My Eulogy for Adira Koffsky z"l (2004-2023)

 originally published as a Facebook post entitled "Thoughts on Losing a Student Like Adira" on 2/5/23

The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Sarah and Moshe Eisen, with the following message: "Dedicated in honor of Popo, who shined bright and brought joy to so many of us. And to Rabbi Matt Schneeweiss who shared her with us and continues to share thoughts, insights, and Torah."

The Torah content for this week has also been sponsored by Nava, in memory of Adira Koffsky z"l, who loved learning and philosophy and was a real seeker of truth.

The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Sarah and Moshe Eisen, with the following message: "Dedicated in honor of Popo, who shined bright and brought joy to so many of us. And to Rabbi Matt Schneeweiss who shared her with us and continues to share thoughts, insights, and Torah."

The Torah content for this week has also been sponsored by Nava, in memory of Adira Koffsky z"l, who loved learning and philosophy and was a real seeker of truth.

screenshot of a video Adira sent me in one of her last emails

Thoughts on Losing a Student Like Adira

I have a document on my computer entitled "Students I Have Taught." I started this file in my first year of teaching (Fall 2009), and I update it each year. The document is a simple list of the names of each new student I taught that year. I created this document because each and every student I teach is dear to me, and I don't ever want to forget the name of a single one of them.

Last week I started a new document entitled "Students I Have Lost." On it are two names: Yocheved Gourarie (z”l), whose horrific death happened in December 2020, and now, Adira Koffsky, who was killed in February 2023 by a car that lost control on a rainy night. Yocheved was one of the first students I taught at Shalhevet. Adira was one of the last. Yocheved's death absolutely devastated me - but at the time, to my mind, it was a singular event. It wasn't until Adira's death that I realized: this is a category of loss. This is a list. And the list will only grow. 

Unless you have been a teacher - or a student who had a close relationship with a teacher - you will not be able to truly relate to the special phenomenon that is a teacher-student relationship. And unless you were part of the world of Midreshet Shalhevet (a"h), and knew firsthand of my unique role there, then you will have a hard time grasping the nature of the teacher-student relationship I had with Adira. I would like to make a feeble attempt to describe that relationship here.

Let me begin with the context. I taught ten courses at Shalhevet. With very few exceptions (which I can count on my fingers), I taught every single student in the school's 13 year history, from its third year of existence until its last. The average student would have me as a teacher for 7-12 courses throughout her four years of high school. 

Here are the facts about my teaching history with Adira: In 2018-2019, when Adira was in 9th grade, I taught her for an average of three hours a week in Gemara, two hours a week in Nach, 20 minutes a week in Tefilah, and 30 minutes a week in Study Skills. In 2019-2020, when Adira was in 10th grade, I taught her for an average of four hours a week in Chumash, three hours a week in Gemara, two hours a week in Nach, and 20 minutes a week in tefilah. If you do the math, that adds up to around 6 hours each week in 9th grade, and around 9 hours each week in 10th grade. And this doesn't count the many hours of discussion between classes, in special programs, and other informal in-school contexts. That's hundreds of hours spent delving into the Torah, engaging in discussion, and embarking on adventure after adventure in pursuit of truth.

When you spend that many hours with someone day in and day out over the course of two years - specifically, the critical years of emotional and intellectual growth during adolescence - you get to know them really well. You see them on their good days and their bad days. You see them interacting with friends and enemies. You see them through the eyes of their peers, their parents, and their other teachers. You become attuned to their personality, their moods, and their intellectual intuition. You become familiar with their mind through their public participation in class, and through the private thoughts they express in their homework assignments. When your whole goal in life is to help each of your students achieve their potential, you are constantly alert ("Constant vigilance!") for any and all ways to reach them wherever they're at. You agonize over how to help them overcome their obstacles, you rejoice when they make a breakthrough, and you doubly rejoice when you witness them experience their own surge of joy. Over time, you marvel as they transform from immature kids into thoughtful young adults. And when you're done teaching them, you feel that sense of "job well done" satisfaction as you "hand them off" and watch them begin the next chapter of their journey.

Chazal (the Sages) compare students to offspring. This is not an exaggeration, and is true on a number of levels. Rambam (Maimonides) explains: "your parents bring you into This World, but your rabbi, who teaches you wisdom, brings you into The World to Come" (Laws of Torah Study 5:1). Ralbag (Gersonides) takes a slightly different approach: "your parents begat your physical being, but your teacher begets your soul" (can’t track down the source at the moment). But what I feel most is the fact that a teacher, like a parent, plays a nurturing role in helping this other human being to become who they are. For those two years, I - along with the other members of the gifted team of teachers and administrators at Shalhevet - played an active role in shaping who Adira became, as a Jew and as a person. If that is not a type of parenting, then I don't know what is. 

I learned of Adira's death a mere three hours after receiving the news of the death of Popo, my 98-year-old grandmother. My grief for these two back-to-back losses has become intermingled in ways that I am still struggling to process. From the outside, one might wonder, "This was your Popo! You've known and loved her for your whole life! Adira was just a student. How can you even compare the two losses?" That is a legitimate question which I can't quite answer, but writing the previous paragraph helped me to understand one of the reasons why Adira's death has hit me differently than Popo's. Popo was "my" grandmother, but she was who she was without any "contribution" on my part. Adira, on the other hand, was "my" student in an entirely different way. The hundreds of hours I spent discussing ideas with her and investing myself into her development makes me feel like I have lost a part of myself in a sense that isn't the case with Popo. Then, of course, there is the obvious fact that Popo died naturally at the ripe age of 98, whereas Adira died before reaching her 19th birthday in a senseless tragedy. Believe me, I'm not trying to compare these two losses, but at the same time, I can't help but experience them in relation to each other. 

A Portrait of Adira as a Student

I'm going to attempt to write about what Adira was like as a student. It's no secret that she was a mix of great strengths and stubborn weaknesses. She was incredibly passionate about truth and was a real independent thinker, but at the same time, it was incredibly difficult to convince her to invest energy in something she didn't care about. One of the themes in the eulogies at her funeral was that when she was interested in something, she was really interested, but the difficulty was getting her interested. 

I really appreciated how Dr. Goldstein captured Adira's paradoxical nature in her eulogy, which I'd like to quote from here:

Adira strongly subscribed to her own vision of the world and to her convictions of the ideal world, and she was not afraid to voice her thoughts honestly, almost to a fault. She was entirely open and sincere—never confrontational or trying to draw attention to herself, always soft-spoken and earnest as she conveyed to those around her how she saw things and why she saw them as she did. So while she was deeply interiorly-focused and comfortable with her conclusions and opinions, she never expected other people to see the world the same way and certainly never imposed it on others. In fact, with full humility and openness to learning and re-thinking, she actually exhibited a retreative quality, drawing away from confrontation while always keeping her ear open and finger on the pulse of all of the ideas around her."

I wrote a short Facebook post immediately upon learning of Adira’s death which included an excerpt from the letter of recommendation I wrote for her last January:

Adira was one of the last students I taught at Shalhevet (in 9th and 10th grade) before it closed. According to a news report I read, she was killed last night when a car lost control and struck her when she was walking on the street.

Adira and I bonded over the fact that we both identify as Slytherin - a fact that she proudly declared in her first email to me. As it so happens, this was also the topic of (what neither of us realized) would be her last email to me, this past January. I asked her about why she identified as Slytherin in high school. She responded:

"8th grade me leaned a lot on the ambitious trait of Slytherin. I still do, I’m not exactly cunning or sly. But I do want to accomplish a lot in my life, mostly with my writing. if you really want to get deep, in 12th grade it wasn’t just about ambition. I think I wanted to show that good people can come from anywhere."

This message, "that good people can come from anywhere," shows the type of Slytherin Adira was. I'd like to quote from a letter of recommendation I wrote for her last year:

"Adira was gregarious and sociable with her close friends but painfully shy in other situations. She had a strong moral compass, and never hesitated to speak up for her beliefs and to defend those whom she felt were being mistreated ... She set aside personal issues to make peace with classmates, even when it was they who were in the wrong. She went out of her way to befriend new students – not because she was a social butterfly, but out of a strong sense of identification with The Other and a desire to bring those who were marginalized into the fold. She took ownership of her deficiencies and dedicated herself to making improvements ..."

"She became more outspoken about her views, even when her classmates disagreed. No longer did she slink back when faced with social disapproval. Instead, she stood resolutely by the courage of her convictions. I have reason to believe that Adira will become one of those strong but silent behind-the-scenes leaders, making real change happen without any desire to be in the spotlight ...

"I look forward to seeing what Adira accomplishes as she begins the post-high school chapter of her life. If the growth she showed in 10th grade is any indication, then you can be certain she will go on to do great things."

I am heartbroken that her post-high school year ended up being the final chapter of her life. I am grateful for the opportunity to have taught her and helped her grow. Baruch Dayan ha'Emes.

Adira's profile as a student is best illustrated by her different types of involvement in my Grade-Level Chumash (Bible) class and my Honors Gemara (Talmud) class. My Chumash class was small, with only nine students. These students had VERY poor Hebrew skills, which only reinforced my proclivity to focus on discussion rather than language skills, for better or for worse. Whenever I prepared a class, there were two students I had in mind. I counted on these students to fuel the discussion and to keep me on my toes, knowing that if I said anything that wasn't sufficiently clear or supported by solid evidence and compelling reasoning, I would be called out and questioned. Adira was one of those students. 

One of the last "heavy" in-person (i.e. pre-pandemic) discussions I remember having was when we reached the unit in Vayikra on the Torah's sexual morality. I knew going in that Adira and this other student had strong convictions about this topic and that I would have to be especially clear and especially tactful when broaching such a controversial and sensitive area. We spent a whopping five classes on this unit. It gave me such gratification (and relief!) to hear Adira pronounce her verdict at the end of the unit, saying: "What you taught us makes a lot of sense." I can't say that I persuaded her of (my understanding of) the Torah's position, but it was enough of a victory to know that I conveyed my understanding to her in a manner that she was able to hear, and which she deemed reasonable, despite any differences of opinion she may have had. And if there's one thing I know about Adira is that she was honest. If what I said didn't make sense to her, she wouldn't have said so.

Gemara was a different story. When Adira came to Shalhevet, she was very weak in Hebrew, and her Aramaic skills were non-existent. While my Chumash class had the reputation of being easy, my Gemara class was one of the most difficult courses in 9th and 10th grade. (I believe Adira attempted to drop it once or twice.) Each student's grade was determined almost entirely on the basis of oral quizzes, of which there were one or two each week. After adequate preparation and review, students would be called upon at random - selected by spinning what my students referred to as "The Wheel of Death," a Wheel of Fortune-esque digital wheel bearing each of their names - to read, translate, and explain portions of the Gemara. It is no exaggeration to say that for at least the first year in my class (if not longer), these quizzes terrified Adira. (Those who knew Adira can envision that wide-eyed look she got when terrified.)

It wasn't until 10th grade that she began applying herself in a different way. Slowly but surely, she made progress. Her reading became more fluent. Her confidence level rose. And, perhaps more importantly, she made the choice to study. In the end, she exceeded her own expectations. This was not the only time a student has made a huge improvement in my Gemara class, but considering Adira's personality, I know that all the credit goes to HER for this improvement. Nobody could change Adira's mind but her. The fact that she started improving her skills and her grades in 10th grade was entirely due to HER choice. 

Final Words from Adira

I'll conclude by sharing two discoveries I made today - but first, a preface. One of the most prominent themes in Adira's eulogies was her creativity. She was an avid reader and writer of fantasy fiction, and a DM (dungeon master) of her local D&D (Dungeons & Dragons) group. (I would love to read a copy of the story she wrote about a vampire named “Chayim” who works for hatzalah, if anyone can provide me with a copy.) Sadly, I was entirely unaware of this side of her. I don't know if this is because she wasn't as open about her writing in 9th and 10th grade, or because there weren't many venues for it to show up in the particular classes I taught. When hearing about how much her creativity was a part of her life, I was a little sad that I never got to see any creative writing from her ... or so I thought.

In the olden days, all the homework I assigned was submitted by students via email. Only in the last few years did I switch to using Google Forms. After Adira died, I wanted to go back and read her homework assignments. Right now, I can't seem to access those Google Forms, either because the school account I used was deleted with the closure of the school, or because I deleted the Google Forms themselves. 

I did, however, manage to find two emails that she sent directly to me at the end of her 10th grade year. One was a video of one of the final assignments I gave to my Gemara Class. Background: I created a list of 20 Torah she'Baal Peh (Oral Torah) terms, which I drilled into my students over the course of their two years in my class. Due to the pandemic, I was permitted to assign my students a final project instead of an actual exam. Part of this final project required students to produce something that would enable them to remember these 20 terms, even years down the line. 

I'll be honest: I had no recollection of Adira's project. To be fair, June 2020 was a very stressful time, on multiple fronts. In fact, it's possible that I missed her email altogether in the chaos of that tumultuous time. For this reason, I was surprised to discover a video from Adira in my inbox when I searched for her name in my rabbischneeweiss gmail account. In the video, Adira shows the camera an ornate miniature chest of wooden drawers. She opens the drawers to reveal little scraps of paper. She explains how on each scrap of paper she wrote the Hebrew/Aramaic term, the translation, and - get this! - a definition of the term in the form of a Haiku. For example: 

BRAISA:

Text not included.

Outside of the Mishnah, but

is as important.

And:

YEHUDA HA'NASSI:

Rav Judah the Prince.

The author of the Mishnah.

Broke law to save it.

So while I didn't get to see her creativity in story-writing and world building, I did receive this very special form of creativity that carried the same quirky stamp of Adira's personality. And at the end of the video, she turns the camera and addresses me directly, saying:

"So, yeah! That's my Gemara project. I hope you like it, Rabbi Schneeweiss!"

The last thing I'd like to share is a personal email that Adira sent me on June 5th, 2020 - at the end of her last year as my student, on the last day of classes of the last year of Shalhevet. The email was unprompted. It reads:

Dear Rabbi, 

I just wanted to say from the bottom of my heart, thank you. For everything you've taught me. Going into highschool I had a lot of doubts about Torah and you helped with a lot of it. So thank you for helping me become a truth seeker. 

Best of luck, 

Adira

At the time, I responded: 

Dear Adira, 

Thank you so much! That really means a lot to me. I have enjoyed teaching you in all of our classes, and I am confident that you'll continue developing as a truth seeker even without Shalhevet. 

And I do hope you'll send me a question from time to time!

I wish you all the best,

- Rabbi Schneeweiss

Adira is beyond the reach of my emails now, but if I could write her one last email, it would say:

Dear Adira, 

It has been a pleasure and a privilege to teach you and learn with you for the time we shared at Shalhevet, and for the brief span of time you had on this earth. I am proud of you for staying true to yourself, and for continuing to seek truth on your own terms, in your own way. I will always cherish the memories of the gleam you'd get in your eyes upon discovering a satisfying answer to a question you had. It didn't matter whether it was an answer you heard or an answer you thought of yourself. All that matters was that it rang true. And although I cannot conceive of this next stage of your existence, it gives me some small measure of solace to know that your soul continues to gleam in the Olam ha'Emes (World of Truth) to which you have ascended. 

Your teacher, 

- Rabbi Schneeweiss

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Beshalach: Was Miriam a Prophetess?

If you think you know the answer to this question, I recommend asking yourself: "How do I know?" or "Why is this even a question?" before reading (or listening to) this article.

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Artwork: DALL-E responding to the prompt, “impressionist painting of Miriam leading the Israelite women in song and dance at the sea”

Beshalach: Was Miriam a Prophetess?

It would seem the answer to this question is: Of course she was! The Torah explicitly states in Parashas Beshalach:

Miriam ha’neviah (the prophetess), Aharon's sister, took the tambourine in her hand and all the women went out after her with tambourines and dances. Miriam sang responsively to them: “Sing to Hashem for He has triumphed gloriously; a horse and his rider He has hurled into the sea.” (Shemos 15:20-21)

The problem is that even though she is called “Miriam ha’neviah,” we don’t have a clear record of any prophecy she received. By my count, there are four approaches taken by the commentators to address this difficulty.

The first is the midrashic approach taken by Chazal (Megilah 14a and Sotah 13a) cited by Rashi:

Miriam [was a prophetess], as it is written: “Miriam ha’neviah, sister of Aharon” – and not “the sister of Moshe.” Rav Nachman said in the name of Rav: she prophesied when she was the sister of Aharon (i.e. before Moshe was born), saying: “In the future, my mother will give birth to a son who will deliver the Jewish people to salvation.”

R' Avraham ben ha’Rambam takes a similar approach, offering support from different sources:

The esoteric reason [for why the pasuk associates Miriam with Aharon rather than Moshe] is because her level of prophecy was close to that of Aharon but less than that of Moshe. This is indicated by her statement in the pasuk on behalf of both of them: “[They said, ‘Did Hashem only speak with Moshe?] Did He not also speak with us?’” (Parashas Behaalosecha, Bamidbar 12:2). This indicates that she was close to [Aharon’s level] in prophecy. And the statement of Chazal, “she also died with a [Divine] kiss” (Moed Katan 28a, Bava Basra 17a), indicates that her level was as great as Aharon’s, or close to it. Understand this, for it is subtle and wondrous.

A third approach is suggested by the Kli Yakar which is more conservative in its reliance on the context of Beshalach:

She became a prophetess now (i.e. at the time of the splitting of the sea), for at that event even the women were able to see the presence of the shechinah … as Chazal said: “[Even] a maidservant at the sea saw what Yeshaya and Yechezkel didn’t see” (Mechilta Beshalach 3). This is why it stated: “all the women went after her,” since the prophecy began with her, and all the women followed in her footsteps at that event in which all of them merited prophecy.

The fourth approach diverges from the other three. Rashbam holds that the term neviah in Beshalach does not mean “prophetess” but rather “an expert in words of praise or rebuke.” Chizkuni similarly explains that Miriam is called a neviah here not because she received prophecy but because of her “expertise in words of song.” Shadal also maintains that the word neviah here seems to denote “one who is expert in the art of song and music” and supports his claim by citing examples of this usage throughout Tanach. What compels these commentators to deviate from the standard usage of the term neviah? Presumably, the fact that it doesn’t make sense in this context to characterize Miriam as a prophetess, since she is engaged in the act of singing God’s praises – not prophesying!

Yet, even these three commentators would admit that Miriam was a true prophetess. In addition to Miriam’s testimony in Behaalosecha (“Did He not also spoke with us?”), we have an Oral Tradition that Miriam was a prophetess, as Chazal teach: “There were seven prophetesses. Who were they? Sarah, Miriam, Devorah, Chanah, Avigayil, Chuldah, and Esther” (Megilah 14a). Indeed, I have not found a single commentator who challenges this claim. Thus, the answer to our question is a resounding and unanimous: yes, Miriam was a prophetess.

Why, then, did I bother raising this question? In order to illustrate an important methodological point: just because the Torah says something which aligns with our premises and prejudices doesn’t mean we shouldn’t question it. This seemingly obvious question led to four different approaches, each of which yielded new insights.

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If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at www.patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.

If you would like to sponsor a day's or a week's worth of content, or if you are interested in enlisting my services as a teacher or tutor, you can reach me at rabbischneeweiss at gmail.com. Thank you to my listeners for listening, thank you to my readers for reading, and thank you to my supporters for supporting my efforts to make Torah ideas available and accessible to everyone.

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Bo: The Jewish Lunar Calendar as Anti-Egyptian Polemic

Rambam (Moreh 3:29) maintained that knowledge of the beliefs and practices of the ancient idolatrous nations is vital for understanding the reasons for the Torah's commandments. Here is an example.

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Artwork: DALL-E’s response to the prompt, “photorealistic painting of a broken and shattered Egyptian sun god”

Bo: The Jewish Lunar Calendar as Anti-Egyptian Polemic

My learning of Sefer Shemos this year has been enhanced by two relatively new publications. The first is Founding God’s Nation: Reading Exodus (2021), by Leon R. Kass. Following in the footsteps of The Beginning of Wisdom: Reading Genesis (2003), Kass weaves a masterful analysis of the text using the “wisdom-seeking approach” of the Great Books tradition. (For a summary of his methodology, see my 2017 article, Musings on the “The Academic Approach”). The second publication is The Koren Tanakh of the Land of Israel (2020), translated by Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks and edited by David Arnovitz under the auspices of Rabbi Dr. Tzvi Hersh Weinreb. The running commentary consists of short articles on Egyptology, archaeology, philology, geography, and more, accompanied by vibrant photos, illustrations, and diagrams. This is a perfect resource for those who are interested in supplementing their Torah study with modern scholarship within the framework of Orthodoxy.

In Shemos 12:1 the Children of Israel are commanded to observe a lunar calendar. Kass explains the significance as follows:

Time in Israel will have a new basis and a new meaning. With sun worship defeated and left behind in Egypt, Israel gets a calendar that will no longer be based on the sun’s revolutions in the heavens or the correlated seasons of the year and the earthly sproutings and harvests they provide. This seemingly unprecedented innovation completes the Bible’s quiet but insistent polemic against living in thrall to the sun, the moon, and the stars – and the earth. The very beginning of Genesis had demoted the sun to a mere marker for the preexisting day and for seasons. It instituted instead a regular weekly seventh day, the Sabbath, independent of lunar change and commemorating instead the Creation and its Creator. Similarly here, the annual calendar is redefined in commemoration of a historical rather than a natural event. The target is no longer Babylonian “moon time,” but Egyptian “sun-and-earth” time. (p.168)

In contrast, Dr. Neria Klein’s article in the Koren Tanakh underscores our calendar’s non-revolutionary character:

The order of the months begins with Nisan, which is referred to throughout the Tanakh as “the first month” (Lev. 23:5). The biblical calendar is similar to the standard Akkadian calendar, in use in Assyria and Babylon – where the first month was called Nisannu (parallel to the Hebrew month Nisan) and the second month was called Aiaru (parallel to the Hebrew month Iyar). Likewise, the Hebrew month of Marḥeshvan is parallel to the Akkadian month Arah Samna, which means the eighth month – and again implies that Nisan is the first of the months. (p.62)

On the surface, Klein’s evidence would appear to undermine Kass’s theory. Kass characterizes the Jewish calendar as a “seemingly unprecedented innovation” – a radical departure from the other calendrical systems which prevailed at the time. He understands the Torah’s rejection of the solar year to be part of its silent campaign against Egyptian culture and avodah zarah (idolatry). Klein, on the other hand, endeavors to show the contrary – that the Jewish calendar is not radical, but typical. It would seem that Klein has the upper hand here, considering Kass’s methodological aversion to relying on “outside sources,” such as anthropological data. Kass explains the reasoning behind this “controversial view” of his in his preface: “like any great book, Exodus carries its persuasive power in itself. Access to the truths it might contain does not require prior faith, prior traditional or religious commitments, or reliance on outside authorities.” (p.9) What are we to make of this discrepancy? Does Kass’s theory still hold up in light of Klein’s evidence?

In my opinion, the answer is: yes, Kass’s theory can still be valid, and can coexist with Klein’s Assyriological evidence. Even though the lunar calendar existed in other ancient cultures, it was new to the Jews in Egypt. If one is willing to accept the notion that Hashem took institutions which existed in contemporaneous cultures and incorporated them into Torah, imbuing them with new meanings in line with its own agendas – such as korbanos (sacrifices), as explained by the Rambam (Guide 3:32), or milah (circumcision), which the Koren Tanakh contributors demonstrate was practiced in ancient Egypt – then Hashem certainly could have repurposed the Akkadian calendar as a weapon in the arsenal of Judaism’s war against Egyptian idolatry and culture.

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Shemos: Dasan and Aviram – to Blame or Not to Blame?

The Torah itself only ascribes one wrongdoing to Dasan and Aviram. It is the Sages who place them at the scene of other crimes. What are we to make of this? Let's turn to Rashi and Ralbag for insight.

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Artwork: DALL-E’s response to the prompt, “impressionist painting of Moses standing between two quarreling Hebrew men”

Shemos: Dasan and Aviram – to Blame or Not to Blame?

The events that led to Moshe Rabbeinu’s flight from Egypt are recounted in the span of three pesukim:

[Moshe] went out on the second day, and behold, two Hebrew men were fighting, and he said to the guilty one, "Why do you strike your fellow?" [The man] said, "Who set you as a chief and judge over us? Do you intend to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?" Moshe feared, saying, "Indeed the matter is known." Paroh heard the matter and sought to kill Moshe, but Moshe fled from before Paroh; he dwelled in the land Midian, and sat down by the well. (Shemos 2:13-15)

Ask any Jewish day school student, “Which two Hebrew men were fighting?” and they’ll likely answer, “Dasan and Aviram.” This view of the Sages, cited by Rashi (Shemos 2:13), is given full expression in Midrash Tanchuma 2:13:

He went out on the second day, and behold, two Hebrew men were fighting. Who were they? Dasan and Aviram. They were the ones who said, “Let us appoint a leader and return to Egypt!” (Bamidbar 14:4).  They are the ones who rebelled at the sea (Shemos 14:11). They are the ones who left over some of the manna, as it is written: “Men left over from [the manna] until the morning” (ibid. 16:20), and they are the ones who went out to gather [manna] and didn’t find any (ibid. 16:27). They are the ones who were involved in Korach’s dispute (Bamidbar 16:1), as it is stated: “the same Dasan and Aviram” (ibid. 16:27), for they persisted in their wickedness from beginning to end.

The Sages do not claim with certainty that Dasan and Aviram were involved in these incidents. The Torah Temimah explains that “because [Dasan and Aviram] were known to be contentious people, [the Sages] ascribe [fault] to them, following the principle of tolin es ha’kalkalah l’mekulkal (we ascribe degeneracy to the degenerate)” (Shemos 2:13, note 37). In other words, the midrash implicates Dasan and Aviram for homiletical reasons – not because we have a tradition that they were behind all this troublemaking as a matter of historical fact.

Ralbag does not blame Dasan and Aviram. He, too, favors a homiletical approach – as evidenced by his practice to conclude every section of his Chumash commentary with a list of toalos (beneficial lessons) that emerge from the text – but unlike Rashi, Ralbag grounds his ethical lesson in the pshat (straightforward meaning) of the narrative:

The 8th lesson is to inform us of the evil conduct of Israel at that time, when they were in the throes of the [Egyptian] exile – namely, that they were fighting with each other, and striking each other, and they hated rebuke [to the extent] that when Moshe rebuked them about [their fighting], they did not want to accept his rebuke, but instead publicized the matter of killing the Egyptian in a way that reached Paroh, forcing Moshe to flee. All of this is to teach us that the reason why we were in such a severe state of exile is because of this bad conduct, to the extent that if they would have improved their actions and drawn close to Hashem according to their ability, they would not have been in such a severe exile. For this same reason you will find that the exile did not begin until Yosef and all his brothers died, even though it had been decreed upon them that they would be enslaved and oppressed for 400 years, because good free will decisions can override the natural order …

Ralbag maintains that the degenerate behavior exhibited in our pesukim – quarrelling, physical assault, hatred of rebuke, informing on a fellow Jew – was not limited to two “bad apples.” It was endemic. According to Ralbag, this evil conduct was so pervasive that it resulted in prolonging the exile longer than it needed to be.

Each approach has its pros and cons. The advantage of Ralbag’s approach is that it sheds light on the sociological reality of the Egyptian exile and underscores how we, as a nation, could have avoided unnecessary suffering by remaining close to Hashem or doing teshuvah. The disadvantage is that Ralbag’s insight is abstract and difficult to relate to on a personal level. The disadvantage of Rashi’s approach is that it’s easy to simply blame Dasan and Aviram without reflecting on how their behavior persists in ourselves and in our people today. The advantage of Rashi’s approach is that Dasan and Aviram can be held up as emotionally resonant anti-role models for their bad character traits. The educator must decide which approach is the most effective for each audience and context.

If you’re interested in a full-length shiur I gave on this topic, entitled Midrashic Embellishment: Why Did Chazal Villainize “the Bad Guys” and Vindicate “the Good Guys” and What are the Educational Implications for Us?, click here for the YouTube version (featuring the PowerPoint presentation that accompanied the shiur) and click here for the podcast version.

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Vayechi: The Wolf as an Allegory for the Shechinah

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Vayechi: The Wolf as an Allegory for the Shechinah

The most important shiur I gave in 2021 was called Of Wolves, Men, and Methodology: an Attempt to Capture and Articulate an Epistemological Upheaval (available in video and audio). The catalyst for my “epistemological upheaval” was the book Of Wolves and Men (1979) by nature writer Barry Lopez. The goal of the shiur was to identify the many forms of unwarranted intellectual reductionism that dominate our thinking about wolves, Torah, and everything else. We must be on guard against reductionist fallacies and constantly remind ourselves of how little we know, and how little we can know.

Ever since I gave that shiur, my ears perk up when I encounter any mention of wolves. It should come as no surprise, then, that of all the blessings given by Yaakov Avinu to Bnei Yisrael, it is the final one that caught my eye: “Binyamin is a predatory wolf; in the morning he eats plunder, and in the evening he divides spoils” (Bereishis 49:27). Targum Onkelos renders this blessing as follows: “Binyamin: the shechina (divine presence) will dwell in his land, and in his inheritance the Mikdash (Temple) will be built; in the morning and afternoon the Kohanim will offer korbanos (sacrifices), and in the evening they will divide their leftover share from other kodshim (sacred things).”

The plain meaning of the Targum is straightforward: the Beis ha’Mikdash was located in the territory of Binyamin. Every morning and afternoon the Kohanim would bring a korban tamid (continual sacrifice), each consisting of a single lamb, and in the evening they would distribute their portions of other kodshim among themselves. My question is: What does any of this have to do with wolves? Onkelos provides no insight as to why the imagery of a wolf is employed.

One answer is given by R’ Pinchas in the midrash: “just as a wolf seizes [its prey,] so did the mizbeach (altar) seize the korbanos” (Bereishis Rabbah 99:3). The Etz Yosef explains that this “seizing” refers to the miraculous fire that would consume the sacrifices on the mizbeach. Unlike Onkelos, R’ Pinchas learns the entire pasuk to be about the korban tamid: “in the morning [the wolf] eats plunder” corresponds to the lamb-offering brought in the morning and “in the evening [the wolf] divides spoils” corresponds the lamb offered in the afternoon.

On the last page of Maseches Sukkah (56b) the mizbeach is compared to a wolf again, but in a derisive manner:

There was an incident involving Miriam bas Bilgah, who apostatized and went and married a soldier of the Greek kings. When the Greeks entered the Sanctuary, [she entered with them and] kicked the mizbeach with her sandal, saying: “Lukos, Lukos! (Wolf, wolf!) For how long will you consume the property of the Jewish people, yet you do not stand with them in dire circumstances?”

The difference between R’ Pinchas and Miriam bas Bilgah illustrates one of Lopez’s concluding thoughts:

We create wolves … in the wolf we have not so much an animal that we have always known as one that we have consistently imagined. To the human imagination the wolf has proved at various times the appropriate symbol for greed or savagery, the exactly proper guise for the Devil, or fitting as a patron of warrior clans. (p.203-204)

The same is true of the mizbeach. To R’ Pinchas, the mizbeach is the locus of the rendezvous between the shechinah and Israel: the two lambs we offer each day are seized in a wolflike fashion by a miraculous fire which testifies to the indwelling of God’s hashgachah (providence) among His people. But to Miriam bas Bilgah, the mizbeach is a predatory institution which drains Israel’s resources, yielding nothing in return. It is a relic of a bad deal with a God Who abandoned His people.

And what is true of the mizbeach is true of the shechinah itself. God’s hashgachah is an objective reality, but our perception of it is a reflection our own premises. We, as a nation, have fallen prey to such biases in the past: “the Children of Israel imputed things that were not true to Hashem, their God” (II Melachim 17:9). Like the wolf, the shechinah is what it is, but it is also what we make of it in our minds and imaginations. We must proceed with the utmost intellectual humility, cognizant of our human limitations. Only with such humility can we be worthy to stand before the shechinah, as it stated about the most humble of us all: “Moshe hid his face, for he was afraid to gaze at God” (Shemos 3:6).

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If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at www.patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.

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An Etymological Drash from Rav Hirsch on Jewish vs. Pagan Priests

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Artwork: Shadal and Rav Hirsch having a debate in a library
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An Etymological Drash from Rav Hirsch on Jewish vs. Pagan Priests

There are two types of linguistic analysis of the Hebrew language found in Torah commentaries. The first type takes into consideration all available data as the basis for its conclusions and follows the evidence wherever it may lead. This approach may be described as “scientific,” “evidence-based,” or “academic.” The second type of analysis avowedly does not factor in all the data but is guided by a particular set of assumptions, philosophical beliefs, and rhetorical objectives. This approach may be described as “poetic,” “imaginative,” or “homiletical.” The first type of analysis is “bottom-up” whereas the second is “top-down.” The first is a necessity for “pshat” whereas the second is a valuable a tool in the arsenal of “drash.”

Shadal (Samuel David Luzzatto, 1800-1865) exemplifies the scientific approach, as Daniel Klein writes in his preface to Shadal on Genesis: “In his investigation of word meanings, Luzzatto drew upon every means at his disposal” including “comparisons with the later (Mishnaic) Hebrew of the rabbis and with languages cognate to Hebrew, such as Aramaic, Syriac, and Arabic” (p.22) Shadal’s commentary is replete with philological analyses based on his understanding of the evolution of the Hebrew language.

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch (1808-1888), a grand master of the poetic approach, holds by a different set of premises from Shadal. According to Mattityahu Clark (ed. Etymological Dictionary of Biblical Hebrew Based on the Commentaries of Samson Raphael Hirsch), Hirsch believed that Hebrew “is not a language that has historically developed and grown by absorbing or adapting words and expressions from foreign sources. Rather, it is a single, integral unit with its own internal structure and grammar, its own logic and patterns, its own meanings and nuances” (p.x). Hirsch “states repeatedly that one should not look to foreign languages to find meanings of words in the Torah,” believing instead that “the Hebrew language is self-contained” (p.xi). Thus, “in his analysis, Hirsch makes no use of or references to other languages of the ancient Near East” (p.293), instead basing his conclusions on his idiosyncratic theory of three-letter roots.

Although there are hundreds of examples which illustrate the differences between these two approaches, the main reason I wrote this article is to showcase a single excerpt from Rav Hirsch’s commentary in Parashas Mikeitz. Yosef is overcome with emotion upon seeing his younger brother Binyamin. “Yosef hurried because נִכְמְרוּ רַחֲמָיו towards his brother, and he sought to weep; he went into the room and wept there” (Bereishis 43:30). The basic question is: What does נכמרו רחמיו mean in the context of this pasuk?

A second question arises from a more common use of this three-letter root in the word כומר, which is universally understood to mean “pagan priest,” as in “[Yoshiyahu] also dismissed the כומרים” (II Melachim 23:5), “for its people will mourn over it, as well as its כומרים” (Hoshea 10:5), and “I will cut off from this place any remnant of the Baal and the memory of the ministers with the כומרים” (Tzfanya 1:4). The second question is: What, if anything, is the relationship between the expression נכמרו רחמיו and the word כומר?

Shadal’s Italian translation of the pasuk in Mikeitz (rendered into English by Daniel Klein) reads as follows: “And immediately Joseph, pity having been kindled in him toward his brother, and wanting to weep, entered into the room and wept there.” Shadal elaborates on his reasoning in his commentary (43:30):

kindled (nikhmeru). Became hot and burning, as in, “Our skin is hot [nikhmeru], like an oven” (Eichah 5:10). In Rosenmueller’s opinion (and before him the Alexandrian translation), the original meaning of rahamim [here translated as “pity”] was “bowels,” just as [the singular form] rehem [means “womb”].

Shadal is not the first one to translate נכמרו as “hot and burning” Ibn Ezra, Avraham ben ha’Rambam, Ralbag, and others took the same approach, many of them citing the same pasuk from Eichah.

As for our second question, we – or at least, I – don’t have access to Shadal’s commentary on any of the three instances of the word כומר cited above. We do, however, have the commentary Hoil Moshe by Rabbi Moshe Yitzchak Ashkenazi (Moisè Tedeschi, 1829-1898), one of Shadal’s “informal” students, who employs a similar evidence-based linguistic approach to that of his teacher:

הכומרים. According to [Heinrich Wilhelm] Gesenius (1786-1842) in his lexicon, its meaning is “those who burn incense.” If so, one must assume that the letters ג,י,כ,ק were transposed and its origin is Aramaic or Syriac. Gachalei eish (fiery coals) is translated as gumrin d’iysha, and the priests raise up smoke with fiery coals on the firepan; accordingly, they are superior in rank to priests whose forms of service are not as significant.

Thus far the scientific approach of Shadal. Rav Hirsch’s poetic approach stands in stark contrast. He reads our pasuk as: “Yosef hastened, for his feelings toward his brother had been stirred up and he wished to cry, and he went into the room and wept there” (trans. Daniel Haberman). Rav Hirsch’s commentary begins with a pshat answer to our first question, then segues into a drash answer to our second question:

נכמרו רחמיו. For Yosef knew what he intended to do to Binyamin, the painful ordeal he intended to put him through, even if only briefly.

כמר, the stirring up of strong emotions, is also the root of מכמורת, a net. A כומר is a pagan priest. The Rabbinic term כמר של זיתים denotes laying fruit on top of one another so that they should heat up and ripen, or it denotes burying them in the earth for this purpose, sealing them off until they become ripe and tender. מכמר בשרא (Pesachim 58b) – initial spoilage in meat. ביב שהוא קמור תחת הבית (Ohalos 3:7) – a hidden drain.

The basic meaning of כמר, then, is to keep back something, shut it up and prevent it from going free, and thus to bring it to fermentation. Thus, on the one hand, a net, and on the other, the process of fermentation. Transposed to the emotional realm, כמר denotes pent-up feelings which, as a result of repression, reach an intense state of ferment. Compare  כִּי יִתְחַמֵּץ לְבָבִי (Tehilim 73:21), emotional ferment which can no longer be contained in one’s breast; intense emotional excitement.

For this reason, apparently, pagan priests are called כמרים as opposed to כהנים. The Jewish כהן is not dependent on devotion, emotion. Jewish Divine service is not designed to excite dark mysterious feelings. The Jewish Sanctuary appeals primarily to the intellect: התפלל means to rectify one’s judgment and to make clear to oneself one’s relationship to things in general, one’s duties. Feelings are very cheap. One can weep copiously before God in prayer, and then get up and be no better than one was before! The כומר counts on exciting the emotions. The כהן, however, has to be כן with himself and מכין, provide others with firm direction and a firm basis. Heathenism works on the emotions and thereby shackles the intellect. The emotions, however, are like a clock mechanism without hands, restless movement that knows not whence or wither, which can be exploited for any purpose. The כומר fans the flames of hell and arouses fanaticism; he celebrates his triumph when נכמרו מעים, when the innards of the believers reach a point of total ferment.

This is a beautiful example of what I call “etymological drash.” Rav Hirsch uses the Hebrew language to expound on a core idea about Judaism. The fact that his analysis of the root כ.מ.ר. may or may not be “scientifically accurate” by the standards of modern philology is immaterial. This is the way of drash.

Fortunately, we are not forced to choose between the approaches of Shadal and Rav Hirsch, just as we need not commit ourselves exclusively to either pshat or drash. Rabbi David Fohrman once likened the interrelationship between pshat and drash to that of melody and harmony: both play different roles – the parameters of which must be understood to be effectively used – but together, they result in beautiful music.

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If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.

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Chanukah 5783: The “Beloved” Mitzvah of Ner Chanukah

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Chanukah 5783: The “Beloved” Mitzvah of Ner Chanukah

Rambam provides an unusual description of Ner Chanukah in Hilchos Megilah v’Chanukah 4:12:

The mitzvah of the Ner Chanukah is an exceedingly beloved mitzvah (mitzvah chavivah hee ad me’od), and a person must be careful with it in order to convey knowledge of the miracle and to increase the praise of God and thanksgiving to Him for the miracles He did. Even if a person is dependent on tzedakah for food, he must [nevertheless] beg [for money] or sell his clothing to buy oil and candles [so he can] kindle [the Ner Chanukah].

The Rav (Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Mipninei ha’Rav pp. 187-188) asks: What makes Ner Chanukah more “beloved” than other mitzvos? If this is because of pirsumei nisa (publicizing the miracle), then Rambam’s characterization should extend to the other mitzvos of pirsumei nisa, such as the reading of Megilas Esther on Purim and the arbah kosos (four cups) and heseivah (reclining) on Pesach – yet, only Ner Chanukah is described by him as “beloved.”

The Rav answers based on a Gemara (Shabbos 22b) about the original miracle of the oil – not the miracle that occurred during Bayis Sheini which we commemorate on Chanukah, but the one that transpired on a more regular basis during Bayis Rishon and early Bayis Sheini. The Gemara begins with a rhetorical question: "Does [God] need the light [of the Menorah]?! Didn't the Children of Israel walk exclusively by His light for the entire forty years in the Wilderness?" The Gemara answers: "Rather, [the Menorah] is a testimony to mankind that the shechinah (divine presence) rests among Israel." The Gemara goes on to describe the miracle of the Ner Maaravi (western lamp of the Menorah). The Kohen would put an equal measure of oil into all the lamps of the Menorah, but whereas the other six would burn out at night, the Ner Maaravi would miraculously remain lit, allowing the Kohen to kindle from it again each evening. This miracle was not guaranteed. Rather, as Rashi (ibid.) explains, “as long as Israel was beloved (chaviv) [before Hashem, the Ner Maaravi] would be lit all day long, and that was its testimony.”  

In other words, the miracle of the Menorah's Ner Maaravi reflected Israel’s status as the Chosen Nation, and it was this selfsame “chosenness” that was imperiled by Greek Hellenism during the era of the Chashmonaim. Not only did Hashem save us from that threat, but He testified through the eight-day miracle of the oil that the shechinah continued to dwell in Israel. This, according to the Rav, is the meaning of Rambam’s characterization of Ner Chanukah as a “beloved” mitzvah: because Ner Chanukah is emblematic of our belovedness before Hashem.

But there remains one question which must be answered to fully appreciate the Rav’s idea: What do we mean by “shechinah”? Hashem is not physical and cannot “dwell” in any location, as Shlomo ha’Melech expressed in his tefilah at the dedication of Bayis Rishon: "Does God truly dwell on earth? Behold, the heavens and the highest heavens do not contain You, and surely not this Temple that I have built!" (I Melachim 8:27).

In his commentary on the pasuk: “I shall place My indwelling (mishkani) in your midst” (Vayikra 26:11), R’ Dovid Tzvi Hoffman (1843-1921) defines “shechinah” as “the manifest divine providence that determines the fate of Israel” (ha’hashgachah ha’elohis ha’geluyah she’kovaas es goral Yisrael). Although Israel’s fate is always under hashgachas Hashem (God’s providence), that hashgachah is not always manifest. But when we experience a miracle – whether an open miracle involving a suspension of the laws of nature, like the Ner Maaravi, or a hidden miracle, like our military victory over the Greeks – we refer to such a phenomenon as shechinah.

In light of this understanding of “shechinah,” we can appreciate a nuance in the Rav’s explanation of the Rambam. Ner Chanukah is “beloved” not only because it symbolizes shechinah, but also because it exemplifies shechinah. As Rabbi Yonatan Goldschmidt so eloquently expressed: “the miracle is not only that the light lasted eight days but that these [Chanukah] lights have lasted more than 2000 years.” The continued observance of Ner Chanukah by the Jewish people, despite everything that has happened, is the greatest manifestation of hashgachas Hashem.

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If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.

If you would like to sponsor a day's or a week's worth of content, or if you are interested in enlisting my services as a teacher or tutor, you can reach me at rabbischneeweiss at gmail.com. Thank you to my listeners for listening, thank you to my readers for reading, and thank you to my supporters for supporting my efforts to make Torah ideas available and accessible to everyone.

Be sure to check out my YouTube channel and my podcasts: "The Mishlei Podcast", "The Stoic Jew" Podcast, "Rambam Bekius" Podcast, "Machshavah Lab" Podcast, "The Tefilah Podcast"  Email me if you'd like to be added to my WhatsApp group where I share all of my content and public shiur info. 

Vayeishev: Should this Rashi be Taught to Children?

The Torah content for the month of Kislev has been sponsored by Serena and Paul Koppel, who want to be makir tov and express gratitude.

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Artwork: DALL-E's response to the prompt, "post-impressionist painting of young Biblical Joseph being forgotten in prison by the king's steward"

Vayeishev: Should this Rashi be Taught to Children?

The final episode in Parashas Vayeishev opens with Yosef incarcerated in Potiphar’s dungeon. After interpreting the dream of the sar ha’mashkim (chief cupbearer), Yosef makes a request: “But if you would remember me when things go well for you, please do me a favor and make mention of me to Paroh and take me out of this house. For indeed, I was stolen from the land of the Hebrews, and here, too, I did not do anything that they should have put me into the pit.” (Bereishis 40:14-15). The parashah concludes on a somber note: “And the Sar ha’Mashkim did not remember Yosef; he forgot him” (ibid. 40:23).

Ask any child educated in the Jewish day school system “Why was Yosef forgotten?” and they’ll likely answer: “as a punishment for trusting in the sar ha’mashkim instead of Hashem.” This is Rashi’s (ibid.) explanation:

Because Yosef placed his [trust] in [the sar ha’mashkim] to recall him, it became necessary for him to be imprisoned for two more years, as it is stated: “Praiseworthy is the man who has placed his trust in Hashem, and did not turn to the haughty” (Tehilim 40:5) – that is, he shouldn’t have trusted in Egypt, who is called “haughty” (Yeshayahu 30:7).

Ralbag takes the opposite approach. He highlights this in his list of toalos (lessons) on the parashah (40:14):

The seventh lesson [we learn from this section] is in middos (character traits), namely, that it is proper for a person to strive with all his might to save himself from the bad [situation] in which he finds himself, using all the means at his disposal that might help him, and he should not rely on a miracle, even if he is under Hashem’s providence to a high degree. You see that despite the wondrous extent of Hashem’s providence towards Yosef, he [nevertheless] entreated the sar ha’mashkim to recall him to Paroh to take him out of the dungeon.

Why, then, was the righteous Yosef forced to languish in prison for two additional years? Ralbag answers (ibid. 41:39-45, Toalos, after the 8th toeles), explicitly doubling down on his rejection of Rashi’s approach:

It should be clear that Yosef did not place his trust in human beings (lit. “make flesh his strength,” cf. Yirmiyahu 17:5) when he spoke to the sar ha’mashkim; he merely saw that mentioning him to Paroh would bring about good, as it ultimately did. But Hashem caused the sar ha’mashkim to not remember him until the time arrived that would be most beneficial to Yosef. Thus, you will find that all the misfortunes that befell [Yosef] from the time he was sold – all of them were a means of bringing him into power, and this is clear with even the most superficial analysis.

Neither Rashi nor Ralbag were the originators of the interpretations they cite in their commentaries. Both can be found in the midrashic literature (Bereishis Rabbah 89:3). First the Sages present the view that Yosef’s sentence was increased by two years because he asked the sar ha’mashkim to recall him, in violation of “Praiseworthy is the man who has placed in trust in Hashem.” A few sentences later, the Sages offer an alternative explanation: “Why were two years added to his imprisonment? So that Paroh would dream a dream, through which [Yosef] would become great.” Rashi prefers the first explanation, whereas Ralbag opts for the second.

Of the two views, Rashi’s is the most difficult. We see numerous examples in Tanach of righteous individuals who had great bitachon (trust) in Hashem, but nevertheless adhered to the unanimously accepted principle of “ein somchin al ha’neis” (“we do not rely on a miracle”). Thankfully, my Rosh ha’Yeshiva wrote an essay featuring a beautifully nuanced explanation of how Yosef’s appeal to the sar ha’mashkim evinced a lack of bitachon in Hashem and why, in this case, a person who fully trusted in Hashem would have simply awaited His salvation.

The problem with Rashi, in my opinion, is not what he wrote, but how it’s presented. Odds are that the young children who are taught this Rashi as pshat (the straightforward meaning of the text) will walk away with the message that Yosef was wrong to ask for help, and that it is better to rely on a miracle than to act intelligently. I am convinced that it is better to teach Ralbag as pshat, but I’m open to hearing arguments in favor of Rashi.

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If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.

If you would like to sponsor a day's or a week's worth of content, or if you are interested in enlisting my services as a teacher or tutor, you can reach me at rabbischneeweiss at gmail.com. Thank you to my listeners for listening, thank you to my readers for reading, and thank you to my supporters for supporting my efforts to make Torah ideas available and accessible to everyone.

Be sure to check out my YouTube channel and my podcasts: "The Mishlei Podcast", "The Stoic Jew" Podcast, "Rambam Bekius" Podcast, "Machshavah Lab" Podcast, "The Tefilah Podcast"  Email me if you'd like to be added to my WhatsApp group where I share all of my content and public shiur info.