Aaron was happy that Moses was chosen to lead the Jews to freedom. This is a major shift from the Book of Genesis where sibling rivalry is the norm.

Aaron as the תיקון (Tikkun) for Sefer Bereishit

You’re absolutely right to frame Parashat Shemot as the beginning of redemption, not just politically but psychologically and spiritually. What redemption requires first is the repair of fraternal rivalry.

1. Aaron’s Greatness Is Not Power — It’s Ego Control

Aaron is:

• The older brother
• The de facto leader in Egypt
• The one who suffered with the people
• The one who stayed behind while Moshe lived a comparatively protected life

And yet, when Moshe returns, the Torah says:

“וַיֵּלֶךְ אַהֲרֹן לִקְרַאת מֹשֶׁה… וַיִּשַּׁק לוֹ”
“Aaron went to meet Moshe… and he kissed him” (Exodus 4:27)

Chazal point out something extraordinary here:

• Aaron felt no jealousy
• In fact, he rejoiced in his heart

That’s why God tells Moshe earlier:

“וְרָאֲךָ וְשָׂמַח בְּלִבּוֹ”
“He will see you and rejoice in his heart” (Exodus 4:14)

And because Aaron conquered jealousy, he merited:

• The Choshen (breastplate)
• Carrying the names of Israel on his heart

This is not incidental. It’s measure-for-measure.

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2. The End of Bereishit’s Tragedy

You make a very important point:
Sefer Bereishit is a book of sibling failure.

• Cain / Hevel – murder
• Yishmael / Yitzchak – exile
• Yaakov / Esav – hatred
• Yosef / the brothers – sale into slavery

Every generation stumbles over:

“Who is the real heir?”

Now comes Shemot, and for the first time:

• An older brother steps aside willingly
• A younger brother leads without rivalry
• Leadership becomes shared, not contested

This is not accidental — it is the moral prerequisite for redemption.

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3. “בֹּא אֶל פַּרְעֹה” — Why the Verb Is Singular

You caught something very subtle and very beautiful.

When God says:

“בֹּא אֶל פַּרְעֹה” — “Go to Pharaoh”

It is singular, even though Moshe and Aaron act together.

The commentators explain:

• They functioned as one will
• No power struggle
• No ego competition
• No “who’s really in charge?”

In Hebrew grammar, the singular reflects perfect unity of purpose.

Redemption begins when leadership is about mission, not status.

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4. The Contrast: Yerovam ben Nevat (Historical Clarification)

The king you were referring to is Yerovam ben Nevat, first king of the Northern Kingdom.

He forbade Jews from going to Jerusalem because:

• At Hakhel, the King of Judah sits
• Everyone else stands
• Yerovam could not tolerate being “second”

The Gemara says explicitly:

His downfall came from ego, not ideology.

Aaron is the anti-Yerovam:

• No throne
• No insecurity
• No need to dominate

And because of that, Aaron becomes:

• The man of peace
• The pursuer of peace
• The bridge between Moshe and the people

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5. The Core Message (Very Powerful)

What you’re really saying — and it’s worth emphasizing — is this:

Redemption does not begin with miracles.
It begins with humility.

Aaron teaches us:

• Not everyone has to be first
• Not every role needs the spotlight
• Greatness is knowing what the moment requires, not what the ego wants

That is why Moshe and Aaron together can confront Pharaoh —
and why earlier brothers could not.

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It is very clear that Moses did not want the job of leadership. This is the basic reason that he was chosen for the job.

D’var Torah – Parashat Shemot: Leadership Through Empathy

In this parashah we encounter one of the most powerful moments in the Torah: Moshe at the burning bush.

Chazal tell us that Moshe did not arrive there by accident. He was shepherding the flock of Yitro, and one small lamb wandered off. Moshe went after it. That alone already tells us something crucial: Moshe cared even for the weakest, the least significant in the eyes of others. A leader who ignores the “small ones” is not fit to lead a nation.

When Moshe reaches the burning bush, God tells him to remove his shoes because he is standing on holy ground. But that ground was not smooth or comfortable. It was jagged, rocky, painful. Moshe stood barefoot on sharp stones.

The message was profound. Moshe had lived a relatively charmed life. He grew up in Pharaoh’s palace, escaped Egypt, married into the family of the Midianite high priest, and lived in safety. But now he was being asked to lead a people who had known nothing but suffering, humiliation, and the lash of slavery. God was teaching Moshe: You must feel their pain. You cannot lead people unless you understand—physically and emotionally—what they have endured.

The Midrash also teaches that the dialogue at the burning bush lasted several days. Moshe resisted the mission again and again. He felt unworthy. He did not want power or authority. His final argument was deeply human: “My older brother Aharon has been leading the people in Egypt. He has suffered with them. How can I come now as the younger brother and take over?”

God reassures him: “Aharon is with you.” And indeed, when Moshe returns to Egypt, Aharon greets him with joy, not jealousy. True leadership is not threatened by another leader—it recognizes what is best for the people.

Everything in Moshe’s life up to this point was preparation. Even his reluctance was part of his qualification. The Torah is teaching us that the best leaders are often those who do not seek leadership, who would rather live quietly, but step forward because responsibility demands it.

History echoes this lesson. George Washington did not want to be president. After one term, he tried to step away, but the nation insisted he stay, because only he could hold it together. Leadership chosen out of duty, not ambition, commands respect.

The Torah’s message is timeless:
A true leader must feel the pain of the people, even if he himself has not suffered in the same way. And often, the most worthy leader is the one who never wanted the job in the first place.

That is Moshe Rabbeinu—and that is the leadership model the Torah gives us to think about.

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When Moses came across the Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave, he looked up & down & did not see a man. He saw other people, but he did not see anyone who would protest. He became the man.

Quick D’var Torah – Parashat Shemot

Moshe grows up in Pharaoh’s palace—raised as a prince, educated as royalty, and far removed from the daily suffering of his people. Yet he knows who he is. At some point, he decides he must go out and see what is happening to the Jews.

When he does, he witnesses an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave. The Torah tells us something striking: “He looked this way and that, and he saw no man.”
There were people around—going about their business, talking, passing by—but no one willing to stop and say, “This is wrong.”

Moshe wasn’t looking for people. He was looking for a man—someone prepared to take responsibility. When he realized no one else would act, Moshe understood that he had to be that man.

This idea later becomes a teaching in Pirkei Avot: “In a place where there are no men, strive to be a man.”
Moshe was not eager to lead. He was one of the most reluctant leaders in our history. At the burning bush, he argues with God for days, trying to avoid the mission. Even then, he is hoping someone else will step forward. But no one does.

Leadership, the Torah teaches, often comes not from ambition but from moral necessity.

There’s a famous line attributed to Edmund Burke: “All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing.” Evil succeeds not because it is powerful, but because decent people remain silent.

I was reminded of this recently while visiting Bulgaria. Bulgaria was officially allied with Nazi Germany, yet the Jews of Bulgaria proper were never deported. When fascist officials secretly began rounding up Jews, the head of the Bulgarian Orthodox Church discovered the plan. He went to the train yard, lay down in front of the locomotive, and said, “The only way this train moves is over my dead body.”
The deportation stopped.

Where there was no man—he became the man.

That is Moshe’s lesson to us. When we see dishonesty in business, injustice in society, or moral cowardice in our surroundings, we cannot wait for someone else to act. What one Jew does reflects on all Jews—an observant Jew is always an observed Jew.

Moshe looked around. He saw no one else willing to step up. So he did.

Something to think about.

Pharaoh gives the order to kill all Jewish male babies born. The midwives ignore it. This was the beginning of the redemption. That the midwives feared God more than they feared Pharaoh.

Quick D’var Torah – Parashat Shemot

One of the major events in this week’s parashah—though it can easily pass us by—is the story of the midwives. Pharaoh issues an explicit decree: kill the newborn Hebrew boys. And the midwives refuse. The Torah tells us why: “They feared God.” They were more concerned with answering to Hashem than to Pharaoh.

This moment is far more than moral courage. It is the beginning of the redemption.
Why? Because the moment a dictator’s laws are ignored, his power is already cracking.

Egypt was not a democracy. Pharaoh was an absolute monarch. There was no legislature, no courts, no elections. Pharaoh said something—and that was the law. And yet, the midwives simply ignored him. Later, even Pharaoh’s own daughter ignores his decree and saves Moshe. Once a regime’s own people stop enforcing its laws, the regime is finished—it just doesn’t know it yet.

We see this idea echoed much later in history. During the era of Andrew Jackson, the U.S. Supreme Court—under John Marshall—ruled against the forced removal of Native Americans. Jackson’s response was famously cynical: “John Marshall has made his decision; now let him enforce it.” The result was the Trail of Tears. The law existed on paper, but power lay elsewhere.

That episode taught the Supreme Court a hard lesson: sometimes it avoids ruling not because the issue is unclear, but because it knows the ruling will be ignored. Sadly, the same dynamic exists in religious life—sometimes rabbis refrain from issuing rulings they know people will not follow.

But the Torah is teaching us something deeper:
Redemption begins when people choose obedience to God over obedience to tyranny.

The midwives did not overthrow Pharaoh. They didn’t stage a rebellion. They simply refused to comply. And that refusal set everything else in motion. Because of them, Moshe lives. Because Moshe lives, redemption becomes possible.

The greatest threat to a tyrant is not protest—it is irrelevance.
And the greatest act of faith is knowing whom you truly answer to.

Something to think about.

The Book of Exodus begins with the statement that there was a new Pharaoh who did not know Joseph. Basically, he was denying Egyptian history. This is what those who wish to do evil do. They deny their own history when it does not suit their plans.

Parashat Shemot – “The Pharaoh Who Did Not Know Yosef”

At the very beginning of this week’s parashah, the Torah tells us: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Yosef.”

That single phrase raises a major question among the commentators. Who exactly was this Pharaoh?

Was he a completely new ruler from a new dynasty?
Was he the son of the previous Pharaoh?
Or was he the very same Pharaoh who knew Yosef well—but chose to erase him from memory?

Whichever answer we accept, the message is the same: this Pharaoh denied Egypt’s own history. He denied that there had ever been a man named Yosef—someone who saved the entire country from famine, stabilized the economy, and brought Egypt prosperity.

This kind of historical denial is not unique. Totalitarian regimes throughout history have always erased facts that do not fit their narrative. Think of the Soviet Union, where people were literally removed from photographs when they fell out of favor. There’s a famous image of Stalin originally standing next to Trotsky—until Trotsky was erased. The editors forgot one detail: Stalin was still standing next to an extra pair of shoes.

When ideology matters more than truth, facts become dangerous.

There’s a famous quote attributed to Oliver Cromwell. When he commissioned a portrait of himself, he told the painter: “Paint me as I am—warts and all.” That is how history must be told. Not selectively. Not sanitized.

The Torah itself insists on this honesty. It does not hide our failures. The story of Yehudah and Tamar is included. The story of David and Bat-Sheva is included—front and center. Midrash even tells us that David asked God to leave that episode out, and God refused. Why? Because people learn not only from greatness, but from mistakes—and from growth after failure.

That is how a nation matures.

The Pharaoh who “did not know Yosef” set Egypt on a destructive path. A society that lies about its past eventually destroys itself. We’ve seen this in modern history as well. After World War I, Germany could not accept defeat. Instead of acknowledging economic collapse and military failure, they embraced the myth of being “stabbed in the back.” That denial became one of the seeds of World War II.

History denied does not disappear—it returns, louder and more destructive.

The Torah teaches us the opposite approach. We lost the Beit HaMikdash not because our enemies were stronger, but because of what we did wrong—how we treated one another. That painful truth is recorded so we can learn from it: treat each other with dignity, act as a community, act as a nation.

And that, perhaps, is the most important lesson of that single phrase: “A Pharaoh who did not know Yosef.”

We must not be that Pharaoh.

We must remember the good that others have done for us.
We must remember our own failures.
And we must learn from both—so we can become better people and better Jews.

Something to think about.

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As we begin the Book of Exodus, we meet an anti-Semite with power. He believes that the Jews are powerful and will take over Egypt. That there is no evidence of this doesn’t matter to him.

A Quick D’var Torah – Parashat Shemot

As we begin the Book of Shemot (Exodus), the Torah sets the stage for one of the most formative periods in Jewish history.

The Jews originally come to Egypt not as slaves, but as honored guests. They are invited because of Joseph, the viceroy of Egypt, who saved the country from famine. Under Pharaoh’s protection, the Jewish people prosper and multiply.

Then the Torah tells us: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” The commentators debate what this means. Was it literally a new Pharaoh? A new dynasty? Or was it the same Pharaoh who chose to forget Joseph and what the Jews had done for Egypt? The Torah leaves the question open.

But what is clear is that this Pharaoh develops a fear of the Jews. He sees them growing in number and imagines them as a potential “fifth column”—a hidden internal enemy. Importantly, there is no evidence for this fear. The Jews had shown loyalty, contributed to Egypt’s success, and posed no threat. But facts don’t matter to a conspiracist.

This is a pattern we see again and again in history. Many antisemites are conspiracists. They believe in secret Jewish power, hidden plots, and imagined threats that have no basis in reality. Pharaoh may be the first recorded example of this mindset.

Notice something else: Pharaoh does not expel the Jews. Instead, he enslaves them. This too is a recurring theme. Antisemites often claim to hate Jews—yet they refuse to let them leave. The Soviet Union is a modern example. It was openly antisemitic, yet it would not allow Jews to emigrate, fearing that Jews elsewhere would somehow unite and destroy it.

The irony, of course, is obvious. There are about 16–17 million Jews in a world of over 8 billion people. The idea that Jews could “take over the world” is absurd. We are simply not that numerous—and in any case, we have no such desire. What Jews want is to live as Jews, keep mitzvot, and try to make the world better by being better people.

But in the conspiracist’s mind, reason is irrelevant. They “know” the truth, and no evidence can change it. That is Pharaoh’s fear, and it becomes the basis of Jewish slavery in Egypt.

I’m reminded of someone I sit next to in shul, Glenn Richter, who for many years led the Student Struggle for Soviet Jewry. Even after the Holocaust—when Jews had been utterly powerless—the Soviets still feared Jewish influence. Today we are no longer helpless; we have a state and the ability to defend ourselves. But the mindset of conspiracy hasn’t disappeared.

The Torah teaches us that this fear, born of imagination rather than fact, is what drives oppression. And our response, then and now, is not to abandon who we are—but to continue living proudly as Jews.

Something to think about.

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David stresses to his son, Solomon, that leadership is not a right, it is a duty. That a leader has to set a moral example for the nation.

A Quick D’var Torah – Leadership as Duty

Yosef is the first of the brothers to die. He dies at the age of 110, which—by the standards of the patriarchal period—is relatively young. The Rabbis comment that this may be connected to the tremendous burden Yosef carried. After all, he was not merely a family leader; he was the viceroy of Egypt, the dominant superpower of its time. Such responsibility brings enormous stress, and that strain can shorten a person’s life.

We see this even in modern times. If you look at photographs of world leaders—especially presidents—when they enter office and when they leave, the difference is striking. Leadership ages a person. The emotional and physical toll is real.

Yehuda, by contrast, lived longer. He too was a leader, but his leadership was of a different nature. Yosef governed a vast, active empire; Yehuda led a family—though, as the old Jewish joke reminds us, leading Jews often means leading “millions of prime ministers.” Still, the scale and intensity of Yosef’s role were far greater, and that difference matters.

This idea is echoed in the Haftarah of the week, where King David prepares to hand over the kingdom to his son, Shlomo. Just as Yaakov transfers leadership of the family to Yehuda, David transfers royal authority to Shlomo—but not without warning. David emphasizes that kingship is not about power alone. A leader must be personally moral. It is not enough to speak about values; one must live them, visibly and consistently.

Here, American history offers a powerful parallel. When George Washington became the first president, he was acutely aware that he was defining the nature of the office. Though he had every right to wear a military uniform at his inauguration, he chose instead civilian clothing—to show that he was a servant of the people, not a ruler above them. When elaborate titles were proposed for him, it was ultimately “Mr. President” that prevailed—a title that emphasized earned authority, not inherited status.

That is precisely David’s message to Shlomo: you may be king, but every day you must earn the right to rule.

Yehuda earned the respect of his brothers. Yosef earned the trust of Egypt. Neither position came automatically. Leadership is not a license, and it is not a privilege—it is a duty. Leaders must be honest, morally upright, and accountable. They must say what they mean, mean what they say, and never treat power as permission to exploit others.

That is something worth remembering—by leaders, and by those who choose them.

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Ephriam and Menashe were the first Jews who grew up in the Exile and had to deal with the Egyptian culture. Joseph made sure that they had a solid Jewish education and for that reason they were considered special.

Ephraim and Menashe

In this week’s parashah, Yaakov blesses his grandchildren Ephraim and Menashe, and he draws them close to him because they are unique. They are, in a sense, the first Jews born in exile—in galut.

And that matters.

Living Jewishly in Eretz Yisrael is fundamentally different from living Jewishly in exile. In Israel, you’re surrounded by Jewish culture, Jewish time, Jewish language. Judaism is in the air. Even if you’re not religious, you live in a Jewish rhythm.

But Ephraim and Menashe grew up in Egypt, the center of pagan power and culture. And that makes Jewish continuity far more challenging.

I once experienced this difference very vividly. Years ago, while doing reserve duty in the Israeli army, a young soldier came up to me and said,

“I hear that in America you have something called Christmas week. What is that?”

So I explained: it’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s—Sylvester, as it’s called in Israel.

He said,

“I understand Christmas—Rachel is important there, right?”

I said,

“Wait… how did Rachel get into the story?”

He answered, completely sincerely:

“Everyone goes to Bethlehem.”

Of course, if you go to Bethlehem, you know there’s Kever Rachel. To him, growing up fully immersed in Jewish culture, the Christian story was completely foreign. He knew the places—but not the theology.

That’s the difference.

In America, or in Christian Europe, you can’t help but know what day it is. You absorb the surrounding culture whether you want to or not. Joseph understood this problem deeply. He was running Egypt, sitting at the center of power, and at the same time raising two Jewish children in a non-Jewish world.

That’s a much bigger challenge than what Yaakov faced with his other sons, who grew up within a Jewish family and environment.

And that’s why this blessing matters.

Ephraim and Menashe represent the necessity of Jewish education in exile—intentional, structured, and strong. That’s why we bless our children to be like them.

Back in 1962, Look magazine famously predicted that by the year 2000, American Jewry would disappear through assimilation.

Well—news flash—we’re still here.
Look magazine disappeared long before American Jews did.

What they failed to see were two critical developments:

1. The rise of Jewish day schools, giving children a solid Jewish foundation.
2. The expansion of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, bringing Jewish knowledge and identity to Jews everywhere—even those far from observance.

Ephraim and Menashe teach us that Jewish survival in exile is not accidental. It depends on education, identity, and transmission.

And that’s the message of their blessing:
If you want Judaism to last, you have to teach it.

Something to think about.

One of the interesting things to remember is that leadership in the Bible does not necessarily go to the first born. Yehuda is the 4th son, yet he is the leader of the brothers. This is a theme in the Bible; it is stressing that leadership has to be earned.

Leadership Is Earned, Not Inherited

Parashat Vayechi closes not only the Book of Bereishit but an entire era. The parashah ends with the death of Yosef, the last of the Avot-generation figures, and in doing so it highlights one of the Torah’s most consistent—and counter-cultural—themes: leadership does not automatically belong to the firstborn.

Throughout Bereishit, the Torah repeatedly overturns the expectation that the oldest son inherits authority. Yitzchak is chosen over Yishmael. Yaakov over Esav. Yosef rises above his older brothers. And most significantly, Yehuda—fourth-born, not first—emerges as the true leader of the family.

This is not accidental.

Yehuda earns leadership through action. He proposes selling Yosef rather than killing him; later, he takes responsibility for Binyamin and is willing to sacrifice himself for his brother. Even in the painful episode with Tamar—hardly a moral high point—Yehuda distinguishes himself by owning his failure and changing because of it. That capacity for moral growth is precisely what defines him as a leader.

Reuven, by contrast, is well-intentioned but ineffective. He means to save Yosef, but his plan fails. Later, when trying to convince Yaakov to send Binyamin to Egypt, his proposal is rejected outright. Yaakov understands that Reuven is sincere, but sincerity alone does not make a leader. Leadership requires reliability, judgment, and responsibility, not just good intentions.

This distinction becomes explicit in Yaakov’s blessings. Reuven is acknowledged as the firstborn, but stripped of leadership. Yehuda receives the crown: “The scepter shall not depart from Yehuda.” Authority is not inherited; it is conferred based on merit.

Jewish history reinforces this lesson. David and Shlomo—Israel’s greatest kings—were not firstborns. David, in particular, is remembered not because he was flawless, but because he confronted his failures honestly and grew from them. There is a Midrash in which David asks God to downplay his sin with Bat-Sheva—and God refuses. The Torah insists on telling that story precisely because true leadership is measured by repentance and transformation, not by perfection.

Even Yosef himself does not become a leader overnight. He begins as a favored, immature youth. Only after slavery, false accusation, and prison does he mature into a leader capable of governing Egypt and sustaining his family. Leadership must be learned, tested, and earned.

And that is the enduring message of Parashat Vayechi:

You do not inherit leadership.
You earn it—through responsibility, moral growth, and the respect of others.

The Torah is not interested in titles or birth order. It is interested in character.

Today is the anniversary of when the Babylonians laid siege on Jerusalem, meaning the beginning of the end of the First Temple. We are reminded that this happened because we did not treat each other morally or ethically.

A Reflection on Asarah b’Tevet (the 10th of Tevet)

Today is Asarah b’Tevet, one of the fast days mentioned in Tanakh. It commemorates the day when the Babylonians laid siege to Jerusalem, marking the beginning of the end of the First Temple (Beit HaMikdash).

If we look at the Jewish calendar, there are six fast days that we observe.

• Yom Kippur is biblical, explicitly commanded in the Torah.
• The Fast of Esther relates to the events in Persia during the Purim story.

The other four fast days—

• the 10th of Tevet,
• the 17th of Tammuz,
• Tisha B’Av, and
• the Fast of Gedaliah—

are all connected to the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash and the loss of Jewish sovereignty during the First Temple period.

What is striking is that the reason for these calamities is always described in the same way by our sages. It was not simply that the Babylonians had a larger or stronger army. If Hashem had not allowed it, no empire—no matter how powerful—could have conquered Israel.

The Rabbis explain that the true cause was moral and ethical failure: Jews were not treating one another with respect. There was corruption, injustice, and ethical decline. Hashem tells us, in effect:

If you bring offerings incorrectly, I can deal with that. But if you mistreat one another—if you behave immorally and unethically toward your fellow human beings—that is something that cannot be ignored.

There is a powerful story about the Chafetz Chaim. In 1933, on a Friday night, he was sitting with students who were discussing how horrific World War I had been. Many had called it “the war to end all wars,” especially given how devastating it was for Eastern European Jewry.

The Chafetz Chaim interrupted them and said:

If you think the last war was terrible, people will laugh at it compared to what will come after the next war.

They were shocked and asked what he meant. He answered that such devastation would come because Jews were not treating each other properly—because of lashon hara, unethical behavior, and a lack of respect between people. And, tragically, his words proved prophetic.

The message is clear. Hashem wants our prayers, our mitzvot, and our devotion in matters between man and God. But what brings punishment most swiftly—and what sustains redemption—is how we behave between one person and another.

If we mistreat each other, act unethically, or lack basic human decency, those failures come back to haunt us. That, perhaps, is the most important lesson of these fast days.

Something to think about.

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