Rabbi Shaya's Thoughts

A blooming garden starts with just one seed. A friendship is sparked with a simple hello. A home renovation can start out with the purchase of a single doormat. This is the way of the world. One seemingly small act could lead to something much bigger than planned.  

The Torah wants to ingrain this idea into our lives, so that we are encouraged to take the first step. This lesson is gently taught in this week’s Torah portion, Ki Teitzei. 

Here is the question: What happens if you see a cute baby chick sitting in a bird’s nest protected by its mother, and you want to take the chick home with you. The Torah says you can under one condition: you must send the mother bird away first so that the she doesn’t experience the pain of seeing you take her baby. 

This mitzvah is rewarded with long life.

Many people struggle with this mitzvah. Why require the mother to be sent away? And even if you do, this is a selfish act, so why do you get a reward, let alone the reward of long life?

The commentators point out that is exactly the point. A selfish desire, when actualized in a sensitive matter, making sure not to hurt—even a bird—leads to performing more mitzvot. Interestingly, the Torah uses the expression “send” the mother away, meaning, not to get tired of doing this simple act, even if it needs to be done repeatedly.

When we take small steps, we can create something much bigger than we ever imagined. The Torah demonstrates this through the mitzvot that follow the mitzvah of sending away the mother bird. Build a home? Put a fence around the roof. Plant a vineyard? Don’t mix the species. Make a garment? Don’t mix wool and linen. One mitzvah leads to another, and one small act of goodness creates the momentum for more.

Perhaps this is the Torah’s message to us: Don’t underestimate the power of one small, positive deed. A simple act of kindness, a thoughtful word, or one mitzvah may seem insignificant in the moment, but it can set something much greater into motion. Just as a garden begins with a single seed, a life of meaning and blessing begins with one small step.

So let’s take that step today. Do one small good deed, and see where it leads.

Shabbat shalom & Shana tova!

Human nature is very interesting.

People are so good at giving advice, yet so bad at taking it. We often have an answer to everyone else’s problems. We easily see how others should think before they act. Yet, when it comes to our own lives, many of us allow our emotions to get the better of us, and we act before we think.

In this week’s Torah portion, Shoftim, we learn about the commandment to appoint a king over the Jewish people. The Torah presents it this way: “…and you say, ‘I will set a king over myself, like all the nations around me,’” and the Torah continues with instructions about how this should be implemented.

However, if people are so bad at taking advice and direction, why would we want a king telling us what to do?

As much as we may not like being lectured to, we also recognize that we have blind spots. We can rationalize our decisions and convince ourselves that what we want is actually what is best for us. Sometimes, the person standing in our own way is ourselves.

Perhaps this is part of the Torah’s wisdom in the mitzvah of appointing a king. It teaches us that independence, while valuable, has its limits. There are times when we become better versions of ourselves specifically because we choose to listen to someone whose judgment we trust.

Although we do not have a Jewish king in our times, we can still apply this idea to our own lives. We should choose not a ruler, but a guide: a trusted mentor, an inspiring rabbi, or a wise friend. Someone who knows us well, whose judgment we trust, and, perhaps most importantly, someone we are willing to listen to… even when we don’t necessarily want to hear what they have to say.

We may not know who that person should be. But this week is a good time to think about it.

As we approach the High Holidays, a time when we look inward and take an honest accounting of our lives, perhaps we should ask ourselves a simple question:

Who is my king?

Just as the Jewish people recognized their need for a king and actively sought one out, perhaps we too should recognize our need for a guide and actively seek one out.

Don’t be shy. Find your guide.

Shabbat Shalom and may you be blessed with a happy year.

When you associate with people who make poor choices, there is a good chance that you will be influenced by them. As the saying goes, "guilty by association." The reason given for this is because influence can be contagious.

Seemingly, this outcome should work the other way around as well. If we can be influenced toward the negative, we should also be able to be influenced toward the positive. In fact, Judaism teaches us the concept of, "All Jews are responsible for one another."  This statement is not just a more positive spin on the same idea; it represents a much deeper message. We are all connected. Our identities are interconnected with each other, not just influenced by each other. It is because of this shared soul that we become responsible for each other.

In this week’s Torah portion of Re’eh, we learn about the Ir Hanidachat, the condemned city. One of the ten commandments is not to worship idols. This applies to the individual.  What happens if a whole community turns to idol worship? The city is declared to be an Ir Hanidachat, a condemned city. As a result, all the city’s inhabitants, even the non-guilty, are punished. Although the Talmud tells us that there was never a need to implement this law, it is worth learning about so that we can learn more about ourselves.

Some obvious questions arise. What is the reason behind this law? What did the children do wrong? Why should the adults who did not sin also have to be punished? What happens if an idol worshipper regrets their mistake—would their repentance help?

When the Torah states that "All Jews are responsible for one another," it is not offering a buzzword. It is revealing our core essence. The Jewish nation is a single entity yet we may hold different opinions, speak different languages, and live vastly different lives. The saying "Two Jews, three opinions" proves our vibrant individuality, yet we remain undeniably one.

That is why the Torah views the condemned city as a single unit. When a community acts together, the consequences are not limited to isolated individuals. Their shared identity means that everyone is affected. This is not because everyone is equally guilty, but because no Jew is ever completely detached from the Jewish people. When you are one, you remain one at all times. Even teshuvah does not undo that connection. Repentance changes our relationship with G-d and transforms the individual, but it does not separate us from our people.

As we prepare for the month of Elul, leading into the high holidays, it is a good time to think about our connection to each other. What does it mean to me to be part of the Jewish community? For the good, and hopefully, only for the good.

Shabat Shalom

There are times to act independently, and there are times to work alongside others. Both have their place, and each offers something the other cannot. Appreciating what each approach has to offer is essential—not only in life, but in our relationship with G-d as well.

This week's Torah portion, Eikev, illustrates this balance.

In Eikev we read the second paragraph of the Shema. At first glance, it appears to repeat the first paragraph, which we read last week in Va'etchanan. Yet there are a few striking differences. The first paragraph is written in the singular, addressing each individual Jew, while the second is written in the plural, speaking to the Jewish people as a whole. Even more surprising, the order is reversed in a few places. For example, in the first paragraph, Torah study precedes the observance of mitzvot. In the second, mitzvot observance comes first, followed by Torah study.

These are not merely stylistic differences. They describe two distinct paths of building a relationship with G-d.

The theme of each of the two Torah portions provides the key. Va'etchanan emphasizes G-d's initiative. Before we even ask, G-d reveals Himself and gives us the Torah. Eikev, whose name means "heel," the lowest part of the body, represents the physical world, the place where we take the initiative to elevate ourselves. Instead of waiting for G-d to reach toward us, we begin the journey by reaching toward Him.

This explains why the word order changes. When G-d reveals Himself, our natural response is to study His Torah and absorb His wisdom and do His will. From that understanding, the observance of mitzvot then naturally follows.

But when we are the ones taking the first step, we cannot wait until we understand everything. We begin with action. We perform mitzvot. It is through those actions that we create a relationship with G-d that gradually deepens through the study of Torah.

This also explains why the first paragraph speaks to the individual, while the second speaks to the community.

When G-d reveals Himself, every individual is capable of internalizing that revelation personally. The goal is complete transformation of the individual. Therefore, the Torah commands us to love G-d "with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might." Nothing less than our entire being is asked of us.

But when the initiative comes from below, the Torah no longer addresses the individual. It addresses the community. The goal is no longer for each person to attain perfection on his or her own. Rather, every individual contributes their unique strengths to something greater than themselves. In this context, the Torah omits the words "with all your might." The Torah is not demanding that every individual does everything. It asks each of us to do our part. Together, the Jewish people can accomplish what no individual ever could alone.

Perhaps that is one of the Shema's most profound lessons: There are moments when G-d calls upon us to grow as individuals, striving to become the very best version of ourselves. And there are moments when He calls upon us to become part of something larger than ourselves. Judaism emphasizes both paths. Sometimes the greatest spiritual achievement is found in personal growth. At other times, it is found in joining with others to create a holiness that none of us could achieve alone.

Shabbat Shalom

When people go to extremes, their friends and family often frown upon them, wondering, Why can't you just be like everyone else? It is worth asking, however, whether being extreme is always a bad thing. Perhaps there are times when it is appropriate, or even beneficial, to be a little fanatical about something.

In this week's Torah portion, Matot, we learn about the laws of vows and oaths and how they may be annulled. If a person makes a vow, under certain circumstances the vow may be annulled.

For example, if a woman wants to make sure that she doesn’t light the Shabbat candles on Friday to late, she can take a vow to kindle her candles much earlier than necessary. If she changes her mind, there are ways for her to annul her vow.

At first glance, this seems to send a mixed message.

If taking a vow, even it if is for a short period of time, is a good thing, why does the Torah provide a way to annul it before the designated time is up? And if it is not a good thing, why does the Torah permit making vows in the first place?

The Torah is teaching us something profound about human nature: While there are times when we feel strong and determined, convinced that we can overcome any obstacle, there are also times when we feel weak and vulnerable, when doing the right thing becomes much more difficult. At those moments, a vow can serve as a powerful tool. By placing an additional layer of commitment upon ourselves, we strengthen our resolve to live up to the standards we know we should keep.

But the goal is not to remain dependent on vows. The point is to develop the inner strength to do what is right without needing extraordinary measures. Once a person reaches that point, the vow has fulfilled its purpose. That is why the Torah also provides a path to annul it.

In other words, the vow is not the destination; it is a bridge.

The same is true in our own lives. There are times when we need external support, whether it is accountability, structure, or extra motivation, to help us reach our goals. Those supports are valuable, but they are not meant to become permanent. Their purpose is to help us build the inner discipline to stand on our own.

Ultimately, living at the extremes is not the Torah's ideal. Yet there are times when temporarily embracing an "extreme" measure can help us find the balance we seek.

Shabbat Shalom

There are times to act independently, and there are times to work alongside others. Both have their place, and each offers something the other cannot. Appreciating what each approach has to offer is essential—not only in life, but in our relationship with G-d as well.

This week's Torah portion, Eikev, illustrates this balance.

In Eikev we read the second paragraph of the Shema. At first glance, it appears to repeat the first paragraph, which we read last week in Va'etchanan. Yet there are a few striking differences. The first paragraph is written in the singular, addressing each individual Jew, while the second is written in the plural, speaking to the Jewish people as a whole. Even more surprising, the order is reversed in a few places. For example, in the first paragraph, Torah study precedes the observance of mitzvot. In the second, mitzvot observance comes first, followed by Torah study.

These are not merely stylistic differences. They describe two distinct paths of building a relationship with G-d.

The theme of each of the two Torah portions provides the key. Va'etchanan emphasizes G-d's initiative. Before we even ask, G-d reveals Himself and gives us the Torah. Eikev, whose name means "heel," the lowest part of the body, represents the physical world, the place where we take the initiative to elevate ourselves. Instead of waiting for G-d to reach toward us, we begin the journey by reaching toward Him.

This explains why the word order changes. When G-d reveals Himself, our natural response is to study His Torah and absorb His wisdom and do His will. From that understanding, the observance of mitzvot then naturally follows.

But when we are the ones taking the first step, we cannot wait until we understand everything. We begin with action. We perform mitzvot. It is through those actions that we create a relationship with G-d that gradually deepens through the study of Torah.

This also explains why the first paragraph speaks to the individual, while the second speaks to the community.

When G-d reveals Himself, every individual is capable of internalizing that revelation personally. The goal is complete transformation of the individual. Therefore, the Torah commands us to love G-d "with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might." Nothing less than our entire being is asked of us.

But when the initiative comes from below, the Torah no longer addresses the individual. It addresses the community. The goal is no longer for each person to attain perfection on his or her own. Rather, every individual contributes their unique strengths to something greater than themselves. In this context, the Torah omits the words "with all your might." The Torah is not demanding that every individual does everything. It asks each of us to do our part. Together, the Jewish people can accomplish what no individual ever could alone.

Perhaps that is one of the Shema's most profound lessons: There are moments when G-d calls upon us to grow as individuals, striving to become the very best version of ourselves. And there are moments when He calls upon us to become part of something larger than ourselves. Judaism emphasizes both paths. Sometimes the greatest spiritual achievement is found in personal growth. At other times, it is found in joining with others to create a holiness that none of us could achieve alone.

Shabbat Shalom

Things we do regularly can easily become routine and monotonous. That is why events that occur only once a year are often celebrated with greater enthusiasm. Yet if something is truly important, shouldn't we do it more often? And if an event only comes once a year, what happens if we miss it? Is the opportunity lost for that year, or can it be made up?

In this week's Torah portion, Pinchas, we read about the daily offerings and the offerings brought on the four festivals. There is a striking difference between them: If a daily offering was missed, the opportunity was gone. Each day's offering belonged to that day alone. However, if a festival offering was not brought on time, it could still be brought during the days that followed the holiday.

Why the difference?

Every mitzvah contains two dimensions. One is the person performing it; the other is the fact that the mitzvah itself is accomplished, regardless of who performs it. With festival offerings, the primary objective is that the offering be brought. Therefore, if it is delayed, it can still fulfill its purpose on another day. The daily offerings, however, are different. Their purpose is to inspire people to dedicate each new day to G-d. If that day's opportunity is missed, it cannot simply be recreated later.

But why would the Torah make that distinction?

The Torah recognizes that annual events naturally generate excitement. Because they are infrequent, we look forward to them and approach them with anticipation. Missing the appointed time is unfortunate, but the enthusiasm remains, so the Torah allows the opportunity for it to be completed afterward.

The greater challenge lies with the things we do every day. Familiarity can easily dull our enthusiasm. Therefore, the Torah insists that each day's offering be unique. Yesterday's devotion cannot substitute for today's. Every day deserves its own commitment.

The same is true in our own lives. The problem is not that we do something every day; the problem is when we do it on autopilot. We stop investing our minds and hearts. But when we bring fresh intention to even the smallest actions, they are no longer routine. They become meaningful.

That is why every day is a gift that cannot be replaced. Yesterday's inspiration cannot serve today, and tomorrow's enthusiasm cannot make up for what was missed. Each day presents a unique opportunity to serve G-d, to grow, and to make a difference. If we approach each day with fresh purpose, then even the most familiar mitzvot never become routine—they become new again.

Shabbat Shalom

When we feel wronged by someone, it is easy to hold a grudge. Yet at times we feel the need to forgive. On the surface, forgiveness may simply stem from a desire to move on. We do not want the negativity to linger. We do not seek revenge. We do not want the other person to suffer or pay a price for their wrongdoing. We simply want to put the matter behind us.

To gain a deeper understanding of forgiveness, it is worth examining a story in this week's Torah portion, Chukat.

After the Jews sinned yet again, an epidemic broke out and fiery serpents attacked the people. When the Jews realized their mistake, they came to Moses and asked for forgiveness and begged him to pray to G-d on their behalf.

Moses did. Yet G-d instructed him to raise a copper serpent on a pole so that the people would look toward it and be reminded that everything comes from G-d. Only after this was done did the dying come to an end.

Our sages teach that from this story we learn the importance of forgiveness. A person should not be cruel or ruthless when asked to forgive. Rather, we should strive to be forgiving.

To appreciate the idea of forgiveness better, let’s break it down into different levels of forgiveness:

1. We care enough about the other person that we do not want them to suffer the consequences of the hurt they caused, so we forgive them.
2. We do not even want the negativity between us to linger. We forgive and allow bygones to be bygones.
3. The forgiveness is so complete that the slate is wiped clean. There is no lingering resentment, no scorekeeping, and no emotional residue. The forgiveness is so thorough that it is as though the offense never occurred. In fact, the relationship may become even stronger because of it.

Moses could have simply forgiven the Jews for their complaints and prayed that the suffering stop. But that would not have fully resolved the issue. Moses sought something deeper. He wanted forgiveness without conditions and without lingering resentment.

For that to happen, the Jews first had to acknowledge their wrongdoing and ask for forgiveness. It was not enough for Moses to forgive them on his own. They needed to take responsibility for their actions.

This is why G-d instructed Moses to raise the copper serpent. The people had to look upward, reflect, and change. If seeing the serpent inspired them to recognize their mistake and return to G-d, then they would merit the highest form of forgiveness. If not, the wound would remain unresolved.

True forgiveness is not merely granted; it must also be earned. When repentance is sincere and forgiveness is complete, it is as though the wrong never happened.

We must learn how to forgive, but we must also learn how to earn forgiveness.

If you have wronged someone, ask for forgiveness sincerely. And if someone asks you to forgive, do not be ruthless. Find it within yourself to truly forgive.

Shabbat Shalom.

Many people are troubled by the need for security at synagogues, Jewish institutions, and community events, viewing it as yet another burden imposed by the rise of antisemitism. A “tax on the Jews.”

While we can understand that feeling, perhaps there is more to security than protection alone.

In some ways, it is an honor to have protection at the entrance to a potentially vulnerable location. We see this at important institutions around the world. Buckingham Palace, for example, has guards stationed at its gates not only for security, but also as a sign of dignity and respect. Their presence communicates that this is a place of significance.

This idea appears in this week's Torah portion, Korach. The tribe of Levi was commanded to stand watch over the entrances of the Holy Temple. The purpose was twofold: to ensure that unauthorized individuals did not enter this sacred space, and to honor the Temple through the very presence of those guarding it.

Interestingly, although there were thirteen entrances to the Temple, only five were guarded by Levites, and two by the Kohanim. The remaining entrances did not require guards because they were not considered primary entryways.

The question is asked, if it was the job of the Levites to guard the entrances, why were two of them protected differently?

The commentators offer two perspectives that ultimately converge into a single insight.

First, since these entrances were overseen by Kohanim who stood watch within those areas. The entrances were considered protected, just not by Levites.

Second, because the Kohanim were already present inside these sacred chambers, and the rooms themselves were guarded. Their presence provided that honor and therefore, there was no need for a guard to stand outside.

The distinction is subtle but meaningful. Does guarding a space require standing at the entrance, or can someone inside the space also be considered a sentinel?

Generally speaking, protection is most effective when positioned outside the area being guarded. But when the space itself is holy and those inside are already standing watch, the emphasis shifts. The guard's role becomes less about protection and more about honoring the sanctity of the place.

This distinction helps us better understand another mitzvah: the mezuzah.

When we affix a mezuzah to our doorpost, it serves as a form of spiritual protection. Yet that is not its only purpose. A mezuzah is also a declaration of identity and pride. It tells the world that a Jewish home stands here.

This dual purpose affects many of the halachic discussions regarding which rooms require a mezuzah. Is the mezuzah there primarily for protection, or is it there to confer honor and define the significance of the space? The answer often depends on which aspect is being emphasized.

Just as the guards at the Temple served both to protect and to honor a sacred space, the mezuzah serves a dual purpose as well. It offers spiritual protection while proudly proclaiming the Jewish identity of the home.

At a time when Jewish security is so visible, it is worth remembering that protection and pride are not opposing ideas. Sometimes the very measures that protect us also express who we are and what we value. In a world where being openly Jewish can require courage, the mezuzah reminds us to do more than protect our homes, it reminds us to proudly affirm our identity and the sanctity of the Jewish life within.

Shabbat Shalom

Every excuse we give for not doing something expected of us sounds legitimate, at least to ourselves. Yet in moments of honest self-reflection, we often feel that we have fallen short.

Why do we feel bad? It is not because our excuses are false. They can be completely valid. The reason we feel disappointed is because deep down we know that despite all the obstacles, we still could have risen to the occasion.

We know that we have it within us to do what needs to get done. Yet we might wait for someone else to take the lead, or for circumstances to push us into action. Taking initiative is difficult, as It requires effort, courage, and responsibility.

The question is: How do we develop that sense of initiative? How do we find the strength to act before circumstances force us to?

An answer can be found in this week's Torah portion, Shelach.

We read the well-known story of Moses sending twelve leaders, one from each tribe, to scout out the Land of Israel. Moses was worried about the report they would bring back, which is why he prayed that G-d would protect his protégé and eventual successor, Joshua, from the influence and reasoning of the other scouts.

Moses was right to be concerned. The scouts returned with a negative report, twisting every positive sign into a reason for fear. They argued that it would be better to remain where they were rather than move forward into the unknown land.

Moses expected Joshua to turn the tide. Yet it was not Joshua, but Calev, who succeeded in getting the people to see things differently.

Calev's response remains deeply instructive.

Where did Calev find the strength to stand up against the consensus? Where did he get the courage to challenge what everyone else was saying?

While in Israel, Calev separated from the other scouts and traveled to Chevron, the resting place of our ancestors, and prayed to G-d for help. He took the initiative.

Before he could influence others, he worked on himself. Rather than assuming that he would naturally make the right choice, he sought Divine assistance. He understood that success does not come from waiting for inspiration to arrive on its own. We must take responsibility for our growth and do something to strengthen our character and convictions.

That is why, although Calev did not possess the stature or influence that Joshua had, he was able to step forward when it mattered most. When he saw that the people were being swept away by fear, he stood up and called for everyone to listen.

Paying close attention to the words he chose, we uncover a fascinating insight.

Calev connected with the people. He understood their concerns. Their challenge was not a lack of faith in G-d. Rather, they were afraid of the obstacles they would encounter along the way.

That is why Calev reminded them of the miracles they had already experienced. Every one of those miracles occurred during the journey itself—G-d had guided them through challenges before, and He would continue to guide them through the challenges ahead.

Calev's message resonates today no less than it did then:

1.       Stop making excuses, even when they are legitimate.

2.       Find the inner strength to ask for help.

3.       Do not wait for miracles before taking action. More often than not, the miracles reveal themselves after we take the first step.

4.       Take your destiny into your own hands.

5.       Don’t be afraid to just do it.

Shabbat Shalom.

Imagine this scene: A company organizes a conference for their employees, and brings in some well-known speakers to inspire the crowd. As planned, the speakers are a huge hit! Everyone is talking about how wonderful the speakers were. But as the head of the company, you could become despondent, thinking to yourself, “Wait—I inspire them, but they never praise me; am I worthless?

Something like this happened in this week’s Torah portion of Behaalotecha, where we read how Aaron kindled a menorah for the first time. However, to appreciate its significance, let’s recall the end of last week’s Torah portion, where we read about the twelve tribe leaders bringing an array of gifts to the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, day after day for twelve days. This drew the admiration of the Jewish people.  Now Aaron is about to light the menorah.

As he was about to do so, he had an identity crisis.

As the person who was appointed to be the High Priest, was it his job to light the menorah? The leaders of the tribes brought their donations to the public square and were publicly recognized for their contributions. Aaron, on the other hand, was assigned to kindle the menorah in the privacy of the inner chambers of the Mishkan, an area that no one saw.  This led Aaron to think to himself, “What is the big deal about lighting the menorah?”

The Midrash tells us that when G-d noticed Aaron’s mood, He told him, “By your life, yours is greater than theirs!”

What did G-d mean by this statement, and why did this make Aaron feel better?

There is a very powerful message being taught here. True, the leaders of the tribes brought many gifts, and with a lot of fanfare. But who were the implementors? Not the leaders, but the Priests. Aaron was not there to give instructions to others to kindle the Menorah, but he did so himself. In addition, Aaron was also required to show up every day. Each of the tribe leaders, by contrast, only brought their offerings one time.

G-d comforted Aaron by teaching him the value and significance of the day-to-day grind. Many days can go by without any accolades. But that doesn’t take away from the truth:  It is the consistent work that we do that truly matters.

The head of that company should remember that the speaker was inspirational for one hour, but the company leadership is the reason why the employees are there to begin with. Showing up every day, giving guidance and direction, is much more meaningful than just making a good impression quickly. It’s in daily consistency where true greatness lies.

This lesson applies to our own lives as well. When we light our candle every day, we should not be looking for admiration from others, because we know that it is our consistency, constantly showing up, that is the most important thing in the world.

Shabbat Shalom

Being able to see a situation from more than one perspective is important. Yet often, instead of asking questions, debating a subject, or trying to go beneath the surface in search of deeper meaning, we simply take the one view for granted.

Even while learning Torah, we can fall into a passive mode of study. We may read, learn and retain the information, but not ask hard questions. In this week’s Torah portion, Naso, we are tested in this regard.

We learn how the leaders of the twelve tribes each brought offerings to dedicate the new Mishkan, the Tabernacle. The interesting thing is that they all brought the exact same gifts. No differences!

Seemingly, the Torah could have listed one gift and simply stated that the other eleven leaders brought the same offerings on the following days. Why the need to repeat the description of the gift in detail twelve times?

We can simply answer that when something is repeated, it shows that it matters. It is precious. Worth repeating.

But once we begin looking a little deeper, we start asking more questions. What is the meaning behind these gifts? Why these specific items? Why in these quantities?

As expected, the commentators find layer upon layer of symbolism in the offerings. But beyond the individual meanings behind each gift, perhaps the broader message of the offerings themselves can be understood to mean expressing gratitude to G-d and taking ownership of the words of the Torah.

Not only thanking G-d for everything He gives us, but showing that we, the Jewish people, are internalizing the messages of the Torah and making them part of ourselves.

Perhaps that is one of the foundations of Judaism. In serving G-d, we focus on what G-d does for us. However, that alone is not enough. It is also important to think about what the Torah means to us, personally. How its teachings can shape us, challenge us, and help us grow as people.

The detailed repetition of the tribal leaders’ offerings, together with the many interpretations behind them, teaches us this important lesson:

Do not just accept the surface explanation. Ask questions. Try to understand more deeply. And most importantly, internalize the Torah’s teachings.

Shabbat Shalom

Have you ever had a conversation with someone that is going nowhere, and you feel frustrated? Now imagine arguing with an angel. You are not even on the same playing field. What can you say? You are in this physical world, and they are in the heavens.

Moses was faced with this exact challenge, and G-d put him up to it.

Here is the backstory: According to the Midrash, when it came time for G-d to give the Torah to the Jewish people, the angels came running to G-d, arguing: Why are you going to give the Torah to creations of flesh and blood? The Torah should remain here in the heavens.

G-d turned to Moses and said: Answer them.

Moses rose to the challenge and asked the angel, “Do you have a father and mother to honor? Do you conduct business dealings? No. Therefore, the Torah belongs to us.”

Great comeback.

However, this conversation needs to be understood.

The angels had a legitimate first-rights claim. That is because there is a law that says that if a property goes on the market, the neighbors have the first rights to purchase. The angels claimed that they should have the first right to the Torah. But arguing that the Torah is more relevant to us than to them does not seem like a legitimate response.

So let’s take a deeper dive into Moses’s response:

If you want to raise a building, you place a lever under the foundation so that you can lift the entire structure. You do not pick it up from the top floors.

The same applies to the world at large. The world, including the higher worlds, the world of angels, can only be elevated when we, human beings living in this physical world, elevate ourselves through performing Mitzvot, such as honoring our parents, dealing honestly in business, and refining everyday life. The Torah gives us the guidelines and laws to do these things.

Moses was not arguing that we deserve the Torah more than the angels. He was saying something much deeper: For the angels themselves to benefit from the Torah, human beings must first do their job here below. By giving the Torah to the physical world, everyone, even the angels, ultimately benefits.

Moses did not merely defeat his adversaries with a clever response; he showed them that their own deeper interest was being served as well.

When we understand the deeper needs of other people, we can resolve arguments in a way where everyone gains.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Shavuot