A Tale of Two Torahs

Isn’t one Torah enough?

The 613^th and last mitzvah in the Torah is the commandment for each individual to write a Torah scroll. This was not enough for the king.

“And it shall be, when he sits upon the throne of his kingdom, that he shall write for himself a copy of this Torah… and it shall be with him, and he shall read therein all the days of his life: that he may learn to fear the Lord his God, to keep all the words of this Torah and these mitzvot, to do them: that his heart be not lifted up above his brethren, and that he turn not aside from the commandment, to the right hand, or to the left…” (Devarim 17:18,19,20)

What is the lesson of the second Torah?

There are two elements to Torah: the timeless and the timely.

On one hand, Torah is eternal, permanent and constant. Tefillin, tzitzit, shofar, sukkah, matzah, mikvah, mezuzah, milah – these are eternal laws. The timeless Torah is represented by the first Torah of the king. This Torah is the same one all Jews have a responsibility to write, to internalize, and to fulfill. Each of us is bound by the same commandments, the same values, the same covenant at Sinai.

But there is another element to Torah: its ability to give perspective and guidance to each generation according to its unique needs, challenges, struggles and experiences. The issues we face are different than 100 years ago. We need a fresh approach to apply to the new realities of today. The second Torah of the king is the timely Torah. It is his unique contribution to the mesorah, the chain of Jewish tradition.

The two Torahs themselves reflect their roles.

The first Torah, the Torah that must be written by each person, provides information, teachings, and laws. One fulfills the mitzvah to write a Torah by commissioning a scribe to write it. The goal of writing the Torah scroll is to know and keep Judaism. Its utilitarian nature is why many authorities view buying Jewish books and building a library as a fulfillment of the mitzvah. The “timeless” Torah is written and kept in the ark. It is static, permanent, and serves as the revered source for who we are and what we do.

The second Torah of the king is very different.

“He shall write for himself a copy of this Torah…”
Even if he inherited a Torah from his father, the king must write a new scroll for himself.
“It shall be with him, and he shall read therein all the days of his life.”
The Talmud teaches that king had to take his personal Torah with him everywhere he went. It’s a handy guide or roadmap (think Waze or Google Maps) for every step of the journey.
“That his heart be not lifted up above his brethren…”
The second Torah provides perspective. It is not merely the source text of Judaism; it inspires the king to maximize and live his best life in service to those around him. It may be great to be the king, but the king is only as great as he lives up to his potential as a leader.

The second, “timely Torah” is not only religious information. It is the Torah of inspiration, of mission, and of purpose.

While we no longer have kings and their two Torahs, both the timeless and timely Torahs resonate deeply when we participate in a new Torah dedication. The scroll that is completed is the same as every other scroll. Yet, the joy of the occasion is unique and very personal. At Torah dedications, everyone in attendance is swept up in the excitement of a “new” Torah joining the Jewish people even as it is “the same” as every other Torah. We instinctively feel that every Torah written furthers the Jewish people.

I think the “timely” aspect of Torah is why there have been so many Torahs commissioned after October 7. These Torahs are like the second Torah of the king, extending the timeless values of Judaism into the future. Whether to memorialize those murdered, IDF soldiers killed in action, or what seemed like perpetual scribal activity at the Nova site, writing a new Torah provides inspiration, confidence, and strength that we can face down any challenge.

Rabbi Shlomo of Karlin said, “Der grester yester hora is az mir fargest az mi is ein ben Melech - The greatest mistake is to forget we are children of the king.” Each of us may not be an actual king, but we are “princes” with royal potential. The tale of the two Torahs applies to each of us.

There is the Torah of the entire nation that each of us follows, and there is the unique contribution, perspective, and soul that we each add. Rav Kook describes Torah as the national symphony of Judaism. The collective song is beautiful, but it depends on each instrument, each voice. If an individual note is missing, the song is incomplete. Torah is a national mission. At the same time, each of us has a mission in this world that no one else can fulfill. That is our “second Torah.” Maybe it’s to invite a neighbor for Shabbat, volunteer for the community, or blow shofar for the congregation. (I’m actually looking for some shofar reinforcements.)

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote a book with a title that captures the essence of the two Torahs: A Letter in the Scroll. Each of us is a letter in the scroll of the Jewish people. The scroll is invalid if even one letter is missing, but each letter is also unique in its shape and placement. We are all bound by the timeless Torah of Sinai. But each of us must also write – and live - our own timely Torah, the Torah of our lives, our choices, our contributions, and our impact on others.

Seeing Big!

Who remembers “the dress” from – believe it or not – a decade ago?

In 2015, a photograph of a dress became a viral internet sensation when viewers disagreed over whether the dress was colored blue and black or white and gold. (It was confirmed to be blue and black.)

People can see the exact same thing differently. Like a Rorschach test in which the identical ink blot can evoke all sorts of perceptions. Each of us can perceive the very same thing in a very different way, but first we must open our eyes and really see.

“See, this day I set before you blessing and curse.” (Devarim 11:26)

Moshe is about to explain the blessings and consequences that are inherent to Torah and Judaism. He does not say, “Listen” or “Prepare to understand.” He says, “See.” Why?

It is through sight that we develop our unique perspective of the world around us. Moshe wants us to see. Really see. We need to see what’s in front of us. See all around. See beyond what is possible.

Seforno comments that Moshe specifically wants the Jews not to settle for seeing only “the middle ground” of what seems possible like so many other nations. Good enough isn’t always good enough.

See big.

The Talmud (Berachot 48a) tells of young Abaye and Rava during their formative years.

Abaye and Rava were sitting before their teacher, Rabbah.
Rabbah said to them, “Whom do we bless?”
They both answered, “To the Merciful One.”
Rabbah asked, “And where does the Merciful One dwell?”
Rava pointed to the roof beams.
Abaye went outside and pointed toward the sky.
Rabbah said to them, “You will both be rabbis.”

It may sound like the origin of the children’s song “Hashem is here, Hashem is there,” but the story teaches us a lot about how we should see the world around us.

Rav Kook explains that the students’ answers reflected their unique outlooks. Rava was inclined toward diligent Torah study and seeking every truth through its defined details. Even God had a location in which to be found. Abaye, however, strove for breadth of knowledge through an understanding that reaches beyond boundaries. His inner nature drove him to express the stirrings of his soul, by going outside and pointing to the heavens to try and pinpoint a limitless God.

Moshe’s directive for us to “See” is a call to expand our line of sight, our field of vision, or perception of the possible. The dress is blue and black AND white and gold.

This week, Rabbi Berel Wein passed away. Rabbi Wein was a uniquely impactful Rabbi, teacher, and historian whose work, perspective, and voice profoundly influenced generations. After a brief stint as a lawyer, he served as rabbi in Miami Beach and then served as a senior executive at the OU before moving to Monsey to found a shul and a yeshiva. He moved to Jerusalem in 1997, where he was rabbi of Bet Knesset HaNasi and a Rebbe in Ohr Sameach, while lecturing all over the world. Rabbi Wein was a prolific author whose teachings are always relevant and entertaining. In particular, he made Jewish history come alive, and he insisted that literacy is the key to Jewish continuity.

He once told a student’s son, “[Y]our assignment is to read. Read as much as you can. Don’t be afraid of the facts…There’s not one fact – scientific or social – that can be used to deny the existence of the Divine Providence in the world. The religious world is afraid of the facts, so they create their own fantasy world, superstitions and all sorts of things.”

Rabbi Wein had vision. He saw big.

While a rabbi in Miami Beach, one of the largest Reform temples in the United States was across the street from his shul. Their rabbi was a former European yeshiva student, and he and Rabbi Wein were friends and occasionally studied together.

One Erev Pesach at 4:00 in the afternoon, the Reform rabbi called Rabbi Wein with a last-minute request. “Berel, when you say ‘let all who are hungry come and eat” during the Seder, do you really mean it? My son just graduated Brown University and was accepted to Harvard Law School. He currently has little to do with Judaism, but he just decided to come home for Pesach and refuses to attend our synagogue seder. He says he’ll only attend a family Seder. Can you host him?”

Rabbi Wein said yes, and the young man joined his family’s Seder, which lasted until 1:30 in the morning. It had a big impact on him. After that Seder, he decided not to go to Harvard Law School, and, instead, he went to Hebrew Union College and became a Reform rabbi. The young man remained in touch with Rabbi Wein even after he became a Reform rabbi in a sizeable congregation.

One year, shortly after Yom Kippur, Rabbi Wein received a call from the young rabbi, who needed advice. His Reform congregation had an 85-year-old tradition not to use lulav and etrog on Sukkot. They just didn’t do it. That was their “reform.” He had convinced some of the younger members to “reform” THAT reform, and they ordered 35 sets of lulav and etrog. The Ritual Committee found out about this “rebellion” and wanted to thwart it. They said that the congregation wouldn’t be more religious than the Orthodox who wouldn’t be using Lulav and Etrog that year since the first day of Sukkot was Shabbat.

The Temple only had one day of Sukkot, so Shabbat was the only possible day to use them. The young Reform rabbi’s question to Rabbi Wein was: Can we take the Lulav and Etrog in the Temple on Shabbat since this would be the only chance.

Rabbi Wein replied: “Before I tell you my opinion, I want to know what you told the ritual committee.”

The Reform rabbi said, “I told them that the Orthodox have Shabbos and, therefore, they don’t need the lulav and esrog. But, here in the Reform Temple, we don’t observe Shabbos, so, at least, we should have a lulav and etrog.”

Rabbi Wein responded, “I couldn’t have said it any better.”

He added the following postscript when recounting the story in his book, Nostalgia for Eternity:

“The Reform rabbi’s logic matches that of the medieval Rokeach (#201) that one of the reasons we do not blow the shofar on Shabbat is because Shabbat itself is a sign. If a Jew has Shabbos, he doesn’t need anything else, and he can do without shofar. Applying that logic to this case, the Reform Temple didn’t have Shabbos, so they could use another symbol of the holiday. Let them take the lulav and etrog on Shabbat.”

Seeing big doesn’t mean pining for the impossible, seeking to change everything, or breaking boundaries. Seeing big means trying to expand our horizons: What more can we do? Which new mitzvah should we try? Which Jewish neighbor do we invite to Shul or for Shabbat? How can we be more helpful to those in need, our Shul, or our community?

Let’s see…

Bound to Grow: The Chain Reaction of a Mitzvah

Larry David has never worn tefillin.

How do I know? Because a 21-year-old self-starter named Yossi Farro, asked him  in front of a crowd of thousands of people, and he said he never had. “I’m trying to think of the amount of money it would take for me to do that,” David replied. Yossi, a Lubavitcher chasid and online influencer, is making a name for himself taking pictures with prominent people putting on tefillin. He’s got Jerry Seinfeld and Mark Zuckerberg on the agenda, while Larry David remains his white whale.

We are quite familiar with the Chabad campaign to encourage Jewish men to put on tefillin. In 1967, preceding the Six Day War, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, introduced what was to be the first of the ten "mitzvah campaigns,” to don tefillin with all Jews. At the time, someone asked him why tefillin and not kosher or charity or something more universal. He replied, "When a Jew in Miami sees pictures of Jews at the Western Wall wearing tefillin, he gets an urge to put on tefillin himself."

I feel having tefillin accessible is an effective way to promote and encourage greater Jewish identity and observance – regardless of whether the tefillin actually get worn. I once stopped at a falael stand on Derech Beit Lechem in Jerusalem. Underneath the Kosher certificate were two signs. One read, “Anyone who leaves their change behind should know that it will go to charity.” The other said, “We have tefillin here for anyone who wishes to put them on.”

On a recent visit to Florida, a place with a high concentration of Jews – especially Israelis, I noticed a number of kosher establishments has “tefillin stands” offering the opportunity to perform the mitzvah without needing to stand around all day and ask. I thought to myself that I need to have one of these. Now, Atlantic Beach doesn’t have as many Jews – or Kosher establishments – as Florida. So I partnered with our friendly neighborhood Atlantic Beach Wine & Whiskey Boutique. Abe Kaner tells me a handful of people put on tefillin there each month. The more, the merrier.

There is something about the act of performing a mitzvah which has a trickle-down effect on religious inspiration and practice, and we can learn this from tefillin.

Learn and then do, or do and then learn? While the natural order is to learn and then put those lessons to use, Jewish tradition doesn’t always play out in order.

This week – like last week, we read about the mitzvah of tefillin. The obligation is mentioned in both the first paragraph of Shema (last week’s parsha) and the second paragraph of Shema which we read this week. Let’s look closely at the text.

Last week, the Torah commanded the mitzvah of tefillin (Devarim 6:7, 8) by stating: “Teach your children. Recite God’s words when you stay at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you get up. Bind them as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a symbol on your forehead.”

This week (Devarim 11:18, 19), we read: “And you shall place up these my words in your heart and in your soul, and bind them for a sign upon your hand, and they will be as tefillin between your eyes. And you should teach them to your children, speaking of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk along the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up”

The Torah reverses the order from one week to the next. First, the Torah mentions teaching followed by tefillin but then switches to first commanding tefillin and only then educating. Why the change?

In the normal course of development, we learn and then we act. The same is true religiously. Teach the children well, fill their minds and hearts with knowledge, and that will provide the solid foundation to perform mitzvot, to do Jewish. But not everyone follows the usual order. Not everyone gets a Jewish education. Not everyone takes the lessons to heart and turns them into actions. Sometimes, we take a leap that leads us to learn and to grow.

That is the lesson of tefillin. Nike is right: Just do it! Sometimes doing will lead to learning and growing.

Years ago, Uri Zohar, the late Israeli entertainer who later became a rabbi, found himself rushing into a café in Rome around sunset. Breathlessly, he went to the first person he saw and asked him “Brother, do you have a pair of tefillin?”

Now, Uri was decked out in leather jacket, jeans and biker boots. The other person was a bit surprised and slow to reply. “Quick its almost sunset” Uri told him. The startled patron then reached under the counter and pulled out his tefillin. Uri rolled up his sleeve, put on the tefillin, and intently recited a short prayer.

The shocked tefillin owner managed to stammer, “How? What? This just did THAT?”

Uri told him that he was a secular Jew, but he has always worn tefillin. A popular television star, he had a week off from the screen in Israel and chose to spend it motorcycling through Europe. “I didn’t want to take my tefillin with me on the Harley, so I made a deal with Hashem. If He wanted me to keep wearing them every day, he needed to give me the chance to do the mitzvah.”

“And how is that working for you?” asked the customer who helped him.  Uri replied, “You tell me. Today is the last day, and I still haven’t missed a day.”

And the rest is history. Uri Zohar ultimately became Rabbi Uri Zohar.

Tefillin is one mitzvah among many. It happens to be one that has a deep symbolism and can capture the imagination and inspire beyond the act of wearing them. A tefillin campaign or stand is but one way of conveying the importance of acting. Try a new ritual – engage, participate, study show up, daven, bless, give. We don’t always need to understand or even fully appreciate why we do what we do. We just need to start somewhere in order grow. The rest is commentary.

Tiny Hope-y People

The Torah presents the Jewish people in a way that seems almost contradictory.

On the one hand, in Devarim 4, Moshe describes Israel as a “goy gadol - great nation” admired by other peoples for its wisdom, its closeness to God, and its laws. The nations will declare about the Jews: “Surely this great nation is a wise and discerning people!” Put in contemporary terms: “Look at how smart, successful, and accomplished the Jews are!”

This is an image of grandeur, of a people whose moral and spiritual stature commands respect on the world stage. We rock!

And yet, just a few chapters later in Devarim 7, Moshe reminds the people: “It is not because you are more numerous than all the other nations… indeed, you are the smallest of all nations.”

How can we be both a great nation and the smallest of nations? This paradox is central to the Jewish story. Our greatness has never been about numbers or physical might. It has been about meaning, about carrying a mission larger than ourselves.

Rashi notes that part of our distinction lies in humility. Like Abraham, who called himself “dust and ashes,” the Jewish people do not measure themselves by their own grandeur but by their service to God. This humility does not diminish us; it empowers us. Our role in history is not dependent on demographic advantage, but on the values we embody, the actions we perform, and impact we make.

Great nation, smallest of nations. Humility, accomplishment. These ideals do not compete. They complement and reinforce.

Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshischa taught that every person should have two pockets. In one pocket there should be a piece of paper saying: “I am only dust and ashes.” When one is feeling too proud, reach into this pocket and take out this paper and read it. In the other pocket there should be a piece of paper saying: "For my sake was the world created." When one is feeling disheartened and lowly, reach into this pocket and take this paper out and read it.

We can be great while we are small. Being small is no impediment to being great. History bears out the Torah’s vision.

Mark Twain famously observed that although Jews constitute a mere fraction of one percent of the world’s population, they have been heard of everywhere and have contributed far beyond their numbers—to literature, science, art, music, finance, medicine, and philosophy. In his words, “All things are mortal but the Jew; all other forces pass, but he remains.”

Anthropologist Margaret Mead expressed a similar truth that small size is no obstacle to making an impact. She noted, “A few people can’t change the world? Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

The Jewish people have been such a people time and time again. Whether in times of peace and prosperity or in the shadow of oppression and devastation, we have brought moral ideals into public life: the sanctity of human dignity, the rule of law, the imperative of justice, the responsibility to care for the stranger.

Jewish tradition values the power of numbers - but not for political clout, military might, or as a prerequisite to making a difference. Rabbi Avraham Danzig (Chayei Adam 68:11) teaches that any mitzvah done in a group is greater than when done alone, for “b’rov am hadrat Melech - in the strength of numbers is the grandeur of the king.” Greatness in Jewish life comes from collective purpose, from people working together for God’s service and the betterment of the world. This is why Jewish continuity has never relied on sheer population growth. It has relied on community, on Jews gathering together to learn, to pray, to celebrate, to grieve, and to build.

What sustains this tiny nation through centuries of exile, persecution, and challenge? What keeps the Jewish engine running like such a great nation?

Hope.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks distinguished between optimism and hope. Optimism is the belief that things will get better; hope is the belief that we can make them better. Optimism is passive; it depends on circumstances. Hope is active; it depends on us. It takes courage to hope, especially in a world that has often been cruel to the Jewish people. He writes:

“To be a Jew is to be an agent of hope. Every ritual, every command, every syllable of the Jewish story is a protest against escapism, resignation, and the blind acceptance of fate… The name of the Jewish future is hope.” (Future Tense, p. 250)

Hope is not just an emotion in Judaism. It is a way of life. It is what carried our ancestors out of Egypt, sustained us in the wilderness, rebuilt us after the destruction of the Temple, and gave us the courage to return to our land in modern times. Hope is what keeps Jews going in difficult times today. We are, in Rabbi Sacks’ words, “a tiny treasured people” who defy the normal rules of history. Empires rise and fall, but the Jewish people endure.

The paradox remains: we are small, yet great; humble, yet bold; realistic about the world’s dangers yet relentlessly committed to building a better one. Our influence has never come from dominating the world’s stage, but from shaping its conscience.

The Torah’s message is that you don’t have to be large to be great. You must be connected - to God, to one another, and to a vision of the future. That vision is carried by hope, and hope is renewed every time we choose to live as Jews: by studying Torah, doing mitzvot, and working together to make the world more just and compassionate. It, therefore, makes perfect sense for Israel’s anthem to be Hatikvah – The Hope.

We are, and always have been, a tiny hope-y people - fewer in number, greater in purpose, alive with the faith that tomorrow can be better than today. That is not a contradiction. It is our calling.

What Do We See?

This Shabbat, we read Chazon Yishayahu, the Vision of Isaiah. What did he see? What do we see?

The text is not very encouraging. It describes a desolate land and a wayward people. That is why we read it before Tisha B’Av, to get a taste of pur’anut, tragedy, in time for the fast day. Even our religious activities are rejected if we lack the basic compassion for those in need.

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev has a different take of the vision. He explains that this Shabbat is called Shabbat Chazon because on this day every Jew is granted a vision of the future Beit Hamikdash.

 

Huh?!? Rabbi Levi Yitzchak was known for his positive spin on even the direst situation, but how can destruction evoke expectations for redemption? He explains with a parable.

 

A father once prepared a beautiful suit of clothes for his son. But the child neglected his father’s gift, and soon the suit was in tatters. The father gave the child a second suit of clothes; this one, too, was ruined by the child’s carelessness. So, the father made a third suit, but his time, he withholds it from his son. Every once in a while, on special occasions, he shows the suit to the child, explaining that when the child learns to appreciate and properly care for the gift, it will be given to him. This encourages the child to improve his behavior, until it gradually becomes second nature to him - at which time he will be worthy of his father’s gift.

 

Despite the disappointment over our loss, we can see – literally - the positive outcome that is waiting for us

 

Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, explains this “vision thing” in a most creative way. Weaving together Jewish law, Midrash, and mysticism, he concludes that the only way God could be “allowed” to destroy the Beit Hamikdash was to fix it or build another one. It is similar to the laws of a Shul. One may only damage or destroy a synagogue structure when the purpose is to repair or renovate it. Accordingly, the destruction of the second Temple is part of the construction of the third Temple. Destruction is part of rebuilding. Exile is part of redemption. 

 

Glimpsing Isaiah’s vision of destruction is not contradictory to a vision of the third Temple. The Talmud teaches that Moshiach was born on Tisha B’Av. Similarly, we can glimpse redemption even as we encounter pain, hatred, and exile before our eyes. Shabbat Chazon is the time to catch a glimpse of the third Temple. It is a time to realize that the destruction and hardships we face are paving the way for a better tomorrow.

 

What do we see?

 

These last 22 months have been a time of increased darkness. At times, the situation seems to darken by the day. Nevertheless, we need to look for the rays of sunshine behind the clouds and the light within the darkness. We have seen so much strength, resilience, courage, and kindness.

 

Sometimes, a painful past yields resolve for the present and hope for the future.

 

Ro’i Klein is an Israeli hero. He was a commander in the Golani Brigade and one of Israel’s most decorated soldiers. On July 26, 2006, Ro’i, 31-years-old, was commanding his troops during the Battle of Bint Jbeil in the Second Lebanon War. A Hezbollah terrorist threw a grenade at his unit, and Ro’i jumped on the grenade to save his soldiers. He was killed instantly. Nineteen years later, Yoav, Ro’i’s son, who was an infant when his father was killed, has now drafted intro the Golani Brigade following in his father’s footsteps.

Rabbi Kalonymous Kalman Shapira, the Piaseczna, was Rebbe of the Warsaw Ghetto. His teachings from that period, Aish Kodesh, were hidden and discovered after the war. The very last entry is from Shabbat Chazon 1944. In that sermon, Rav Shapira explained that Isaiah received a chazon, a vision, because the Jewish people had lost their vision. He wrote: “We lost the vision of our true goals in life, and we lost our sight of the truth.”

King Solomon stated, “Without vision, the people will perish” (Mishlei 29:18). The Rebbe’s very last teaching from the depths of destruction and darkness was the need to maintain a vision of the future.

We cannot ignore the tragedies of Jewish history as we persevere through the difficulties and pain that are right in front of us. At the same time, we have a chance to seek a glimpse of the third Temple and for those sparks of light and redemption that exist all around us. On Shabbat Chazon, we seek a vision of redemption. We hope it arrives soon and commit ourselves to act in ways that will make it a reality.