Category Archives: PARSHA

Vayigash – Man and Beast

Shepherds were abhorrent to ancient Egyptians, Yosef tells his brothers, as he relates what they should tell Par’oh in order to reserve the area of Goshen for his immigrating family (Beraishis 46:34). We find this in Mikeitz as well (43:32; see Rashi and Onkelos there)

Some commentaries understand that as indicating that the Egyptians protected livestock and shunned the consumption of meat. Ibn Ezra writes that the Egyptians were “like the people of India today, who don’t consume anything that comes from a sensile animal.”

Pardes Yosef (Rabbi Yosef Patzanovski) references the Ibn Ezra and explains that the ancient Egyptians considered the slaughter of an animal to be equivalent to the murder of a human being.

Although far distant in both time and place from ancient Egypt and India, some people in the Western Hemisphere today have come to embrace the notion that the sentience of animals renders them essentially no different from humans.

To be sure, seeking to prevent needless pain to non-human creatures is entirely in keeping with the Jewish mesorah, the source of enlightened society’s moral code. But those activists’ convictions go far beyond protecting animals from pain; they seek to muddle the fundamental distinction between the animal world and the human. A distinction that is all too important in our day, for instance, when it comes to issues pertinent to the beginning or end of life, or moral behavior.

A book that focuses on “the exploitation and slaughter of animals” compares animal farming to Nazi concentration camps. Its obscene title: “Eternal Treblinka.” Similarly obscene was the lament by People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals founder Ingrid Newkirk that “Six million Jews died in concentration camps, but six billion broiler chickens will die this year in slaughterhouses.”

But even average citizens today can slip onto the human-animal equivalency slope. American households with pets spend more than $60 billion on their care each year. People give dogs birthday presents and have their portraits taken. Such things might seem benign but, according to one study, many Americans grow more concerned when they see a dog in pain than when they see an adult human suffering.

We who have been gifted with the Torah, as well as all people who are the product of societies influenced by Torah truths, consider the difference between animals and human beings to be sacrosanct.

It is incumbent on us to try to keep larger society from blurring that distinction.

Mikeitz – Low-Key is a Lesson for the Ages

“Why display yourselves when you are satiated, before the children of Esav and Yishmael?” (Rashi, Beraishis 42:1).

That is the Gemara’s (Taanis 10b) understanding of Yaakov Avinu’s exhortation to his sons, lama tisra’u (understood, apparently, as “why be conspicuous?”). His rhetorical question was posed to ensure that “they will [the children of Esav and Yishmael] will not be jealous of you….” as they journey to Mitzrayim to garner food during the famine.

Chazal say that, in general, “a person should not indulge in luxury” [ibid]. But especially when it might generate jealousy and resultant animosity.

It is a lesson for the ages, and needed throughout the ages. Among others, the Kli Yakar, who died in 1619, lamented the fact that some Jews’ homes and possessions in his time proclaimed their material success. The problem has hardly disappeared today.

(One of the things that attracted me to the community where I live was the basic uniformity of the homes there. There are no mansions here, not even McMansions.)

Several commentaries wonder at the Gemara’s reference, in the opening quote above, to the progeny of Esav and Yishmael. Yaakov was in Cna’an. Wouldn’t it have made more sense for Chazal to make their point about not standing out with regard to Yaakov’s neighbors, the Cna’anim? There’s no reason to believe that Esav and Yishmael’s people were nearby.

What occurs to me is that there is a poignant prescience in Chazal’s comment. They may have sensed, or even foreseen, a distant but long-running future of Klal Yisrael, where so many of its members would be residing, as has been the case for many centuries, amid cultures associated with Esav and Yishmael.

Vayeishev – Momentous Moments

The nature of the “work” that Yosef came to Potifar’s house to do on the day when the Egyptian’s wife sought to entice him to sin with her (Beraishis 39:11) is famously the subject of a disagreement between Rav and Shmuel.

One opinion is that Yosef intended “to do his [household] duties”; and the other, “to do his needs,” i.e. to submit to the woman’s blandishments – an intention that was undermined only after an image of Yaakov appeared to Yosef, giving him the strength to resist (Sotah 36b). (That latter opinion, with its portrayal of Yosef as vacillating before finally resisting may be audibly symbolized by the shalsheles cantillation of the word vayima’en, “and he resisted.”)

Rav Simcha Bunim of Pshischa is quoted to have commented that the word “work” employed at the pivotal point in Yosef’s life – when he earned the appellation tzaddik, “righteous” – holds the message that each of us has a “work” to accomplish in his life, not just in a general sense but with regard to acting – or not acting – at a pivotal moment, when we are faced with a decision that will define us.

Yosef’s life-changing moment was when he was faced with an insistent Mrs. Potifar. Every person, the Pshischer suggested, will be faced with a pivotal moment, or moments, of his own, when his choice will make all the difference.

Which idea may lie behind Targum Onkelos’ translation of “his work.” He renders it in Aramaic as: “to audit his [Potifar’s] financial records.”

While that may simply be a presaging of the time-honored Jewish profession of accounting, the word Onkelos uses for “his financial records” is chushbenei. The word’s root is cheshbon, “accounting,” and it brings to mind its use in the phrase cheshbon hanefesh – an accounting of one’s “soul,” an examination of one’s standing in his spiritual life.

Each of us is charged with discerning moments in life, when the choice before us may be pivotal. Of course, we never know whether what we are facing is indeed such a moment. And so, we are wise to treat every decision we face as potentially momentous.

Vayishlach — Beware the Rabbi

Imagine finding yourself in a desolate place and spying a lone figure in the distance coming toward you. Your apprehension, even nervousness, would be understandable. But then, when he comes closer and you see that it’s a man with a long white beard, wearing a hat, kapoteh and tallis, you’d breathe a sigh of relief. Until he suddenly attacks you, gets you in a headlock and bends your arm painfully behind your back.

The angel that confronted Yaakov when our forefather re-crossed Nachal Yabok to retrieve some small items looked, according to one opinion, “like a talmid chacham” [Chullin 91a].

The most straightforward takeaway from that contention is that one cannot rely on the appearance of a person as being reflective of his essence. That’s an important lesson, as it happens, for all of us, and to be imparted to our young. Honoring someone who looks honorable is fine, but trusting him requires more than that.

But there’s a broader, historical message in that image of a faux talmid chacham too.

From the 19th century Wissenschaft des Judentums movement to the Reform and Conservative ones to the Jewish nationalism that sought to replace Torah with a Jewish state to “Open Orthodoxy,” there have been many efforts to distort the essence of Judaism – dedication to the Creator and His laws for us.

They have all sought to don conceptual garb proclaiming their “Jewish” bona fides. But they have all been revealed to be no less masqueraders than the sar of Esav wrapped in a tallis.

Vayeitzei – The Purity Principle

Yaakov and Leah had their first (perhaps only) argument on the morning after the wedding feast. He had expected Rachel to join him in his abode that night but, unknown to him until morning’s light, “behold, it was Leah” (Beraishis 29:25).

Midrash Rabbah (ibid) recounts how our forefather exclaimed “Deceiver, daughter of deceiver! Did I not call out ‘Rachel’ and you answered me?”

Leah well parried the thrust: “Is there a barber without apprentices? Did your father not call out ‘Esav’ and you answered?”

Touché.

But the Torah isn’t a drama presentation. And the Torah doesn’t criticize either subterfuge. What are we to glean about our lives from that comeback? On the most simple level, I think it conveys something about how we – whether we are teachers, parents or just people (because all of us are examples to those around us) – convey less (if anything) with words than we do with our actions.

I learned that lesson well, if a bit embarrassingly, many years ago, when I was typing away on a keyboard and my four-year-old son sat down on the floor near my desk with a pegs-and-holes toy, which his imagination had apparently repurposed into a word processor (this was B.C. – Before Computers), and proceeded to imitate me.

It was very cute, and I smiled. Until, that is, his little sister crawled over and tugged at him. Showing annoyance, he turned to her and said, loudly and tersely, “Will you please stop? Can’t you see I’m working?” Yes, he was, as they say in the theater, inhabiting his character.

One of the answers to the Chanukah question of why the cohanim needed to find a sealed flask of oil despite the fact that tum’a hutra b’tzibbur – ritually defiled entities are permitted in many cases for public use – is attributed to the Kotzker Rebbe. He explained that that principle does not apply when a crucial, new era is being initiated, which was the case when the Chashmonaim rededicated the Bais Hamikdash. At so important a time, purity cannot be compromised.

The term for “initiation” is chinuch. And it is also used to mean “education.” When we educate others, especially the young, we do well to ensure that our actions are pure.

Toldos – The Aroma of a Mitzvah

When a pasuk seems superfluous, it’s probably significant.

As Rivka is about to advise her son Yaakov to impersonate his twin Esav and receive their father Yitzchak’s bracha, she adds, “So now, my son, heed my voice about that which I am commanding you” (Beraishis 27:8). What are those seemingly unnecessary words meant to convey?

Rav Yaakov Moshe Charlop, the Mei Marom, suggests something fascinating. He points out that Yitzchak, spiritually purified as he was after the Akeida, was exquisitely spiritually sensitive and able to discern that the food he was consuming carried the flavor of a mitzvah – here, an aroma of kibbud av va’eim, the honoring of parents.

Yitzchak had commanded Esav (but not Yaakov) to bring him victuals and so Rivka sought to ensure that what Yaakov brought his father would be spiritually redolent of that mitzvah. Otherwise Yitzchak would sense the lack of “mitzvah-ness” in the food, and know that the son before him was not Esav.

And so, Rivka’s statement to Yaakov that he heed her voice about “that which I am commanding you” imbued the food Yaakov prepared with that mitzvah-aroma. Yaakov’s physical disguise was thus complemented with a spiritual one – the fulfillment of a parent’s order.

I have a personal custom, when attending a bar or bas mitzvah celebration, of directing the father or mother of the newly “commanded” member of Klal Yisrael to ask him or her to pass the parent one of the condiments on the table. When the young person complies, I say, “A mitzvah d’Oraysa is fairly rare. You just fulfilled one.” And, mindful of the Mei Marom’s thought, I know that,even though the parent most likely can’t taste it, the aroma of a mitzvah resides in the food.

Chayei Sarah – Wake-Up Call

Rabi Akiva, the Midrash (Beraishis Rabbah, 58:3) recounts, once sought to awaken some students who were nodding off by quoting the opening pasuk of the parsha: “And the life of Sarah was one hundred years, and twenty years, and seven years, the years of the life of Sarah”(Bereishis, 23:1).

“Why,” he asked, “was it that Esther ruled over one hundred and twenty-seven provinces? Because Esther, who was the descendant of Sarah, who lived one hundred and twenty-seven years, would rule over one hundred and twenty-seven provinces.”

Many explanations of that strange juxtaposition have been offered. What occurs to me is that almost all that we know about Sarah is that she caused Hagar to flee from Avraham and Sarah’s home and then, after the maidservant’s return, banished her and her son Yishmael because of the latter’s sinful actions (see Rashi ibid 21:9). Yishmael’s character and tendencies, she feared, might come to influence Sarah’s own child, Yitzchak.

Esther spent most of her life in a foreign environment, as queen of ancient Persia (and its 127 provinces). But she maintained her connection throughout with her cousin Mordechai and their faith. She was impervious to the influence of her surroundings.

Perhaps that was what Rabi Akiva’s confounding comparison was meant to convey: that Sarah’s alacrity and vigilance regarding Yitzchak provided her descendant Esther the ability to withstand the influence of her environment.

And it may be that Rabi Akiva’s use of that thought as a literal “wake-up” call to the students was itself part of the lesson, namely that one has to be, as Sarah was, wide awake and fully aware of one’s surroundings, lest their undesirable elements infiltrate his life, or that of those for whom he is responsible.

Vayeira — Unreal

Regarding various Jewish laws (e.g. see Bava Kamma 49a), the Gemara sees in Avraham’s words to his entourage on the way to the Akeida, “Stay here with the donkey” (Beraishis 22:5), an indication (based on the word im, “with,” which can be read as am, “a nation”) that Kna’anim are “a nation similar to a donkey.”

In what way were the “two lads” who accompanied Avraham and Yitzchak on the way to the Akeida considered part of a nation that is “similar to a donkey”? And why is it here, in this particular narrative, that the exegesis is made?

Rav Yaakov Moshe Charlop, the Mei Marom, suggests that something essential and consequential about Avraham and his Yitzchak-progeny is being communicated here.

Avraham was faced with a seemingly unsolvable paradox: He was promised descendants through Yitzchak and yet charged with killing him. There was simply no logical way to square that circle.

But Avraham was able to embrace those two incompatibles in his mind all the same. Because he was not bound by logic or “reality.” When Hashem brought him “outside” to look at the stars (ibid 15:5), the Gemara (Nedarim 32a) sees in that word the message “Go outside your astrological ‘reality’.” The same, says Rav Charlop, is the case with what we call “reality.”

The Kna’ani lads did not have the emunah necessary to “leave reality” and disregard contradictory facts, like Avraham and Yitzchak did. They were hopelessly mired in the physical world of cause and effect and logic. The root of chamor, “donkey,” is chomer, “physicality.” The limitations of the physical world dominated in the lads’ worldview. But not among the Avos and Klal Yisrael.

The Jewish nation exists outside logic. It resides in the miraculous.

Lech Lecha – Of Banners and Bloodshed

It’s considered uncouth, or worse, these days to assign any sort of “national character” to peoples of different ethnic or geographical backgrounds. And we are well advised to not assume anything about any individual – say, to assume that a German will be punctual or a Canadian, polite. But meticulousness is a prominent aspect of German society; and civility, a notable Canadian middah. Anthropological and sociological cultural norms exist.

Yishmael is commonly perceived as the progenitor of some Arab peoples, an association that would seem to dovetail disturbingly with how Avraham’s first son is characterized in the parsha, as a “pereh adam,” an “unbridled man” given to violence (see Rashi, Beraishis 21:9), someone whose “hand is against all others” and, as a result, causes “all others’ hands to be against him”(ibid 16:12).

The striking savagery wrought by Arab terrorists, from the Hebron massacre of 1929 to October 7, 2023 (and countless attacks on innocents between those events) lend credence to the idea that Yishmael’s middah persists in our world.

Strikingly, the Muqaddimah, a famous 14th century text by Arab historian Ibn Khaldun, seems to agree with the Torah’s characterization of Yishmael. Ibn Khaldun engages in blunt judgments about various populations, including his fellow Arabs, who, he writes, are the most savage of people; he compares them to wild, predatory animals.

The notion that violence is tolerated in – or even embraced by – parts of the Arab world, more than in other societies, is evoked by the flags of some modern Arab states. That of the largest one, Saudi Arabia, features a sword (and the country’s official emblem, two crossed ones). Oman’s and Hamas’ flags also prominently feature swords. Hands clenching AK-47s are on the Fatah movement’s flag, which also includes the image of a hand grenade and is graced with a blood-red Arabic text that probably (just guessing here) doesn’t read “give peace a chance”.

The Palestinian Authority’s “national anthem,” called “Fida’i,” begins, “Warrior, warrior, warrior” and ends “I will live as a warrior, I will remain a warrior, I will die as a warrior…”

No individual Arab should ever be assumed to be a violent person, of course. But a proclivity for violence seems to be part of Arab culture, a tragic reality noted not only by Ibn Khaldun but presaged by, lihavdil, the Torah.

Noach – Get Your Own Dirt

It could have been a launch pad for a vehicle to reach the moon. Or a panopticon to monitor people over a large distance. Those are two of the suggested theories for why the people of Bavel sought to build an unprecedentedly tall tower. The first suggestion was put forth by Rav Yonasan Eibschutz; the second, by the Netziv.

Whatever the builders’ aim was, though, it was a development that, as the Torah recounts, merited divine interference. But the words introducing the endeavor are strange. The would-be builders said to one another:

“‘Come, let us mold bricks and bake them well.’ They then had the bricks to use as stone, and the clay for mortar” (Beraishis, 11:3).” What is the significance of their mode of construction?

In 1927, Tomáš Masaryk, then-president of then-Czechoslovakia and a leader friendly to Jews, visited the Yishuv in Eretz Yisrael and was received by its leader, Rav Yosef Chaim Sonnenfeld.

According to the book about Rav Sonnenfeld, Ha’ish al Hachomah, one of the things he discussed with the European leader was the danger posed by technological advances. And he pointed to the pasuk above as an example of how such progress is often born of a misguided attempt to deny the ultimate importance of Hashem. The Bavel builders, he explained, shunned the natural stone available to them, opting instead for their advanced “brick technology.” In so doing, they were declaring their “independence” from the divine.

I’m reminded of the story of the group of scientists who inform Hashem that His services are no longer needed, that their knowledge of the universe now allows them to run it just fine themselves, thank You.

“Can you create life like I did?” the Creator asks. “No problem,” they reply as they confidently gather some dirt and fiddle with the settings on their shiny biologocyclotron.

“Excuse Me,” interrupts the heavenly voice. “Get your own dirt.”

Or, as Carl Sagan said, “If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.”

Rabbi Avi Shafran

Reflections on Jews, Judaism, Media and Life