Lo Sachmod in a Culture of Pressure

The Ten Commandments occupy a unique and exalted place in the Torah. Much has been written by our sages about why these ten, of all mitzvot, were chosen to be proclaimed at Sinai and engraved on the Tablets. Without entering that broader discussion, it is clear that their selection reflects their foundational role in shaping Jewish belief and moral life.

Some of the commandments are readily understood. Others require deeper reflection. Perhaps the most difficult of all is the final one: Lo Sachmod — “You shall not covet.”

What does this commandment actually demand of us?

What if a thought simply pops into my head: My neighbor has a beautiful home, a car, a cow — or even a wife — and I wish that were mine. Have I already transgressed the prohibition against coveting? I can’t help it! My brain is wired this way. I see something, I like it, I wish it were mine. What fault is it of mine that the thought arose at all? Isn’t that just simple human nature?

This is a classic question, raised by many commentators. The most famous conceptual response is offered by Ibn Ezra, who begins with a critical premise: God does not command the impossible. To explain how Lo Sachmod can realistically be observed, he offers a striking analogy.

What is truly impossible is not desired

When a king and his entourage pass through a distant province, a simple villager may see the noble and beautiful princess riding by in her carriage. He does not fantasize about marrying her, because the idea never even enters the realm of possibility. She exists in an entirely different world. Similarly, no matter how loving and admirable a person’s mother may be, the thought of marrying her is inconceivable. It lies completely outside the borders of possibility.

So too, explains Ibn Ezra, must a person train himself to view what belongs to another. One’s neighbor’s spouse, home, or possessions must be regarded not merely as forbidden, but as fundamentally beyond reach — as removed from possibility as the princess is from the peasant. What is truly impossible is not desired.

Rabbeinu Bachya, in Kad HaKemach, deepens this insight by noting that the first and last commandments form a matched pair of bookends that inform all the others. If one genuinely believes that God alone governs the world and apportions to each person exactly what is meant for them, there is no reason to covet what belongs to another. Faith in Divine providence naturally leads to contentment with one’s own portion.

At first glance, Lo Sachmod might appear to be a lofty spiritual aspiration, similar to controlling anger or restraining greed. In truth, however, it is a binding halachic prohibition with serious real-world consequences.

Is it permissible to pressure someone to sell property they do not want to sell? May one try to obtain a job or position already held by another? Is it acceptable to pressure someone into a shidduch they are not interested in, or to push one side of a family to make financial commitments they are unwilling to make simply to complete a match?

These are not theoretical questions. They arise regularly in business dealings, communal negotiations, and personal relationships. This short essay is not the place to resolve them, but it is important to recognize that such situations may involve genuine halachic concerns that require serious consideration before entering into any difficult negotiation.

The Rambam, in the opening chapter of Hilchot Gezeilah — a telling placement in itself — formulates the rule clearly:

Anyone who desires the house, servant, or property of another, and pressures him repeatedly, or enlists others to apply pressure until he sells, has transgressed the prohibition of Lo Sachmod.

One who merely schemes in his heart how to acquire what belongs to another violates Lo Tisaveh, the prohibition governing inner desire.

Beyond the weekly Torah portion, the ethic of Lo Sachmod sheds light on troubling trends in contemporary Jewish life.

One such issue is the intense material striving that has taken hold in parts of the Orthodox community, particularly in America — a phenomenon I wrote about recently. The pressure to live, spend, and celebrate at levels far beyond one’s means is often fueled by constant comparison: looking at what others have, how they celebrate, and how they spend, rather than appreciating what God has provided. If there were less fixation on what others possess and more focus on what truly matters, much of this destructive pressure would simply disappear.

Demanding Support from the Unwilling

A far more serious problem, in my view, is the growing expectation among segments of the Charedi community to receive enormous resources from fellow Jews who are unwilling to provide them. This includes billions of shekels in stipends, child support, daycare subsidies, and funding for yeshivos, kollels, seminaries, and much more — demanded from taxpayers who themselves bear the burdens of military service, employment, and civic responsibility, and who are expected to support even those who refuse to serve in the army under any circumstances, including — and especially — those who are not learning full time.

There are, of course, many complex dimensions to this crisis that deserve separate and thoughtful discussion. My point here is narrower. For anyone sensitive to the principle of Lo Sachmod — the prohibition against desiring and scheming to obtain what belongs to another against their will — there is something deeply troubling about efforts to force others to give what they do not want to give.

This concern is only heightened when such demands are accompanied by incessant, traffic-snarling demonstrations, violence, name-calling, and other repulsive behavior, including political threats and coercion. Such tactics do not merely alienate fellow Jews; they undermine the moral authority of Torah itself and cause vast Chilul Hashem.

The same issue arises, though to a lesser extent, in fundraising and advocacy efforts that rely on false or exaggerated narratives — that it is impossible to be religious in the army, that religious Zionist yeshivot lack holiness, or that Jews who work for a living are somehow less committed. At the very least, such strategies raise uncomfortable questions about whether the spirit — and perhaps even the letter — of Lo Sachmod is being violated.

May we merit to see peace among Jews, and to foster an atmosphere in which Torah and Torah scholars are admired not through pressure or coercion, but through lives that exemplify integrity, responsibility, kindness, and genuine concern for others. Such an approach would inspire far more goodwill — and voluntary support — than any strong-arm tactic ever could.

Published on February 6, 2026 in the Jewish Press and Queens Jewish Link

Don’t Get Comfortable in Egypt: Galut Mitzrayim, Affluence, and the Quiet Spiritual Cost of “Keeping Up"

On a recent visit to the United States, I felt an unfamiliar disorientation. It began with the mundane: a quick trip to the grocery store and the shock of seeing how much more expensive everything felt compared to just a year or two ago. But it was a frum podcast that truly unsettled me. The hosts casually asserted that an average Orthodox family earning less than $250,000 annually is not merely struggling but verging on poverty — and that true financial security requires at least $400,000 a year. I listened, baffled. I have never earned anything close to that so-called “poverty line,” and yet I raised five children, paid tuition, married them off, and even managed to send some to camp.

My instinct was to dismiss the discussion as an affluent echo chamber — the language of a small segment of the community projected onto everyone else. Conversations with friends, relatives, and acquaintances quickly disabused me of that notion. Far from rejecting the figure, many endorsed it, describing a community where financial pressures have escalated to untenable heights. This realization crystallized at a wedding that included a Shabbos Aufruf, the chasunah itself, and a Shabbos Sheva Brachos. The wedding, held in a prestigious venue with an elaborate smorgasbord, was impressive but not dramatically different from what I had seen in years past.

What stunned me were the ancillary events: the Aufruf in a luxurious setting, featuring seven appetizers, six entrée choices, and exquisite presentations for over a hundred seated guests at two lavish meals, plus an extravagant kiddush for another hundred; the Sheva Brachos, smaller but equally opulent; and the surrounding neighborhoods of palatial homes, each seemingly competing in décor and grandeur.

And here is the point that matters most: these were not shallow people chasing status for its own sake. They were pillars of the community — wonderful, Torah-centered individuals who embody serious learning, dikduk b’mitzvos, and communal leadership. Their simcha celebrations, while beautiful, underscored a troubling norm: extravagance has become the baseline for communal participation.

This phenomenon is no isolated anecdote. Recent articles in Mishpacha magazine lay bare the unsustainability of these trends, decrying the “terrible effects on the many families that cannot keep up with the crushing burden.” One quote captures the distortion: “Today, normative bochurim from mainstream frum homes view a 30-to-35 year-old making $250,000 a year while being Kove’a Itim l’Torah for several hours a day, raising a family and living an erliche life… as an abject failure.” Another highlights the escalating demands: “The cycle repeats itself, pushing standards to levels in which one has to spend $25,000 on a Vach-Nacht and $40,000 on kiddush; upgrade to custom suits and get all the kids new shoes four times a year — just to avoid living in the schlepper doghouse.”

For me, the money quote (pun intended) is from an anonymous Rabbi A: “There’s a Tze’akah Ad Hashamayim. The Tzibbur is screaming for help. This is by far the biggest issue facing Klal Yisrael today.”

While I do not know what is truly the biggest issue facing Klal Yisrael — what about intermarriage and the apathy consuming the majority of American Jews, the crisis between Charedim and the rest of Israeli society, the shidduch crisis of thousands of young women, the many kids going leaving religious life or the frightening rise of antisemitism on both the right and the left to name a few? — one cannot deny the corrosive impact of this financial culture. It fosters an environment where spiritual priorities are overshadowed by material ones, where families are trapped in an endless pursuit of status symbols that drain resources and erode communal cohesion.

Amid this malaise, the Torah offers profound guidance. The dominant theme of Parshas Vayechi — from beginning to end — is Yaakov Avinu’s fear that Am Yisrael would become entrenched in Mitzrayim. 

From the outset, Yaakov demands that Yosef swear not to bury him in Egypt (Bereishis 47:29), emphasizing his eternal bond to Eretz Yisrael. In blessing Ephraim and Menashe, he invokes Hashem’s promise of the Land as an “Achuzat Olam” (48:4), concluding with a plea for their return to the ancestral homeland (48:21). His final words recall the Me’arat HaMachpelah, rooting the family’s identity there. This culminates in a grand funeral procession, broadcasting to the world the unbreakable tie between Yaakov’s descendants and Eretz Yisrael.

This urgency contrasts sharply with the close of Parshas Vayigash, where the initial intent to live temporarily in Egypt — לָגוּר בָּאָרֶץ בָּאנוּ (47:4) — morphed into permanent settlement:

וַיֵּשֶׁב יִשְׂרָאֵל בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם בְּאֶרֶץ גֹּשֶׁן וַיֵּאָחֲזוּ בָהּ וַיִּפְרוּ וַיִּרְבּוּ מְאֹד

“Thus Yisrael settled in the country of Egypt, in the region of Goshen; they seized it and were fertile and increased greatly” (47:27).

Yaakov’s efforts were a deliberate counterforce, a reminder that true flourishing lies not in foreign prosperity but in the Promised Land.

One important solution lies in heeding Yaakov’s call: Aliyah to Eretz Yisrael

The parallels to contemporary Diaspora life are striking. Just as the Israelites traded temporary refuge for entrenched affluence in Goshen, many in America’s frum communities have succumbed to a “golden exile,” where material indulgence has risen to dangerous and unsustainable levels — levels that did not end well in Egypt. Like then, they experienced a jealous, increasingly unfriendly society that watches our conspicuous consumption with growing animosity.

I contend that one important solution lies in heeding Yaakov’s call: Aliyah to Eretz Yisrael.This is not to claim that Israel is free of materialism or status culture. It is not. But the overall “volume” is often lower: lower financial expectations, simpler cars, simpler furnishings, beautiful but less expensive weddings, and — most dramatically for young families — tuition that is far less crushing than in most American Orthodox communities.

Housing costs can be steep, particularly in Yerushalayim or Beit Shemesh, though the overall lifestyle is still less expensive. Moreover, affordable alternatives abound beyond these hubs. In my own community of Afula, for example, housing prices are markedly lower, offering a serene Torah environment free from the urban tumult, where young families can live without financial pressure. Families ensnared in America’s spending spiral might find liberation here, redirecting their energies toward Torah and mitzvos rather than keeping pace with the Joneses — or the Goldsteins.

Of course, this economic emergency is only one facet of a larger crisis: the indifference among many Diaspora Jews to Hashem’s miraculous gift of Eretz Yisrael in our era. Despite the open doors of sovereignty and ingathering, too many opt for the comforts of exile, echoing the Second Temple period, when most Jews clung to Babylonian prosperity and extravagance, dooming both themselves and the nascent Yishuv. This is not to invalidate legitimate reasons for remaining abroad — familial, health, or professional obligations may compel some to stay. But even when the decision is justified, it should not be casual. It should be weighed with seriousness, urgency, and a clear-eyed awareness of what we are choosing — and what we may be gradually becoming attached to.

In summary, Parshas Vayechi imparts enduring wisdom: recognize the divine bounty of Eretz Yisrael, beware the seductive traps of exile, and remember who you are; remember where you belong; remember that comfort can become captivity.

Which leaves us with a question fit for an educated Jewish readership — and uncomfortable precisely because it is not abstract:

Have we built a frum “Egypt” that we no longer experience as temporary? What feels “normal” to us? What do we assume our children “need”? Have we quietly redefined “dignity” as “luxury” and “normal” as “unaffordable”?

If we have, then perhaps we ought to return to Yaakov’s discipline: to resist the spell of Vaye’achazu Bah — to refuse becoming too settled in the Diaspora.

For some, that might mean lowering simcha expectations with courage and grace. For others, it might mean building communities that honor simplicity as a virtue, not a failure. And for some, it might mean taking seriously a possibility that earlier generations could barely imagine: coming home — not as an escape, but as a reorientation.

Because the deepest danger of Egypt was never the suffering. It was the comfort that made leaving feel unnecessary.

Parshas Vayechi is all about Yaakov Avinu standing at the edge of Jewish history, whispering — and begging — that we not confuse “we can live here” with “we belong here.”

Published on Jan 2, 2026 in the Jewish Press and Queens Jewish Link