The Moral of Bikkurim: Continuity Beyond Self

The mitzvah of ביכורים—bringing the first fruits to the Beit HaMikdash—is one of the most beautiful expressions of gratitude in the Torah. As our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains, the mitzvah itself is divided into two distinct parts: 

1.         The physical act of bringing the fruits – placing them in a basket and presenting them to the Kohen. The Mishnah in Bikkurim teaches: העשירים מביאים ביכוריהם בסלי כסף ובסלי זהב, והעניים מביאים בסלי נצרים של קליפה (משנה ביכורים ג:ח). Yet regardless of the vessel, the fruits themselves were lifted jointly by the Kohen and the farmer, sanctifying the effort. 

2.         The recitation of the special passage from the Torah – beginning with the words:

 וְעָנִיתָ וְאָמַרְתָּ לִפְנֵי ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ, אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי; וַיֵּרֶד מִצְרַיְמָה, וַיָּגָר שָׁם בִּמְתֵי מְעָט; וַיְהִי שָׁם לְגוֹי גָּדוֹל עָצוּם וָרָב (דברים כ״ו:ה).

 The Gemara (סוטה ל״ב ע״א) points out that not everyone could recite this declaration—converts, for example, could not say אֲשֶׁר נִשְׁבַּע ה׳ לַאֲבֹתֵינו since their biological ancestors were not part of that oath. Still, they were obligated in the act of bringing Bikkurim. Thus the Torah separates the mitzvah of deed from the mitzvah of speech. 

This passage became so central that Chazal made it the backbone of the Pesach Haggadah. Instead of telling the Exodus story in our own words, we expound on each verse of ארמי אובד אבי. 

The Meaning of “Arami Oved Avi”

 The very first phrase is the subject of classic debate.

●          Rashi (דברים כ״ו:ה) explains that ארמי אובד אבי refers to Lavan, who “sought to uproot everything” (ביקש לעקור את הכל). While Pharaoh only decreed against the males, Lavan attempted to destroy the entire family of Yaakov by trickery and deception. Thus Jewish history begins not only with physical slavery in Egypt, but with existential threats even before we arrived thereץ

 ●          Ramban (שם) takes a different view, understanding אובד not as “seeking to destroy,” but as “lost, wandering.” According to him, the verse describes Yaakov himself, who was a destitute wanderer in Aram before descending to Egypt. The declaration highlights the fragility of our beginnings and the miracle of our survival.

 Both interpretations carry a profound message. Whether our survival was threatened by external enemies (Lavan) or by the precariousness of our own condition (Yaakov’s wandering), our very existence is a testament to God’s intervention in history.

 Farming and the Temptation of Self-Credit

 Farming is among the most difficult occupations. Even today, with modern technology, the farmer is still at the mercy of rain, sun, wind, insects, and fire. In ancient times, the struggle was almost unimaginable. A farmer who finally sees his crops ripen after months of labor could easily declare: Look what I have accomplished with my own hands! The Torah, however, demands that he take those very fruits—the tangible result of his toil—and publicly declare that they are not his alone. His success is not merely a product of sweat and labor but part of a story that began long before him.  As he recitesת

 וַיָּרֵעוּ אֹתָנוּ הַמִּצְרִים, וַיְעַנּוּנוּ; וַיִּתְּנוּ עָלֵינוּ עֲבֹדָה קָשָׁה. וַנִּצְעַק אֶל ה׳ אֱלֹקי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ, וַיִּשְׁמַע ה׳ אֶת קֹלֵנוּ, וַיַּרְא אֶת עָנְיֵנוּ וְאֶת עֲמָלֵנוּ וְאֶת לַחֲצֵנוּ. וַיּוֹצִאֵנוּ ה׳ מִמִּצְרַיִם בְּיָד חֲזָקָה, וּבִזְרוֹעַ נְטוּיָה, וּבְמוֹרָא גָדֹל, וּבְאֹתוֹת וּבְמֹפְתִים (דברים כ״ו:ו–ח).

 Only because of this chain of history can the farmer now stand with his basket in Jerusalem.

 Continuity Over Individualism

 Here lies the great moral lesson: Jewish life is not built on the illusion that the world begins and ends with me. It is built on continuity. The farmer must see himself as one link in a chain stretching back to Avraham and forward to generations yet unborn. This idea is echoed in the dramatic story of Shlomo HaMelech at the dedication of the Beit HaMikdash. The Midrash (שמות רבה ח:א; תנחומא, ויחי ז׳) relates that when Shlomo sought to open the gates of the newly built Temple, they refused to open. Only when he prayed: אַל תָּשֵׁב פְּנֵי מְשִׁיחֶךָ, זָכְרָה לַחֲסָדֵי דָּוִד עַבְדֶּך (תהלים קל״ב:י) did the gates swing wide.

 Even the wisest and holiest man of his generation could not enter on his own merits. The doors opened only when he invoked the merit of his father David.

 The Antidote to Modern Narcissism

 The world we live in often glorifies the “new,” the “innovative,” the “I.” Yet Jewish tradition teaches that true greatness is not found in self-creation, but in linking oneself to the eternal chain of Torah and history. That is why the Bikkurim passage was chosen as the centerpiece of the Seder. As the Haggadah teaches, every Jew must see himself as part of this story. We are not merely recalling ancient history; we are affirming our place within it.

 The farmer’s declaration, therefore, becomes our declaration as a people: We are not the beginning, and we are not the end. We are part of the story that God began with Avraham, a story that continues with us today.

 Halachic Note

 The Rambam codifies these laws in Hilchot Bikkurim (פרק ג–ד). He describes in detail how a person designates the first fruits in his field, places them in a basket, and ascends to Jerusalem in a joyous procession. Upon arrival, he presents them to the Kohen, recites the passage from ארמי אובד אבי, and then bows before the altar.

 The Rambam emphasizes: מצות עשה להביא בכורים למקדש… ומקריבן ונותנן לכהן, שנאמר ולקח הכהן הטנא מידך (הלכות ביכורים ג:א). He further rules that even after the declaration, the fruits remain a sacred gift for the Kohanim. Thus, the halacha itself reflects the central message of the drasha: our labor reaches its highest meaning not in personal pride, but in connecting it to Torah, history, and community.

Arise, Shine!

The haftarah that goes with this week's Torah reading of parashat Ki Tavo, is drawn from Isaiah 60:1-22, is one of the best-known passages of prophetic comfort and consolation in the Bible. Opening with the words 

“Arise! Shine! For your light has arrived, and the glory of the Lord has shone upon you”, 

This haftarah continues with warm words of positive reassurance and effectively restores our relationship with God after the tumultuous, tortuous text of Ki Tavo’s tochachah. 

Our member and distinguished composer Max Stern, inspired by those words, has composed “Arise, Shine!”, played here by the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra. For a link to this piece,  click here.

Important message for music-lovers

In much the same manner as the dawn breaks, with the light creeping out by infinitesimal increments, this piece opens with a passage that is very, very quiet -- so much so that you might be misled into thinking that it hasn't begun at all. If you are a user of a hearing enhancement device, be sure to be wearing it and to switch it on, or the opening passage may escape you entirely.

Is this why your pet hates your friend?

 This post focuses on a mishnah from the fourth Perek of Avot--the second of the two perakim for this week.

Many cat- and dog-owners have wondered why it is that their domestic pet sometimes takes an apparently irrational dislike to of your friends or family members. You find wondering what was the problem: was the human in question using the wrong deodorant, or did that person give your animal a surreptitious swipe when you weren’t looking? Or is there more to it?

One person who clearly has no doubt as to the cause is Rabbi Yisrael of Kozhnitz. At Avot 4:5 R’ Yochanan ben Beroka teaches this:

כָּל הַמְחַלֵּל שֵׁם שָׁמַֽיִם בַּסֵּֽתֶר, נִפְרָעִין מִמֶּֽנּוּ בְּגָלוּי, אֶחָד שׁוֹגֵג וְאֶחָד מֵזִיד בְּחִלּוּל הַשֵּׁם

Everyone who desecrates the Divine Name in secret is punished in public. When it comes to desecration of the Name, it’s the same thing whether one does it negligently or deliberately.

Why are wrongful acts a desecration of God’ name if they are done in secret? No-one else knows about them. Or do they? In his Ahavat Yisrael, Rabbi Yisrael suggests that a Heavenly Voice proclaims that a desecration of God’s name has been committed.

There’s an obvious problem with this suggestion. If this Heavenly proclamation does take place, how come we never hear it. Rabbi Yisrael has an answer. The Heavenly Voice is actually silent, which is why we don’t hear it. It’s a heart-to-heart communication which we intuit through our feelings. Since it’s not a verbalized statement it can be both perceived and comprehended not just by us humans—if we are sufficiently receptive and sensitive—but by animals too.

Is this why your dog becomes aggressive or frightened when certain visitors turn up, and why your cat warmly welcomes some friends but keeps a frosty distance from others? There is no hard proof to demonstrate that this is so, and anecdotal evidence of instances where this has apparently happened can generally be explained by other means. Though, while stories of sapient animals discerning the good from the bad are the stuff of which much good fiction has been made, Jewish tradition is broad enough to embrace them: thus we learn how the donkeys of Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa and Rabbi Pinchas ben Yair refuse to eat food that had not been tithed or which had been stolen by their new owners (Avot deRabbi Natan 8:8; Bereshit Rabbah 60:8).

Perhaps the real message of Rabbi Yisrael’s understanding has nothing to do with Heavenly Voices at all. The point he seeks to make is that we should be more sensitive to the activities of our fellow humans and not ignore any warning signs and misgivings we may have about their honesty and probity. If this is so, we face the challenge of synthesizing it with Avot 1:6, which demands of us that we should judge others on the basis of their merits and give them the benefit of the doubt.

It's not easy to give -- or is it?

This week’s perakim from Avot are Perek 3 and Perek 4. The following piece discusses a mishnah from Perek 3.

The importance of tzedakah within the life of every Jew is fundamental. Embedded in Tanach and in midrash, it needs no proof texts here. But how far should one go in performing acts of charity? At Avot 3:8 Rabbi Elazar Ish Bartota sets the scene by suggesting that there is no possession in our hands that we can ringfence or regard as sacrosanct, and exempt from the mitzvah of tzedakah, since whatever we have we hold as trustees of God:

תֶּן לוֹ מִשֶּׁלּוֹ, שֶׁאַתָּה וְשֶׁלָּךְ שֶׁלּוֹ. וְכֵן בְּדָוִד הוּא אוֹמֵר: כִּי מִמְּךָ הַכֹּל וּמִיָּדְךָ נָתַֽנּוּ לָךְ

Give Him what is His, for you, and whatever is yours, are His. As David says: "For everything comes from You, and from Your own hand we give to You" (I Divrei Hayomim 29:14).

Here Rabbi Elazar Ish Bartota is only telling us not to be too fond of our worldly goods. Elsewhere in Avot, at 5:13, we learn that a person who says “what’s mine is yours; what’s yours is yours” is a chasid—someone whose kindness exceeds the usual norm. The two mishnayot operate in different spheres: one speaks to a person’s relationship with God, the other to that person’s relationship with other people. It is possible to agree with Rabbi Elazar Ish Bartota that everything comes from God, yet focus one’s generosity on inanimate objects such as the purchase of books or the procurement of a Sefer Torah, while contributing to neither public causes such as food kitchens for the poor, nor to the needs of individuals.

In life we can and do learn not just from what people say but from what they do. The Talmud supplies us with evidence that Rabbi Elazar Ish Bartota—who was not a wealthy man—was committed to helping his fellow humans. At Ta’anit 24a we learn how he was so generous with his assets that even the charity collectors would hide when they saw him coming.

As a contemporary slant on this ancient teaching, Rabbi Yisroel Miller (The Wisdom of Avos) adds a practical note:

“We live in an age of generational decline and verbal inflation. Whereas the term “mesirus nefesh” used to mean literally sacrificing life itself for Hashem (e.g. choosing death rather than worship idols), today the term is commonly used to praise anyone who gives up much time and comfort for Torah and mitzvos. Praiseworthy as such sacrifices are, Rabbi Elazar is saying that is can be made easier if we develop the attitude that ‘sacrifice’ is not actually sacrificing anything at all.

Imagine someone who truly thinks of their own bank account as belonging totally to Hashem. The Divine Owner graciously allows him to take whatever he needs, but asks him to generously distribute a portion to other needy people as well. With that attitude, giving tzedakah is not a ‘sacrifice’ but a naturally pleasant activity.

Such attitudes are not easy to develop, but many people adopt the stratagem of putting a percentage of every paycheck into a separate tzedakah account. Once deposited, it is no longer seen as ‘mine’ and is much easier to give away wholeheartedly”.

The fact that so many people today run charity accounts is a positive endorsement of the wisdom of Rabbi Miller’s words—though a cynic might comment that these charity accounts are generally tax-efficient, which makes it even easier to give one’s money away wholeheartedly.

Torah and History

Rabbi Wein ztz'l was renowned for his perspicacious comments on the State of the Jewish Nation and how important it is for us to learn the lessons of the past when boldly facing our future. The following post has been composed as a perspective on history in Rabbi Wein's honor, by Rabbi Steven Ettinger.

I am writing this piece three weeks after the funeral of our esteemed and beloved Mara d’Atra, Rabbi Wein. The day following this Shabbat we will be gathering to mark his sheloshim. I am limiting myself to just those two adjectives—esteemed and beloved—as there is a nearly endless fount of words and phrases that could be used to describe his accomplishments, abilities and impact. Like many of you, I attended eulogies, read articles about his life, listened to podcasts and viewed videos—entirely fitting insofar as these are all media that he mastered in order to communicate his teachings to millions.

So many others are better positioned to appreciate his essence and have a more intimate awareness of it that I will not even attempt to write anything about him. Instead, I will share a thought about this parashah of which Rabbi Wein, as a man of history, would most likely have been aware—and which I am sure he would certainly have appreciated.

The most noteworthy part of this parashah is the tochachah, the fearsome curses that would befall our people if they did not follow their covenant with Hashem (these curses have, in fact, befallen us, down to the most minute and sordid detail).

It is perplexing that, after forty years in the midbar and on the precipice of entering the Land of Israel, Am Yisrael would be subjected to having to hear and accept such a litany of horror. After all, their own parents were condemned to die as the result of a single sin. One midrash describes how, each year on Tisha b’Av, the entire nation dug graves and slept in them. Those who rose the next day knew they were spared, at least for another year. Thus they truly understood the consequences of failing to heed the word of God.

But the curses in our parashah were not directed at that particular generation: they were projected out towards history, and to a specific era of history.

This is the interpretation of a particularly shocking interpretation revealed by the Vilna Gaon. He declares that Sefer Devarim corresponds to the sixth millennium of world history. There are ten parshiyot in Devarim and each corresponds to a particular century (Nitzavim-Vayelech count as one). For example, Devarim corresponds to the years 1240-1340 (5,000-5100), Va’etchanan to 1340-1440 (5100-5200), etc. The years 1840-1940 would equate to Ki Savo – years filled with pogroms, the upheaval of World War I and the rise of Hitler and the Holocaust.

Of course, the Holocaust continued for five more years. These are alluded to in the parshiyot of Nitzavim-Vayelech which is our present era 1940-2040:

וַיִּחַר־אַ֥ף ה בָּאָ֣רֶץ הַהִ֑וא לְהָבִ֤יא עָלֶ֙יהָ֙ אֶת־כׇּל־הַקְּלָלָ֔ה הַכְּתוּבָ֖ה בַּסֵּ֥פֶר הַזֶּֽה׃

וַיִּתְּשֵׁ֤ם ה מֵעַ֣ל אַדְמָתָ֔ם בְּאַ֥ף וּבְחֵמָ֖ה וּבְקֶ֣צֶף גָּד֑וֹל וַיַּשְׁלִכֵ֛ם אֶל־אֶ֥רֶץ אַחֶ֖רֶת כַּיּ֥וֹם הַזֶּֽה׃

Hashem’s anger flared against the land to bring against it the entire curse that is written in this book. And Hashem, removed them from their land with anger and wrath and great fury and he cast them to another land, as this very day.

It should be noted that the gematria of בְּאַ֥ף וּבְחֵמָ֖ה וּבְקֶ֣צֶף גָּד֑וֹל is the same as הפתרון הסופי, the final solution!

Our Torah is not a history book. Our Torah is history. While we have lost perhaps the greatest guide to viewing and appreciating Torah in this light, we can honor his legacy by continuing to appreciate how the knowledge of our Nation’s past enhances our learning and our perspective on Hashem’s plans for His world.

Of emotions, memories and a sense of purpose

This piece, from the Destiny Foundation archives, was penned by Rabbi Wein ztz’l back in 2012—but its message is as fresh and relevant as ever.

Next week, selichot—the penitential prayers that are added to the weekday morning prayer service—are recited in the synagogue according to Ashkenazic custom. Sephardic Jews have been reciting selichot in their morning prayer services since the start of the month of Elul. There are different customs even within these two main groupings of Jews as to which particular penitential prayer is recited on which of the days preceding Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. 

I have always been intrigued by the fact that most of the selichot prayers deal with the national angst and exile of the Jewish people rather than concentrating exclusively on the personal penitential aspect of the individual Jew who is actually doing the praying. Of course, many personal prayers are included in the selichot liturgy, but there is a strong focus on the plight of the Jewish people on a national and global scale—and this is expressed in terms that are powerfully emotive.  This is understandable since most of the selichot prayers were composed during the Middle Ages when the Jewish people, especially in Europe, found itself in desperate straits. Nevertheless, the emphasis on national troubles instead of personal failings carries with it a clear message about the reality of being Jewish. 

One’s individual fate and even the judgment of Heaven on Rosh Hashanah are inextricably bound to the general fate and welfare of the Jewish people as a whole. That is in reality the message of the book of Yonah that we read on Yom Kippur afternoon. Yonah knows that the storm that strikes the ship is because of him, so he answers his fellow passengers and shipmates who ask him to explain why these events are occurring with the simple words: “I am a Jew!” He sought to escape that reality but the Lord, by means of the storm on the sea, returned him to it. 

since the concept of selichot is, of necessity, national as well as personal, one cannot expect to survive spiritually and morally as a Jew by separating oneself from the Jewish people and its destiny. In effect, all those who deny their Jewishness, who substitute foreign ideologies and current political correctness for true Jewish Torah values, who are the first to raise their voices against the Jewish people and its state, who deny their Jewishness by assimilation and intermarriage, doom themselves eventually not to be heard and accounted for in the continually unfolding Jewish story. 

Someone who does not wish to share in the burden of the Jewish nation as a whole cuts the cord of Jewishness that grants one identity, self-worth and an overall purpose in life. The selichot prayers are so constructed as to be a retelling of the Jewish story and a declaration of fealty to Jewish destiny. In that context the selichot prayer services connect us to our Creator but also to the Jewish people in every generation, both past and future. 

There are many emotions that accompany the advent of the selichot season. Memories of past High Holy Day seasons, of generations that have passed on, of previous synagogue services and other venues of prayer, of childhood wonderment and of more mature seriousness and awe. These all flood our minds and hearts when the prayers of selichot are recited and the melodies of holiness are heard and sung.  The special quality of this time of the year, of anticipation and tension, of hopeful confidence combined with trepidation, is refleced in our attention to the immortal words of the prayer services. 

Every possible human hope and emotion is to be found in those words. I always have felt that the preparation for Rosh Hashanah should include a review of the texts of the prayer services beforehand so that one can savor the majesty and genius that lies embedded in the legacy of our prayer services. The selichot prayers come to us from Babylonia and North Africa, the Land of Israel and Spain, France and Germany, and Central and Eastern Europe. They cover centuries of Jewish life and creativity, piety and scholarship. 

They also record for us dark days of persecutions and massacres, of trial and testing, and of hope and resilience. Their prose/poetic style may oftentimes be difficult to understand and decipher but their soul and message of genius is revealed and obvious to all those who recite their words with serious intent. May the selichot season usher in a renewed sense of holy purpose in our lives and may we all be blessed with a good and happy, healthy new year.

War, Morality, and Marriage in the Torah’s Vision

This devar Torah, composed by our member Rabbi Paul Bloom, is based on a recording of a parashah shiur by Rabbi Wein ztz’l that was made seven years ago.

The Torah often presents us with passages that challenge our moral sensibilities, forcing us to confront difficult realities of human life and history. One such section appears in parashat Ki Teitzei, where the Torah addresses the case of the Yefat To’ar — the “beautiful captive woman.” The laws given here highlight a profound tension between the brutality of war and the values of Torah, between the raw instincts of human nature and the discipline demanded by holiness.

War and the Breakdown of Restraint

Chazal recognized that war unleashes forces that cannot always be contained. As the Torah states:

כִּי־תֵצֵא לַמִּלְחָמָה עַל־אֹיְבֶיךָ וּנְתָנוֹ ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ בְּיָדֶךָ וְשָׁבִיתָ שִׁבְיוֹ. וְרָאִיתָ בַּשִּׁבְיָה אֵשֶׁת יְפַת־תֹּאַר וְחָשַׁקְתָּ בָהּ וְלָקַחְתָּ לְךָ לְאִשָּׁה
 (דברים כא:י–יא)

“When you go out to war against your enemies, and the Lord your God delivers them into your hands, and you take captives; and you see among the captives a beautiful woman, and you desire her, then you may take her for yourself as a wife.”

Rashi explains:

לא דיברה תורה אלא כנגד יצר הרע
 (קידושין כא ב)

 “The Torah spoke here only in relation to the evil inclination.”

The Ramban adds that the Torah permitted this not because it is good, but because in the chaos of war the yetzer hara is too strong, and without regulation, far worse sins would occur. The Torah, however, warns of its outcome:

וְהָיָה אִם־לֹא חָפַצְתָּ בָּהּ וְשִׁלַּחְתָּהּ לְנַפְשָׁהּ… לֹא תִתְעַמֵּר בָּהּ תַּחַת אֲשֶׁר עִנִּיתָהּ
 (דברים כא:יד)

“If you do not desire her, then you shall let her go free… you may not treat her as a slave, because you have afflicted her.”

The Gemara (Sanhedrin 107a) links Yefat To’ar to David and Avshalom, teaching that such concessions often plant the seeds of future tragedy. Radak notes that Avshalom’s rebellion reflected the instability born of David’s complex household.

Polygamy in the Ancient World

Immediately after Yefat To’ar, the Torah describes another case:

כִּי־תִהְיֶיןָ לְאִישׁ שְׁתֵּי נָשִׁים הָאַחַת אֲהוּבָה וְהָאַחַת שְׂנוּאָה…
 (דברים כא:טו)

“If a man has two wives, one beloved and the other hated…”

The Avot themselves lived in polygamous households — Avraham with Sarah and Hagar (בראשית טז), Yaakov with Rachel, Leah, Bilhah, and Zilpah (בראשית כט–ל). Yet the Torah shows us the tensions that arose from these unions. The Gemara (Bava Batra 16a) remarks: צרה כצרה — “The rival wife is a constant source of strife.”

The Ramban explains that the Torah places Yefat To’ar, polygamy, and the rebellious son together to teach us a chain: indulging passion leads to jealousy, and jealousy leads to broken families and rebellious children.

From Polygamy to the Ban of Rabbeinu Gershom

In the 10th century, Rabbeinu Gershom (Me’or HaGolah) of Mainz issued his famous ban:חרם דרבנו גרשום — forbidding polygamy in Ashkenazi communities.

Violators were placed under communal ban. Rare exceptions (heter me’ah rabbanim) were allowed in extreme cases, such as when a wife was incapacitated and unable to receive a get.

Radak, commenting on Elkanah’s two wives (I Samuel 1), observed that such arrangements almost always caused pain and jealousy, as with Chana and Peninah. The ban thus aligned with the Torah’s deeper vision: sanctity within marriage and peace within the home. Though Sephardic communities did not originally adopt the ban, the practice eventually disappeared. In modern Israel, while older polygamous marriages were recognized, new ones were forbidden — making Rabbeinu Gershom’s decree universally binding in practice.

Evolving Law, Eternal Values

The Torah does not idealize war or polygamy. Rather, it acknowledges them as concessions to human weakness while pointing toward a higher moral standard. The Ramban teaches that the placement of these passages is deliberate: Yefat To’ar → Polygamy → Rebellious Son. The Torah warns us that small compromises to the yetzer hara may lead to family breakdown and societal decline.

A Takeaway for Our Time

These passages remind us that the Torah is not an abstract code detached from life’s struggles. It recognizes human impulses, but it calls upon us to rise above them.

●      The Torah’s restraint on Yefat To’ar teaches that we must never sanctify passion simply because it feels inevitable; instead, we channel it with discipline and holiness.

●      The story of polygamy shows that family harmony depends on fidelity, equality, and compassion, not on multiplying options.

●      The ban of Rabbeinu Gershom demonstrates how halakhah evolves to reflect eternal Torah values in changing times, always striving for justice, dignity, and peace.

Ultimately, the Torah pushes us toward a vision of life where the home is built not on conquest or rivalry, but on faith, loyalty, and love.

Am Yisrael has always been called to live by higher standards, even in the most difficult circumstances. The Torah does not hide human weakness, but it teaches us how to transform weakness into strength, how to bring holiness even into the battlefield, and how to sanctify the bonds of family. In our generation, as the Jewish people return to their Land and rebuild their nation, these lessons carry renewed meaning. We are challenged to create homes of faith and compassion, to build a society guided by Torah values, and to serve as a living example of “כִּי הִוא חָכְמַתְכֶם וּבִינַתְכֶם לְעֵינֵי הָעַמִּים” — “for this is your wisdom and your understanding in the eyes of the nations” (דברים ד:ו). By striving for holiness in our private and communal lives, we bring closer the day when Israel truly shines as a light to the nations.

 

Torah and mitzvot -- nothing else will do! Ki Teitze 5785

Here is another piece left for us by Rabbi Wein ztz'l and which we are privileged to share.

Ki Teitzei contains the second most numerous count of mitzvot in the Torah, topped only by parashat Kedoshim in Chumash Vayikra. The commentators to the Torah discuss why these mitzvot that first appear in Ki Teitzei, all of which are ultimately derived from the granting of the Torah at Mount Sinai almost 40 years earlier, find their place in the Torah here in Moshe’s final oration to the Jewish people. Their approach to the issue differs.

Some say that since many of these mitzvot are related to war, settling the land, domesticated human life and the like, they reflect the impending life-altering change for the Jewish people as they shift from a miraculous existence in the desert to a more natural and normal lifestyle.  Soon they would be in their own land, facing all the changes and problems that such a radical shift of circumstances implies. Others merely say that this is an example of the Talmudic dictum that the Torah is not bound in its teachings and text to any narrative timeline; there is no chronological order to the Torah. Even though these mitzvot appear in writing here for the first time, they were essentially already taught to the Jewish people in the desert long before by Moshe. Other explanations can be found; all are valid and they are not mutually exclusive. 

If I may be bold enough to add my insight to this matter, I would say this: the Jewish people are about to become a nation and to establish their own government in the Land of Israel. They will have to fight many battles, bloody and painful, to establish their right to the Land of Israel and to establish their sovereignty over the territory that it encompasses. They will need an army, a civil government, a judicial system, an economy and labor force and all the other trappings that accompany nation building and establishing a territorial entity and effective government.

In the face of these demands they might think that they can discard the spiritual yoke of the mitzvot imposed upon them at Sinai. It would be easy to say that mitzvot were all very well in the Sinai desert, where no other demands were made on our time, energy and commitment. But with more pressing business at hand, perhaps the punctilious observance of mitzvot was no longer required. 

Moshe comes in this parsha, in the midst of his valedictory oration to the Jewish people, to remind them that mitzvot and Torah are the only effective guarantee of Jewish success and survival, even while they are engaged in building and defending Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel. Moshe in effect says to them: “Here are some more mitzvot—and they will help you succeed in building the land and preserving your sovereignty over it.” Moshe’s message is as germane to our time as it was to the first Jews who arrived en masse to settle in the Land of Israel thirty-three centuries ago. 

To dream or not to dream? that is the question

Yesterday the Women's League, braving the roadworks, urban reconstruction, demonstrations and usual urban congestion -- not to mention an inconveniently-timed missile warning -- ventured down to Rishon LeTzion for a most unusual outing.  Our member Dr Pessy Krausz takes up the story.

When our indefatigably caring Shirley March, Women’s League President, organised our Hanassi Shul tour of the Yaacov Agam Museum of Art, it was hardly to be expected that we were in for a revelation!

After viewing the nine pillars in the entrance, our group was led into a bright airy hall, decorated with Agam works, which contained many colourful carpeted rolling cubes. Upon these we were to sit so that we could propel ourselves across the floor to view a movie shown from four screens—each depicting a different aspect of how the Museum and its hugely tall pillars were erected. Some of us moved, while others simply craned their necks. Even though the many school children experiencing what we might call the rolling cube movement would have no problem returning to their pivotal centre, for our group, (metaphorically speaking) no longer in the first flush of youth, balance is all—along with positioning objects in the same place, so that we’re not forever searching for our keys, glasses or whatever, is a method, we are told, that is essential. 

Equally our sense of balance was challenged viewing the huge pillar which is emblazoned on one side with the Magen David – or as called in the catalogue the Star of David – stretching from here to infinity with the use of mirrors above and below. As we realised his underlying message, “From Here to Eternity”, we also appreciated how in Hebrew we’d say Am LaNezach – our Eternal People. 

Left: A moving triangle casts shadows that develop into a series of Magen Davids

Many of Agam’s works reveal his deep attachment to his Jewish roots. This is hardly surprising since his father, Yehoshua Gibstein, was a rabbi and a Kabbalist who not only Agam’s outlook and encouraged his son to pursue the study of art. agam was born Yaacov Gibstein on May 11, 1928 in Rishon le-Zion, Palestine. Our guide, Yarden, shared that, though reaching a blessed 97 years, he says he is still working on design—though only in his mind! One of our members, Barbara Apelbaum, an art connoisseur who sold his works in the gallery for which she worked, for met Agam and said what a very nice person he is. 

Agam’s prolific 4,382 artworks – called Kinetic art – can be viewed on artnet. Our group was fascinated to see the changing forms that depend on the point from where they are viewed. Our guide explained how Agam connects physics, Judaism and Kabbalah. Thus his work reveals his deep attachment to his Jewish roots. Furthermore, Agam finds the connection between plastic art and music – creating a symphony.  

Agam’s book Agamilim – Reading writing and thinking challenges was published in Israel, 1989. It is aimed at children, particularly preschoolers, to improve their visual thinking, visual memory, and spatial skills by providing tools for a more balanced visual and verbal education. But one might say it would be useful for all, even today. It explores the fundamental principles of his art: visual thinking, multi-dimensionality, and the connection between time and change. Rather than completing a work, the viewer actively participates in its creation by shifting their perception. This continuous interaction means that each work is never fully complete,but is instead an ongoing event for the viewer—who can then participate in creation. 

Perhaps some of us related to the messages his book conveyed during our wonderful experience at the museum. Maybe we appreciated his message that true reality lies beyond mere appearance. Perhaps by engaging with his dynamic art we may have experienced a sense of spiritual elevation, similar to a visual prayer. In any case, our forefather Yaacov’s dream of a ladder was intangible. Yaacov Agam, with his magnificent ladder, has turned such a dream into tangible reality. 

Back to more physical reality, Shirley reminded us that the bus was waiting to take us all to Ikea for lunch – and even a little shopping! We came back down to earth with relief and moved gently towards a welcome meal, some of us quickly paying for carefully selected Agam postcards, posters or linen bags. The magnet on my fridge, depicting Agam’s pillars, will be a reminder that this dreamlike event was, indeed, reality!

What does it mean to take care?

This piece digs into perek 2 of Pirkei Avot--the second of the two perakim we study this Shabbat.

There is no piece of advice that is given—or ignored—more frequently than the injunction: “Take care!”   From our earliest days as children, we hear these words from our parents and elders. When we grow up, the refrain is taken up by our partners and peers, and when we grow old we receive them from our children. It doesn’t matter what we are doing: going out in the rain, playing in the park, climbing a ladder, lifting a suitcase or descending the stairs. We are always told: “Be careful! Take care!” The most annoying thing about this instruction is that it usually comes without the information we really need to know about what care needs to be taken and how we should take it.

Given the prevalence of this unwanted advice, it is almost a disappointment to read Avot 2:18, where Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel teaches three lessons. The first two of them are clearly connected, since both address prayer, and they are at first sight no more than the usual caution to take care:

הֱוֵי זָהִיר בִּקְרִיאַת שְׁמַע וּבִתְפִלָּה. וּכְשֶׁאַתָּה מִתְפַּלֵּל, אַל תַּֽעַשׂ תְּפִלָּתְךָ קְבַע, אֶלָּא רַחֲמִים וְתַחֲנוּנִים לִפְנֵי הַמָּקוֹם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: כִּי חַנּוּן וְרַחוּם הוּא, אֶֽרֶךְ אַפַּֽיִם וְרַב חֶֽסֶד, וְנִחָם עַל הָרָעָה

Be zahir (careful) in reciting the Shema and in tefillah (prayer). When you do pray, do not make your prayers routine, but [pleas for] mercy and supplication before the Almighty, as it says: “For He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, abundant in lovingkindness, and He has a gentle touch with the bad…”

Why does Rabbi Shimon take the trouble to tell us to be careful when we say Shema and when we pray? Is it not obvious that we should do so? And why should we take the trouble to study and internalise this message? If we are seriously committed to our religious practice, aren’t we doing it anyway? And, if we are not, this advice is hardly going to change us.

Rabbenu Yonah, the Bartenura and the commentary ascribed to Rashi explain that this mishnah addresses the need to say Shema at the right time. But since this is in any event a matter of halachah, Jewish law, we might wonder why it might be necessary to add a Mishnaic warning to take care. Perhaps sensing this, the Me’iri posits that the reason for taking care in reciting Shema and prayer is that it enhances one’s recognition of one’s Creator and one’s ability to become close to Him. The Chida (Ahavah beTa’anugim) sees it as being literally a wake-up call, since Shema and tefillah are the first two big events we have to deal with after we have dragged ourselves sluggishly out of bed. Another possibililty is that this mishnah is a corrective, since a person might be tempted to cut corners in saying Shema and tefillah in order to leave more time to learn Torah (R’ Chaim Pelagi, Einei Kol Chai; R’ Dovid Pardo, Shoshanim LeDavid).

The Shema and prayer aren’t by any means the only things our Sages tell us to take care over. For example, in the fourth perek Rabbi Yehudah tells us (Avot 4:16) to be zahir in our learning. There’s also another we find for being careful: in Avot 1:1 the Men of the Great Assembly warn us to be matunim badin (painstakingly careful in judgement). Again, I would have assumed that it was a no-brainer that judges should take care in deciding the cases before them, so why should there be any need for a warning?

We might speculate as to whether there might be some connection between these two mishnayot. Judges are told to be matunim, while people reciting Shema or praying are told to be zahir. Why aren’t judges told to be zehirim and why aren’t we supposed to be matunim?

With judges there is an extra element of taking care. This ideally involves hearing and discussing a case and then taking a break, sleeping on one’s reason for reaching a conclusion and then reassessing it afresh. That is the highest form of taking care since it not only demands a careful rethink but also allows a judge’s subconscious thoughts and perspectives to come to the forefront of his mind.  We want our judges to be matunim, to leave that space for mature reflection, rather than for them to be merely zehirim.

But when we recite Shema or pray, our care-taking is of a different order. Yes, we must be zehirim, we must say the words correctly, at the due time and with the necessary degree of thought and intention—but we may not be matunim and take a break in order to consider our performance of these commandments in greater depth.  We must complete the task of recitation or prayer in a single session,

Caution in teaching: the need for quality control

This week we double up on Pirkei Avot, reading the first two perakim. This piece dips into Perek !.

At Avot 1:11 Avtalyon gives us the first of only three teachings in Avot that are couched in the form of a narrative:

חֲכָמִים, הִזָּהֲרוּ בְדִבְרֵיכֶם, שֶׁמָּא תָחֽוֹבוּ חוֹבַת גָּלוּת וְתִגְלוּ לִמְקוֹם מַֽיִם הָרָעִים, וְיִשְׁתּוּ הַתַּלְמִידִים הַבָּאִים אַחֲרֵיכֶם וְיָמֽוּתוּ, וְנִמְצָא שֵׁם שָׁמַֽיִם מִתְחַלֵּל

Scholars, be careful with your words. For perhaps you will be exiled to a place of bad water. The students who follow you might drink the bad water and die, and the Name of Heaven will be desecrated.

Once it is appreciated that ‘water’ is a metaphor for Torah and that ‘bad water’ is bad Torah teaching, the meaning of this parable is plain: if you, the chacham, are careless in the way you impart Torah to your students, they may misconstrue or misunderstand God’s message. They will then damage the Torah further when in turn they teach it erroneously to students of their own. Having done so, they are liable to be punished—and this will be a chillul Hashem, a desecration of God’s name.

R' Ovadyah Hedayah (Seh LaBet Avot) points out the irony that is buried within this tale. Here we have talmidim of a rabbi who follow him and, who despite their learning from him in good faith, are guilty of a chillul Hashem. If one of those talmidim should through his inadvertence or negligence unwittingly bring about the death of another person, in Torah times he would have had been exiled to one of the orei miklat (“cities of refuge”) and—because his Torah education was understood to be a priority—his rabbi had to go into exile with him.

Our tradition of Pirkei Avot learning is never so narrow as to admit only one meaning per mishnah, and sometimes we find explanations that are quite surprising. According to the Chida (Chasdei Avot) the chillul Hashem is not the fault of the chacham but of his talmidim: it is they who cause death and destruction through their impaired capacity to absorb Torah. The moral of the mishnah would thus be that the chacham should be ultra-cautious in choosing his words and, it seems to me, in conducting regular quality control tests by examining his talmidim regularly to seek out signs of error or deviation from true Torah teaching. This process should ideally start at the moment that talmidim are selected, to weed out those who lack the ability to understand what is being taught and the maturity to handle it (per R’ Eliezer Papo, Ya’alzu Chasidim).

Like the words of the written Torah, the guidance of tractate Avot is intended to speak to us at all times and in every generation. We can thus take away from Avtalyon’s teaching a message that applies to parents, medical practitioners, accountants, lawyers and indeed anyone whose words will be given the weight of authority and which may cause havoc if distorted or taken out of context.

Two paths, one destination

Jeremy Phillips writes:

I have had the rare good fortune to work both with Rabbi Berel Wein ztz’l and Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks ztz’l—two rabbis whose Jewish roots—and the routes they took—could scarcely have been more different.

Rabbi Wein was raised and schooled within a long and distinguished tradition of Lithuanian Torah scholarship; Rabbi Sacks came from an unlearned family of merchants. Rabbi Wein was par excellence a Torah scholar whose natural habitat was the yeshiva and the beit midrash; Rabbi Sacks’ preferred milieu was the synagogue pulpit and the university lecture hall. Rabbi Wein was a rabbi first and only secondly a historian; Rabbi Sacks was a first a philosopher, but a philosopher with semicha.

Within the vast field of Jewish learning, Rabbi Wein was for the Talmud and poskim; Rabbi Sacks’ comfort zone was that of Tanach and midrash. Rabbi Wein cautioned powerfully against the embrace of popular and secular culture and warned of its corrosive effect on living a life of Torah; Rabbi Sacks admired and absorbed much secular culture and sought to use it to understand and strengthen his Torah. Rabbi Wein’s messages were often blunt, sometimes brutal in their force—though delivered with a note of paternal kindness. Rabbi Sacks’ words were carefully crafted orations, aesthetic and elegant—but shocking when delivered with unexpected passion. Rabbi Wein was a man of mitzvot; he gave halachic rulings with the wisdom and confidence of a man backed by deep knowledge and siata dishmaya; Rabbi Sacks was a man of impeccable middot, shrinking from giving halachic rulings and always deferring on matters of halacha to the dayanim of the Beit Din of which he was the titular head,

These two giants of the contemporary Torah scene, who have both been taken from us in the very recent past, were so different in every respect that it seems astonishing that they held each other in such high regard, indeed affection. Those of us who were there will recall Rabbi Sacks’ warm words in his congratulatory message to Rabbi Wein when the latter celebrated 20 years at the helm of Beit Knesset Hanassi, as well as Rabbi Wein’s moving words on his shul’s event to mark the first yahrzeit of Rabbi Sacks. Can anyone doubt that these two men held each other in the highest regard? Why might this be?

If we distil the messages of the two rabbis, we find that they are so similar as to be virtually identical. Both cared passionately about Jewish demographics, writing and speaking on this subject with power and passion. Both were desperately unhappy about the rising tide of ignorance, indifference and assimilation, and both cried out for their audiences to seize the moment to address the problem full-on.  Rabbi Sacks shocked his English constituents when he published ‘Will We Have Jewish Grandchildren?’ and the final plea of Rabbi Wein in his last book launch at Hanassi, shortly before his death, was for the audience to place a copy of his book on antisemitism before every one of their grandchildren.

It was not just the messages but also the means of disseminating them that marked these two luminaries out. Both recognized the power of the media and the emerging technologies to bring their words before audiences who might never otherwise encounter them. To this end Rabbi Wein established the Destiny Foundation, harnessing sound and video recordings and embracing YouTube and Zoom. Similarly, Rabbi Sacks' works, thoughts and ideas are promulgated through The Rabbi Sacks Legacy. Thus the life's work of Rabbis Wein and Sacks lives on.

That these two men, so different in so many respects, should have identified the same issues as crucial and fought for them with every fibre of their being, is something in which I take great comfort. I am sure that, should their paths cross in a better world than this, they will celebrate not their differences but the convergence of their love for the People of Israel and their prayer for its growth and continued success.