Rabbi's Corner

On the second day of Pesach (Passover) we read the following: “And from the day on which you bring the Omer Hatenufah (the Sheaf of Elevation Offering),…you shall count off seven weeks.  They must be complete: you must count until the day after the seventh week --- fifty days…” (VaYikra 23:15-16) We began the period of Sefirat HaOmer (the Counting of the Omer) on the second night of Pesach and will conclude it on the day before Shavuot.  With this in mind, it stands to reason that Pesach and Shavuot are connected: the beginning of this period starts with Pesach, the liberation from the slavery of Mitzrayim (Egypt) by the outstretched arm of HaShem, and it culminates fifty days later with Shavuot, the giving of the Torah by Hashem to B’nei Yisrael at Har Sinai (Mount Sinai).  During the forty-nine days of Sefirat HaOmer, we are engaged in the process of preparing ourselves to receive the Torah from Hashem.  Rabbi Natan of Breslov writes that the forty-nine days of Sefirat HaOmer correspond to the forty-nine gates of teshuva (repentance/returning).  He teaches that the reciting of Tehillim (Psalms) each day opens one of the gates of teshuva each day.  Therefore, he says, it is extremely important to recite Tehillim each day during Sefirat HaOmer. (Kitzur Likutei Moharan, 63:2) Perhaps the following Chasidic parable will help to explain why:

Yashka the farmer worked exceedingly hard to prepare his field for corn planting in the Spring.  His hands were scarred and bloody from gripping the leather reigns in order to keep his mighty ox walking in a straight line while plowing each furrow, and every muscle in his strained back “cried out” in pain.  When the field was finally ready for planting, Yashka lovingly placed each seed in the ground as if it were a valuable gem.  When all was said and done, Yashka would then pray for the blessing of rain that would trigger the seed’s germination and subsequent growth.

Yashka gained tremendous satisfaction from weeding the furrows of the stout young corn plants.  He believed that seeing the lush green stalks made all of his hard work worthwhile.  He looked forward to the expected bumper crop of corn, but, alas, his joy was short-lived.  As soon as the fertilized corn flowers turned into baby seed cobs, the expected crows appeared.  The minute he saw and heard the cawing black-feathered menaces descend upon his corn field, Yashka ran out of his thatched-roofed house with his pitchfork in hand and attempted to chase the crows away.  However, no sooner would he leave the field after chasing them away, the crows would then reappear.  After being disgusted at the number of times his attempts to remove the crows failed, Yashka erected a scarecrow in the middle of the field.  This worked for a couple of days, but as soon as the clever birds realized that this straw-filled figure wearing Yashka’s old hat and shirt was both lifeless and harmless, they once again descended upon the cornfield.

After a moment’s thought, Yashka came up with a new idea.  His cornfield was exposed to prevailing breezes from all four directions.  He carved a special flute out of a reed and put it on the scarecrow’s mouth.  When the wind would blow every fifteen minutes, it would pass through the flute and make such an amazing loud sound spanning a three-octave range that it scared the crows away each time.  Because the flute “did its job,” Yashka was able to reap a full crop of golden yellow corn.

In this Chasidic parable, Yashka’s plowing and preparation of the field for planting is symbolic of how we prepare for Pesach.  The days the corn grew between the planting of the seed and the harvest of the ripened corn are symbolic of Sefirat HaOmer.  Yashka’s corn harvest is symbolic of our receiving the Torah.  The crows are symbolic of the worldly temptations which try to keep us from fulfilling our spiritual destiny.  The scarecrow is symbolic of our being unable to rise above those temptations.  The prevailing breezes which passed through the flute stuck in the scarecrow’s mouth are symbolic of our rising above those temptations by reciting Tehillim in the effort to become fully prepared to receive the Torah.  For by receiving the Torah and thereby bringing it into this world, we, Am Yisrael (the People Israel), have also brought into this world both material and spiritual abundance not only for us but for all people everywhere.

In Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers), a tractate of the Mishnah which is read every on every Shabbat between Pesach and Rosh Hashanah, we find the following: “…for you can have no freer man than one who is engaged in the study of Torah.” (Pirkei Avot 6:2) When we received the Torah, we became a truly free people.  May this Pesach of 5781 bring a year of abundance, freedom, and peace not only to Am Yisrael but to all people everywhere.

In this week’s parashah, Parashat VaYikra, we read the following: “HaShem called to Moshe and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting saying: ‘Speak to B’nei Yisrael and say to them: “When any of you presents an offering of cattle to HaShem, he shall choose his offering from the herd or from the flock…He shall bring it to the Tent of Meeting for acceptance on his behalf before HaShem…He shall lay his hand upon the head of the burnt offering that it may be acceptable on his behalf in expiation for him…and the Kohen shall turn the whole into smoke on the mizbayach (altar) as a burnt offering, an offering by fire of pleasing odor to Hashem.”’” (Sefer Vayikra 1:1-4 &9) This burnt offering is known as the “Olah” for it goes up in smoke in its entirety.  It was a mandatory sacrifice that was offered twice each day, both at Shacharit and at Mincha services in both the Mishkan and each of the Temples.  Our sages taught that the Torah’s command to burn all of the “Olah” on the altar means that Kohen received no part of this sacrifice for himself and that its entire burning upon the altar was pleasing to Hashem.  But the question which must be asked is this: Was the “Olah” really pleasing to Hashem because of its odor?  Perhaps the following Chasidic parable will answer this question:

The King’s Cabernet wines were the best anywhere.  The rich brown soil of the sun-drenched vineyards yielded plump, premium wine grapes that surpassed those of the world’s most famous chateau plantations.  However, the King’s wines were not for sale.  Instead, they were given as rewards to those fortunate few who served the benevolent monarch with extraordinary dedication.  There was one stipulation that the King made to those whom he honored: they must bring their own perfectly clean, oak-hewn cask.  Without it, they could not claim their prize.

For twenty years the King’s personal valet had served his master faithfully and steadfastly.  On the occasion of a royal banquet in honor of the King’s birthday, the King decided to pay special tribute to his trusted servant.  The King wanted all his subjects to see how even a simple servant could, with complete dedication, attain the prestige that was normally reserved only for noblemen.  The valet dutifully prepared an empty oak-hewn cask for his regal prize.  But while the cask was clean, it still had the musty aroma of the peasant wine he was accustomed to drinking.  After inspecting the cask, the King declared: “This cask is not yet fit for the royal wine.  It is clean, but its strong aroma will overcome the delicate bouquet of my royal wine.  We cannot allow that to happen!”  The valet asked: ‘Then what must I do, Your Majesty?”  “Take the cask apart, plane and sandpaper each stave until it is perfectly smooth, clean, and devoid of any trace of other wines.  Leave the staves to dry and sweeten in the direct sunlight for a week, reassemble the cask, and then you will have a perfect vessel for my wine,” replied the King.  “If my wine is mixed with anything else --- with even the slightest hint of a foreign wine --- then it could conceivably cause you harm.  But when you drink it in its intended pure state, it will benefit you!”

The faithful valet fulfilled all of the King’s instructions to the letter.  One week later, he presented his perfectly clean cask to the King who then proceeded to fill it with his rare vintage Royal Cabernet wine.  Throughout the Kingdom everyone spoke of the faithful valet, the person of utter simplicity who earned the King’s most prestigious award.

          In Likutei Moharan, 1:4.7, Rebbe Nachman of Breslov explains that being praised can be dangerous as it is liable to cause a person to become arrogant.  But when a person attributes all of his or her success to Hashem’s blessing and Divine assistance, then receiving praise will not be detrimental at all.  In the Chasidic parable, the King’s wine is symbolic of receiving praise and success.  The King’s servant is symbolic of the Kohen at the mizbayach.  Our Tradition teaches that the members of the priestly clan enjoyed status, power, and wealth.  When any other type of sacrifice was offered up on the altar, the Kohen was rewarded with specific portions of the sacrifice.  However, not so with the “Olah.”  The Torah commands the Kohen first and foremost to perform the sacrifice of the “Olah” with no thought of personal gain, i.e.- without thinking of himself.  Through the “Olah,” the Kohen has the ability to serve Hashem selflessly.  Through the “Olah,” the Kohen realizes that the ability to serve as a priest in the Beit HaMikdash (the Temple) is not due to his own talent or skill.  It is simply due to Hashem’s benevolence and love for having brought him into this world as a member of the priestly clan.

Am Yisrael has a special status with Hashem in that we are partners with H-m in the Eternal Covenant made at Har Sinai (Mount Sinai).  Although the vast majority of the People Israel are not members of the priestly clan, we must act as if we are by performing mitzvot with no ulterior motives.  By doing so we will provide a “pleasing aroma” to Hashem Who, in turn, will bring us blessing, happiness, and shalom.

In this week’s parashah, Parashat Ki Tissa, we read the following: “And Moshe stood at the gate of the camp, and he said: ‘Whoever is for HaShem [shall come] to me!’  And all the Children of Levi gathered to him.” (Shemot 32:26) The great Bible commentator Rashi indicates that not one single Levi participated in the sin of the “Eygel HaZahav” (“the Golden
Calf”).  The Midrash which cites Rashi’s commentary tells us that Satan (not “the Devil” of Christianity) created an atmosphere of darkness, chaos, and confusion causing fear and anxiety among the B’nei Yisrael due to Moshe’s tarrying at the top of Har Sinai.  The B’nei Yisrael lost all their patience in waiting for Moshe to return, thought that he had perished on top of Har Sinai, and thus fell into the sin of idolatry.  Nu?  Why were the Levi’im able to maintain their patience while the rest of the B’nei Yisrael could not?  Perhaps the following Chasidic parable will provide us with an answer:

Two of the King’s guardsmen, both being engaged to be married, were called away to war.  Before they joined their comrades on the battlefield, each was allowed to bid farewell to his respective fiancé.  The first guardsman, a young officer of noble heritage, gave his intended, the refined daughter of one of the King’s most rusted ministers, a very rare gift.  “My darling,” he said, “this ring has been in my family for generations.  I now give it to you as a token of my becoming forever bound to you.  Hopefully, we will be able to pass on this heirloom to further generations of our family.  So, I ask that no matter what happens, you will pray for me, you will be strong for me, and you will believe in your heart that sooner or later I will come home to you and you alone!”  He then made his tearful exit.  The second guardsman, a brave young officer of “common-folk” lineage, presented his fiancé, the daughter of a fishmonger, flowers and sweets.  Within a week, the flowers had wilted and all the chocolates had been eaten.  Shortly thereafter, the fishmonger’s daughter forgot about the gifts and the gift-giver as well.

Only a fortnight later, having received no news from the front, the fishmonger’s daughter began entertaining the overtures of a smooth-talking merchant in the marketplace.  He displayed gold and silver before her eyes while he promised her the sun and the moon if only she would consent to marry him.  Her wide-eyed stare gave indication that his offer was very enticing to her.  “Should I decay in maidenhood forever?” she lamented, all the while completely forgetting about the vows she had made to the second guardsman.  She was easily tempted by the merchant’s slick style and suave debonair.  So, she married him discarding honor and loyalty for a life filled with food, drink, and revelry.  Meanwhile, the King’s minister’s daughter spent every evening staring out her bedroom window waiting for the return of her intended.  She ended each night in the same way: having failed to see the return of her fiancé, a single tear would trickle down her cheek.  But then she would look at the ring on her finger, and a confident smile would appear on her face.  It was as if the springtime sun had emerged to drive away the dark, gray clouds of winter.  Then she would exclaim how she would wait forever for her beloved before she drifted off into the tranquil sleep of a newborn child.

 One year passed.  The King’s legions finally defeated the enemy army, and both guardsmen returned home.  The second guardsman, discovering that his fiancé had left him for another man, let his sword seek justice, and he executed both her and her smooth-talking husband.  The first guardsman’s heart rejoiced when he saw his beloved fiancé’s silhouette framed in the upstairs window as she was patiently waiting for him.  No words could possibly describe the joy of their reunion, the happiness of their subsequent marriage, and the bliss of their lives together for many years.  To this day, the ring --- the most precious of all the family heirlooms --- is still being passed from one generation of their offspring to another.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov states that by having “emunah” (true and complete faith in Hashem), we can acquire the attribute of being patient.  Patient people do what they have to do without allowing anyone or anything to sway, to tempt, or to confuse them in any other direction than that to which they have committed themselves.  Understanding this, the parable teaches us the following: (1) the guardsman leaving to go to war symbolize Moshe going up to the top of Har Sinai for 40 days and 40 nights.  (2) The first fiancé symbolizes the Levites who did not waver in their loyalty to Hashem.  (3) The noble guardsman’s ring symbolized the “emuna” and patience of the Levi’im.  The Levi’im, like the King’s minister’s daughter, were able to wait patiently with no weakening of their resolve.  Like the fishmonger’s daughter who had no ring, the “erev-rav” (the non-Jews who left Mitzrayim [Egypt} with the B’nei Yisrael) had neither “emunah” nor patience thus resulting in their succumbing to idolatry.

We, today’s B’nei Yisrael, need neither flowers nor chocolates to sustain the “emunah” and patience we need to keep us spiritually and emotionally attached to our people, to our religion, and, most important of all, to HaShem.  After all, we already have the “ring”: Shabbat and the Torah.  “I will betroth you to Me forever; and I will betroth you to Me with righteousness, justice, kindness, and mercy; and I will betroth you to Me with faithfulness, and you will know Hashem!”

Shabbat Shalom ve-Shavua Tov!

In this week’s parashah, Parashat Teruma, we read the following: “HaShem spoke to Moshe saying, ‘Tell B’Nei Yisrael to take for me gifts from every person whose heart so moves him…And let them make me a mikdash [sanctuary] that I may dwell “b’tocham” [among them].  Exactly as I show you --- the pattern of the Mishkan [tabernacle] and the pattern of all its furnishings --- so shall you make it.’” (Shemot 25:1-2 & 8-9) The great Chasidic masters, disciples of the Baal Shem Tov of blessed and saintly memory, translated and interpreted the word “b’tocham” to mean “within them,” thus requiring that each of us prepare ourselves to become a sanctuary worthy for the dwelling within of the Shechinah [the Divine Presence].  Perhaps the following Chasidic parable will help us understand why this preparation is needed:

The King and his royal entourage were visiting the outlying villages of the kingdom.  The King was entertaining the thought that the crisp, clear mountain air of the countryside would be the most conducive for promoting the good health of his three sons, the princes, who usually spent most of their time in the crowded and congested capital city.  It happened that the royal entourage stopped by a quaint little inn and tavern.  Because the innkeeper was thrilled that the King and his escorts should frequent his humble abode, he ran outside and prostrated himself before the King’s feet.  “Your Majesty,” he declared, “I am so honored!  How may I serve you?”

 “You may rise,” replied the King.  “I am looking for a dwelling in this region that is befitting for a hostel for my vacationing sons.  They do not require fancy furnishings, but they must have rooms that are impeccably clean and orderly located in the proximity of the mountains and the hot springs.  “But your Majesty,” exclaimed the innkeeper, “My inn is very simple.  This tavern is the only source of my income.  I do not think that the princes would feel comfortable in the company of my ale-drinking clientele.”  “I shall compensate you six times over for the sale of your ale.  In addition, I will give you a stipend of 500 pieces of gold to transform the inn and the tavern into a quality spa, fit for royal guests only.  You will have the privilege of hosting my sons, the ministers, and honored guests of the Kingdom.  You will never have to worry about money.  Agreed?”  The innkeeper accepted the King’s offer.  As the King walked away, his accompanying officers warned the innkeeper saying, “If you fulfill all the King’s demands by preparing and maintaining a proper lodging for the King’s sons, your rewards will be far more than you ever dreamed they could be.  But, if you fail, you will be thrown into the deepest, darkest dungeon, punished and doomed to oblivion!”

The King and the innkeeper agreed that the princes would arrive in nine weeks.  With that, the innkeeper feverishly cleaned, repaired, rebuilt, and remodeled the inn and tavern turning it into a charming spa.  The tavern itself became a regal dining room.  In six short weeks, the work was completed.  With three weeks left before the royal guests were to arrive, the innkeeper took a well- deserved rest from his labors.  However, after only three days of idly waiting for the three princes, the innkeeper became bored.  One evening, while the innkeeper sat on the front porch of the remodeled inn and tavern smoking his cornstalk pipe and listening to the singing of the hummingbirds while watching the golden sunset, three peasants approached him.  “Dimitri,” they called out, “Good evening!  We are thirsty!  Break out a keg of ale!”  “I am sorry, comrades,” apologized the innkeeper. “This is no longer a tavern.  Everything has been rebuilt for the King.  Soon, his sons will arrive for a short stay.  My inn and tavern are now a royal spa.”  The peasants burst out laughing and replied, “Choose, Dimitri!  Either we open a keg or we break open your head!”  Dimitri thought for just a moment and came to the conclusion that there was still plenty of time before the princes arrived.  Besides, being bored as he was, he missed his old clientele.  With the flow of the ale once again, the merriment that always resulted would soon follow.  Besides, here was a chance to earn a few rubles on the side.  “Surely,” he thought to himself, “I will have the place straightened up before the King’s sons arrive.”  So, he acceded to the peasants’ demand and once again opened the inn and tavern as if nothing had changed.

However, with a foothold in the refurbished fancy quarters that were fit for royalty, the peasants stubbornly refused to leave.  In fact, every day more and more of the innkeeper’s clientele flocked to the royal spa causing it to revert to its former status of a village inn and tavern, the result being a continuous scene of drunken brawls and general mayhem.  The brand new highly polished marble floors, prepared especially for the princes, were now covered in mud, blood, and beer.  With only one day left until the arrival of the princes, Dimitri made a valiant effort to clean and repair the spa, but his last-minute rushed effort was far from sufficient.

The next day, the three princes arrived accompanied by an elite platoon of the palace guard.  All of them stood there surveying the scene and coming to the conclusion that things simply did not look right.  The spa’s walls seemed to be soaked with the smell of ale.  To the alarm of the visiting royalty, all three of the beds which had been designated in the royal suite for the King’s three sons were occupied by drunken peasants who were still wearing their muddy boots and were sleeping off their drunken stupor from the previous night’s ale-drinking party.  The King had paid for the fancy beds which were intended for the use of his sons, the princes.  He had given the foolish and easily tempted innkeeper more than enough money to remodel the inn while compensating him sixfold for the loss of the tavern’s business.  But now the silky white sheets of the royal beds were completely ruined by mud and filth.  This action was not only a breach of faith by the innkeeper, it was an outright embezzlement of the King!  In complete disgust, the royal entourage left the premises as the innkeeper was shackled in heavy chains, thrown into the deepest, darkest dungeon never to be heard from again.

In this Chasidic parable, the King is Hashem.  His three sons are the wisdom, knowledge, and understanding which each of us needs in order to receive the Torah.  The innkeeper is each one of us whose task it is to prepare our hearts and minds and souls to receive the Torah so that we become a sanctuary worthy for the Shechinah to dwell in.  We must make ourselves into a "mikdash me’at" [a miniature tabernacle] worthy of the presence of the King of Kings.  For without the Torah, our very soul suffers.     

In this week’s parashah, Parashat Yitro, we read the following: “For I, HaShem your G-d, am an impassioned G-d, visiting the guilt of the parents upon the children, upon the third and upon the fourth generations of those who reject me but showing kindness to the thousandth generation of those who love Me and keep My commandments.” (Shemot 20:5-6) You may ask: “Is this fair?  Why do I have to pay for the “sins” of my father?”  Rashi explains that a son must pay for his father’s sins when he (the son) continues to transgress in the same manner that his father did.  Indeed, halachah (Jewish Law) specifically states that orphans are required to pay their parents’ debts (Shulchan Aruch, Choshen Mishpat, 107.a) If this is true of material debts, then al achat kammah ve-kammah (how much more so) is this true of spiritual debts?  And while you may think that there is no connection between the two, there is this striking similarity: with material/monetary debts, the creditor can be merciful and decide to forego the debt; with spiritual debts, t’shuvah (repentance and returning to HaShem) can bring about Hashem’s compassionate decision to release the debt.  In either case, the son’s decision to forego the ways of his father causes the release of the liability for his father’s misdeeds that is mentioned in the Torah.  Perhaps this Chasidic parable will promote clarification of this principle:

A group of loafers and local derelicts would spend their days in idleness and their nights drinking vodka and playing cards.  Frequently, they would break into the local Synagogue at the edge of town and desecrate the sacred house of study and prayer with their drinking and gambling.  Several times a week, the unfortunate beadle would open the Synagogue before Shacharit prayers and discover a veritable disaster before his eyes: garbage as well as peanut shells and empty liquor and beer bottles would be strewn all over the place.  The frustrated beadle would then have to clean up the whole mess before the first congregants would arrive.  After all, who would be blamed if the Synagogue was tidy and in order upon their arrival?  Of course, the beadle would be blamed!  What a terrible situation he found himself in!

The beadle decided he must put an end to the derelicts’ desecration of the Synagogue once and for all!  To do so, he planned to stay awake all night and lie in wait in the Ezras Nashim (the upstairs women’s gallery).  That very same night, a group of the derelicts’ sons decided that they had as much right as did their fathers to do exactly what their fathers were doing.  Like their fathers, they obtained a supply of beer, liquor, snacks, and a deck of cards, snuck into the Synagogue, and settled in drinking, eating, and carrying on until…The beadle, a robust man whose arms had chopped their share of firewood over the years, had waited until midnight to make his move.  When the clock struck midnight, he pounced upon the youths like a lion on his prey.  The six or so youths suffered a rain of blows from the beadle’s two vengeful fists, from a leather strap, and from the wooden soles of his Cossack boots.  Not a single one of them managed to escape the beadle’s wrath.  “For two whole years, you brats have made my life miserable!” he screamed.  “Even worse than that, you have been defiling the Holy House of Hashem!  Nobody has ever paid me for all the extra work you’ve caused me to do!  But now you will pay the price!  None of you will sit for a year!”  Crying, the boys protested and tried to explain that this was the first time they had done this, but to no avail.  They ended up suffering all the punishment that was really intended for their derelict fathers.

 The next evening the derelict fathers returned and, once again, they left the Synagogue in filth and disarray.  The beadle arrived in the morning before daybreak, as usual, and what did he see when he opened the door?  He found the Synagogue was impeccable, spotlessly clean and miraculously sweet-smelling.  Suddenly he heard some rustling under one of the tables.  “Who’s in here?” he bellowed.  A freckle-faced, red-headed boy all of fifteen years of age crawled out from under the table where he was hiding.  He had in his hand the rag with which he had been scrubbing the floor.  “It is I, Lipa the son of Kalman,” the boy replied.  “I am so ashamed.  I discovered that my father is part of the gang the defiles this Synagogue.”  Tears were running down the boy’s cheeks.  “I have tried my hardest to clean up the mess.  Please forgive me!”  The beadle leaned over and kissed the boy on his forehead.  Not only did this young tzaddik refuse to follow the ways of his father, he even did his best to try to make right his father’s wrong.  As a result, instead of being struck, kicked and whipped by the beadle as were the boy’s delinquent friends, he, Lipa the son of Kalman, got a kiss instead.

The lesson of this Chasidic parable is obvious: as Rashi explains, sons rightfully pay for the sins of their wayward fathers when they walk in their fathers’ footsteps.  But when sons discard their wayward fathers’ errant ways, when they do t’shuvah and return to Hashem, they are no longer liable for their father’s sins.  May we all return to Avinu Malkeinu, our Father, our King, soon in an effort to walk in H-s ways!

In this week’s parashah, Parashat Bo, we read the following: “Consecrate to Me every firstborn that is [the first to] open any womb among the B’nei Yisrael – among man and among animal; it is Mine.” (Shemot 13:2) Even today we know how important the connection between being firstborn and being sanctified to HaShem is.  Long after the destruction of our Holy Temples, we still have the obligation to give our firstborn sons who open the womb in service to HaShem.  However, even without without the Temple, we are still obligated to redeem them from service to Hashem through the ritual of “Pidyon HaBen.”  What this sanctification and this redemption strive to achieve is a good beginning for our firstborn sons.  Rebbe Nachman of Breslov says: “The beginning is the main thing, for all beginnings are difficult…a person’s functioning goes according to the power and enthusiasm that he invested at the beginning…therefore, a person must always make a new beginning, for the old beginning may not have been as good as it should have been, and everything goes according to the beginning. (Likutei Moharan, I:62-65) Of course, the People Israel have the opportunity and the ability to make a new beginning each year on Rosh Hashanah.  T’shuva can indeed be looked upon as being in and of itself a new beginning.  Even in the physical world, a new beginning is recognized as better than an old beginning.  This is true when placing a new weld on an old piece of metal and creating a new growth on a tree.  Perhaps the following Chasidic parable will help elucidate the concept of a new beginning:

It was in the middle of winter in the dark Ukrainian forest.  Two wild turkeys looked high and low for something to eat, but they found nothing but snow and dry leaves. Nothing much remained of either bird except bones and ruffled black feathers.  One turkey gobbled in hunger.  The other silenced him saying “If you keep complaining, we will end up being dinner for the wolves.  They are as hungry as are we!”  Suddenly, they came upon an old owl high up in a poplar tree.  “Excuse us, Comrade Owl, but could you tell us where to find a grain or two of corn?  We are starving!”  The owl who-whooed and told the turkeys to go two miles down the road where they would find an old silo filled with corn.  The owl then flew away searching for a perch where his lofty thoughts would not be interrupted by these two turkeys.

The turkeys looked at each other in total confusion.  Directly in front of them was a crossroads.  They had neglected to ask the owl whether to go to the left or to the right.  They did know that human beings lived in one direction and that wolves lived in the other direction, but they did not know which way was which.  “If our first step is wrong, we are doomed to be tonight’s main course in the wolves’ den,” lamented the first turkey.  The second turkey nodded in agreement stating that hunger was a better fate than being devoured by the razor-toothed carnivores.  With that, they chose the left fork in the road beginning their two-mile journey into the unknown with utter trepidation.  Suddenly they heard howling from deep in the forest!  Rustling their feathers in a shiver of fear, they both exclaimed: “This is the end of us!”

Unexpectedly, they came upon a squirrel scurrying up an old oak tree.  “Squirrel, squirrel,” they cried out, “please help us! To where does this road lead?”  The squirrel replied: “It leads to the wolves’ den, you silly turkeys!  Do you not know that you are in danger?”  The turkeys gobbled and wailed in despair, but the squirrel giggled while munching away at an acorn.  They protested: “Why do you ridicule us, squirrel?  Do you not have any pity for two birds who are about to die?”  The squirrel almost fell off the branch he was sitting upon as he laughed and laughed and laughed.  “About to die?” he exclaimed. “I always heard that turkeys lacked any sense, but I never realized to what extent that was true.  Turn around, you silly turkeys, and get out of here as fast as you can!  Just start a new beginning in the opposite direction, and you will find the silo full of corn.  Cease despairing and being depressed!   Just get up and start anew!”

Thanks to the squirrel, the turkeys backtracked their steps, returned to the crossroads, and took the road to the right.  By virtue of their new beginning, not only did they avoid the bitter fate of falling prey to the wolves, but they had the feast of their lives at the old corn silo.

It is very easy in today’s world to become discouraged and depressed, viewing life with no hope.  A such, we then become like the turkeys of the parable which took the wrong fork in the road.  At such moments, we must stop and take the time to remember Rebbe Nachman’s words.  We must re-engage in life with enthusiasm, trusting in Hashem that all is for the best.  We must “start up” once again!  

In this week’s parashah, Parashat Va-Eira, we read the following: HaShem said to Moshe: “Come to Par’oh and say to him: ‘Thus says Hashem: “Let My people go that they may serve me.  If You refuse to let them go, then I will plague your whole country with frogs.  The Nile will swarm with frogs, and they shall come up and enter your palace, your bedchamber and your bed, the houses of your courtiers and your people, and your ovens and your kneading bowls.  The frogs shall come up in you and in your people and in all your courtiers.”’” (Shemot 7:26-29)

Needless-to-say, most people do not like frogs let alone swarms of frogs.  But it might surprise you to learn that our Tradition looks at frogs in a totally different way.  Rabbi Nachman of Breslov wrote an entire discourse on the “inner meaning” of the frog stating that frogs allude to the scholars of Torah.  The Sages of the Talmud also had praise for the lowly frog.  In Masekhet Pesachim 56 of the Talmud Bavli we are told that Chanania, Mishael, and Azaria derived from a frog the inner strength to throw themselves into the fiery furnace rather than to bow down to Nebuchadnezzar’s idol.  They reasoned that because the frogs had the dedication to follow Hashem’s will throwing themselves into the Egyptians’ ovens during the time of the Ten Plagues, they, too, must do the same based upon the fact that they were Hashem’s creation on a much higher level than that of a frog.  The Midrash tells us that more than anything else, the croaking of the frogs is what drove the Egyptians out of their minds.  So it is that at face value, the importance of the frog may be greatly underestimated by the text of the Torah.  Perhaps this Chasidic parable will help us to understand that rather than its outer appearance, the frog’s inner significance is what is most important:

Nosson Nuta lived in a broken-down clapboard and tarpaper shack at the end of the village.  No one paid the slightest attention to this semi-toothed, curved-spine, near-sighted cobbler of 73 years of age.  He barely eked out a living mending old shoes and boots.  More than anyone else, he bore the brunt of the village children’s pranks and their parents’ disdain.  In the local Synagogue, Nosson Nuta was never called to the Torah, because in the eyes of his neighbors and fellow Jews, he was merely one small rung above the lowest beggar.  Since he could not afford to pay for a better seat, they forced him to sit in the back of the shul next to the sooty furnace.  However, in spite of all this, Nosson Nuta accepted his lot of great humiliation and incessant insults with happiness.  He seemed to enjoy the mocking and jokes made at his expense.

The thatched-roofed houses of the Central Ukraine were notorious fire hazards.  Because of this, every village knew that it would have to be rebuilt every couple of years or so.  Strangely, there had not been a fire in Nosson Nuta’s village for over 12 years, the very time when he first arrived as a widower having recently lost his wife.  Not only that, there had not been a pogrom or a miscarriage of justice in the village during the same time period as well.  The people of the village attributed their good fortune to their own righteousness.  However, they were in for a rude awakening!

One winter evening, Nosson Nuta closed his eyes for the final time.  When he did not show up for minyan the next morning, no one paid any attention, this in spite of the fact that he had never failed to pray 3 times each day with the Synagogue’s minyan.  When he failed to arrive in shul on the second morning, the village Rabbi decided he had better inquire as to the elderly cobbler’s well-being.  When he discovered the fate of Nosson Nuta, the Rabbi immediately summoned the Chevra Kaddisha in order for its members to come and perform their required sacred duties.  The did so perfunctorily.  They buried Nosson Nuta at the northern end of the cemetery in the paupers’ section.  No one considered the funeral of the deceased cobbler to be a good enough reason to close up shop for an hour in order to attend.  There were not even 10 men at the funeral, and Kaddish could not be recited.

That very same night, with the soil on Nosson Nuta’s grave still fresh, a band of bloodthirsty Cossacks descended upon the village, indiscriminately killing anyone and burning and pillaging anything they could get their hands on.  The village became a charred ruin, and those who had refused to attend Nosson Nuta’s funeral were now occupied with burying their own dead.  The only building which escaped the terrible fate of the pogrom was the village Synagogue.  After the half-dozen funerals, the Rabbi and the beadle went to inspect the shul to ascertain the damage.  Barukh HaShem, the shtiebel’s 5 Sifrei Torah were not touched.  Their beautiful silver ornaments were totally intact.  “How strange,” thought the Rabbi, “that the Cossacks did not enter the Synagogue like they had done during other pogroms in other villages.”  He felt as though some unknown guardian angel had protected the Aron HaKodesh, the Sifre Torah, and the rest of the Synagogue.  Suddenly the beadle asked, “What’s this?”  He pointed to a tin box that was concealed in the Holy Ark behind the Torah scrolls.  “I do not know,” replied the Rabbi as he pried the box open.  Inside, there were two stacks of fine parchment containing beautifully handwritten Rashi Hebrew script.  The Rabbi’s eyes suddenly opened very wide and his jaw fell wide open.  While he could not understand everything he read, he gleaned enough from the papers to know that they contained an eye-opening Kabbalistic commentary on one of Hashem’s Holy Names.  It was obvious that the author could swim like a fish in the sea of the Torah’s deepest secrets with ease.  The Rabbi slowly turned page after page, and then he saw the signature: Nosson Nuta ben Dov Ber.  It hit the Rabbi like a ton of bricks!  The elderly cobbler had been a hidden tzaddik and a scholar of monumental proportions!  It is then that the Rabbi understood why the village had been spared being subjected to pogroms for a dozen years as well as why the Synagogue had been spared the night before!

          We live in a world that is filled with the shallowness of glorifying that which is shines with the glitter of a beautiful façade.  Our Tradition teaches us that it is inner beauty that is most important.  The passage quoted from this week’s parshah teaches us that while the frog may be ugly and revolting on the outside, few creatures praise Hashem and serve H-m with such dedication.  May all of us do the same!