In my head, I am an extremely productive person. I have learned everything I set out to learn, gotten fit, and become a calmer, more disciplined human being. Unfortunately, my actual life did not get the memo.

That is one of the dangers of keeping everything private. The dream remains beautiful because reality never gets a vote.

There is a concept called hischayvus. The closest English word is probably accountability, though even that does not capture it fully. It means putting something outside yourself. A commitment that once lived only in your head becomes real enough that someone else can ask about it later.

“How is it going?”

“Did you finish it?”

“What happened with that project?”

Suddenly, the personal idea that was once carried internally has a life of its own. Now you or I will feel responsible to do something with it.

There is something very powerful about this. Anyone who has ever tried to create something, or even to work on himself, knows how easy it is to stay in your own head, even for years on end. A dream can feel alive because it has not yet been tested. A project can remain beautiful because it has not yet met the slow, ordinary effort required to build it.

When someone reacts and says that something mattered to him, it moves you. The work starts to move beyond the idea in your head.

At least, that is how it is supposed to work. In my own life, I have noticed something strange. Sometimes, when I say out loud that I am going to do something, whether it is to learn more seriously, eat better, wake up earlier, or be more present with my children, the declaration itself seems to work against me.

I do not know exactly why that happens. Maybe it creates pressure too early or drains the private energy of the goal. Maybe saying the thing gives me the small satisfaction of movement before I have actually moved. But there are times when sharing the commitment does not strengthen it. It weakens it.

My brother, Rabbi Sender Haber, pointed out that the Piaseczna Rebbe says something similar. Sometimes an idea begins as something spiritual, private, and untouched. The moment you say it out loud, it enters the physical world. That can be necessary, because nothing gets built if it never leaves the mind. While at the same time, it can also lower the idea before it has had space to develop.

Then I tell myself that I should have kept it private. I should have just done the thing and let the work become real on its own. But that has its own problem, because when everything stays private, it often stays vague. The goal remains protected, but it also remains unfinished.

That is the strange catch-22 of accountability. Saying it out loud can distort the work, but keeping it hidden can allow it to disappear.

My writing became the place where I felt both sides of this most clearly. For a long time, accountability helped me write. I tried to put something out each week. It was a serious challenge for me, but it was good. It forced me to pay attention to the world around me and to take the ideas floating around in my head and bring them into the parashah. It gave me a rhythm, and sometimes the rhythm itself did a lot of the work. There were weeks when inspiration came early, and there were weeks when, try as I might, I could not connect with anything.

A mentor once told me not to force it. If nothing was resonating, I let there be some space between the words. Still, I knew people were reading. I felt it when someone told me he was reading the pieces at the Shabbos table, or when people showed me in concrete ways that the writing meant something to them. That meant a tremendous amount to me, and it still does. I do not take it lightly when someone gives attention to something I wrote, especially because I tend to write long pieces in a world that is afraid to ask anyone to sit with anything for too long.

That kind of appreciation creates its own hischayvus. When you realize that your words matter to someone, you want to keep showing up. An idea is no longer just yours. Once it reaches someone else, it becomes shared property.

Once people are reading, something can shift. It may no longer be only, “What am I trying to understand?” or “What needs to be said?” It can become, “What do people expect from me?” or “What do I need to put out next?”

The work may still look the same from the outside. It may still be consistent, useful, and appreciated. Yet inside, something starts to feel different. The original impulse gets weaker.

I saw an idea recently that stayed with me. There are two reasons a person can climb a mountain. He can climb because the mountain matters. The challenge itself means something. He wants to know what the climb will demand from him and what it will do to him. Or he can climb so that when he reaches the top, he can turn around and wave to everyone below.

There is a world of difference between climbing because the mountain matters and climbing because we want people to look up and clap. Applause is beautiful and meaningful when people notice and care, but we cannot climb solely for the clap.

Working in publishing, I have seen another version of this. One thing we often tell young, idealistic authors is to be careful about writing a book too early, before they have lived with the ideas long enough. Young people often have a clarity and energy that older people have learned to bury under layers of sophistication. However, a book is not a fleeting thought. It has a longer shelf life than a mood. Sometimes a person can write something at twenty-five that he will regret at forty-five because it belonged to a mountain he no longer believes was his to climb.

Robin Sharma writes about the danger of spending a life climbing mountain after mountain, only to realize at the end that they were the wrong ones. The deeper question is not only where we are climbing, but why. A person can do everything right and still realize that he gave his best energy to something that was never truly his.

Often, seeking the clap changes the climb itself. It changes the way you climb and even what you are able to learn from it.

Writing, or creating anything lasting, is sometimes a way of sharing what we know. Often, it is also the way something becomes understood in the first place. It is where a vague feeling becomes a sentence, or where we realize that a thought should remain a thought and not be put to paper. It is where you may realize that the idea that you thought you had understood, is asking more of you than you first imagined.

Rick Rubin makes this point in The Creative Act. We tend to think the artist’s work is the finished product, while the deeper work is a way of being in the world. Yes, what we produce matters, as it is the tangible result of our learning. However, that is not the whole story. Writing itself is also a way of learning something more deeply. Sometimes the private struggle to understand something changes you more than sharing it ever could.

Recently, I began working on a different kind of project. It is harder, slower, and less immediate. It does not fit neatly into a weekly rhythm or a quick finished piece. It requires more thought, more patience, and probably more time than my usual writing. So I find myself facing the same question again.

Should a project like that remain private until it is done? Should it be worked on slowly and brought out only when it is complete? Or should it be shared piece by piece, letting people come along for the unfinished parts too?

Part of the answer is that the work often reveals itself only after it begins. Most things cannot be understood before the work begins. Sometimes the project reveals itself only after enough time has been spent with it. It begins with one intention, and then the material pushes back. It may ask for more time than expected. It may demand a different direction than the one imagined at the beginning.

The upside of sharing is that it gets you moving. It forces you to stop thinking only about the work and actually create something. It keeps the project from becoming one more beautiful thing buried in the cemetery of good intentions. Anyone who has a folder full of unfinished ideas knows exactly how easily that happens. There are books that never became books, essays that never became essays, and projects that remained eternally “in development,” which is often just a professional-sounding way of saying that nobody forced them to exist.

The downside is that sharing creates pressure. It can turn an inner process into a performance. It can make the question shift from “What am I trying to understand?” to “What comes next?” Once that happens, the work may still be consistent and useful, but something inside it can start to thin out.

There is a difference between accountability and dependence. Rick Rubin writes that rules are not good or bad in themselves. There are only rules that serve the work and rules that do not. That feels right to me. A deadline, a chavrusa, a public commitment, or a self-imposed obligation is a tool. It can make us show up when we would rather drift. It can also push the work toward something it was never meant to become.

In yeshivah, this is part of the genius and the frustration of a chavrusa. In theory, it is easier to learn alone. Alone, a person can move at his own pace, follow his own mind, and organize the sugya according to the way his brain works. A chavrusa disrupts that. Another person is sitting across from you, asking questions you did not ask, getting stuck on things you thought were obvious, and pushing you into places you may not have gone on your own. It can feel limiting and inefficient. It can also force the learning to become more honest, because once an idea has to survive another person’s question, it becomes clear very quickly whether the idea actually holds.

I thought about this recently because of a friend who asked me how my writing was going. I admire him because he has built a serious, balanced life between work and Torah. He carries real responsibilities. He shows up for his work, his learning, and the community. He keeps demanding things from himself without turning his life into a public production. Along with everything else on his plate, he learns eight daf a day.

He told me that the first time he set out to finish Shas in a year, he told people. He created the hischayvus. People knew about it. They encouraged him. They asked him how it was going. Knowing that people would check in helped him keep going.

But once he finished, something shifted. He no longer felt the same need to tell the world. The first time, the public commitment helped him prove to himself that it was possible. After that, the proof lived inside him. He had climbed the mountain once, and now he knew the mountain could be climbed.

That, to me, is a healthy form of hischayvus. It begins outside, but if it is working properly, it slowly becomes internal. The goal is not to need an audience forever. The goal is to use the commitment long enough to discover that you no longer need to rely on it.

Because sometimes the obligation becomes a crutch. We begin to rely on being watched, asked, needed, or expected. The public commitment that once helped us move can slowly replace the inner reason we started moving in the first place. We confuse output with honesty, consistency with authenticity.

There is an opposite danger too. A person can say, “I only want to create when it comes from within,” and that can be deeply true. It can also be an elegant way to hide. We are very good at disguising avoidance as authenticity. “I am waiting until it feels real” can mean exactly that. It can also mean that I am afraid to be tested by the work.

There is also a point where trying too hard to be sincere becomes its own performance. You start watching yourself for purity instead of doing the work. You ask whether the feeling is pure enough, deep enough, honest enough, and before long the search for sincerity becomes another way not to begin. Sometimes sincerity does not come from staring at yourself. It comes from entering the process and letting it strip away what is false.

This does not happen only in writing. It happens in marriage, work, religious life, and growth. Whenever another person, system, obligation, or deadline is involved, it becomes very easy to locate the pressure outside ourselves. A spouse becomes the reason for feeling limited. The job becomes the reason there is no room to breathe. The audience becomes the reason the work feels trapped by expectations. Responsibilities become the explanation for why everything still feels stuck.

Sometimes there is truth in that. Life is not lived in a vacuum, and other people do affect us. Marriage and parenting, perhaps more than almost anything else, bring a person face-to-face with himself. The people closest to us do not meet only the version of us that exists in our minds. They meet the version that shows up under pressure, when we are tired, disappointed, needed, or exposed. That is part of the strength of marriage and family life. They do not allow us as individuals to remain theoretical for long.

There is a reason the side mirror says, “Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.” Some things look as if they are behind us because they belong to the past, but they are still much closer than we realize. Old fears and old ways of protecting ourselves do not always disappear just because life has moved on. Sometimes they are right there in the mirror, affecting how we see what is happening now.

At the same time, there is a point where blaming the conditions becomes its own prison. The obstacles may be real and heavy. A difficult relationship, a demanding job, or a responsibility that keeps taking more than expected can leave a serious mark on a life. However, if those conditions become the whole explanation for why we are stuck, then we have handed them too much power.

There is a certain moment of adulthood when a person realizes that even if the conditions are not fair, the work is still his. To think that everything is his fault is childish in the other direction. The reason is simpler: blame does not build anything. Blame may explain the wound, but it does not climb the mountain. At some point, the question becomes: What can I still take responsibility for, even here, now, and with the capacity I actually have?

There are also moments when all the outside pressure falls away, and a person is left alone with himself. Then the question gets much harder. Without the person to blame, without the audience to impress, without the deadline to resent, without the pressure to fight against, what remains? What do you actually want? What are you actually willing to build? What work are you willing to do when nobody is clapping along?

That is where the real climb begins.

There is another piece here too. Not every desire to be seen is the same as climbing for the clap. A person does not need an audience for every good thing he does, but he does need, at least sometimes, to know that the good he is trying to do is not invisible. We need to be human, too.

The goal is not to choose between obligation and authenticity. The goal is to hold them in the right proportion. Enough hischayvus to keep moving, but not so much that the obligation becomes the whole engine. Enough accountability to keep the work honest, but enough space to keep it alive. Enough public commitment to prevent the project from disappearing, but enough privacy to make sure it still belongs to the one doing it. Some things need to be spoken aloud so they can become real, and some things need to be protected long enough to become real from the inside.

There is no clean formula for this. Each person has to keep asking whether accountability is making the work more honest or turning it into another performance. Sometimes hischayvus saves a person from himself. It gives direction to vague desire and forces a dream into the world. But sometimes the same accountability becomes a way of avoiding the deeper question: Am I climbing because the mountain is mine to climb, or because I want to be seen at the summit? The answer will not always be flattering. That is probably why the question matters.

The hope is to climb because the mountain matters. If others are there along the way, if they encourage, read, respond, notice, or clap, that is a gift. A real gift. Still, it cannot be the reason for the climb.

The climb has to do something to you.

Otherwise, you reached the top and missed the mountain.

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Clap for me

Previously, we explored the inner understanding of Perek Beis, in which the raging nations represent the forces within a person that resist rootedness, obligation, and alignment with Hashem.

We now turn to the historical perspective of the mizmor. Here, that same struggle appears not within the soul, but on the battlefield of Dovid HaMelech’s life, as the nations rise against his newly established kingship.

In the next essay, we will turn to the future vision of Gog u’Magog, where this resistance reaches its final form.

To understand the historical context of the perek, it is worth first returning to the events described in Shmuel Beis, perek 5.

The Navi tells us that all the shevatim came to Dovid in Chevron and declared him Melech. This was the third stage of Dovid’s anointing. First, Shmuel anointed him privately. Then Shevet Yehudah accepted him as Melech. Finally, the ziknei Yisrael came to Chevron and accepted him as Melech over all of Klal Yisrael.

From there, Dovid went to capture Yerushalayim from the Yevusi. Against all predictions, he captured Tzion, which is Ir Dovid.

Rav Moshe Dovid Vali (Ramdu) explains that Dovid’s conquest was not only military. He was breaking through the barriers of the kelipah represented by its inhabitants and bringing in a new flow of kedushah. Once he successfully did so, the city became associated with him and was called Ir Dovid.

At that point, the Plishtim heard that Dovid had been anointed as Melech over Yisrael, so they set out to capture him. The Plishtim were the ongoing enemy of Klal Yisrael, and Dovid’s rise to Malchus immediately drew their attention.

Ramdu explains that the external forces seek to overpower the head of kedushah at its beginning, before it strengthens itself and overpowers them. They attack precisely when the new center of kedushah is beginning to emerge.

Dovid then went toward the metzudah, which, according to the Meiri, was Adullam.

Dovid was therefore returning to the place of his roots in order to reflect, meditate, and gather strength before the next stage of his battle.

In the meantime, the Plishtim spread out in Emek Refaim.

Ramdu explains that the name itself hints to their inner state. They gathered in a place called Refaim, a name associated with weakness and death, as though they were already like corpses lying in the grave. Hashem then told Dovid to go up, because He would deliver the Plishtim into his hand.

Dovid went to battle the Plishtim at Baal Peratzim, which the mefarshim identify with Emek Refaim, and he won the battle.

The Plishtim then regrouped in Emek Refaim. Ramdu explains that the external forces are like grasshoppers placed in a jar: they climb up the walls, fall back down, and then return to climb and fall again.1

This time, Hashem told Dovid to attack them from behind and assured him that He would go before him. Dovid kept Hashem’s command, waited, and was rewarded. Shaul, by contrast, did not wait. He acted too quickly and therefore lost out.

It was against this background that the mizmor was written. Most mefarshim understand that Dovid himself said it, while the Meiri notes that it may have been composed by another singer about Dovid.

Either way, these two battles with the Plishtim capture the historical form of the struggle at the heart of Perek Beis: the clash between Malchus Beis Dovid and the forces that rise to oppose kedushah as soon as it begins to take root.

למה רגשו גוים ולאמים יהגו ריק

Why do the nations rumble and gather against Dovid, and why do kingdoms plot empty things in their hearts?

According to the Meiri, רגשו means that they made a loud commotion, while יהגו ריק means that they spoke haughty words that were ultimately empty. Their plans sounded powerful, but they were built on nothing.

This opening question is Dovid’s response to the seemingly irrational hostility that rises against him as soon as his Malchus begins to take shape. According to this contextual perspective, the perek describes Dovid’s political and spiritual struggle as he becomes Melech over Klal Yisrael.

The pasuk mentions both גוים and לאמים. The Malbim explains that these are not redundant terms. גוים refers to nations bound by geography, while לאמים refers to groups bound by a shared ideology or religion. Together, they teach that the opposition to Dovid came from every kind of collective force: political, cultural, and ideological.

The Sforno adds that their agitation was not rational. It was emotional, impulsive, and empty. They were responding less to a real threat than to the rise of kedushah and the breaking of the kelipah, which they could not tolerate.

יִתְיַצְּבוּ  מַלְכֵי־אֶרֶץ וְרוֹזְנִים נוֹסְדוּ־יָחַד עַל־ה׳ וְעַל־מְשִׁיחוֹ

Why did the kings of the land stand up, and why did the princes take counsel together against Hashem and against His Mashiach?

The commotion now becomes organized opposition. The Meiri explains that מלכי ארץ refers to the Plishtim, who, in their arrogance, viewed themselves as kings, while ורוזנים נוסדו יחד means that the princes advised one another. Their counsel was directed על ה׳ ועל משיחו, against Hashem and against His anointed one, referring to Dovid, who had been anointed by Hashem’s command.

נְנַתְּקָה אֶת־מוֹסְרוֹתֵימוֹ וְנַשְׁלִיכָה מִמֶּנּוּ עֲבֹתֵימוֹ

They said: “Let us break their restraints and cast off their cords from us.”

The opposition now gives voice to its goal. Rashi explains מוֹסְרוֹתֵימוֹ as the bands with which the yoke is tied. The nations are declaring their desire to overthrow the anointed one, the Mashiach, and prevent him from acting.

The Meiri explains that this was not directed only toward Dovid. It was directed toward all of Yisrael, who had unanimously accepted Dovid as Melech and were therefore bound together with him.

The language of bonds and cords can also be understood on a deeper level. When the nations say that they want to “break the restraints” and “cast off the cords,” this can be understood as an attempt to disconnect the Jewish people from mitzvos. One explanation divides mitzvos into three categories, chukim, mishpatim, and eidos, and understands the “cord” as a three-stranded bond tying Klal Yisrael to Hashem. The nations seek to sever that connection entirely, removing both belief and practice.2

This brings us to the central question of whom the mizmor is describing. On one hand, the previous pasuk speaks of מלכי ארץ and רוזנים, kings and princes, which sounds broader than the Plishtim alone. However, according to the understanding that the mizmor refers to Dovid, מלכי ארץ and רוזנים must be understood as referring to the Plishtim, and possibly to other allies who joined them.

The broader historical context makes this easier to understand. For hundreds of years, from the days of the Shoftim through Shaul and into the beginning of Dovid’s reign, the Plishtim had dominated the Jewish people. Different rulers had fought them, but no one, including Shaul, had fully defeated them. Now the Plishtim saw that the Jewish people had a Melech. They feared that Dovid would take over the world, or at least the world they had controlled until now, and that they would become subordinate to Yisrael. This is why they went to war against Dovid.

Dovid HaMelech now turns from the noise of the nations to the response from Shamayim:

יוֹשֵׁב בַּשָּׁמַיִם יִשְׂחָק אֲדֹ-נָי יִלְעַג־לָמוֹ

The Dweller in Heaven laughs; Hashem mocks them.

The Meiri explains that this is a metaphor, like someone who mocks something that is considered absolutely nothing in his eyes. Hashem’s response is described as laughter, not because the situation is humorous, but because the rebellion is futile. The Plishtim imagine that they are rising against Dovid, but from the perspective of Shamayim, their entire plan is already empty.

אָז יְדַבֵּר אֵלֵימוֹ בְאַפּוֹ וּבַחֲרוֹנוֹ יְבַהֲלֵמוֹ

Then He speaks to them in His anger, and in His fury He terrifies them.

The heavenly laughter now gives way to judgment. The Meiri explains that this means Hashem will place them in Dovid’s hand, and their attack will end in defeat.

The Malbim distinguishes between two forms of Divine anger. The emotional element of Divine anger is called אף, whereas the expression of Divine anger through punishment is called חרון. In this pasuk, Hashem first responds to their rebellion with anger, and then that anger takes form in action against them.

And what is the speech?

וַאֲנִי נָסַכְתִּי מַלְכִּי עַל־צִיּוֹן הַר־קָדְשִׁי

“I have installed My king upon Tzion, My holy mountain.”

The Meiri explains that this is Dovid speaking about himself. How did they think they could overthrow me, when I am among the servants of Hashem, when I have declared and unified His name, and when I have elevated and exalted His kingship upon Tzion, His holy mountain?

Rashi, however, explains that Dovid is speaking as though Hashem Himself is speaking: I have appointed My king, Dovid, upon Tzion, My holy mountain. The question is therefore direct: למה רגשתם? Why have you gathered together? How can you think of canceling his kingship?

Rav Arnie Wittenstein explains that Hashem’s interaction with our world is deeply connected to His will to give mankind, both personally and nationally, bechirah, free will. The Plishtim assumed that the old balance of power would continue. They had fought Bnei Yisrael before, and they expected this confrontation to follow the same pattern.

That changed when Dovid became Melech.

Hashem mocks them because they do not realize that the entire reality has changed. They do not understand who is now king, and they do not understand his deep connection to Tzion, Hashem’s holy mountain. This connection points toward the Mikdash, the great national project of bringing Hashem’s presence into the world. Dovid is deeply bound to that vision, and therefore the strategies that worked in the past will no longer work.

While the nations try to rid themselves of the “burden” of living under the moral authority of a Jewish king, Hashem proclaims His love for the very king they despise. The Heavenly King appoints Dovid over His people, and Dovid proclaims Hashem as King over the world.

That is the meaning of Hashem’s laughter. The Plishtim see Dovid through the categories of the past, but from the perspective of Shamayim, his kingship represents the beginning of a new order: Malchus Beis Dovid taking root on Tzion.

אֲסַפְּרָה אֶל־חֹק ה׳ אָמַר־אֵלַי בְּנִי אַתָּה אֲנִי הַיּוֹם יְלִדְתִּיךָ

I, Dovid, will speak of this as an established decree, something I have received to tell and make known.

The phrase אספרה אל חוק introduces a major idea. A chok is something fixed, established, and unchangeable. Throughout Tanach, a chok can describe realities built into the structure of creation itself, such as the cycle of day and night. In this sense, Dovid’s kingship is part of the Divine order. The same way a person cannot reverse nature, he cannot overturn Hashem’s decision to make Dovid king.

The Meiri explains that this is also an expression of humility. Dovid is not presenting himself as naturally worthy of kingship. He is saying that his Malchus exists because Hashem decreed it. His kingship begins neither with ambition, nor with strength, nor with personal entitlement. It begins with Hashem’s word.3

That is the meaning of:

ה׳ אמר אלי בני אתה

“Hashem said to me: You are My son.”

The language of sonship here is central, but it must be understood through the framework of our mesorah. It signifies Malchus, national mission, and a profound attachment with Hashem. Dovid is called Hashem’s son because he is the appointed Melech of Klal Yisrael, and Klal Yisrael itself is similarly called בני בכורי ישראל and בנים אתם לה׳ אלקיכם. In the Jewish understanding, the pasuk describes the covenantal role of the Jewish king, who carries the mission of Hashem’s people and acts as His appointed representative in history.

The Meiri connects this to the broader language of Tanach, where Dovid and Shlomo are described in father-son terms in relation to Hashem. The king of Israel is not only a political ruler. He is the one through whom Klal Yisrael’s national mission is expressed. His authority is therefore bound to responsibility. To be called Hashem’s son means to carry Hashem’s name into history.4

The next words deepen this further:

אני היום ילדתיך

“Today I have begotten you.”

The Meiri explains that ילדתיך means that Hashem raised Dovid and made him fit for this role. He also suggests that this may refer to the point from which Dovid became blessed with Ruach HaKodesh. The term ילדתיך is therefore understood as a process of spiritual development rather than a biological event. Hashem brought Dovid into the fullness of his capacity to carry out his covenantal role.

The Vilna Gaon5 and the Zohar6 take this language into a deeper developmental framework. They explain that this pasuk refers to a moment of spiritual completion in Dovid’s life, specifically at age thirteen, when a person reaches full spiritual capacity through nefesh, ruach, and neshamah. At that point, Dovid had become fully formed and capable of fulfilling his role. The יום, the “today,” is therefore not only the day of appointment. It is the day on which the inner structure of the person becomes capable of carrying the outer mission.

This creates an important bridge between the historical and kabbalistic perspective. On the historical level, Dovid is being established as Melech. On the inner level, he is becoming the vessel capable of carrying Malchus. The external kingship becomes possible because the inner person has been prepared for it.

Being called “son” therefore means more than affection. It signifies responsibility and representation. Dovid, like Klal Yisrael as a whole, carries the role of representing Hashem in the world and bearing responsibility for others. This sense of responsibility is reinforced in other pesukim in Tehillim, where Dovid describes himself as someone upon whom the entire nation depends. His leadership is not only authority, but also burden. He acts on behalf of all of Klal Yisrael.

This also explains why Dovid’s Malchus is bound to Tzion. His task is not only to win battles or govern a nation. Dovid is the ultimate expression of man’s potential to be formed by Hashem and then act within history. He is given the task of helping mold and guide the Jewish people toward their highest destiny: bringing Yedias Hashem into the world and revealing the Shechinah through the Mikdash.

This principle applies beyond Dovid as well. Every person has to know that he is a child of Hashem and that his mission is purposeful. Dovid was prepared for his task, and each of us is entrusted with our own. Hashem, so to speak, rejoiced on the day He anointed Dovid and gave him his mission, and He rejoices in the mission He gives each of us.

We should try to live each day with the sense that our mission has been given to us anew, with the freshness of:

אני היום ילדתיך

“Today I have begotten you.”

שְׁאַל מִמֶּנִּי וְאֶתְּנָה גוֹיִם נַחֲלָתֶךָ וַאֲחֻזָּתְךָ אַפְסֵי־אָרֶץ

“Ask of Me, and I will give nations as your inheritance, and the ends of the earth as your possession.”

Hashem tells Dovid that whenever he goes out to battle his enemies, he should turn to Him in tefillah. If Dovid asks, Hashem will give the nations into his hand, extending even to the ends of the earth.

This is a critical part of Dovid’s Malchus. His power does not come from military strength alone. It comes from the ability to ask. The Melech of Klal Yisrael is not meant to act as an independent force, because Jewish kingship is real only when it remains attached to Hashem. Dovid’s strength comes from knowing that he depends on the One who sent him.

תְּרֹעֵם בְּשֵׁבֶט בַּרְזֶל כִּכְלִי יוֹצֵר תְּנַפְּצֵם

“You will break them with a rod of iron; like a potter’s vessel, you will shatter them.”

The nations imagine themselves as powerful, but before Dovid they are as fragile as a potter’s vessel. Hashem gives Dovid the strength to break their rebellion completely, exposing how weak the Plishtim’s attempt to bring him down had been all along.

וְעַתָּה מְלָכִים הַשְׂכִּילוּ הִוָּסְרוּ שֹׁפְטֵי אָרֶץ׃

Dovid now turns to the nations and proclaims: “And now, kings, be wise; act intelligently. Be chastened, judges of the earth. Listen carefully, so that you will not need to be rebuked.”

After describing their rebellion and its inevitable defeat, Dovid turns directly to the rulers themselves. Rashi explains that the Jewish prophets are merciful. They rebuke the nations in order to turn them away from evil, because Hashem extends His hand to the wicked as well as to the righteous. The Meiri explains that Dovid is telling them to recognize that his kingship has come from Hashem. How, then, can they think to cancel it?

This is where the mizmor shifts from description to warning and guidance. Dovid urges the nations to act wisely and accept discipline. Rashi emphasizes that this is an act of mercy, as opposed to a threat. Dovid does not seek conflict for its own sake. He is telling them that if they persist, they will bring destruction upon themselves.

עבְדוּ אֶת־ה׳ בְּיִרְאָה וְגִילוּ בִּרְעָדָה׃

“Serve Hashem with awe, and rejoice with trembling.”

Dovid now teaches the nations what true submission to Hashem looks like. Rashi and the Meiri explain עבדו את ה׳ ביראה to mean that they should stand before Hashem with humility. וגילו ברעדה means that they will rejoice in having served Him properly when trembling overtakes those who rebelled against Him, as the pasuk says, אחזה רעדה חנפים.7

The Meiri also suggests other explanations. It can mean that they should show joy even in that which causes them to tremble, since this too is the will of Hashem. Alternatively, it means that even their success should be received as something given by Hashem. They may rejoice in it, but only with trembling, knowing that the same Hashem who gave it can also take it away.

The pasuk itself holds together two emotions that seem to pull in opposite directions. Yirah without joy can become heavy and disconnected, while joy without yirah can become shallow and without boundaries. A real relationship with Hashem requires both. A person must be able to rejoice before Hashem while still trembling before the seriousness of standing in His presence.

נַשְּׁקוּ־בַר פֶּן־יֶאֱנַף  וְתֹאבְדוּ דֶרֶךְ כִּי־יִבְעַר כִּמְעַט אַפּוֹ אַשְׁרֵי כּל־חוֹסֵי בוֹ׃

Equip yourselves with purity of heart, lest He grow angry and you lose the way. For in a brief moment His anger may flare, and, in that moment, the praise of all those who take refuge in Him will become clear.

The final section, especially נשקו בר, is a call to embrace purity and align with Hashem rather than continue rebelling. The closing message is simple: those who take refuge in Hashem are ultimately fortunate, while those who oppose Him lose their way.

נשקו בר is a difficult phrase. One approach understands נשקו as a language of desire, and בר as clarity. According to this, the pasuk means: desire clarity. The Targum understands it as a call to learn carefully, to learn the lessons of Torah so that they will not be punished and Hashem will not need to destroy them.

The Meiri explains it differently. נשקו is from the language of weapons, and בר means purity or cleanliness. The phrase means: wear purity like armor. Arm yourselves with cleanliness and innocence. This means becoming a tzaddik, doing the right thing, and making sure one is aligned.

Otherwise, ותאבדו דרך, you will lose the way and become misaligned. The Meiri explains that this is like a person who loses his path and no longer knows where to turn. Once a person fights what Hashem is building, he may still be moving, but he no longer knows where he is going.

The perek ends:

אשרי כל חוסי בו

Fortunate are all those who lean on Him, meaning those who take refuge in Him.

The ending still has a tone of instruction. Dovid is not only describing what will happen to those who oppose Hashem. He is still teaching them how to turn back. That belongs to our world, the world of bechirah, where a person can still listen, learn, and choose differently.

This historical perspective of the mizmor therefore ends where the inner perspective ended as well. When the world tries to pull itself away from Hashem, the only sane place to be is closer to Him. Perek Beis begins with noise, rebellion, and resistance, but it ends with refuge. The nations rage, kings scheme, and empires imagine themselves powerful, yet the final word belongs to those who know where to stand: אשרי כל חוסי בו.

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Everyone wants the rewards of alignment. Far fewer people want the roots that make it possible.

Chazal teach that there is not an absolute division between the first two chapters of Tehillim. Perek Aleph and Perek Beis are, in some sense, one unit. The Gemara1 notes that this unit begins with אשרי and ends with אשרי, Perek Aleph begins with אשרי האיש, and Perek Beis concludes with אשרי כל חוסי בו.

The Gemara continues that any mizmor of Tehillim that begins with אשרי and ends with אשרי was especially beloved to Dovid HaMelech. Tosafos2 asks why Chazal state this as a general rule if this is the only place in Tehillim that follows that exact pattern.

The Rashba3 explains that the point is broader. It does not have to be specifically אשרי. Rather, when a section concludes in the same way that it begins, it creates a fuller form of praise. The Rashba adds that this is the basis for the structure of many berachos, whose endings reflect their openings.

The Chasam Sofer4 adds that this pattern is embedded in the Torah itself. The Torah opens with בראשית, which contains the letters of אשרי, and closes with ישראל, which also contains the letters of אשרי. In other words, אשרי frames these opening perakim of Tehillim, as well as Chamisha Chumshei Torah.

The Ben Yehoyada5 explains the deeper meaning of אשרי. The letters of אשרי can be rearranged to spell ראשי, “my head.” The head symbolizes chochma, and life is drawn from chochmah, as the pasuk says, והחכמה תחיה בעליה. The Ben Yehoyada brings from the Arizal that illness comes through a withdrawal of the light of chochmah from a person. Therefore, when Dovid HaMelech opened and closed mizmorim with אשרי, he was drawing down the light of chochmah, which is the source of life.

This is especially fitting for Dovid, who constantly sought life because לית ליה מגרמיה כלום, he had nothing of his own. He therefore cried, in a sense, ראשי ראשי, drawing from the light of chochmah through the word אשרי. The Ben Yehoyada adds that this is why Tehillim is uniquely associated with drawing life and healing to the sick.

He then answers Tosafos’ question and explains that when Chazal said the mizmor “ends with אשרי” does not have to mean the actual end of the mizmor. Rather, the point is that אשרי appears twice within the same section. That repetition itself shows that the section was beloved. He gives examples from Perek 32, where the perek begins אשרי נשוי פשע כסוי חטאה and then continues אשרי אדם לא יחשוב ה׳ לו עון, and from Perek 119, which begins אשרי תמימי דרך and continues אשרי נצרי עדתיו.

This itself suggests that the opening and closing אשרי are a key to understanding the unique structure of these two perakim. It frames these two perakim as a movement of life. Perek Aleph describes the person rooted in Torah, drawing life like a tree planted by streams of water. Perek Beis shows what happens when that life-force is challenged by everything that wants to cut it off from its source.

The Be’er Avraham, Rav Avraham ben HaGra, explains this division in the name of his father, the Vilna Gaon. Dovid begins Tehillim by speaking about alignment on the individual level. He describes the person who does not follow the advice of the wicked, does not stand in the path of sinners, and does not sit among scoffers. He becomes rooted, like a tree planted by streams of water.

Perek Beis then moves from the individual to the global, from micro to macro. Once spiritual alignment enters the world, it does not remain private. It begins to shape a people, and anything that shapes Klal Yisrael will eventually be opposed by the nations around them.

The Meiri makes a similar point from a different angle. He explains that this does not mean that the two chapters are literally one mizmor. In all accurate texts of Tehillim throughout history, he notes, they appear as two separate chapters. Rather, Chazal mean that they form one thematic unit. Perek Beis grows out of Perek Aleph.

In the first mizmor, we explained that the central theme is spiritual alignment. At first glance, that does not seem to fit Perek Beis, which speaks about raging nations, kings, rulers, rebellion, and war.

I would suggest that Dovid is showing us two sides of the same reality.

Perek Aleph describes the side of alignment that can be seen. It is the person who becomes like a tree planted by streams of water. He has fruit and leaves, so his life produces something real.

Perek Beis reveals the side that is not immediately visible. While a tree grows upward, it also grows downward. Before it can stand tall above the ground, it must send roots deep beneath the surface. Those roots are hidden, but they are resilient and are what allow the tree to survive the wind, the storm, and even the axe. A tree may be cut down, but if the roots remain alive, it can grow again.

Dovid understood that alignment is not only a revealed state. It is also hidden rootedness. It exists in the visible world of action, speech, and personality, but it also exists in the inner world of attachment, emotion, and spiritual structure. This can be understood through the language of the sefiros, or in simpler human terms, through the inner life of a person who remains connected even when external forces rise against him.

The Meiri brings a deeper understanding of this mizmor before turning to what he considers the more literal meaning, which follows the events of Dovid’s life. According to this first reading, Perek Beis is not only about nations and kings outside of us, it is about the forces that oppose alignment itself.

Perek Aleph ends by telling us that ודרך רשעים תאבד, the way of the wicked will perish. Perek Beis begins by showing us what wickedness does before it disappears - it gathers together to plot different ways to disrupt the alignment between Hashem and His children.

There are three ways to understand the resistance to this alignment as described in our perek. From an inner perspective, it describes the forces that resist alignment within the person himself. From a historical perspective, it describes the nations who rose against Dovid HaMelech after he became king. Finally, from the future-redemption perspective, it describes Gog u’Magog and the final rebellion against Hashem and His Mashiach.

Let us take it one at a time. The Meiri explains the inner perspective.

למה רגשו גוים ולאמים יהגו־ריק. יתיצבו  מלכי־ארץ ורוזנים נוסדו־יחד על־ה׳ ועל־משיחו

The perek begins:

למה רגשו גוים
“Why have the nations gathered?”

The Meiri explains this as follows, since the path of wisdom has already been laid out in Perek Aleph, why do those who chase the successes of this world become so agitated? These are the people called מלכי ארץ, “kings of the earth,” because their entire world is built around earthly success. They pursue power, status, control, and the imagined permanence of this world.

When they attain these imagined successes, they begin to speak על ה׳ ועל משיחו, against Hashem and against His Mashiach. According to the Meiri, משיחו refers to the perfected chacham, the spiritually complete person who is anointed with Hashem’s holy oil.

This person is called anointed because he carries a higher calling. He is not living randomly nor is he simply reacting to life. He has been drawn into the service of Hashem and shaped by it.

The world resists a person who is aligned because the world is built on misalignment. Often, an aligned person does not need to say a word. His very existence exposes the emptiness of a life built only on appetite, ambition, and ego. This emptiness is what the mizmor is referring to - ולאומים יהגו ריק

This is a direct continuation of Perek Aleph. There, Dovid described the rasha as chaff blown by the wind. Here, he describes what that chaff sounds like before the wind carries it away. They may sound powerful and appear successful. But if their entire world is severed from Hashem, then beneath all the noise is emptiness.

There is something about a truly rooted person that unsettles the unrooted.

The nations therefore say:

ננתקה את־מוסרותימו ונשליכה ממנו עבתימו. יושב בשמים ישחק אדני ילעג־למו. אז ידבר אלימו באפו ובחרונו יבהלמו. ואני נסכתי מלכי על־ציון הר־קדשי.

They go so far as to say:

ננתקה את מוסרותימו
“Let us tear off their restraints.”

The Meiri explains that this means casting off the yoke of Malchus Shamayim and the yoke of mitzvos.

In other words, the resistance is to the idea of believing in Hashem as well as the idea that a person’s life is supposed to be tied to something above himself.

The fantasy of freedom is having no yoke. The tragedy is becoming chaff.

This is not exactly an ancient problem. A lot of people today are allergic to authority. They do not want anyone telling them what to do, but more than that, they do not want to belong deeply enough for anyone to have the right to challenge them. They do not want a rav or a rebbe. They prefer a minyan over a shul, because a minyan asks very little of you. You can show up, daven, leave, and remain untouched. Nobody has to know you, guide you, correct you, or ask whether the version of yourself you are protecting is actually the person you are meant to become.

There is something deeply familiar about ננתקה את מוסרותימו. It is the inner voice that says, “I do not want to be tied down. I do not want to answer to anything higher than my own will.”

Dovid HaMelech teaches the opposite. A person with no ties may seem free, but he is loose, movable, and eventually weightless. A tree is not alive despite its roots, but because of them. The roots may seem like they trap the tree, while in truth they hold it in place, feed it, and allow it to survive the wind.

The same is true of Torah and mitzvos. They are not ropes that trap the soul. They are the rooted attachments that keep a person connected to Hashem, to purpose, to truth, and to his own deepest self. Some people see those ties as something to tear away. Dovid sees them as the source of life.

That is why Hashem’s response is laughter:

יושב בשמים ישחק
“He Who sits in Heaven laughs.”

The Meiri explains this as a metaphor. Hashem laughs because their success is not real success and their power is not real power. It is temporary, fragile, and absurd. It is a branch declaring independence from the tree.

In the end:

אז ידבר אלימו באפו ובחרונו יבהלמו
“Then He will speak to them in His anger, and in His fury He will terrify them.”

And then Hashem says about the perfected person:

ואני נסכתי מלכי על־ציון הר־קדשי
“I have installed My king upon Zion, My holy mountain.”

According to this first pshat in the Meiri, this refers to the perfected person, the one aligned with Hashem. He becomes connected to ציון הר קדשי, the place of ultimate spiritual perfection.

This is the opposite of מלכי ארץ. They are kings of earth, while he is connected to the mountain of holiness. They seek imagined power, while he seeks Divine attachment. They want to tear off the restraints, while he understands that those very restraints are what make him real.

The aligned person then says:

אספרה אל חוק ה׳ אמר אלי בני אתה אני היום ילדתיך
“I will tell of the decree: Hashem said to me, ‘You are My son; today I have begotten you.’”

The Meiri explains that this refers to the perfected person’s closeness to Hashem, in the manner of the pasuk, הוא יקראני אבי אתה, “He will call Me: You are my Father”6. The language of birth is a metaphor for spiritual formation. A person who becomes aligned with Hashem begins to reflect Him according to his ability and is, in a sense, born into a new level of existence.

This is similar to the way the Tomer Devorah understands לשארית נחלתו. Klal Yisrael is not merely attached to Hashem from the outside; we are bound to Him with the closeness of she’er basar, like one’s own flesh.

This is the opposite of the earlier rebellion. The nations wanted to sever the connection with Hashem in order to become free. The aligned person discovers that real freedom comes from being formed by Hashem. He is not less himself because he is connected; he becomes more himself because he is connected.

From there, Hashem says:

שאל ממני ואתנה גוים נחלתך ואחזתך אפסי־ארץ. תרעם בשבט ברזל ככלי יוצר תנפצם. ועתה מלכים השכילו הוסרו שפטי ארץ. עבדו את־ה׳ ביראה וגילו ברעדה. נשקו־בר פן־יאנף  ותאבדו דרך כי־יבער כמעט אפו אשרי כל־חוסי בו {פ}

The Meiri explains שאל ממני, “Ask of Me,” to mean that the wise person, the truly aligned person, is able to rule over others. This does not only mean formal power, rather it means that inner alignment creates influence. A person who governs himself properly becomes capable of guiding others. Real power is not the ability to throw off restraint. Real power is the ability to be tied to the right thing so deeply that nothing lower can dominate you.

The perek then tells us that the success of those who resist Hashem will come to an end:

תרעם בשבט ברזל
“You shall break them with an iron rod.”

But even then, the perek does not end with destruction. It turns back to instruction:

ועתה מלכים השכילו הוסרו שפטי ארץ
“And now, kings, understand; be disciplined, judges of the earth.”

Even the kings of earth are told that they can still understand. They can still learn. They can still redirect themselves. As it says:

עבדו את ה׳ ביראה וגילו ברעדה
“Serve Hashem with awe, and rejoice with trembling.”

The Meiri explains this as a call to stand before Hashem with humility. Humility means recognizing that all success comes from Him and can be taken by Him.

This may also be why the pasuk holds together two emotions that seem to pull in opposite directions: עבדו את ה׳ ביראה וגילו ברעדה. Avodas Hashem is not flat. It is not joy without seriousness, and it is not fear without hope. Real closeness to Hashem means learning how to hold both at once. A person can rejoice, but that joy must know how fragile success is. He can tremble, but that trembling must still know that Hashem is near.

Joy without humility becomes ego, and ego eventually becomes rebellion.

Finally:

נשקו בר פן יאנף ותאבדו דרך כי יבער כמעט אפו אשרי כל חוסי בו
“Arm yourselves with purity, lest He become angry and you lose the way; for His anger may soon burn. Fortunate are all who take refuge in Him.”

The Meiri explains נשקו בר as “arm yourselves with purity.” The weapon against rebellion is not more noise. It is purity, innocence, and cleanliness of soul.

A person loses his way when he tears off the bonds that were meant to guide him. Once he removes the yoke of Torah and mitzvos and severs his connection to Hashem, he may still be moving, but he no longer knows where he is going.

When the rootless begin to fall, the task is not to fall with them. The task is to remain aligned and deepen the roots. The more those roots push through the hard and stubborn ground of the inner world, the more alive the tree becomes above ground. The hidden work beneath the surface is what allows the visible life above ground to bear fruit.

The perek ends with an eternal message of return: no matter how disconnected a person may feel, he can always come back and take refuge in Him.

אשרי כל חוסי בו

This is the inner perspective of Perek Beis. The world outside us rages because something inside us also resists being rooted. The solution to both the micro and the macro is deeper attachment amidst the temptation to escape.

Note: This project is developing as I continue learning, and I may update this post as new sources or clearer understandings emerge. In the next post, I will explore the historical understanding of this mizmor, centered on Dovid HaMelech and the Plishtim. In the third post, I will explore the future perspective of Gog u’Magog. Please share any feedback, questions, corrections, or comments in the comments section below.

Thank you for learning along with me.

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You watch Curious George as a kid and see a monkey making trouble.

You watch it as a father and suddenly respect the Man with the Yellow Hat. He is one of us, a tired guy who works hard, raises a chaotic little kid, and somehow does it without yelling or losing it.

Hats off to him.

Then you wonder if Hashem looks at us the same way, with all our chaos and all our messes, and somehow still has that much patience.

Maybe that is why everything always works out for George in the end. Not because he deserves it, but because someone is watching over him the whole time.

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Tehillim The Language Of The Soul

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As we explained in the introduction, Tehillim gives expression to every state of the human soul. It is a structure that shows us from the very start , how a person should be aligned spiritually.

Tehillim begins:

“אַשְׁרֵי־הָאִישׁ אֲשֶׁר לֹא הָלַךְ בַּעֲצַת רְשָׁעִים וּבְדֶרֶךְ חַטָּאִים לֹא עָמָד וּבְמוֹשַׁב לֵצִים לֹא יָשָׁב”

The Targum translates Ashrei as טוביה דגבר, “the good of man.” A person is considered good when he is spiritually aligned.

Rav Aharon Kotler1 explains that the continuation of the pasuk teaches that even when a person is spiritually aligned, he must remain cognizant of his surroundings. The moment that alignment weakens, he begins to slide down a slippery slope.

Rav Elchanan Wasserman2 adds that a person cannot assume that nothing will happen to him. One must always be careful to maintain that alignment.

It is interesting that Dovid HaMelech chose to begin Tehillim in a negative tense. Instead of describing that one is fortunate to walk with tzaddikim, stand with the up…

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Pesach Essays 5786

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This time of year, between Purim and Pesach, is often challenging as we transition from winter into spring and begin preparing for Yom Tov.

This year, Parashas Zachor came together with the eradication of the Haman of our times. The weeks since then have been both harrowing and miraculous. Yes, we are at war. Yes, there are indiscriminate missiles that soar over our heads in an unpredictable fashion. Yes, we are privileged to live in a land of miracles. At the same time, yes, the anxiety and tension are tangible.

As Purim approached, people began speaking about the ‘imminent’ Geulah. The words of the Bnei Yissaschar spread rapidly: that the beginning of the Geulah would be on Purim and culminate with the destruction of Amalek on Erev Pesach. Geulah is in the air.

WhatsApp groups, with hundreds of members, are learning the halachos of Korban Pesach. People are quietly hoping that this year’s Chol HaMoed trip will be to Yeru…

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This project is an attempt to understand Tehillim more deeply. Tehillim is a central part of Jewish life, with its perakim forming much of our tefillah and its pesukim shaping our songs of yearning and inspiration.

While we do not necessarily know the precise order in which Tehillim was written, nor the authorship of every chapter, the order we have is rooted in our mesorah. There are ten expressions of praise found throughout Tehillim—ניצוח, ניגון, מזמור, שיר, הלל, תפילה, ברכה, הודאה, אשרי, and הללויה—each reflecting a different mode of song, prayer, or spiritual expression.

This structure corresponds to the ten primary contributors to Tehillim, aside from Dovid Hamelech: Adam, Avraham, Malki Tzedek, Asaf, Heiman, Yedusun, the three sons of Korach—Asir, Elkana, and AviAsaf—and Moshe Rabbeinu…

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Dedicated L’ilui Nishmas my friend and neighbor, Rabbi Simcha Lauer (ר׳ שמחה יצחק בן אליעזר ע״ה), who moved up to the Yeshiva Shel Maala this week after a difficult illness. Simcha was an early supporter of this blog and contributed toward supporting it.

In memory of Simcha, I am offering a 20 percent discount on subscriptions. Subscribers can access all the content here while also supporting my work.

May we have easy, pleasant days ahead and merit the geula b’karov.

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Originally written in 2023

The Jewish people are gathered together, awaiting Moshe Rabbeinu's delivery of the grand plan of the Mishkan and eagerly anticipating its unveiling. For the past 2.5 Parashiyos, Moshe has been learning the plan from Hashem, and now it is time to relay it to the people. Despite the excitement surrounding this momentous occasion, Moshe begins by emphasizing the importance of observing Shabbos, before delving into the fundraising pitch and assembly instructions for the dwelling place of God. Why does Moshe start off with the sanctity of Shabbos instead of starting like Hashem did with the fundraising pitch of the Mishkan, after all we already knew about Shabbos from Sinai?

In his sefer Mei HaShiloach, the Izhbitzer teaches us1 that Shabbos serves as a reminder that before undertaking any action, one must have a clear understanding that it aligns with the will of Hashem. Otherwise, it is not permissible to proceed with that action.

He teaches further;2 The Torah tells us that  “A man shall fear his mother and father, and you shall keep my Shabbos’ ….”3

The Izhbitzer explains based on the Zohar4 that this represents three factors that one must consider before taking any action. Firstly, one must ensure their actions align with God's will, as symbolized by keeping Shabbos. Secondly, one must ensure that their actions do not harm the community, which is represented by honoring the father. The father's role is to impart knowledge to the son, even if it may temporarily cause distress, as the father knows it is ultimately for the son's benefit. Lastly, one must confirm that their actions will not cause harm to themselves, as symbolized by honoring the mother. The mother desires the son to follow the path of good, even if it goes against their wishes, without causing them unnecessary suffering.

To gain a deeper understanding of this concept, we can refer to a fundamental idea of the Mirrer mashgiach, Rav Yerucham Levovitz5. He first quotes the Meforshim who explain that it would have been impossible for Betzalel to possess the necessary knowledge and skills to build the Mishkan, considering the Bnei Yisrael were professional mud brick makers while in Mitzrayim and were unfamiliar with precious metals and their craftsmanship. Therefore, Hashem promised Moshe that He would provide Betzalel with all the knowledge required to complete the task at hand.

Next, Rav Yerucham quotes from the Midrash6 where Moshe asks Hashem about the identity of Betzalel. In response, Hashem shows Moshe the book of Adam HaRishon, which contains the lineage of all future generations until Techiyas HaMeisim. The leaders, prophets, and kings of each generation were predetermined at the beginning of time, including Betzalel.

The Mashgiach then offers a profound interpretation of this Midrash. He explains that before Adam's chet, everything was perfect, but with the chet came a loss of shleimus (completeness) and man became imperfect. In order to return to a state of perfection, man must undergo a 6,000 year process of tikkun (repair) to rectify and regain the state of shleimus that existed before the chet.

Furthermore, Rav Yerucham suggests that the book of Adam HaRishon was not a physical book, but rather Adam himself was the book. This means that before the chet, all future generations, including Betzalel, were in a state of perfection within Adam. Hashem was showing Moshe that Betzalel's perfection and mastery of the skills required to build the Mishkan were already predetermined in the book of Adam HaRishon.

Rav Yerucham then offers an explanation as to why Hashem used the book of Adam HaRishon to prove His point about Betzalel. He explains that this was to teach us the fundamental principle that the foundation of every person's creation, which is already engraved in the book of Adam HaRishon, is essential for their future to be maintained. A thinking individual who seeks to understand where their main focus and efforts should be directed, to achieve their maximum potential, in order to fulfill their purpose, must first look at their past. They should thoroughly examine it to recognize its root and beginning. By using their history and past to inform the work they do on their future, they will be assured of success and the continuity of their future.

I am sharing the original language of the Mashgiach, as it so beautiful.

אלא כי ללמדנו בא, כי בלתי יסוד יצירת כל אדם ואדם אשר חקוק כבר בספרו של אדם הראשון, לא יכול להתקיים עתידו, איש אשר רוח בו ומשתוקק לדעת הסתגלותו במה להשים עמלו ומגמתו כל ימי חייו, ראשית הכל עליו לראות ולספר להכין וגם לחקור היטב היטב את העבר שלו, ולהכיר שרשו והתחלתו, ואז כאשר יעמיד עבודת עתידו קבל העבר שלו, היינו שימשוך עתידו ממקור עברו, כי אז בטוח ודאי יהיה בהצלחת וקיום עתידו. 

This is what Hashem was showing Moshe. In order for Betzalel to be successful, it was necessary that Hashem show Moshe the essence of Betzalel, which is in the book Adam HaRishon, since the beginning of time.  As we explained that in the past, before the chet, everything was already perfectly fixed in practice, completed and whole. Consequently, to continue the future, only a light moment is needed, to pause and reflect and direct the attention towards the future.

Rav Yerucham stresses that one should not misunderstand this as the common way of understanding the matter of Koach and Poel, where receiving the potential is seen as something new in actuality, but in truth, everything is already completely fixed and finished, and what is lacking is just something small - the pause, the moment of reflection. 

During a conversation with my Rav, Rav Gerzi, he shared with me a captivating insight from the Arizal7. As previously mentioned, we all originate from Adam and are part of him. While this is commonly understood to explain multi-generational trauma, it also accounts for multi-generational wisdom. By reflecting on his past, Betzalel was able to tap into the wisdom of Adam, which enabled him to understand how to do his work and build the future.

Perhaps we can bridge the worlds of Mir and Izhbitz with Rav Jonathan Sacks, he writes: 

“The redemptive self does not live in the moment, it lives in the future made possible by the present, and in the story that reveals itself only in retrospect.”8

In other words, Rav Sacks is emphasizing the importance of looking beyond the present moment and considering how our actions and choices today will impact our future selves. The "story" of our lives is something that is revealed gradually over time, and it is only through reflection and introspection that we can fully appreciate the journey we have been on and the progress we have made towards our goals. 

As the Izhbitzer explains, Shabbos serves as a time for individuals to reflect on how their actions are affecting themselves, their communities, and their relationship with Hashem. Rather than seeking short-term pleasure, it is a time to consider the long-term consequences of one's actions. For instance, while indulging in too much sugar may provide immediate enjoyment, it can ultimately harm one's body. A wise person thinks beyond momentary satisfaction and considers their overall well-being.

Moreover, when making decisions, individuals should consider not only their own benefit but also the impact on the community as a whole. Actions that are harmful to the community or against God's will will not bring true benefit. By reflecting on these things, we can then reflect on the past and work to build a better future, as was the case with the construction of the Mishkan.

However, if we fail to contemplate where we came from and how our actions are affecting ourselves and those around us, we cannot hope to have the Mishkan - a symbol of the future - in our midst. Therefore, the role of the Mishkan, Shabbos, and each individual is the same: take a moment to pause and reflect on our foundations and where we are building further. By doing so, we can lead more perfected lives and ultimately achieve tikkun.

As we yearn for the building of the third Beis Hamikdash and the arrival of the era of Mashiach, let us take a few moments each day to pause and reflect on why we are doing what we are doing, whether our actions align with the Ratzon Hashem, and how they impact ourselves and those around us. In doing so, we can pave the way towards a brighter future.

Wishing you a meaningful Shabbos,

Shui

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Thanks to my brother Tzvi Hirsch for assisting me with this post and some of the translations.

Did you ever wonder why we end Shabbos with a passuk from Megillas Esther, but we don’t make havdala from Purim?

I can’t say that I’ve been losing sleep over it, but it has been on my mind for some time. So, in order to get some clarity, I went on a deep journey with the help of teachings of Shira Smiles, Michal Horowitz, Rav Dov Winston and Rav Aryeh Cohen.

Let’s start off with some insight into what Shabbos could mean to us with the exploration of Friday night Kiddush.

The first part of kiddush are passukim from the second perek of Bereshis, of which, the last few words are “Asher Bara Elokim La’asos”. One might wonder why the passuk doesn’t end with Elokim - That HaShem created. What is the la’asos coming to add? There is so much that it adds, but for the purpose of this dvar Torah, I’m quoting the Chizkuni who says that La’asos is simply L’taken, to fix.

Rebbitzin Shira Smiles explains the concept further:

“When Hashem created Adam, He breathed into him his soul and clothed him in a …

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Tezaveh 5786 Bigdei Kehunah For Extra Ordinary And Ordinary Jews

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This past week I had the opportunity to be at the Shalosh Seudas tish of Rav Yitzchak Meir Morgenstern in Yerushalayim. Being in the presence of an Ish Kadosh was certainly a surreal experience. One of the interesting things I noticed was that the Rebbe wears a white bekeshe on Shabbos. Now this may seem typical of Rebbes and Mekubalim, but for someone whose every move is calculated and is obsessed with kedusha, I was curious as to why he chose to wear white. I decided to try to understand the significance of wearing white on Shabbos.

Until now, the people I know who wear white on Shabbos, share a certain Tzfat vibe. Perhaps trying to mimic the custom of mekubalim of old to wear white for Shabbos. It is something that seemingly did not fully survive the move into modern life. As I learned more about this enigmatic minhag, I realized that I was missing the point and how it is wholly integrated with the theme of our parashah, the bigdei kehunah.

The western world has an oft quoted idiom …

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Terumah 5786 Grasping The Ungraspable

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This week’s parashah is deeply instructional, yet confounding. It discusses the requirements for the Mishkan, with the central items including the Aron, Menorah, Shulchan, Kerashim, Mizbe’ach, and the coverings of the Mishkan.

As I reviewed the parashah, two questions stood out. One is asked by virtually everyone, and the other is asked by virtually no one.

The parashah begins with the mitzvah of terumah, however the wording is strange:

וְיִקְחוּ לִי תְּרוּמָה — “They should take for Me a donation.”

A bit later the purpose becomes clear when Hashem commands that they make Him a Mikdash, “so that I may dwell amongst them.”

There are 2 questions that are asked by the meforshim.

First, why does the Torah say, “Tell Bnei Yisrael to take for Me gifts”? Hashem is instructing Moshe to collect donations, and it seems it should say, “Tell Bnei Yisrael to give Me gifts.”

Second, why does the Torah say, “And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them” (ושכנתי בתוכם)? It seems it should s…

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Mishpatim 5786 The Ascent Of Coming Down

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Our downstairs neighbors have a pet cat that seems to be engaged in a mostly futile attempt to bring home the neighborhood pigeons for dinner. The pigeons fly higher and the cat is left perched on our porch, or sometimes even on the porch above us, trying to figure out how to get back down. That is usually when a small rescue mission begins.

After this happened a number of times, I started to wonder why we talk so much about climbing, but so little about coming back down? We praise ascent and romanticize growth, yet the real challenge may not be the climb itself. The real problem may be getting stuck, like that cat, scrambling upward with intensity and then realizing there is no graceful way back down.

David HaMelech writes in Tehillim1, מי־יעלה בהר ה׳ ומי יקום במקום קדשו, “Who will ascend the mountain of Hashem, and who will stand in His holy place?” The Shem MiShmuel2, citing the Maggid of Kozhnitz, explains that while ascending the mountain of Hashem may seem like the achievement, the …

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Yisro 5786 Make Space For The Light

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How many times do I find myself doomscrolling through social media and losing track of time? After a while I realized that I have an unhealthy obsession with news and anything that piques my curiosity. I catch myself feeling that it’s almost as if being a responsible person means being emotionally plugged into the entire planet. Then, I realize that this need to know creates an information bank, but doesn’t necessarily create wisdom. More often, it simply generates anxiety, tension and the need to chase the next hit of dopamine.

This week, in a shiur with my mentor, Rav Yehoshua Gerzi, we spoke about the concept of daas. Daas is many things, but at its simplest level, it’s intentional thinking. It’s the awareness that fills the space between stimulus and response. We discussed how thoughts, feelings, and emotions are not the same as our neshama; they’re the domain of the nefesh. Daas is the conscious choice of what you let into your space. It’s the ability to live inside your own life …

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Beshalach 5786

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After the miraculous crossing of the Yam Suf, Bnei Yisrael began their journey through the midbar. Shortly after, the nation complained of hunger and Hashem sent them angelic food from heaven: the manna. Each day, they gathered exactly what they needed.

This continued all week, until on Friday, the people discovered a double portion. They were surprised and confused, so they approached Moshe. Only then did he inform them that the following day would be a day of rest: “Tomorrow is a day of rest, a holy Shabbos for Hashem. Whatever you wish to bake, bake today…”1. Moshe instructed them not to go out to collect on Shabbos because nothing would fall. This was the first time they were encountering Shabbos as lived reality.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe2 explains that the Jewish people already knew of Shabbos as an idea, a future reality they would one day be commanded to live by. Their confusion stemmed from encountering it in action before hearing it presented as a direct command.

That raises an obvi…

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Bo 5786

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Every home carries invisible signs.

Those signs may appear in our habits, which flow into our way of life. They are also in the memories we create and the values we protect.

We often take these signs for granted. After all, they are invisible. Yet at certain moments it becomes important to notice them and to ask what truly makes a home ours. What do we believe? What patterns shape our days? Is this the life we want our home to reflect? Are we creating the memories we hope will one day define it?

This question stands at the heart of Parashas Bo, when we encounter the mitzvah of the korban Pesach and the command to mark the doorposts with blood.

The Torah tells us some of the intricacies of the korban Pesach:

When slaughtering the lamb or kid for the korban Pesach, the blood must be collected in a basin. Some of that blood is then placed on the two doorposts and on the lintel of the houses in which the korban will be eaten. The Torah explains how the blood will serve as an os, a sign that pr…

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Shemos 5786

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Sefer Bereishis teaches us about the sin of the Etz HaDaas, which sent mankind out of Gan Eden and cut off our access to the Ohr Ein Sof, now the Ohr HaGanuz. From there, the Avos and the Shevatim work to draw that light into our world and guide it back toward tikkun, returning creation to the clarity of before the sin.

In Bereishis, we chased the Ohr Ein Sof as it flashed through beginnings and promises. In Shemos, the light lies dormant, and we learn to live through darkness as refinement brings it back into view.Sefer Shemos enters another exile in Mitzrayim, and then follows the path toward redemption.

One way to contrast Sefer Bereishis and Sefer Shemos is through the difference between the teivah of Noach and the teivah of Moshe.

There are many distinctions between the two, but one detail stands out: how each one was waterproofed. Noach’s teivah was coated with tar on the outside and the inside. Moshe’s teivah was coated with tar only on the outside, and the inside was lined with c…

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Shabbos Vayechi

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We have been learning about the great light, the Ohr Ein Sof, the Ohr hidden with Creation. The Ohr that Noach lacked the vessel to hold, that Avraham carried, that Yitzchak integrated with strength and peace. It is the same Ohr that Yaakov sought through darkness, tasted in moments of clarity, and then met again through concealment. This Ohr does not pass directly from Yaakov to his children, and it is not even given to the seeming heirs, Yehuda and Yosef. Instead Yaakov’s last words act as a prism. They name the vessels that carry the hidden Ohr through concealment, until it refracts as geulah.

Once Yaakov spoke to each shevet about its destiny ,then we see what becomes of this light. The Ohr Ein Sof remains mostly concealed, resting dormant inside the shevatim, until the end of days, a time of absolute darkness. At that time, the dormant traits which Yaakov named will begin to shine. They will each refract the same hidden Ohr in its own way, like a prism, and together they open the …

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Shabbos Vayigash

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Chanukah is over and now we miss the flames that were our most tangible connection to the Ohr HaGanuz. They appear to be gone with their oil used up, yet the light lives on. It moved into our neshamas. Now we need to make sure we do not extinguish that light for the soul of Chanukah stays with us all year round.

Recently, I noticed a tea light starting to flicker out. The wick somehow got dislodged from the little metal piece on the bottom. I tried to straighten it and in the process the flame got extinguished. I tried to relight it by bringing another flame close so it could catch and was unsuccessful. It hit me that some lights do not respond to pressure. They need a different angle, maybe a trimmed wick, fresh air, or patience.

People tend to be like that too. When someone seems far from the Source of light, our instinct is to push, nudge, or flood them with our glow and hope it catches. However the way to keep a candle burning is gentler. The key to success is to clear the draft, wa…

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Shabbos Miketz

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This has been a confusing week. On one hand, we saw darkness and hate in a way that rattled us to our very core. On the other hand, we have been lighting up our homes every night with Chanukah candles. We have been living a week of darkness and light. We have been living a week of reality. Reality keeps moving, and we keep moving with it, as hard as that may be.

This is the message of Parashas Miketz. Yosef shows how to preserve light inside darkness without romanticizing the darkness, while Shabbos shows that light can arrive from Above even when nothing down here feels ready for it.

Previously, we learned the idea that the segments of Yaakov’s life where he spent decades living with Lavan, needing to find the light in the darkness. Then he went back to Canaan, a place of light but beset with shadows and lingering darkness, setting a foundation for his children, primarily Yosef and Yehuda. As discussed, Yosef represents the light that survives the darkness, Yehuda represents the darkne…

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