Shabbat and the Engineering Profession

The following is a recently revised version of a Shabbat talk given in shul by our member Professor George Moschytz on 14 July 2018. Though George and his wife Brenda (a former President of our Women’s League) are not known to most of our newer and (dare we say it, younger) members of Beit Knesset Hanassi, they are part of the history of our shul and, as George’s talk reveals, part of the history of Israel itself. This is what he has to say.

I was asked to say something about the Faculty of Engineering at Bar Ilan University (to fill out the time until lunch is ready downstairs). This is quite a challenge, since engineering is hardly a subject for a Shabbat drasha. But I don't like turning down a challenge—which is why, incidentally, I foolishly accepted to take on the Founding of the Bar Ilan Engineering Faculty 18 [now 26] years ago. This ended up being the biggest challenge of my entire career – so, again, probably foolishly, I also accepted this challenge.

One might envisage a loose connection between Shabbat and Engineering. It could be to quote Rabbi Samson Rafael Hirsch, on his interpretation of melacha and creative activity. He takes melacha to be a creative activity, which must stop on Shabbat, just as Hashem stopped creating on the seventh day. This, in turn is related to the principle used often by Rav J.B. Soloveitchick, of man being required to imitate Hashem, or 'imitatio dei'.

So I could have tried to somehow develop analogies between engineering, which is a supremely creative activity, and Shabbat – but it’s a bit of a stretch, and I am not going to do so. Besides, plenty has been said and written about Creative Activity, melacha and Shabbat, for example, in the excellent book The Sabbath by Dayan Grunfeld, which I am sure is well known to most of the British here.  So I am not going to talk about Creativity, Shabbat melacha and Engineering — although it does sound like an interesting title. I could also talk about how technology has eased restrictions on Shabbat, such as the Shabbat clock, the Shabbat elevator, the motor-driven wheel-chair, or that incredible invention, the Shabbat Platte. But I’ll leave that topic for another time…

So, what I am going to talk about instead is Shabbat and the Engineering Profession, because Shabbat has indirectly had a profound impact on the engineering profession in the Shabbat- observing world.

What then is this connection between Shabbat and the Engineering Profession? Let me begin with some personal experiences.

 When I was in high school, mathematics was my favorite subject, but my maths teacher warned me that the profession of the mathematician was a hard one in terms of finding a job, and that I should study electrical engineering instead. I came home and informed my parents that that was what I was going to do, and they did not object—since neither they, nor I, had the faintest idea what engineering was all about. Nor were we cognizant of the fact that, in many circles, engineering was not considered a profession for a nice Jewish boy—and for good reason.

The fact is that, back then, the engineer was invariably doomed to being employed, rather than independent—independent like in my father's generation: Of the four brothers, one, my father, was a medical doctor, one a surgeon, one a lawyer, and the fourth an independent pharmacist—all nice independent Jewish professions. At least after completing their studies, no problems were anticipated for a Shabbat-observing professional Jew.

 I'm sure I need not tell you, at least those of you who grew up outside Israel, about being employed in the fifties and sixties in the non-Jewish world—with all the complicating ramifications of Shabbat, Yom Tov, early winter Erev Shabbat, and so on. I am going to spare you all the many problems that I had in getting my engineering education and the numerous times it was literally in jeopardy.

 However, I will treat you to just a few of the more memorable examples.

The final matriculation exam of the private high school in Davos where we lived (the Swiss Alpine Middle School, Davos, or SAMD) was, as always, to take place in the fall. To my relief it first looked as though all the exams could slip through the Chagim except, to my horror, the written math exam which fell on Simchat Torah, a festival no one there had ever heard of! This was particularly embarrassing because we were only 14 students in the class and I happened to be very good at math. This mattered because our alpine school had finally received approval to conduct the Federal Matriculation Exam in Davos, instead of the students having to travel to the capital, Berne, to take the federal exam there. The school headmaster and teachers were very nervous, especially because officials from Berne were to be sent to the SAMD to see whether the school met the required high standards for the federal instead of the previously accepted cantonal examination.

This was an important and long sought after opportunity for the SAMD, and math was a subject that counted heavily. I told them that I would be unable to take the exam on the specified day because it was a Jewish Holiday, Simchat Torah. Rector and math teacher were beside themselves. ‘Find a Rabbi to get a dispensation for goodness’ sake’. I could not help them. I finally told them that the only way out for me was to take the exam the next year and hope for the best. They realized that I was serious. Finally, the math teacher said: ‘what if I ask you the questions at the blackboard, and I write your oral answer on the board?’ I said that I would have to ask my rabbi. I came home and asked my father, and he told me to go ahead. The exam was very embarrassing. I can only imagine what the Bernese delegation thought or said, but my matriculation was save [At the federal ETH university, the end-of- year exams were inevitably also on the Chagim, but the school was accommodating enough to ask for a letter naming the dates of the Jewish holidays and putting us all in one group.]

Having got through the matriculation, I had to find a place in industry to do the obligatory nine-month industrial ‘Stage’ before beginning my studies at the ETH in Zurich. We were expected to find an opening from a list of acceptable companies from the university. No one would take me when they heard that I do not work on Saturdays. ‘What would the (regular) apprentices with whom I would work—for no pay— say?’ Finally, after looking for a week in Zurich, and when it once again looked hopeless, I found one employer who had just been to the newly created State of Israel, was impressed, and saved my engineering career.

But it did not end there. One event stood out during the pre-engineering stage for which I was finally accepted in spite of not working on Saturdays. An event that has stayed with me to this very day. I was working in my blue overalls and grubby hands in the factory hall when I was told that the CEO of the company wanted to see me. My heart sank. I was 19 years old, a temporary apprentice in the company, so what could possibly have gone wrong? We reached the uppermost floor and the large heavily carpeted, beautifully furnished office of the CEO. The secretary left me, dressed in my working clothes, and I waited nervously wondering what on earth was going to happen next. After a little while a tall, grey-haired gentleman entered the room and asked me to sit down. It turned out that the gentleman had heard that I was an orthodox Jew who does not work on the Sabbath. He had never met an orthodox Jew he said, and being a devout Christian, he had always wondered what role his ‘Savior’ played in our religion? This, he felt, was his lucky chance to find out.

I was caught entirely off guard. I considered myself an orthodox Jew but, at nineteen years old, not exactly a learned one, nor one who had ever discussed my religion with a gentile. In our exile from Germany, in Abingdon UK, and Davos in Switzerland, we had always avoided such discussions, or perhaps they simply never came up for debate. And yet, for me the most extraordinary feature of this encounter was that any Jew, learned or not, orthodox, conservative, reform, liberal or whatever, is bound to answer the following crucial question more or less in the same way. ‘What does the Christian Savior mean to a Jew?’ The answer, as politely as possible, is: ‘Nothing!’

I was in this kind but frustrated gentleman’s office for over three hours! I walked out of his office, perspiring. We went through the hierarchy of possible ‘saviors’ such as Saint, Divine Offspring, King, Prophet, and so on, but I could not help him. None of them fit the image that this CEO was looking for. I could go no further than to say that for us he was a well-meaning, but misguided (expressed more gently) Jew. I was partly embarrassed, and partly regretful that I could not ease this good man’s anguish. For yes, there was anguish in his ‘pleading’ for recognition of his Savior.

As I left the CEO’s office, I realized that what I had just experienced was a genteel and respectful version of the Inquisition, and of all the other pogroms, and outbreaks of hatred and resentment of this ‘Am k'shei oref’ (stiff necked people) that has infuriated the world ever since our being selected as the Chosen People at Sinai. I also recognized the wisdom of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, who in his classical essay ‘Confrontation’ (Tradition: A Journal of Orthodox Thought, 1964 volume 6, #2) advises us to be involved in all matters of social improvement and benefits to mankind, but to stay away from any discussions on religion, because they are useless and lead absolutely nowhere. After I left the office of the CEO, I never saw or heard of this man ever again.

Even when, having completed my studies and started my ten years at AT&T Bell Telephone Laboratories in New Jersey, not long after they began to hire Jews at all, and Shabbat was no longer a working day —I was still considered a pre-historic relic when I told them that I am an orthodox Jew and need more than ten working days' vacation (ten being the rule) because of the Chagim—all of which in the Galut add up to 13 days. (They had never heard of Shavuot or Sukkot!)  At the time there were already plenty of Jewish engineers and scientists at Bell Labs. However at least at Holmel, New Jersey, where I worked—with over 4,000 employees beside myself— I believe there was not a single dati Jew.

Not surprisingly the ‘Shabbat problem’ did not stop there. A year or so after joining Bell Labs I was told that I was being considered for promotion but that it had come to the director’s and higher up’s attention that I do not work on Saturdays, our Sabbath. So I was asked, as a leader of a group, ‘what would I do in an emergency taking place on a Saturday?’ Since we did not work on Saturdays, his question surprised me, nor could I imagine what kind of emergency we could possibly encounter in this research establishment. I answered that it would depend on what the emergency was. The unlikely answer was that if President Johnson, who was from Texas, needed a telephone line immediately from the White House to Texas, they would send the CEO of AT&T, Fred Kappel, climbing up a telephone pole to get the line immediately installed. I answered politely that this would not count as an emergency on the Sabbath, but that I would be available right after the Sabbath to do whatever was needed of me, adding (as usual when this type of question came up) that instead of Saturday, I could pitch in on Sundays, Christmas, or any other time, as required, and that the only likely emergency could be that of a life and death situation, in which case my restrictions would be loosened up according to the severity of the situation. It seemed to me that the department head, a very kind and well-meaning boss, who identified with his Jewish heritage (they belonged to the local Conservative community) was clearly put into this rather awkward situation by someone higher up in the hierarchy, who was either sincerely worried about a fictitious emergency, or was not quite partial to the reason for my Sabbath-free restrictions. He said that he would have to relay my answer up the line and would get back to me. I felt, and gently insinuated, that the problem was theirs to solve, not mine. By now the whole group was, in fact, working for me already and, to keep the project going, they would almost have to make me their supervisor which, in practice, I already was. Several days later, without coming back to me, the notice of my promotion to supervisor was posted on the central notice board in the elevator tower.

Nevertheless, my Shabbat restriction did once cause an embarrassing situation for me, and it was the result of an ‘emergency’ of sorts. Towards the end of every year, each supervisor, each department head, and so on up the line, had to ‘rate’ the performance of the employees working under him (still no ‘her’). This rating, which spared no one, would determine the salary raise that each employee would receive at the end of the year. The rating was a committee effort, in our case with our department head, and the three supervisors working under him, which included me., One year, due to unusual circumstances, our rating session had not taken place during normal working hours and had to be conducted out of hours, i.e., on a Saturday! I explained that there was no way that I could come in for the rating session on a Saturday. Bell Labs was a huge enterprise that operated under strict, inflexible rules, and the rating lists had to be reported to the personnel office at latest by the coming Monday. Since I had no choice but to make clear that the rating session could not be considered an emergency for which I could violate the Sabbath, we had no alternative but to meet at the Labs on the following Sunday. Everyone, including one devout Catholic, were equally loth to come in to work on a Sunday—but I could leave them no other choice. They all gamely came in on Sunday, showing no hint of resentment or anger towards my Sabbath rules, but I felt terrible! It was this experience that made me realize the legitimate limits of my working at Bell Labs. I was determined that, if I was ever offered the next promotion, which some years later I was, I would have to decline. I realized that there really were ‘emergencies’ that could come up, and that in general they would in no way qualify transgressing Shabbat. So, I resolved that in future, the only fair decision on my part would be to never get into such a situation again, and to turn down any promotion that may be offered to me.

I could give you many more examples in my career, but now I want to get to the Engineering Faculty of Bar-Ilan University which opened only in 2001.

 But why only in 2001 when the Technion, Tel-Aviv, and Ben Gurion had Engineering Faculties long before? And why is there no engineering at Yeshiva University to this day? The students take the maths and physics courses at YU, and the engineering courses at Columbia. The answer is: all for the same reasons!

When the founders of Bar-Ian University, Prof. Pinchas Churgin and other leading American Mizrachi leaders, founded Bar-Ilan University in 1950 to 'establish a university that combines Jewish values and academic excellence', engineering was not one of the disciplines they even considered. Again, this was for good reason, because Shabbat-and Yom-Tov-observance and the engineering profession seemed a contradiction; Shabbat observance would be impossible. The engineering profession was considered too risky and difficult to promote on a large scale, because the engineering graduate would not find Shabbat-free employment. It took over fifty years after its beginning—not until 2001— till Bar-Ilan asked me to start the Engineering program. And by the way, before I go on, and not necessarily related to Shabbat, engineering was certainly not considered a profession for a girl! Jewish or not! In my semester at the ETH in Zurich there was not a single female student, nor a single female faculty member!

----------------------------------------

How things have changed!

The apprehension and reluctance with regard to the engineering profession, in the Shomer-Shabbat community, is entirely out of place today—obviously in Israel, but even in the Galut.

Clearly, being employed as an engineer is no problem in Israel, and ever less, also in the non-Jewish world. (Many years after I had left Bell Labs, the president of Bell Labs wore a Kippa). Furthermore, the independent self-employed engineer, whether in a start-up company, or simply as a consultant on his or her own, is now common. More and more dati young students, boys and girls, can be seen in the Engineering Faculties, but particularly at Bar-Ilan. Young women with kissui Rosh are working for their PhDs, and young dati mothers and fathers carry their infants in their arms as they come up to the stage to receive their Diploma. I always had to pay attention to whose female student's hand I would shake, and whose I should not.

In the academic world, Bar-Ilan University has managed to maintain its mission of combining Jewish values with academic excellence, and this includes the now well-established Bar-Ilan Engineering Faculty—with over fifty faculty members today—from one faculty member at the beginning – me! It is the only university faculty anywhere that consciously and deliberately adheres to this mission.

However, I will mention that this mission, at least for an engineering faculty, is still not without problems, and again for the same reasons. Why’s that?

My mandate was to start a high-level faculty, with, if possible, dati professors. Well, for the reasons just mentioned, that mandate was almost impossible. If there are no dati engineering students, then there will be no dati engineering professors. It is relatively easy to find shomer Shabbat mathematics, physics and chemistry faculty members (the exact sciences have somehow always been more acceptable), but almost impossible to find shomer Shabbat engineering faculty members! On confronting me with this dilemma over and over again, the Bar-Ilan president and I finally settled on the mantra, ‘those dati engineering professors will some day come from our graduate crop’. This is quite a reasonable assumption!

But getting back to the students: approximately one third of the engineering students at Bar-Ilan are dati. The percentage of female students, because of the more Jewish atmosphere than elsewhere, is, I believe, larger than anywhere else. One day a week was free of classes to enable the students to attend the Kollel or the Midrasha. [That was then; I don’t know whether this is the case today]. The emphasis on Jewish values in the engineering curriculum is maintained, for example, by the fact that the general non-engineering culture classes that are required in engineering faculties everywhere—in order to prevent engineering nerdiness— consists at Bar-Ilan of Jewish studies [Then, I don’t know whether this applies today]. In the non-Jewish universities those courses consist of liberal arts, literature, music, philosophy, and much else.

So to wrap up my Shabbat musings on the historical interplay between Shabbat and the engineering profession, the good news is that any young shomer Shabbat student, male or female, who has a half- way affinity to mathematics—this still being one of the most important litmus tests for the engineering profession— such a young dati person can have a wonderfully creative, interesting, and needless to say well-salaried, profession in today's world of hi-tech engineering.

In Israel, and abroad, as some of you may have read in the papers recently, more engineers are desperately needed everywhere – Israel is at least 10,000 short—so getting a good job after graduation is almost guaranteed.

We keep a follow-up tab on our graduate students and are very happy to find that they, our graduates, are eagerly sought in industry—and with rare exceptions find employment soon after graduation.

So to summarize: Engineering has today become a wonderful profession for a nice Jewish boy – and girl!

Democracy in the Tanach

This month's meeting of the Men’s Rosh Chodesh Lunch Club had as its guest speaker Dr Yael Ziegler, Rosh Beit Midrash at Matan Women’s Institute for Torah Studies and the author of two major tomes on Tanach, one on Megillat Rut and the other on Megillat Eicha. The subject of her lecture for Rosh Chodesh Tammuz was 'Democracy in the Tanach’ -- a title that promised some surprises since anyone who is familiar with the canon of holy Jewish texts will know that the concept of democracy as an ideal form of government is nowhere to be found.

Having confessed that democracy as we know it is not a bible-based label, Dr Zeigler built her case on the thesis that Judaism, as evidenced by Tanach, establishes and endorses values and attitudes that themselves underpin democracy -- and indeed any other form of government advocated for the Jewish people. 

First of these values is that of human dignity: we are all created betzelem Elokim. in the image of Hashem, and this proposition makes no distinction based on age, gender, or status. Acceptance that we are all created betzelem Elokim carries with it an obligation to protect the vulnerable and minorities, as halachah requires. This commitment to the value of every human life is in sharp contrast with the values reflected in the laws of other ancient societies, where economic rather than moral considerations were foremost and the murder of an individual was addressed as a question of how much financial compensation the victim's family was prepared to accept.

The second of these values was that of due process before the law. Justice must be dispensed on the basis of a proper investigative process, and judicial proceedings should be based on impartiality as between disputing parties, leaning neither towards the favor of the rich or the preference for the poor.

The third value reflected in the Tanach is that of civic responsibility. Our duties towards other people extend beyond simply preventing ourselves from harming them but lean towards proactive measures. The return of lost property and assisting another whose donkey is overburdened illustrate this as, on a different level, does the confession of the eglah arufah.

Dr Ziegler then led the audience through the various forms of leadership that were tried throughout the days of the Tanach. It was plain that none was perfect in practice and that the takeaway message was that we should be suspicious of all power, regardless of its form, if it does not match up to the Tanach's underlying values. 

The grand finale of Dr Ziegler's talk was a visit to Megillat Rut and a close examination of its contents. This revealed that the ideal form of leadership is one in which the leader serves the people to the point at which he empties himself out of any personal agenda and devotes himself to the people whom he leads.

You can watch and listen to Dr Ziegler's lecture here. 

Making It Relevant (Book of the Month, Tammuz 5876)

 Making it Relevant is the striking title of a striking book that has just been published by Mosaica Press. Its author, Katia Bolotin, is a great enthusiast for life -- and in particular for making the most of our Jewish lifestyle commitments. As the publisher's webpage tells us:

We all seek relevance. Without it, life can feel aimless and unfulfilling. Instead of living with purpose, we feel as if we merely go through the motions. Relationships seem static, and life loses its vitality.

In a world of constant change, where can we find true, lasting significance? The Torah—our Divine guide to spiritual and personal growth—meets us where we are. Based on the weekly parashah, this sefer provides thought-provoking insights tailored to today’s challenges and offers actionable, transformative steps for anyone striving to elevate their life. Whether you are a seasoned scholar or new to these ideas, Making It Relevant is a powerful and accessible guide to living with meaning.

Fine words, if you make the effort to internalize them and take them on board. The author is clearly a person who practices what she preaches. Abaout Katia Bolotin the book's website tells us this:

Katia Bolotin is a Torah educator, speaker, and writer who inspires Jews of all backgrounds. Her thought-provoking lectures and articles show the enduring relevance of Torah in a changing world. She focuses on personal growth rooted in Torah’s wisdom and practical ways to cultivate and sustain it. Katia is also a pianist, songwriter, and composer of contemporary classical music.

We have a copy of this book in our Beit Midrash library. Pick it up and you will find a parashah-by-parashah program of messages that are, as the author tells us, relevant to our daily lives. The message is clear -- and so is the book itself: good-sized print, no footnotes and written with intent to be understood. It's available on Amazon too. 

A Community, Not a Crowd: Korach 2026

 This piece was first published in our Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 11 June 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, by clicking here.

One of the most striking questions about Korach's rebellion is deceptively simple: what exactly was Korach fighting for? At first glance, his claim seems straightforward. He challenges Moshe and Aharon, declaring, "The entire congregation is holy" and questioning why they should hold positions of leadership. Yet, when we look more closely, the picture becomes surprisingly complicated.

Korach wanted the Kehunah Gedolah for himself. Datan and Aviram had their own grievances about leadership. The 250 men who joined the rebellion had different aspirations altogether. Each group was pursuing its own agenda. What appeared to be a united movement was, in reality, a coalition of competing interests.

This observation helps explain a curious phrase in Pirkei Avot. The Mishnah does not describe this episode as "the dispute between Korach and Moshe." Instead, it calls it "the dispute of Korach and his congregation." Even within Korach's camp there was disagreement. As the Malbim notes, each participant was motivated primarily by his own ambitions rather than by a shared vision.

A closer look at the language of the Torah reveals an even deeper lesson. Twice in the parashah we encounter the root קהל, "to gather." Korach and his followers gather against Moshe and Aharon. Later, after the rebellion has been crushed, the people once again gather against them. The same language appears earlier in the Torah at the episode of the Golden Calf, where the people gather around Aharon.

Yet there is another famous gathering in the Torah: "Vayakhel Moshe"—Moshe assembled the people in order to build the Mishkan. The same root. The same act of gathering. But two entirely different realities.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l drew a distinction between a crowd and a community. A community is united by a shared purpose, guided by values, and committed to something greater than itself. A crowd may appear united, but it is often driven by emotion, frustration, fear, or anger. Its members stand together physically, yet remain divided in what truly motivates them.

The builders of the Mishkan formed a community. Korach's followers formed a crowd.

Korach teaches us how easily people can gather around what they oppose. Moshe teaches us how people can gather around what they seek to build.

This distinction remains as relevant today as it was in the wilderness. Communities inevitably contain differing opinions, strong personalities, and legitimate disagreements. The challenge is not to eliminate disagreement but to ensure that those differences are harnessed in the service of a shared purpose.

Shabbat Shalom!

Two Lasting Reminders: The Legacy of Korach's Rebellion

The story of Korach is among the most dramatic episodes in the Torah. Korach challenges the leadership of Moshe Rabbeinu and Aharon HaKohen, questioning their authority and the unique role assigned to the Kohanim. The rebellion ends tragically with the destruction of Korach and his followers. Yet the Torah does not conclude the story with punishment alone. In Parashat Korach, Chapter 17, we encounter the aftermath of the rebellion. There, the Torah establishes two permanent reminders that were meant to remain with the Jewish people for generations: one positive and one negative. These reminders teach timeless lessons about leadership, spiritual growth, and the dangers of conflict. In the following piece, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains to us what these lessons are.

The Positive Reminder: Aharon's Blossoming Staff

Following the rebellion, Hashem commands that each tribe submit a staff bearing the name of its tribal leader. The staffs are placed in the Mishkan overnight. The next morning, Moshe discovers an extraordinary miracle:

"And behold, the staff of Aharon for the House of Levi had bloomed (a proof that the name Bloom is a common Kohanic surname); it brought forth blossoms, produced buds, and yielded almonds." (Bemidbar 17:23).

A dead piece of wood suddenly came to life. Overnight it transformed into a flourishing almond branch. This miracle served as a Divine confirmation of Aharon's role and of the special mission of the tribe of Levi. More importantly, it symbolized that within Klal Yisrael there would always exist a source of spiritual vitality and inspiration. The Kohanim and Levi'im would serve as the nation's spiritual guides, nurturing the Jewish people and helping them maintain their connection to Hashem.

The staff was preserved in the Kodesh HaKodashim as a permanent testimony. For centuries it remained there, until the days of King Yoshiyahu, when it was hidden together with the Aron and other sacred vessels before the destruction of the First Temple.

The Symbolism of the Blossoms

The Kli Yakar notes that every stage of the staff's growth carries symbolic meaning. The Torah describes three developments:

●      "Porach" – it blossomed.

●      "Tzitz" – it produced buds.

●      "Shekedim" – it yielded almonds.

The word "porach" usually refers to flowers, and Chazal use a related term (pirchim) when describing the youth of the Kohanim. The blossoming flowers represent the young generation—the future children who will continue the sacred traditions of Israel. The word "tzitz" refers to a bud, but it also evokes the Tzitz, the golden headplate worn by the Kohen Gadol. This symbolizes the greatest spiritual leaders of every generation. Finally, the almonds (shekedim) allude to the word "shoked", meaning diligence, vigilance, and speed. In Yirmeyahu (1:12), Hashem says:

"I am vigilant (shoked) to fulfill My word."

The almond therefore symbolizes the zeal, enthusiasm, and dedication with which the Kohanim and Levi'im serve Hashem. Thus, in a single miraculous branch, the Torah presents a vision of Jewish continuity: children, leaders, and devoted servants of God, all flourishing together.

The Negative Reminder: The Copper Fire Pans

The second memorial is far less pleasant. The 250 followers of Korach had offered incense in copper fire pans. After their destruction, Hashem commands that these pans should not be discarded. Instead, they are hammered into a covering for the Mizbe'ach. Why preserve them? The Torah states explicitly that they are to serve as a permanent reminder for future generations. The Gemara in Sanhedrin teaches:

"Anyone who perpetuates a dispute transgresses a prohibition."

The key idea is not merely the existence of disagreement. Differences of opinion are inevitable. Every family, community, and organization experience disagreements. The sin of Korach was not simply that he disagreed. It was that he nurtured and perpetuated conflict. He transformed a disagreement into a rebellion and a personal struggle for power. The Gemara's language is especially striking. The prohibition is against maintaining or perpetuating a machloket. Conflict may arise, but we are commanded not to preserve it, not to feed it, and not to allow it to define us.The copper covering on the Mizbe'ach served as a daily reminder that disputes should be resolved as quickly as possible. We should seek reconciliation rather than escalation, peace rather than division.

The Message for Our Generation

The Torah leaves us with these two enduring symbols because they address two of the greatest challenges facing every generation. The blossoming staff teaches us to invest in spiritual growth, inspire the next generation, respect Torah leadership, and cultivate enthusiasm in our service of Hashem. The copper pans teach us to avoid the trap of lingering resentment and destructive conflict. Disagreements may be unavoidable, but lasting division is not.

One reminder points us toward growth and life. The other warns us against the corrosive effects of strife. Together they form the enduring legacy of the Korach episode. When the rebellion ended, the Torah wanted the Jewish people to remember not only what had gone wrong, but also what must go right.

May we merit to emulate the blossoming staff of Aharon—bringing life, inspiration, and spiritual growth to those around us—and may we always have the wisdom to resolve conflict quickly and pursue the paths of peace.

Seeing Beyond the Grasshoppers: The Message of Tzitzit in a Time of Challenge

One of the most striking juxtapositions in the Torah appears at the end of Parashat Shelach Lecha. Immediately following the tragic story of the Meraglim—the spies who discouraged the nation from entering Eretz Yisrael—the Torah presents the mitzvah of Tzitzit. At first glance, the connection seems puzzling. Why does the Torah place the commandment of Tzitzit directly after one of the greatest national failures in Jewish history? Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom suggests an answer. Perhaps, he wonders, the Torah is teaching us that Tzitzit is not merely another mitzvah. It is a corrective to the very mistake that led to the sin of the spies.

The Sin of the Spies: Seeing Without Understanding

The spies did not fabricate their report. They saw fortified cities. They saw powerful armies. They saw giants. Their observations were factually correct. Their failure was not in what they saw, but in how they interpreted what they saw. They concluded:

"We were like grasshoppers in our own eyes."

They looked at reality through the lens of fear rather than faith. They evaluated the challenges before them without considering the presence of Hashem. As a result, they transformed a difficult mission into an impossible one.

The tragedy was not merely historical. Every generation faces its own version of the sin of the spies. Whenever Jews convince themselves that a challenge is insurmountable, that redemption is impossible, that the Jewish people cannot overcome their enemies, the echo of the Meraglim can still be heard. The spies saw giants. Yehoshua and Kalev saw opportunities. The facts were the same. The vision was different.

Tzitzit: A Mitzvah of Perspective

Immediately after this national collapse, the Torah commands:

"And you shall see it and remember all the commandments of Hashem and perform them” (Bamidbar 15:39).

The Torah does not merely say that Tzitzit will remind us of mitzvot. It says: "U're'item oto" — "You shall see it." Tzitzit is fundamentally about learning how to see. The spies saw a world without Divine assistance. Tzitzit trains us to see a world filled with Divine presence. That is why Chazal teach that Tzitzit possesses a unique power to remind a Jew of all the mitzvot. It restores spiritual perspective.

The Uniform of the King

Rashi famously notes that the numerical value of the word ציצית together with its threads and knots corresponds to the 613 mitzvot. Seeing the Tzitzit reminds us of the entire Torah. But the Sforno offers an even deeper understanding. Tzitzit functions like a royal uniform. A soldier wearing the king's insignia remembers whom he serves. An officer of the court conducts himself differently because he is conscious of his mission. So too, when a Jew wears Tzitzit, he is reminded: "I am an eved Hashem. I represent something greater than myself." The reminder is not simply about commandments. It is about identity—and, when a person remembers who he is, he naturally remembers what he is supposed to do.

The Wings That Lift Us Higher

The Torah commands us to place Tzitzit on the kanfei begadim—the corners of our garments. The commentators note that the word kanaf also means "wing." The Tzitzit are attached to the wings of our garment because they are meant to lift us above a purely material existence. They elevate our vision beyond the immediate and the physical. The spies looked only at military realities. Tzitzit teaches us to look at spiritual realities as well. The spies saw obstacles. Tzitzit teaches us to see purpose.

Learning to See Hashem

The Maharal takes this idea even further. The purpose of Tzitzit is not merely to remind us of mitzvot. It is to train us to perceive the presence of Hashem in the world. A Jew is called upon to see beyond the surface. To see history not as a random collection of events but as the unfolding of Divine providence. To see the return of the Jewish people to Eretz Yisrael not merely as a political phenomenon but as part of a larger story. To see challenges not only as threats but as opportunities for growth and redemption. This is the antidote to the sin of the spies.

The Mystery of the Techelet

Perhaps nowhere is this message more beautifully expressed than in the mitzvah of Techelet. Chazal teach:

"Techelet resembles the sea, the sea resembles the sky, and the sky resembles the Throne of Glory."

At first glance, this seems strange. The sea is not truly blue. The sky is not truly blue. The blue we perceive is largely an optical phenomenon. Yet it is precisely this seemingly elusive color that directs our thoughts toward the infinite. When we gaze at the horizon of the sea or the expanse of the heavens, we experience something beyond ourselves. We sense transcendence.

Techelet reminds us that there is more to reality than what appears on the surface. The spies saw only what was in front of them. The Techelet teaches us to look beyond what is in front of us.

A Message for Our Generation

We live in a time when the Jewish people once again face enormous challenges. We hear voices that say certain problems are unsolvable. We hear predictions of despair. We hear calls to surrender confidence in our future. Parashat Shelach reminds us that Jewish history is shaped not only by military strength or political calculation, but by vision. The Meraglim saw themselves as grasshoppers. Yehoshua and Kalev saw themselves as servants of Hashem. The difference changed the destiny of a nation.

The mitzvah of Tzitzit calls upon us every day to remember who we are, whose mission we carry, and how we are meant to view the world. When we look at the Tzitzit, we are reminded that we are not grasshoppers. We are the people whom Hashem redeemed from Egypt. We are the people entrusted with His Torah. We are the people destined to build His land.

May we merit to see the world not through the eyes of fear, but through the eyes of faith; not through the vision of the spies, but through the vision of Yehoshua and Kalev.

And may the message of the Tzitzit help us recognize the presence of Hashem in our lives, in our nation, and in the unfolding redemption of Am Yisrael.

Seeing a Land — or Entering a Relationship? Shelach Lecha 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 4 June 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

Seeing a Land — or Entering a Relationship?

The tragedy of the spies in Parshat Shelach is often misunderstood. At first glance, their sin seems difficult to identify. Moshe instructed them to scout the Land of Israel, to observe the strength of its inhabitants, the nature of its cities, and the quality of the land itself. When they returned, they simply reported what they had seen: the cities were fortified, the inhabitants were powerful, and the challenges ahead were formidable.

The spies did not fabricate facts. Their failure lay elsewhere. Their mistake was that they misunderstood the very nature of the mission. 

Rav Soloveitchik explains that this was never intended as a purely military reconnaissance exercise. The Jewish people were not merely preparing to cross a border or conquer territory. Rather, “the entry signified the destiny of a people united with the destiny of a land.” Am Yisrael was not simply crossing into its homeland; it was entering into a relationship of covenant and destiny. 

To describe this, Rav Soloveitchik uses the analogy of a marriage. Before marriage, a couple must meet one another. Marriage cannot be built through technical information alone. It is not enough to exchange data from afar. A relationship requires encounter, connection and the ability to see beyond surface impressions. So too, the spies were sent not only to gather information, but to encounter the land—to experience its holiness, its promise and its destiny. That was precisely what Yehoshua and Kalev understood. They saw the same giants, the same fortified cities, and the same dangers. Yet they interpreted those realities differently because they approached the land not merely as observers, but as participants in a covenant. 

The other spies viewed the land through the lens of fear and pragmatism alone. Everything became a calculation of risk and vulnerability. Their famous declaration — “We were like grasshoppers in our own eyes” — revealed that the true problem was not the strength of the inhabitants, but the smallness with which they viewed themselves.

Perhaps this is one of the Torah’s enduring warnings. Human beings rarely see reality in a purely objective way. We interpret the world through the lens of our assumptions, anxieties and expectations. Two people can confront the very same circumstances and emerge with entirely different conclusions.

 In many areas of life, modern culture encourages us to think like the spies: to evaluate everything solely in terms of practicality, efficiency and risk. The Torah challenges us to look deeper. Beneath the external facts lies another question entirely: what kind of relationship are we being asked to build?

The spies saw a land to be analysed. Yehoshua and Kalev saw a land to be loved. Sometimes, that difference can change the course of history itself.

 Shabbat Shalom!

The Seven Ages of Wo-Man

"All the world's a stage": William Shakespeare's famous soliloquy on the Seven Ages of Man from As You Like It, is one of the best-known passages to have flowed from the Bard's pen. If you don't know it already, you can read it here -- and you can also check it out against Pirkei Avot, where Yehudah ben Teyma gives us our own alternative version at Avot 5:25.

Our own poet-in-residence here in Rechavia, none other than our member Pessy Krausz, was clearly inspired (or maybe provoked) by this idea to compose a piece of her own on childhood and perceptions of growing up. So, without further ado, here it is:

        The Seven Stages of Wo-Man (with apologies to the Bard)

Did my childhood begin after Nanny wheeled me round Leipzig’s park, 

recounting: Today your baby Die Gagaks! to the ducks did say: seeing mother’s delight

Or, as wrote the Bard, when mewling and puking in nurse’s arms?

 

Or, escaping Nazi overrun Belgium on a British soldier-packed, boat when

this prancing infant sang her little ditty all the way to Dover?

 

Or at Infants’ School huge hall, with even huger parents

when father bent to whisper into my five-year-old ear

Don’t tell them you’re German…was I? What was that, German?

 

Or at Junior School, missing traffic reading Margaret Mitchell’s

Gone with the Wind from home all the way to unwilling lessons?

 

Or at High School when this front row seated pupil heard intoned:

Would you like to sit with us? Us? Who’s “us”?

The Jewish girls…Where are they? In the back row!

 

Or at Bnei Akiva’s youth movement, as teenager with patent shoes...

is teenage part of childhood? A card on my 60th birthday informed

 

You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely*.

When your inner child matches youngsters scrambling for your knee

childhood can be blessed with any number we choose it to be!

New Trumpets for a New Generation

In this week’s parsha, the Torah introduces a mitzvah that at first glance seems merely technical: “עשה לך שתי חצוצרות כסף” (“Make for yourself two silver trumpets” ( במדבר י:ב).  These trumpets were not decorative. They were functional. They were the communication system of Klal Yisrael in the desert. What does this mean? Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom elaborates:

When Moshe Rabbeinu needed to gather the people, a tekiah was sounded. When it was time to travel, a teruah was blown. Different sounds carried different messages.

The Jewish people camped around the Mishkan in a vast desert. There were no telephones, no radios, no text messages. The silver trumpets unified the nation. They told the people when to assemble, when to travel, when to prepare for battle, when to celebrate and when to move forward. These chatzotzrot were the instruments through which Moshe communicated direction to the nation.

But Chazal notice something extraordinary. The Torah says “עשה לך” — “Make for yourself.” And the Gemara teaches that these particular trumpets belonged uniquely to Moshe Rabbeinu. The Aron, the Menorah, the Mizbe’ach — all the holy vessels of the Mishkan continued for generations. Shlomo HaMelech still used many of them centuries later. But not the trumpets. Every generation needed new trumpets. Why? What is the Torah teaching us?

The Eternal Torah and the Changing World

Rav Yechezkel Abramsky explained a profound idea. The essence of Torah never changes. The Torah is eternal. The Rambam writes that if a prophet would arise and claim that one mitzvah has changed — even one detail — that prophet is false. Torah is immutable. We believe with complete faith: “זאת התורה לא תהא מוחלפת” (“This Torah will never be exchanged.”) The principles of Torah are eternal truth. But Rav Abramsky explained that while the Torah itself never changes, the way Torah is transmitted sometimes must change. The “trumpets” change. The method of communication changes. The needs of the generation change. Reality changes. This is why great Torah leaders throughout history understood that in order to bring Jews closer to Torah, they sometimes needed new chatzotzrot — new ways of reaching the Jewish people. Not a new Torah, but new trumpets.

Boaz and the Sanctification of Everyday Life

Chazal connect this idea to an extraordinary scene in Megillat Rut. Boaz walks into the field and greets his workers: “ה׳ עמכם” (“Hashem be with you.”) and they answer: “יברכך ה׳” (“May Hashem bless you.”).

The Mishnah asks: Why was Boaz using the Name of Hashem in ordinary greeting? Would that not appear disrespectful? Would that not diminish reverence for the Divine Name? And Chazal answer: “עת לעשות לה׳” (“There are times when action must be taken for Hashem.”)  There are moments in history when leadership must respond to the spiritual needs of the generation. Boaz understood that his generation needed something. The Jewish people needed to feel the presence of Hashem not only in the Beit HaMikdash, not only in formal prayer, but in everyday life. In the marketplace. In the fields. At work. In ordinary conversation.

So Boaz introduced a new “trumpet.” He taught people to greet one another with awareness of Hashem. Not because Torah changed, but because the generation needed a different language of connection.

Kohelet and the Wisdom of Timing

Shlomo HaMelech writes in Kohelet: “לכל זמן ועת לכל חפץ תחת השמים” (“Everything has its season, and every matter has its appointed time beneath the heavens.”) There is:

●     A time to speak, a time to remain silent

●     A time for wa, a time for peace

●     A time to build, a time to rebuild

The eternal values remain the same, but wise leadership understands timing. And throughout Jewish history, our greatest leaders recognized moments when the “trumpets” needed to sound differently.

First Example: Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi and the Mishnah

For centuries, Torah Sheba’al Peh was not written down. A student learned directly from a rebbe. Torah was transmitted personally. Living Torah. Breathing Torah. Not just information, but character, humility, fear of Heaven, and spiritual warmth.

Then came the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. Exile spread the Jewish people across the world. Roman persecution intensified. Torah was in danger of being forgotten. And Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi made a revolutionary decision: He wrote down the Mishnah.

In one sense, this violated the longstanding tradition against writing Torah Shebe’al Peh. But Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi understood: If we continue using the old trumpets, Torah may be lost. The Torah itself would remain eternal but the transmission system needed to change. And because of that courageous decision, Torah survived. From the Mishnah came the Gemara. Then Rashi. Then Tosafot. Then Rambam. Then Shulchan Aruch. The entire world of Torah learning we know today grew from that decision—a new trumpet for a new generation.

Second Example: Paying Rabbanim and Teachers

The Rambam writes that Torah should not be taught for money. Ideally, Torah leaders supported themselves independently. Teaching Torah was never meant to become a profession for personal gain. But centuries later, Rav Yosef Karo — the author of the Shulchan Aruch — recognized a new reality. Communities were becoming more complex. The demands on rabbanim increased. If Torah teachers could not dedicate themselves fully to Torah leadership, Torah itself would weaken. And therefore a new model emerged:

Communities would support rabbanim, roshei yeshiva, and dayanim. Again, this was not a change in Torah but a change in the “trumpets.” A new structure for a new reality. And because of that decision, Torah institutions flourished across the Jewish world.

Third Example: Rav Kook and Ahavat Yisrael

Perhaps one of the most dramatic examples came in the previous century with Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook. In Europe, Jews who abandoned Torah were often seen as actively fighting against Judaism. They promoted assimilation. They opposed traditional observance. They weakened Jewish commitment.

But Rav Kook arrived in Eretz Yisrael and saw something different. He saw Jews who were not observant… yet they were draining swamps, building farms, reviving Hebrew, defending Jewish lives and rebuilding the Land of Israel.

Rav Kook said: We must relate to them differently. Not because Torah changed. Not because mitzvot changed. But because history changed. Reality changed. The generation required a new trumpet, a new language, a new way of connecting Jews to one another and to redemption.

This approach was controversial. But so was Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s innovation. So was Rav Yosef Karo’s. True leadership often requires courage.

Our Generation’s Trumpets

And now we come to our own generation. We are living through extraordinary times. For nearly 2,000 years Jews dreamed of returning to Eretz Yisrael. Today we are witnessing Kibbutz Galuyot, the rebuilding of Jewish sovereignty, the flourishing of the Land, the revival of Hebrew and the protection of Jewish life by Jewish soldiers

We are living inside pages of Tanach. And yet our generation is deeply fragmented: Religious and secular, right and left, Israeli and Diaspora--different communities, different languages, different fears.

And perhaps the lesson of the silver trumpets is this: We must learn how to call Jews together. The purpose of the trumpets was not division. It was unity: to gather the nation around a shared mission.

Moshe Rabbeinu used the trumpets to move Klal Yisrael toward the Mishkan — toward the presence of Hashem. That remains our challenge. How do we speak to fellow Jews? How do we inspire? How do we communicate Torah in a language the next generation can hear? Not watered-down Torah, nNot compromised Torah—but eternal Torah communicated with wisdom, sensitivity, and love.

The Torah gives the trumpets another role as well. Not only communication. Not only gathering the people. The trumpets were also instruments of spiritual awakening. The Torah says: “וְכִי תָבֹאוּ מִלְחָמָה בְּאַרְצְכֶם עַל־הַצַר הַצֹּרֵר אֶתְכֶם וַהֲרֵעֹתֶם בַּחֲצֹצְרֹת וְנִזְכַּרְתֶּם לִפְנֵי ה׳ אֱלֹקֵיכֶם וְנוֹשַׁעְתֶּם מֵאֹיְבֵיכֶם” (“When you wage war in your Land against an enemy who oppresses you, you shall sound a teruah with the trumpets, and you shall be remembered before Hashem your God, and you shall be saved from your enemies.”).

Notice something remarkable. The Torah does not say: “Strengthen your weapons.” It says:  “Sound the trumpets.” Why? Because the essential battle is spiritual before it is military. The Rambam writes in Hilchot Ta’aniyot that when suffering or war comes upon the Jewish people, there is a positive mitzvah to cry out and sound the trumpets. Why? Because the purpose is to awaken the people to teshuvah. The Rambam explains that when Jews cry out before Hashem, they recognize that events are not random: “Everyone realizes that the evil occurred because of their deeds… and this will cause the trouble to be removed.” The trumpets were therefore not merely military instruments. They were spiritual alarms—a wake-up call, a reminder that Jewish survival ultimately depends not only on armies, but on our relationship with Hashem. And perhaps this message has never been more relevant than in our own generation.

The Challenge of Communication

Sometimes religious Jews become frustrated. “How can they not understand?” “How can they not see?” But every generation requires different language, different methods, different pathways. Some Jews connect through learning. Others through kindness. Others through Israel. Others through history. Others through community. Others through acts of courage.

The Torah does not change. But the trumpet may. And perhaps this is one of the greatest lessons for parents, educators, rabbis, and leaders. You cannot always speak to this generation the same way previous generations were addressed. You must understand the soul of the generation. You must understand its struggles, its distractions, its fears, its opportunities—and then sound the trumpet clearly.

One might ask: How can anyone speak about Aliyah during dangerous times? How can Jews consider moving to Israel precisely when there is war, terror, uncertainty, and fear? But perhaps the parsha itself answers that question. Immediately after the discussion of the trumpets, the Torah describes the complaints of the Jewish people in the desert: “וַיְהִי הָעָם כְּמִתְאֹנְנִים” (“The people were like complainers.”) Rashi explains that they complained about the hardships of the journey toward Eretz Yisrael.

Earlier, the Torah says: “וַיִּסְעוּ מֵהַר ה׳ דֶּרֶךְ שְׁלֹשֶׁת יָמִים” (“They traveled from the Mountain of Hashem a three-day journey.”). Rashi explains something astonishing: Hashem compressed a three-day journey into one day because He wanted to bring the Jewish people into Eretz Yisrael immediately.

The Da’at Zekenim explains that beneath the complaints was a deeper issue: Fear. Fear of war, fear of what awaited them in the Land, a lack of emunah.

The Chiddushei HaRim asks a powerful question: If Hashem wanted to bring them quickly into Eretz Yisrael, why make the journey difficult at all? And he answers with a profound principle: It is impossible to acquire Eretz Yisrael without suffering.

The Gemara says: “שלוש מתנות טובות נתן הקב״ה לישראל וכולן לא נתנן אלא על ידי יסורין” (“Three precious gifts were given to Israel only through suffering.”) And one of them is Eretz Yisrael. Hashem was actually trying to shorten the suffering.  Had the Jewish people accepted the temporary hardship with love and faith, they would have entered the Land immediately. But instead they complained—and that ultimately led to the sin of the spies, the rejection of the Land, and forty years in the wilderness. Sometimes the difference between redemption and delay is the willingness to endure temporary discomfort for eternal gain.

Aliyah and the Call of the Trumpets

There is another dimension here as well. The trumpets were used when it was time for Klal Yisrael to journey> to move forward, to leave the comfort of one encampment and continue toward the Promised Land.

Sometimes Jews become spiritually comfortable in exile. But the trumpets remind us: Judaism is a journey. History is moving. Hashem is calling Am Yisrael forward—toward redemption, toward responsibility, toward Eretz Yisrael and toward national destiny.

Every generation hears that call differently. For one Jew it may come through Torah learning. For another through antisemitism. For another through love of Israel. For another through children and grandchildren. But the call is sounding. The question is whether we are listening.

Too often in Jewish history, we have resisted difficult transitions. We prefer comfort, familiarity, security, predictability. But Jewish history teaches again and again: “No pain, no gain.” Growth requires sacrifice. Redemption requires courage. Returning home requires faith. And perhaps the trumpets of our generation are calling us not merely to survive Jewish history — but to participate in it.  Perhaps this also explains Moshe Rabbeinu’s extraordinary plea to Yitro. Moshe says: “נֹסְעִים אֲנַחְנוּ אֶל־הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר אָמַר ה׳ אֹתוֹ אֶתֵּן לָכֶם לְכָה אִתָּנוּ וְהֵטַבְנוּ לָךְ (“We are traveling to the place that Hashem promised to give us. Come with us and we will do good to you.”) Yitro hesitates. The commentators suggest many reasons: Fear of leaving familiar surroundings, concern about livelihood, concern for family, fear of war and fear of uncertainty

How contemporary those fears sound. They are the same concerns many Jews still express today. But Moshe continues urging him. Why? Because Moshe understood something fundamental: Living in Eretz Yisrael is not merely about convenience. It is about destiny. One commentary explains that Moshe was telling Yitro: “If you come with us, your very presence will create a Kiddush Hashem. Others will be inspired by your courage and commitment.” Sometimes the greatest inspiration comes not from speeches — but from action. From Jews willing to journey toward the future of the Jewish people despite uncertainty.

Conclusion

The silver trumpets teach us something profound. The Torah is eternal. But every generation requires leaders who know how to communicate eternal truths in ways the generation can hear. Moshe had his trumpets. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi had his. Rav Yosef Karo had his. Rav Kook had his. May we merit to hear the trumpets of our generation clearly!

The trumpets calling us to a deeper emunah, greater unity, spiritual courage, responsibility for Am Yisrael, and renewed connection to Eretz Yisrael. And may we have the wisdom not to repeat the mistakes of the wilderness generation — not to allow fear, comfort, or hesitation to delay redemption.

May we instead respond with faith, courage, and vision, and merit to see the complete Geulah במהרה בימינו. Amen.

 

Keeping the Flame Alive: Beha'alotecha 5786

 This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 28 May 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, here.

Sometimes an entire philosophy of religious life can be hidden inside just three words. One such example appears at the beginning of Parshat Beha’alotcha. After commanding Aharon to light the Menorah in the Mishkan, the Torah concludes simply: “Vaya’as ken Aharon”—“And Aharon did so.” Rashi comments: “Lehagid shivcho shel Aharon shelo shinah”—the verse comes to praise Aharon for not deviating from what he had been commanded.

 At first glance, the comment is puzzling. Is this really Aharon’s great praise? Aharon—the first Kohen Gadol, the brother of Moshe, the man renowned for his holiness and love of Am Yisrael—deserves praise simply because he followed instructions? The commentators suggest that hidden within these few words are several enduring lessons.

 The first is offered by the Sfat Emet. Aharon’s greatness was not merely that he lit the Menorah correctly once, but that he maintained the same sense of enthusiasm and devotion every single day. The lighting of the Menorah could easily have become routine. What begins with excitement often becomes habit; what once inspired us can slowly become stale. Yet Aharon approached the mitzvah each day with renewed passion and freshness.

 This challenge is familiar to all of us. The routines of religious life can gradually lose their vitality if performed mechanically. Chazal teach that the words of Torah should feel new each day. Spiritual growth depends not only on commitment, but on the ability to preserve a sense of wonder and meaning within the familiar.

 A second lesson emerges from the tragic background of Aharon’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. Passion in avodat Hashem is essential, but passion alone is not enough. Nadav and Avihu possessed enormous spiritual yearning, yet their desire led them beyond the boundaries Hashem had set. Aharon’s greatness lay precisely in his discipline—in his ability not to deviate, despite his inner yearning, and to channel devotion within the framework of command.

 Finally, the Alter of Kelm notes that true spiritual greatness is often revealed not in dramatic moments, but in ordinary, consistent acts. Lighting the Menorah was not the most public or glamorous service in the Mishkan. It involved daily preparation, care, and repetition. Yet Aharon understood that holiness is built precisely through those quiet acts performed faithfully over time.

 We often imagine greatness in terms of rare, transformative moments. The Torah reminds us otherwise. A meaningful life is often shaped less by dramatic gestures than by steady dedication: a daily tefillah, a kind word, a small act of responsibility, a mitzvah performed carefully even when no one notices.

 That was the praise of Aharon—shelo shinah. Not merely that he lit the Menorah once, but that he returned each day with the same sense of purpose, discipline and devotion. The greatest spiritual achievements are rarely sudden flashes of inspiration; they are flames tended faithfully over a lifetime.

 Shabbat Shalom!

The sweet aura of family learning

If you turned up in shul for the Leil Shavuot Learning Program which we offered in cooperation with our friends at OU Israel, you might have detected the happy atmosphere that pervaded the premises ahead of the main event. No, it wasn't the allure of the plastic floral decorations or the scent of the fruit platters; it was the detectable aura of learning that was left in the building by a very special event which took place earlier and that you may never have heard about. Let one of the participants, Keren Simon tell you about it. She writes:

On Leil Shavuot BKH, in partnership with OU Israel, hosted the annual Shavuot Se'udah for families with young children. Families from the neighborhood, Katamon and the City Center joined Rav and Rebbetzin Kenigsberg for a delicious dairy spread including salads, salmon, noodles and potatoes.

Next on the agenda was some learning. Children then impressed their parents with a fast-paced chidon led by Rabbi Kenigsberg. This was followed  by parent-child learning with OU Israel’s Rabbi Sam and Henny Shor. Finally, the children (and adults!) were treated to ice cream and many parents then joined the Shul’s Tikun Leil Shavuot program.

The evening was a wonderful beginning to the Shavuot Chag -- and we look forward to seeing everyone again at the upcoming Intergenerational Shabbat in June. 

Thanks, Keren, for opening a window on this lovely and deservedly popular program. We hope it will long remain a fixture on the Hanassi calendar.