Quick greet, dead heat

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

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

הֱוֵי מַקְדִּים בִּשְׁלוֹם כָּל אָדָם

Be first to greet everyone.

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

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

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

If you enjoyed this post or found it useful, please feel welcome to share it with others. Thank you.

The nuance of desire: Va'Etchanan 5785

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein

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

What are we doing when we say Shema?

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

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

 שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל ה׳ אֱלֹקֵינוּ ה׳ אֶחָד

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode to Zion

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

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

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

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

Moshe’s Final Message and the Challenge of Success

 “These Are the Words”: Moshe’s Final Message and the Challenge of Success

 As Sefer Devarim begins, a profound shift in tone, audience, and mission unfolds. The Torah introduces this book with the phrase “אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר דִּבֶּר מֹשֶׁה” – “These are the words that Moshe spoke.” The Sages note that this introductory phrase marks a break from the style of the previous four books of the Torah, which were relayed directly by God through Moshe. In contrast, Sefer Devarim is Moshe’s own voice – his reflections, his warnings, and his reinterpretations. It is a Torah for a new generation. In this article Rabbi Paul Bloom reveals what it is that Moshe has in mind. 

This fifth book of the Chumash is addressed not to the Israelites who left Egypt, but to their children, a generation born in the wilderness, destined not for wandering but for conquest and settlement. Their challenges are different: not slavery and survival, but sovereignty and success. And Moshe, having led them for forty years, now must begin again—not with new laws, but with new perspective.

The Or HaChaim HaKadosh notes that the word “אֵלֶּה” (“These”) has a gematria of 36, signifying that the entire book of Devarim was spoken by Moshe over the last 36 days of his life, from Rosh Chodesh Shevat to his passing on 7 Adar. In these final weeks, Moshe condenses a lifetime of teaching into a series of powerful addresses, culminating in VeZot HaBerachah, his final blessing to the people.

Hidden Messages in Names: What Is “Di Zahav”?

At the outset of Sefer Devarim, the Torah presents a list of six mysterious place names. Some are familiar, but others are either unknown or symbolic. One such place is “Di Zahav” – literally, “enough gold.”

The name “Di Zahav” appears nowhere else in the Torah, and it does not refer to a real geographic location. What is it, then? Chazal, in Berachot 32a, offer a stunning interpretation: Moshe is not criticizing Bnei Yisrael – he is defending them.

Moshe is subtly alluding to the sin of the Golden Calf (Egel HaZahav), suggesting that part of the blame rests not with the people, but with God Himself. “You gave them too much gold,” Moshe argues. They were like children overwhelmed by sudden wealth. Just as a spoiled child, given too much and too soon, is likely to falter, so too did Bnei Yisrael stumble under the weight of affluence they could not yet handle.

This is a radical idea. Moshe, as a sanegor, a defender, pleads for mercy and understanding. In doing so, he raises a crucial theme that reverberates throughout Sefer Devarim: the spiritual danger of prosperity.

The True Test: Affluence and Forgetting Hashem

While generations of Jews have perished al kiddush Hashem, martyred through persecution and hatred, far more have been lost through comfort, wealth, and cultural assimilation. In Devarim, Moshe warns again and again:

“You will eat and be satisfied… your silver and gold will increase… and your heart will become haughty, and you will forget Hashem your God.” (Devarim 8:10-14)

Affluence brings independence, and independence breeds spiritual amnesia. This is the underlying current of Sefer Devarim. Moshe’s great fear is not Canaanite armies or desert thirst. It is that, once the people have vineyards and villas, they will forget their Source.

The placement of “Di Zahav” at the beginning of the book is Moshe’s coded message : “Success will be your greatest test.” And it remains ours today.

From Theory to Practice: Preparing for Life in the Land

Another major shift in Sefer Devarim is the transition from theoretical halachah to practical mitzvah observance. For 40 years, many commandments – especially those concerning land ownership, agriculture, and social justice – remained abstract. The people had no private property in the wilderness, no fields to tithe, no courts of inheritance.

Now, as they stand on the eastern bank of the Jordan, Moshe begins again: “הוֹאִיל מֹשֶׁה בֵּאֵר אֶת הַתּוֹרָה הַזֹּאת” – “Moshe began to explain this Torah…” (Devarim 1:5). Rashi says this means he explained it in 70 languages but, on another level, he translated Torah into real life. He taught them how to live the Torah not as wanderers, but as a sovereign society.

The Sefas Emes sees in Devarim the beginning of Torah Shebe’al Peh – the Oral Law. While it is still part of the Written Torah, the style and substance of Devarim begin to reflect human articulation and interpretation. This marks the evolution of Torah – from divine dictation to human integration.

Modern Echoes: The American Dream and the Torah Challenge

We live in a time of remarkable affluence. In Western countries – especially in America – Jews enjoy freedoms, wealth, and opportunities unprecedented in our history. We should be deeply grateful for this. But we must also remember: Di Zahav – “too much gold” – is not a blessing without risks.

Comfort can dull conviction. Success can weaken memory. The challenge Moshe foresaw in Devarim is no less real today: How do we hold on to our spiritual identity in a world that gives us everything?

Yom Kippur’s Vidui ends with the double expression: “תִּעִינוּ וְתִּעְתָּנוּ” – “We have strayed and You have let us stray.” Built into our confession is an acknowledgment of environment. We ask Hashem to judge us not only by our choices, but by the context in which they were made, a theme Moshe introduced with Di Zahav.

The Watchmen of Yerushalayim: Who Guards Our Spirit?

The Radak, commenting on a verse in Yeshayahu, offers a poetic insight: Who are the true guardians of Yerushalayim? Not only soldiers, but those who remember it in their daily prayers. Those who cry for its loss and long for its restoration.

Through centuries of exile, the spiritual memory of Yerushalayim, recited in every birkat hamazon, every tefillah, every Tisha b’Av – kept the dream alive. That memory brought us home.Today, as we rebuild Yerushalayim with stone and steel, we must also rebuild it with soul and memory. The walls will stand strong only if the spirit within remains rooted in Torah.

Conclusion: A New Beginning

Sefer Devarim is not a mere repetition; it is a reinvention. Moshe Rabbenu takes the eternal truths of Torah and adapts them for a new generation, a new landscape, a new spiritual battleground.

We are that generation. The affluence of our time is both a blessing and a burden. Moshe’s voice, echoing across millennia, reminds us: Don’t forget. Don’t let the gold distract you. Don’t mistake comfort for purpose.

May we hear Moshe’s words anew. May we rise to the challenge of our own Di Zahav, and live lives of gratitude, commitment, and clarity.

“These are the words…”

Let us listen. Let us remember. Let us build.

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.