Following in Their Ways – The Eternal Struggle Against Avodah Zarah

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

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

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

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

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

 How Far Does Avodah Zarah Go?

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

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

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

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

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

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

 The Rambam expands on this principle: 

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

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

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

The Pressure of the Majority

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

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

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

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

Darkei Emori – The Ways of the Nations 

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

“דַּרְכֵי הָאֱמוֹרִי—כָּל מִינֵי נִחוּשׁ שֶׁהָיוּ אוֹמְרִים…”

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

 Throughout Jewish history, this principle sparked debate:

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Drawing the Line 

Where, then, do we draw the line?

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

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

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

The Rambam provides a guiding principle: 

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

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

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

The Eternal Struggle 

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

הֶן־עָם לְבָדָד יִשְׁכֹּן וּבַגּוֹיִם לֹא יִתְחַשָּׁב

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

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

שַׁבָּת שָׁלוֹם

Rabbi Berel Wein (1934–2025)

Scholar, Historian, Teacher, Leader, and Beloved Rabbi of Beit Knesset Hanassi--Rabbi Berel Wein was all of these things, and more. The Hanassi Blog adds its own tribute to the many that have been pouring out for this remarkable man, 

With profound sorrow, yet deep gratitude for a life richly lived, we mark the passing of Rabbi Berel Wein, our revered rabbi at Beit Knesset Hanassi in Jerusalem. At the age of 91, after a lifetime of tireless scholarship, spiritual leadership, and heartfelt teaching, Rabbi Wein leaves behind an indelible legacy that has shaped generations of Jews across the world.

Even in his final months, weakened by illness, Rabbi Wein remained committed to his mission—to teach, to inspire, and to uplift. With great courage, he continued to give his weekly classes, each word delivered with the same clarity, wit, and depth that had long been his hallmark. Colleagues and students came from all corners of the country and beyond, eager to hear the timeless words of Torah shaped by his singular voice: steeped in tradition, laced with insight, and always delivered with a glint of humor and humanity.

Rabbi Wein’s passing is a personal loss to the Hanassi community, which he has served as our spiritual guide, teacher, and friend for more than two decades. But his influence reaches far beyond the walls of our synagogue. He was a giant in the world of Torah learning, Jewish history, and public discourse—an Orthodox thinker who managed to bridge generations, continents, and worlds with grace, erudition, and warmth.

A Scholar and Teacher from Early On

Berel Wein was born in 1933 in Chicago, Illinois, into a family of proud rabbinic lineage. After graduating from the Hebrew Theological College in Skokie and receiving his rabbinic ordination, he also pursued a secular education, earning a law degree from DePaul University. He practiced law for a time, but his heart was always in teaching Torah and guiding souls.

In 1964, Rabbi Wein became the rabbi of Congregation Beth Israel in Miami Beach, Florida, where his oratory talents and charismatic leadership quickly became known. From there he moved on to Congregation Bais Torah in Suffern, New York, a pulpit he held for nearly 25 years. It was in Suffern and Monsey that he began to reach a wider audience—not only as a pulpit rabbi, but as a prolific author, historian, and communal leader. In 1976 he established Yeshiva Shaarei Torah, which flourished under his inspirational guidance and basked in the warmth and wisdom of his close personal involvement until he made aliyah in 1997. His constant message to his students there was that life is full of messages to be gleaned—if only one is tuned in to them. 

A Voice for the Jewish Past and Present

To most of the Jewish world, Rabbi Wein was best known for his pioneering work in making Jewish history accessible, engaging, and relevant. Through his many books, recorded lectures, and later, documentary films, he brought the grand sweep of Jewish history alive—telling the story of our people with passion, integrity, and clarity. He understood that the story of the Jews was not merely a tale of persecution and survival, but one of spiritual greatness, moral responsibility, and eternal purpose.

His monumental four-volume Jewish History series—Echoes of Glory, Herald of Destiny, Triumph of Survival, and Faith and Fate—became instant classics, studied in schools and adult classes across the globe. Through these works, Rabbi Wein gave thousands their first real introduction to Jewish history, not as dry facts and dates but as a living legacy. His message? That, if we are to understand who we are as Jews, we must know where we come from—and more importantly, where we are meant to go.

His countless recorded lectures—on Torah, Talmud, halacha, history, ethics, and current events—became a staple of learning in Jewish communities worldwide. Always infused with his signature blend of depth, narrative skill, and wry humor, his teachings were as accessible to laypeople as they were profound to scholars.

He also served as the executive vice president of the Orthodox Union’s Kashrut Division and founded the Destiny Foundation, through which he produced films, books, and curricula to strengthen Jewish identity and historical consciousness.

A New Chapter in Jerusalem

Upon retiring from the rabbinate in the United States, Rabbi Wein fulfilled a lifelong dream by making aliyah to Israel. Far from slowing down, he began a new and deeply fruitful chapter in his life. In 2000, he accepted the position of rabbi at Beit Knesset Hanassi in the Rechavia neighborhood of Jerusalem. From his first drasha, it was clear that he had found a spiritual home—and that we had found a rabbi of extraordinary caliber.

His Shabbat sermons were eagerly awaited: thoughtful, often humorous, sometimes gently provocative, always rooted in eternal Torah values. His weekday classes drew a devoted following that grew over the years to include not only regulars but visitors from abroad who arranged their travel schedules around his shiurim.

It was not just what he taught that moved people—it was how he taught. Rabbi Wein had the rare ability to speak to a diverse crowd and make each listener feel personally addressed. As a speaker he was never aloof, never above his audience. He had lived in the modern world, understood its challenges, and always sought to bring Torah into dialogue with contemporary life. His intellect was formidable, but his manner was humble. He was accessible, funny, and wise—qualities that made him not just our rabbi, but our teacher, confidant, and friend.

A Man of Principle and Grace

Throughout his life, Rabbi Wein stood for intellectual honesty, moral clarity, and fidelity to Torah tradition. He was unafraid to speak uncomfortable truths, but always did so with sensitivity and kindness. He had no interest in ideological grandstanding or political posturing. He believed in the Jewish people—in all of us—and devoted his life to building bridges within our diverse community.

Those who knew him best will remember his gentle smile, his thoughtful pauses, the quiet strength with which he bore personal losses, and the integrity with which he lived every day. His faith was deep but never showy; his convictions strong but never overbearing. He loved Torah, he loved the Jewish people, and he loved the land of Israel—not as abstract ideals, but as living realities.

A Legacy That Endures

Rabbi Wein is survived by his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren—each a testament to his love, his values, and his lifelong commitment to Jewish continuity. His family was a constant source of pride to him, and he spoke of them often—with joy, humility, and immense gratitude.

But he is also survived by countless spiritual children—students and readers, congregants and listeners—whose lives were enriched and uplifted by his teachings. To them, and to us, he leaves behind not just memories, but a living inheritance: a love of Torah, a passion for Jewish history, and a model of integrity, faith, and wisdom.

As we mourn his loss, we also give thanks for the extraordinary blessing of having had Rabbi Berel Wein as our rabbi, teacher, and guide. In his honor, may we strive to carry forward his legacy—with courage, with clarity, and with love.

Yehi zichro baruch—May his memory be a blessing.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

If you would like to offer the family your condolences, please email them to bkhanassi@gmail.com with the subject line ‘Condolences’. We will print them out and present them to the family.

If you have fond memories of Rabbi Wein ztz’l that you wish to share, please email them to bkhanassi@gmail.com with the subject line ‘Memories’.  We will do our best to share these memories with the family and with the Beit Knesset Hanassi community.

May we all be spared to share only good news.

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

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

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

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

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

All Mitzvot as One Unified System

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

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

"אִם חִסֵּר אֵחָד מֵאֵבָרָיו — נִפְגָּם כֻּלּו"

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

The Infinite Value of One Mitzvah

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

The Mishnah teaches:

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

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

Two Paragraphs of Shema: Maximum and Minimum

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

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

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

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

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

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

Living Between the Minimum and the Maximum

The Torah thus sets two guiding poles:

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

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

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

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

Elihu Levine and the Kli Yakar

This Thursday morning we broke the sad news to our members that we had lost one of our most senior members, Eli Levine. Eli was a very special individual, as is evidenced by the following remarkable piece by Rabbi Berel Wein, which was published in 2009 in Jewish Action.

Forty-five years ago, when Elihu Levine was an electrical engineer working for ITT Corporation, he was assigned to work on a special project on behalf of the United States Navy. The work involved creating an underwater test range to be installed in the water off Andros Island in the Bahamas. In order to maintain a Jewish atmosphere while stationed on the remote island for the four-month duration of the project, Levine’s family began spending Shabbat with two other Shomer Shabbat families there, discussing Torah subjects at every meal.

“That is when the Kli Yakar entered my life,” says Levine. “For some reason, my Torah discussions always centered on an observation of Kli Yakar.”

At the time, Levine dreamed of bringing the richness and depth of the monumental Torah commentary to the English-speaking world. Decades later, the retired engineer is doing just that.

“I found the Kli Yakar so creative in his commentary, and he is not reticent to disagree with other commentators,” says Levine. “It’s also remarkable the way he seamlessly weaves phrases from Tanach, the Gemara and midrashim [into his text], which lends such flavor to his commentary.”

Levine recently published his translation and elucidation of Kli Yakar on both Bereishit and Shemot (Brooklyn, 2007). Kli Yakar is the Torah commentary written by Rabbi Efraim Luntshitz, a sixteenth-century Bohemian scholar and a disciple of the Maharal of Prague. Popular, albeit somewhat esoteric, it has been a standard commentary included in the Chumash for almost five centuries. Combining kabbalistic mysticism and spirituality, halachic reasoning, flashes of brilliant insight and deep analysis of the text, the commentary is often difficult to follow. This problem is only compounded for English speakers who already grapple with the difficult rabbinic Hebrew syntax.

“Work is how you make a living, but it does not define you as a person. On the other hand, Torah learning does define you as a person and therefore must be an integral part of daily life.”

A soft-spoken, genial individual, Levine was born and raised in the Borough Park section of Brooklyn. With a physics degree from Yeshiva University (YU) and two post-graduate engineering degrees from Columbia University, Levine worked for ITT Corporation in Nutley, New Jersey, from 1955 to 1967, mainly on government defense projects. Subsequently, he was a senior research associate at Columbia University’s research labs and later became president of Decision Systems, Inc. He retired as a director of DSSI Corporation. His work, he says, was challenging and pressured, but rewarding.

But above all else, Levine is a meticulous Torah scholar and is living proof that Jewish scholarship and Torah wisdom are not the exclusive properties of rabbis and teachers. Indeed, he achieved most of his Torah erudition long after he left the confines of YU.

Levine’s wife, Dvorah (Doris) Alter, is a direct descendant of the great Alter dynasty of the Chassidic leaders of Gur. The Levines lived in Monsey, New York, with their four daughters for most of their married life; they were members of the shul where I served as rabbi, Congregation Bais Torah, before they made aliyah some twelve years ago.

While working, Levine had a chavruta with Rabbi Zev Wein, my father. “It was a joy to be associated with this great talmid chacham, who was at the same time modest and self effacing,” says Levine. He continued this chavruta even after they both made aliyah, until my father’s death in 2002.

Levine admits that being kovea itim (setting aside time for learning Torah) while working full time was a challenge. “Learning while working was always a difficult juggling act,” he says. But he strove to devote whatever time he could to learning Torah. “I came to realize that being an observant Jew requires a great degree of sophistication and that Torah learning is primary. Work is how you make a living, but it does not define you as a person. On the other hand, Torah learning does define you as a person and therefore must be an integral part of daily life.

“I think that it is important not to become frustrated in the balancing of family, work, learning and other pursuits,” he says. “I was the captain of the basketball team in college and over fifty years later I still play basketball on Friday afternoons with my yeshivah grandsons. They, who are much more pious than I am, express wonderment at how their grandfather, who is writing a commentary on Kli Yakar, can still hit a jump shot from fifteen feet. I have found that this sports activity, strangely enough, helps me in my learning and writing,” says Levine, who is a regular tennis player.

Levine began working on his life’s project—elucidating Kli Yakar into English—once he retired from his full-time job. In spite of his family commitments (he is a terribly doting grandparent), Levine spends three or four hours a day working on translating the commentary. In addition, he has a chavruta, with whom he has learned the Kuzari, Mesillat Yesharim and the Eight Perakim of the Rambam (his introduction to Pirkei Avot). They are now working on Chovot Halevavot.

Levine spends time in the libraries of Jerusalem, comparing original manuscripts and discussing the difficulties in Kli Yakar with eminent Torah scholars. Through his work on Kli Yakar he has also, of necessity, become a Hebrew grammarian, a Talmudic scholar and a student of kabbalistic thought. Levine is an example of how a person at any stage of life can continue to grow intellectually in Torah study and can make a mark on the entire Jewish world. Interestingly, it is very possible that his former career as an engineer assists him in his Torah scholarship: for Levine, the laborious task of sifting through the copyists’ and printers’ errors to arrive at the correct text of Kli Yakar is not as daunting as it may be to others.

While Levine proves that retirement from worldly occupation can allow for extraordinary Torah achievement, he confesses that balancing the various pieces of one’s life—family, work, Torah, recreation—is an ongoing struggle. “One can only do the best that one can and should not be disappointed when events interfere with the optimum schedule devised for one’s self,” he says. But, he adds, “Learning requires constant resilience and commitment.”

May Eli Levine's memory be a blessing to us all.

Our fate is in our hands: Eikev 5785

 Moshe’s review of the life of the Jewish people in the Sinai desert over the previous 40 years recounts each miracle that occurred to them, but he does so not for the purpose of narrative. Rather, he teaches an important moral lesson for all ages: that, after all the miracles that God may perform on our behalf, our fate stays mainly in our hands. We can summarize this eternal lesson in one verse: “For not by bread alone – even miraculous bread such as the manna itself—shall Jews live by but rather by the word of God, so to speak: that is, the values, commandments and strictures of Torah”.

All attempts to avoid this lesson, to substitute other words, ideas and ideologies for the words of Torah have turned into dismal failures. But reliance upon miracles is just as dangerous a path. My yeshiva teachers would tell us pious young men that prayer helps one to become a scholar in Torah. But they emphasized that sitting and studying Torah for a protracted time with concentration and effort may help even more in the quest for true Torah scholarship. Moshe uses the constant miracles of the desert to drive home the point that much of the responsibilities of life are in our hands. They are governed by our decision-making processes. In essence, the clear conclusion from Moshe’s oration is that God helps those who help themselves. 

In our post–Tisha B’Av mood, and in the run-up to Elul and the High Holy Days, we must remember how much of our fate truly lies in our own hands. Even the small choices that we make in our everyday lives contribute to our life’s achievements and accomplishments. That is what Rashi means when he states that “these are the commandments that one grinds under with one’s heel (eikev)”.  Those little things that we imagine to be insignificant at the time often translate themselves into major decisions that may even have irreversible consequences. The question always before us is this: do our actions measure up to the standards set by God’s word? We live not “by bread alone” nor by miracles alone, but by our own choices and what we do once we have made them.

Once, while driving on a New York City highway—an exercise in patience and utter futility—I missed the exit at which I was supposed to turn off. Many miles and a quarter of an hour later, I somehow managed to retrace my journey and exit at the proper place. I felt that it was a miracle that I was able to do so. In reality, though, it was my negligent error in failing to exit from the highway that forced the necessity of the occurrence of this “miracle” upon me. Moshe teaches us that this is truly a daily occurrence in our lives—and this message is as clear and cogent today as it was to our forebears in the desert of Sinai long ago. 

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein    

For "It's the small things that count", Rabbi Wein's devar Torah on parashat Eikev last year, click here.

Through the Eyes of a Child

This week’s pre-Shabbat Pirkei Avot post picks up on a mishnah from Perek 5

There’s a highly problematic mishnah at Avot 5:25. Some editions omit it entirely; others place it out of its usual sequence, and there’s no consensus as to who teaches it—is it Yehudah ben Teyma or Shmuel HaKatan? Setting this matters aside, this is what it says:

בֶּן חָמֵשׁ שָׁנִים לְמִקְרָא, בֶּן עֶֽשֶׂר שָׁנִים לְמִשְׁנָה, בֶּן שְׁלֹשׁ עֶשְׂרֵה לְמִצְוֹת, בֶּן חֲמֵשׁ עֶשְׂרֵה לִגְמָרָא, בֶּן שְׁמוֹנֶה עֶשְׂרֵה לְחֻפָּה, בֶּן עֶשְׂרִים לִרְדּוֹף, בֶּן שְׁלֹשִׁים לְכֹֽחַ, בֶּן אַרְבָּעִים לְבִינָה, בֶּן חֲמִשִּׁים לְעֵצָה, בֶּן שִׁשִּׁים לְזִקְנָה, בֶּן שִׁבְעִים לְשֵׂיבָה, בֶּן שְׁמוֹנִים לִגְבוּרָה, בֶּן תִּשְׁעִים לָשֽׁוּחַ, בֶּן מֵאָה כְּאִלּוּ מֵת וְעָבַר וּבָטֵל מִן הָעוֹלָם

Five years is the age for the study of the Written Torah; ten, for the study of Mishnah; thirteen, for being bound by mitzvot; fifteen, to learn Talmud; eighteen, for marriage; twenty, to pursue a livelihood; thirty, for strength; forty, for understanding; fifty, for giving advice; sixty, for sagacity; seventy, for elderliness; eighty, for power; ninety, for being bent over. A hundred-year-old is as one who has died and passed away and no longer counts for anything in the world.

Since the age at which to commence the various stages of a child’s education is a matter that spans both religious and secular concerns, it is unsurprising that there is a vast literature on the topic. But let's look at just one question: since the tractate of Avot is not a textbook on educational methodology, what is our takeaway message from a teaching which, prima facie, addresses the way we as Jews should conduct ourselves?

It is immediately apparent that there is no uniform consensus about what “Torah at five” means. Some scholars, including Rambam, the Sforno and R’ Chaim Volozhiner (Ruach Chaim), make no comment at all. Those who do comment tend to have little to say on it in terms of mussar and middot, focusing instead on issues of functional efficacy. Thus the commentary ascribed to Rashi cautions that “five” really means “five and not before” since the study of Torah weakens those who attempt it, the implication being that we should not impose upon a child a greater burden than it can handle. For Rabbenu Yonah, citing the Gemara (Rabbi Shmuel ben Shilat at Ketubot 50a), it’s the age at which a child has the necessary intellectual capacity—though for the Me’iri it’s fine to teach a child the alphabet from the age of three. 

We can also look at the instruction of “Written Torah at five” in quite a different way, even though this view has neither support nor pedigree. These words are not addressed at five year-old children. Nor are they addressed specifically to their parents. They are spoken to us all. Arguably they say: “When you open any of the works contained in the canon of Jewish tradition—whether Torah, prophecy, psalms or anything else—look at its words afresh. Read them through the eyes of a five year-old child who has never read them before. Cast aside all your assumptions and your half-remembered opinions that linger on from your previous reading and start again from scratch. That way, having rid yourself of the baggage of your old habits of thought, you can give yourself a chance to see, through the eyes of youthful innocence, those things that were previously hidden in full sight in the too-familiar words of a text you’ve grown too comfortable with”.

Do you agree?

One day -- and another

Why were we forty years in the desert before entering our Promised Land? We all know what the Torah tells us -- or do we? Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger challenges our reflex answer to this well-known question

If you were to ask most anyone with basic knowledge of the narrative of the Five Books of Torah why the Children of Israel wandered in the desert for 40 years, they would most likely answer that it was because Hashem punished them for despairing over the negative report of the spies. Hashem condemned them to sojourn one year for each day that the spies scouted in the Holy Land.  This is written in black and white in the text. 

However, in Parshat Eikev Moshe provides a completely different and quite strange answer, one that is repeated, presumably for emphasis, twice in quick succession!  Hashem forced them to travel forty years in the desert:

לְמַ֨עַן עַנֹּֽתְךָ֜ לְנַסֹּֽתְךָ֗ לָדַ֜עַת אֶת־אֲשֶׁ֧ר בִּֽלְבָבְךָ֛ הֲתִשְׁמֹ֥ר מִצְוֺתָ֖ו אִם־לֹֽא׃

וַֽיְעַנְּךָ֮ וַיַּרְעִבֶ֒ךָ֒ וַיַּאֲכִֽלְךָ֤ אֶת־הַמָּן֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר לֹא־יָדַ֔עְתָּ וְלֹ֥א יָדְע֖וּן אֲבֹתֶ֑יךָ לְמַ֣עַן הוֹדִֽיעֲךָ֗ כִּ֠י לֹ֣א עַל־הַלֶּ֤חֶם לְבַדּוֹ֙ יִחְיֶ֣ה הָֽאָדָ֔ם כִּ֛י עַל־כׇּל־מוֹצָ֥א פִֽי־יְהֹוָ֖ה יִחְיֶ֥ה הָאָדָֽם׃

In order to test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts: whether you would keep the divine commandments or not. [God] subjected you to the hardship of hunger and then gave you manna to eat, which neither you nor your ancestors had ever known, in order to teach you that a human being does not live on bread alone, but that one may live on anything that ה decrees.(Deut 8:2-3).

הַמַּאֲכִ֨לְךָ֥ מָן֙ בַּמִּדְבָּ֔ר אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹא־יָדְע֖וּן אֲבֹתֶ֑יךָ לְמַ֣עַן עַנֹּֽתְךָ֗ וּלְמַ֙עַן֙ נַסֹּתֶ֔ךָ לְהֵיטִֽבְךָ֖ בְּאַחֲרִיתֶֽךָ׃

Who fed you in the wilderness with manna, which your ancestors had never known, in order to test you by hardships only to benefit you in the end (Deut 8:16).

In other words, they wandered in the desert for forty years not because of a sin but so Hashem could test them by feeding them manna!  This almost sounds absurd.

For a question that seems so big, there is a dearth of commentary. Only Ramban provides a detailed explanation of this test of the Manna.

כִּי הָיָה נִסָּיוֹן גָּדוֹל לָהֶם שֶׁלֹּא יָדְעוּ עֵצָה לְנַפְשָׁם וַיִּכָּנְסוּ בַּמִּדְבָּר הַגָּדוֹל לֹא מְקוֹם לֶחֶם וְאֵין בְּיָדָם כְּלוּם מִן הַמָּן, אֲבָל יָרַד דְּבַר יוֹם בְּיוֹמוֹ וְחַם הַשֶּׁמֶשׁ וְנָמָס וַיִּרְעֲבוּ אֵלָיו מְאֹד. וְכָל זֶה עָשׂוּ לִשְׁמֹר מִצְוַת הַשֵּׁם לָלֶכֶת כַּאֲשֶׁר יְצַוֶּה. וְהַשֵּׁם הָיָה יָכוֹל לְהוֹלִיכָם בְּדֶרֶךְ הֶעָרִים אֲשֶׁר סְבִיבוֹתֵיהֶם, אֲבָל הֱבִיאָם בַּנִּסָּיוֹן הַזֶּה כִּי מִמֶּנּוּ יִוָּדַע שֶׁיִּשְׁמְרוּ מִצְוֹתָיו לְעוֹלָם:

 [The manna itself] was a great trial to them. They did not know what counsel to adopt for themselves when they entered the great wilderness, a place of no food, and they had none of the manna [in reserve because it could not be stored from day to day] but each day’s portion came down on its day, and as the sun waxed hot, it melted, although they hungered mightily after it. All this they did to keep the commandment of G-d, to follow as He commanded. Now G-d could have led them through the [populated] cities that were around them, but instead He brought them into this trial [of never having any food in reserve] for He knew that as a result [of this experience] they would keep His commandments forever.

Let us return to that “black and white” text that implies the forty years was punishment for the sin of the spies. The language used (Numbers 14:34) י֣וֹם לַשָּׁנָ֞ה י֣וֹם לַשָּׁנָ֗ה is a bit unusual. It is repetitive, doubled. Writing the phrase once would have been enough.  A number of commentaries (i.e., the Kli Yakar) explain that one is for that moment – that generation – and one to prophesize that there will be one day of suffering, Tisha B’Av eternally set aside for crying and pain because of their sin.

However, in light of how Moshe connects the forty-year wandering in the midbar to the manna, perhaps the repetition of י֣וֹם לַשָּׁנָ֞ה foreshadows that their task was not to earn forgiveness for their sin but to exhibit steadfastness in faith in the face of ongoing adversity.

If we interpret this correctly, Moshe is saying that the forty years was preordained.  It had less to do with their despairing over the spies and much more to do with Hashem wanting to be assured that the Jewish nation could withstand daily hardship and remain committed to His commandments. Extrapolating from this, the fact that we have been afflicted with (and continue to experience) so many calamities and intense hatred and have nevertheless endured is simply a continuation of this trial – through the centuries we have merited Divine protection (our manna) but must continuously prove steadfast in our worthiness to remain his Chosen People.

Ultimately, there is another “day” that is a constant test that we not simply hope, but are promised, will be לְהֵיטִֽבְךָ֖ בְּאַחֲרִיתֶֽךָ for our benefit in the end. Every day, like the test of the manna falling, as a fundamental element of our belief as Jews we must proclaim regarding the Mashiach: “We await him that he may come any single day.”  אֲחַכֶּה לּוֹ בְּכָל יוֹם שֶׁיָּבוֹא. May today be that day!

Quick greet, dead heat

This week’s pre-Shabbat Pirkei Avot post takes us back to Perek 4.

There’s something of a conundrum at Avot 4:20, where Rabbi Matya ben Charash opens his teaching with this short piece of advice:

הֱוֵי מַקְדִּים בִּשְׁלוֹם כָּל אָדָם

Be first to greet everyone.

Usually we all benefit from the fulfilment of precepts in Avot that recommend a particular course of conduct. But here we have a zero sum game. If I greet you first when we meet, you cannot greet me first, and vice versa. Does this matter? Probably not. If we look at the major commentators on Avot, we do not find anyone who raises this point.

Some commentaries suggest that the thrust of this teaching lies in its tail: that it should apply even to a non-Jew (commentary ascribed to Rashi), an idolator (Bartenura) or even an enemy (R’ Shmuel di Ozeda, Midrash Shmuel). Rabbenu Yonah says that these words are mussar but does not spell out what that mussar is, unlike R’ Shmuel di Ozeda, who pointedly observes that it’s not enough to deign coldly to return someone else’s greeting if that person should greet him first.

Rabbi Matya is actually reminding us that greeting another human being should not be a mere mechanical act or conventional social reflex. As Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau (Yachel Yisrael) notes, when a Jew greets another person, the word used is שָׁלוֹם (shalom, “peace”). To offer another person peace is to confer a blessing. By being first to greet others we express our peaceful intent—with one major caveat. There is no magic power in the word shalom: as important as it is for us to choose the right words when we greet others, it is equally important for us to greet them with a friendly disposition (Shammai at Avot 1:15; R’ Marc D. Angel, Koren Pirkei Avot). Growling “shalom” while you scowl is unlikely to produce the requisite effect.

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The nuance of desire: Va'Etchanan 5785

The Torah, as we all well know, is multilayered. The rabbis have taught us that there are 70 facets to every piece of the written Torah. We are also aware that it is impossible to adequately convey every nuance and possible meaning that lies embedded in the Torah. Each word demands elucidation, commentary and explanation before we can gain any proper understanding of its message. The entire book of Devarim is itself an elucidation and explanation of the first four books of Moshe. This is why Devarim employs different words to describe those events and commandments that were mentioned earlier.

A prime example is the repetition in this week’s parsha of the Ten Commandments revealed to Israel at Sinai: the text here differs slightly from the wording recorded in the book of Shemot. The Talmud, in its rendition of the Oral Law, states that these variants—such as the use of the word shamor for the observance of Shabbat instead of zachor—indicate that God uttered both words simultaneously, a feat that is beyond human comprehension and ability. The Talmud means to show us that every possible interpretation and layer of meaning in the Torah was delivered in one go at Sinai. Only the Oral Law and the work of Torah commentators through the ages has revealed these original strata of meaning for our study and practice.

In the last of the Ten Commandments, the Torah here in Parashat Va'Etchanan uses the word titaveh whereas in Parashat Yitro it uses the word tachmod. Both words mean “desire”, but they are differently nuanced.  One carries overtones of an impulsive, spur of the moment desire that arises out of seemingly random circumstance – an advertisement in the media or a chance meeting or sighting. Such a desire is not planned, but stems from our inherent human weakness in wanting to possess what we do not yet have. The other desire is long planned and may have been part of our lives for years or even decades. It borders on being an obsession or an addiction within our makeup. Both types of desire can destroy a person and the Torah cautions us against these symptoms of self-destructive behavior.

The Talmud tells us that the eyes see and the heart then desires. Guarding one’s eyes guards one’s heart as well. This example of the Torah’s self-elucidation makes each lesson clear to all and challenges us to apply it wisely in our own lives. 

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein

For "Comfort and Contentment", Rabbi Wein's devar Torah on this parashah last year, click here.

What are we doing when we say Shema?

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

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

 שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל ה׳ אֱלֹקֵינוּ ה׳ אֶחָד

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode to Zion

There is a famous kinah, penned by Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi. It’s called "Tzion Halo Tishali" (“Zion, will you not ask?”), and we recited it in shul yesterday morning following a beautiful explanatory introduction by Eli Friedwald.  A prominent part of the Tisha b'Av liturgy, it expresses the poet's deep love and longing for the Land of Israel and Jerusalem. The author, a 12th-century Spanish Jewish poet and philosopher, wrote this kinnah while yearning for a return to the Land of Israel. 

Max Stern took this kinah as his inspiration for composing a two-part Ode to Zion for violin solo, woodwind quintet and strings. Max describes this Ode as a tone poem in two parts. The opening section, “Ani Kinnor”, is the song of a bird awaiting the dawn while it poses the question “O Zion, will you not ask how your exiles are?” The second section, “Dawn”, describes the breaking forth of the light:  "Happy is he who waits to see your dawn breaking forth".

You can listen to Ode to Zion on Max’s YouTube channel here.

A year earlier, Max wrote a shorter Ode to Zion, for flute and viola, that you can listen to here.