The Three Weeks -- why do we need them?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's not the mouse that is the thief": Balak 5785

Although Bilaam is the major villain of the piece in this week’s parsha, we should not overlook Balak’s nefarious role in events. Balak is the instigator of the plot to curse and destroy the Jewish people. He finances Bilaam and is most persistent in pursuing his evil goal—even after Bilaam apparently despairs of the success of his mission and tells Balak so. Balak nevertheless insists that Bilaam continue, in case he might yet be able to curse the people of Israel.

Often in Jewish history we find this scenario repeated, with those behind the scenes persistently encouraging the masses to destroy the Jews while they stay a pious distance behind, causing, but somehow apparently not participating in, the murderous mayhem. As hate-filled as Bilaam is, he cannot operate alone. He needs financial and social backing for him to do his worst. As Balak’s hired hand, Bilaam is eventually killed by the very people he attempted to destroy. But Balak lives on, to try again to accomplish the destruction of the Jewish nation. Balak never makes peace with the idea that the Lord does not allow him his goal. His tenacity for hatred and his evil behavior are the true hallmark of his identity. 

Centuries later, the prophet reminds us of Balak’s scheme and of his advice to Bilaam; he warns us not to overlook Balak’s role in this story of aggression and unreasoned hatred. By invoking the original Balak, the prophet informs us that we will be better able to identify and deal with his successors in deceit and hatred throughout the ages. 

The suicide bomber (Bilaam) is not the only guilty party in terrorist attacks. It is the Balaks who send them and support them that are certainly equally as guilty. The self-righteous human rights organizations that promote only hatred and violence under the guise of doing good deeds are also responsible for the loss of the precious lives of innocents, killed by those whom such organizations nurture and support. The Talmud stated this reality by coining the famous Jewish aphorism: “It is not the mouse alone that is the thief. It is rather the hole in the wall that lets the mouse in that is the real thief.” It is the persistence of those that are determined to undermine the Jewish people and the State of Israel that places them as direct descendants of the immoral Balak. 

In the Pesach Haggadah we read that in every generation we face this challenge. No matter how many Bilaams we dispose of, Balak somehow survives to continue to try again. The words of the prophet in this week’s haftorah—to remember Balak’s role in the story of the Jewish people in the desert of Sinai—are addressed to us and to our times as well. We should not be shocked, though our sadness over this fact is understandable, that the malevolence against Jews of the 1930s can repeat itself in our time too. For as long as Balak remains a force in the world, the Jewish problem will not go away. 

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein  

To read Rabbi Wein's devar Torah for this parasha last year, "Who is the real villain?", click here.

Who Are These People With You?

In this piece on this week's parashah, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom takes a deeper look at Hashem’s question to Bilaam and explains how some of our most valued Torah commentators have understood it.

In parashat Balak, the enigmatic prophet Bilaam receives an offer from the emissaries of Balak, king of Moav: to become a royal advisor and curse Israel. Immediately, we see that Bilaam is not an ordinary man; he possesses extraordinary spiritual gifts, a reputation for words that shape reality, and a unique connection to the Divine.

That night, Hashem appears to Bilaam in a dream and opens their conversation with a strikingly simple question:

 “Who are these people with you?”

 On the surface, it sounds like small talk or a naive inquiry. But, as Chazal show us, this question brims with profound meaning. How could the Omniscient One not know who they are? The question itself demands exploration.

Three Classic Interpretations

(1) The Kli Yakar: A Rhetorical Rebuke

The Kli Yakar explains that Hashem’s question is rhetorical and scornful. Read properly, it isn’t a request for information but a rebuke:

“Who are they? They are nothing.”

Hashem is telling Bilaam: These emissaries represent corruption and moral decay. Why are you giving them respect? Why are you entertaining their mission to curse a people blessed by God? The Torah warns that keeping corrupt company corrupts the soul—just as Rambam teaches that a person’s environment profoundly shapes their character. Hashem’s question here serves as a piece of mussar: Choose your company wisely. The emissaries’ presence with Bilaam is already bringing out his worst impulses.

(2) Rashi: The Illusion of Divine Ignorance

Rashi, citing Chazal, sees in this question a test of Bilaam’s beliefs. By asking “Who are these people?” Hashem gives Bilaam space to entertain a dangerous idea: perhaps there are things God doesn’t know. This aligns with what some ancient philosophers, like Aristotle, believed—that God, perfect and infinite, is too lofty to care about or know the trivial details of human life. If Bilaam embraced this mistaken theology, he might believe he could curse Israel when God “wasn’t paying attention.”

This question opens a door for Bilaam to exercise his bechirah—his free will—to choose between recognizing God’s intimate involvement in the world or adopting a worldview that divorces God from human affairs. And indeed, Bilaam’s story is about the paradox of free will: his intentions are evil, yet Hashem turns his curses into blessings for Israel.

(3) The Sforno: A Call for Self-Reflection

The Sforno offers a more practical interpretation: Hashem wasn’t saying He didn’t know who the emissaries were; rather, He was pushing Bilaam to ask himself what their intentions were. Were they genuinely seeking his wisdom, or were they merely using him as a blunt instrument to harm Israel?

This is a timeless lesson: we must learn to distinguish between people who seek us out with sincerity and those who merely wish to exploit our abilities for their own agendas. It’s a call to be vigilant about relationships and not be blinded by flattery or ambition.

A Deeper Layer: Who Are They For You?

There’s also a deeper, existential reading: Hashem’s question echoes the question He posed to Adam in the Garden: “Ayeka – where are you?” It’s not about physical location but spiritual awareness. Here, Hashem is asking Bilaam:

“Who are these people in your eyes? What do they mean to you?”

Do you see them as partners in a just cause, or are you being seduced by their offers of honor and wealth? This question challenges Bilaam—and us—to examine our motives and relationships honestly.

Bilaam v Avraham: A Clash of Worldviews

The Mishnah in Pirkei Avot (5:19) compares the students of Avraham Avinu with those of Bilaam HaRasha. Despite their shared spiritual gifts and intellectual brilliance, they stand as polar opposites:

●      Avraham exemplified generosity (ayin tovah), humility, and a desire to bring blessing to the world.

●      Bilaam embodied greed (ayin ra’ah), arrogance, and a drive to destroy what he envied.

Bilaam’s insatiable lust for honor and wealth led him to try to curse Israel. Yet, in a stunning twist, God transformed his curses into some of the Torah’s most beautiful blessings—visions of Israel’s family life, tents of learning, and dedication to God. These blessings remain with us as enduring praise of the Jewish people, despite their source being a man intent on their destruction.

Conclusion

The seemingly simple question “Who are these people with you?” encapsulates a wealth of moral and theological teachings:

●      It’s a reminder to choose our company wisely.

●      It challenges us to clarify our beliefs about God’s role in our lives.

●      It urges us to discern whether others value us for who we are or merely what we can do for them.

●      And it calls us to confront our own motives honestly.

The story of Bilaam teaches that even someone with great talents can fall prey to greed and ego if they fail to align their gifts with a higher moral purpose. But it also teaches that God’s plan will always prevail—and, sometimes, He uses even the most unlikely people to reveal profound truths.

"I'm gonna make you love me"

 An Avot baraita for Shabbat (Parashat Balak)

Readers of a certain age may recall a soul number popularised in the late 1960s by Diana Ross and the Supremes, together with the Temptations. Its title was also a catchy refrain, “I’m gonna make you love me”. While the precise means by which this objective might be achieved lie somewhere beyond the parameters of discussion on The Hanassi Blog, the need to be loved occupies an important position in Pirkei Avot.

The first Baraita in Perek 6 opens with the words

כָּל הָעוֹסֵק בַּתּוֹרָה לִשְׁמָהּ זוֹכֶה לִדְבָרִים הַרְבֵּה, וְלֹא עוֹד, אֶלָּא שֶׁכָּל הָעוֹלָם כֻּלּוֹ כְּדַאי הוּא לוֹ. נִקְרָא רֵֽעַ, אָהוּב,

Whoever studies Torah for its own sake merits many things; not only that, but the entire world is worthwhile for him. He is called “friend”, “beloved”...

Avot 6:6 goes even further, listing being loved as one of the 48 things through which a person acquires Torah.

There’s an obvious problem here. While we can love others—whether they love us back or not—there is no mechanism that can be guaranteed to trigger love for us in someone else’s heart. Love is an emotion; it is not subject to rational analysis. How often do we see the heartbreak of lovely souls whose love for another is not reciprocated. So how do we understand these baraitot?

The simplest answer is to say that “beloved” (in Hebrew, ahuv) means “beloved by God”, but this doesn’t solve any problems. Rabbi Akiva (Avot 3:18) has already established that, even if God were to prefer those of us who study Torah for its own sake, we are all still dear to God because we are created in His image. So it must mean something else.

Rabbis Nachman and Natan of Breslov suggest that ahuv here means “loved by oneself”. Strange as this may seem, there is good reason to adopt this view. We are commanded to love others as we love ourselves—and until we love ourselves properly we cannot demonstrate the right level of love for others. However, this still requires us to explain what connection, if any, exists between self-love and (i) learning Torah for its own sake and (ii) the acquisition of Torah per se. Stretching the word ahuv well beyond its normal meaning, R’ Mordechai Frankel-Te’omim (Be’er HaAvot) suggests that it embraces all types of love that a person has for mitzvot between him and God and other people: someone who lacks this quality is by definition lacking in the degree of interest and commitment one needs in one’s learning in order to make it effective. Ultimately, though, it seems to me that we are left with questions we cannot convincingly answer.

Incidentally, these baraitot in Avot are not the only occasions on which being loved is mysteriously and apparently linked with learning Torah. Twice a day, in the paragraph that immediately precedes the recitation of the Shema, we are required to recite a blessing that is a sort of “love sandwich”: it opens with a declaration that we are loved by God and closes with a declaration that we are loved by God. The “filling” in the sandwich is a prayer that God in His mercy should help us to learn His Torah. This invites us to speculate as to why our desire to learn Torah, with God’s assistance if and when it is available, should come wrapped in His love for us. R’ Chaim Friedlander (Siftei Chaim, Rinat Chaim: Bi’urei Tefillah) offers a possible explanation: the greatest act of love that God has shown to us is His gift to us of the Torah: we should seek to reciprocate this demonstration of love by loving Him in return, as the first paragraph of the Shema requires of us.

Not just a bunch of books

Yesterday a group of us from Beit Knesset Hanassi had the pleasure of touring the new home of the National Library of Israel in Jerusalem—and it was an unforgettable experience. More than just a building full of books, the Library is a celebration of history, culture, and innovation, open to all. The new library building, was opened as recently as 2023 and is located opposite the Knesset. It is a striking piece of architecture. Designed to blend modern design with ancient inspiration, it feels both open and grounded, with natural Jerusalem stone and sweeping views of the city. What really impressed us, though, was how environmentally thoughtful the entire structure is.

One of the most fascinating features is the Library's air-conditioning system. Instead of using standard air units, it uses a unique system that draws in cool air from underground, helping regulate temperature with much less energy. This system is not only clever but also helps protect the Library's priceless collections from sudden changes in heat and humidity—essential for preserving rare manuscripts, ancient scrolls, and delicate documents. The building also makes use of natural light through large windows and skylights, reducing the need for artificial lighting during the day. Solar panels provide clean energy, and rainwater collection systems help keep the grounds green even in dry seasons.

Inside, the Library is home to millions of items in dozens of languages: books, maps, newspapers, photographs, and more. There are treasures like medieval manuscripts (including an ancient manuscript of the Rambam’s Mishneh Torah), early editions of Hebrew texts, and archives of famous writers, musicians, and thinkers. But it's not just about the past—there are vibrant displays, digital tools, and inviting spaces for reading, learning, and discussion.

What stood out most was the welcoming atmosphere. The Library is designed for everyone: students, scholars, tourists, and locals alike. Whether you’re researching family history, curious about Jewish culture, looking for a quiet spot to reflect or simply looking for somewhere to sit down with a cup of coffee, there’s a place for you here. Our tour guide reminded us that libraries are not just about storing knowledge—they’re about sharing it. The National Library of Israel does this beautifully, bridging generations and communities while caring deeply for the world we live in.

Thanks go to the Women’s League for organizing this fascinating excursion, and particularly to Shirley March and Gitta Neufeld for shouldering the organizational burden. We wish them hatzlachah rabbah with all their future ventures and look very much forward to the next time we board a bus in eager anticipation of the delights they have in store for us.

 

Beaten, but never down

 In this week's Torah reading we revisit the story of Balak, Balaam and his talking donkey. The whole episode of Balak and his failed attempt to get Balaam to curse the People of Israel is a departure from the hitherto unbroken narrative of the departure from Egypt and the increasingly problematic period that leads to the long-awaited entry to Canaan, our Promised Land. While humour and irony abound, this episode is loaded with deeper meaning and also with vivid imagery, as the wicked prophet Balaam unwillingly pours out his blessings upon the wandering tribe. But, before he does so, he receives some astringent mussar at the hands of his donkey and a sword-brandishing angel.

Never losing its freshness nor its fascination, the tale of Balaam and his donkey has inspired art, literature and music. Here, in this YouTube clip, in "Balaam and the Ass", our member Max Stern depicts it as what he calls "a contemporary duo for trombone and percussion".  Referencing the biblical passage of Bemidbar 22:21-35, Max writes:

Beaten because she strays from the way, the dumb animal -- on beholding an angel -- miraculously speaks back. More than a humorous animal tale, this is a commentary on what it means to be human. 

Credits: Contemporary Duo for Trombone and Percussion (played by Stewart Taylor, trombone and Gene Cipriani, percussion).

The third worm

  An Avot mishnah for Shabbat (Parashat Chukkat)

There are three worms in Pirkei Avot. Two—the rimah (at 3:1 and 4:4) and the tole’ah (3:1—are what one might call conventional worms. But the third, which we meet in this week’s perek is anything but ordinary: it is the miraculous shamir. At Avot 5:8 we learn of 10 things that, the Tannaim agreed, were created at the very end of the sixth Day of Creation, just before all creative work ceased for Shabbat. They are:

פִּי הָאָֽרֶץ, פִּי הַבְּאֵר, פִּי הָאָתוֹן, הַקֶּֽשֶׁת, וְהַמָּן, וְהַמַּטֶּה, וְהַשָּׁמִיר, הַכְּתָב, וְהַמִּכְתָּב, וְהַלֻּחוֹת

The mouth of the earth [that swallowed Korach]; the mouth of [Miriam's] well; the mouth of [Balaam's] donkey; the rainbow; the manna; [Moses'] staff; the shamir; writing, the inscription and the tablets [of the Ten Commandments].

The shamir, which may possibly not have been a worm, was a tiny creature that, in our tradition, was vested by God with the power to cut the huge stones that were used in the construction of Solomon’s Temple.  For two millennia the notion that a tiny worm might cut into solid rock was regarded by many as a laughable fantasy, but the discovery in 2019 of the bivalve shipworm lithoredo abatanica changed all that. This small, unprepossessing creature burrows into limestone and excretes it, creating an as-yet unsolved puzzle as to how it derives its nutrients.

The corpus of the Mishnah deals with law and (in the case of Avot) best principles of behaviour and conduct.  It is not a treatise on natural history. So what is this shamir doing in Avot? What can we learn from it today?

For the father-and-son team of Rabbis Baruch and Amos Shulem (Avot Uvanim) the creation of the shamir resonates an earlier mishnah (Avot 2:13). There Rabbi Shimon ben Netanel recommends that we take steps to foresee possible problems ahead. When God created humans he gave Adam and Eve free will. Had they opted to obey His instruction not to eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge, the human race would have lived happily ever in a sin-free world. The Temple, with its mechanism for atonement, would not have been needed and creation of the shamir would not have been called for. From this we learn that even God, in creating the world and everything in it, took the precaution of engaging in an act of creation that was purely conditional. We too should guard against events and misfortunes that may not ultimately occur.

The Ben Ish Chai (Birkat Avot) offers another answer. The ‘stone’ the shamir burrows into is the yetzer hara, the inclination to take an evil course of action.  But no matter how hard the stone is, the shamir represents the potential of even flesh-and-blood creatures such as ourselves to break it into pieces. This is learned by a kal vechomer: if even a small, weak worm can achieve this effect, how much more should we, bigger and possessed of greater strength and will-power, be able to do the same.

Though he does not mention it here, the Ben Ish Chai has support in the Gemara for use of the word ‘stone’ to refer to the yetzer hara: at Sukkah 52a, citing a verse from Ezekiel, ‘stone’ is deemed to be one of seven metaphors by which the yetzer hara is identified in Tanach. The vulnerability of stone to a slow but unremitting attack from a substance less strong than itself is also acknowledged by Rabbi Akiva’s resolution that, if the constant drip of water can wear away a rock, so too, through persistent study, might the words of Torah eventually penetrate even his then-unlearned mind (Avot deRabbi Natan 6:2, citing Job 14:19).

But there is more to the success of the shamir, and by implication to our own success, than this story suggests. Our achievements are not just credited to ourselves. There is a further ingredient—a vital ingredient without which there can be no success. As R’ Mordechai Dov Halberstam (Knesset Yisrael) comments, our efforts depend on the will of God too. We recognise this on Chanukah, when we give thanks for the victory of the Hasmoneans over the Greeks, the triumph of the weak over the strong.

Nothing if not mysterious: Chukkat 5785

Life is nothing if not mysterious. The unknown and the uncertain far outweigh what we believe we understand and live by. We often experience events that are unforeseen and sometimes less than fortuitous, jarring our sense of security and serenity. Though this week's parashah dwells on one of the laws of the Torah called a chok—a law without rational explanation—it actually tells us much about human life.

The Torah states explicitly zot chukkat haTorah—this is the law of the Torah regarding all matters of life. Things we think we understand are never fully understood by humans. Every layer of scientific discovery, every fresh advance, reveals for us the specter of untold new mysteries of which we were previously quite unaware. The nature of all life is a chok. So too is the Torah, when we look at life through  the mitzvah and mystery of the parah adumah. 

From the Torah’s viewpoint, we humans have a limited ability to understand and rationalize our existence and purpose. “No living creature can see Me” is interpreted in Jewish tradition to mean “No living creature can ever understand fully the world, nature and logic of the Creator of us all”. Man is doomed to wander in a desert of doubt, without ever being able to find the way on his own. Every frustration and disappointment stems from this hard fact of life. 

Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto in his immortal work, Mesilat Yesharim, compares life to a gigantic maze from which, without direction or guidance, one can never emerge. I remember that once when I visited the grounds of a royal palace in Europe, I tried my luck at entering the maze of tall hedges. Many other people were there with me. Suffice it to say that after 40 minutes none of us had found our way out. Some people were bemused by their predicament. Others were visibly frustrated and almost angry in their inability to escape. Some even panicked. Eventually a guard entered the maze and guided us safely out. 

Rabbi Luzzatto made the point that, if one stands on a high platform that overlooks the maze and maps it out in one’s mind, negotiating the maze then becomes possible, even simple. That high platform is the Torah, which allows us to deal with the maze of life. That is the ultimate lesson of this week’s parsha. Life is a chok—a confusing maze of events, personalities and forces. Why this maze is constructed as it is, why it is even needed, is a chok—something that lies beyond our level of comprehension. But how to negotiate the maze, how to stand on the high platform overlooking and informing about it, that is within our grasp and abilities. And that is really the chukkat haTorah that is granted to us.  

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein

 For "Spiritual Mysteries in the Real World", Rabbi Wein's devar Torah on parashat Chukkat last year, click here

The Geography of Promise and the Paradigm of Peace

In this post, Rabbi Paul Bloom contemplates the significance of this week’s parshah in both a political and a historical context and explains its pivotal importance in the great scheme of events leading our people from slavery to possession of their promised land.

A Turning Point in the Desert

Parshat Chukkat arrives at a pivotal moment in the Torah’s narrative: the 40th year in the desert. Rashi, commenting on the sudden jump in time in Bamidbar Chapter 20, explains that the Torah skips over 37 years—years during which the first generation, who left Egypt, died in the wilderness. Now, a new generation has emerged: a nation that did not experience Egyptian slavery first-hand but instead grew up surrounded by the Clouds of Glory, sustained by the manna, and learning Torah daily from Moshe and Aharon.

This generation was not shaped by the traumas of Egypt, but by a unique existence under Hashem’s direct protection. Their mission was clear: conquer, settle, and build Eretz Yisrael. Yet before they could cross the Jordan, they had to engage with the peoples of Transjordan, and here the Torah sets down a profound precedent for Jewish conduct in war and peace.

The Geography of Promise: Transjordan’s Place in Eretz Yisrael

To appreciate these events, we must understand Transjordan’s role in Hashem’s promise. In Bereishit 15, Avraham Avinu is promised the land of ten nations. Yet, when Yehoshua leads Israel into Canaan, they conquer only seven. The three nations not conquered—Edom, Ammon, and Moav—all reside east of the Jordan. These lands are not part of the “classic” inheritance of Eretz Yisrael west of the Jordan but are included in the vision of Greater Israel described in later prophetic texts such as Yeshayahu, which foresees their inclusion in the Messianic era.

This geographic nuance becomes vital in Parshat Chukkat, as Bnei Yisrael meet these nations for the first time.

The Paradigm of Peace: Moshe’s Initiative

As Bnei Yisrael approached the territories of these warrior kings in Transjordan, Moshe Rabbeinu offered peace first. He addressed them with respect, saying “נא”—please—and requesting safe passage in exchange for peaceful coexistence, promising not to harm them or take their property. Crucially, both Rashi and the Ran point out that Hashem did not command Moshe to offer peace. This initiative came entirely from Moshe himself, establishing a Torah paradigm: when confronting potential enemies, the first step must always be to offer peace.

Yet, these nations—led by Sichon and Og—responded with hostility and war. They rejected every offer of coexistence. This refusal established a tragic pattern, one that has echoed through Jewish history and is deeply relevant today.

An Eternal Lesson: The Refusal of Peace

From Israel’s earliest wars to the modern state, we have repeatedly extended offers of peaceful coexistence, only to face rejection and violence in return. From 1948 onward, time and again, Arab leadership has refused proposals that would grant mutual recognition and peace, instead choosing war, terror, and incitement.

This dynamic is not just a historical accident—it is described in the Torah itself. The Rambam, in Hilchot Melachim (Laws of Kings, Chapter 6), codifies Moshe’s example into law: before waging war, Israel must always offer peace. But that peace comes with two basic conditions:

1. Acceptance of Jewish sovereignty in Eretz Yisrael, and
   
   
2. Commitment to the moral standards of the Seven Noahide Laws—the universal code prohibiting murder, theft, idolatry, and other fundamental crimes.

If these conditions are accepted, non-Jews can live among us as gerim toshavim, righteous residents. The Torah does not envision a racially exclusive state, but rather a Jewish homeland where those who accept its moral and political framework can live together in peace.

Conquest and the Path to Redemption

Because Moshe’s offers were rejected, wars ensued. Through these battles, Bnei Yisrael conquered Transjordan, which became the inheritance of the tribes of Reuven, Gad, and half of Menashe. These events were not incidental; they were part of Hashem’s plan, as expressed in Tehillim 136—recited every Shabbat morning—where four verses praise Hashem for striking these kings and giving their lands to Israel.

The Torah’s narrative teaches two simultaneous truths: the moral imperative to pursue peace, and the sobering reality that peace is not always accepted. This tension will persist until the Messianic era, when, as Yeshayahu foretells, even those who once opposed us will come to recognize the Jewish people as a source of blessing, and nations will beat their swords into plowshares.

Conclusion: Our Challenge Today

Parshat Chukkat, then, is more than ancient history—it is a guidebook for navigating conflict, sovereignty, and the pursuit of peace. We must always extend our hand in peace, but stand ready to defend ourselves when peace is rejected. And we must never lose hope that one day, the world will see the Jewish people not as a threat, but as partners in building a just and moral society.

May we merit to see that day soon.

The Writing on the Wall

A Call from Hashem and a Message for Our Families Abroad

As we returned to shul this Shabbat we heard inspiring words from our rabbis, we read moving accounts of the miracles we all experienced here in Eretz Yisrael. But a critical question remains: What do these miracles mean for our loved ones still living in the Diaspora? How can we, who are already here, help them see that now is the time to join us in our homeland? Rabbi Paul Bloom explores these questions and offers some practical answers.

The Miraculous Protection of Eretz Yisrael

As you know, Israel was recently subjected to an unprecedented aerial assault. Hundreds of ballistic missiles and thousands of drones were launched by Iran and its proxies with the clear intent to inflict catastrophic harm. By any logical calculation, this attack should have resulted in thousands of casualties.

And yet, something incredible happened: The vast majority of those missiles and drones were intercepted by the IDF or neutralized with help from Israel’s allies. Cities that could have turned into infernos were spared. Lives that should have been lost were miraculously saved.

Some might credit Israel’s advanced technology or strategic alliances—and there is truth in that. But it is not the whole truth. There is a deeper reality that only eyes of emunah can see: this was the unmistakable hand of Hashem. A visible, tangible reminder that Eretz Yisrael is under Divine protection. That there is a Shomer Yisrael—a Guardian of Israel—who neither slumbers nor sleeps.

It is no coincidence that we are living in a time when evil is being uprooted from our land. The enemies of Israel are reeling from the reality of Mi ke’amcha Yisrael—“Who is like Your nation, Israel?” This is a moment of revelation, a moment calling out to our fellow Jews around the world: Come home. Hashem is protecting this land not just for those already here, but for you and your children, too. He has kept His promise. Now it’s time for you to keep yours.

A Dangerous Shift in the Diaspora

While Israel experiences open miracles, the Diaspora tells a far more troubling story.

In the recent New York City mayoral primary, the leading candidate—now virtually assured of election—expressed open hostility toward Israel and its leadership. This is not subtle bias. This is blatant antisemitism. He has aligned himself with Hamas supporters and threatened to arrest Israel’s Prime Minister if he sets foot in New York.

And yet, this man was embraced by voters in America’s largest Jewish city—a city long considered a safe haven for Jews. In fact, 43% of Democratic primary voters supported him.

This, too, is a sign from Hashem. A wake-up call. For decades, many Jews in America believed antisemitism was a relic of the past, that New York was an unshakeable Jewish stronghold, that “it could never happen here.” That illusion is crumbling. The public square is turning against our people. Jewish visibility, once a badge of honor, is becoming a liability.

We must help our families see this reality through the lens of emunah. Hashem is not only guarding Israel—He is also removing illusions about the long-term safety of exile. He is gently but unmistakably reminding us all that galut is not our destiny. That our future as a people is not in Manhattan or Miami, but here—in Yerushalayim, Beit Shemesh, and Netanya.

Time to Reach Out—Not from Fear, but from Love

These two realities—one miraculous, one alarming—are two sides of the same coin. Hashem is showing both what is possible in our land, and what is no longer sustainable in foreign lands. Our families are being pushed and pulled, shaken and embraced, warned and invited—all at once.

This is not a call to panic. It is a call to clarity. And it is our responsibility, as family already in Israel, to reach out to our loved ones abroad with this message. To share what we have seen with our own eyes. To invite them not out of fear, but out of love—love for our people, our heritage, and our destiny. To help them understand that Aliyah is not just a response to danger, but an embrace of opportunity. It is a return to the land that Hashem has prepared for us—not just in the past, but right now.

“וְשָׁב ה' אֱלֹקֶיךָ אֶת שְׁבוּתְךָ… וֶהֱבִיאֲךָ ה' אֱלֹקֶיךָ אֶל הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר יָרְשׁוּ אֲבֹתֶיךָ וִירִשְׁתָּהּ, וְהֵיטִבְךָ וְהִרְבְּךָ מֵאֲבֹתֶיךָ”
“And the Lord your God will bring back your captivity… and He will bring you to the land which your forefathers possessed, and you shall possess it; and He will do you good and multiply you more than your fathers.” (Devarim 30:3–5)

The writing is on the wall. Let us open our eyes to the signs, listen to the call, and gently encourage our families abroad to take the first steps toward coming home. If you’d like ideas on how to start this conversation or resources to share with your loved ones, I’d be honored to help. You can reach me anytime at aliya100reasons@gmail.com—I look forward to partnering with you in bringing our families home.

The Song of Miriam's Well

This coming week’s parashah says different things to different people. Many of us are preoccupied with the mystery of the Red Heifer, but others focus on the death of Miriam and Moses’ punishment for hitting the water-bearing rock instead of speaking to us. But for our member and distinguished composer Max Stern the stand-out feature is a curious song with puzzling words, apparently sung by a well. This episode inspired Max to write a short work, The Song of Miriam's Well, which you can listen to here.

Let Max tell you about it in his own words. He writes:

The Well of Miriam was a sieve-like rock out of which water gushed forth and supplied the Children of Israel with water on their 40-year wanderings in the desert. Legend has it that the Well itself sang while the people responded as a chorus.

This composition recreates the sparkling joy of the Well, and the spirit of universal goodwill that accompanied it.

צִדְקָתְךָ, כְּהַרְרֵי-אֵל

מִשְׁפָּטֶיךָ, תְּהוֹם רַבָּה

 אָדָם וּבְהֵמָה תוֹשִׁיעַ יְהוָה

Thy righteousness is like the mighty mountains; Thy judgments are like the great deep; Man and beast Thou preservest, O LORD. (Ps.36:7)

 וְצִדְקָתְךָ אֱלֹהִים, עַד-מָרוֹם

אֲשֶׁר-עָשִׂיתָ גְדֹלוֹת; אֱלֹהִים, מִי כָמוֹךָ

Thy righteousness, O God, reacheth unto high heaven; Thou who hast done great things, O God, who is like unto Thee? (Ps. 71:19)

 צִדְקָתְךָ צֶדֶק לְעוֹלָם; וְתוֹרָתְךָ אֱמֶת

Thy righteousness is an everlasting righteousness, and Thy law is truth. Ps.119:142)

The piece is scored for a two-part choir, two-part speaking chorus, and contrabass. It was recorded and edited by Shalom Kinnory.

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

As a footnote, some of you may be thinking there's something wrong here. The Song of the Well in parashat Chukkat comes well after the death of Miriam and the end of her well -- so how can the well in question be Miriam's well?  For an excellent answer, click here.

"Death is very good!"

 Much is written on the mysterious operation of the parah adumah, the red heifer whose ashes are so important for the restoration of ritual purity--but much less is said about the condition that triggers a need for the parah adumah in the first place: death. Inspired by an apparently cryptic comment in Rabbi Meir's sefer Torah, our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger offers a fascinating insight into a topic that so many are reluctant to address. This is what he has to say:

The purification ritual involving the “Red Heifer” is one that has baffled the wisest of men and the deepest religious thinkers throughout the ages. Somehow, burning a cow, mixing its ashes with water and a few other ingredients and then sprinkling the concoction on an individual who has contracted ritual impurity via contact with a corpse can, following the proper procedure, purify him.

The aspect that has perplexed many, including King Solomon, is the fact that the one who is “sprinkled” becomes pure and the “sprinkler” is rendered impure. Perhaps a more interesting question is this: why does the Torah require a different ritual to cleanse this taint in contrast with the procedure to remove other ritual impurities from an individual (mikveh or mikveh plus korban)? The answer is because this taint involves human death.

When God created the world, for six days He affirms existence by declaring His own work “good.” In so doing, creation “remains in a pure, untouchable beyond” (Rosenzweig, Star of Redemption). The final time that God comments, He does not observe that the result of His handiwork at that moment of time is “good” (tov). Instead, God describes the “all that He made” as “very good” (tov me’od).

The Midrash Rabba, on Genesis 1:31, brings various opinions regarding the statement “very good”: “In the sefer Torah of Rabbi Meir they found, where the words “and behold it was very good” should be, the words “and behold death was good”. Rashi comments on Rabbi Meir’s teaching that death is good because, once dead, man can no longer sin.

Ramban on Genesis 1:31 parses the verse because he finds the word “very” to be superfluous. His initial observation is that God “added this word because He is speaking of creation in general, which contains evil in some part of it.” Thus, He said that it was very good, meaning its me’od is good [thus conveying the thought that even the small part of it which is evil is basically also good]. For Ramban, me’od refers to evil, but he does not yet identify or quantify that evil until he quotes Rabbi Meir’s statement that it is death. However, he qualifies this by commenting:

“[S]imilarly, the Rabbis mentioned, ‘this means the evil inclination in man,’ and ‘this means the dispensation of punishment.’”

Thus, it seems that Ramban, likewise views death as an external environmental force.

Rambam effectively divorces death from the Man-God relationship altogether. In commenting on the words vehinei tov me’od (Look! It was very good), he writes:

“Even death, which appears to constitute a return to nothingness, God considered as something positive, constructive, seeing it is only a prelude to rebirth, albeit sometimes in a different guise than that the previous incarnation. Death is perceived as the result of the ‘nothingness’ which had preceded the universe having become an integral part of this universe. Hence it had become a necessary phenomenon.” (Moreh Nevuchim 3:10).

In other words, God created death so that there could be an ongoing creation. One might perhaps term this as circular reasoning (if God did not terminate the world, there would be no need for a rebirth).  However, this is not circular reasoning; this is God logic – beyond our human comprehension. Regardless, this is universal death and not Man’s or human death. Thus, according to Maimonides, death is likewise a force without a direct relationship with Man. Thus, it is external to Man.

According to Rabbi Dr Norman Lamm, 

“Tov implies efficient functioning.  The creator saw every step in His developing universe ki tov, that it was functioning efficiently, carrying out the telos which He had assigned to it.” (“Good and Very Good’ Moderation and Extremism in the Scheme of Creation” in Tradition, 45:2, 2012).  

According to Lamm, if each component of creation functioned at its maximum efficiency or full potential, chaos would ensue:

 “This is so because the world is an interdependent system rather than a conglomeration of independent parts and a system requires the synergistic coordination of all of its constituent elements.”

Thus, only when each element functions with restraint (tov) can the whole be considered tov me’od.

Lamm explains that an immortal Man, with freedom of will, has the power to exploit any part of creation to its full potential. Death represents a limit and limits are necessary. The analogy he gives is the human body, itself. If cells multiply unchecked, man dies of cancer. Thus, for Lamm, death/mortality is the me’od, the required limit on the effective functioning, the tov, of every other creation. Thus, in this construct death is an integrated component of man and the functioning of the system, but not a part of the God-Man relationship. 

The sources surveyed, from the earliest to the more recent, seem to perceive death as a device or tool used by God, whether to influence later actions (Midrash), or to provide creative or spiritual counter-balance against good (Ramban), or to set up a system of constant creation and recreation (Rambam), or to sustain systemic balance (Lamm). The image that emerges from these Rabbinic sources of the initial conceptualization of death/mortality in Creation, is that of an instrument or process, something detached from Man, one that influences his environment/world, but that impacts him indirectly.

The impure man, tainted by contact with death, is purified by a bare and minimal contact with an external agent – the ashes of the Red Heifer – bound together with “mayim chayim” waters of life. Death influences him, it taints him by contact, and it will eventually claim him. However, the intrinsic message of this elaborate ritual, that stretches over a week, is that he should NOT be consumed by it – he should not become fully submerged in his own mortality.