One People, Many Paths: A Menachem Av Reflection

One unintended consequence of artificial intelligence is that so many things now look alike.

Browse synagogue flyers, school announcements, and community emails these days and it’s hard not to notice. AI has made them polished, attractive, and professional. It has also made many of them surprisingly similar. It’s hardly a communal crisis, but it is a reminder that efficiency can sometimes come at the expense of personality.

Artificial intelligence tends toward sameness. Judaism celebrates individuality within a common covenant  

Rabbi Moshe Tzvi Weinberg, in a talk entitled A United Nation of Unique Jews, suggests that this may be one of the enduring lessons of Shabbat Chazon, the Nine Days, and Tisha B’Av. When we think about the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, we have been taught to focus on sinat chinam, baseless hatred, and the need for ahavat chinam, unconditional love. We remind ourselves to be kinder, more patient, and more united.

All true.

But there is another dimension we often overlook. The challenge is not simply learning to love one another. It is learning to appreciate one another because we are different.

Like every parent, our Father in Heaven is pained when His children refuse to get along. The Midrash (Tanna D’Vei Eliyahu 28) teaches that what Hashem desires most from His children is that they love and respect one another. Perhaps that is why we call this month Menachem Av. During these weeks we ask God to comfort us. But perhaps we also have the ability - and responsibility - to bring comfort to our Father by treating one another as brothers and sisters despite our differences.

The Maharsha notes that the twenty-one days of the Three Weeks parallel the twenty-one days from Rosh Hashanah through Hoshana Rabbah. That means Tisha B’Av corresponds to Shemini Atzeret, the day on which Hashem says, “Kasheh alay preidatchem - It is difficult for Me to see you leave.” After weeks of standing together before God, He asks for just one more day. That expression may be applied to Tisha B'Av as well. Tisha B’Av reminds us of what happens when we no longer want to be together. Accordingly, the Three Weeks are not only a season of mourning. They are the Jewish season of getting back together.

Yet unity does not mean uniformity.

The Gemara (Berachot 58a) teaches that no two people think alike and no two people look alike. The Tosefta adds that no two people even sound alike. Difference is not a flaw in creation. It is one of God’s greatest gifts. The Gerrer Rebbe observed that nobody is offended because another person has a different eye color. Why, then, do we become offended when someone thinks differently? We readily accept physical differences. Why are intellectual and spiritual differences so much harder to embrace?

There is one Judaism, but it is lived by many kinds of Jews. Each of us has our own derech.

The Modzitzer Rebbe understood Yosef’s instruction to his brothers of “Al tirgezu ba’derech - Don't delay on the way" as a warning not to become agitated by another person’s derech. Every Jew has a different path. That is one reason I’ve never liked the expression “off the derech.” Everyone is on a derech. The question is not whether someone has a path, but where that path ultimately leads.

The Torah itself celebrates this diversity.

The Ramban asks why the Torah repeats the offerings of each of the twelve nesi’im instead of simply telling us they all brought the same gift. The Midrash explains that while the offerings were identical, each leader invested them with a unique intention and spiritual meaning. The ritual was identical. The inner world was completely different.

My davening is not your davening, even if we recite the very same words. My mitzvot are not your mitzvot. That diversity is not a weakness of Judaism. It is one of its greatest strengths.

Too often we imagine that Jewish unity means everyone thinking alike, practicing alike, praying alike, or approaching Judaism alike. That was never Judaism’s vision. Judaism doesn’t ask us to become more alike; it asks us to become better at liking one another. Unity isn’t the absence of differences. It is the decision that our differences are not greater than what we share.

Several years ago, Yossi Klein Halevi suggested a powerful Three Weeks exercise. Think about the Jewish community with which you most disagree. Then identify one authentic Jewish value that community contributes to our people. Appreciate the settlers’ love for the Land of Israel, the peace activist’s longing for peace, the Satmar volunteers caring for Jewish patients in hospitals, or Reform rabbis striving to keep assimilated Jews connected to Jewish life.

We need not compromise our convictions. But we should recognize that the Jewish story is richer because different Jews emphasize different dimensions of it.

One question has always fascinated me. Why is it that Jews so naturally come together in moments of crisis? When tragedy strikes, when Israel is under attack, or when a fellow Jew is in danger, our differences suddenly seem much smaller. Why should it take pain to remind us that we belong to one another?

That is the challenge of Menachem Av. If tragedy can unite us, maturity should unite us as well. We shouldn’t need enemies to remind us that we are family.

As we mourn the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash this Tisha B’Av, may we learn that God’s dream for the Jewish people was never one path for everyone. It was one people walking many paths toward God. 

One people, many paths, one Father. 

Welcome to the City of Refuge

What do we do with people who have caused terrible harm but never intended to? Do we simply excuse them because it was an accident or do we define them forever by their worst moment?

Three thousand, three hundred years ago, the Torah proposed a third way. Welcome to the City of Refuge.

This week’s parsha introduces us to the remarkable institution of the Ir Miklat, the City of Refuge. Six cities strategically located throughout the Land of Israel where someone who accidentally caused another person's death could flee. At first glance, the concept feels distant and dated. What could an ancient sanctuary for accidental killers possibly teach a society with police, prosecutors, and prisons?

Quite a bit.

The accidental killer occupied an uncomfortable middle ground. He was not a murderer, but neither was he entirely blameless. He had no malicious intent, yet someone had died because of his actions. The Torah recognizes a difficult truth that our culture often struggles to hold at the same time. Intentions matter, but consequences matter too.

Too often we swing between two extremes. Either someone is completely excused because "it was an accident," or they are forever defined by their worst moment. The Torah charts a wiser path. The person was required to leave home. A terrible tragedy had occurred. Life could not simply continue as before. The situation demanded reflection, growth, and accountability. Yet the Torah also insisted that this individual deserved protection. Justice could not become vengeance. Human dignity had to be preserved even after profound harm had been done.

That balance is extraordinary. The ir miklat was not a prison. It was a place of rehabilitation. The accidental killer lived among the Levi’im, surrounded by Torah teachers, and a community devoted to spiritual growth. Removed from familiar routines and influences, he was given the opportunity to rebuild himself from the inside out. His exile was not merely punishment; it was education. It was therapy. It was teshuvah.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks observed that Judaism is a culture of guilt rather than shame. Guilt says, "I did something wrong." Shame says, “There is something wrong with me." If I did something wrong, I can repent, repair, and change. If I believe I am my worst mistake, there is little room for hope. The ir miklat embodies this insight. It never minimizes the tragedy, but neither does it allow tragedy to become a person's permanent identity.

The purpose of the ir miklat was never simply to remove someone from society. It was to prepare him to return to society as a different person. Perhaps that is why the modern Hebrew word “miklat” means a shelter, a place of protection during moments of danger. One enters when confronting danger and then exits once the situation has passed. Over the past three years, we have become quite familiar with this space. We all need a miklat. Not because we have taken a life or to escape incoming missiles, but because every one of us needs a supportive shelter. A space that offers protection and, simultaneously, a chance to grow.

The Torah's vision extends beyond the individual. The accidental killer remained in the city until the death of the Kohen Gadol. The Talmud asks what connection there could possibly be between the High Priest and an accidental tragedy hundreds of miles away. The Sages answer that the Kohen Gadol should have prayed that such tragedies would never occur during his lifetime. Whether understood literally or symbolically, Judaism is teaching that leaders - and indeed all of us - share responsibility for the moral and spiritual climate we create. We are not responsible for every accident. We are responsible for building communities that cultivate awareness, cherish life, and care for one another.

The Sages took the idea one step further. The Talmud teaches, “Divrei Torah Koltin - The words of Torah themselves provide refuge.” Long before miklat came to mean a bomb shelter, Torah taught that our deepest refuge is often spiritual. Torah creates an inner sanctuary where perspective replaces impulse, wisdom tempers emotion, and genuine growth becomes possible.

The Torah even commanded that the roads leading to the cities of refuge be kept in excellent repair. Bridges were built, obstacles removed, and at every major intersection signs pointed the way with the words, “Miklat! Miklat!" The Lubavitcher Rebbe saw in those signposts a timeless lesson. It is not enough for places of refuge to exist; people have to know how to find them.

Ours is a generation with no shortage of people searching for refuge. So many people are looking for meaning, community, hope, or simply a place to begin again. Our task is not merely to belong to communities of Torah; it is to become signposts ourselves, making the path to Jewish life, faith, and belonging visible and inviting.

Today we hear a great deal about creating "safe spaces." Often that means places where people are protected from criticism or discomfort. The Torah's vision of a safe space is profoundly different. An ir miklat did not protect a person from responsibility. It protected him while he accepted responsibility. It was a place where he was safe enough to confront himself honestly, to learn, to change, and ultimately to emerge a better person.

The ir milkat may be the Torah's most overlooked city, yet it remains one of its most enduring ideas. It challenges us to create a community that lives up to its lofty goals. A place where justice is tempered by compassion, accountability leads to growth, and every person is given the opportunity not to escape the past, but to build a better future. In a world that often demands punishment without mercy, the Torah offers a more difficult and ultimately more redemptive path.

Welcome to the City of Refuge. I think you'll find it's a place where all of us belong.

The First American Rabbi

“I dwell in complete isolation, without a teacher or companion…Under these circumstances…I wonder whether a Jew may live in a land such as this.”

These words were written more than 180 years ago by Rabbi Abraham Rice, the first ordained Orthodox rabbi to settle in America. His lament captures the tension between Torah life and modern freedom, between communal cohesion and individual choice, and between unwavering commitment to Halakhah and the lived reality of a diverse Jewish community. Nearly two centuries later, Rabbi Rice’s frustrations and, even more importantly, his response remain remarkably relevant.

Most people know that Jews first arrived in North America in 1654. Far fewer realize that no ordained Orthodox rabbi settled here until 1840. Historians often refer to those 186 years as the “Reverend and Cantor Age,” when Jewish communal life was led by cantors, reverends, and knowledgeable lay leaders rather than traditionally ordained rabbis.

Rabbi Abraham Joseph Reiss, later Americanized to Rice, changed that forever. Born around 1800 in Gochsheim, Germany, he studied under leading Torah scholars of his era. He was deeply rooted in classical Torah learning and Halakhic discipline that assumed a cohesive, tradition-bound Jewish society. In 1840, Rabbi Rice and his wife Rosalie boarded the Sir Isaac Newton and arrived in New York. He served briefly in Newport, Rhode Island, but soon moved to Baltimore, where he became rabbi of Congregation Nidchei Yisrael, one of the earliest Orthodox congregations in America.

What he found was something entirely different than what he was accustomed to in Europe. American Jewish life was fragmented, mostly nonobservant, and increasingly influenced by new currents arriving from Germany including the emerging Reform movement. Communal norms could not be assumed. Religious practice could not be enforced through social structure. The isolation weighed heavily on him.

Yet what defines Rabbi Rice is not the depth of his disappointment but the direction of his response. He did not retreat from the community or abandon those who were distant from observance. He built. In 1841, he established Baltimore’s first Hebrew school. In 1845, he celebrated the dedication of one of the first structures built to be a synagogue in the city. Until then, Jewish worship had taken place in rented spaces. Now there was an intentional sacred space designed for Jewish life.

At its dedication, Rabbi Rice described the synagogue not only as a house of prayer but as a communal engine of moral and spiritual influence. It is a place "where brother should meet with brother in order to inspire him to go forward in the path of righteousness.” That vision remains strikingly modern. A synagogue is not a gathering of the already perfected. It is a community in which Jews encounter one another in ways that encourage responsibility, and religious growth. 

Rabbi Rice never wavered in his commitment to halakhah, but he also understood a fundamental truth of American Jewish life. You cannot assume uniformity, and you cannot rely on coercion. You must instead build unity in the midst of difference. He often emphasized this idea in his speeches and writings:

“The only and legitimate pride which the Jew bears in his heart is this: that the Jew in the East is like the one who lives in the West; that the religion in the South must be as it is in the North; that all Israel have one Torah and one Law, and when he enters a synagogue he can say, ‘How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob,’ because all follow the same Divine Law.”

Rabbi Rice also faced the emerging practical questions of American Jewish life. When asked whether etrogim imported from the West Indies were kosher for Sukkot, he permitted them, explaining: “I wish to promote the unity of Israel in matters of religious observance.” Even in halakhic practice, he remained consistent in that fidelity to Torah and commitment to Jewish unity were not competing values. They were mutually reinforcing.

Rabbi Rice was not naïve. He knew perfectly well that Jews were not living identical or ideal religious lives, but he refused to define the Jewish people by those differences. Instead, he defined them by covenant. His aspiration was one Torah, yet his commitment was to one people. His task as a rabbi was to hold those truths together without compromising either. In this way, he anticipated the later formulation of Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, who distinguished between a shared brit goral, a covenant of fate, and a more individualized brit yi’ud, a covenant of destiny. Jews may differ in practice, but they remain bound by history, faith, and responsibility to one another.

His rabbinate, however, was not easy. In 1849, recognizing that his congregation was not prepared to meet the baseline level of observance he required, Rabbi Rice resigned. He supported himself by running a grocery store, while continuing to teach, write, and advocate for Orthodox Judaism through The Occident, a Jewish journal edited by Isaac Leeser. He engaged vigorously in the intellectual battles of his time, defending traditional belief against the growing Reform movement. Even in sharp disagreement, he maintained an extraordinary tone. In one exchange, after strongly opposing Reform positions, he signed his letter simply, “Your friend, Abraham Rice.” That signature is not incidental. It reflects a deeper truth that disagreement need not sever relationship. Commitment to Torah does not require withdrawal from the Jewish people.

Rabbi Rice briefly returned to the rabbinate in Baltimore in 1862 but died later that year. He did not live to see the flourishing of Orthodox Judaism in America - the yeshivot, day schools, summer camps, kollels, and vibrant communities that would emerge in later generations. But his legacy is not measured in institutions; it is measured in vision. He was among the first to understand that American Judaism would require a fundamentally new kind of rabbinic leadership.

Ba-yamim ha-heim u’ baz’man haze – What was true then remains a challenge today. In America, Jewish life no longer relies on communal pressure or inherited conformity. For the Jewish people to grow and thrive, we need persuasion rather than compulsion, inspiration rather than assumption, and creativity rather than continuity alone. That is the true significance of Rabbi Rice. He did not fail because America was too difficult. He succeeded because he recognized what America would require.

Every American Orthodox rabbi inherits the same reality. We teach the eternal Torah in a culture defined by choice. We encourage greater observance while embracing Jews who are still growing. We defend halakhah while strengthening Jewish unity. We build communities that are both serious about commitment and open to those still on the journey. There are communities that choose greater homogeneity, where members share similar standards of observance and expectations. Those communities have strength and value. At the same time, there is another model, one I believe we are creating here in JCAB. It is the conviction that Jews can be united by Torah even while standing at different points along the path toward Torah. We do not lower expectations; we widen responsibility. We challenge people to grow while ensuring that no Jew is lost along the way.

Rabbi Rice understood that the task of an American synagogue is not merely to preserve Torah. His experience produced a path meant to preserve Torah and the Jewish people. To strengthen commitment without weakening community. To raise expectations without erecting barriers. To call every Jew upward while making sure every Jew still knows there is a place to come home. Nearly two centuries after Rabbi Abraham Rice came to America, that remains our sacred mission.

Ki Baruch Hu: What No Curse Can Undo

According to some commentators, it was “the worst week ever” for pro-Israel activists.

Election results, headlines, and social media feeds seemed to converge into a single narrative of isolation, accusation, and pressure. It feels all too familiar. The Jewish state and those who speak up for it are once again under a global microscope, inside a tightening vice.

And yet, walking through the streets of Tel Aviv, life goes on. As always, there is tension, but there is also normality and a resilience that no headline quite captures.

Both realities are true at once. The noise is real, and so is the complicated life beneath it. Three little words from this week’s parsha can shed light on our current situation.

If Balak hires Balaam to curse Israel, it is because words have power, and words can break a people. That is the assumption behind every generation’s “Balaam moment.” If the pressure is strong enough, the narrative sharp enough, and the accusations repeated often enough, something will finally give way.

But before Balaam does anything, God interjects with a line that feels almost impossible in light of everything that follows: “Lo ta’or et ha’am ki baruch hu - Do not curse the people, for they are blessed.”

However, by the end of the parsha, the people fail. They sin. They are punished. They do not appear very “blessed” at all.

What does ki baruch hu actually mean? It cannot mean that Jews are always righteous or immune from failure. The Torah is too honest for that. God is not describing behavior. God is defining essence. The Jewish people can stumble. They can forget. They can even fall into moments of moral blindness. But none of that cancels who they are.

The essence of a Jew remains intact even when behavior does not reflect it. Sin may cover or conceal that essence, but it cannot redefine it. Goodness is not something a Jew acquires; it is what a Jew is.

The Jewish mission begins long before Balaam. It begins with Avraham, who is told, "v’heyeh berachah - Be a blessing." The Jewish people were never meant to be passive recipients of divine favor. We were meant to become a conduit of blessing in the world. Our mission is to introduce moral responsibility, affirm human dignity, and carry covenant and conscience into history. That calling does not disappear when Jews fail to live up to it.

This is why Balaam cannot succeed. He is not only trying to curse a people; he is trying to redefine them. And he fails not because the people are flawless, but because their essence is not up for negotiation.

The pattern has never stopped repeating itself. Every generation has its Balaams, people who look at the Jewish people and see not blessing, contribution, or covenantal responsibility; but threat, danger, and suspicion. The vocabulary changes, but the underlying motivation remains.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks observed that antisemitism is a “mutating virus.” It changes form in every age but never disappears. It tells us less about Jews than about the societies projecting it. When a culture becomes unstable or morally uncertain, Jews often become the screen onto which those anxieties are projected.

This insight sharpens what is happening in our own moment. Israel is routinely singled out in ways that bear little resemblance to how other nations are judged. Support for Israel is recast as moral failure. Public figures gain influence by treating Jewish particularity as something suspicious rather than something that carries meaning and responsibility. This is Balaam in modern language, and sometimes it works. Not because the curses succeed, but because Jews begin to internalize them. The greatest danger is not that Balaam curses us. The greatest danger is that we begin to believe him.

We must not allow others to define who we are. We cannot spend more energy explaining ourselves than living our mission. When Jews stop believing in our own calling, we do not become neutral. We become diminished. The response is not defensiveness; it is clarity.

If we are a people of blessing, then we are called to live like one. To strengthen Jewish life with seriousness and joy, to support Israel without apology and without illusion, and to deepen Torah, community, and moral language in a culture that often forgets all three.

Balaam wanted to define the Jewish people from the outside. God defines them from within.

Ki baruch hu is not a guarantee of success or a promise of perfection. It is a declaration of essence. People may try to push us off course, but we cannot lose what we are for.

The challenge is not to answer the curses of others but to live so clearly that they no longer define us.

From Fans to Players: Lessons from Knicks Mania

Go New York, go!

Did you see the pictures? Hundreds of thousands packed the Canyon of Heroes for the Knicks' ticker-tape parade. Fans boarded trains at four in the morning. Grown adults wept. Complete strangers embraced.

For non-fans, it is irrational. For the good of society, it is essential.

Arthur Brooks noted that sports fandom is one of the last great sources of social capital in America. At a time when loneliness is rising and civic organizations are declining, rooting for a team creates a shared identity that transcends politics, race, religion, and socioeconomic status. For a few hours, people stop seeing one another as opponents and begin seeing themselves as teammates. In a fractured world, fandom creates community.

Judaism has always understood that human beings were not created to live as isolated individuals. We prefer prayer in shul because “b’rov am hadrat Melech - God is glorified in a crowd.” Chazal teach that a person should never separate himself from the tzibbur, the community. The Midrash likens Israel to a bundle of reeds. One reed can be broken easily, but together they become unbreakable. We are literally better together.

The Torah's vision has never been merely personal spirituality. It is covenantal community.

There might be an even deeper Jewish lesson in sports fandom. I found an article entitled “Five Halachot of Sports Fans” which identifies some important traits we can learn from fans that can be applied to a higher purpose.

1) Knowledge - Good fans know their teams. They know the player, the schedules, and all the stats. You can’t be an ignorant fan, and the more you know, the more intense the experience is. Judaism, likewise, begins – and grows – through knowledge. The more you know, the richer the experience, and the more likely it is to be passed to the next generation.

2) Passion - Real fans are interested, concerned, and invested. They care deeply. Some fans may take it a little too far (e.g. face-painting, tattoos), but even ordinary fans show a little excitement. The best Judaism is a vibrant, passionate Judaism. After all, one of our most popular slogans is “L’chaim!”

3) Be Present - Fans love attending games, but they also follow their teams even when they don’t. Showing up is not the only way to show support. Attending in person is an important part of many Jewish rituals. At the same time, never underestimate the power of presence through a kind word, a gesture, or making sure a person knows you care even when you can’t be there in person.

4) Identify - There’s a reason people wear sports gear. It is a proud sign of affiliation and demonstratable sense of connection. You can spot a fan a mile away. We need a similar level of Jewish pride by living openly and unapologetically as Jews.

5) Consistency: Fans are there through good times and bad, through wins and losses, and even through decades-long dry spells. Jews are the “ever-hopeful people.” Af al pi she’yitmamei’a - even though Moshiach may take a while, I await his coming every single day. 53 years is nothing! Judaism is most effective when built upon small, consistent acts, patience, and steadfast faith.

As powerful and positive as fandom is, Judaism places a premium on getting in the game!

The Talmud teaches “mitzvah bo yoteir mi’shlucho,” there is greater value in performing an act oneself than sending a representative. Delegation has its place, but Judaism values personal involvement. One who bakes the matzah, builds the sukkah, or prepares for Shabbat with his own hands experiences the mitzvah differently than one who merely observes from a distance. One can’t merely be a fan.

Yesterday was Gimmel Tammuz, the yahrzeit of the late Lubavitcher Rebbe. The Rebbe had a way of communicating profound lessons through seemingly ordinary interactions. It is this ability which has made him such an enduring and inspiring leader. I am reminded of a beautiful story in which the Rebbe talked sports but taught a deep message.

Shimshon Stock’s father was friendly with the Rebbe, and Stock himself knew the Rebbe from the time before he assumed the movement’s leadership. He recalled an incident around 1951 when Stock was walking with a man and his son, both devoted Brooklyn Dodgers fans, who were in route to a game at nearby Ebbets Field. Suddenly Stock saw the Rebbe walking toward them, and he introduced the men to him.

The Rebbe started to talk to the pair, particularly the son, about baseball. The boy, assuming that the Rebbe was quite uninformed about baseball, mentioned in passing that when the team that one favors is either winning or losing by a large margin, many spectators leave the game without bothering to wait for the end.

“Do the ball players leave?” asked the Rebbe.

“Of course not,” the young man said. “They are not allowed to leave. They stay to the end and keep trying to win.”

The Rebbe smiled at the young man. “This is like a lesson in Judaism I want to teach you. When you pray, you’re playing with the team. You’re not just a spectator; you’re in the game. You can be either a fan or a player. Be a player.”

It is wonderful to be a fan of Judaism, to admire Jewish history, to cheer for Israel, and to celebrate Jewish continuity. But Jews need to do more than fill the stands. God put each of us on the roster. Some of us start, while others ride the bench. Some teach Torah, and some support Torah. Some visit the sick, and others create community. Every player matters.

The excitement surrounding the Knicks championship demonstrates the extraordinary power of shared identity. Fandom is good for society because it reminds us that we belong to something larger than ourselves. Judaism goes one step further. Cheer loudly. Celebrate community. Wear the colors proudly. But when the game that truly matters begins, don't remain in the stands. Get in the game.

Ruach Acheret: From Calev to Congressman Dan Goldman

Ten experts agree. Two disagree.

If you were standing with the Jewish people on the threshold of the Land of Israel, whose report would you trust? Most of us would follow the overwhelming majority. After all, ten distinguished leaders surveyed the land and returned with the same conclusion: Don't go. They were united. They were persuasive. And they were wrong.

The story of the spies does not end well, but in many ways, it makes perfect sense. The leaders who scouted out the land should have known better. They had witnessed the Exodus, crossed the sea, and stood at Sinai. They knew God's promise. They understood that the destiny of the Jewish people was to enter the Land of Israel. Yet ten of the twelve returned with a report designed to discourage the nation from moving forward. The people listened. A 10-2 vote can be pretty decisive.

The Torah, however, reminds us that life is not always about numbers; it’s about spirit.

God singles out Calev with a remarkable description: “V’avdi Calev eikev hayta ruach acheret imo va’yemalei acharai - But My servant Calev possessed a different spirit and remained loyal to Me...” (Bamidbar 14:24)

The two words ruach acheret contain one of the Torah's most enduring lessons. The numbers were against Calev, his opinion was unpopular, and his perspective differed from all the other respected leaders. Yet he refused to surrender his convictions simply because everyone else disagreed. God had promised the Jews would enter the land. That was good enough for him. It didn’t matter that he was essentially a lone voice. Calev possessed, literally, a different spirit and a different mindset.

Judaism has never celebrated being different for the sake of being different. Judaism celebrates the courage to remain faithful to truth when truth becomes unpopular.

The remarkable thing is that all twelve spies saw exactly the same landscape. They walked the same hills, encountered the same giants, and entered the same fortified cities. The mission itself was always going to be about perspective. “U’reitem et ha-aretz ma hi – You shall see what the land is like.” (13:18) Seeing is never merely seeing. It is filtered through our assumptions, our fears, our hopes, and our faith. The majority saw obstacles. Calev saw opportunity. The majority saw giants. Calev saw God's promise.

It is no coincidence that the portion begins with seeing and ends with seeing. It opens with “You shall see the land.” It concludes with the mitzvah of tzitzit, and the verse: “You shall see it.” The challenge is not whether we see. The challenge is how we see.

Even the mitzvah of tzitzit asks us to distinguish the thread of techeilet, blue, from the white strands. White is straightforward. Blue is nuanced. It shifts with the light. It requires discernment. Life is often more blue than white. It is complex. One person's certainty may be another person's blind spot. The episode of the meraglim is a case study in the necessity of remaining open to a different perspective regardless of what everyone else sees or says.

The Piaseczno Rebbe asks why didn't Calev engage the spies in debate? Why not systematically dismantle their arguments? Because faith is not always built upon logic. The spies' observations were accurate. The cities were fortified. The inhabitants were powerful. Calev did not deny reality. He simply believed that God was greater than the reality before him. A Jew must trust in God not only when a natural path to salvation is visible, but especially when none can be seen. To insist on finding a rational solution in every circumstance may ultimately weaken faith. Sometimes one must simply say, “The obstacles are real, but God transcends obstacles. I’m moving forward.”

Ruach acheret is the courage to think, speak, and act differently because one believes differently.

That lesson is not confined to the wilderness. We live in an age of algorithms and echo chambers. Social media rewards conformity within one's tribe and punishes dissent, and the pressure to follow the crowd is immense. That is why it is critical to notice those who are willing to stand apart when conviction demands it – especially when doing so invites criticism from their own allies.

Congressman Dan Goldman is such a person. In his own way, he channels Calev and his ruach acheret.

Today, there are fewer liberal Democrats who are vocal in support of Israel and against antisemitism. Dan is both. He is a proud Jew (and member of the Jewish Center of Atlantic Beach). He refuses to take positions against Israel, Zionism, or the pro-Israel community in the face of his detractors - even when it might truly cost him his job. Whether one agrees with every aspect of his broader political record is not the point. The point is his willingness - even at moments of pressure - to act from conviction rather than convenience. That, in its own way, reflects something of ruach acheret, the courage to think and speak from principle rather than politics. We owe Dan our gratitude and respect.

The lesson of Calev is not that the minority is always right. The lesson is that truth cannot be outsourced to numbers, and faith cannot be reduced to consensus.

Each of us has opportunities to cultivate a ruach acheret. Perhaps it means embracing a mitzvah we have never taken seriously before or studying a section of Torah outside our comfort zone. Maybe it means introducing a new idea into our community, trying a different approach in our family, or reaching out to someone no one else notices. It may not be the popular path. It may not be the obvious path. But if it is the path animated by a sincere desire to serve God and make the world better, it carries within it the spirit of Calev.

The generation of the spies followed the majority and remained in the wilderness. Calev followed his ruach acheret and entered the Land. Every generation faces that same test. Will we be carried by the current of consensus, or will we summon the courage to see more deeply, think more honestly, and act more faithfully?

The Jewish future has never depended on those who simply counted votes. It has always depended on those who were willing to stand with a ruach acheret.

Seven Are the Books of the Torah

Who knows five? I know five! Five are the books of the…Torah.

We all know the song, but what if it’s inaccurate?

We grow up believing that the Torah consists of five books: Bereishit, Shemot, Vayikra, Bamidbar, and Devarim. Yet hidden in the middle of Parashat Beha'alotecha is a remarkable rabbinic tradition that challenges that familiar assumption.

The Jews seem to be on a roll. The Mishkan is complete, the camp is organized, everyone knows their unique role. Moshe literally says, “Nos’im anacnu - We’re traveling now.” Yet, just before a series of tragic episodes unfolds in the wilderness, the Torah inserts two brief verses (Bamidbar 10:35-36):

Vayehi binsoa ha-aron vayomer Moshe: Kuma Hashem v'yafutzu oyvecha v’yanusu mesan’echa mipanecha. Uv'nucho yomar: Shuvah Hashem rivevot alfei Yisrael.
 

When the Ark was to set out, Moses would say: “Advance, Lord. May Your enemies be scattered, and may Your foes flee before You!” And when it halted, he would say: “Return, Lord, to dwell among Israel’s myriads and thousands!”

These verses are set apart by two inverted Hebrew letters, nun’s, one before and one after. They are visually isolated from the surrounding text as though the Torah itself wishes to call attention to them.

The Talmud (Shabbat 116) records a startling teaching: These verses constitute a separate book unto themselves. As a result, Bamidbar is not one book but three: the section before these verses, the verses themselves, and the section that follows. The Torah therefore contains not five books but seven.

Why? What is so significant about these two verses that they merit their own book?

Many commentators explain that these verses describe the ideal state of the Jewish people. The Ark leads the camp. God guides the journey. Enemies scatter. The Divine Presence rests among Israel. These two verses portray a nation moving confidently toward its destiny under the direct guidance of Torah and the presence of God.

The irony is that immediately afterward everything begins to unravel.

The section following the inverted nuns contains a seemingly endless series of crises: complaints, dissatisfaction, the craving for meat, challenges to leadership, the episode of the spies, Korach's rebellion, and much more. The ideal quickly gives way to the real.

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel teaches that these verses do not actually belong here. They were inserted into this location to separate one tragedy from another. They function as a pause, a buffer, and a reminder of what might have been.

But perhaps these two verses and the seven books they create serve an even deeper purpose. Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson explains that the distinction between five books and seven books reflects two different ways of understanding Torah itself.

According to Kabbalah, the number five represents Torah as God's wisdom and holiness, the blueprint for personal refinement and spiritual growth. The number seven includes two additional dimensions that bring inner spirituality outward into the world. Seven represents not merely becoming holy but bringing holiness into places where holiness is not immediately apparent.

The Rebbe’s distinction helps explain the structure of the “Sven Books of the Torah.” The first four - Bereishit, Shemot, Vayikra, and the opening portion of Bamidbar - describe the formation of a holy nation. They are about revelation, covenant, law, worship, and preparation. Then comes the fifth book, the two brief verses describing the Ark moving forward and clearing the path. Only afterward do we encounter the sixth and seventh books containing the failures, rebellions, disappointments, struggles, and rebukes that occupy the remainder of Bamidbar and Devarim.

If the Torah were merely a guide to spiritual perfection, perhaps it would have ended with the idealized vision represented by the two verses set off by nuns. But Torah is not only interested in creating holy people. The Torah is interested in transforming an unholy world. The Torah therefore follows the Jewish people into the wilderness of human experience. It accompanies them through confusion, failure, conflict, and disappointment. It teaches not only how to stand at Sinai but how to live afterward.

How does one move from the ideal world represented by the first four books into the imperfect world represented by the final two? The answer is the fifth book, and the Ark goes first. The two verses enclosed by the inverted nuns describe the Ark leading the camp and overcoming the forces that stand in its way. The message is that before confronting the complexities of life, Torah and truth must be at the center. Before entering a flawed world, one must carry the Ark.

This idea feels especially relevant today. We live in a world that has lost its moral compass and ability to distinguish between right and wrong, truth and lies, good and evil. The Torah's answer is very clear. At the precise center of the seven-book Torah, the real world, stands not a philosophical treatise, not a legal code, and not a narrative of triumph. At the center stands the Ark. The center must be moral. The center must be sacred. The center must be guided by Torah.

Perhaps this is why these verses are recited every time the Torah is removed from the Ark. We are not merely recalling a moment from the desert thousands of years ago. We are reenacting a critical strategy for a thriving Judaism: Before we leave the sanctuary and enter the complexities of life, the Ark goes forth. Before we engage the world, Torah leads the way.

At the very center of Torah stands two short verses surrounded by two inverted letters, reminding us that before confronting the wilderness, the Ark must move forward. And when the Ark leads the way, even the wilderness can become holy.