There is a concept that we bring holiness to the world through our actions. That the Temple will be rebuilt through acts of loving kindness.

Parashat Vayakhel

In this week’s parsha, Parashat Vayakhel, we read about the donations and work that went into building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. The parsha begins with the words “Vayakhel Moshe”—Moses gathered together the entire people of Israel.

That opening is very significant. The building of the Mishkan was not done by a small elite group. It was not the project of a few leaders or specialists. Every Jew had a share in it. Everyone contributed something—gold, silver, copper, fabrics, skills, or labor. The Mishkan was built by the entire community.

This reflects a very important concept in Judaism: there are two ways a place can become holy.

One way is from above—when God Himself declares a place holy.

The other way is from below—when human beings make a place holy through their actions.

Think about a synagogue. A building is just bricks, wood, and stone. It could be used for anything. But when Jews pray there, learn Torah there, and perform acts of kindness there, we transform the building into a holy place.

There is a famous story about the Arizal (Rabbi Isaac Luria). He once said that Rachel might not actually be buried in what we call Kever Rachel. His students were shocked and asked why he did not reveal the “true” burial place.

The Arizal answered:
“So many Jews have gone there and poured out their hearts in prayer that it has become as if she is buried there. Their prayers have made the place holy.”

In other words, the holiness was created by the people who prayed there.

Interestingly, some of the most important biblical locations are unknown to us. We do not know exactly where Mount Sinai is. We do not know where Moses is buried. That may be deliberate. The Torah is teaching us that holiness does not come from geography alone. Holiness comes from what people do.

There is a story about a famous Israeli tour guide. One day he was taking a group from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem when the bus broke down in the Ayalon Valley. He knew if the passengers stayed near the bus they would all start giving the driver advice and the repair would never get done.

So he gathered everyone around a large rock and announced dramatically:

“Do you know what this rock is? This is the rock upon which Joshua stood when he stopped the sun!”

Then he began telling the entire story from the Book of Joshua. Of course, he had completely made it up. But it kept everyone occupied for about an hour, and by then the bus driver had fixed the bus.

A few years later the guide passed the same spot again and noticed Jews standing there praying.

He asked them, “What are you doing here?”

They answered, “Don’t you know? This is the rock where Joshua stood when he stopped the sun!”

At that moment he realized something remarkable:
even though the story began as an invention, the prayers of the people had actually made the place holy.

That is the message of our parsha.

The Mishkan was holy not only because God commanded it, but because the entire people invested themselves in building it.

And this idea also connects to discussions about the Third Temple. Many teachers, including those in the Chabad tradition, emphasize that the rebuilding of the Temple will not come primarily through politics or military power. It will come through our actions—through acts of kindness, unity, and love between Jews.

Just as the Mishkan was built by the entire people, the ultimate redemption will come when we elevate the world through what we do.

Holiness is not just something that descends from heaven.

Holiness is something we create.

Something to think about.

Moses was transparent in his accounting of the funds for the Tabernacle. This is a lesson to us that we should be careful with public funds.

Vayakhel–Pekudei

Transparency and Public Trust

This week we read the double portion Vayakhel–Pekudei, which concludes the Book of Exodus. The Torah describes the final construction of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, and lists in detail all the materials that were donated and used.

One thing stands out: Moshe gives a full public accounting of the donations.
The Torah carefully records how much gold, silver, and copper were collected and exactly how they were used.

Why is this necessary?

Moshe Rabbeinu was the greatest leader we ever had. Yet he still understood an important principle: this was not his money—it was public money. And when you are dealing with public funds, you must be completely transparent.

Our sages explain that Moshe even took precautions so that he would not even appear to be taking anything. He made sure he had no pockets or hidden places where people might suspect he was hiding money. Everything was done openly so that no accusation could ever arise.

This teaches a major ethical lesson.

Many people who mishandle money are not necessarily bad people. Sometimes someone running an organization or charity runs into financial trouble and thinks, “I’ll just borrow a little from the fund and pay it back.” But one thing leads to another, and before long the money is gone.

That is why the Torah insists on absolute accountability when it comes to communal funds.

And this principle applies everywhere—governments, charities, organizations. When public money disappears, it is worse than stealing from an individual. These funds were given for a specific purpose, and misusing them is a betrayal of public trust.

There’s a famous story about President Harry S. Truman that illustrates this idea.
A newspaper columnist once criticized Truman’s daughter Margaret’s piano playing. Truman wrote an angry letter defending his daughter. But when he mailed the letter, he paid for the stamp himself. He refused to use the presidential franking privilege because, he said, this was not official government business—it was a private letter from a father, not from the President.

He would not even use a five-cent stamp of public money for a private matter.

That’s the lesson Moshe is teaching us.

If it’s your own money, that’s one thing. But when it is public money entrusted to you, you must handle it with the highest level of integrity and transparency.

That’s why the Torah records the accounting of the Mishkan—to teach us that leadership requires honesty not only in reality, but even in appearance.

Something to think about.

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The Torah stresses the importance of Shabbat simply by pointing out that Shabbat observance supersedes the building of the Tabernacle.

Parashat Ki Tisa: The Centrality of Shabbat

Now for a quick devar Torah.

In this week’s parsha, Parashat Ki Tisa, a lot is happening. We have the instructions for the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, and of course the dramatic episode of the Golden Calf. But there is an important point that is sometimes overlooked.

The Torah tells us that Shabbat takes precedence even over building the Mishkan.

Think about that for a moment. The Mishkan was the place where the Divine Presence would dwell among the Jewish people. Building it was one of the holiest national projects imaginable. Yet the Torah makes it clear: even that sacred work stops for Shabbat.

The message is powerful. If building the Tabernacle must stop for Shabbat, it shows us just how central Shabbat is to Jewish life.

There’s a famous saying often attributed to Ahad Ha’am:
“More than the Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.”

Shabbat has been the glue that has held the Jewish people together throughout history. It is not only a day when we stop working. It is a day when families and communities gather together—around the table, in synagogue, with friends and neighbors—to remember what life is really about.

And we know that Shabbat observance goes back thousands of years. One of the ancient Greek historians wrote about a strange group of people in the East who refused to work one day every week and who ate unusual food. He never mentions the Jews by name—but it’s obvious who he meant.

Even in our prayers on Friday night we see this idea. In Kabbalat Shabbat we sing Mizmor Shir L’Yom HaShabbat—“A Psalm, a Song for the Day of Shabbat.” Interestingly, after the title, the psalm never again mentions Shabbat.

It almost makes you wonder—did King David forget what he was writing about?

But the message is actually very deep. Sometimes we get so caught up in the details of preparing for Shabbat—are the lights set correctly, is the hot water ready, did we prepare everything in advance—that we can forget what Shabbat is really about.

Shabbat is the culmination of the entire week. It is the spiritual high point toward which the whole week leads.

Even the Hebrew names for the days of the week reflect this. They are simply numbered:
first day, second day, third day, fourth day, fifth day, sixth day.

But the seventh day has a real name: Shabbat.

The Torah is telling us something very important. Everything in the week builds toward this day.

And that is why even the construction of the Mishkan—something incredibly holy—must stop when Shabbat arrives.

So as we go into Shabbat tonight, it’s something worth remembering:
Shabbat is not just a pause in our work.

It is the center of Jewish life.

Moses takes responsibility for the sin of the Golden Calf. Why? Because he is the leader and he realized that if he had been a better leader it would not have happened.

Leadership Means Responsibility (Ki Tisa)

This week’s parsha, Ki Tisa, contains the tragic episode of the Golden Calf. While Moses is on Mount Sinai, the people panic and build the calf. When Moses returns, God tells him that the nation deserves destruction.

But Moses refuses.

He says to God:
“If You destroy them, erase me from Your book.” (Exodus 32:32)

This is an extraordinary statement. Moses had nothing to do with the sin of the Golden Calf. He wasn’t even present. Yet he takes responsibility for the people.

Why?

Because that is what leadership means.

A true leader does not say, “It wasn’t my fault.” A true leader says, “I am responsible.”

We see this idea throughout history. After the 1973 Yom Kippur War, the Agranat Commission investigated the failures that allowed the surprise attack. The commission largely cleared Prime Minister Golda Meir of direct blame, stating that based on the intelligence she had at the time she acted properly.

Yet she resigned anyway.

Why? Because she was the leader. And leadership means responsibility.

The same idea appears in the famous sign on President Harry Truman’s desk:
“The Buck Stops Here.”

A leader cannot pass the blame.

The Torah is teaching us something fundamental: freedom and responsibility go together. When we have authority, we must accept accountability.

This applies not only to national leaders but to all of us.

• A parent is responsible for the behavior of their children.
• A community leader is responsible for the conduct of the group.
• Even in a synagogue, if something goes wrong, the rabbi or the gabbai is called — not everyone else.

Because leadership means responsibility.

Moses understood this better than anyone. Even though the sin was not his, he stood before God and said: If they fall, I fall with them.

That is the Torah’s model of leadership — not power, but responsibility.

And it reminds us that whenever we take on a role of leadership, even in small ways, we must be careful how we lead — because responsibility comes with the position.

Something to think about.

We are commanded to give a half shekel for the upkeep of the Tabernacle. The idea is that we are not complete without others. That we are a community.

The Half Shekel and the Power of Community

In this week’s parashah, Parashat Ki Tisa, we encounter the commandment of the half-shekel. Every Jew had to give machatzit ha-shekel, half a shekel, toward the upkeep of the Mishkan.

What is striking is that everyone gives the same amount.

The Torah explicitly says the rich may not give more and the poor may not give less. Every Jew gives exactly half a shekel. This teaches a profound principle: before God, every Jew is equal. Economic status, social position, or even what a person thinks is his spiritual level—none of that changes his fundamental value. Every Jew counts the same.

But there is another lesson.

Why a half shekel and not a full shekel?

The message is that no Jew is complete alone. Each of us is only half. We become whole only when we join together with the rest of the community.

This reflects a basic idea of Judaism. Holiness is not achieved by withdrawing from society. In some religions, the holy person lives alone in a monastery or on a mountaintop. Judaism takes the opposite approach. Holiness is built within a community.

For example, we cannot say Kaddish without a minyan. Major prayers require ten Jews together. Even in moments of grief, when someone sits shivah, the community comes to support them. Judaism insists that religious life is fundamentally communal.

Even in the mystical realm we see this. Jewish mysticism did not develop in isolation. In the 16th century, the great center of Kabbalah was Safed in northern Israel, one of the largest Jewish communities of the time. The chief rabbi there was Joseph Karo, author of the Shulchan Aruch and also a great kabbalist. Mysticism flourished not in isolation, but in the midst of a vibrant community.

This idea also appears in the story of Esther before the events of Purim. Before she approached the king to stop Haman, she asked the entire Jewish people to fast for three days. She was the one risking her life, but she needed to know that the community stood behind her.

The same principle applies in the modern world.

Think of an aircraft carrier. Perhaps a hundred pilots fly the planes, but there are thousands of sailors supporting them. Without the mechanics, engineers, cooks, radar operators, and supply crews, the pilots could not fly a single mission.

The same was true in war. During the World War II, only a small percentage of soldiers actually saw combat. The majority were in logistics, transportation, and support roles that made the fighting possible.

Even Ulysses S. Grant, before becoming the great Union commander in the Civil War, first distinguished himself during the Mexican–American War by managing logistics—making sure the army had what it needed to fight.

The lesson is exactly what the half-shekel teaches.

No one stands alone.
No one succeeds alone.
Every achievement depends on the support of the community.

Each of us is only half a shekel.
Together, we become whole.

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We are fasting today to remind us that before Esther put her plan in motion to save the Jews, she fasted and she asked that the Jews fast. This was to seek God’s guidance in her plans.

Ta’anit Esther — Preparation Before Courage

The fast of Esther is unique among Jewish fast days.

Most fasts commemorate tragedy:
the destruction of the Temple, a siege, or calamity.

But Ta’anit Esther happens before the salvation.

Why?

Because the miracle of Purim did not begin when Haman was defeated.
It began when the Jews changed themselves.

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1. The Crisis Was Spiritual Before It Was Political

The story starts with the feast of King Ahashverosh — a celebration marking 70 years since the destruction of the First Temple, implying the Jewish redemption would never come.

Jews attended.

Maybe the food was kosher.
But the message was not.

They were participating in the declaration:

Jewish history is over.
The covenant is over.
We are just another nation now.

The danger of Purim wasn’t military annihilation first —
it was assimilation.

Haman merely gave physical form to an already existing spiritual problem.

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2. Esther’s Fear — and Mordechai’s Response

When Mordechai tells Esther to go to the king, she hesitates:

Approaching the king uninvited meant death.
And Judaism forbids relying on miracles.

Mordechai answers with one of the most profound lines in Tanach:

“Who knows if for this very moment you became queen.”

And even stronger:

Salvation will come — with or without you.

Meaning:
History has a direction.
The Jewish people will survive.
The question is only — will you participate?

Leadership is not about being indispensable.
It’s about choosing responsibility.

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3. Why the Fast Comes First

Esther’s response is not strategy.
Not politics.
Not alliances.

She says:

Gather the Jews. Fast for three days.

Before confronting the enemy — fix yourselves.

This becomes a Jewish principle:

We do not act first and pray later.
We prepare spiritually so our actions matter.

Action without introspection is arrogance.
Faith without action is passivity.

Judaism demands both.

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4. The Eternal Pattern

Throughout Jewish history the pattern repeats:

Before battles — prayer.
Before decisions — reflection.
Before salvation — self-examination.

Not because victory depends only on miracles,
but because success requires clarity of purpose.

The fast transforms events from coincidence into meaning.

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The Message of Ta’anit Esther

Purim teaches God works through hidden events.
Ta’anit Esther teaches we must first make ourselves worthy participants in those events.

We do not control outcomes.

We control whether we are ready when history calls our name.

Just like Esther.

Yesterday Israel began its air campaign against the Islamic regime in Iran in conjunction with the US. The name of the Israeli campaign is Roaring Lion. This has biblical connotations. The Lion is the symbol of the tribe of Judah. No longer are Jews defenseless to our enemies. The Lion of Judah is now roaring and the Iranians hear it.

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1. The Lion — Not Just Power, But Responsibility

You’re absolutely right that the “lion” is a deeply loaded Jewish symbol.

• “Gur Aryeh Yehudah” — Judah is called a lion cub (Genesis 49:9)
• The lion becomes associated with Jerusalem and the Davidic monarchy
• It symbolizes sovereignty — not merely survival

But Jewish tradition doesn’t present the lion as constant aggression.
It presents a controlled power.

The lion sleeps most of the day.
It only rises when necessary.

So the symbol is not:

We fight because we can

It is:

We fight because sometimes we must

That distinction is crucial in Jewish thought.

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2. Amalek — The Unique Biblical Enemy

Your connection to Shabbat Zachor is actually the key theological point.

Amalek is not hated merely for attacking Israel.

Other nations attacked Israel.

Amalek is condemned because of how they attacked:

“They struck the stragglers behind you… the weak… and did not fear God” (Deuteronomy 25:18)

The crime is moral, not ethnic or political.

Amalek represents a worldview:

• Target civilians
• Exploit weakness
• Deny moral accountability

In Jewish philosophy, Amalek becomes less a people and more a pattern of behavior — the ideology that power alone decides right and wrong.

That’s why the Torah commands memory, not rage.

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3. Human Responsibility — The Elie Wiesel Question

You quoted Elie Wiesel — and that idea sits at the center of modern Jewish theology:

The question after catastrophe is not “Where was God?”
but “Where was man?”

Judaism does not allow passive innocence.

Unlike many religious traditions where evil is something God will fix at the end of time, the Torah repeatedly places responsibility on human beings:

• Build courts
• Defend the innocent
• Intervene against injustice

The command to remember Amalek is really:

Never outsource morality to heaven.

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4. The Post-Exile Shift

Your contrast between pre-state Jewish helplessness and modern sovereignty touches a major theme in modern Jewish thought.

For nearly 2,000 years Jewish survival strategy was:

Endure history

Modern Israel introduces a different category:

Participate in history

That creates a permanent tension in Jewish ethics:

Exile Judaism	Sovereign Judaism
Moral witness	Moral actor
Martyrdom possible	Force sometimes necessary
God protects	Humans must protect

Shabbat Zachor lands exactly on that fault line.

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5. The Deeper Lesson

Your parents’ responses actually illustrate the Jewish moral framework:

• Your mother: Do not cheapen evil by mislabeling it
• Your father: Freedom includes protecting speech you hate

Put together, that becomes a Jewish paradox:

A society strong enough to fight enemies must also be strong enough to tolerate dissent.

Otherwise the lion becomes indistinguishable from what it fights.

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Closing Thought

Shabbat Zachor is not a call to permanent war.
It is a warning about moral amnesia.

Forget Amalek → you justify cruelty.
See Amalek everywhere → you justify tyranny.

The mitzvah is to remember evil precisely enough to fight it —
and precisely enough not to become it.

That balance has always been the hardest part of Jewish history.

The Haftorah this week reminds us of how Haman became what he was. He was a descendant of Agog, who was able to have a child because Shaul was too merciful.

Parshat Zachor – Mercy, Morality, and Moral Clarity

The Haftarah of Parshat Zachor tells the story of King Saul and the war against Amalek.

God commands Saul:
Destroy Amalek completely — no survivors, no spoils, nothing kept.

But Saul does two things:

• He spares King Agag
• He keeps the best sheep and cattle, intending to offer them as sacrifices

Then the prophet Samuel confronts him:

“What is this sound of sheep in my ears?”

Saul answers:
“The people wanted them — we will bring offerings to God.”

Samuel’s response becomes one of the most powerful lines in Tanach:

Obedience to God is greater than sacrifice.

Saul misunderstood something fundamental:
You cannot serve morality by violating morality.

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The Mistake of Saul

Saul thought he was being compassionate.
He thought he was elevating the situation — turning war booty into holiness.

But the Torah teaches a difficult truth:

Mercy outside a moral framework is not mercy.

There is a famous idea in Jewish thought:

One who is merciful to the cruel will ultimately be cruel to the merciful.

By sparing Agag, Saul allowed evil to survive.
Chazal teach that from Agag eventually came Haman — the story of Purim.

The lesson:
Failing to confront evil does not end evil — it postpones it.

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Justice vs. Sentiment

The Haftarah is not teaching cruelty.
It is teaching moral clarity.

After World War II, the Nazis requested execution by firing squad — a military death.
The Allies hanged them instead, declaring:

They were not soldiers.
They were criminals.

Similarly, at the trial of Adolf Eichmann, he said:

“I killed six million of you, and you kill only one of me.”

The answer given:
You are not being killed for revenge.
You are being punished by law — because murder cannot be allowed to stand.

Justice is not hatred.
Justice is the protection of humanity.

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The Message of Parshat Zachor

Parshat Zachor is not about remembering a nation long gone.
It is about recognizing a philosophy:

Amalek represents evil that attacks morality itself — evil that targets the weak and innocent.

The Torah demands:

• Do not confuse evil with disagreement
• Do not legitimize evil through misplaced compassion
• Do not allow moral confusion to replace moral responsibility

We are commanded to destroy Amalek —
not only historically, but spiritually:

Remove cruelty, moral relativism, and indifference from the world — and from ourselves.

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Takeaway

Kindness is holy.
Compassion is holy.

But compassion detached from truth becomes destructive.

Judaism demands both a soft heart and a clear mind.

Remember Amalek —
because forgetting evil is the first step toward allowing it to return.

One of the things we have to remember about those who would try to murder us is that they are open about it. They say that they want to murder us. It is up to us to believe them.

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Shabbat Zachor — Remembering Amalek

This Shabbat is Shabbat Zachor — the Sabbath of remembrance.

Before Purim we read the Torah commandment to remember Amalek. The question is obvious:

Why does Judaism require us to remember evil?
Wouldn’t it be healthier to forget?

The Torah is teaching that memory is not about revenge — it is about understanding reality.

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The Philosophy of Amalek

Amalek was not just another enemy nation.
Amalek represented an idea.

1) “Either me or the Torah”

Amalek’s worldview was simple:

The world cannot contain both the Torah and Amalek.

The Jewish people represent meaning, morality, and Divine purpose in history.
Amalek represents the denial of meaning.

So the war is not merely physical — it is philosophical.

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2) They openly say what they intend

One striking pattern in Jewish history is that our worst enemies announce their intentions.

They don’t hide it.

People often refuse to believe them — but they tell us directly.

The mitzvah of remembering Amalek teaches:

When someone declares they want to destroy you — believe them.

Jewish history repeatedly confirms this tragic lesson.

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3) Chance vs. Providence

Why did Haman cast lots (Pur — the origin of Purim)?

Because Amalek believes history is random.

Everything is coincidence.
Everything is chance.

The Torah teaches the opposite:

God runs the world — even when hidden.

The heroine of Purim is Esther — from Hester Panim, Divine hiddenness.
God is not absent; He is concealed.

Read the Megillah carefully: every “coincidence” happens at the perfect moment.
History is guided — quietly.

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Why Remember?

We remember Amalek on two levels:

Intellectual

So we recognize ideologies that deny morality, meaning, and responsibility in the world.

Emotional

So we have the courage to stand up to them.

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The Jewish Response

At a synagogue in Tzfat, above the chair used for a brit milah, there is a memorial to Jews murdered in Europe.

Why place them together?

Because that is the Jewish answer:

You tried to end the Jewish people —
instead, we bring new Jewish life into the world.

Amalek wanted not only to kill Jews physically, but to erase Judaism spiritually —
to allow Jews to exist, but not as Jews.

Our response is the opposite:

We continue living as Jews.
We continue mitzvot.
We continue the covenant.

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The Message of Shabbat Zachor

Remembering Amalek is not about hatred.

It is about clarity:

• Evil exists
• Some ideologies reject moral meaning
• History is not random
• And Jewish survival is not accidental

Shabbat Zachor reminds us:

The Jewish people survive not merely by living —
but by living as Jews.

The Torah goes into detail of what a priest would have to wear while doing his duty in the Tabernacle. The reason is that we should concentrate on his actions, not on the person.

Quick Devar Torah — The Uniform of Responsibility

(Parashat Tetzaveh)

This week’s parsha describes in great detail the clothing of the Kohanim and especially the Kohen Gadol.
Every garment is specified. No creativity. No personalization. No self-expression.

At first glance this feels strange.

Today we value individuality — even in shul you see different talleisim, different styles.
So why in the Mishkan must every priest look the same?

Because the Torah is teaching a fundamental idea:

In Judaism, leadership is not identity — it is office.

The Kohen is not important because of who he is.
He is important because of what he represents.

Just like in the military:
You salute the uniform, not the personality.
The rank matters more than the individual.

The priestly garments remove ego.
They turn a person into a function.

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The Clothing Changes the Person

The Kohen Gadol had to behave differently when wearing the bigdei kehuna.

While in uniform, he represents the entire nation.
He is constantly being watched.

And eventually that awareness follows him even when he takes the clothing off —
because once a person holds an office, he never fully stops representing it.

Judaism’s view:
Honor is not privilege.
Honor is restriction.

The higher the position — the fewer personal freedoms.

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The Shocking Proof: The Cities of Refuge

The Torah tells us:

Someone who kills accidentally remains in exile until the death of the Kohen Gadol.

Why?

The High Priest wasn’t there.
He didn’t know the killer.
He didn’t cause the accident.

Yet the Torah holds him responsible.

Because leadership in Torah is not about authority — it is about accountability.

If society failed, the leader failed.

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The Message

In the modern world, rank often means power.
In Judaism, rank means burden.

The uniform of the Kohen teaches:

The greater the title, the greater the responsibility.

A Jewish leader does not stand above the people.
He stands answerable for the people.

Not someone to be worshiped —
someone who carries the consequences of everyone else.

And that is why the priests could not choose their clothing.

Because they were not dressing as themselves.

They were dressing as the nation.

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