Parshas Re'eh — Shabbos Mevorchim Elul

Full transcript doc

A devar Torah for Shabbos Mevorchim Elul.

L'ilui nishmas my grandmother, Maras Chava bas Abish Meir a"h — my namesake, whom I never had the merit to know — and l'ilui nishmas Rav Shlomo ben HaRav Yitzchak. And on a happy note: Baruch Hashem, we had the zchus this week to see the birth of a great-granddaughter. May we merit to share many simchos together.

This Shabbos is Shabbos Mevorchim Rosh Chodesh Elul. There's a well-known phenomenon, in earlier generations and in ours too: when the chazzan announces that Rosh Chodesh Elul is coming, especially among women, the tears come. We suddenly realize a year has passed. Yom HaDin is close, and we ask ourselves whether we're really ready to face Hashem.

My grandmother was a great tzadekes. She was the one who sent my father off the day after his bar mitzvah, from Hungary to Poland, to learn in Krakow, because she recognized her child's potential. As hard as it was to send him away, and even knowing she would likely never see him again — she passed away two years later — she felt it was the right thing to do. That clarity about what matters is exactly the work Elul asks of us.

Re'eh: see, not only hear

The parsha opens, strikingly, with the word Re'eh — "see." The previous parsha stressed listening: Shema Yisrael. (The word shema appears in this parsha too.) But the first word here is Re'eh. Why "see"?

Because knowledge alone isn't enough. We have to envision it — to actually see ourselves standing before Hashem on Yom HaDin. That's why, in the first three pesukim, the word hayom — "today" — appears three times: Re'eh Anochi nosen lifneichem hayom; asher Anochi metzaveh eschem hayom; and once more in the third pasuk.

The repetition points us toward Rosh Hashanah, which is called Yom Haras Olam, the day the world was created. On that day three books are opened before Hashem: the book of the tzaddikim gemurim, the book of the resha'im gemurim, and the book of the benonim — and each of us has to count ourselves among the benonim. Soon we'll be saying the special tefillos of Rosh Hashanah, with their three themes: Malchuyos, Zichronos, and Shofaros.

Re'eh — reish, aleph — is always read as Rosh Chodesh Elul arrives. The message is: don't leave your spiritual preparation for the last minute. It's vacation time, and preparation is easy to postpone, but now is the time for introspection, and to realize that Hashem is waiting.

The name of the month says as much. Elul — aleph, lamed, vav, lamed — is the acronym of Ani L'Dodi V'Dodi Li. Yes, there's fear. We look back at the year and think: had we known everything that would unfold, our tefillos on Rosh Hashanah would have been far stronger. We don't always grasp what's hanging in the balance. So the instruction is twofold: realize it, and at the same time know that Hashem looks at you as a loving father. That's the program for the next thirty days.

One word, spoken to each of us

The mefarshim note a grammatical oddity in the opening pasuk. Re'eh is singular, while Anochi nosen lifneichem — "before all of you" — is plural. Why open in the singular and continue in the plural?

The first explanation: Re'eh is Hashem speaking to each individual. We tend to assume Moshe Rabbeinu is addressing other people, and that it doesn't concern us. But Hashem speaks to each single one of us, just as at Har Sinai, where Anochi Hashem Elokecha was said in the singular. No one there could evade responsibility, and the same is true here. Hayom — when you hear these words, don't push it off. Now is the time to react, to decide, to change.

The two mountains

The second explanation the Chachamim bring comes from the pesukim that follow. When Bnei Yisrael entered Eretz Yisrael, on the very first day they traveled to Shechem to proclaim the brachos and the klalos on two mountains. Six tribes stood on Har Gerizim, six on Har Eival, and the Leviim and Kohanim stood between them. They recited the brachos, and six tribes answered amen; they recited the klalos, and six answered amen, turning toward each mountain in turn.

This ceremony is described again, in full detail, later in Parshas Ki Savo, one of the final parshiyos of Devarim. So why mention it here too, briefly, without the details — only that they should go to Har Gerizim and Har Eival, without yet explaining the separation of the tribes?

Because Hashem is saying Re'eh: when you realize what's on the scale, hayom, as Rosh Hashanah approaches, understand that I am the One who can bless you, or, chas v'shalom, give the opposite. But how does a person see a bracha, or a klala? A promise is being given now. How do you grasp it as reality?

Hashem's answer: when you enter Eretz Yisrael and make a bris with Me — the covenant of re-accepting the Torah that was given in the midbar — this isn't merely a spiritual declaration you can't see. I want you to realize what it involves. Go to the two mountains.

What was specific about them? They were equal in every measurable way — height, size, everything. The one difference was that Har Gerizim flourished while Har Eival was completely desolate, with nothing growing on it. And Chazal say the two mountains sat on the same soil, drank the same rain, and stood under the same sun. So how does one flourish and the other stay bare?

That's the lesson. When they proclaimed the brachos, the Leviim and the tribes had to look directly at the mountain. To understand what a bracha is, you have to realize that everything comes down from Heaven.

Everything depends on Hashem, and everything depends on us

Everything depends on Hashem, and yet everything depends on us too, on the way we look. Turn toward Hashem, daven, ask for bracha, and do what Hashem asks, and that is what you receive. Turn instead toward desolation, away from Hashem, and that itself is the klala. Don't postpone the choice. This is hayom — something to look at and decide today.

Consider the word hayom itself: day, daylight, sunshine. The Kli Yakar points out that the sun holds two opposite powers. It's the source of growth and energy; all of nature grows through it. But when it's too strong it turns destructive, sparking fires that can burn everything down. The same sun gives life or takes it. So too with Re'eh: everything depends on bracha and klala, and it all begins with the individual.

The Rambam teaches that for every single act, we should picture ourselves standing before a balanced scale. (Picture the old scales; our children may not remember them, but we grew up with a proper balance.) The very act you do at this moment can tip the scale and decide the outcome of the world — bracha or, chas v'shalom, the opposite.

You might object: I'm one person. Lifneichem — there are millions of us. Does my single action count? Moshe Rabbeinu's answer is that the moment Bnei Yisrael entered Eretz Yisrael and pronounced the brachos and klalos on the two mountains, they entered a covenant, and Kol Yisrael became bound together — Kol Yisrael areivim, each responsible for the other.

Think of the man on a boat who begins drilling a hole in the floor of his own cabin. "It's my cabin," he says. "I paid for it." And the others tell him: even so, the whole boat will sink. Whatever happens to Am Yisrael can hinge on one individual.

I heard something beautiful this week on that word areivim. A guarantor is an areiv, and the root is shared with areiv, meaning pleasant. Look at every fellow Jew as someone pleasant, and you'll see the good in him, care for him, and want what's best for him. All of this we take in before Rosh Chodesh Elul — but we have to see it as reality, not only hear it. Elul is arriving, and Hashem wants us to do something to make the world better.

Banim atem laHashem: we are His children

Even with the awe of judgment, one thing has to stay with us. Whatever life brings, including challenges and even tragedy, the pasuk says Banim atem laHashem Elokeichem — Hashem is a loving father. Do we understand everything? No.

That's why, when tragedy strikes, the Torah says lo sisgodedu — do not harm yourself. We spoke about this on Tisha B'Av. Lo sisgodedu can also mean: do not split into factions. Hashem wants us to be one family, together and connected. But its primary meaning is that we must not give ourselves over to grief to the point of harming ourselves, because Banim atem laHashem Elokeichem. We are Hashem's children, and each neshama's purpose is ultimately to return to HaKadosh Baruch Hu. That is the purpose of the world, and it's worth holding onto no matter what happens.

The way we give

The last part of the parsha is the krias haTorah we read on all the Yomim Tovim. It begins at chamishi: Aser te'aser es kol tevuas zarecha hayotzei hasadeh shana shana — the obligation to give maaser, a tenth. A person gives terumah to the Kohanim, but mainly maaser to the Leviim, since that's what they live from.

Chazal note how many of the words here are doubled. Aser te'aser. Nason titen — "when you give, you shall give." And when someone comes to ask of you: do not harden your heart, but open your hand, and open it wide — v'ha'avet ta'avitenu — give him, and again nason titen, give him, in a good way. What counts isn't the quantity, but pasoach tiftach: open your heart, open your hand, and give with joy.

When a person gives tzedakah, the essential thing isn't only what he gives; it's how he gives. We're meant to learn from the midos of Hashem, and Hashem gives constantly, from the moment we wake until late at night. We breathe, we walk, we carry on, all through the strength He gives. Just as He gives us whatever He's blessed us with, He wants us to give to others.

There's a lovely explanation of the doubled language. Lo se'ametz es levavcha — do not harden your heart. There has to be a link between the heart, your feelings, and the hand that gives; and when you give, give generously. That's why the words come in pairs.

Shlomo HaMelech makes the same point in Eishes Chayil. The righteous woman isn't afraid that her children will be cold when it snows, ki chol beisah lavush shanim — her whole household is dressed. Shanim can mean warm woolen clothes, but the Midrash says: don't read shanim, read shnayim — double. Snow and cold are among the descriptions of Gehinnom, so the pasuk is telling us that her children will never, chas v'shalom, come to Gehinnom. Why? Because her household is dressed double — because throughout her life she practiced pasoach tiftach. She gave with a wide-open heart, and she raised her children to understand that happiness depends on the ability to give and to share.

A story of giving

Let me close with a story I heard this week, all about giving.

There was a terrible terror attack twenty-four years ago. (This week was also the yahrtzeit of those who perished in another attack you'll remember: bus number 2 returning from the Kosel, where I believe there were twenty-four victims.) The attack I have in mind, from that same year, took place in the ______. A terrorist entered a yeshiva and began shooting students. I don't remember the exact number; I think four to six were killed. An army officer came in, managed to shoot the terrorist, and saved the entire yeshiva, but he lost his own life.

Twenty-four years later, one of the men who had been a student in that yeshiva, now older, decided to donate a kidney, without knowing who would receive it. The day before the operation, they let him meet the recipient. It turned out to be the brother of the very officer who had been killed in the attack, the officer who had saved his life. The one who died had saved his life; now he was going to save the life of that man's brother.

So remember: Hayom. May the month ahead be a wonderful one. Chodesh Tov, a wonderful Shabbos, and may we only ever share good news. All my love from Yerushalayim.