Libi BaMizrach

There is a longstanding custom that Parshat Bamidbar is read on the Shabbat immediately preceding Shavuot. Various explanations are offered for this connection, but one of the most striking is also one of the simplest. The Torah was given in a desert. Not in a great city, not in a fertile or comfortable place, not in the center of civilization, but in a barren wilderness — a place empty of distraction, empty of security, empty of everything except the encounter between Klal Yisrael and the Ribbono Shel Olam . Chazal see something deeply significant in that setting. Torah can only truly be acquired, they teach, by one who is willing to make himself like a Midbar — a place not crowded with competing obsessions and endless noise. The desert represents a stripping away of distractions, dependencies, and competing preoccupations, a willingness to stand exposed before something greater than oneself. And perhaps, as we prepare for Shavuot, that raises an uncomfortable but necessary que...

 Lag BaOmer has come and gone. The bonfires have burned out, the music has faded, and for a brief moment, the heavy customs of mourning that accompany the weeks of S’firas HaOmer lifted. Weddings resumed, haircuts were taken, and there was a palpable sense of relief. And yet, for many communities, the mourning has now quietly returned. Which raises a simple but surprisingly profound question: If Lag BaOmer marks the end of tragedy – if it commemorates the day when the talmidim of Rabbi Akiva stopped dying – then why do so many continue to observe mourning even after the day has passed? The most straightforward answer is technical. Since the month of Nisan is a time of joy, during which mourning practices are avoided, some communities simply shift the 33 days of mourning to the period after Nisan. In that sense, what we are experiencing now is a kind of “make-up” period. But that explanation, while correct, feels incomplete. It tells us how the calendar works, but not why this secon...

Behar–Bechukotai and the Meaning of Our Moment In Parashat Behar–Bechukotai, we encounter one of the most sobering passages in the Torah—the Tochacha, the description of exile, suffering, and dislocation that has shaped so much of Jewish history. But suddenly, the Torah pivots from devastation to memory, from curse to covenant: “Then will I remember My covenant with Yaakov; I will remember also My covenant with Yitzchak, and also My covenant with Avraham; and I will remember the land.” (Vayikra 26:42) It is a familiar verse. But upon closer reflection, it is deeply puzzling. Why the reverse order? Why begin with Yaakov and move backward to Avraham? And why does the Torah speak of three separate covenants—“My covenant with Yaakov… My covenant with Yitzchak… My covenant with Avraham”—rather than presenting them as a single unified legacy? Three Covenants As Rav Hirsch explains, this is not merely a reference to three individuals, but to three distinct historical stages—three diffe...