What Are We Really Asking For? Korbanot, the Mincha, and the Avodah of Vayikra

Parshat Vayikra opens the grand topic of Korbanot — a world that, while foundational to Torah, can feel distant in practice. Yet this is precisely the avodah for which we daven daily:

רְצֵה ה' אֱ-לֹהֵינוּ בְּעַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל וּבִתְפִלָּתָם, וְהָשֵב אֶת הָעֲבוֹדָה לִדְבִיר בֵּיתֶךָ וְאִשֵּי יִשְׂרָאֵל

Hashem our God. please desire Your people Israel and their prayers; restore the service to the inner chamber of Your House and the offerings of Israel

This demands clarification. When we ask for the return of the avodah, what exactly are we asking to be restored?  Can we really relate to the idea of offering animals and bringing flour offerings as way of serving Hashem?

Chazal frame Korbanot not merely as ritual, but as Avodat Ha’adam — a process that transforms the individual. The Ramban (Vayikra 1:9) explains that the actions performed upon the Korban are meant to awaken in a person the realization that, in strict justice, what is being done to the animal ought to have been done to him. The Korban thus becomes a concrete expression of humility, teshuvah, and renewed closeness to Hashem.

At the same time, the very term Korban — from the root meaning “to draw close” — teaches that the essence of the avodah is not loss, but relationship.

Within this framework, the Mincha, the meal offering, becomes particularly illuminating.

Unlike animal offerings, the Mincha is composed of the most basic elements of a person’s existence: fine flour, oil, and frankincense. These are not dramatic expressions of sacrifice, but the simple components of daily life — sustenance, livelihood, and the sense of blessing that accompanies them. The Mincha reflects not extraordinary moments, but the ordinary fabric of human existence.

This idea is captured in a striking statement of Chazal. On the verse describing the Mincha, Rashi, citing the Gemara in Menachot (104b), notes that it is typically the poor person who brings such an offering. And yet, the Torah describes it as if he has offered his very soul. The simplicity of the offering is not a deficiency; it is precisely what gives it its depth.

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch develops this idea further, explaining that the different forms of the Mincha correspond to different human conditions. Whether one’s life is marked by stability or struggle, simplicity or comfort, each situation can become a vehicle for Avodat Hashem. The offering reflects not only what a person gives, but how he lives.

The Kli Yakar (Vayikra 2:1) observes a broader progression in the parsha itself — from offerings of cattle, to sheep, to birds, and finally to the meal offering. As the material value decreases, the Torah’s language becomes more intimate, culminating in the description of the Mincha in terms of the נפש (soul.) The less one possesses, the more the offering reflects the self, but the more that one gives is valued on High.

A similar idea emerges in the teaching of the Sefas Emes regarding the act of Kemitza, the taking of a small handful from the offering. This handful, though minimal in quantity, represents the essence of the entire Mincha. The avodah is not defined by volume, but by the inner point. When the core is given over, the whole is elevated.

Seen in this light, the avodah of Korbanot is not limited to dramatic acts of sacrifice. It is equally, and perhaps more profoundly, about the sanctification of one’s existence — the ability to bring one’s sustenance, one’s daily life, and one’s very being into a relationship with Hashem.

This, in turn, reframes what is missing in the absence of the Bais HaMikdash. In its place we have Tefillah — “our lips instead of offerings” — but the underlying request remains: the restoration of a world in which closeness to Hashem is expressed not only in thought and speech, but in tangible, lived reality.

When we daven for the rebuilding of the Bais HaMikdash, we are not merely asking for the return of a system of ritual. We are asking for the return of a mode of existence in which even the most basic elements of life — our bread, our livelihood, our daily routine — become part of Avodat Hashem.

Understanding Korbanot in this way transforms our Tefillah. It gives substance to our longing and clarity to our request. It reminds us that what we seek is not only a rebuilt structure, but a restored relationship — one in which everything we have, and everything we are, can be brought closer to Hashem.

And that is a loss we feel every day.

---

I had the privilege of giving an extended shiur on this topic, which can be seen here .

This essay was published in Israel National News on March 20, 2026

Vayakhel Pekudei - When the Siren Sounds, the Nation Gathers

Life in Israel over the past few weeks has developed a strange new rhythm. Usually, there is first a warning — a message on the phone that something may be coming — and then, sometimes minutes later, the siren cuts through the ordinary sounds of the day. Conversations stop mid-sentence, children are quickly gathered, and people step outside and make their way down the street to the public shelter. The door closes behind us, and for a few minutes we sit together waiting for the all-clear. Sometimes it is only a single siren, and a few minutes later everyone returns home. Other times, another siren follows, and then another, and we remain there longer than expected, listening, waiting, and checking our phones to see what may come next.

The first time this new rhythm became real for me was on a recent Shabbat morning. We were standing in shul listening to the reading of Parshat Zachor, the Torah’s command never to forget Amalek — the embodiment of cruelty without conscience and hatred without restraint. Every year, we hear those words on the Shabbat just before Purim, when we recall how the Jewish people once again faced destruction at the hands of Haman in Persia, another descendant of Amalek, and how that threat was ultimately overturned. The message of that reading is that there are forms of evil that cannot simply be ignored or wished away. They must eventually be confronted and defeated.

And as we stood there thinking about those ancient struggles, the sirens suddenly began to sound. In that moment, the world of the Torah reading and the world outside the synagogue seemed to collide in a way none of us had expected.

A group of neighbors becomes a small community

And since that Shabbat morning, that rhythm has continued. Sirens come and go. People make their way down the street to the shelter, wait together for a few minutes, and then return to their routines. At first, moments like these are unsettling; when the siren sounds, the mind instinctively turns toward danger and uncertainty. But something else has been happening as well. People have begun adjusting. The routine becomes familiar. Neighbors exchange a few quiet words. Someone cracks a joke. Someone checks on an elderly neighbor who needed help getting there. Someone hands a small child a piece of candy to distract them from the noise.

And then, a few minutes later, the moment passes. The all-clear comes. People step back outside and walk home, and life resumes as though nothing unusual had happened.

Except that something important has happened.

In those brief moments underground, something unexpected takes shape. A group of neighbors becomes a small community. People who normally pass one another on the street with a quick nod suddenly find themselves sitting together for a few minutes, sharing a space and sharing a moment. Perhaps the most striking thing about these moments is the mood. Instead of despair, most people are remarkably upbeat. There is a widespread sense that, despite the tension of the moment, Israel is moving toward a stronger, safer future. The progress of the war, whatever its remaining challenges, has given many people the feeling that history itself may be turning in a better direction.

Recently, I noticed something that gave this experience an unexpected resonance. One of the military operations underway has been referred to as “Sha’agat HaAri” — the roar of the lion. The phrase immediately evokes strength and awakening. The Navi Amos once asked, “Aryeh sha’ag mi lo yira?” — when the lion roars, who is not stirred? A lion’s roar does more than frighten; it awakens people and tells them that something powerful is unfolding.

In a strange way, the sirens themselves function like that roar. They interrupt ordinary life and remind us that we are living through a moment that matters — a moment in which courage, patience, and faith are all being called upon.

Before anything can be built, the people themselves must come back together

And that experience — of strangers suddenly becoming a community — kept reminding me of the opening words of this week’s parsha.

At the beginning of Parshat Vayakhel, the Torah tells us, “Vayakhel Moshe et kol adat Bnei Yisrael.” Moshe gathers the entire community of Israel. Only after the people are gathered does the work of building the Mishkan begin. Coming after the painful rupture of the Golden Calf and the long process of forgiveness that followed, the Torah’s first step is not construction but community. Before anything can be built, the people themselves must come back together. The rebuilding of the nation begins with a gathering.

The Mishkan will not emerge through miracles alone. It will be built through the contributions of ordinary people — men and women bringing what they have, artisans offering their skills, and an entire nation rediscovering its shared purpose. Perhaps that is why those moments in the shelter feel so familiar. When the siren sounds, everyone arrives carrying something invisible: a bit of fear, a bit of courage, a bit of faith. For those few minutes, we sit together quietly aware that we are part of something larger than our individual worries. In a small way, it is a moment of Vayakhel — a gathering of the community.

Parshat Pekudei continues the story by describing the careful accounting of the Mishkan’s materials. Every contribution is counted. Nothing is dismissed as insignificant. Every piece given by the people becomes part of the structure that will house the Divine Presence. The Torah is teaching something profound: even small contributions matter. Even ordinary acts can become part of something sacred.

In times of uncertainty, this message becomes especially powerful. Checking on a neighbor, helping someone reach the shelter, offering a calm word to someone who is frightened, keeping a sense of humor when tension fills the air — these small acts form the invisible framework that holds a society together.

And this week we also read Parshat HaChodesh, which introduces the mitzvah of the new month as the Jewish people prepare for Pesach. Before the Exodus has even occurred — before redemption has fully revealed itself — the Jewish people receive their first national mitzvah: “HaChodesh hazeh lachem.” Even while still in Egypt, they are told that they will determine the calendar of their future. It is a remarkable message. Hope appears before redemption is visible.

Perhaps that explains something about the mood in Israel right now. People are living in uncertainty, yet they are already speaking about the future. Conversations in shelters often drift toward what lies ahead — a safer Israel, a stronger Jewish people, perhaps even a region beginning to change in ways that once seemed impossible.

Jewish history often unfolds exactly this way. First comes the gathering — Vayakhel — when people draw strength from one another. Then comes the careful accounting — Pekudei — when every small act becomes part of something lasting. And finally comes the declaration of the future — Hachodesh — when even before redemption arrives, Jews begin preparing the calendar of the world that will follow.

In the meantime, when the siren sounds, we step outside and make our way down the street to the shelter once again. We sit together for a few minutes in a small concrete room. Neighbors talk quietly, children fidget, someone tells a story or makes a joke, and then the moment passes. We step back outside and return to our homes — and in ways both large and small, we keep building.

Published in the Queens Jewish Link and Israel National News March 11, 2026

x

From Sirens to Understanding: Sha’agat HaAri and the Light of Purim

I write these words on Motzaei Shabbos after a Shabbos unlike most others.

Throughout the day, sirens sounded again and again across Israel. Families rose from their Shabbos tables, zemiros stopped mid-song, and once more we made the now-familiar walk toward stairwells and bomb shelters. Doors closed behind us. Phones remained silent. Information was scarce. We sensed that something serious was unfolding—likely connected to Iran—but in truth, we did not know what was happening.

Some people were frightened. Others were deeply unsettled. Yet most of us did what Israelis have learned, through long and difficult experience, to do. We gathered our families, walked calmly to safety, and placed ourselves in the hands of the Ribbono Shel Olam.

As Shabbos observers, we were careful not even to ask those who might have heard the news for updates. We chose, consciously, to live with uncertainty rather than compromise the sanctity of Shabbos. And so we sat together without information, without analysis, without reassurance—sustained only by faith that Hashem watches over His people even when events remain hidden from human understanding.

Earlier that morning, we stood in shul listening to the reading of Parshas Zachor, the Torah’s command never to forget Amalek—the embodiment of cruelty without conscience, hatred without moral restraint, evil that cannot be negotiated with or redeemed. Those ancient words felt unusually close as sirens interrupted the rhythm of tefillah and sent us toward shelter. We were thinking about the obligation to confront irredeemable evil even as we lived through a moment when evil felt very near.

Only after Shabbos ended did the picture begin to emerge. Reports began circulating of major military action undertaken against one of the most dangerous regimes threatening Israel and the Jewish people. Early indications suggested extraordinary success—achieved at a moment of grave danger and, strikingly, just in time for Purim.

One detail especially caught my attention: the reported name of the operation—Sha’agat HaAri, “the Roar of the Lion.”

The name was so close to the title of the classic halachic work Sha’agas Aryeh that I found myself reaching for the Sefer almost instinctively—not because I expected it to “predict” history, but because Torah is where Jews go to make meaning when events feel too large to hold in the mind. I did not find a ready-made line that “explained” what we were living through. What I did find was the enduring comfort of Torah’s warmth after fear, and the quiet work of seeking language that allows a Jew to stand within uncertainty without being overtaken by it.

That return led me back to Purim.

Purim is the festival of salvation discovered in retrospect. G-d’s Name does not appear explicitly in Megillat Esther. Events look like random, natural, political machinations. The story unfolds through palace intrigue, human decisions, and remarkable turns of fortune. For much of the narrative, the Jewish people live inside uncertainty. Only afterward does a pattern emerge; only afterward do we realize that what looked random was guided, that what looked like vulnerability was the beginning of redemption.

We make our way into shelters without knowing how the story ends—and only later discover that deliverance may already have begun.

Purim, in other words, is not only about being saved. It is about coming to recognize salvation—about learning, sometimes after the fact, that Hashem was there all along.

Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin describes Purim as the emergence of light, specifically from within concealment—or mitoch ha-hester. Unlike the open miracles of Yetzias Mitzrayim, Purim’s redemption is experienced first as hiddenness, and only later as clarity. First comes the night, then the day.

This Shabbos felt like that night.

We moved to shelters repeatedly without knowing what was happening beyond the walls. We did not have the comfort of explanations. We had only tefillah, Tehillim, and a quiet inner decision: to live inside the uncertainty without letting it break us, to trust that the One Who guards Israel does not sleep.

And then came Motzaei Shabbos—the beginning of “daylight.”

As details began to emerge, the same hours that had been filled with fear began to look different. What had felt like chaos began to appear as a purposeful act of protection. What had felt like helplessness began to appear as the removal of a longstanding threat. Nothing about our experience during Shabbos had changed—only our understanding of it.

That is the Purim pattern.

We live through moments before we understand them. We pray before we know outcomes. We make our way into shelters without knowing how the story ends—and only later discover that deliverance may already have begun.

As we approach Purim—and soon afterward Pesach, the festival of revealed redemption—we pray that the frightening moments of our own time will be seen, clearly and unmistakably, as steps toward security, peace, and a deeper awareness of Hashem’s guiding hand in history.

May we merit not only protection, but clarity; not only survival, but the ability to look back and recognize how darkness itself contained the seeds of light.

לַיְּהוּדִים הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה וְשָׂשֹׂן וִיקָר

So may it be for us—leading ever closer to the coming of Mashiach and the complete Geulah, speedily in our days.

From the Bigdei Kehunah to Purim Masks: Seeing Beyond the Surface

This week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh, is almost entirely devoted to clothing.
Not ordinary clothing. The Bigdei Kehunah — the priestly garments — described in painstaking, almost overwhelming detail. Fabrics, colors, threads of gold, precise measurements, engraved stones, woven patterns. Page after page of wardrobe specifications.

Make holy garments for your brother Aharon, for honor and for splendor (Shemot 28:2).
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that Kavod — honor — expresses the essential moral and spiritual content of a person’s character. Tiferet — splendor — is the external beauty that makes that inner character visible and esteemed as it should be. The garments were not mere decoration. They were a visible manifestation of the meaning of the Kehunah itself.

In fact, the garments were not optional. A Kohen who performed the service without them was disqualified. Without the garments, he was just another individual acting out of personal impulse. The sanctuary was not meant to showcase personality. It was meant to embody submission to God’s Torah.

Rav Hirsch emphasizes that without the priestly garments, the individual personality of the Kohen — with all its inevitable weaknesses — would stand exposed. Clothed in the sacred vestments, however, he does not appear as he is, but as he ought to be according to the dictates of God’s Torah. By donning the garments, he becomes conscious of his own inadequacy and of the higher standard he represents. The clothing transforms the man from private individual to representative of a sacred ideal.

Clothing is never just clothing. It expresses identity, shapes perception, and can reveal essence — or obscure it

Clothing, in this sense, dignifies not by concealing weakness but by calling the wearer upward.
Rav Hirsch goes even further. Clothing, he reminds us, began in Gan Eden. God Himself clothed Adam and Chava before sending them into the world. Clothing separates the human being from the beast. It is the first and most conspicuous indication of man’s moral calling. It proclaims that a person is more than instinct, more than impulse, more than flesh.

Clothing, at its best, dignifies.
At its worst, it does the opposite.

Which brings us to Purim. In the Megillah, clothing plays a starring role. Esther dresses carefully when she approaches Achashverosh — first to enter the palace, later to find favor before revealing her plea. Mordechai dons sackcloth in anguish. Haman is forced — against every fiber of his pride — to dress Mordechai in royal garments and lead him through the streets. And at the end, Mordechai emerges:

וּמׇרְדֳּכַי יָצָא מִלִּפְנֵי הַמֶּלֶךְ בִּלְבוּשׁ מַלְכוּת תְּכֵלֶת וָחוּר וַעֲטֶרֶת זָהָב גְּדוֹלָה וְתַכְרִיךְ בּוּץ וְאַרְגָּמָן 

... in royal apparel of turquoise and white, with a large gold crown
and a cloak of fine linen and purple.

The text lingers over the fabrics and colors.

• Clothing signals humiliation.
• Clothing signals power.
• Clothing signals reversal.

On Purim itself, we dress up. We wear costumes. We put on masks. We present ourselves as something other than what we appear to be the rest of the year. Sometimes it is humorous. Sometimes thoughtful. Sometimes profound.

Purim reminds us that reality is layered. The Divine Name does not appear in the Megillah, yet God’s hand is everywhere. Identities shift. Power reverses. The outer garment rarely tells the full story.
And then there is techelet — the blue thread of the tzitzit, discussed in recent weeks in Daf Yomi. The Torah commands us to place a thread of blue upon our garments, “so that you shall see it and remember.” The Sages explain: the blue resembles the sea, the sea resembles the sky, and the sky resembles the Throne of Glory. A single thread of color, woven into cloth, becomes a ladder of consciousness.

Garments can anchor memory.
Clothing can elevate vision.
Fabric can point heavenward.

Taken together, Tetzaveh, Purim, and tzitzit suggest a single idea:  Clothing is never just clothing.

• It expresses identity.
• It shapes perception.
• It can reveal essence — or obscure it.

I learned this lesson personally.
When I first entered the rabbinate, I resisted what I thought of as “rabbinic costume.” I wanted to help people, teach Torah, be authentic. I did not feel higher than anyone else. I told my wife — only half joking — that if I ever started talking about a Homburg hat and long frock, she should shoot me.

But over time I realized something humbling the hard way: it was not about how I felt. It was about what my congregants needed to see. The rabbi does not dress only for himself. He represents Torah. Dignity in dress was not ego — it was responsibility. Clothes do not make the man, but they frame the role he occupies. They signal aspiration. They communicate seriousness.

And yet — here is where we must tread carefully — clothing can also mislead.

In these difficult times — filled with pain, adversity, and far too much animosity between fellow Jews — Purim offers more than celebration. It offers direction.

In our own society, clothing has become a boundary marker. One group sees black hats and long coats and assumes a monolithic worldview. Another sees jeans and short sleeves and assumes spiritual indifference. We reduce individuals to uniforms.

But the Kohen’s garments teach something subtler. The clothing represents an ideal — not the flawless personality of the wearer. The mistake is not in dressing differently. The mistake is in imagining that clothing tells the whole story.

Purim exposes that illusion. The mask hides — but it also reveals. It reminds us that beneath every costume is a human being of complexity, struggle, and potential goodness. Beneath the royal robe may stand a threatened Jew. Beneath the sackcloth may stand a future leader. Beneath the external presentation lies a soul created b’tzelem Elokim.

In these difficult times — filled with pain, adversity, and far too much animosity between fellow Jews — Purim offers more than celebration. It offers direction.

Haman described the Jewish people as “a nation dispersed and separate from one another” (Esther 3:8). Chazal understood that accusation not merely geographically, but spiritually and socially. Fragmented. Suspicious. Divided.

It was only after Esther’s urgent call — “Go, gather all the Jews” (4:16) — that the tide began to turn. First they gathered to fast and pray together. Later they stood together to defend themselves. Unity preceded deliverance. Shared purpose preceded salvation.

And then came the transformation:

לַיְּהוּדִים הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה וְשָׂשֹׂן וִיקָר

For the Jews there was light, joy, gladness, and honor. Honor — yikar — the very word that echoes the language of kavod and tiferet in our parsha.

Purim is not merely about masks and merriment. It is about rediscovering what happens when a people once described as scattered and separate chooses to stand together.

If clothing can mislead, let it not divide us.
If garments can symbolize aspiration, let them call us upward together.
If masks remind us that reality runs deeper than appearance, let them teach us to look for the shared soul beneath every external difference.

In these challenging days, may we seize the opportunity Purim represents — to see beyond the surface, to gather rather than fragment, to recognize one another as fellow bearers of Divine image. And may we merit once again to live the verse not as history but as hope: Layehudim hayta orah v’simcha v’sason v’yikar — light, joy, gladness, and honor — not as isolated camps in different costumes, but as one people rejoicing together.

Published in the Queens Jewish Link

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

Standing at the Crossroads: The Isaac-Covenant Jew in an Age of Rising Hatred

A study of Parashat Vayishlach

 

We arrive at Parashat Vayishlach during a week — during an era — in which the Jewish people again find themselves standing at a frightening crossroads. Antisemitism is erupting across European capitals, college campuses, major American cities, and international institutions. Israel is slandered with the gravest accusations — “genocide,” “ethnic cleansing” — even as the world closes its eyes to the barbarism of Hamas, the complicity of large segments of Gaza’s population, and far worse atrocities taking place around the globe.

In moments like these, many Jews instinctively recoil. History has trained us to do so. Perhaps if we apologize more, soften our voice, retreat from the public square, and signal enough contrition, maybe the antisemites will leave us alone. Maybe the nations will look upon us more kindly.

But the Torah this week teaches the opposite.

Yaakov’s Strategy — Necessary Then, Dangerous Now

When Yaakov returns to face Esav, he prepares in three ways: tefillah, doron, and milchamah — prayer, appeasement, and readiness for battle. The appeasement was massive and deliberate; the deference was extreme. Yaakov bows again and again, calling Esav “my master,” lowering himself in a display that feels painful to read.

Chazal tell us (Bereishit Rabbah 75:3) that Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi would review Parashat Vayishlach before diplomatic meetings with Rome — because there are times in history when Jews had no choice but to placate the Esavs who held power over them.

But that is precisely the point:

That was then.
That was the Jacob-Covenant era:
  a time of weakness, danger, and exile.

We, however, do not live in Jacob’s world.

The Isaac Covenant: A New Era of Jewish Self-Understanding

I refer the reader to my essays about the Isaac Covenant . They are based on the profound reading by Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch of Vayikra 26:42, which identifies our time as the dawning of what I call the Isaac Covenant.

The life of our Yaakov represents a time when he was forced to live subject to the cruelty of Eisav, Lavan, Pharaoh, and his other neighbors. The covenant with Yaakov included frightful times when the Jew was forced to crawling in the shadows of history, hiding from pogroms, appeasing feudal lords, and whispering “Ma Yofis” to gain a moment’s reprieve.¹

Yitzchak’s life represents an era when the Jew was not subject to that subjugation. He was not universally loved — but he was respected. He was not a trickster or fugitive; he was prosperous, assertive, blessed, and openly acknowledged as such by his neighbors.

He was not a mayofisnik — a servile flatterer of the gentile overlord.

He stood upright.

And so must we.

We live in a time when the Jewish people have been granted unprecedented power, wealth, influence, and dignity — in America, in Europe, across the world — and above all, through the miracle of Medinat Yisrael, the first sovereign Jewish state in 2,000 years, all of its faults notwithstanding. To behave as if we are still trembling in a Polish shtetl is to betray the very gift Hashem placed in our hands.

It is true that there are dark clouds gathering, and things do not look as rosy as they did just a few years ago both in the Diaspora and in the international standing of Israel. But to think and pretend that we are still in the same Golus of the bad old days of Europe is a deep mistake. That was the era of the Jacob covenant. Today we live in the world of the Isaac Covenant.

An Isaac-Covenant Jew refuses to apologize for existing.

He refuses to bow because Esav is shouting.

He refuses to assume that the hatred of others must be his compass.

The World’s Hatred Is Not Our North Star

Let the Mamdanis of the world spew their venom. Let the propagandists, ideologues, and moral hypocrites twist reality. Their accusations tell us more about them than about us.

The Torah reminds us that hatred of the Jew has never been cured by Jewish self-erasure. It has never been softened by Jewish timidity. The nations who demanded that we whisper ma yofis never respected us for doing so. They merely learned they could demand more.

In fact, the Zohar (I 119a–119b) foresaw that before the final redemption, the children of Yishmael would rise in violent opposition to our return to the Land, igniting global conflicts that would reshape the world. ²

That is the story unfolding before our eyes.

The question is not whether they hate us.

The question is whether we will lose ourselves in their rage.

Parashat Vayishlach’s Charge for Today

When Yaakov bows before Esav, he does so because he must.
When Yitzchak stands tall before the Philistines, he does so because he can.
We live in Yitzchak’s time.

The call of the hour is not retreat, not apology, not self-abasement, but integrity, confidence, moral clarity, and unembarrassed Jewish strength. We are not guests in the world. We are not trespassers on history’s stage. We are Hashem’s covenantal people, living through a moment that demands courage.

And if we rise to that moment, the nations will react in the extraordinary manner of Avimelech:

וַיֹּאמְרוּ רָאוֹ רָאִינוּ כִּי־הָיָה ה' עִמָּךְ וַנֹּאמֶר תְּהִי־נָא אָלָה בֵּינוֹתֵינוּ בֵּינֵינוּ וּבֵינֶךָ וְנִכְרְתָה בְרִית עִמָּךְ

We have clearly seen that Hashem is with you… Let there now be an oath between us… and we shall make a covenant with you.

(Bereishit 26:28)

This is the destination of the Isaac Covenant. Stand tall, walk with Hashem, and the day will come when even our fiercest critics will be forced to admit the truth — willingly or otherwise.

A Closing Vision 

We are in the midst of a process — painful, turbulent, awe-inspiring — that is leading toward the triumph of Am Yisrael and the unfolding of redemption — the time of the Abraham Covenant (see referenced essay). But only if we grasp our moment with courage.

To live as an Isaac-Covenant Jew is to refuse to crawl back into the fearful posture of Yaakov before Esav. It is to recognize that Jewish dignity is not arrogance, but Avodas Hashem. It is to live with the confidence that Hashem’s promise is not theoretical but active, alive, and visible in our days.

This is not the time to bow. 

This is the time to build. 

This is the time to rise.

This is the time to walk in Yitzchak’s footsteps toward the world that is coming — the world of clarity, of justice, of Mashiach. 

And that world is closer than we think.