Walking: not just a word but a motif

Our regular laureate, Hanassi member Pessy Krausz, has been at it again. With Tisha be'Av in mind, and having regard to her own remarkable escape from Nazi Germany in the Second World War -- culminating in a quite incredible voyage with the British army in their retreat from the beaches of Dunkirk --  she has composed a moving and evocative piece that she has themed around the concept of walking, the word that gives this poem its title.

Walking

by Pessy Krausz (14 July 2025)

Is jogging on my father’s shoulders
as he made his way fast
ever faster from Antwerp to Belgium
called walking

 Is jumping to the booming sounds
of Nazi bombs dropping all around
as my mother – putting one foot in front of the other
barely keeping up with my tall father
clings to his arm saying -
Nich so schnell Aron, das Kind schlaft!
(Not so fast Aron – The child (me) is sleeping!)
called walking

 Is skipping along the narrow aisle
singing Pessy, drei dich, Pessy drei dich
when dropped into a fishing boat
saving us from certain death
from Nazi-overrun Dunkirk to Dover
stopping at each end of the gangway
as I pause to catch my breath
called walking

 Is being re-united in 1940 with my father
in a British town called Bletchley
and seeking a roof over our heads when
mother – Have you got a room? -
knocks on door after slammed door
to chorus of No Jews here while
dragging my tired 3 year old feet
until one gives us an attic palace
called walking

 Is finally being able to go to school
in brown lace up booties
the joke of all in my five year old class
with their smart patent leather shoes
and me with hair coiled on top of my head
all the rage in Germany where I was born
while all with bows and plaits and curls
make my way home past sniggering sillies
called walking

I’d rather be walking to and fro

speaking of Michael Angelo

than think how those cattle trucks come and go

where so many of mine and others perished -

I’d rather be walking to and fro in my very own land

speaking of miracles in our time

weathering the storms of Iron and Lion’s wars- 

children on my shoulders, and theirs on theirs

is the real miracle

walking on this earth and on Israel’s Holy soil

Yes! that is called walking!

Tisha b’Av: My Moment of Anger

Should Tisha b'Av be just a time for sorrow and repentance for us, or is there room for more? I n this revealing piece, our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger describes the powerful feeling of anger he experienced one year when preparing forTisha b'Av--and how he dealt with it. 

In previous blog posts, I have tried not to write in the first person. Meaning, I have avoided sharing my own perspectives or reflections. However, Tishah b’Av is an intensively personal day. Yes, it is a day of national mourning. More accurately, THE day of national mourning. However, one must feel the sadness and pain personally. If one does not, our sages say that he will not merit seeing the rebuilding of the Temple and the restoration of its glory.

We are different every yea,r so we bring different baggage with us into Tisha b’Av. When we sat on the ground on Tisha b’Av 2024, after experiencing the horrors of October 2023, after visiting the homes of friends who lost loved ones either that day or during the war that followed, or simply because we ourselves had experienced what it meant to be threatened on an existential level—just like the many individual Jews and Jewish communities described in the kinot—it was very hard to control our emotions. We were not recounting history; we were a part of it. It was similar to the words we recite on Seder night – “it was as if we, ourselves were leaving Egypt.”

Rather than dwelling on last year, I want to reach back many years ago to a particular summer when I spent a great deal of time reading the kinot in the weeks leading up to Tisha b’Av and examined the historical background of the events described. Most of us (especially members of this Beit Knesset who have had the privilege of listening to Rabbi Wein’s lectures and reading his books) are likely well versed in the unfortunate fates of our forebearers at the time of the destruction of the Temples at the hands of the Babylonians and the Romans, of the massacres during the Crusades, of the Spanish Inquisition, of the pogroms in Europe and, of course the Holocaust.

As I dug deeper, there are narratives, especially from the time of the destruction of the Batei Mikdash, that describe the causes—why we as a people deserved the horrible punishment and this long period of exile. There are also hums, quiet undertones, of several themes that are there to give us some consolation: that Hashem mourns with us, that we bear responsibility but that we can take corrective action, that this suffering—this long exile—will end, and that there will be a glorious restoration and great joy.

However, the more I read, as more and more pages turned, as decades and centuries passed, as there was more and more and more death and suffering – the inevitable questions that swirled in my head (why so much death, what did we really do to deserve this, when will this end?) gave way to something very different.

My intellection curiosity and my emotional sadness was replaced with something much more visceral: I became ANGRY. I hesitate to admit this, but I actually became ANGRY at Hashem. How many of His children must die to expiate whatever sins the Jewish people

committed over 2,000 years ago? How much time must pass?

If His condition is that we must all repent or become “shomer Torah u’mitzvot,” there are two ways to look at this: On one hand, and I do not mean to be a naysayer (but let’s be realistic) it ain’t gonna happen! We are too spread out, the nature of modern society is too free, open and diverse and there is unfortunately a lack of guidance and leadership. Without Moshiach/Divine intervention, as an organic whole we are what we are. On the other hand, the glass half full side, there are likely more people studying Torah full time, more yeshivot, more batei knesset, higher standards of kashrut, etc. than any time in Jewish history—and that should count for something!

Bottom line, why are we still mourning, why are we suffering, what is the galut accomplishing, what lessons are we being taught, what more can we do? We should just throw up our hands and go on strike – perhaps all play Choni HaMe’agel—we are not going to do Tisha b’Av, we are not going to accept His judgement, we are not stepping out of our circles, until He ends this galut. We are ANGRY at Him and we are not going to take it any more.

When I hit this point, I felt a little bad (I made sure I stayed grounded in case any stray lightning bolts appeared) and headed straight to a Rav I respected (Rav Avraham Jacobowitz, who we all lovingly call Rabbi J) to ask him if I was allowed to be angry at Hashem.

Surprisingly, he told me that it was an appropriate emotion for this period of time, because I was angry on behalf of our people. He said that just like Hashem is willing to allow his name to be erased for the water of the sotah, to bring peace to a husband and wife, He can handle some anger when it is expressed as a true emotion on behalf of his people—to champion their cause.

Nevertheless, Rabbi J said, it is a Tisha b’Av emotion. On Tisha b’Av Hashem certainly has compassion for us and, kaveyachol, regrets everything that has befallen us. He knows and understands what we are feeling—very deeply. He also knows that everything that has happened has been according to His plan, just like all that will happen.

As difficult as it may be, may our sadness and anger be calmed by understanding that we are in the hands of One who shares our pain, understands it and in the proper time, will end it.

May this be the year that we see the end of this long galut, the geulah shelemah and the biat Hamashiach.

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

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

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

The Covenant of Words

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

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

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

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

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

Speech and the Tzelem Elokim

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

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

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

The Request of Reuven and Gad: A Deeper Story

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

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

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

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

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

A Legacy of Promise

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't do it just because you can!

This week's trip to Pirkei Avot takes us back to Perek 2 in the third round of pre-Shabbat Pirkei Avot posts since Pesach.

 Taking a simplistic view of Jewish life, we can divide our day between (i) things we absolutely must do, (ii) things we are told to do as a sort of optional extra, (iii) things we are allowed to decide for ourselves whether we do them or not, (iv) things we are told not to do but there may be no problem if we do them, and (v) things we are prohibited from doing. When we study the Torah, much of what we learn involves looking at particular actions and trying to decide which category they belong to. 

Much if not most of Pirkei Avot addresses the third category: activities where we have an option or a discretion as to whether we do them or not. The tractate helps to sensitise us and make us more aware of the consequences of our actions. 

As we have mentioned before, Rabban Gamliel ben Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi (Avot 2:3) teaches: 

הֱווּ זְהִירִין בָּרָשׁוּת, שֶׁאֵין מְקָרְבִין לוֹ לְאָדָם אֶלָּא לְצֹֽרֶךְ עַצְמָן, נִרְאִין כְּאוֹהֲבִין בְּשַֽׁעַת הַנָּאָתָן, וְאֵין עוֹמְדִין לוֹ לְאָדָם בְּשַֽׁעַת דָּחֳקוֹ

 Be careful with the government, for they befriend a person only for their own needs. They appear to be friends when it is beneficial to them, but they do not stand by a person at the time of his distress.

 While the normal meaning of this mishnah is plain, there is another way of reading it that mines it for some fairly heavy mussar (moral chastisement). We do so by translating the Hebrew word רָשׁוּת (“rashut”, meaning “the government”) as “permission”.  If we take this route, we then have to reinterpret the rest of the mishnah. Who is it now that befriends a person for its own sake but deserts him at a time of need? The only plausible answer is a person’s yetzer hara, the urge to perform acts that may be downright evil, certainly illegal or, as in our case, merely undesirable.

 Is there any source for this? Yes. The Torah (Vayikra 19:2) requires us to be kedoshim, holy people, because God himself is holy. On this verse, Rashi cites a midrash which explains that being holy entails being perushim, people who separate themselves from sexual immorality and other sins. Ramban picks up on this: perushim in his view means more than separating oneself from that which is forbidden. How so?

According to Ramban we must distance ourselves from not only that which is forbidden but also with that which we are permitted to do, if by doing a permitted act we commit a chillul Hashem (a desecration of God’s name) and damage our own reputation at the same time. Examples are not hard to come by. The drinking of alcoholic beverages is permitted under Jewish law, but a Jew who knocks back half a bottle of whisky and carouses through the streets at 3.00am, singing bawdy songs at the top of his voice, can expect that neither his reputation nor that of God will benefit from this exercise. Rather, the opposite: people will view him as a drunken nuisance and a poor ambassador for the religion to which he aspires.  This sort of conduct is called being a naval birshut haTorah (a despicable person with the rashut of the Torah).

R' Chaim Druckman (Avot leBanim) cites this explanation of rashut in his discussion of Rabban Gamliel’s mishnah above, and he is not alone in offering it since it can be found three centuries after Ramban in R’ Shmuel de Uzeda’s Midrash Shmuel. However, it does seem to strain the meaning of the rest of the mishnah and, despite its powerful message, the injunction not to be a naval birshut haTorah does not seem on the face of it to be the message that Rabban Gamliel had in mind.

Rootless--but coming home: Mattot-Masei 5785

The reading of the book of Bamidbar concludes this week with the parshiyot of Mattot and Masei. Jews are inveterate travelers. The long exile that we have suffered has of necessity forced us to travel a great deal. There is almost no place in the world that we have not visited, settled and eventually moved from to a different location. Thus the record of all of the travels and way stations that the Jews experienced in their years in the Sinai desert is a small prophecy as to the future historical experiences of Jews over millennia of wandering.

Our enemies around the world have always accused Jews of being “rootless.”  But that is untrue. We have always been rooted in the Land of Israel, consciously or subconsciously, throughout our history as a people. It is in the Exile that we feel less grounded, never certain of the shifting ground beneath our weary feet. But, being a restless people, we are filled with curiosity over locations that we have not seen and wonders that we have yet to experience. 

The history of the Exile is that Jews arrive at a new destination, settle, help develop that country or part of the world, begin to feel at home and seek to assimilate into the majority culture. Suddenly this all collapses. A mighty and unforeseen wind uproots them  and they move on to new shores. There are hardly any Jews to speak of in Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, The Czech Republic, Slovakia, Romania, and so forth. This was the Jewish heartland for centuries. But now we have moved on again to other shores. 

The travels described in this week’s parsha had one ultimate goal, one destination in mind: to enter the Land of Israel and settle there. The Israel deniers in our midst, religious and secular, leftists and rightists, the scholars and the ignorant all share a common delusion—that the home of Jews, especially now, is not the Land of Israel. 

We are taught that the Jews stayed at the oasis of Kadesh in the desert for 38 of their 40-year sojourn in the Sinai desert. They became accustomed to life there and felt comfortable. The Land of Israel was a distant dream, an eventual goal perhaps but not an immediate imperative. But the Lord pushed them out of the desert to fight wars that they probably would have wished to avoid and to settle a land, harsh in character but with the potential of being one of milk and honey. 

The Torah records every way-station and desert oasis in order to remind us that these places exist only in our past. Our present and our future lie in the Land of Israel alone. This lesson is as valid today in our Jewish world as it was for our ancestors so long ago at Kadesh. 

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein

For Rabbi Wein's devar Torah on Mattot-Masei last year ("The Reuven-Gad Syndrome"), click here.

The Nursing Father: Book of the Month (Menachem Av, 5785)

For Menachem Av we have selected The Nursing Father: Moses as a Political Leader as our Book of the Month.  Written by Aaron Wildavsky, it was first published in 1984. In this work Wildavsky explores the political leadership of Moses as portrayed in the Bible. He examines the story of Moses not just as a religious narrative, but also as a case study in political leadership, arguing that it offers valuable insights into the dynamics of power and governance. The book's title, drawn from Bemidbar 11:12, itself gives an insight both into the mindset of Moshe and the author's approach.

The book's central thesis is that the Moses story can be understood as a lesson in political leadership, and that this understanding can enrich our comprehension of both biblical narratives and broader political theory. Wildavsky analyzes Moses's actions, decisions, and relationships within the context of his role as a leader of the newly-established desert nation, highlighting the challenges and complexities of his leadership. 

Wildavsky's approach to the topic is rooted in the field of political science and draws on sociological perspectives in order to analyze the political aspects of the Moses narrative. He examines how Moses navigated various political challenges, such as establishing authority, managing dissent, and mediating between different factions within the Israelite community. The book also explores the concept of the "nursing father" as a metaphor for Moses's role in nurturing and guiding Israel, both physically and politically. 

The Nursing Father has been reviewed and discussed by scholars of political science and religious studies, who have noted its provocative and insightful analysis of Moses's leadership. While some reviewers have questioned the extent to which Wildavsky's analysis fully integrates sociological theories, they generally acknowledge the book's contribution to understanding the political dimensions of the Moses story. 

You can find The Nursing Father on the shelves of the Marvin N. Hirschhorn collection, which is housed in the library of our Beit Midrash.

Comfort -- and refusal to be comforted

The following is a piece written by Rabbi Wein some years ago for the Destiny Foundation on the significance of the month ahead being designated Menachem Av.

Though the month of Av carries with a title – menachem – meaning comfort and consolation, it nevertheless remains the saddest and most disturbing month of the Jewish calendar. Comfort is a great and necessary word but, as a true concept in the real world, it is very difficult to obtain. This is particularly true for individuals reeling from the loss of a beloved one, but it is also generally true for our national entity—the  Jewish people as well. 

There has as yet been neither comfort nor closure regarding the terrible national tragedy of the Holocaust, even though some eight decades have passed since the event. This should come as no surprise to Jews. This is because,  to a great extent, the Jewish people have yet to be comforted for the destruction of our Temple and our exile—events which are almost two millennia old. 

No person or institution in Jewish life is indispensable. But neither are they replaceable. It is the void that is left because of this irreplaceability that prevents us from experiencing  true comfort. This is why the Jewish people have remained restless and often disoriented over the long exile that we have endured. 

The sadness of the first ten days of Av permeates and resonates within us precisely because the sense of closure and comfort has eluded us. The Talmud states that there is a heavenly decree that engenders forgetfulness of the departed by those still living. However, if the object of grief and despair and loss is not truly dead but is only absent, as was the case regarding Jacob’s grief over the loss of Joseph, this sense of closure and comfort remains absent too. That is why the Torah records Jacob’s refusal to accept comfort and solace from his family and friends. Since Joseph was not dead, the heavenly decree of forgetfulness which allows comfort was inoperative. 

I believe that in a strangely ironic way the fact that the Jewish people still suffer from the anguish of the Holocaust is because of the intense efforts made by the Jewish community to prevent forgetfulness of the Holocaust from settling in. It is the Holocaust-deniers that wish to lull us into a false sense of comfort, to proclaim that it is over and that therefore bygones should remain bygones. 

The Bible records that our mother Rachel refuses to be comforted over the exile of her children because she is convinced that they are not permanently lost or exiled and will return. This shows that there is a positive side to not being comforted. It allows for a connection to an unknown future that will not only provide comfort but even replacement of what and who was lost. 

The sadness and tension of the first part of the month of Av are still with us centuries after the event of the destruction of the Temple simply because deep within the heart and psyche of the Jewish people the Temple is not gone, it is only missing. The entire enterprise of the return of the millions of Jewish people to the Land of Israel over the past two centuries and the establishment of the Jewish state in our ancient homeland is testimony to the fact that to the Jews the Land of Israel and the Temple were not dead issues. Those Jewish communities and individuals who “proclaimed that Berlin is our Jerusalem” and therefore sought permanent comfort in being “good” Germans, Russians or Poles, did not fare well in God’s world.

False comfort is far more damaging than no comfort at all. It remained for those Jews who did not forget that they were from Zion and Jerusalem to arise and help the Jewish people survive the worst and bloodiest century in its long history. The prophet warns us against “being comfortable in Zion.” Living in the Land of Israel is not a comfortable experience though it is a holy, challenging and inspiring one. For living in the Land of Israel makes us aware of what we have achieved against all odds and at the same time to appreciate what is still missing. The awareness of what is missing is what prevents us from being “comfortable in Zion.” 

Accordingly the month of Av symbolizes the angst and challenge of living a Jewish life, of being grateful for what we have and yet maintaining a sense of loss for what we are still missing. May this month yet bring us the feeling of menachem—of a better time and the eventual comfort promised to us by God and His prophets.

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

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

The Soul of a Warrior-Saint

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Peace from Death – A Gift of Endurance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Broken Vav: A Flawed Peace

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

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

Carrying the Legacy Forward

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

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

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

May that day come soon—bimhera beyameinu.

Avoid offence, make a fence!

It’s back to the beginning again as we return to Perek 1 for the third round of pre-Shabbat Pirkei Avot posts.

The first mishnah in the first chapter of Avot begins by establishing how the chain of Torah tradition passed all the way down from the Giving of the Law at Sinai to its being received by the Men of the Great Assembly in the fifth century BCE. This was a tough time. Prophecy was fading away and the Jewish people had come to understand that, from now on, they were to navigate through life with the guidance of only their own understanding of the Torah. This being so, it was apparent that the Torah needed to be protected if it was to protect those to whom it was given. Our mishnah therefore concludes with the third of three instructions from the Men of the Great Assembly:

עֲשׂוּ סְיָג לַתּוֹרָה

Make a fence around the Torah.

What sort of protection does the Torah need? Essentially, there are two main threats to its integrity. One comes from its deliberate or inadvertent misinterpretation; the other, which our mishnah addresses here, is the concern that its adherents will transgress Torah laws though their failure to perform or obey them properly. A classic example relates to observance of the rule that one must not do creative work on Shabbat, the seventh day of the week. This holy day is “fenced in” by adding to it a little bit of both the day before and the day after, to give a little leeway for those good souls who seek to work right to the very last minute and may, in doing so, slip up. This is presumably why, in its Avot page online, Chabad.org actually translates סְיָג (seyag, “fence”) as a “safety fence”.

Here's an additional and perhaps surprising explanation: fence in your words so that they do not become a burden on the people who have to listen to you. This is especially the case when speaking words of Torah: one’s words should be carefully suited to match the subject matter, the occasion and the audience to whom they are addressed. This is not a modern attempt to make the mishnah more meaningful to contemporary readers. It actually comes from the Me’iri (1249-1315) in his Bet HaBechirah. The Me’iri also cites a tale from the Mishlei HaArav concerning a certain wise man who was excessively long-winded. When asked why he spoke at such length he replied: “So that simple folk will understand”, to which he received the retort: “By the time the simple folk understand, the intelligent folk will be bored out of their minds”.

In reality, while a teacher of Torah (or indeed of anything else) can with relatively little effort adapt his words to a single talmid and will hurt no one else even if he repeats himself 400 times (see the story of Rav Perida, Eruvin 54b), the task becomes exponentially harder with each additional addressee. When dealing with a class full of students, each with their specific aptitudes and requirements, it is hard to establish a fence round one’s words that protects those who are quick on the uptake without imposing an insurmountable barrier for those who are less fortunate. One law professor used to share the following advice with each junior colleague as they joined her faculty: 

“The trick is to say everything three times without repeating yourself even once”.

Festive sacrifices and their deeper meaning: Pinchas 5785

The recounting of the mandatory Temple sacrifices for the holidays of the Jewish year occupies significant space in this week’s parsha. While I have many times discussed the overall meaning of animal sacrifices in my parsha pieces, I wish to explore the uniqueness of the sacrifices that are meant to somehow characterize each chag. For example, the sacrifices offered on the seven days of Succot differ for each day of that holiday, unlike the daily sacrifices ordained for the last six days of Pesach, which are identical. This difference has halachic implications regarding the recitation of a Haftorah blessing on the Shabbat of Chol Hamoed. On Succot, since a different sacrifice was offered each day, the blessing is a festive blessing, not just a Shabbat one. On Shabbat Chol Hamoed Pesach the blessing is a purely Shabbat blessing.

A subtle message of general insight is provided here. Pesach, representing a one-time redemption from Egyptian slavery—a great but essentially singular event—repeats the same sacrifice throughout its six last days. But Succot, representing Divine protection over Israel and all individual Jews, is a renewed daily event which captures the differing circumstances that each day brings: a new salvation for each and every day. This is why each day of Succot has a different sacrifice.

The description of the sacrifices for Shavuot is also significant. The Torah describes the holiday as Yom Habikkurim, the day of the offering of the first fruits of the agricultural year. It also states that a new offering—the offering of the two loaves of bread—is to form part of the mincha offering of that day. Now,  each holiday revolves around the natural and agricultural year in the Land of Israel: Pesach is the festival of springtime and the offering of grain symbolizes the harvest of the winter wheat crop; Succot represents the holiday of the fall harvest season. But it is the offerings of Shavuot that are most intertwined with nature and agriculture. 

We know Shavuot as the festival of the granting of the Torah on Sinai to the Jewish people. The Torah does not mention this directly but rather concentrates upon nature, agriculture and the blessings of the bounty of the earth. By not dwelling especially on the granting of the Torah, the Torah subliminally suggests that it is as natural and necessary to us as is the seasons of the year and the bounty of the earth. 

Torah is truly our lives and the length of our days. It is therefore an integral part of nature itself, the very wonders of nature that Shavuot celebrates. Perhaps that is the intention of the rabbis in their statement that the world was created in the image of God’s Torah. 

Shabbat shalom. Rabbi Berel Wein

Rabbi Wein's devar Torah on parshat Pinchas for 5784 ("Outer Peace, Inner Peace") can be accessed here.

Malaise and Medicine

The Three Weeks are a time of sadness and introspection for the Jewish people--but, buried within them, there is a message of happiness and positivity for our future. Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger explains:

The Rabbis manipulated the weekly order of Torah readings within the yearly calendar so that select parshiyot are aligned (or nearly aligned) with certain festivals and fasts. A few examples: Miketz or Vayigash are usually read on Shabbat Hannukah, Bamidbar before Shavuot, and Devarim before Tisha b’Av.

Parshat Pinchas is one such reading. In most years it is read on the week following the fast of 17 Tamuz. The sages performed this subtle manipulation, juxtaposing the parsha and the fast, or more accurately, a day that is the gateway to the period of the “bein hametzarim” (the Three Weeks), to convey a deeply comforting message.

If you stop and think about it, we read from Pinchas more often than any other parsha in the Torah. Pinchas contains the details of the musaf offerings for all of the holy days – Shabbat, Rosh Chodesh, etc. On every sacred day other than for a regular Shabbat, we take out an extra Torah scroll and read the section corresponding to the offering for that day. Thus, during the very week that as a nation we begin the descent into deep national mourning and sorrow—a generational malaise—we receive a booster shot of joy and hope, a reminder of our best days.

This connection, however, is even more direct. The unique number of holiday days is…20! (Note: we get there as follows: Shabbat – 1, Rosh Chodesh – 1, Pesach mentioned as a 7-day holiday, Shavuot – 1, Rosh Hashanah – 1, Yom Kippur – 1, Succot – mentioned as a 7-day holiday, Shemini Atzeret – 1 – TOTAL – 20). And there are precisely 20 days bridging 17 Tamuz and 9 Av.

This, perhaps, though, is a pollyannish view. Maybe the glass is not half full, but rather half empty. After all, during these three weeks we mourn the fact that we cannot bring these offerings, that we cannot rejoice since we no longer have the Temple. It seems that the sages might be tormenting us rather than consoling and inoculating us.

The key to understanding Chazal may well be a verse in Zechariah (8:19):

כֹּה אָמַר ה צְבָ-אוֹת צוֹם הָרְבִיעִי וְצוֹם הַחֲמִישִׁי וְצוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי וְצוֹם הָעֲשִׂירִי יִהְיֶה לְבֵית יְהוּדָה לְשָׂשׂוֹן וּלְשִׂמְחָה וּלְמֹעֲדִים טוֹבִים וְהָאֱמֶת וְהַשָּׁלוֹם אֱהָבוּ

Thus said GOD of Hosts: The fast of the fourth month, the fast of the fifth month, the fast of the seventh month, and the fast of the tenth month shall become occasions for joy and gladness, happy festivals for the House of Judah; but you must love honesty and integrity.

The Rambam in Hilchot Ta’aniyot (5:9), quoting this pasuk, writes that in the days of Mashiach the four fast days, including 17 Tamuz (the fast of the fourth month) and 9 Av (the fast of the fifth month), will be nullified and will become days of happiness and joy—in other words, holidays. This is likewise prophesized by Yirmiyahu (Jer. 31:12) וְהָפַכְתִּ֨י אֶבְלָ֤ם לְשָׂשׂוֹן֙ “and I will transform their mourning into joy,” and expressed in the Book of Eicha itself (1:15) קָרָ֥א עָלַ֛י מוֹעֵ֖ד “call unto me a holiday.”

In other words, this is not “mere” tradition, it is a matter of Divine promise. Our sages know that these days are destined to be elevated to great heights. This means that they already contain the seeds, the sparks, the potential for this ecstasy. They used parshat Pinchas to place a sign, to point a big finger to these weeks that says to our people while you are despairing reach into your joyful experiences, your Succot, your Pesach, your Simchat Torah and recognize that very soon these solemn days will feel just like those.

עתיד הקב"ה להפוך ט' באב לששון ולשמחה שנאמר כה אמר ה' צבאות לצום הרביעי ולצום החמישי... ולבנות ירושלים הוא עצמו ולקבץ גלויות ישראל לתוכה שנאמר: "בונה ירושלים ה' נדחי ישראל יכנס" (מדרש איכה)

In the future, HKB”H will transform 9 Av to [a day] of joy and happiness…and rebuild Jerusalem Himself and ingather the exiles, as it says, God will build Jerusalem and gather the dispersed.

We are witnessing miracles and great salvation; may He complete this job soon!

The Three Weeks -- why do we need them?

According to Ashkenazic custom, the period beginning with the fast of 17 Tammuz and ending after the fast day of 9 Av is the longest slice of time in the Jewish calendar that is dedicated to remembering any historical event that happened to the Jewish people.  In the world a large, such days and commemorations are usually limited to a single day. But to stretch this period of time over three full weeks is a particularly Jewish phenomenon.

One of the reasons that such a considerable period has been set aside for sad remembrance is that mourning and self-reflection are processes that build themselves up on a cumulative basis. Our emotions and mindset require time if we are to be able to understand and respond to tragedies, both personal and national. If the fast day of 9 Av were to arrive without preparation or introduction, it could very well be deemed only a formality and become an insignificant day on the Jewish calendar. It is the build-up that allows for a true assessment of the events in the history of the day itself.

 These three weeks that lead to 9 Av are necessary in order that this special day be imbued with significance and historical meaning. Almost two millennia have passed since the events of that day of the destruction of Jerusalem and of the holy Temple in the year 70 CE. The fact that that they have been remembered and commemorated over such a long period of time is testimony to the power of the ritual and observance that this three-week period imposes upon Jewish life.

 It is interesting to note that the apparent discomfort that this period imposes upon us is relatively of minor consequence. Even the restrictions regarding eating meat and drinking wine during the days immediately preceding the fast of 9  Av are of relatively little discomfort to us. Fish restaurants look forward all year long to these days. Yet all the restrictions of the three weeks that precede 9 Av do have a spiritual and emotional effect upon us, even if only subliminally. 

 Somehow, over the centuries and through the dark and abysmal nights of Jewish history, this time of remembrance kept our memory of Zion and Jerusalem, of the holy Temple, and of Jewish sovereignty alive and real. Today's State of Israel is a product of this three-week period. There have been many twists and turns in the Jewish story over the past millennia. However, the one constant has been the fact that the Jewish people instinctively realize that, wherever they live in the wider world and no matter how successful and peaceful their sojourn might be, they are not really at home. Home is our ancient land, promised to us by Heaven and which Jews have contended for over all of the ages.

 There are those who say that, since we have been privileged to regain Jewish sovereignty in the land of Israel and that Jerusalem is now a large, modern and inhabited city, there is little reason for us to preserve the observances that these three weeks have imposed upon us. In my opinion this would be a classic example of throwing out the baby with the bathwater. It is only because of this three-week period that we can appreciate the gift that Heaven has bestowed upon our time, in restoring the Jewish people to their homeland and to national sovereignty.

 Without perspective, nothing in life can truly be appreciated. Generations now born, 77 years after the founding of the state of Israel and 58 years after the liberation of Jerusalem, really have no background against which to judge the wonders that have occurred—and continue to occur. These three weeks allow us to frame the events of our time and our current situation. They give us a sense of gratitude and understanding instead of just relying upon sometimes vapid patriotism and formal staged commemorations. The ninth of Av will yet be a day of joy and feasting, when Jewish history has finally completed its long journey.