Parshas Tetzaveh

In this week's parsha, we learn about the special oil that was used to light the Menorah in the Mishkan. In describing the actual lighting of the Menorah, the pasuk uses the words "l'halos ner tamid" - which, literally translated, would mean "to raise an eternal fire" (using "raise" as opposed to "ignite"). Why does the pasuk use such a seemingly strange lashon?

Rashi explains that the Torah is informing us of the proper procedure for lighting the menorah: it is not enough to merely "light" the wick by simply touching a flame to it and then immediately moving on to the next one, without taking care to ensure that the wick ignites properly; rather, careful attention must be paid to ensure that the flame is burning on its own before moving on to the next wick. This is derived from the usage of the word "l'halos": to "raise" the fire to a point where it burns independently.

This principle applies not only to the lighting of the Menorah, but to anytime one wishes to ignite a fellow Jew's neshama with the fire of Torah as well. When teaching and inspiring another person, we cannot merely tell him what he needs to know, and then leave him to fend for himself. Rather we must stay with him and guide him along the proper path, being mechazeik him every step of the way. And when we ignite the flame of Torah in that manner, we can be sure that it will never be extinguished.

Parshas Terumah

In this week's parsha, the Torah tells us all about the construction of the Mishkan and its various keilim. The Mechilta tells us that although the keilim were made out of gold, at a time when there is no gold available, the keilim may be made - b'dieved - out of other metals. Except for one: the Keruvim on the Aron. The Keruvim must always be made out of pure gold, no matter what. But why? What is so special about the Keruvim?

The Lubliner Rav, Harav Meir Shapiro zatzal, says that the answer to this question lies in the construction of the Keruvim. The Keruvim were designed with the faces of children (which we derive from the root word "keruvia", which means "like a child"). The placement of the Keruvim on top of the Aron - which contained the Luchos - symbolizes chinuch habonim, teaching us that we must educate our children in Torah.

In all matters of life - even spiritual matters - it is occasionally necessary to make certain compromises, to make things out of "other metals", as it were. But the Keruvim must always be made out of gold to show us that chinuch habonim is of the utmost importance - it must never be compromised on, no matter what. Our children's education is of such critical importance because our children are our future, the future of Klal Yisroel. Something so crucial cannot be done in an inferior fashion. We cannot cut corners and use other means instead. Because we must treat our children like what they are: they are our most precious assets.

Parshas Mishpatim

This week's parsha finishes off with Moshe Rabbeinu ascending to the heavens, where he was to remain for forty days and forty nights to receive the Torah. But surely Hashem, with His infinite capabilities, could have taught the entire Torah to Moshe in just one day! Why did Hashem feel it necessary to teach him the Torah over a period of forty days?

The answer is that Hashem was hinting to Moshe exactly what the nature of the Torah is. The Torah is not merely a set of laws, a set of guidelines to update an existing lifestyle; rather, it is a new lifestyle unto itself. By accepting the Torah, the Jewish nation was actually reborn as a more enhanced nation, not merely an upgraded version of the old one. And that is why Hashem taught Moshe the Torah over a period of forty days: just as the period of yetziras havlad (the gestation of a newborn) is forty days, so too Klal Yisroel's rebirth as the nation of the Torah took forty days.

We should learn from this how to live our lives as true Torah Jews. We are not simply BETTER than the other nations of the world - we are DIFFERENT. We cannot live like they do, just in a somewhat better fashion; rather we must live a completely different life, the life of someone who is part of the Chosen Nation. We should never forget who we are: the greatest nation to walk the face of the earth - Hashem's eternal people.

Parshas Yisro

This week's parsha is one of the most famous in the Torah, because it recounts the events of the giving of the Torah on Har Sinai. We are told in great detail of the awesome spectacle of how Hashem revealed of His glory to Klal Yisroel, and gave us the Torah. One would expect such a dramatic parsha to have an equally dramatic ending. Yet for some reason, the parsha ends with Hashem commanding us not to have stairs leading up to the mizbei'ach - instead, it must be accessed only via a ramp. Why does the parsha dealing with such a lofty event end with such a seemingly mundane commandment - simply telling us the right way to reach the top of the mizbei'ach?

A popular answer to this question is that the commandment not to climb stairs to the altar is not merely a prohibition; it actually has a hidden lesson regarding the proper approach to spiritual growth. A staircase consists of many flat platforms; an object placed on any of these surfaces can rest peacefully, without rolling one way or the other. A ramp, on the other hand, is slanted all the way through; an object placed on it will roll downward, unless some external force continuously compels it upward. Likewise, the Torah is hinting to us that spiritual growth is like a ramp. One cannot be satisfied with his current spiritual status and rest on one of the "stairs" of complacency, content with his accomplishments. Rather, he must continuously strive to rise higher. Because when it comes to spiritual growth, if you are not ascending, then by definition you are automatically sliding back down the "ramp".

We should keep this message in mind whenever the Yetzer Hara tries to convince us that we're okay the way we are. Because no matter how good we are doing, we cannot afford to become complacent with what we have already accomplished. Of course, our past gains are extremely valuable, and we should be very proud of them; however, we should not use them as an excuse to allow ourselves to become stagnant in our Avodas Hashem. And when we continuously push ourselves up the spiritual ramp, then we can indeed climb higher and higher on the altar of Hashem.

Parshas Beshalach

This week's parsha chronicles Klal Yisroel's much-anticipated departure from Egypt. Pharaoh sends them out willingly at first, but then has yet another change of heart, and sends his troops after them. Trapped between the Egyptians on one side and the Red Sea on the other, the Jews realize the situation is grim. Fearing the worst, they cry out to Hashem - "vayitzaku B'nei Yisroel el Hashem". Rashi comments on this that Klal Yisroel resorted to the "profession of their forefathers" - tefillah - quoting pesukim about Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov davening to Hashem (and composing Shachris, Mincha, and Maariv, respectively). But how is this a valid comparison? Klal Yisroel was crying out in great distress, fearing for their very lives; the Avos were merely davening to Hashem as part of their daily routine, not because they were in imminent danger. How can Rashi compare the two?

R' Yeruchem Levovitz answers that Rashi is giving us a deeper insight into how the Avos davened. We tend to think that we need Hashem's help when we are in distress more than we do when all is apparently well. A person who is on the operating table, for example, may appear to need Hashem's help more than a healthy person walking down the street. Nothing could be further from the truth, however: a person is in constant need of siyata d'shmaya. Even when all seems to be well, if Hashem were to remove his hashgacha for even one instant, chas veshalom, the results would be disastrous - a person's situation can change in the blink of an eye. The Avos realized this, and therefore they always davened with the fervor and sincerity of someone whose very life is hanging in the balance, much like Klal Yisroel in our parsha. And that is why Rashi saw fit to compare the two.

We should learn from the Avos how important tefillah is on a constant basis. We should not allow ourselves to fall into the trap of complacency - assuming that when things are doing well they will continue to do well indefinitely. Rather we should be in constant communication with our Father in Heaven, beseeching him to continue to shower us all with goodness and blessing.

Parshas Bo

We are finally reaching Klal Yisroel's long-awaited exodus from Egypt. Preparing to leave the country of their bondage at long last, the Jews attempted to bake bread to take with them as provisions for the way. However, Hashem had other plans: they did not have enough time for the dough to rise and be baked as normal bread - instead, they had to carry the dough on their backs, where the hot Mediterranean sun baked it into matzos. Which, incidentally, was the same bread that they ate while suffering in Egypt. Why did Hashem bring about that the "bread of freedom" ended up being exactly like the bread of slavery?

Perhaps the answer is that at first glance, the pain and suffering in Egypt may seem to have been merely an unnecessary, miserable experience that would have been better off avoided if it had been possible. Therefore, Hashem made the bread of their freedom exactly like the bread of slavery to show them that it was not so: just like they understood and appreciated the obvious good in freedom, so to they must learn to understand and appreciate the not-so-obvious good in their slavery. And what good could there possibly be in slavery? The opportunity for Klal Yisroel to perfect themselves. Chazal tell us that the slavery in Egypt was for the Jews like a "kur habarzel" - an iron blast furnace - which purified us and forged us into the nation that merited to receive the Torah.

We must remember this principle in our everyday lives. When things don't go our way, when life's challenges seem nearly insurmountable, we must realize that the hardships we face are not in vain. Hashem is providing us with opportunities to grow, and to refine our neshamos. And if we accept our challenges with the right attitude, then we can use them as stepping stones to reach greater achievement than we ever would have thought imaginable.

Parshas Va'eira

In this week's parsha, the Torah tells us about Moshe and Aharon's many visits to Pharaoh's palace on Klal Yisroel's behalf, attempting to have the Yidden freed. In writing about them, the Torah sometimes mentions Moshe first, while other times mentioning Aharon first. Rashi notes this discrepancy, and points out that the Torah did it intentionally to tell us that Moshe and Aharon were of equal greatness, that neither of them was more holy than the other. But how can that be? It is well known that in absolute terms, Moshe was far greater than Aharon! Moshe Rabbeinu spoke directly to Hashem - "peh el peh adaber bo" - so how can we say that Aharon was on the same level as him?!

The answer is that in Yiddishkeit, we do not measure greatness in absolute terms, but rather in relative terms. If a person does his Avodas Hashem to the very best of his potential, Hashem values it as much as the avodah of great tzaddikim. While Moshe was an "Ish Elokim", attaining the highest levels of nevu'ah, Aharon's task was his association with people - being an "ohev shalom v'rodef shalom" - a task at which his excellence was legendary. And that is why the pasuk equates Moshe and Aharon - in Hashem's eyes, since Aharon worked to serve Hashem to the best of his ability, he was considered equivalent to Moshe Rabbeinu, the tzaddik hador.

We can learn from here an important perspective on how one should perceive his Avodas Hashem. A person does not need to reach the same spiritual heights as the gadol hador in order to be special in Hashem's eyes; rather, he must focus on his own personal mission, on what Hashem expects of him. And when a person internalizes this concept, he can unlock the greatness within himself, and rise to his own unique spiritual heights.

Inspired by the teachings of Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, zatzal.