Yom HaShoah and the Valley of the Dry Bones

This evening begins Yom HaShoah, the day we remember the Holocaust and the tragic loss of one-third of our Jewish brethren, together with the generations unborn and uncounted that would have come from them. In the following piece, culled from the Destiny Foundation archives, Rabbi Wein speaks of what this day means to him, and of how he was able to find hope and resilience even among the ashes of the destroyed generation.

The advent of Yom HaShoah this week always engenders within me an inner turbulence and discomfort. It is not only the fact that the Holocaust destroyed six million innocent people simply because they were Jews—a  third of our nation and co-religionists-though that alone causes me to have great angst in my soul. Human beings are somehow built to withstand tragedy—even enormous indescribable tragedy—and to continue with life. Rather, part of my discomfort is that I, and I think the Jewish people generally, have not found a truly meaningful way of commemorating this historic tragedy. 

All  the Holocaust museums worldwide, and especially Yad Vashem here in Jerusalem, are magnificent in their historic presentation of the awful facts of the Holocaust. But one never leaves the museums with a sense of comfort or even consolation—let alone closure. There is no museum that can speak to the soul of the Jew. It speaks to our senses, even to our intellect, to our hearts, but somehow never to our soul. And it is that emptiness deep within our soul that gnaws at us and leaves us unfulfilled, no matter how magnificent the museum or meaningful the memorial ceremony may be. 

There are numerous groups within the Jewish society that do not participate in Holocaust memorial days or events. Many reasons are advanced for this seemingly insensitive behavior, none of which are satisfactory to my mind or soul. Yet I feel, deep down in my being, that the spiritual and soulful emptiness that always accompanies these commemorations reflects the absence of so many Jews. 

I say this not in criticism of any of the commemorations. They have an impossible task and therefore one should almost expect them to fall short of the mark. But the intellectual acceptance of this fact still does little to quiet the turmoil in my soul. 

I have always identified myself and our post-Holocaust generations with the great imagery of the scene described by the prophet Yechezkel. The prophet views a large valley covered by bleached scattered human bones. The Midrash teaches us that these were the remains of the tens of thousands of the tribe of Joseph who attempted to escape Egyptian bondage before the actual redemption from Egypt by Moses took place. They had fallen victim to the ravages of the desert and the enmity of the pagan tribes that persecuted them. The prophet sees no hope for their revival. After all, by his time they have already been dead for millennia. And the prophet also senses that they have never properly been mourned and commemorated. 

The Lord informs the prophet that these bones are symbolic of “the entire household of Israel.” The household of Israel is itself overwhelmed with its anonymous dead who have no graves or monuments to somehow mark the fact that they once lived on this earth. The prophet despairs of their revival or continuity. But the Lord tells him to prophesy over the dry bones and restore them to their physical human form. Then the spirit of the Lord enters them and they come back life and rise up from the valley floor as a mighty host. 

The prophet does not tell us what the end of this story was. What happened to this mighty host of newly and miraculously revived Jews? The Talmud offers two different insights on this matter. One is that the revival was only a temporary phenomenon and that they all reverted immediately to being dry dead bones. This opinion was contradicted by the sage Rabbi Yehuda ben Beteira. He rose in the study hall and stated: “God forbid that we should advance such a pessimistic opinion. Rather, they married, raised children and lived a full life thereafter. And I am a descendant of theirs and as a proof of the matter I hold in my hand the tefillin of my ancestors [that they themselves wore.]” 

I feel that the only closure that can reach our soul regarding Jewish tragedy is the recognition of the continuity of generations and tradition that binds the Jewish people together. Our past, those that are gone and even those who are unknown to us whose ashes and bones litter the landscape of a cursed continent, live on through us - through our achievements and struggles on behalf of Torah and Israel. 

We wear their tefillin, many of us literally, all of us figuratively. This realization regarding the tefillin will always speak to our souls and help us to truly commemorate the Holocaust and the resilience of the Jewish people in overcoming a tragedy of even such incalculable dimensions.

Days of memory

Now that we have passed Pesach and entered the zone of Sefirat HaOmer, a sequence of special calendar dates will soon be upon us.  In a piece written some years ago for the Destiny Foundation, Rabbi Wein explains.

These few weeks are crowded with special days of memory here in Israel. Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron L’Chalellei Tzahal, and Yom HaAtzma’ut come upon us in swift succession. They are really the framework for the Israeli psyche—both political and national—that governs our national mood and policies. The rest of the world does not, and perhaps cannot, understand where we are coming from. 

Yom HaShoah has taught us that if someone arises and, as a matter of principle, means to exterminate the Jewish people, there are no real protectors in the world on whom we can rely upon to arise and use force to defend us. Yom Hashoah comes to remind us that reality differs from the naive hopes on which we would so much like to rely. The fecklessness of the world in the face of militant Islam, unabating terrorism, and rogue nuclear armed states inspires little confidence here in Israel; there is no comfort for us in platitudes and statements about commitments to Israeli security. We may say “never again” but deep down in our hearts we know that “again” remains, God forbid, a distinct possibility. 

The world wants us to get over the Holocaust while at the same time creating a scenario that constantly reminds us of the Holocaust. People who are bitten by large dogs do not walk on the same side of the street where rottweilers are present. 

The Jewish people have paid a heavy price for maintaining our little state. Tens of thousands of Jews have been killed and continue to die for its preservation. The Arab world has basically never come to terms with the reality of the existence of the State of Israel. Constant war, mindless terrorism, unceasing incitement, never-ending accusations, fabrications and biased UN resolutions have been the daily fare of the State of Israel since its inception. 

We can never, God forbid, lose a war—but we are never allowed to win one either. So Yom HaZikaron L’Chalellei Tzahal becomes tragically a regular occurrence in our lives. Golda Meir may have famously expressed her regrets over the deaths of the Arabs in their struggles against our existence. But the Arabs have never expressed such sentiments. 

The Ayatollahs of Iran have said that they were willing to lose fifteen million(!) Iranians in order to eradicate the State of Israel. It is hard to see how one can come to an accommodation with such bloodthirsty and uncaring fanatics who value human life, theirs and certainly ours, so cheaply. So Yom HaZikaron comes to remind us of the real world and of the heartbreaking cost that Israel paid and pays to survive in that world. 

Again, pious platitudes about peace do not change the reality of murderous intent on the ground. We have been down that road too many times in the past to be seduced to go there again. 

The miracle of the past century was and remains the reestablishment of Jewish sovereignty over the Land of Israel. Yom HaAtzma’ut has to be viewed in that light. The tragedy is that this miracle, unlike Chanukah and Purim, had no religious leadership that could have cloaked it with the necessary ritual that would have made the day so meaningful to all sections of Israeli and Jewish society. Having a barbecue in the park hardly makes it a memorable day, a tradition of observance that can be passed on to later generations. 

Those of us who were alive when the State came into being and experienced all the pangs of its establishment are a fast-disappearing breed. The deniers amongst us, and certainly in the non-Jewish world, already distort and falsify the story. The victim has become the oppressor and Goliath struts around the world stage as David. Yom HaAtzma’ut should come to remind us of the real story, of God’s grace unto us in a dismal century, of Jewish heroism and purpose and of triumph against all odds and powerful enemies. 

It should also remind the world that even though it is popular and oh-so-politically correct and progressively noble to damn Israel, in the long run it is highly counterproductive to do so. So let us take these days to heart and stand tall for our God and land.

Living in a non-binary world

 Continuing our series of erev Shabbat posts on the perek of the week, we now turn to a mishnah from Perek 5.

There is a strange mishnah at Avot 5:21:

כָּל הַמְזַכֶּה אֶת הָרַבִּים, אֵין חֵטְא בָּא עַל יָדוֹ, וְכָל הַמַּחֲטִיא אֶת הָרַבִּים, אֵין מַסְפִּיקִין בְּיָדוֹ לַעֲשׂוֹת תְּשׁוּבָה. מֹשֶׁה זָכָה וְזִכָּה אֶת הָרַבִּים, זְכוּת הָרַבִּים תָּלוּי בּוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: צִדְקַת יְיָ עָשָׂה, וּמִשְׁפָּטָיו עִם יִשְׂרָאֵל. יָרָבְעָם בֶּן נְבָט חָטָא וְהֶחֱטִיא אֶת הָרַבִּים, חֵטְא הָרַבִּים תָּלוּי בּוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: עַל חַטֹּאות יָרָבְעָם אֲשֶׁר חָטָא, וַאֲשֶׁר הֶחֱטִיא אֶת יִשְׂרָאֵל

Whoever causes the community to be meritorious, no sin will come by his hand. But anyone who causes the community to sin is not given the opportunity to repent.

Moses was meritorious and caused the community to be meritorious, so the community's merit is attributed to him; as it says: "He did God's righteousness, and His laws with Israel" (Devarim 33:21). Jeroboam the son of Nevat sinned and caused the community to sin, so the community's sin is attributed to him, as it says: "For the sins of Jeroboam, which he sinned and caused Israel to sin" (I Melachim 15:30).

Let’s leave aside the issues of what the verses cited in support of this teaching actually prove, and why the first of the two does not even refer to Moses, and move on to another point, one that our Sages discuss. They ask: when the mishnah says, of the person who makes the community meritorious, “no sin will come by his hand”, to whose sin does this refer? Is it the person who benefits the community who is saved from sinning—or is it the community itself?

R' Shimshon Raphael Hirsch mentions both possible readings and treats them as being valid, as does R’ Abraham J. Twerski (Visions of the Fathes). Some commentators opt for the latter since this is the reward that the community gets for following the example of its righteous leader. R’ Avraham Azulai (Ahavah beTa’anugim) gives the example that, when the leader performs an act which is normally forbidden  but for which he has a heter (permission), it will not happen that others, watching him, will perform the same act in breach of halachah. The Meiri argues however that it must mean the leader, since he should not go to Gehinnom when he dies while his community relishes the joys of the Garden of Eden. R’ Yitzchak Magriso (Me’am Lo’ez) supports this view, which originates with Rambam.

Now here’s a fresh perspective on this Mishnah, based on an idea of Maharam Shik.

Looking generally at people whose actions benefit the community, we can divide them into two camps. There are those who act this way because they love God and are motivated by their love for Him to do His will by assisting His creations to keep on the right path. There are also those who are motivated by love for their fellow humans, with whom they empathise and deeply wish to elevate to heightened standards of behaviour towards God and man.

What is the significance of this distinction? Perhaps it offers a key to unlock the answer to our question above. We can say that, where a person is driven by love for God, it is he who will not be caused to sin in the process of helping others. However, where a person seeks to help others because of his love for them, it is they who will not be led into the grasp of sin.

In reality we do not live in a binary world in which everything is either-or. There is no reason why a person cannot be motivated both by love of God and by love of one’s fellow humans. Indeed, when it comes to either seeking to acquire Torah learning (Avot 6:6) or to learning Torah for its own sake and without any ulterior motive (Avot 6:1), the paradigm figure is one who loves both God and His creations.

A song for Spring, a love song for the land

This Shabbat/Yom Tov we recite Shir HaShirim, the Song of Songs. Here's a devar Torah by Rabbi Wein that focuses on this inspiring and, it turns out, seasonal ode to nature and to our reconnection with the land that God gave us.

Those of us who live in the northern hemisphere are excitedly awaiting springtime and the end of our winter weather woes. Here in Israel we had a fairly normal winter with a decent amount of rain and a few cold spells. it was an unremarkable winter, weather wise. Nevertheless, winter is winter and I for one am keenly looking forward to the arrival of the spring season, the blooming flowers, trees and the great holidays of Pesach and Shavuot that mark the book ends—the beginning and the end—of the spring season here in Israel. 

The great song of springtime is Shir HaShirim, written by King Solomon, and according to the custom of many synagogues, is read publicly on Shabbat Chol Hamoed or on acharon shel Pesach. There is no more lyrical description of the advent of springtime than that which appears in Shir HaShirim. It evokes not only the reawakening of nature and the change of weather but it also speaks the mood, the emotions and the spiritual quality that attaches itself to that season.

The Jewish people were freed from Egypt and from bondage in the springtime. The Torah explicitly commands us to commemorate that freedom with the holiday of Pesach and the Jewish calendar must always be adjusted so that this holiday falls when spring arrives. Springtime has come to symbolize not only a change of nature and mood but also our change of status: from slaves to free and independent people. It represents our ability to free ourselves from he whims of others so that we can fulfil our own potential as a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. 

When most human beings were occupied in agricultural tasks, we noticed the change of seasons and the arrival of spring more than now, in our urbanized and industrialized world, where spring has lost some of its luster. The city dweller today rarely visits farms or orchards. Indeed, industrialized and global farming has caused some folk to think that apples and bananas grow in bags and are raised in fruit stores and supermarkets. This disconnect between nature and humans is a troubling aspect of modern society. I am not suggesting that we return to horses and buggies and backbreaking farm labor. However, an appreciation of nature and its bounty, of the change of seasons and the weather patterns that accompany it, can only serve to strengthen our spirituality and the yearning for eternity that exists within all of us. 

The pagan world, terrorized by nature, worshiped various angry gods who had to be appeased, even by human sacrifice. Judaism however viewed nature as an instrument of God's will and as a blessing for humanity, with the ability to harness its bounty and turn it into a positive and manifold gift to the human race. The coming of spring brings a restatement of this belief and attitude. 

Part of the legacy of our long and bitter exile has been a disconnect between the appreciation of nature and our entire educational system. One of the six sections of the Mishnah concerns itself solely with matters of agriculture, botany and farming. This section of the Mishnah, Zeraim, was neglected in rabbinic scholarship for centuries. Rabbi Menachem HaMeiri, of early fourteenth century Provence, pointed out that that this section of Torah did not appear in the curriculum of the yeshivot of his time and place. This was true of all later generations of Jewish scholarship until the nineteenth century, which saw the beginning of Jewish immigration from the dark winter of Eastern Europe to the springtime of the Land of Israel. 

As Jews began to return to the Holy Land and reconnected themselves to the soil, the desert began to bloom and the desolate landscape turned green and verdant. All of the great prophets of Israel foresaw an agricultural and natural rebirth in the redemption of the Jewish people from exile and their return home to the Land of Israel. In fact, the prophets stated that the harbinger of the eventual redemption, in its totality, would be the rebirth of the natural produce and beauty of the land itself. 

Springtime reminds us of the great miracle that we have witnessed and are part of. It guarantees us hope for the full completion of the process of redemption in our time.

The importance of being commanded: Tzav 5785

The word “tzav” conveys much of the basic message of Judaism and the traditions of Torah life.  Even though we live, or believe that we do, in a world of free choice and personal autonomy, the structure of every civilization and society is based on commands to do certain things in life. Sometimes it is our family that makes these demands on us; other times it is our work. Still other times it is the government that intrudes upon our autonomy. There is always a piece of us, deeply hidden within the recesses of our psyche, that rebels against these intrusions on our personal right to decide.

 Recognizing this, the Torah emphasizes the need for commandments to ensure a moral lifestyle and a better society. Even the great Aharon, the paradigm of human goodness and peace, the holy High Priest of Israel, must be commanded. The strength of being commanded, of “tzav”, is the bulwark of Jewish tradition. Without that ingredient of asher tzivanu (“He who has commanded us”) there is no Judaism and ultimately no private or public Jewish life.

 From infancy onwards, we are shaped and raised by commandments. The rabbis called this process chinuch—laying a strong foundation for our lives. The “tzav” which introduces this week’s parsha is not only to be understood in its literal and narrow meaning as applying to the laws of Temple sacrifices and the High Priest. It must be seen as the basic expression of the mindset of Judaism in all its aspects.

Special note should be made that the word “tzav” appears in conjunction with the commandments regarding the sacrifice of the olah in the Temple. The olah was the only sacrifice from which no human being obtained any immediate tangible benefit, being completely consumed by the fire on the altar. There must have been a hidden voice of hesitancy that resonated within the person bringing that sacrifice and even within the priest who offered it up. After all, what value is a sacrifice if no one derives any immediate value from its offering?

 Because human logic is limited in comparison with God’s infinite wisdom, the Torah emphasizes here the word “tzav”: this is an order andis not subject to human logic or choice. Life sometimes makes demands on us that are illogical and sometimes appear capricious. Nevertheless they must be met. By realizing the innate necessity in life for “tzav”—for submitting to Divine Will and obeying it, we make our lives easier to live and more meaningful too. We also must realize that life at times demands an olah from us, selfless sacrifice that shows little immediate or tangible reward or benefit. We are here to serve. That is our ultimate purpose. 

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein 

Shabbat HaGadol -- a lesson in freedom and responsibility

 In addition to Rabbi Wein's regular devar Torah on the parashah (here), we reproduce a piece by Rabbi Wein on the significance of Shabbat HaGadol. Enjoy!

The Shabbat that precedes the holiday of Passover has been named by Jewish tradition as Shabbat Hagadol—the Great Shabbat. Over the ages there have been many explanations as to why this Shabbat is set apart from all others. Rabbinic literature records that it marks the anniversary of the Jewish people’s preparation of the sacrificial lamb for the Passover offering while they were yet in Egypt, awaiting their imminent deliverance. Other reasons for the name have been advanced, all of which have been treasured in Jewish life over the centuries. 

Allow me to introduce another idea that I feel has relevance and importance. Passover represents freedom from bondage, a release from slavery and the creation of myriad possibilities for self-growth and accomplishment. However, human history testifies to the fact that freedom carries with it many responsibilities and dangers. Indeed, there has never been consensus as to what the true definition of freedom is or should be. 

Humans vacillate between uninhibited hedonism and unbridled licentiousness on one hand and tyranny of thought, action and social conformity on the other. Everyone claims to speak in the name of freedom, but we are aware that all ideas of freedom are subject to interpretation and circumstance. For many people freedom of speech only applies to speech that gains their approval. And this is true for all freedoms to which we pay lip service. We find it hard to stomach ideas that do not match our own. 

We therefore need to educate and train ourselves if we are to see that freedom is properly defined and implemented in society—and the training ground is Shabbat. In its essence, and paradoxically through its restrictions, it frees us from the chains of everyday life that so bind and constrict us. It allows for a freedom of the spirit and the imagination, for thought and for rest, which are almost universally absent from our regular six-day workweek. The Talmud elevated this notion to new heights, adding that freedom was inscribed on the tablets of the law that Moshe brought down from Sinai. Only by understanding the divine law and by appreciating one’s role in the universe that God created can one achieve a proper understanding of the gift of freedom.

It is obvious that misapplication of freedom has led to untold tragedies for millions of people throughout the history of mankind. The responsibilities of freedom are great. They are also demanding, requiring perspective and inner discipline. These items are the gifts of the Shabbat to the Jewish people, for they shape the ideas and goals of freedom for all who partake of the holy nature of that day. Without education and training, freedom itself may become an unbearable burden and a liability instead of an asset. 

Perhaps this Shabbat becomes the Great Shabbat because it teaches us how to be free and protects us from the lethal dangers of misapplied freedom. Freedom is not measured only by outside forces, governments and societal pressures. It is also measured by the internal emotions and mindset of the individual. One can live in the freest of societies and yet feel that one is a captive and a slave. 

A scene in a book by one of the Russian Jewish dissidents describes how he shared a cell with a clergyman of another faith, a monotheistic believer and a person who was moral to his very core. In one of the many discussions that this Jewish dissident had with his cellmate, they both concluded that only in this dungeon did they both feel completely free. And though they both desired to be released from the prison, they agreed that they probably would never again feel themselves to be as free as they did at that moment in the darkness of the jail. 

All the rules and ideas that are expressed in the Torah are meant to imbue in us this concept of freedom. Freedom is the connection of ourselves to our inner soul and to the Creator that has fashioned us all.

The Message of the Haggadah

Following his devar Torah on the meaning and the significance of  Shabbat HaGadol, Rabbi Paul Bloom here shares with us a brief vort on the Haggadah, specifically the Ha Lachma Anya passage in which we read, “Now we are here: next year, may we be in the Land of Israel. Now we are slaves; next year, may we be free men.”

The Ya’avetz asks an insightful question: Why the repetition? If we’re praying to be in Eretz Yisrael, aren’t we already praying for freedom, for redemption? His answer is profound. First, we express our hope to be in the Land of Israel, even if the final redemption hasn’t fully arrived yet. We then pray for the complete redemption—both physical and spiritual—by the next Pesach.

This insight teaches a crucial lesson. Many Jews in the Diaspora justify their refusal to make aliyah, saying, “What’s so special about Israel today? I’ll go when Mashiach comes.” But Rav Ya’akov Emden teaches us that there is intrinsic merit in living in the Holy Land, even if things aren’t perfect yet.

There are three levels of exile: absolute exile, when Jews are far from Israel, and absolute redemption, when Mashiach comes. But there is a middle ground—living in Israel today is already a step closer to redemption, even if we’re not yet in the ultimate ge’ulah.

In Rav Emden’s time, traveling to Israel was incredibly difficult. Today, though, we have the opportunity to move to Eretz Yisrael freely. Let’s embrace that opportunity. If we make the effort to be in Israel, Hashem may just fulfill our prayer: “Next year, may we be free men.”

Sing your "Ha Lachma Anya" this year: some jolly tunes here, here and (especially for Moroccans) here.

The Miracle, The Meaning, and the Message

What makes Shabbat HaGadol so "great," and why is it so significant in our tradition? Hanassi member Rabbi Paul Bloom explores these questions, from the miracle that occurred on this day to the deep spiritual messages it holds.

1. The Miracle of Shabbat HaGadol

At its core, the miracle of Shabbat HaGadol is a powerful act of defiance. On 10 Nissan, just days before the Exodus, the Jewish people did something extraordinary. They took lambs—animals sacred to the Egyptians—and set them aside for the Korban Pesach, the Passover offering. In essence, they were rejecting Egyptian idolatry publicly. It’s like burning a national flag today. The Egyptians, surely expecting retaliation, were powerless to stop it. Their inaction was in itself a miracle—a divine protection for the Jewish people, known as a nes shel haganah, a miracle of defense.

But there’s more. Beyond this simple miracle, Shabbat HaGadol carries profound spiritual meaning. I’d like to share three interpretations that highlight its depth.

The Fulfillment of Avraham’s Vision

The first perspective comes from the Sfat Emet, who connects Shabbat HaGadol with the vision of our forefather, Avraham. When Hashem promised Avraham, “I will make you into a great nation” (Bereishit 12:2), Avraham’s vision wasn’t of a nation defined by military might or economic power. No: Avraham longed for a nation that was great in spirit—a people devoted to faith, kindness, and divine service.

It was on this Shabbat, as the Jewish people prepared for the Exodus and performed the first mitzvah together—the Korban Pesach—that we became that nation. This was the beginning of the the greatness, that Avraham had envisioned. We became a nation of faith, standing up to Egypt and idolatry, and embracing our role as God’s chosen people.

A New Dimension of Shabbat

The second insight, also from the Sfat Emet, teaches us that Shabbat HaGadol introduces a new layer to the meaning of Shabbat itself. Until this moment, Shabbat was mainly a commemoration of Creation—“Zecher LeMa’aseh Bereishit.” But on this Shabbat, we begin to also remember the Exodus—“Zecher LiYetziat Mitzrayim.”

This duality is reflected in our Kiddush prayers. In Shemot (Exodus) 20:8, we recite the commandment to observe Shabbat because Hashem created the world in six days. But in Devarim (Deuteronomy) 5:15, we are reminded to keep Shabbat because we were once slaves in Egypt and Hashem freed us.

Shabbat, then, becomes more than just a remembrance of creation. It becomes a symbol of our freedom. Each Shabbat is a resistance to the world’s demands and a reminder that we are no longer slaves. I once had a student, a successful lawyer, who couldn’t take a day off for Purim. “I can’t,” he said, “I have work.” I looked at him and asked, “Are you an eved Kena’ani? A slave?” A week later, he showed up to my class and said, “You were right. I am not a slave.”

This is the power of Shabbat—it reminds us of our freedom and our ability to step away from the grind of daily life to reconnect with Hashem.

 The Source of All Blessing

The third perspective comes from Rav Tzadok HaKohen, who teaches that Shabbat is the source of all blessing. What does this mean? Shabbat functions in two directions. First, it gathers all the holiness from the past week. Every mitzvah, every act of kindness, every moment of Torah learning from the days before accumulates within us, feeding our extra Shabbat soul—the neshamah yeteirah. Secondly, Shabbat sets the spiritual foundation for the coming week. Any success we will have in Torah learning or mitzvot during the upcoming week draws its strength from the Shabbat before it.

This idea helps us understand various customs in Jewish life. For example, the Shalom Zachar before a Brit Milah, or the Aufruf before a wedding, because the spiritual sanctity of those events already exists in potential form within the Shabbat before them. Similarly, Rav Tzadok teaches that the spiritual energy for the redemption of Pesach began on Shabbat HaGadol. It was here that the light of the Exodus first shone.

Conclusion: The Power of Shabbat HaGadol

So, why is Shabbat HaGadol so great? It is great for three main reasons:

1. It marks the birth of our spiritual nation, fulfilling Avraham’s vision of a nation devoted to Hashem.
   
   
2. It adds a new layer of meaning to Shabbat, making it not just about creation but about our freedom as a people.
   
   
3. It is the source of redemption, setting the stage for the spiritual and physical redemption of Pesach and beyond.

Each Shabbat, in a way, is a taste of redemption. As Chazal teach us, “In Nissan, we were redeemed, and in Nissan, we will be redeemed again.” May we merit to experience the ultimate redemption, speedily in our days.

Chad Gadya! What's the story behind the lyrics?

Does the singing of "Chad Gadyo" feature among your earliest and most powerful childhood Pesach memories? That beloved song -- now rebranded "Chad Gadya" -- remains eternally young even we we grow old. Here's Max Stern's arrangement of Chad Gadya for unaccompanied female voices. It's a real treat -- and it sounds much like the tune this blogger learned when he was a small child.  If you want to know more about the lyrics, read on. The information below is taken from Wikipedia.

Chad Gadya (Aramaic: חַד גַדְיָא, "one little goat", or "one kid"; Hebrew: "גדי אחד,  gedi echad") is a playful cumulative song in Aramaic and Hebrew. It brings to an end the Passover Seder. Curiously this song first appeared in print in a Haggadah compiled in Prague in 1590, which makes it the most recent inclusion in the traditional Passover seder liturgy.

As with any work of verse, Chad Gadya is open to interpretation. According to some modern Jewish commentators, what appears to be a light-hearted song is deeply symbolic. One interpretation is that Chad Gadya refers to the different nations that have conquered the Land of Israel:

·       The kid symbolizes the Jewish people;

·       the cat, Assyria;

·       he dog, Babylon;

·       the stick, Persia;

·       the fire, Macedonia;

·       the water, Roman Empire;

·       the ox, the Saracens;

·       the slaughterer, the Crusaders;

·       the angel of death, the Ottomans.

At the end, God returns to send the Jews back to Israel. The recurring refrain of 'two zuzim' is a reference to the two stone tablets given to Moses on Mount Sinai (or to Moses and Aaron themselves). This interpretation, first widely disseminated in a pamphlet published in 1731 in Leipzig by Philip Nicodemus Lebrecht, has become quite popular, with many variations of which oppressor is represented by which character in the song.

Though commonly interpreted as an historical allegory of the Jewish people, the song may also represent the journey to self-development. The price of two zuzim, mentioned in every stanza, is (according to Targum Yonatan to I Shmuel 9:8) equal to the machtzit hashekel tax upon every adult Israelite male (in Shemot 30:13); making the price of two zuzim the price of a Jewish soul. 

Also, we have these explanations:

Rabbi Yaakov Emden: a list of the pitfalls and perils facing the soul during one's life.

Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschuetz: a highly abbreviated history of Israel from the Covenant of the Two Pieces recorded in Bereshit 15 (the two zuzim), to slavery in Egypt (the cat), the staff of Moses (the stick) and ending with the Roman conqueror Titus (the Angel of Death).

Rabbi Moshe Sofer (the Chatam Sofer): a description of the Passover ritual in the Temple of Jerusalem. There the goat is purchased for the Paschal sacrifice. The cat is an allusion to the Talmudic notion that dreaming of a cat is a premonition of singing such as occurs in the seder. Likewise, dogs bark after midnight which is the time limit for the seder. The Kohen who led the cleaning of the altar on Passover morning would use water to wash his hands; many people at the Temple that day would bring oxen as sacrifices, and the Angel of Death is the Roman Empire that destroyed the Second Temple.

The Vilna Gaon: the kid is the birthright that passed from Avraham to Yitzchak; the father is Yaakov; the two zumin is the meal Yaakov paid Eisav for his birthright; the cat is the envy of Yaakov’s sons toward Yosef; the dog is Egypt where Yosef and his clan were enslaved; the stick is the staff of Moshe; the fire the thirst for idolatry; the water the sages who eradicated idolatry; the ox is Rome; the shochet is the Messiah; the Angel of Death represents the death of Moshiach; the Holy One is God, who arrives with Moshiach.

Being in control: Vayikra 5785

The book of Vayikra, which we begin to read this Shabbat, contains very little narrative. This book is also called Torat Kohanim since it features the laws of the Mishkan service, the duties of the Kohanim, the laws of ritual purity, and the detailed descriptions of the sacrifices offered in the Mishkan. 

To many people these laws are anachronistic, if not completely unintelligible in the context of our present world. Yet every word of the Torah has eternal value for all at any given moment in human time. I think that it is obvious that the Torah here shows us that there is a world that requires sacrifices and is somehow influenced by offering those sacrifices. It is also a world where ritual purity matters greatly and profoundly influences human society. In this alternative world that we sense and sometimes even glimpse, the chumash of Vayikra reigns supreme. In that basically unseen world, every law of Vayikra is vitally relevant. 

The chumash of Vayikra comes to remind us of our limitations, both mental and spiritual, and that we must be able to accept that we cannot always fathom God’s motives in telling us how to behave in a certain fashion. This book is not meant to confuse and unnerve us. Rather, it is meant to humble us. 

Human beings always wish to be in control. But life blindsides at unexpected moments and in unpredictable ways. Life’s experiences only reveal to us how powerless and irrational we really are. There is very little that we can actually control. 

Human beings long for solutions and answers that emanate from the occult—from another world of being, the existence of which we are only dimly aware. So here we have the rub. The Torah is unalterably opposed to magic, superstitions, and appeals to spirits. So how do we square that strict approach with the presence of laws in Vayikra that clearly on the existence of another, unseen world rely for their relevance and strength of purpose? 

The answer lies in our understanding that all the words of the Torah are to be taken at face value and that the ultimate reason for obedience to them derives from the fact that we are commanded to do so. Many times the correct answer to the ubiquitous question of “Why?” is “Because!” Parents frequently apply this technique while attempting to raise their children in a proper fashion. The Lord for His own reasons, so to speak, employs this same method when dealing with the Jewish people who had already previously pledged allegiance to the Torah and its values. The chumash Vayikra is a prime example of this axiom of Jewish life. 

Shabat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein 

Korbanot -- the meaning and the mystery

In this thought-provoking piece, Rabbi Paul Bloom throws some highly relevant light on the concept and practice of ritual sacrifices in the Mishkan and Beit HaMikdash.

A Small Reminder

Our Sages of blessed memory refer to the Book of Vayikra as Torat Kohanim ("The Law of the Priests"), as it primarily deals with the laws of sacrifices, which were performed by the kohanim. The very first word of Parashat Vayikra sets the tone for the entire book:

“ויקרא אל־משה וידבר ה אליו מאהל מועד לאמר”
 

"And He called to Moshe, and Hashem spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying" (Vayikra 1:1).

A well-known peculiarity of this verse is the small alef (א) in the word Vayikra (ויקרא). Many commentators understand this as a symbol of Moshe's humility—despite his unparalleled sanctity and closeness to Hashem, he sought to minimize his own importance. However, the Zohar offers a radically different perspective. According to the Tosafot HaZohar (quoted in Itturei Torah, vol. 3, p. 7), the small alef signifies imperfection. Why? Because this Divine calling took place in the Mishkan (Tabernacle), which was situated outside the Land of Israel. True perfection, the Zohar teaches, can only be found in Eretz Yisrael.

This idea is striking. Was there ever a time in history when the Jewish people experienced a more intimate relationship with Hashem than during their forty years in the wilderness? They were enveloped by Heavenly clouds, sustained by manna, and led by Moshe Rabbeinu himself. Most significantly, they had a portable Beit HaMikdash, the Mishkan, where they could offer sacrifices and connect directly with God. Yet, despite these miracles, something was missing. The Jewish people were in the wrong environment. Only in Eretz Yisrael—where they would work the land, wage wars, and engage in the struggles of physical existence—could their avodat Hashem reach its full potential.

This lesson resonates powerfully today. Many Jews feel deeply fulfilled in their spiritual lives outside of Eretz Yisrael. Baruch Hashem, vibrant communities thrive in the Diaspora, boasting yeshivot, Torah institutions, and extraordinary chesed organizations. Yet, the Zohar reminds us that even the most elevated existence in Chutz LaAretz is inherently lacking. If the generation of the desert, who lived under direct Divine protection, still fell short because they were outside of Eretz Yisrael, how much more so must we recognize the importance of returning to our true spiritual home.

Thus, the small alef at the beginning of Vayikra serves as a subtle but powerful reminder: our ultimate goal is to serve Hashem in utter perfection—in His Chosen Land.

Korbanot: A Bridge Between Heaven and Earth

With this understanding of Vayikra’s opening words, we can better appreciate the role of korbanot. The Torah immediately introduces us to this world:

"Adam ki yakriv mikem korban laHashem" (Vayikra 1:2)

"When a man among you brings an offering to Hashem."

From this point forward, the Torah details the various offerings, their procedures, and their spiritual significance.

On one level, korbanot are deeply familiar to us. From the days of Kayin and Hevel to Avraham's offering of Yitzchak, from the korban Pesach in Egypt to the sacrifices in the Mishkan, korbanot played a central role in Jewish worship. Yet, on another level, they remain an enigma. The physical actions—slaughtering an animal, sprinkling its blood, burning its flesh—seem foreign to our modern spiritual sensibilities. How did this serve as an uplifting experience? This is a question for Eliyahu HaNavi and Mashiach to explain when the time comes. For now, we continue to study Torah, whose messages are eternal. Each generation uncovers new depths of understanding, and korbanot are no exception.

The Universal Message of "Adam"

One striking feature in the opening verses is the use of the word "Adam" rather than the more common "Ish" (man). Why "Adam"? This word holds profound meaning. First, it is a reference not only to an individual but to all of humanity, recalling Adam HaRishon. Additionally, "Adam" is encoded with deeper significance:

●      Aleph represents Hashem, the infinite One.

●      Dam means blood, the physical life force.

Man is thus a fusion of the divine and the earthly.

The Arizal further explains that "Adam" is an acronym for three fundamental aspects of Avodat Hashem:

●      Aleph – Emunah (Faith): Strengthening one’s belief in Hashem.

●      Daled – Dibur (Speech): Using speech properly in Torah, tefillah, and relationships.

●      Mem – Ma’aseh (Action): Performing mitzvot and righteous deeds.

The use of "Adam" also teaches another powerful lesson: korbanot were not exclusively for Jews. The Gemara (Menachot 73b) states that a God-fearing non-Jew could bring voluntary sacrifices. The Beit HaMikdash was called "Beit Tefillah le’chol ha’amim", a house of prayer for all nations (Yeshayahu 56:7). Shlomo HaMelech, in his inaugural speech for the Beit HaMikdash, acknowledged that non-Jews who sought to pray and offer korbanot were welcome.bThis universal invitation highlights the korbanot as a bridge between humanity and Hashem, emphasizing that all people can strive for holiness.

The Tamid Offering: A Lesson in Constancy

Among all the korbanot, the Korban Tamid stands out. Each day, without exception, began with the morning Tamid and ended with the afternoon Tamid. This concept of constancy—temidut—has deep significance. Rabbi Moshe Isserles (the Rema), in his commentary on the Shulchan Aruch, emphasizes two core themes:

1. Emunah – The opening words of the Shulchan Aruch cite "Shiviti Hashem lenegdi tamid", that Hashem should always be before us.
   
   
2. Simcha – The final words quote "Tov lev mishteh tamid", that one with a good heart is always celebrating.

These two constants—faith and joy—parallel the two Tamid offerings. No matter what challenges arise, a Jew’s foundation remains rooted in emunah in Hashem and simcha in the privilege of serving Him. Even though we do not bring korbanot today, these two principles guide our daily avodah. Our lives must be anchored in faith, and our service of Hashem must be infused with joy.

As we enter the month of Nissan, the month of redemption, may we merit to see the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash and the restoration of the korbanot. Until then, we continue to draw inspiration from their eternal lessons, deepening our faith and joy in serving Hashem—in Eretz Yisrael, our true spiritual home.

The Healing Haggadah: a new approach to the Pesach seder service

Last month Beit Knesset Hanassi hosted the launch of The Healing Haggadah: Passing Over Trauma, by Rabbi Michael Friedman. The author, a seventh-generation rabbi, licensed professional counselor, and educator, is eminently qualified to write on this delicate and sensitive topic, being the co-founder and Wellness Rabbi of Nafshi, a non-profit organization that blends Torah-based principles with holistic psychological and emotional wellness. Through Nafshi, he helps individuals to achieve spiritual and emotional balance using Jewish wisdom and modern psychology.

This is what Mosaica, the publisher, has to say about the book:

The Healing Haggadah: Passing Over Trauma offers a unique, experiential, and therapeutic approach to the Pesach Seder, guiding individuals and communities in processing collective and personal trauma. Through the lens of the Exodus story, Rabbi Michael Friedman, M.Ed., LPC, weaves psychological insights with Torah wisdom, making the themes of yetzias Mitzrayim deeply personal and transformative.

Rooted in traditional Torah commentary and modern psychology, this Haggadah empowers readers to identify their inner struggles, confront their personal Mitzrayim, and find redemption through the timeless lessons of the Seder night.

As one might expect from a book that is relatively slender and comfortably affordable, it is not a learned heavyweight tome addressed to scholars. Nor is it a list of superficial suggestions and generalised prescriptions for brushing off trauma and getting on with life as if trauma has had no effect. Rather, its function is to alert and sensitise readers to the way the text of the Haggadah alludes to the collective trauma of the Jewish people and offers paths by which our long-traumatised people can develop a resilience and a positive attitude that transforms us from victims to lead actors in the unscripted drama that is the history of the Jewish people.

Rabbi Friedman has kindly donated a copy of The Healing Haggadah to Beit Knesset Hanassi. You can find it downstairs in the library of our Beit Midrash.