Rabbi Berel Wein zt”l

In Isolation and In Society

One of the great mysteries of Torah is the relationship between what might be called the theoretical Torah and the practical Torah, or the Torah as it is interpreted, applied, and enforced through Chazal, the Sanhedrin, and the halachic tradition across the generations.

At times, the written Torah appears to establish one standard, while the practical halachic system seems to operate differently. One of the clearest examples is the Pasuk: “A life for a life, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” (Shemos 21:23-24).

On the surface, the Torah seems to say that if a person blinds another, the perpetrator’s eye should be blinded in return. Yet in practice, this was never done. More than that, it was not permitted to be done. Chazal understood “an eye for an eye” to mean monetary compensation and the value of the damage done, which translated into legal payment.

For centuries, the commentaries have struggled with this question. How do we reconcile the apparent meaning of the written text with the halachic practice of Torah Shebe’al Peh?

One partial answer is that the Torah sometimes presents the absolute moral truth of the matter, or what, in theory, the act deserves. But because law must be administered by human beings, within society, with all the limitations of evidence, emotion, technicality, and consequence, the Torah translates that ideal standard into something practical, measured, and enforceable. Still, the question remains: why would the Torah state an ideal and then, in practice, not apply it literally?

This same tension appears in the parashah of Nazir.

A Nazir is a person who seeks holiness through abstention. He refrains from wine, does not cut his hair, and avoids contact with the dead. At first glance, the Torah seems to present this as a noble spiritual undertaking, as a person reaching for kedushah by stepping away from ordinary physical life. There is something deeply understandable about that impulse. Many people assume that greater stringency automatically means greater holiness. If I deprive myself more, restrict myself more, and separate myself more, then surely I have become more spiritual.

Yet Chazal are deeply ambivalent about Nezirus. The Gemara (Nedarim 9b) records that Shimon HaTzaddik said he almost never ate from the korban of a Nazir, with only one exception. In most cases, he sensed that the person’s Nezirus was not entirely sincere. There was an element of display, of spiritual performance: “Look how holy I am. I am a Nazir.” Thus, once again, we face the same question. The Torah devotes an entire section to the Nazir, yet Chazal are cautious, even suspicious, of the institution in practice.

The answer may lie in the difference between holiness in isolation and holiness within society.

If I were the only person in the world, my religious choices would affect only me. If my actions had no impact on parents, siblings, spouse, children, friends, business associates, students, or congregation, then one set of standards might apply. But in the real world, no person is an island. Every act of piety has a social effect.

A person cannot become a Nazir only to himself. His Nezirus affects his family and it affects his community. It affects the way others see religion. It may inspire them, or it may alienate them. It may express sincerity, or it may appear theatrical. It may be genuine holiness, or it may become spiritual exhibitionism.

I remember, when I was in yeshivah, the shaliach tzibbur would wait for the Rosh Yeshivah to finish Shemoneh Esrei before beginning chazaras hashatz. Different roshei yeshivah took different amounts of time. Some finished rather quickly; others took much longer.

One Purim, when it was possible to ask the Rosh Yeshivah almost anything, someone asked him how he determined the length of his Shemoneh Esrei. His answer was honest and memorable.

“When I daven alone,” he said, “I may take a long time. I try to concentrate on every word and pronounce each syllable carefully. Sometimes it can take ten or fifteen minutes. But when I am davening with a tzibbur, and I know that the congregation is waiting for me, I take that into account. Then I daven differently.”

That answer reflects the complexity of religious life. Ideally, one might want to daven with maximum concentration, regardless of time. But if an entire congregation is waiting, then one’s private fervor has public consequences.

This same tension appears in countless areas of Jewish life. A person may say, “If I daven at home, I daven more slowly and with greater concentration. Should I therefore daven at home, or should I come to shul and daven with a minyan, even if my concentration is diminished?” Halachah says that he should daven with a minyan. Yet his conscience tells him that something inward may be lost.

I once davened Maariv in a small shul where Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach zt”l davened. Often, it was difficult to gather a minyan. One night, there were nine men present, and then the street cleaner walked in. Rav Shlomo Zalman greeted him as though Eliyahu HaNavi had arrived. Why? Because now there was a minyan.

That moment revealed something profound. Rav Shlomo Zalman understood that even his own tefillah needed the street cleaner. Most people do not naturally feel that way. They think, “If my prayer depends on the street cleaner, I am better off davening alone.” But Torah teaches otherwise. Holiness is not only inward. It is communal.

This is the struggle embodied by the Nazir.

In isolation, the desire for holiness is beautiful. The wish to rise above ordinary appetite, to discipline the body, and to pursue kedusha is deeply noble. But once that pursuit enters society, it becomes complicated. How will it affect others? Will it inspire or repel? Will it bring a person closer to Hashem, or will it become a stage on which he performs righteousness?

That is why Judaism is so complex. It is not simply “keep kosher and be a good person,” though both are certainly true. Torah is broader, deeper, and more demanding than that. It recognizes the gap between the pure ideal and the human world in which that ideal must be lived.

This, perhaps, is one of the major themes of Sefer Bamidbar.

Again and again, the generation of the wilderness encounters situations that, in isolation, may not seem sinful. But once placed within the life of a nation, within the social and spiritual effects they generate, they become consequential. Actions that appear private are revealed to have communal impact. Decisions that seem personal shape the destiny of an entire people.

The Nazir teaches us that holiness cannot be measured only by intensity. It must also be measured by responsibility. The question is not only: How high can I reach? The question is also: What effect do my spiritual pursuits have on everyone around me?

That is the delicate path the Torah asks us to walk: between aspiration and humility, between idealism and responsibility, and between private sincerity and public consequence.

Rabbi Elazar Meisels

The Life of Leadership

One of the final acts in the inauguration of the Mishkan was the offering of the korbanos brought by the Nesi’im, the tribal princes of Klal Yisrael. Together, they presented twelve oxen and six wagons, and in addition, each Nasi individually brought an identical order of korbanos, painstakingly enumerated by the Torah over the course of twelve separate days.

Several questions can be asked.

Firstly, why did the Nesi’im bring these offerings at all? There appears to have been no explicit command instructing them to bring either the wagons or the korbanos. If so, where did this initiative emerge from?

Secondly, what connection do these offerings bear to the Chanukas HaMishkan, the inauguration of the Mishkan itself? Had the Nesi’im wished to bring gifts or korbanos voluntarily, they could have done so at any point. Why do these offerings become woven into the culmination of the dedication?

Thirdly, and perhaps most obviously, why does the Torah repeat the identical list of korbanos twelve separate times? Once the Torah records the offerings of the first Nasi, it could simply state that each of the remaining Nesi’im brought the same korbanos on their respective days. Why the extensive repetition?

The Sforno offers an insight by focusing on the unusually elaborate language introducing the Nesi’im and their offerings.

The Pasuk states: “The princes of Israel brought forth… the heads of their fathers’ houses… they were the princes of the tribes… they were the ones who stood over the census” (Bamidbar 7:2).

The wording appears excessively repetitive. Once the Torah tells us that the Nesi’im brought offerings, what additional purpose is served by emphasizing that they were the heads of households, the princes of the tribes, and those who stood over the counting of Klal Yisrael?

The Sforno explains that these descriptions are not incidental; they are the reason the Nesi’im brought these korbanos. These were the men who stood beside Moshe and Aharon during the census of Klal Yisrael. They scrutinized every individual, examined lineage, family, standing, and identity. Such proximity to people inevitably reveals human imperfection. From a distance, individuals appear polished and whole. Up close, flaws become visible.

One of the Baalei Mussar remarked that a person should examine his own deeds the way one inspects an esrog—up close, under intense light, searching carefully for every blemish. Yet when looking at another person, one should view him like a magnificent painting, which can only be appreciated properly from afar. The closer one stands to a painting, the less beauty one sees.

But the Nesi’im could not remain at a distance. Their very role demanded intimate involvement with the people. Consequently, they became aware of areas within their respective shevatim that required kaparah and repair.

The Sforno writes: “By virtue of standing over the census, each one sensed deficiencies and sins within his tribe.” And because they were leaders, they understood that responsibility for the spiritual state of the people rested upon them as well. Therefore: “They arose to stand in the breach and to offer korbanos to atone on their behalf.”

The Nesi’im were not merely inspired individuals seeking participation in the Mishkan’s inauguration. Nor were they motivated by ceremony or honor. Rather, they understood that leadership demands responsibility. When the people under one’s care require spiritual healing, a true leader does not distance himself from their failings. He carries them.

This is the deeper meaning of leadership in Torah thought. A leader is not merely present for moments of celebration and public visibility. True leadership means assuming responsibility for the burdens, struggles, and failings of one’s people. Their problems become his problems.

This concept parallels the role of the Kohen Gadol. Chazal (Makkos 11b) teach that the death of the Kohen Gadol enabled the accidental killer confined to the Ir Miklat, City of Refuge, to return home because the Kohen Gadol, as the spiritual representative of the nation, bore a level of responsibility for the spiritual condition of Klal Yisrael. A genuine leader must serve as a source of kaparah for his people.

Some time ago, I needed to investigate a certain prominent communal rabbi. Externally, he appeared highly invested in self-promotion, and I was uncertain how much substance existed beneath the public image. I spoke with a trustworthy individual from his community and asked him candidly about the Rav.

His response was illuminating. “Yes,” he told me, “he does an extraordinary job promoting himself. But you should know what happens behind the scenes. Every problem in the community eventually lands on his desk, and he handles all of them personally. Sick individuals, struggling marriages, financial crises, emotional pain— he is involved in everything. Much of it never reaches public awareness because he resolves matters quietly before they escalate.”

At that moment, I realized that what appeared externally as self-promotion was, in truth, the building of a position powerful enough to help people effectively.

That is precisely the insight of Sforno. The Nesi’im did not bring korbanos for themselves. They brought them on behalf of their people. If members of the shevet would not seek kaparah independently, the Nasi accepted responsibility to seek it for them.

This also explains why the Torah records each offering separately. Although the physical korbanos were identical, the intentions behind them were entirely distinct. Each Nasi brought the korbanos with a unique awareness of the specific spiritual deficiencies within his own tribe. One Nasi may have brought korbanos with particular focus on dishonesty, another on lashon hara, another on failures in interpersonal conduct, and another on other hidden weaknesses within his shevet. The external offerings were the same, but the inner intentions and purposes differed profoundly. Thus, the Torah repeats each korban individually because each offering represented a distinct act of spiritual responsibility and communal atonement.

This leaves one final question: why specifically during the Chanukas HaMishkan?

Rav Shmuel Wosner zt”l, citing the Sforno, explains that the Mishkan itself was fundamentally an instrument of kaparah for the sin of the Golden Calf, in accordance with the view of Rashi and the Sforno himself. If the Mishkan was to serve as the vehicle through which Klal Yisrael would achieve atonement for the Chet Ha’Egel, then it was essential that all other lingering spiritual failings first be addressed.

The inauguration of the Mishkan could not rest upon an unstable spiritual foundation. Therefore, before the Mishkan could fully assume its role as the source of Divine reconciliation between Hashem and Klal Yisrael, the Nesi’im sought kaparah for the unresolved failings within their tribes. Only then could the Mishkan accomplish its true purpose.

This also sheds light on the juxtaposition immediately following these events. The Torah proceeds from the korbanos of the Nesi’im directly into the Parsha of the Menorah. Rashi famously explains that Aharon felt distressed that he had not participated in the Chanukas HaMishkan alongside the Nesi’im. Hashem therefore reassured him that his role in lighting the Menorah was even greater.

Rav Wosner explains that Aharon’s pain was rooted specifically in his identity as the Kohen Gadol, the primary source of kaparah for Klal Yisrael. When he observed the Nesi’im bringing korbanos on behalf of the people, he felt that this domain properly belonged to him. Hashem therefore responded that through the Menorah, Aharon would fulfill his own unique role in spiritually elevating and purifying the nation.

The entire episode emerges as a profound meditation on leadership.

A true leader does not merely guide people when they are already shining. He carries responsibility for them even in their brokenness. He does not distance himself from their flaws, but instead stands in the breach on their behalf.

That was the greatness of the Nesi’im. And that is why their korbanos became inseparably bound to the inauguration of the Mishkan itself.

Rabbi Avrohom Walkin

Embracing Your Mission

Someone once asked Rav Yisroel Neuman shlita a fascinating question:

“Can a baal ha’baas (a working person) become a gadol ha’dor (premiere Torah leader of the generation)?”

At first glance, the question almost sounds contradictory. We instinctively associate the term gadol ha’dor with the great roshei yeshivah, towering talmidei chachamim, or singular Torah personalities who dedicate every waking moment exclusively to learning. How, then, could an ordinary working individual—a baal ha’baas with responsibilities, obligations, and worldly concerns—ever fit into that category?

But the answer he received was extraordinary.

If a person does what he is supposed to do, when he is supposed to do it, then in the eyes of Heaven he can indeed be considered a gadol ha’dor.

If he goes to work because he must provide parnassah honestly and responsibly for his family; if he gets up in the morning to learn before work;nif he returns home and learns again despite exhaustion; if he davens properly; if he helps his wife; if he gives attention to his children; if he conducts himself with integrity, kindness, and responsibility; if he fulfills the role Hashem gave him faithfully and wholeheartedly—then that person possesses greatness.

Of course, there are uniquely elevated callings within Klal Yisrael. To become a ben Torah immersed entirely in learning, a rosh yeshivah, a rav, a marbitz Torah, or someone who dedicates his life to bringing Jews closer to Torah—these are tremendous aspirations and extraordinary forms of avodas Hashem. But not every person is called to serve Hashem in the exact same way.

Some people are meant to build Torah through teaching. Others through leadership. Others through chessed. Others through supporting families and communities.

The defining question is: “Am I serving Hashem faithfully within the role He gave me?”

A person who must work for a living but does so understanding that he is still an eved Hashem, can achieve extraordinary greatness.

That is a powerful lesson, and perhaps one that more people need to hear. We sometimes imagine that spiritual greatness belongs only to the visibly exceptional, the publicly recognized, the elite few. But Torah greatness is not measured solely by title, position, or public acclaim. It is measured by fidelity to one’s mission.

That person, too, is building Klal Yisrael. And in that sense, he is indeed a gadol ha’dor.