summary, until Hashem reached out to Moshe through the sneh (the burning bush), he likely did not know anything about his heritage or of the destiny of the Jewish people. He may not have even known anything of Hashem, only the pagan gods of Egypt. It is quite telling that, when Hashem addresses Moshe, he first explains that he is God of his fathers Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov (Shemot 6:13). In other words, He reveals to Moshe his identity as a Hebrew. Likewise, it is quite telling that, after the shock of this revelation, Moshe’s first words are “mi anochi” – who am I (Shemot 6:11)?

Moshe was no longer an anonymous Egyptian man. He was now the greatest Jew who ever lived, tasked with ending his people’s Exile.  All of his capabilities had lain dormant within him, awaiting the exact moment for them to emerge. May the latent abilities of the anonymous Mashiach who hopefully is walking among us soon be realized.

Postscript

After I developed the thoughts and structure of this devar Torah, I found a very similar analysis in Rabbi Zvi Grument’s new Book, Exodus: The Genesis of God’s People (Maggid Books, Jerusalem, 2025) pp. 15-26.

Calamitous Contentment

Were the experiences of Yaakov Avinu and his descendants in Egypt the prototype of subsequent exiles, going from comfort to suffering? And did our forefather make the wrong choice? Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger investigates.

Between the years 800 and 1930 various countries, municipalities, principalities, noblemen, Church officials, and angry mobs in Europe expelled the Jews from their homes. This happened more than 130 times. As we know, after that date the strategy devolved to one of extermination. In many instances, the Jews enjoyed periods when they were accepted and welcomed as productive members of their communities. In earlier times, they may have had a second-class status, but they had their niche as merchants and in finance—and even mingled with the upper echelons of the citizenry. After emancipation arrived in various countries, they assimilated into the professions and universities and into the worlds of science, art and culture. In other words, although their situation was often precarious, Jews often lived in a fantasy world, the world of “this time will be different”: their neighbors accepted them, they were protected, they were safe, nothing could happen to them. But it did – time and time again. Their comfort resulted in such a credible illusion that they were unable to believe or accept the inevitable as they were led to their near extinction.

Today we are once again witnessing such denial. Jews and their communities in the diaspora suffer: in South America (Buenos Aries), in India (Mumbai), in Australia (Bondi Beach) in the US (Pittsburgh), in France (Toulouse and Montauban) and in New York (multiple incidents on subways, at synagogues and on the streets). Antisemitism is rampant.  Individual Jews and their communities face threats from the Left and the Right: from college campuses and from social media; from influential political commentators and from political leaders. Then there is the rising number of Moslems that are asserting their brand of aggressive power over polite and civilized society.

Nevertheless, most Jews either remain in denial or are so comfortable with the trappings of the material bounty they enjoy that they cannot accept their predicament and reach for their best alternative – their spiritual legacy and true homeland.

They are not alone: they are simply modeling their behavior after their forefather  Yaakov – the choicest and purest of the Avot insofar as all twelve of his sons,were likewise untainted. After experiencing two difficult exiles, in the house of Lavan and in Egypt, he should have yearned for a return to the Land of Israel. Instead, in parashat Vayigash we find that, once the famine ended, “the Jews remained in the Land of Goshen, and they prospered and became very fruitful” (Bereishit 47:27). Yaakov and his sons were so comfortable. Yet a generation or so later they would be enslaved, initiating the pattern of classic antisemitic tropes (Shemot 1:9-10). How was this possible?

History has shown us time and time again how this was possible. Today, despite the warning signs, we have a front row seat to yet another round in this cycle. However, as regards Yaakov, we perhaps should not be so quick to judge. He at least could justify his choice (although one could ask whether he was required to so choose). Turn back to Yaakov’s first “exile.” As he is escaping the wrath of his brother for having taken the berachah of the first-born, fleeing to Padan Aram, something interesting occurs. Yitzchak’s parting words are: “(He) should give to you and your children with you Avraham’s blessing to inherit the land you reside in, that He gave to Avraham” (Bereishit 28:4). In other words, Yaakov did not take the berachah. Yitzchak always intended to pass to him the legacy of Avraham and that legacy was the berachah of Avraham -- the land.

So when did this berachah—this commitment regarding the land—become effective? In truth Hashem dangled this promise before Avram several times, reaching the point where a frustrated Avram finally asked, “How do I know that I will really inherit it?” (Bereishit 15:8). So, Hashem enters into a covenant with him, the brit ben habetarim. The terms were as follows: The Jews would be exiled to a foreign land for four hundred years; they would be enslaved there and, in the end, they would be redeemed with great wealth and given the land (Bereishit 15:13-14). This is when the right of Avram’s children to the land would be fixed.

Yaakov received both the legacy and the burden of this blessing. When he sojourned to Egypt to reunite the entire family – something he thought would never happen from the time Yosef was lost to him – he recognized that this was the beginning of the process that would result in the fulfillment of the berachah. He thus knew that he must choose to stay in Egypt. He remained with his eyes wide open, knowing that his children and their succeeding four generations would suffer.

Is this really what Hashem wanted for Bnei Yisrael? We cannot know. All we know is that this is the choice Yaakov made. And, as they say, the rest is history.

What we do know, with the advantage of hindsight and now with the wisdom of the ages is that, as successive generations of Jews have made this same choice, it has only resulted in catastrophe. There are no beneficial exiles, there are not even benign ones. Blissful ignorance or, worse, contentment leads only to calamity.

Chanukah: How Do We Get it So Wrong?

 Here's another surprise from our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger, who asks if we have missed the point of Chanukah completely. 

Since our early childhoods we all have a special fondness for Chanukah. What a joy! Presents – perhaps on all eight days, and maybe even more from grandparents and aunts and uncles and friends – an absolute bonanza. Then there are the latkes and sufganiot. Add on high stakes games of dreidel, parties, and festive meals and we have a holiday quite different from the typical “shul-fest.” Even the sole ritualistic element, lighting the menorah, in many homes where each child regardless of age participates with their own, is not a burden but an expression of love and appreciation.

If we dig deep enough, we can find many reasons, not a single uniform one, for each of these practices; the gift giving and dreidel game, the particular foods and even the many aspects of lighting the menorah itself.  However, unlike on Pesach when our various practices are intended to provoke questions that lead to opportunities to teach – or more importantly, to educate through an experiential process – on Chanukah all we seem to do is indulge ourselves and the children.  What is the source for all these practices?  What is the real story of Chanukah?  What happened?  Why is it so important?

Perhaps one of the issues for us, as adults, regarding Chanukah, is that we still approach it with the eyes of our childhoods. For us it is still the story of the brave Yehudit defying the Greek general and the seven sons of Hannah refusing to bow to Antiochus; of Matityahu calling out “mi la’Hashem e’lai” to rally the Jews to fight the Greeks who had defiled the Temple, and of the Maccabees who led Judah and waged a guerilla war to defeat them with a handful of men. Then, of course, there is the miracle of the one jug of oil lasting eight days. In our minds, this all led to the declaration of the annual holiday that we celebrate with our menorah lighting and all the other wonderful, meaningful and joyous customs.

However, history and reality do not quite match this narrative.

At that time Antiochus IV, the Seleucid king, was enthusiastically welcomed by many Judean Jews. He installed a man named Yeshua (Jason) as Kohen Gadol (in place of his older brother). He incorporated Greek culture into Jerusalem. A more assimilated Jew, named Menelaus, bribed his way into the position and introduced idolatrous practices into the Temple – including sacrificing unclean animals. The first day the mizbe’ach was used for such worship was…. 25 Kislev! It is doubtful that the date is a coincidence.

About two years later, Matityahu, with the family name Hashmonai, instigated a rebellion against NOT the Greeks (Yevanim) but against the assimilated Jews/Hellenizers (Mityavnim). After Matityahu died, his son Yehudah assumed leadership.  Since he was a great warrior, he was given the nickname Makabee, the Aramaic word for hammer. The rebels were never called Maccabees.  That name became attached to these heroes when the two books of the Maccabees were canonized as a part of the Christian Bible!

When the Hashmonaim regained control of Har Habayit and the Temple from the Hellenizers, they were not concerned with the menorah. The mizbe’ach had been defiled.  If you recall, the mizbe’ach is constructed from stones and the mityavnim rendered the current ones unfit. On 25 Kislev, the same day that two years earlier the actions of Menelaus disqualified it, they rebuilt it with new stones. This is the actual Chanukah the “chanukat hamizbe’ach” (rededication of the altar). Once they rebuilt the mizbe’ach, they made a strategic decision. Since the most recent chag for which they had not brought korbanot was Succot/Shmini Atzeret, they decided to celebrate for eight days and to compensate those offerings (this is actually expressly written in II Maccabees 10:5-8, although I hesitate to rely on it as the definitive source. However, I do note that Beit Shammai explained that the order of candle lighting corresponds to the korbanot brought on the eight days of Succot/Shmini Atzeret).

So, have we gotten Chanukah all wrong? In fact, the Rabbis did not institute the mitzvah of lighting the menorah on Chanukah for another two centuries, which was well after the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash.

Fundamentally, as with many other aspects of our religion, the Sages faced a nearly insurmountable challenge: how to provide the foundation and structure for our faith and ritual, to provide hope for future generations and to assure survival and continuity after the destruction of the Temple and the devastation wrought by the Romans. They wove the fabric of today’s Judaism – daily prayer, the written teachings of the oral tradition, the superstructure of Rabbinic ordinances, and holiday rituals such as how to utilize the arbah minim the fifteen aspects of the Pesach seder, and the mitzvah and mystique of Chanukah.

Bringing light into the home and stressing the primacy of traditional Judaism over Hellenism and paganism, during the darkness of exile, was a most important and appropriate symbol. Moreover, by adding an eighth branch to the seven of the traditional Menorah, the Sages were commemorating past glory and foreshadowing future salvation.  The number seven represents the natural, teva. Eight is beyond nature, le’maala min hateva. Thus (i) they needed to highlight a miracle narrative (the one jar) and (ii) they needed to move the focus away from the mizbe’ach and the korbanot and direct it toward the Menorah. As we can see, they succeeded.

Bottom line, we do not get Chanukah wrong. The Rabbis simply wanted us to celebrate a different version: Chanukah 2.0.

Topsy turvy

This week's parashah invites us to ask challenging questions as to why we sometimes appear to be rewarded for our misdeeds or punished for our good ones. Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger investigates.

Viewed simplistically, our religion is binary: blessings are good, curses are bad. Mitzvot are good, sins are bad. Morality is good and immorality is bad. As Moshe reminds us time and time again throughout Sefer Devarim, we should choose life. The choice is obvious since the path is clear – it’s black and white.

Life however is full of grey tones and the Torah itself, at least as literally written, at times represents a confusing guide. Men who are the foundations of our faith are depicted in dubious or compromising situations. There is, at the very least, ambiguity regarding Reuven’s actions with Bilhah. Shimshon’s behavior put the nation at risk. Eli HaKohen’s sons’ treatment of women was less than exemplary. Both David and Shlomo faced Divine punishment because of their conduct with women.

There is no need to highlight other examples. Suffice it to say, passion and desire are powerful human emotions.  We cannot understand what Hashem expects from us, how to serve him or who we are without understanding these complex drives.

In Parashat Vayeshev we encounter two of the greatest figures in Jewish history facing what most would consider extremely compromising moral choices. For each, the outcome is different. The respective consequences are counterintuitive. Thus, in the micro, it is difficult to understand how to interpret the moral lesson, at least on the surface.

These are familiar narratives. Out of guilt for selling Yosef, Yehudah exiles himself, then marries and has children. As events unfold, his first two sons each marry the same woman, Tamar. They die childless, leaving a third younger son.  Yehudah sends her away to delay yibum. Years go by, she sees that she has been abandoned, so she decides to dress as a harlot to seduce Yehudah. She succeeds and gets pregnant.

Drama unfolds as she is accused of infidelity by Yehudah, who actually demands she be executed), but she is saved when he admits his culpability after she produces, among other things, the items he left with her as security for payment. In the end she gives birth to twins, one of which is the ancestor of the Davidic line (and hence the Mashiach). Bottom line, he knowingly interacts with a harlot and the result seems to be the greatest of rewards!

Simultaneously, Yosef begins servitude in Egypt. After a period of years facing harsh conditions, he rises to a position of responsibility in the home of an Egyptian nobleman. Unfortunately for him, the nobleman’s wife becomes interested in him. She repeatly attempts to seduce him numerous times, culminating in an incident where she manipulates events to make a very aggressive effort to entice him.  As he refuses and runs out, she grabs his garment and uses it as evidence of her claim that he attempted to sexually assault her. He is imprisoned for several years before he is released to interpret Pharoh’s dreams and as a result promoted to viceroy.

Yehudah succumbs to his baser nature and is enticed by a harlot. The consequence he faces is… a set of newborn twins, one of which is the progenitor of a royal dynasty and the ultimate redeemer.

Yosef is a Tzadik.  He endures suffering because time after time he resists temptation, ultimately at great peril—yet he pays a significant price. While, perhaps, there was a short-term benefit (he becomes viceroy of Egypt), effectively this benefited his father and brothers almost as much as it did him. Moreover, he certainly does not have the same historical importance (yes, there will be a Mashiach ben Yosef, but his role seems limited in function and is rather ambiguous).

Yehudah, the one who made the immoral choice (actually two, if you include the sale of Yosef) comes out the big winner. Where is the fairness?  What does this teach about morality? Topsy, turvy. V’nehafoch hu!

Perhaps the key to the answer is a word or concept that characterizes Yehudah more than any other. A quick word association with him would likely yield terms like: leader, majesty, spokesman, warrior, or (as his mother proclaimed) praise to Hashem. However, perhaps the most accurate word is “arev” or “eravon” – a guarantor or security. When someon

e defaults on a loan he received or on a loan he agreed to guarantee, when there is a default, then the borrower can collect from the security (eravon) given by the borrower or from the guarantor (arev).

When Yehudah negotiated with Tamar but did not have the fee (two goats) she asked for an “eravon” – and he inquired: “what is the ‘eravon’ I should give you?” (Gen 35:17-18). It was that very security that saved her when Yehudah was willing to admit that he acted immorally and accepted responsibility for his poor moral choice in engaging with her. Likewise, when confronting Yosef to plead for the release of Binyamin, his main argument—and the one that succeeded—was that he committed to Yaakov that he would be the arev for him (Gen. 44:32). Effectively, Yehudah was again accepting responsibility for his earlier immoral choice (in this instance, selling Yosef).

Yosef was good. Black and white. If he saw an iniquity, if he thought his brothers sinned, he would report it – even if they would hate him. Likewise, when faced with a seduction, he would not succumb, regardless of the consequence. This is certainly meritorious. But this is how he was hard-wired. He is a Tzadik.

However, life is grey.  For the rest of us (at least most of us) it is complex and confusing, Like Yehudah we fall, sometimes in extreme and calamitous ways. Knowing this, Yehudah is the paradigm for finding our way back to the path of morality and service of Hashem after we fail.  We are security for something precious. That might be for our family values (Yaakov for Yehudah), to our underlying sense of honor and responsibility (Yehudah’s need to fulfill his commitment – even in the face of shame), most certainly to the teachings of the Torah, to our neshamot and to the version of ourselves we strive to be.

Another word related to the root of Yehudah is to be modeh, to admit or acknowledge.  Yehudah was able to look inward and acknowledge his actions and to take responsibility.  He could then take the appropriate corrective action. We are not perfect. We are not expected to be tzadikim. We simply must be able to acknowledge who we are and what we do so we can turn things around.

"Who knows three?"

As we close out the Seder every Pesach, our families sing “three are the fathers and four are the mothers.” But is this true? No doubt there are three fathers, but what is the correct number of mothers? Were there four?  Perhaps there are only three? The most accurate answer actually might be six. Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger explains:

When we bless our daughters, we beseech Hashem to imbue them with the qualities of Sarah, Rivka, Rachel and Leah—the four mothers. In Parshat Vayeshev, Bilhah and Zilpah are clearly identified as wives of Yaakov (“neshei aviv”), this might support six. Rachel is the one who eternally weeps for her children in exile, she was solely designated for Yaakov (Leah believed she was destined for Eisav: see Rashi to Bereishit 29:17) and she, the younger sister, not Leah who birthed such a large number of tribes, is mentioned third in the weekly blessing (we also note Rashi on Bereishit 31:33, who states that Yaakov’s regular abode was in Rachel’s tent and that generally Rachel is the only one designated in the Torah as “eshet Yaakov.”)

Turning back to Seder night, the focus seems to be on the fours—the four cups, the four sons, the four expressions of redemption, and so on. But it is actually the threes that have primacy: one does not fulfill one’s obligation without mentioning three things (Pesach, Matzah, Maror) and the Ten Plagues are condensed into a three-part acronym.

Our people are a nation of threes, as Rav Chisda expresses in Shabbat 88a: “Blessed is the Merciful One who gave the threefold Torah (Torah, Neviim, Ketuvim) to the threefold nation (Kohanim, Leviim, Yisraelim), through the third born (Moshe) on the third day of separation in the third month (Sivan).” Indeed, there is an even earlier three to be associated with our people: according to the Midrash, Avraham Avinu recognized Hakadosh Baruch Hu at the tender age of three years old.

What is the significance of three and how does this relate to the elevated status of Rachel?

While Three Dog Night may have designated one as “the loneliest number,” it is, in fact, the most important number. It is Hashem and it represents unity. With no other (ein od milvado), there is only clarity.  There can be no contradiction or confusion.

When a second is introduced, when there are two, there is opposition and conflict. Adam might not have sinned without his “negdo,” the one opposite him. Yitzchak prayed for children, but that prayer was “lenochach ishto,” opposite his wife. This is not to imply that a man and woman are in a perpetual state of conflict.  Quite the contrary, their ideal state is one of shalom bayit. Nevertheless, this cannot be achieved without a center point, without a third, a three, that integrates their disparate personalities and natures.

Our nation has three fathers, but we are most closely identified as the children of only the third: we are the sons of Yaakov, we are identified as Benei Yisrael. A parent cannot spoil and indulge a child with love: Avraham is the parent of love.  Likewise, a parent cannot always be strict and exacting, as represented by Yitzchak. The most fitting parent blends together these two characteristics into a path of truth and clarity – “titen emet leYaakov.” The third father was the center point that provided our foundation.

If we focus on Rachel, we see that she, more than any of the matriarchs, represented this same center point. She took action at two critical junctures that displayed contradictory behavior. When Lavan substituted Leah when Rachel was to marry Yaakov, she refused to allow her sister to face embarrassment and she honored her father. In other words, she showed love, compassion and respect.

Yet she was willing to disrespect Lavan, even to the point of risking her own safety and that of her family, by removing the idols from his home; they were a complete anathema to her. Rachel, like Yaakov, was a mixture of love and justice (In contrast, Leah showed no compassion to Rachel after she asked for the flowers from Reuven. Leah demanded payment in the form of extra time with Yaakov.).

As the children of Yaakov and Rachel, our spiritual DNA contains the capacity to experience the world in three dimensions, not two. There is a time for love and life and mercy and peace.  Likewise, there is a time to be strict, to fight, to kill, to make war and to be vengeful. The first is ideal, the second is sometimes and reluctantly necessary. However, the guiding principle is always truth and what is right – and that is what our three, our Torah, demands from us.

Unfortunately, much of the world exists in a two-dimensional reality. We are surrounded by those who believe that there is only a single path—the path of death and hate.  In their world there is their way or no way.  Three Dog Night had it wrong. One is not the loneliest number…but two is – the two of conflict, the two of deceit and manipulation and the two of mutual destruction. Any solution involving two is likely one doomed to fail.

Post Script: We all know the old joke about the two Jews stranded on the island having three shuls: one for each and the third that neither would go to. Thinking about this a little more, this explanation does not hold up. They each already had one they would not pray in, this being the shul the other Jew occupied. It is more logical to believe that the third shul was the place where they prayed together; it was the third point where, as the children of Yaakov and Rachel, they would have cried out together be rescued.

Lavan the Deceiver – Nature or Nurture?

Was Lavan always bad, or did something happen in his life to turn him to the side of evil?  Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger speculates: 

Lavan, brother of Rivka and father to Rachel and Leah, is certainly one of the more controversial biblical figures. In one respect, he is our uncle and forefather. His sister Rivka directed Yaakov to seek a wife from his home, so she knew he would stay there for an undetermined duration while Eisav’s wrath cooled—and would know he would influence and mentor him. However, we also know that Lavan cheated Yaakov tens of times. Lavan’s most egregious swindle was to switch Leah for Rachel—an action that resulted in Yaakov’s indentured servitude for an additional seven years. Lavan was considered such a threat to the very existence of our people that the Torah describes him as a person that wanted to destroy our father (Devarim 26:5). He is consistently referred to as “Lavan ha’Arami” (“Lavan the deceiver”).

If this is truly who he was, if this was his character, how could Rivka have sent Yaakov to him? Perhaps, this was not his nature. Maybe some event changed him, an experience which taught him that the way to advance or the way to protect himself and to get what is his was through deceit and misdirection. Ironically, this turning point, this critical time in his development, may have been his interaction with the house of his sister’s new family.  In other words, Lavan learned it from the house of Avraham (via his servant)—and Rivka may have been totally unaware of this.

Let us pay careful attention to Eliezer’s interactions with Rivka and her family—with close attention to Lavan:

1. Eliezer sets out on the journey laden with the ten of the finest camels and the entire (and considerable) wealth of Avraham’s house (Bereishit 24:10).

2. He speaks to Hashem in order to set up a test to find the right woman for Yitzchak (24:12-14)

3. Rivka enters and passes the test (24:15-21)

4. Eliezer gives her expensive gold jewelry (24:22).

She reveals who her family is and brings him home. Lavan then comes out to meet Eliezer.

5. Lavan comes out of the house, sees the jewelry and then is enthusiastically and generously hospitable (24:30-32).

Eliezer explains who he is, why he is there, recounts the story (including the sign from Hashem) and asks that he bring Rivka back as a wife for his master’s son.

6. Betuel and Lavan agree (24:51). Eliezer offers nothing and they receive nothing.

7. Despite arriving with the camels and a significant display of wealth, Eliezer gives Rivka gold and silver vessels and garments, but only migdanot (presents) to Betuel and Lavan (24:53). Soo they are soon on their way back to the house of Avraham on the camels (in fact, Rivka even departed with her maid) (24:61).

Bottom line: Eliezer came, he showed off immense wealth, he perhaps implied that they would profit if they agreed to allow him to take Rivka, they agreed – and he took the girl (who actually received all of the fine gold jewelry which presumably she would take with her) and the wealth. Betuel and Lavan got played!

Lavan must have been furious! He was conned. What’s more, he was conned by the virtuous Avraham, he was conned by a wealthy man, and he was conned by family (Sarah was Betuel’s aunt). He was taught lessons that he carried through his life. Is there any wonder he became “Lavan the deceiver”?

Now fast forward many years. Yaakov arrives in Aram and he wants a wife! For Lavan the irony must be delicious. What could be better?  His sister—his rich sister and now part of the family who deceived him so many years earlier—has delivered her precious son to his doorstep. Oh, are they going to pay! They are going to pay top dollar!

The story that plays out is almost a mirror image of ours. Yaakov is by a well. He meets Rachel there.  He discovers that she is from the very family he seeks. She brings him home to meet the family. Lavan gives him the same enthusiastic and generous welcome.  Except, there is one big difference. Yaakov has no camels, no obvious wealth.

Lavan hugs/frisks him—but he feels no hidden cash or jewels.  He kisses him—but there’s nothing concealed in his mouth. Lavan will not be thwarted, his strategy must shift. He knows Yaakov is there to marry and wants to marry Rachel. Lavan is going to make him pay, with everything he is and everything he has. The deceiver emerges, the revenge trap is sprung.  “Shall you work for me for free? Tell me what you want!” (29:16). Yaakov is drawn in and is hung out to dry by his own initiative – working seven years for Rachel (29:18), which turns to fourteen years after the deception. Fundamentally, Yaakov pays for the fact that Eliezer/Avraham themselves might be said to have acted deceitfully.

Perhaps Lavan was orignally a good person, perhaps not. Perhaps Eliezer was following the correct social norms, perhaps not. It is difficult to ignore the parallels between the two stories. In parashat Chayei Sarah the family seems to have expectations of significant wealth—gold, silver, camels—as payment. But they receive nothing. This might justifiably engender bad feelings and give rise to a grudge.  In Parashat Vayetze, Lavan clearly expects payment and makes sure to extract it.

Lavan could have been compassionate, he did not have to treat Yaakov so harshly. He did not have to take advantage of his passion and his situation. This may be why Lavan is cast in such a negative light.  However, it might not entirely be his fault. Perhaps it was not his nature. Rather, it was a learned behavior.