In this week's Torah portion, Terumah, the Jewish people are each instructed to bring forward a contribution (Terumah) to the construction of the Mishkan, or Tabernacle. The Mishkan was to become the central site of sacrificial and ritual worship, the holy place of the Jewish people up until the building of the Beit Hamikdash.
The second Passuk (verse) of the Torah reading has G-d saying to Moses,
דַּבֵּר֙ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְיִקְחוּ־לִ֖י תְּרוּמָ֑ה מֵאֵ֤ת כָּל־אִישׁ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר יִדְּבֶ֣נּוּ לִבּ֔וֹ תִּקְח֖וּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִֽי׃

"Tell the Israelite people to take contributions for Me, from every person whose heart so moves him, you shall take this contribution of Mine."
Rashi asks the obvious - why does G-d need contributions from humanity? The answer is that the act of giving allows anyone of means or desire to ally with G-d in sacred activity -- in this case, building the Mishkan.
The recounting of the design and construction of the Mishkan, its vessels and utensils, and the garb of the Kohanim who served there, form the major part of the last half of the book of Shemot. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z"l explains that the Mishkan constituted the first collective project of the Jewish people. It was a mass movement -- not in an act of flight from oppression, but mobilization towards a common, unified, sacred goal. Rabbi Sacks notes that the constant strife that marked the Jewish people's journey in the desert seemed to be absent during the building of the Mishkan; they found harmony in their pursuit of a collective project.
How noteworthy that the Jewish people rallied around giving. A subtle message is conveyed here: community is formed when people are each giving of themselves. We form our most meaningful bonds when we bring our strengths, gifts and resources towards common pursuits.
I have remarked in recent weeks on how wonderful our Saturday evening Havdalah programs have been precisely because they have been homemade. With the organization and recruitment done by Ora Major, our members have shared with one another divrei Torah and discussions, presentations on humour, a travelogue, facts and anecdotes about coins and stamps... All of these have added to the do-it-yourself ethic that has added so much to the intimacy and participatory nature of this community. We all have our gifts to share, and when we do so with one another, in the context of a Kehila, we evoke Hashem's presence among us. This coming week, as we celebrate Purim, Ora and I continue to welcome creative ideas for celebrating this occasion and coming events.
May we continue to find inspiration and connection with Hashem and one another as we share our gifts meaningfully together.

This is a very, very special Shabbat. This weeks parasha, Yitro, contains the Aseret Hadibrot – the Ten Pronouncements (often mistranslated as “Ten Commandments”) fundamental not only to Judaism, but to nations throughout the world.
The opening word of the Dibrot is simply, אנכי – anochi – ’I’… as in, “I am the L-rd your G-d”. It is said that in that one word anochi is encompassed the entirety of the positive mitzvot. What is so distinctive about this pronoun?

My great-grandfather was a Karliner Hasid, meaning that he was an adherent of the Hasidic dynasty founded by Rav Aharon of Karlin (1736-1772). It is told of Rav Aharon that he was learning in his study one day, when there came a knock at the door. The Rav called out, “Who is it?” And the man at the door replied, “It’s me” (ich, literally, ‘I’). Rev Aharon did not respond. A few minutes later, the man knocked again. Again, the same question, “Who is it?” and the same answer, “Ich”. Again, the Karliner Rav did not answer. After several rounds of the same, the Rav finally opened the door.
The man at the door exclaimed, “Why wouldn’t you open for me?! You know and recognize me well from all the time we studied under the Maggid of Mezeritch! Why did you keep me waiting outside like that?”
The Karliner Rav slowly answered, “There is no ‘I’. The only anochi is that of Hashem, who said, ‘Anochi Hashem Elokecha’, I am the L-rd your G-d who brought you out of Egypt. Everything and everyone is subject to Hashem’s unity.”
The man sighed in response, “You’re right, Rav Aharon. There is more for me to learn about humility.” And the man left and headed back to Mezeritch, so he could study more under the Maggid’s guidance.

The term anochi itself is no longer in common Hebrew parlance -- today, Hebrew speakers use the word ani for ‘I’. In biblical Hebrew, however, both terms were used, and the simpler ani appears twice as often as anochi.
Anochi is a pronoun, to be sure, through which Hashem articulates divine Presence. But the word is not just used by G-d. People in Torah, including Cain, Avram, Sarah, and Rivkah, all made use of the term.
The Malbim holds that the term anochi is a specific term referring to just oneself, meaning ‘I and no other’. Indeed, the Aseret Hadibrot specify Hashem’s distinction from all other entities that people erringly worship. Rabbi Shimshon Rafael Hirsch states that the pronoun signifies something yet further – a desire to attain closeness with the person with whom they are speaking. Just as there are both formal and informal ways of addressing someone in the second person in languages like French and German (“tu” vs. the more formal “vous”; “du” vs. “sie”), here too, R. Hirsch suggests, there is the more formal pronoun ani and the more intimate one of anochi.
It seems that Hashem wishes to draw close to the Jewish people, and wishes the Jews to draw closer to G-dself (yet another unusual pronoun, an English one that has come into usage in modern Jewish theology). At Mount Sinai, the entire Jewish people heard G-d’s voice directly. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l, in an essay published posthumously this week, emphasizes that that the Jewish relationship with G-Hashem is meant to be decentralized and democratized. This is part of Hashem’s desire for the Jews to become “a nation of kohanim (priests)” (Shemot 19:6). Rabbis in Judaism do not wear a distinctive garb, to signify that no person is more inherently elevated in holiness than another. We all have the capacity for a deeply personal relationship with G-d.
In following the ways of Torah, we fulfill a sacred mandate that enables us to become a “treasured nation” (19:5) to Hashem. In these challenging times, amid the isolation imposed on us by the pandemic, it is heartening and important to remind ourselves that we are each individually beloved in Hashem’s eyes.
Previous Dvar Torah compilation
For those who missed previous Dvar Torah's, they can now be found online at https://www.kscalgary.org/blog. David Craimer, the creator of Kehilat Shalom’s website, has meticulously compiled past Dvar Torah articles, and you’re invited to visit the site and read through it for Torah learning.

This coming Shabbat, Parshat Beshalach, contains the memorable Shirat Hayam - "Song of the Sea" - which our ancestors sang, during the exodus from Egypt, upon their successful crossing of the Red Sea.
Singing and music are a crucial part of our lives. We sing songs for pleasure or for sadness, to express emotion or distract ourselves, to connect with others or to find our own space. We live our lives surrounded by music; sometimes we even create such music ourselves.
Music touches our soul in a way words alone cannot; it evokes emotions that transcend the ordinary. In Hebrew, we refer to someone’s soul as their ‘neshama’. The Latin source of the word ‘inspiration’ is literally the same as the origin of the word ‘neshama’ - both of these words mean the same thing: breathing! When we find inspiration, such as through music, we enable our souls to breathe.
Shabbat Shira literally means the Sabbath of Song, and the Hebrew word Shira means both singing and poetry. People use prose for information, and poetry & song for inspiration; reading and learning help our minds grow, music reaches our heart. It is no happenstance that Chassidic leaders and Rebbes created their own niggunim, wordless melodies, and taught these to their disciples. This was considered an important aspect of worshipful connection to G-d.
When done right, music can stir our soul, enabling us to transcend our busy lives and connect with the Divine. Each week on Shabbat, in home as in shul, we chant familiar tefillot and melodies, and occasionally learn new ones as well. Each time we sing, we deepen our connection to these tunes and words. In so doing, the music becomes part of our core memory, culture, and even our very identity.
That’s why music is a crucial avenue towards kedusha – a word loosely translated as “holiness”. Many of the sacred Tehilim (Psalms) are introduced as “Mizmor Sheer” – Musical Poem – to indicate that they would traditionally be chanted with orchestral or instrumental accompaniment. Since the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash, we Jews ceased playing instruments on Shabbat or Yom Tov, as the use of instruments was uniquely associated with the Temple service.
To make music a meaningful part of religious life, any of the following practices is encouraged:
· Introduce new songs, Tefillot and Zemirot to celebrate Shabbat or Holidays at home.
· Sing the Shema as a lullaby to babies and children before they go to sleep.
· When hearing a favorite song (secular or religious), think thoughts of gratitude to Hashem for the gift of music.
· Search for Jewish songs, recordings and musicians to enjoy.
· Meditate on the link between G-d and music, or slowly chant a Tefillah
during meditation.
· Sing, hum or whistle a favorite Jewish melody when the urge strikes you, or to lift your spirit.
After the crossing of the Red Sea, the Israelite men recited Shirat Hayam to praise G-d. Miriam and the Jewish women then took these same verses, and sang them to the accompaniment of drums and other instruments. The women heightened the kedusha of the moment by taking sacred words and transforming them into heartfelt music. May we succeed in doing the same!

“Tell Me A Story”
Since back in early autumn, when we began reading the Book of Genesis in the synagogue, we have been reading one long story. It has been a very dramatic story, extending over many centuries. It began with the creation of man, and proceeded with the narrative of the transformation of a small family into a large nation.
For the past several weeks, the plot has thickened. That nation became cruelly enslaved. In this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Bo (Exodus 10:1-13:16), the story takes a suspenseful turn. We sense that the redemption from slavery is imminent. But before redemption begins, the narrative is interrupted.
The Torah shifts gears. It is no longer a story that we hear, but a set of God given commands: “This month…shall be the first of the months of the year for you. Each member of the community shall take a lamb…Your lamb shall be without blemish…You shall keep watch over it until the fourteenth day of this month and…slaughter it at twilight, eat the flesh that same night…not eat any of it raw…not leave any of it over until morning.” (Exodus 12:1-10)
Whereas the novice reader of the Torah is jolted by this drastic transition from the narrative mode to a set of laws, Rashi and Ramban were not surprised by this sudden shift. They wondered why the Torah would focus at such length on storytelling and not proceed directly to this passage of ritual law.
“Is the Torah a story book?” they ask. “Is it not, rather, a set of instructions for ritual and ethical behavior?” They each answer these questions differently, but both conclude that much of the Torah, perhaps even most of it, is one long and fascinating story.
Why does a book designed to teach the reader about proper religious belief and practice take the form of a narrative?
I think that the reason is quite simple. The Torah recognizes the power of the story to influence the minds and hearts of men. An author who wishes to profoundly impact his reader will do well to choose the narrative mode over other modes of communication. In secular terms, a good novel is more powerful than the best law book.
Taking note of this important lesson enables us to understand an otherwise puzzling phenomenon. Despite the fact that the Exodus from Egypt was, and remains, the central experience of Jewish history, there were at least two Jews who alive at the time of the Exodus who did not experience it directly. I refer to Gershom and Eliezer, the two sons of Moses. They remained behind in Midian when Moses struggled with Pharaoh. They did not witness the ten plagues. They missed the thrilling flight from Egyptian bondage. They did not personally experience the wondrous miracle of the splitting of the Red Sea. They were brought back to Moses by their maternal grandfather Yitro, so it is not at all clear whether they were even present at Mount Sinai when the Torah was given.
The early twentieth century Chassidic master, Rabbi Yehoshua of Belz, wonders about this puzzling fact. His answer is a most instructive one: God wanted Moses to tell his sons the story of the Exodus. He wanted Moses to be the storyteller par excellence, the one who would model storytelling for every subsequent father in Jewish history. Gershom and Eliezer were denied witnessing the Exodus because God wanted them to serve as the first Jewish children who would only hear its story; who would not know the real-life experience of the Exodus but only hear its narrative told to them by their father.
This, teaches the Belzer Rebbe, is the simple meaning of the verse in this week’s Torah portion: “…So that you (singular in the Hebrew) may tell the story, in the ears of your son and son’s son, of how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My signs among them—in order that you may know that I am the Lord” (Exodus 10:2). The singular “you” at the beginning of the verse, explains the Rebbe, refers to Moses himself. He is to tell the story to each of his sons individually, because he is the only father then alive whose sons would hear the story of the Exodus second hand. In this manner, Moses set the stage for all subsequent Jewish fathers. A Jewish father must be a storyteller!
A good story’s power is familiar to all of us. The secret of the Chassidic movement’s success was not its texts or teachings, but the inspiring stories it told to its early adherents. To this day, Chassidim maintain the tradition of storytelling in their melava malka, or post-Shabbat repast, every week.
Personally, I long ago became familiar with an approach to psychotherapy called narrative therapy, in which the patient uses his or her own personal narrative as the basis for curative change. My favorite mentor would emphasize that when a therapist first encounters a patient, his opening question should not be, “What’s your problem,” but rather, “Please tell me your story.”
As I reflect upon those of my teachers who left a lasting impression upon me, I recall the fact that they all told stories. Indeed, I remember those stories better than the academic lessons they taught me.
I remember a youth group leader named Shmuli who told us stories and gave us cupcakes every Shabbat afternoon. I later learned that he obtained those stories from an early Chabad publication entitled Talks and Tales. Those tales left me with a taste for religion that even surpassed the taste of those delicious cupcakes.
I remember my seventh-grade teacher who read us the stories of William Saroyan at the end of each class, laying the foundation for my abiding love of literature. And, of course, there were the stories my unforgettable Talmud teacher told us about the heroes of rabbinic history, which ultimately inspired me to pursue a career in the rabbinate.
Frankly, I fear that storytelling is becoming a lost art with the rapid change of our modes of communication. Grossly abbreviated electronic messages have replaced the face-to-face encounters that are essential for storytelling. The absence of the good story will effect personal development negatively and will impede the spiritual development of our children and grandchildren.
For me, Torah is but the most outstanding of the many stories which shaped my Jewish identity. I can think of only one modality that rivals the narrative as a basis for emotional growth. That modality is music. But space limits me to describing the narrative nature of the Torah...

This week’s Parsha, Va’era, recounts the beginning of the Ten Plagues which Hashem inflicted upon Egypt. After each of the first five plagues, the Torah records that Pharaoh hardened his heart to prevent showing mercy to the Jews; for the final five plagues, Hashem is said to have hardened Pharaoh’s heart.
Rabbi Immanuel Bernstein writes the following:
“Various classic answers have been provided for this question by the early commentators.
“The Rambam states that, in subjugating and persecuting the Jewish people as he did, Pharaoh had sinned to such a heinous extent that his punishment itself entailed having his free-will removed from him and then being punished for saying no.
“The Ramban, based on Midrash, explains that Pharaoh hardened his own heart during the first five plagues, in response to which Hashem hardened his heart regarding the second five...
“A fascinating and illuminating approach to the entire concept of Hashem hardening Pharaoh’s heart is found in the writings of the Maaseh Hashem. Rather than understanding that Hashem reached into Pharaoh’s decision-making apparatus and turned off the switch, leaving him fundamentally incapable of deciding to let the Jewish people go, the Maaseh Hashem explains this idea in a much more natural way.
“Often, people are in situations where they may say that they ‘have no choice’ but to pursue a certain course of action, when in reality what they mean is that the personality traits that govern them leave them no choice. Someone who has been insulted may feel that he is ‘forced’ to leave the room. Of course he can choose to stay if he wants, but his pride will not allow him to do so. Similarly, someone who subscribes to the notion that he is all-knowing or all-powerful may feel ‘compelled’ to cover up a mistake or a weakness. In truth, he is fully capable of admitting his error, but the way in which he wishes to see – or project - himself effectively bars this option from him.
“The Maaseh Hashem explains that it was in this sense that Hashem hardened Pharaoh’s heart....
“We see the idea of Hashem ‘hardening someone’s heart’ through a presentation of events which is then interpreted by their corrupt perception, leading them to make decisions which are ultimately their undoing.
“In light of this approach... we will appreciate that understanding the idea of the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart in this way will have major implications when we come to consider whether he was ultimately responsible and culpable for his decisions. At every point in the proceedings he was essentially capable of choosing the right path, but his corrupt character traits prevented him from doing so... With the fundamental capacity to say yes intact, Pharaoh was thus held accountable and culpable for each of the times he said no.”
Rabbi Bernstein’s observations, based on Maaseh Hashem, have particular pertinence to the tumultuous events of recent weeks. We have witnessed for several years now an increasing polarization of political views in our society, as people become entrenched further and further apart in their ideas. At its worst, such extreme positions can culminate in irreconcilable hatred and violence. And yet, as Rabbi Bernstein pointedly observes, “A person cannot claim immunity from the consequences of wrongful actions simply because they are [the] product of ego and stubbornness.” Ultimately, we remain accountable for our choices and interactions with others.
In a recent article: (https://mishpacha.com/gone-missing/),
Rabbi Aaron Lopiansky criticizes those who have become so hardened in their political views as to support untenable actions and reject engagement with people with opposing views. Our rich Jewish tradition is one that has strongly encouraged and welcomed tolerant discourse and debate from a wide variety of perspectives. To make such conflict constructive rather than destructive, Rabbi Lopiansky observes, requires civility and menschlichkeit. We are charged with the accountability today to unharden our hearts, and to open ourselves to difficult and challenging exchange. In doing so, we may discover how to bring Hashem’s ways of chesed into our families, communities, and society.

​"The parasha we are reading today is Shemot. It is about a baby boy placed in the Nile river to be safe, because Pharaoh wanted all the Jewish baby boys to be dead. Pharaoh was afraid that the Hebrews would become too many and too strong that they could take over the kingdom. At the end of the river, Pharaoh's daughter sees the baby boy and raises him as her own, with a little help from his birth mother Yocheved and his sister Miriam. When Moshe the baby boy grows up, he sees a man getting whipped almost to death by Pharaoh’s servants. Moshe kills Pharaoh’s servant and runs far away to a place called Midyan. There, Moshe rescues Jethro’s daughters and Jethro repays Moshe by hiring him to become a shepherd to his sheep, and Moses marries one of his Jethro’s daughters, Tzipporah. One day when Moshe is rallying up the sheep, he sees a burning bush with God speaking out of it. God tells Moshe to go back to Egypt and say to Pharaoh, “Let my people go!” Pharaoh refuses and made it harder for the Jews.
"When Moshe's parents put him in a basket they didn’t know whether he would cross the Nile river safely. Moshe's parents didn’t have a choice whether or not to raise him or put him in the Nile because he was otherwise going to be killed. Miriam followed the baby beside the Nile to see what would happen.
"When Pharaoh's daughter saw the baby, she knew that Moshe was a Hebrew. The problem was that Pharaoh was her father and he didn’t like Hebrew babies. If Pharaoh saw the baby, what would he do? Pharaoh’s daughter, however, was kind and brave. She decided to keep Moshe not caring what Pharaoh might do. Then Miriam cleverly came up to Pharaoh’s daughter and asked if she would like a Hebrew nurse maid to take care of the baby. Pharaoh’s daughter agreed and gave Yocheved some money for taking care of Moshe. That way, she made it possible not only for the Hebrew baby boy to survive, but also grow up with his Mom and family.
"The name that we call Pharaoh’s daughter is Batya. We know her name is Batya from the tanach ( תנ”ך ) from Chapter One of divrei hiyamem (also known as Chronicles) in the verse where it says, 'These were the sons of Bityah daughter of Pharaoh, who Mered married.' Mered was another name for Caleb, who was a Jewish spy and a hero and a leader of the Jews. The midrash says that when the Jews left Egypt, Batya left her father’s castle and came along with them, and lived her life as a Jewish woman with high respect. Thanks to Batya for saving Moshe, the Jewish people are still here today.
"The name Batya means 'daughter of God'. The Midrash tells us she got this name because G-d said to Batya, 'Moses was not your son, yet you called him your son. You too, are not my daughter, but I shall call you My daughter.'
"Batya taught us that taking risks sometimes can be helpful and save people, places or things that others love and respect. Batya was brave; she took a huge step to save a baby who was a Hebrew that her own father hated. But she knew that this baby had a whole life ahead of him. Thanks to Batya -- I am here today celebrating my bat mitzvah.

What legacy do we wish to leave our loved ones?
In this week’s Parsha, Vayechi, we find Ya’akov Avinu -- our forefather Jacob/Israel -- upon his deathbed, at the end of his eventful and tumultuous life. He chooses to do something remarkable: he provides each of his children, and two of his grandchildren (Ephraim and Menashe), personal verses to describe and guide them.
There are many ways we transmit love to our children and descendants, by providing them security, nurturing, guidance, attention, and care. Ya’akov gave his children, B’nei Yisrael, something further; he granted them honesty. Each child was to become the eventual forefather of one of the tribes of Israel, and he provided each one clear insight into their unique nature.
The poetic messages were not by any means sugar-coated. He likens Dan to a serpent, Issachar to a donkey, Benjamin to a wolf. He reminds Reuben of his usurping his father’s bed; he curses the wrath of Simeon and Levi. Yet Jacob’s messages do not suggest meanness or cruelty. The rabbinic commentator Abarbanel states that Jacob needed to assess the strengths and weaknesses of each son, and which one would assume leadership of the people of Israel. In the presence of the whole family, Jacob clearly communicates to Judah, “Your brothers will praise you… and prostrate themselves to you… The sceptre shall not depart from Judah… and unto him shall be the obedience of nations” (Bereshit 49:8-10). Despite being just the fourth-eldest of his siblings (after Reuben, Simeon and Levi), Judah had repeatedly shown leadership in key moments. He demonstrated certain qualities which superseded those of his brothers, who nonetheless became family and tribal leaders in their own rights.
Contemporary author and lecturer Alfie Kohn challenges many of the common paradigms of education and parenting today. He describes how the repeated strategy of praise as a parenting or teaching technique – e.g., through the repeated intonation of “Good job!” – can surprisingly have a deleterious effect on children. According to Kohn, the choice to engage in positive/negative reinforcement is a legacy of the psychological school of behaviourism, which likens human behaviour to that of animals. The use of calculated praise can convey to children the sense that love for them is conditional upon good/proper behaviour, rather than unconditionally provided. He proposes that, instead of using external rewards and punishments to reinforce or deter behaviour, adults can better capitalize on the intrinsic motivation of children (to discover the world and engage constructively with others) by describing things accurately and honestly to them. This enables learners to understand the outcomes and effects of their actions, and to develop a better gauge of what decisions to make in future.
Ya’akov Avinu understood that empty praise would not suffice to guide his children into their future. He gave them not the feedback that they wanted, but the feedback that they needed to become greater people and leaders. We can see that his words indeed had long-term effects. The tribe of Levi, whose forefather acted murderously and impulsively in avenging his sister Dinah, instead channeled their force into becoming the priestly leaders and guides of the Israelites. And the tribe of Judah, the projected leader, indeed became the anchor of the Jewish people; so much so that virtually all surviving Jews are descended from this one tribe.
As we enter into the secular calendar year of 2021, in these difficult times, I hope that we can follow the example of Israel, the forefather and namesake of our nation. Let us be prepared to engage in honest and occasionally difficult dialogue, in order to cultivate greater wisdom among ourselves and one another.
​

Friday, December 25, 2020 happens to coincide with the Jewish fast day of Asarah b’Tevet - the tenth day of the month of Tevet. On this day, in 587 BCE, Babylonian armies under the reign of the evil King Nebuchadnezzar surrounded Jerusalem and laid siege to the city. This event marked a tragic milestone leading eventually to the conquest of Judea and Israel by the Babylonians, and the first forced exile of our people from our Holy Land. The day is marked with fasting from sunrise to sunset, and is one of the rare occasions where a Jewish fast day occurs on a Friday.
In this week’s parsha, Vayigash, Joseph and his brothers are reconciled. As Egyptian viceroy, he sends his brothers back to Canaan in chariots to come gather their father Jacob to bring him down to Egypt. “When they [the brothers] told him [Jacob] all of Joseph's words that he had said to them, and he saw the wagons that Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of their father Jacob was revived” (Bereshit 45:27). Rashi comments that the chariots (agalot) were an allusion to the laws of eglah arufah (the broken-necked heifer) - the very Torah laws that Jacob studied with Joseph prior to his being sold into slavery and sent to Egypt. When Jacob saw the chariots, it signalled to him that Joseph had never forgotten his Jewish learnings even in all his time in Egypt.
Upon their arrival in Egypt, Joseph invites several of his brothers along with their father Jacob to present themselves to the Pharaoh. Pharaoh asks Jacob his age (“how many are the days of the years of your life?”) and Jacob answers that he is 137 years old, and astonishingly adds that the days of his life were “few and unhappy” and that he did not — and would not — reach the age of his fathers before him.
Years ago, my rabbi, Ronnie Cahana, shared with me his insights on this section. Jacob had just experienced the elation of reuniting with his beloved son and the reconciliation of his family, so how could he portray his life in such a negative light? According to Rabbi Cahana, although the Pharaoh showed goodness to Joseph and his family, he nonetheless tended to be highly acquisitive of wealth and power. When he saw the evidently aged Jacob, Pharaoh sought to find out how he could acquire the one thing — great old age (length of years) — that eluded his control. Jacob’s response was intended to show Pharaoh that the attainment of old age can prove meaningless, and that one’s years can indeed seem “few and unhappy”, if one lives their life in vain pursuits.
While Jacob may have provided an instructive lesson to Pharaoh, the Chachamim (Jewish Sages) note that he missed an opportunity as well. Jewish insight holds that a person is meant to be thankful to Hashem for bad events in their life as well as good ones, for all such happenings have their universal purpose. The Midrash says that after Jacob spoke, Hashem reminded Jacob of the ordeals he survived: “Did I not enable you to survive your brother Esau’s threats, to endure the cunning of Laban, to return your daughter Dinah to you, and to reunite with Joseph?” Jacob’s answer to Pharaoh focused on the travails of life — but failed to sufficiently acknowledge Hashem’s presence throughout.
As we today continue hunkering down in protection against the current pandemic, the Chachamim’s insight remains crucial. We can mire ourselves in the frustration of what we are missing — or we can reframe our experience to discern Hashem’s light. Right now, by adhering to strict protections, Jews and people around the globe are rallying to save one another’s lives. We can choose whether to view this as frustrating, or inspiring. I encourage us all to recognize the remarkable gift we show one another in striving to preserve human life and safety.
Shabbat Shalom!