Of prophecy and practicality

The Talmud traces the causes for the destruction of the First and Second Temples to the spiritual failings and sins of the Jewish people. As those assessments are undoubtedly correct, they are observed in the popular view of the events to be the sole cause of these national tragedies. However, it should be obvious that failed policies, false assessments of the military and diplomatic situations of the times and a certain amount of foolhardy bravado certainly were also involved in destruction of the First and Second Commonwealths. 

In both instances the Jewish rulers pursued irrational policies, in the mistaken belief that somehow they would prevail and that Heaven would overlook their mistakes and the national sins. As is often the case in human history, when caution and good sense are substituted for emotion and personal calculations, disasters are likely to follow. 

And so it was in our first two attempts at Jewish national sovereignty in the Land of Israel. There is no escape, for good or for worse, from the consequences of national behavior and of governmental policies. Though the supernatural is always present in human affairs, no policies or strategic decisions should be made on the basis of mystical interference with the consequences of behavior and governmental policies. 

Faith in supernatural help is a basic idea in Judaism. However, Judaism teaches self-reliance, wise choices in life and in diplomacy, and a realistic and rational outlook on unfolding events and prevalent societal forces. Heaven helps the wise and astute. 

The mighty empire of Babylonia destroyed the First Temple. It did so after a rash and wholly irrational decision by the Judean king to rebel against its authority and ally himself and his small, weak country with Egypt, then the competing empire in the Middle East. This decision was opposed by the prophet Jeremiah. He warned the king and the people of the folly of this policy. No one knows what would have been the result had the king listened to Jeremiah and not taken up arms against Babylonia. But no one can deny that the decision of the king to rebel was foolish. The prophet Jeremiah was certainly more practical and wise than the monarch of his day.

One would have thought that the prophet would have invoked the power of faith over the practicality and the reality of the situation. But that was certainly not the case. The Jewish people then were simply unable to imagine that God, so to speak, would allow His own holy house to be destroyed. But the prophet warned them that they were mistaken in that belief and that disaster would follow their erroneous assessment of the situation.

One of the bitter lessons of this period in the calendar is that practicality and wisdom are necessary in order to insure Jewish national survival. Faith in God is everything in Jewish life. But the faith must be founded on the realities of the world and the circumstances of life that surround us. The same lesson is to be learned from the story of the destruction of the Second Temple. Realistically, the Jewish Commonwealth had no chance or ability to defeat the then mighty Roman Empire. The great rabbis of Israel at that time, almost to a man, opposed the war of rebellion against Rome. They foresaw defeat and disaster. The Zealots, who fomented and fought the rebellion to its ruinous conclusion, proclaimed loudly and often that somehow Heaven would bless their efforts and provide them with miraculous victory. Again, this was a disastrous miscalculation on their part. 

Again. We can never know what the Jewish story would have been like if the Zealots would not have mounted their ill-fated rebellion. But we do know that their actions led to a long and painful exile for the Jewish people. Everything is in the hands of Heaven but without the human execution and participation, the will of Heaven is never executed on this earth. 

So, the Jewish world in our time also needs a heavy dose of practicality and reality in order to translate our limitless faith into concrete achievements and goals. Abandoning the worship of false idols, of immoral behavior and wanton murder, coupled with the mitigation of baseless hatred in our community are the spiritual and emotional weapons for our redemption. 

Added to these is the requirement for hard realistic thinking, wise policies and tempered utopianism. May we all be comforted, both nationally and personally in this difficult time. 

Rabbi Berel Wein

Soothing words, sweet nothings: Devarim 5785

The parsha of Devarim traditionally precedes the saddest day of the Jewish calendar, Tisha b’Av. There are many connections between the parsha and the fast, but I feel that the main connection lies perhaps in the word “devarim” itself. It means “words” and, as Rashi points out, the nuance in Hebrew is quite harsh. The words of Moshe in Devarim are stern and reprimanding. They spell out the bitter truth that people are so loath to hear. 

Soothing promises and vague commitments are much more popular and acceptable to the public. However, the rabbis of the Midrash emphasize Solomon’s statement that it is better to hear criticism from a true friend than to flattery and compliments from an enemy.  This precept should always be remembered. The enemy that the Midrash refers to is Bilaam and the friend is Moshe. The flattery of Bilaam led eventually to thousands of Jewish deaths, while those of Moshe have preserved the Jewish people for countless generations. And this is the connection of Tisha b’Av to the parsha and the word “devarim.” 

The prophets of Israel (Yeshayahu, Yirmiyahu, Amos and Hoshea, among others) all spoke harsh words to Israel and warned of their impending tragedy. The false prophets who are always to be found in our midst retorted with soothing words and lies that were sweet to the ears of the public. This made the destruction of the Temple and Jewish sovereignty inevitable. We always prefer sweet lies over painful truths.  

The haftorah of Shabbat Devarim is always the first chapter of Yeshayahu, which begins with the Hebrew word “chazon.” Indeed, the Shabbat preceding Tisha b’Av is known as Shabbat Chazon. Why? Because “chazon” means vision, prophecy. Vision can be positive or otherwise. A madman has a vision of world domination and the extermination of other human beings. A righteous person has a vision of a better, more peaceful, moral society. The great Chasidic masters stated that we are judged in heaven not only on what we accomplished or omitted to do, but on the visions and goals that motivated us in this world. 

Though “chazon” may often indicate a negative or sad prophecy, the word itself is a neutral one. One can choose whatever vision one wishes to choose.  Yeshayahu therefore chooses the word “chazon” to begin his book of prophecy. What is the vision of the Jewish people? What kind of a nation do they wish to be? This choice is specific and pertinent to individual human beings as well. Hearing the words of Moshe and of Devarim can be of immense help to us in deciding what our “chazon”—both national and individual—should be.  

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein

For "Impossible Demands", Rabbi Wein's devar Torah for parashat Devarim/Chazon last year, click here.

Words Speak Louder Than Actions

From the moment God called to him from the Burning Bush, the life of Moshe Rabbenu was a counterpoint, a fugue composed of words and deeds. In this perceptive piece, Rabbi Steven Ettinger shows exactly how this is so.

Perhaps the five most ironic words of the Torah are those that open the Book of Devarim: אֵ֣לֶּה הַדְּבָרִ֗ים אֲשֶׁ֨ר דִּבֶּ֤ר מֹשֶׁה֙ (“These are the words that Moshe spoke”).  Of the five books of the Torah, nearly one complete book is comprised the orations of Moshe – his spoken words to the gathered nation. This is the same man who tried to refuse the Divine mission to lead the Jews out of Egypt by claiming: לֹא֩ אִ֨ישׁ דְּבָרִ֜ים אָנֹ֗כִי גַּ֤ם מִתְּמוֹל֙ גַּ֣ם מִשִּׁלְשֹׁ֔ם גַּ֛ם מֵאָ֥ז דַּבֶּרְךָ֖ אֶל־עַבְדֶּ֑ךָ כִּ֧י כְבַד־פֶּ֛ה וּכְבַ֥ד לָשׁ֖וֹן אָנֹֽכִי׃ (“I am not a man of words, not today or yesterday or from whenever you have spoken to your servant as I am slow of mouth and slow of tongue”).

We can add other elements of irony as we consider this phrase and its bold association of words and speech with Moshe:

1. We view Moshe as the instrument of our salvation from Egypt. He was the miracle worker.  He spoke with Pharaoh and confronted him time after time (another irony – the man who had hard speech כְבַד־פֶּ֛ה confronted the man with the hard heart כְבַד־לב). Yet, on the one night throughout the ages that we experience and commemorate the Exodus, we only mention Moshe once and proclaim: וַיּוֹצִאֵנו ה מִמִּצְרַיִם. לֹא עַל־יְדֵי מַלְאָךְ, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׂרָף, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׁלִיחַ, אֶלָּא הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא בִּכְבוֹדוֹ וּבְעַצְמוֹ  (“and He took us out of Egypt, not with an angel, and not with an intermediary, but HKB”H Himself”).

2. Moshe is renowned as the one who presented our people with the tablets – twice in fact (A relief portrait of Moshe is on display the chamber of the US Congress as he is celebrated as the one who brought down the law that underlies the American system of government).  The first set was fashioned by Hashem, which Moshe broke during the “chet ha’egel” but it was the second set that Moshe carved himself that endured. The luchot are inscribed with the iconic “aseret hadibrot,” the Ten Commandments. However, the Torah never uses this phrase, they are never referred to as “dibrot.” Instead, as stated in Ex. 20:1: וַיְדַבֵּ֣ר אֱלֹקים אֵ֛ת כׇּל־הַדְּבָרִ֥ים הָאֵ֖לֶּה לֵאמֹֽר. They, are דְּבָרִ֥ים -- words spoken by Hashem but NOT spoken by Moshe! Thus, as with the Exodus itself, Moshe is seemingly placed on the side.

3. Moshe did, in fact, employ his oratory skills one time on behalf of the Jewish People to stave off their destruction – after they sinned with the Golden Calf. However, at perhaps an equally crucial juncture, he remained silent and did not speak. The spies returned with their unfavorable report and the Jewish nation accepted it and despaired. This resulted in the horrific punishment of the deaths of the entire generation over the next forty years. Calev and Yehoshua give an impassioned plea to convince the people to go and inherit the land. The Torah tells us that Moshe, however, remained silent and that all he did was: וַיִּפֹּ֥ל מֹשֶׁ֛ה וְאַהֲרֹ֖ן עַל־פְּנֵיהֶ֑ם לִפְנֵ֕י כׇּל־קְהַ֥ל עֲדַ֖ת בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃, he (and Aaron) merely conceded, they fell to their faces before the masses.

How is it that, as we have explained, three books of the Torah seem to relegate Moshe to a secondary role, yet the fifth book provides him with a “soapbox” to recast the narrative (and many of the laws) to such an extent that that it is described as Mishneh Torah – a second  or re-telling of the Torah? But this time it is all in Moshe’s “words” and they are entirely from his perspective.

So why is it that the prime/original version in many ways is so different from the one in Devarim? Perhaps the key to the answer is in those same “ironic” opening words, the very fact that Moshe is now speaking words. Despite that fact that Moshe previously protested his role and denied the mantle of responsibility, he is now performing the task that Hashem demanded of him. Until he accepted it, he was, in a sense, suppressed.

Let us quickly contrast his past and present. At the Exodus he did not want to be a man of words, he preferred to act (as when he killed the Egyptian), so he was excluded from the Haggadah. At Sinai, after forty days, he acted – he destroyed the tablets and then he physically fashioned the second set as a remedy – so he is disassociated from the spoken element – the “aseret devarim.” He is successful in saving Am Yisrael from the sin of the Golden Calf when he uses words, but he does not save them from the sin of the spies when he falls down and does not use his words. Finally, and perhaps the ultimate proof in this pattern – he receives his drastic punishment when he takes an action and hits the rock instead of using his words and speaking to it.

This final chastisement is Hashem telling Moshe that this punishment is fair because it represents the cumulative result of all his past failures. Ironically, as the time comes for Am Yisrael to cross over into Eretz Yisrael they now require a leader who is a man of action – Yehoshua. He led the army to battle against Amalek, he tried to encourage the people to rise and go into the land despite the report of the spies, he would battle against the nations of Canaan.

Moshe was our greatest leader, our greatest teacher and our greatest prophet. When he understood that his task was to influence Am Yisrael then and for all future generations with his words, he was given the opportunity to speak and to set out his version and vision of the Torah – of a society of Torah, of a life of Torah and of a future of Torah. These are his words – of course not simply through his mouth but, “al pi Hashem!”

Stiffening one's resolve

This week's erev Shabbat post on Pirkei Avot returns to Perek 3.

At Avot 3:17 Rabbi Akiva, having cautioned about the slippery slope leading from jest and frivolity down to sexual impropriety, promotes the efficacy of four “fences” in protecting higher values. He says:

מַסֹּֽרֶת סְיָג לַתּוֹרָה, מַעְשְׂרוֹת סְיָג לָעֹֽשֶׁר, נְדָרִים סְיָג לַפְּרִישׁוּת, סְיָג לַחָכְמָה שְׁתִיקָה

Tradition is a fence to Torah, tithing is a fence to wealth, vows are a fence for abstinence; a fence for wisdom is silence.

To the practising Jew of today’s world, the importance and practical utility of Torah, wealth and wisdom need neither explanation or justification. But what do we make of vows and abstinence? These are not part of our daily vocabulary. We no longer make the sort of vows that feature in the Torah, and abstinence is an unfashionable concept in any open society where self-indulgence, and indeed overindulgence, have become the norm. But if a teaching from Avot does not offer us an immediately relevant meaning, we do not jettison it or consign it to the museum of religious curiosities. We must look more closely at it and understand it more fully.

All of us make resolutions from time to time. These are not formal vows or oaths made in God’s name, and they usually relate to things that are either unregulated by the Torah or which are so prevalent that it is hard to avoid them. Typical examples might be resolving to limit one’s intake of alcohol at meals or parties, not to eat a second piece of cake at the shul’s kiddush, to get to bed by midnight or to try to avoid speaking about one’s friends behind their backs. If we mean these resolutions and take them seriously, we feel annoyed with ourselves if we break them—but it doesn’t cost us anything if we do and we do not incur any liability for which we would be obliged to offer a Temple sacrifice, a major deterrent to breaking one’s vows.

R' Yisroel Miller cites an idea expressed by R’ Yehoshua Heller in his Divrei Yehoshua that offers a simple way to apply our mishnah in the context of our own lives. He writes:

“Rather than vowing to keep to your resolution, vow that each time you break it you will give a certain amount of money to tzedakah (enough to hurt, but not enough to bankrupt you). A modified version of this is not to make an actual vow but merely a commitment to give the money each time you break your resolution. This sensitizes us and heightens our awareness of our actions, reinforcing our resolve”.

This creates a sort of win-win situation. If we keep our resolutions, we have money in our pockets and the satisfaction of demonstrating that we are strong because our self-discipline is in working order (see Avot 4:1). But if we fail, we are credited with the mitzvah of tzedakah and one or more charitable causes will be fortunate to benefit from it.

Walking: not just a word but a motif

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

Walking

by Pessy Krausz (14 July 2025)

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

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

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

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

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

I’d rather be walking to and fro

speaking of Michael Angelo

than think how those cattle trucks come and go

where so many of mine and others perished -

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

speaking of miracles in our time

weathering the storms of Iron and Lion’s wars- 

children on my shoulders, and theirs on theirs

is the real miracle

walking on this earth and on Israel’s Holy soil

Yes! that is called walking!

Tisha b’Av: My Moment of Anger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Covenant of Words

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

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

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

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

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

Speech and the Tzelem Elokim

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

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

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

The Request of Reuven and Gad: A Deeper Story

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

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

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

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

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

A Legacy of Promise

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't do it just because you can!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rootless--but coming home: Mattot-Masei 5785

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comfort -- and refusal to be comforted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Soul of a Warrior-Saint

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Peace from Death – A Gift of Endurance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Broken Vav: A Flawed Peace

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

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

Carrying the Legacy Forward

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

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

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

May that day come soon—bimhera beyameinu.