Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky

Time and Beyond

As we read the Four Parshiyos during throughout the month of Adar, we transition from Shekalim to Zachor, then to Parah, and finally to HaChodesh. The significance of Shekalim is clear. It serves as a reminder that everyone should prepare their half-shekel contribution, which would be collected during Adar for the purchase of new communal sacrifices in Nissan. Zachor reminds us that we must fulfill the commandment to eradicate Amalek before we can properly observe Purim. Parah, in turn, reminds us to purify ourselves in preparation for Pesach, so we can partake in the Korban Pesach (Passover offering).

But what is the purpose of HaChodesh? Why does the Torah emphasize that this is the first month?

These four special Torah readings frame the month of Adar because Adar is not the end of the year; rather, it carries forward into Nissan, marking a new beginning. Haman mistakenly believed that since the Jewish people were born into a nation in Nissan, their fate would come to an end in Adar, at the close of the year. After all, everything that comes into existence eventually ceases to be. However, he failed to grasp the unique nature of the Jewish people—their inherent renewal, the power of techiyas hameisim (resurrection of the dead), the ability to begin anew.

This is why, when Hashem gave the Torah, the very first mitzvah He commanded was, "This month shall be for you the beginning of the months" (Shemos 12:2). The Jewish people do not measure time as the rest of the world does. Anyone who has ever attended a Jewish event knows this well: Jews do not follow conventional timekeeping. Instead, we operate on our own calendar, on our own schedule.

We count time according to the moon, though not exclusively—rather, by both the moon and the sun—ensuring the occasional addition of an entire leap month. This fluidity reflects the Jewish relationship with time: we are not merely subject to time; we have control over it. The month of Nissan marks the beginning of a new time that we actively create. This is the essence of Rosh Chodesh, wherein we determine when Rosh Chodesh falls, and in doing so, we set the dates for the Yomim Tovim. We wield the power to sanctify time.

The Jewish people exist beyond time, unfettered by its constraints. While the rest of the world is bound within time’s limitations, we transcend them. This is the foundation of Klal Yisrael. Hashem declared to Moshe Rabbeinu that in this month, He would establish the Jewish people as a nation unlike any other; a people who operate outside the framework of time itself.

This is why Chassidic tradition does not refer to the month as Chodesh Nissan (the month of Nissan), but rather “Chodesh Nissim,” the month of miracles. The entire month is one of miracles. As we recite in the Haggadah, "Ya’chol me’Rosh Chodesh"—there is an initial thought that the Seder could have been held already on Rosh Chodesh Nissan. Though a Pasuk clarifies that it is not, the very existence of this consideration highlights the profound power of Pesach that is already present from the beginning of the month.

Thus, these four special Torah readings prepare us for Pesach. The first two relate to Purim, marking the first redemption, while the latter two shift the focus to Pesach, the second redemption. We thus place one redemption beside the other, linking them together.

And so, as we conclude these four Parshiyos, transitioning from Adar into Nissan, the month of miracles, may we be privileged to witness the ultimate, true redemption.

Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

Exalted Effects

The Gemara (Chagigah 3a) quotes a verse from Shir HaShirim (7:1), where Hashem expresses His love for Klal Yisrael, saying, "How beautiful are your feet with shoes." What does this mean exactly? Rava explains: "How pleasant are the feet of Klal Yisrael when they ascend to Jerusalem for the Shalosh Regalim (pilgrimage festivals)."

This Gemara is difficult to understand. What do the feet and shoes of Klal Yisrael have to do with the mitzvah of being Oleh L’Regel, ascending to Jerusalem for the festivals? Rav Eliyahu Lopian zt”l provides a profound insight that can perhaps shed light on this concept.

After Moshe Rabbeinu instructed Klal Yisrael regarding the Mishkan, the Torah states: "And the entire assembly of Bnei Yisrael left from before Moshe" (Shemos 35:20). The words "from before Moshe" seem redundant. If they had been speaking to Moshe and then left, it is obvious they were no longer in his presence. Why, then, does the Torah emphasize "from before Moshe"?

Rabbi Eliyahu Lopian explains that even after they physically left Moshe Rabbeinu’s presence, they still felt as though they were standing before him. His radiance, his influence, and his impact remained with them even after they walked away.

Can we even begin to imagine what it meant to be in the presence of Moshe Rabbeinu? To have a conversation with a man who spoke "face to face" with the Shechinah? There were no distractions—no one boasting about their wealth, their properties, the organizations they founded, or even the books they authored. There was only awe.

A remarkable Gemara (Eruvin 13b) illustrates this idea. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi—one of the greatest Tannaim in Jewish history and the redactor of the Mishnah—was simply known as Rebbi throughout Shas. He personified both Torah and greatness together (Gittin 59a).

The Gemara relates that Rebbi was once asked: "How did you achieve such greatness? What led you to earn the title of Rebbi?" He replied: "I will tell you my secret. Do you know why I am greater than my colleagues? Because I once saw the back of the great Tanna, R’ Meir. Had I seen his face, I would have been even greater."

I once heard a beautiful interpretation of this Gemara. Rebbi was one of the last Tannaim. In saying that he saw the back of R’ Meir, he was expressing that he merited seeing a "glimpse" of the previous generation. He saw the tail end of the great era that preceded him, a true Gadol from a previous generation, and that exposure left an indelible impression on him. It inspired him to rise to the heights of Rabbeinu HaKadosh.

Recently, we marked the yahrzeit of Rav Chaim Kanievsky zt”l. We were privileged to witness a tzaddik from the previous generation. For those who visited Eretz Yisrael, the highlight of the trip was receiving a bracha from Rav Chaim. That day felt different.

We woke up early. We davened at an early minyan. We prepared ourselves for the visit. There was an aura of holiness in the air. And even after leaving his home, we still felt his presence. We felt elevated. For days afterward, his holy face remained before us and it was all we could talk about.

Just being in the proximity of a tzaddik lifted us to spiritual heights.

Now, can we even fathom what it was like when Klal Yisrael gathered and prepared to ascend to Jerusalem? To stand before the Shechinah? The awe, the reverence, the overwhelming privilege of standing before the King of Kings?

The very preparation for the journey to Yerushalayim was an exalted experience. Even before they took off their shoes, even before they arrived, even before they stepped into the courtyard of the Beis HaMikdash, Hashem was already moved by their devotion. Their spiritual ascent began long before they physically arrived in Jerusalem.

Rav Yitzchak Zilberstein shlita once shared an incredible story:

While taking a taxi in Jerusalem, the driver—who was not religious—turned to him and said, "Rabbi, I must tell you an amazing story."

"After finishing my service in the IDF, my friends and I traveled to the Philippines. One day, while hiking, one of my friends suddenly started screaming: 'Hatzilu! Save me!' We looked down and saw a venomous snake wrapped around his leg. We were helpless. Every second was critical, but we had no way to assist him. In desperation, we shouted: 'Say Shema Yisrael! Call out to Hashem to save you!'

He closed his eyes and, with all his might, began to scream: 'Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad!'

And the moment he finished, the snake uncoiled itself and slithered away. My friend is now fully observant. He keeps Torah and mitzvos.

Rav Zilberstein then turned to the driver and asked, “And what about you?” The driver replied, “Rabbi, this didn’t happen to me. It happened to my friend.”

We can witness an open miracle before our very eyes—and still remain unmoved.

This is the meaning of the verse: "From before Moshe." Even after leaving Moshe Rabbeinu’s presence, his influence remained with them.

When we experience something extraordinary—whether it is being in the presence of a tzaddik, witnessing a miracle, or feeling uplifted by a spiritual moment—it should leave a lasting impact on us. It should change us.

Forever.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

The Mishkan and the Painter

At last, the Mishkan is complete. In this week's Parsha, the sacred structure is finally finished, and now it must be erected. Moshe Rabbeinu, however, had not taken part in the physical construction of the Mishkan. To honor him, Hashem granted him the privilege of assembling it, ensuring that he would receive the reward for its completion.

Yet, there was a challenge—the Mishkan was extraordinarily heavy. But Hashem reassured Moshe Rabbeinu, saying, "Do not worry. Simply try. You do your part, and I will do the rest."

And so, Moshe Rabbeinu attempted to lift the Mishkan, and miraculously, it was erected. Though he did not physically bear the full weight, he was credited with completing the entire Mishkan and received the full reward (Shemos Rabbah 35:3).

This is remarkable. The artisans and craftsmen who labored over the Mishkan were naturally deserving of great reward. Yet Moshe Rabbeinu, who merely tried to raise it, was granted an equivalent reward—despite the fact that the actual work was not his.

How do we understand this?

Perhaps we can illustrate the concept with the following analogy.

Imagine someone standing before a breathtaking scenic view. He takes out his camera and captures the moment. The image is stunning. He enlarges it, prints it, and frames it. How much could he sell it for? Thirty dollars, fifty, perhaps a hundred.

Now, imagine another person standing in the same place. But instead of a camera, he brings out a canvas and a set of paints. He begins to work, carefully crafting each stroke, investing hours of effort into recreating the magnificent landscape before him.

The result? A masterpiece. How much could his painting sell for? Perhaps thousands of dollars. Why is that? The photographer captured the actual image, the real view. The painting is just a replica. Why does the artwork hold so much more value?

The answer lies in this week's Parsha. It is the effort that makes all the difference. Even though Moshe Rabbeinu did not participate in the physical construction of the Mishkan, his effort—his attempt to lift, assemble, and complete it—was considered as though he had done everything.

The Torah teaches us a profound lesson: our effort matters more than the outcome. So often, we take on new commitments. We strive to guard our speech, to protect our eyes, to strengthen our prayers with kavanah, to observe mitzvos with greater care. We try and try and try. And Hashem reminds us this week: do not worry. It is the effort that counts.

You try—and Hashem will complete the rest.

Rabbi Uren Reich

Seize the Moment

Why doesn’t Hashem give each of us a clock, a life clock that displays how much time has passed and how much time remains? If we had such a clock, we could plan our lives accordingly, making sure not to waste a moment.

And yet, as Chazal (Shabbos 153a) teach us, no one knows when their time will come to an end. Why is that?

The ways of Hashem are beyond human comprehension, but perhaps we can suggest an idea.

If we knew exactly how much time we had, we might always assume that missed opportunities could be made up later. If not today, then tomorrow. If not this year, then in the future. We would live with the false confidence that every moment is replaceable.

But the reality is that we do not know. We have no idea where life will take us, when our clock will stop, or whether the opportunities before us today will ever return. The unpredictability of life forces us to seize the moment, to cherish the present, and to take advantage of every opportunity as if it were our last.

And when the opportunity before us involves sacrifice—an act of giving up something for the sake of something greater—who can say that such a moment will ever come again?

There is a beautiful story about Rav Shmuel Berenbaum zt”l.

After World War II, when the Mir Yeshiva was traveling from Shanghai to America, their ship approached the West Coast. The captain made an announcement: "Anyone who steps onto the deck now will have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset—a truly magnificent sight."

Excited, many of the bochurim scrambled to catch a glimpse of this rare and beautiful scene. But one distinguished young scholar, Rav Shmuel Berenbaum, remained in his place, immersed in learning.

His chavrusa, surprised, said to him: "Shmuel, you missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see the Golden Gate Bridge!" Rav Shmuel replied with profound wisdom: "On the contrary. If I had gone to see it, I would have missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to give up seeing the Golden Gate Bridge—to choose Torah instead."

This is the essence of every nisayon, every test and challenge in life.

It is an opportunity. A special moment to demonstrate our love for Hashem and rise above the distractions of this world. We never know if we will be given such an opportunity again.

Let us seize each moment, so that when our clock finally stops, we will have a lifetime of achievements to present before Hashem.

Rabbi Shlomo Landau

Sensitivity Gone Right

The great tzaddik, Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach zt”l, had a cherished tradition. Every year, in the month of Nissan, he would visit a specific courtyard to recite the blessing of Birkat Ha’Ilanot, the special beracha made upon seeing fruit trees in bloom.

One year, as Rav Shlomo Zalman made his way to this familiar spot, one of his students pointed out that the blossoms on that particular tree were weak and sparse.

"Perhaps this year," the student suggested, "we should go to a different courtyard, one where the trees are in full bloom. After all, halachically, it is preferable to recite this blessing in the presence of at least two trees, and here there is only one. Would it not be more appropriate to enhance the mitzvah by choosing a better location?"

Rav Shlomo Zalman simply responded, "Come with me."

They proceeded as usual to the same courtyard with its single, modestly blossomed tree. But when they arrived, Rav Shlomo Zalman pointed to a window overlooking the courtyard. "Look," he said.

Inside, they saw an almanac, a widow, watching expectantly.

Rav Shlomo Zalman turned to his students and explained: "This moment is the highlight of her year. Every Nissan, she waits for the great privilege of seeing us come and recite the beracha over her tree. This brings her joy, comfort, and a sense of connection."

Then, with his characteristic warmth and wisdom, he continued: "The mitzvah of showing kindness, mercy, and compassion to a widow is d’Oraisa—a direct, biblical commandment. The recitation of Birkat Ha’Ilanot, while important, is a minhag, a custom, a halachic obligation of a lesser level. When faced with a choice, which takes precedence?

“There is no question. Bringing joy to the heart of an almana is far greater."