וה’ פָּקַד אֶת־שָׂרָה כַּאֲשֶׁר אָמָר וַיַּעַשׂ יְהֹוָה לְשָׂרָה כַּאֲשֶׁר דִּבֵּר׃

בראשית כא:א

Hashem Remembers Sarah (see Onkelos) and blesses her with a pregnancy (see Rashi).

The Rishonim (on Megilla 31) explain that Sarah was finally blessed with a pregnancy on Rosh Hashana. Therefore it is appropriate to read about the great potential for divine love and mercy on this special day.

Why Start With The End?

Here’s the problem. This pasuk is the climax of a long and difficult process. And yet we skip all that and pick up the story at the very end!

The journey starts way back at the end of Parshat Noach, when the Torah testifies that Saray was barren and unable to give birth. Throughout Lech Lecha there are multiple promises that Hashem makes to Avraham, that he will become a great nation. At one point Saray breaks, and offers Hagar to Avraham, based on her certainty that she would not be the mother of Avraham’s children.

There are additional twists and turns to the story. Hagar becomes pregnant, Sarah gets upset. According to Chazal, Hagar has a miscarriage, then gets pregnant again. Yishmael is born, finally making Avraham a father at the age of 86. This is followed by the mitzvah of milah, and an additional promise that Avraham is yet to have another child, this time with Sarah.

The question is, why do we start the leining with וה’ פקד את שרה, which happened on Rosh Hashana? Wouldn’t it make more sense for that to be the end of the leining? The story arc would be perfect, the lifelong struggle of Avram and Saray to have children together, culminating with the special salvation on Rosh Hashana.

What we actually lein is one pasuk about Rosh Hashana, followed by lots of other stuff! First it’s the nine months of Sarah’s pregnancy, followed by the milah and subsequent seudah. Then we read about Yishmael and Yitzchak’s difficult relationship, Hagar and Yishmael’s exile, and finally a covenant between Avimelech and Avraham about stolen wells. At first glance it seems almost absurd, that we have one pasuk about Rosh Hashana followed by an entire leining that has nothing to do with this special day.

6X Leining?

According to my alternative logic, we should really start with the last Aliyah of Parshat Noach, where the Torah tells us that Saray was barren. We would read through the many trials and tribulations throughout Parshat Lech Lecha, and finally breathe a sigh of relief when Hashem blesses Sarah and Avraham in the middle of Parshat Vayera. This would make leining around 6 times longer, but at least the story line would be far more appropriate!

Thankfully for those who don’t want to lengthen the davening even more, Chazal did not accept my proposal. But we need to understand why not. What is the message that we are meant to take from this leining? Is it possible that the real connection between the parsha that we read and the essence of Rosh Hashana is just the first pasuk, and the rest is dragged in to fill in the aliyot? Or is there a deeper lesson that we are meant to internalize?

Super Bowl and Bereishit

I would like to suggest one approach to this issue, and in order to do so, we need to compare the Super Bowl to Parshat Bereishit (bear with me). When the final whistle of the NFL championship blows, the team celebrates, the confetti flies, and the MVP being interviewed on TV is asked: what are you going to do next? The answer: I’m going to Disney World!

After a long and grueling season, the triumphant players bask in the glory of their success. They have invested so much, worked so hard, they have earned this moment.

Let’s compare this scene to the following pasuk in Parshat Bereishit:

וַיְבָרֶךְ אֹתָם אֱלֹהִים וַיֹּאמֶר לָהֶם אֱלֹהִים פְּרוּ וּרְבוּ וּמִלְאוּ אֶת־הָאָרֶץ וְכִבְשֻׁהָ וּרְדוּ בִּדְגַת הַיָּם וּבְעוֹף הַשָּׁמַיִם וּבְכׇל־חַיָּה הָרֹמֶשֶׂת עַל־הָאָרֶץ׃

בראשית א:כח

Man has just been created, and he receives his first blessing: go have children and conquer the world. I have yet to conquer the world, but I have been blessed with a bunch of lovely children. And I can testify that having kids is a lot of work, and comes with many challenges. Yet this is framed by the Torah as a blessing. This is not in any way a contradiction to the wonderful sense of bracha, but it reframes our understanding of what a bracha actually is. The first thing that we learn about humanity in the Torah is that our most important blessings come with responsibility. (We can also extend this idea to the second part of the pasuk. The ability to conquer the world is also a blessing, one that comes with great toil and effort.)

So we have here two ways of thinking about success. According to the sports parable, you work really hard, and when you succeed you get to kick back and enjoy the fruits of your labor. But according to Bereishit, the blessing is an invitation to work hard, take responsibility, and continue to develop the bracha that Hashem gave us.

A New Definition of Bracha

This brings us back to the leining on Rosh Hashana. We asked why we don’t read about Avram and Saray’s long journey to parenthood, culminating with the salvation of Rosh Hashana. This would be a Super Bowl type of story. The final scene would be Avraham and Sarah snapping a selfie in the delivery room, and everyone lives happily ever after.

But that is not the fundamental concept of Bracha we learn about in Bereishit. The gift from God is only the first pasuk. What follows is a challenging relationship with Yishmael. Avraham is torn about what to do. His first son comes within moments of death. The challenges are not just in his family. There are also economic and geopolitical struggles with Avimelech, which we read about in the end of the leining.

These are not just filler pesukim after the salvation of pregnancy. Rather, the structure of the story is consistent with the concept of bracha which we learn from the creation of Adam.

On Rosh HaShana we remember the creation of the world, and we reconnect with its core message as the new year begins. Just like Bereishit, and just like Sarah, we receive blessings from God. These blessings each have their own set of responsibilities and challenges that come with them.

A family.

A job.

Money.

If you have any of these things, congratulations!

You have been blessed.

Now, you have work to do.

Shana Tova.

The Chofetz Chaim Story

Rabbi Goldberger opens with the story of the Chofetz Chaim, who sat in his store only until he had earned what he needed for the day, then closed up and went to learn. I heard that story in yeshiva too, and it made a big impact on me. But it’s worth pulling apart a bit.

First, the person who came to Rabbi Goldberger already had a rare luxury: the opportunity to cut back on work in order to learn more. Most people don’t have that choice. They need to work to make ends meet, for job stability, for financial stability. If you’re reading this and you do have that flexibility, recognize it as a unique blessing, not something most people have or experience.

Second, as Rabbi Goldberger alludes to toward the end of his piece, the Chofetz Chaim was a generational Gadol, one of the great Torah scholars and leaders of his time. Most people are not like that.

And yet these stories get told in yeshiva, and speaking for myself, as a young guy they capture the imagination and the heart. It’s easy to think these standards are meant to be applied directly to your own life. That can be dangerous. Klal Yisrael needs Gedolim, and it also needs regular, normal baalei batim. And for the normal guys like me, thinking you can act like a gadol can be dangerous.

This is a big educational question, and is far beyond my paygrade. There is also plenty of positive value in being inspired by gedolim if done in the right way. But I can attest from personal experience that this is a tricky topic.

Third, the Chofetz Chaim pulled this off because he was the Chofetz Chaim. People flocked to his store and wanted to give him their business, and would have kept coming even if he closed early. That was baked into the business model.

Most people aren’t in that position. If I closed my store the moment I’d made enough for the day, people would stop coming, because a business needs to be reliably open. I’m not saying it’s impossible. Some people have found creative ways to structure a livelihood that doesn’t interfere with serious learning, but it’s rare, and it doesn’t come easily. That should be acknowledged. (Credit to Rabbi Yehuda Halpert for this point, from one of the most popular Shtark Tank episode ever)

There’s also the financial planning piece. Modern life generally requires saving for big future expenses: simchas, retirement, and more. The Chofetz Chaim lived an extremely simple life and got by on very little. That’s not realistic or expected for most of us today.

It Tethers You to This World

As part of his case for why work is inherently valuable, Rabbi Goldberger notes that it tethers you to this world. It’s worth adding that this isn’t just a hashkafic idea, it’s a halachic one. Someone who doesn’t have a job and gambles for his parnassa instead is passul l’eidus, disqualified as a witness, because he’s not osek b’yishuvo shel olam. He isn’t part of society, and he isn’t contributing meaningfully to the world around him.

Interestingly, there’s no explicit mitzvah that requires a person to be osek b’yishuvo shel olam. But I think the root of the concept is basic: the pasuk tells Adam Harishon “pru u’rvu u’milu es ha’aretz”, to procreate and fill the land. We’re not just meant to bring children into the world, we’re meant to build the conditions for them to live, succeed, and thrive. That includes economic development, which is foundational to any human society.

Parenthetically, this is part of why so many people in large corporations, B2B, consulting, and similar roles struggle to feel a sense of meaning at work. They’re far removed from the actual effect their job has on real people, unlike a customer-facing role where it’s easy to see that your store or your service is providing something to someone.

Life’s a Pie Chart

This was, by far, my favorite section of Rabbi Goldberger’s piece, and I think it’s a message that isn’t repeated enough. Here’s a quote:

I once received a call from a yungerman who wanted to come to our Kollel. When I asked him why, he explained that he had calculated that he would be able to learn an hour more a day in our Kollel than where he currently was.

In the course of the conversation, I perceived a flaw in his thinking. He seemed to be viewing life like a bar graph: the more learning you can fit into it, the higher the bar goes, and therefore the better your life is. I don’t think that’s how we should measure a life, life is more like a pie chart.

“How much learning can I squeeze into my day?” is the wrong question. Instead we should be asking how the various parts of my life fit together into a wholesome whole and how they align toward the goal of the person I am trying to become.

A lot of the discourse in the Torah world runs on more, more, more: learn more, be in shiur more, be in the beis medrash more. As Rabbi Goldberger points out, that can have real, unhealthy effects. This isn’t an argument against ambition, or against trying to learn a lot. But the idea that life is a pie chart, made up of many important and legitimate pieces, needs to be taught and reinforced, not just assumed.

I experienced this firsthand. I made real mistakes early in my marriage that stemmed from this kind of thinking, and it took time to shift out of it, even once I was already in kollel. I’ve written before about the transition from yeshiva to kollel. I’d add that part of that transition needs to be a shift away from the bar chart mentality. Maybe a single guy in yeshiva can pull off living like life has one variable (learning) and one linear chart which is to be maximized. Once you have a family, the pie chart isn’t optional.

Identity and Role

Rabbi Goldberger also brings a conversation with Rabbi Lopiansky about identity and the role a person is meant to play. There is nothing wrong with being a proud bahlabus, and make you decisions accordingly. This connects to something I’ve seen in the Mishna Berura. In one place (Orach Chaim 156:2), he says a person should minimize work and maximize learning, going so far as to say one should work the bare minimum. But elsewhere (Orach Chaim 231), on the words v’chol ma’asecha yihyu l’shem shamayim, he writes that certain people, if they have the right skills and the right koach to succeed in business, are considered lashem shamayim even when doing business not for parnassa. If someone can create more economic opportunity for others in the community, and give more tzedaka, that’s worthwhile.

I heard something similar from David Lichtenstein on Shtark Tank. He’s a billionaire who could easily scale back his business and spend far more time learning. I asked him why he doesn’t. He said that plenty of people can sit in kollel and learn, or teach a shiur in a yeshiva. It’s much rarer to find someone who can make a kiddush Hashem as a business leader who is also osek b’Torah. That’s not something to look down on.

In Conclusion

Rabbi Goldberger’s full piece is worth reading in full.

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How Much Should You Work?

How Much Should You Work…

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12 days ago · 1 like · Avigdor Goldberger

It’s a good reminder that “how much should I work” is usually the wrong question to start with.

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Thinking back to where I was last year, an uncomfortable pair of questions arises.

1. Am I really doing any better now than I was last year?

2. Is there any chance that next year will be any different?

Underneath these questions there is a very uncomfortable feeling. It's a mixture of emotions, but one of the dominant ones is: loneliness.

On a basic level, this is due to the fact that this isn't really the type of thing I shmuess about with my chavrusa or coworkers. But there's another reason why this feels like a lonely journey.

Divine Combat Support

In order to understand why, we need to look at this week's parsha, and last week's.

Both in Ki Teitze this week and Shoftim last week, we read that Hashem is with the Jewish soldiers at war.

כִּי ה' אֱלֹהֵיכֶם הַהֹלֵךְ עִמָּכֶם לְהִלָּחֵם לָכֶם עִם אֹיְבֵיכֶם לְהוֹשִׁיעַ אֶתְכֶם

"For it is the LORD your God who marches with you to do battle for you against your enemy, to bring you victory." (Devarim 20:4)

כִּי ה' אֱלֹהֶיךָ מִתְהַלֵּךְ בְּקֶרֶב מַחֲנֶךָ לְהַצִּילְךָ וְלָתֵת אֹיְבֶיךָ לְפָנֶיךָ

"Since the LORD your God moves about in your camp to protect you and to deliver your enemies to you..." (Devarim 23:15)

Hashem tells us He is with us in battle, so there is nothing to fear. Someone who isn't alone, who doesn't feel abandoned, who has help and support, should be confident and unafraid. When the Jewish people fight against our enemies, we are representing Hashem, and He is in our corner.

The same idea shows up in Le'David, which we say every day starting in Elul.

לְדָוִד ה' אוֹרִי וְיִשְׁעִי מִמִּי אִירָא ה' מָעוֹז חַיַּי מִמִּי אֶפְחָד

"Of David. The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; whom shall I dread?" (Tehillim 27:1)

Dovid HaMelech says over and over that he is not afraid, that nothing bad will happen, despite his enemies and detractors, because Hashem is close by and ready to help.

Lonely Road

This is all great when we are facing a national enemy. But when it comes to teshuva, it can feel very different.

We are trying to come close to Hashem. Until we succeed, it feels like Hashem is distant. The road to Him is long, bumpy, and full of forces trying to stop us. Since we are on the path towars Him, He doesn't yet feel close, and we are feeling alone.

First Step

When I thought about it more, I started to see it differently.

We know that once a person starts doing teshuva, Hashem helps him. Chazal teach that if you open a hole the size of a needle, Hashem will open one large enough to walk through. If you begin the process of becoming pure, you get assistance from Above. The first step is ours. But after that, Hashem helps, because Hashem loves us and wants our teshuva to succeed.

This changes the picture. After that initial effort, we can draw a real parallel between not fearing in war and the experience of teshuva. We are walking the rest of the path together with Hashem. There's nothing to be afraid of.

Hashiveinu… ViNashuva…

I think this idea is alluded to in our davening. We say השיבנו ה' אליך ונשובה, bring us back to You, and we will return.

What's the extra word doing there? ונשובה, and we will return? Maybe the answer is that first we need to start coming towards Hashem. But after that first step, the rest of the Teshuva process, is done together with Him.

This is incredibly comforting. We get to do it with Hashem's presence, Hashem's love, and Hashem's help.

Teshuva of Torah

There is one more idea which we can add to this mindset. Chazal tell us in a number of places that Hashem is present amongst those who learn Torah. There are also many sources that emphasize the importance of learning as part of the Teshuva process. Putting these two together, we can suggest that a person who puts Torah at the center of his Teshuva has the close presence of Hashem along the way.

Will this work?

I don't believe in simplistic solutions to life's thorniest problems. I don't think that I might have come up with an Einstein level theory of teshuva in between games of Rat-a-Tat-Cat with my kids. Rather, I hope it will be a valuable contribution to my journey, by shifting my Elul mindset away from loneliness and fear. Check back with me next Elul to see what the results were.

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How do we find meaning as Bnei Torah in the workforce.

Some highlights:

1. Rav Soloveichik's response to an elementary school teacher about the value of each and every member of society

2. The significance of learning Tanach and other "simple" topics

3. The religious significance of work: feeding your family, not taking charity, and more

This is the recording of our live event last week in partnership with OU Israel, which included a shiur and Q&A.

I'm incredibly grateful for the opportunity to facilitate this Torah.

I hope you tune in.

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The Unspoken Transition

We talk a lot about the transition from being in yeshiva to being post-yeshiva. There are good reasons for that. It’s a big change.

But there’s another transition that ofetn times happens around the same time: becoming a father. Most guys in our community learn in yeshiva while single, and maybe for a bit while married. But generally, the shift from learning full time to working happens around the same time as the shift from being single to being a father.

One nafka mina is someone who learns for many years after marriage. That’s what happened to me.

I was blessed to spend my first seven years of marriage in kollel. My oldest was six when we left. Having that extended stretch where I was both learning and a father showed me something: a lot of what people attribute to the pre-yeshiva to post-yeshiva transition might actually be more about the transition from single to father. I felt many of those same challenges while I was still in full-time learning.

Here’s a small example.

There used to be a vatikin minyan at Kerem B’Yavneh on Shabbos morning. I davened there through Shana Aleph, Shana Bet, and even Shana Gimel, when I was in the army and spent a lot of Shabbatot back at yeshiva. Shabbos morning started with early davening. I loved the slow, beautiful Pesukei D’Zimra. After that, a quick kiddush, a piece of cake, a coffee, and then chazara time. Those long mornings in the Kerem B’Yavneh library were some of the best of my life. The calm, the quiet, the focus, the Torah.

Fast forward a few years, and I had a couple little kids at home. Shabbos morning looked different. Often it meant running in late to do a quick shortened Pesukei D’Zimra at the later minyan, tired and not especially focused. Sometimes that was because the kids had been up through the night. Or because I’d been up with a kid who wanted to be up for neitz, so that my wife could get some extra rest on the day that’s literally called the day of rest.

That was followed by time in the park, lunch, cleanup, playtime, cleanup, an accident, more cleanup. You get the idea.

It’s a small example, but it showed me something. One of the big challenges of growing up isn’t leaving the yeshiva environment. It’s the shift from having no responsibilities, no kids, no wife to take care of, to taking responsibility for the wellbeing of your family.

Influencer Videos

This isn’t only a frum conversation. You see the secular version of it too, with the influencer types who post their five-hour morning routines: the cold plunge, the two-hour gym session, the meal prep, all of it pristine and regimented. Critics keep pointing out the obvious. These guys don’t have kids. That level of self-optimization is only available to someone whose morning belongs to nobody but himself. A father doesn’t get that kind of morning back. His day isn’t only his anymore.

Not a New Problem

This isn’t new. At the very beginning of Creation, when the Torah lists the generations from Adam to Noach to Avraham, it says a person lived so many years, then had a child, then lived so many more years. Life, according to these pesukim, is divided in two: before you have a child, and after.

A Tense Meeting

The fact that we learn in yeshiva without kids isn’t just an accidental bug. There are real challenges baked into the yeshiva approach when it comes to fatherhood, and it was never a secret. It was explicit to everyone learning in the Kerem B’Yavneh kollel.

There was once a tense meeting between the avreichim and the yeshiva leadership. The leadership felt the avreichim weren’t present enough in the beit midrash, not doing their part in terms of being in seder with proper hasmada.

One senior Rav told the room that in his many years in kollel, he’d missed seder only a handful of times. Yes, he had a bunch of kids. Yes, they sometimes got sick. But that was his wife’s job. She took care of the kids, he learned. That was the expectation for everyone in the room. (Forget that most of the guys needed their wives’ income just to sustain themselves in kollel in the first place.)

Needless to say, I wasn’t happy about this, and neither were a lot of my friends.

I want to be careful here. This was one meeting, one kollel, one rebbe’s hashkafa. There was even another Rebbe at that meeting who confided to me later that he has a different approach. I loved my time in Yeshiva overall and I’m not trying to indict anyone based on a single conversation, I’m sharing what I saw and how it shaped my thinking.

No Easy Answers

I don’t think there’s an easy answer here. The balance between family responsibilities and religious responsibilities (or anything else like work, hobbies, chessed etc.) is real. But my point is that in the corner of the yeshiva world I experienced, the mentality was structured around the individual learner, and family often got treated as a nuisance.

To be fair, there’s real machshava behind this model, not just inertia. The idea that a wife’s mesirus nefesh to support her husband’s learning is itself a zechus, that the Torah he learns reaches the whole family even when he isn’t physically present, that his hasmada now shapes what he can give them later. I don’t think that machshava is wrong. I just think it gets stretched further than it should, and the family ends up absorbing the stretch.

The Pandemic Question

Here’s a related thought, not formally tied to everything above, just something that’s been sitting in the same part of my head.

I’ve been thinking back to the pandemic. My oldest was one at the time, cute, couldn’t run too far, didn’t know how to misbehave yet. For us it wasn’t a very hard stretch. But I know for a lot of families it was a real challenge, and a big piece of that challenge was figuring out how to work if the kids were home instead of in school.

That got me thinking about the relationship between our careers and our kids’ education. When people were begging for schools to reopen, was it because they felt their kids were genuinely growing and thriving there more than at home? Or because they needed to work, and the education system was functioning, in part, as industrial-scale babysitting to free parents up to do that?

If there’s some truth to the second answer, the question becomes uncomfortable. These are our children. This is our future. Are we okay having built an outsourced system to raise them so we can work? I’m not denying that work matters, that parnasa is real. But I can’t stop asking myself if this is really the best way to go.

Would kids benefit from more focused educational time from their parents, compared to the current reality? I don’t know the answer, and I don’t have a concrete suggestion for how to improve the situation.

In our special shiur this week with Rav Hershel Schachter (recording coming to the podcast feed on Monday), he twice spoke, with real passion, about the importance of investing in our kids and in youth education. They’re the future of our nation. We need to make sure we’re giving them our best.

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I think the discussion surrounding Har HaBayis deserved a much stronger treatment of the opposing position than it received.

My primary issue is not that there are no respectable halachic opinions permitting ascent. There clearly are. Nor is my argument that every posek who permits going is somehow outside the mainstream. The issue is whether the opposing position was presented fairly and in its strongest form.

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One thing that stood out to me was the inconsistency in how rabbinic authority was treated throughout the discussion. When the topic shifted to techeiles, specific poskim were cited by name, allowing listeners to understand exactly whose opinions were being relied upon. Yet when the conversation turned to Har HaBayis, the discussion largely became, “My rebbe paskened this way,” without identifying who that posek was. If the claim is that there has been a meaningful shift in contemporary psak, then it is entirely reasonable to ask: which posek, and how does that position relate to the overwhelming body of gedolim who have continued to prohibit ascending Har HaBayis?

More importantly, I think two major arguments against ascending were never seriously engaged.

Security

The first is the meta-halakhic and security consideration. This is not some outdated concern that has faded with time. If anything, the security realities surrounding Har HaBayis have only become more volatile. The fact that organized ascents often require significant military and police protection demonstrates that this is not merely a technical halachic discussion. Whether one ultimately agrees that these considerations should influence psak is a legitimate debate—but pretending they are insignificant or no longer relevant is simply not an accurate presentation of the opposing view

.

Big Poskim Ignored?

The second is the underlying halachic dispute itself. Much of the permissive position depends upon identifying the boundaries of the Mikdash and relying upon particular understandings of the Radbaz’s testimony. But that premise is itself disputed by major poskim. Rav Moshe Sternbuch, for example, develops a substantial halachic argument challenging whether the Radbaz’s measurements and identifications can be relied upon in practice. One may disagree with his conclusion, but it is hardly a superficial argument. It deserves to be confronted directly rather than ignored.

The citation of Rav Yitzchak Breitowitz also illustrates this point. His often-circulated comments are frequently presented as though they amount to an endorsement of ascending Har HaBayis. They do not. His point was considerably narrower: that one could argue the factual uncertainty regarding the location has diminished enough that the halachic calculus may be different than it once was. That is a discussion about the metzius. It is not the same thing as issuing a practical directive that people should ascend. Those are two very different claims.

Lack of Respect

What frustrated me most, however, was the attempt to steelman the opposing position. Rather than engaging these substantive halachic and meta-halakhic arguments, the conversation quickly shifted toward attributing motives to the rabbanim who prohibit ascent—that their rulings are really driven by sociology, politics, or other external concerns rather than genuine Torah reasoning.

I find that deeply unpersuasive and, frankly, disrespectful.

If Rav Moshe Sternbuch, Rav Elyashiv, Rav Nebenzahl, and countless other leading poskim argue against ascending Har HaBayis, the first obligation is to grapple with the substance of their arguments. One may ultimately reject those arguments, but dismissing them by speculating about what the rabbanim “really” meant or what was “really” motivating them is not serious engagement with their Torah.

Reasonable people can disagree about Har HaBayis. There are genuine machloksim regarding the metzius, the halachic sources, and the practical conclusions. But if we are going to have that conversation, then both sides deserve to be represented honestly. That means addressing the strongest halachic arguments, acknowledging the real meta-halakhic considerations, and resisting the temptation to substitute psychological explanations for substantive engagement with the Torah itself.

Status Reactions

After your episode, I posted some of my thoughts on my whatsapp status.

One thing that struck me after posting my thoughts on Har HaBayis wasn’t simply the number of responses—it was the remarkable consistency in where thoughtful people seemed to converge.

As someone who teaches and mentors many students, I care less that people agree with me than that they learn how to think carefully. The ensuing discussion was thoughtful, respectful, and, at times, surprisingly nuanced. There were certainly disagreements about the practical halachah and whether changing circumstances can ever alter long-standing psak. Those are legitimate discussions, and no serious person should pretend otherwise.

But there were a few points that repeatedly surfaced.

The first was that many found it deeply unconvincing when the discussion shifted from engaging arguments to assigning motives. There is an important difference between disagreeing with a posek’s reasoning and claiming to know what was “really” motivating him. The latter is not only intellectually weak; many felt it was inherently dismissive. If a gadol writes a teshuvah, the burden is to engage with the teshuvah—not to psychoanalyze the author.

Second, many commented on the extraordinary historical consensus surrounding Har HaBayis. There are very few issues on which communities as diverse as the Rabbanut, the Badatz, and the overwhelming majority of leading poskim across the Torah world have maintained such consistent practical guidance for decades. One is certainly free to argue that circumstances have changed or that the halachic calculus should be revisited. But revisiting a consensus is very different from casually dismissing it as though it were never rooted in serious halachic analysis to begin with.

Motivations

Perhaps the most interesting discussion, however, centered on motivation.

Several students observed that some of the contemporary rhetoric surrounding Har HaBayis seems driven less by halachah and more by a desire to demonstrate sovereignty—to prove to the Arabs, or to the world, that “this is ours.” Whether or not that accurately describes everyone advocating ascent is beside the point. The broader observation was that this mindset feels fundamentally foreign to the traditional chareidi approach, which generally has never viewed symbolic assertions of national pride as sufficient justification for altering long-standing religious practice.

One student put it rather bluntly: if something truly belongs to you, you do not constantly feel compelled to prove it. There was a certain maturity in that observation. Security, sovereignty, and national identity are all real considerations in public life, but they are not automatically halachic arguments. Conflating the two can produce a discussion that becomes more about symbolism than about Torah.

Common Ground

What encouraged me most was not that everyone reached identical conclusions. They did not. Rather, it was that there was broad agreement on the standards by which these conversations ought to be conducted. Great rabbanim deserve to have their arguments taken seriously. Genuine halachic disagreements deserve to be debated honestly. And we should be very hesitant before attributing motives to people whose Torah scholarship and yiras Shamayim far exceed our own.

Those standards are worth preserving regardless of where one ultimately comes down on Har HaBayis.

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We are blessed with such full lives, physically, spiritually, and nationally. So it’s hard to take a day and feel a real sense of mourning, sadness, and loss.

I want to suggest one approach, based on one halacha and a mashal to a marathon.

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The halacha: every year on Tisha B’Av, we learn less Torah than we normally do.

There’s a whole sugya here, but broadly speaking, you’re not allowed to do regular learning on Tisha B’Av. Only certain topics are permitted, mainly Eicha, stories of the Churban, and other tragic topics. This is based on the fact that Torah is joyous, and therefore inappropriate on a day of mourning. And even in the permitted topics, according to most opinions, you’re only allowed to learn on a basic level, simply to understand, without going in depth.

There’s also a discussion about whether there is a chiyuv Talmud Torah on Tisha B’Av or not. Maybe the permitted topics are just that, something you are allowed to learn but not obligated to.1 Either way, it’s clear: this is a day where we do less learning, of lesser depth.

On every other day of the year, we believe that learning Torah is a primary way to serve God. And on Tisha B’Av, we are disconnected. The question is why. What are we supposed to learn from this halacha?

Torah as a Placeholder

Ever since the Beis Hamikdash was destroyed and we were exiled, we were forced to fill our lives spiritually in a way that our religion wouldn’t fall apart. Had we remained tethered to the Mikdash as our primary source of spiritual inspiration, our entire foundation would have crumbled the moment it was gone. We were forced to shift our focus toward other parts of our religion that could accompany us in galus, and limud haTorah became central to that shift.

This is why so much of learning Torah is compared to elements of the Beis Hamikdash. A father whose wife just gave birth gets an aliyah, because it parallels the korban a yoledes brings. We say Birkas Hagomel after laining because kerias haTorah parallels a korban, and a korban todah is brought after surviving a crisis. Many sources describe Torah itself as our replacement for what we lost, a remnant and a placeholder for the days we don’t have a Mikdash. Like this section of selichot:

הָעִיר הַקֹּדֶשׁ וְהַמְּחוֹזוֹת,
הָיוּ לְחֶרְפָּה וּלְבִזּוֹת,
וְכָל־מַחֲמַדֶּיהָ טְבוּעוֹת וּגְנוּזוֹת,
וְאֵין שִׁיּוּר רַק הַתּוֹרָה הַזֹּאת.
וְשׁוּב בְּרַחֲמִים עַל־שְׁאֵרִית יִשְׂרָאֵל,
וְהוֹשִׁיעֵנוּ לְמַֽעַן שְׁמֶךָ.

Maybe the most important parallel is that of simcha. In the Torah, the word simcha is almost always used in connection with the Mikdash.

ושמחת לפני ה’ אלקיך אתה ובנך ובתך ועבדך ואמתך והלוי אשר בשעריך והגר והיתום והאלמנה אשר בקרבך במקום אשר יבחר ה’ אלקיך לשכן שמו שם.

דברים טז יא

There are even practical halachic ramifications to this idea. The minhag of Ashkenazim to omit birkas kohanim in chutz la’aretz is due to a lack of simcha in galus, and it is only recited on holidays where we connect to simchas hamikdash.

The Torah is also something which brings simcha. While this was always true, its centrality was emphasized when we no longer had the simcha of connecting to the visible Divine Presence in Yerushalayim.

The Danger of Getting Too Comfortable

But there’s a danger in this. If we feel so filled by the placeholder, we might stop yearning for the real thing. If connecting to Hashem through Talmud Torah is a substitute for feeling the Shechina at the Mikdash, and we enjoy the substitute too much, we lose the ache for the full expression of that connection. If we are completely fulfilled through the simcha of Talmud Torah, we will not ache for the simcha in the Mikdash.

So on Tisha B’Av, we cut back. We starve ourselves of this source of spiritual nourishment. We refrain from the simcha of learning not just to make us feel sad, but to realize that our current status is lacking, And if that makes us feel a bit distant from God, that’s good. Because as much as we strive to feel close to Him, we must be aware that so long as Har Habayit lacks a Mikdash with Shechina, there is still distance.

Our National Moment

I would like to apply this thought to our current moment, and compare it to the last stretch of a marathon.

It is hard to capture how blessed we are as a nation right now. The trajectory over the past 100 years is miraculous. From the ashes rose a renaissance of Torah learning, on a scale that has never been seen before in history. The Jewish people are gathering in the land of Israel for the first time in 2,000 years, and the Jewish population of Israel is nearly a majority of Klal Yisrael. The state itself has been a smashing success, economically, militarily, and technologically. Our main attitude to this should be gratitude and joy. But we must be careful.

The Marathon

We are running down the final stretch of the race. In most marathons, the last street is decorated with special banners and flags. We can’t confuse these decorations with the actual finish line. There is joy in having come so far, and feeling the proximity to the end is a thrill. But if we confuse this emotion with that of the actual finish line, we will let up too early. We will sing and dance on that final street, but in the official race results we will see three letters: DNF. Did not finish.

The joy of learning Torah and the joy of how far we’ve come as a nation are cut from the same cloth. Both are real, and both can trick us into celebrating like we’ve already crossed the line.

This is why we can’t learn on Tisha B’Av. By holding back from our main source of simcha and connection to Hashem, we focus on the work that still needs to be done. And hopefully that realization will motivate us to charge forward until the end.

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Tough Transition

I was in Yeshiva for 11 years. Then it came time to transition to the workforce. I'd been taught that Torah is a guide to life, that it's supposed to be the core value system behind our big decisions. So I asked myself: how do I actually use that framework to figure out what kind of job to look for?

The Necessary Evil

The Mesillas Yesharim quotes a Mishna in Avos: הוי ממעט בעסק, ועסוק בתורה, minimize your work and occupy yourself with Torah. The Mishna frames work as a necessary evil. Life is about spiritual pursuits, and work is just how you fund that. So the calculation is simple: minimize work, maximize everything else.

Around that time I discovered Tim Ferriss. He wrote The Four Hour Workweek, built on the idea that life is about enjoying yourself, and that you should shrink your work down to a few hours a week so you can spend the rest of your time on the stuff you actually love. Karate, travel, surfing, whatever it is for you.

I found this to be an interesting parallel: minimize work, maximize other things.

But it didn't match the world I was looking at. Almost everyone I know works full long and hard to be successful. So I went looking for a different lens.

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Love Your Work

Turns out there's another Mishna in Avos: אהוב את המלאכה , love your work. Which is a very different starting point.

And I found are a few additional in Chazal that connect work not just to love, but specifically to the love of marriage.

The Gemara in Kiddushin says a father is obligated to teach his son a trade. The source for that obligation is a pasuk in Koheles:ראה חיים עם אשה אשר אהבת see life with the woman you love. The Gemara draws the line directly: just as a father is commanded to help his child find love and get married, he's commanded to teach him a trade.

The Gemara in Brachos adds another layer. On the pasuk את הכל עשה יפה בעתו, Hashem made everything beautiful in its time, the Gemara says this teaches that Hashem makes every person's own trade look beautiful to them. Rashi explains why: this way the world is never missing a trade, because someone out there is attracted to doing it. Hashem built a world where people are drawn to different things, and that's exactly how careers work too.

Obviously there's a limit here. I'm not telling anyone to go home and inform their spouse they're having an emotional affair with their career. That's not the point. But there are real lessons from the framework of marriage that apply directly to how we think about work.

Lesson One: Don't Compare

Love is private and intimate, which is exactly why comparing your marriage to someone else's is so dangerous.

Under the chuppah we bless a bride and groom that they should be as joyful as Adam and Eve in Gan Eden. כשמחך יצירך בגן עדן מקדם

Adam and Eve had nobody to compare themselves to. There was nobody else. That's the model.

Work is the same. Success looks completely different from person to person. One person wants to make as much money as possible and is willing to grind long hours for it. Another is happy with a more modest salary in exchange for time with family. Someone gets a thrill from flying to conferences around the world. Someone else lives for being home to kiss their kids goodnight.

You need your own definition of success. Be super careful with LinkedIn. That stuff clouds your judgment fast if you let other people's definition of success become your own.

Lesson Two: Ups and Downs

Marriage has highs and lows. It's built into the halacha itself. Chazal describe part of the beauty of marriage as coming from the cycle of distance and closeness, of nida and mikvah. That's not a flaw in the marriage.

Work is the same. Not every day is rosy. Frustration and stress are part of a long-term process of growing into your work and appreciating it. A hard day doesn't mean something is wrong with the relationship. It can be a completely normal part of a healthy one.

Lesson Three: Service of a Higher Purpose

A home and a marriage exist in service of something bigger. We are soldiers in Hashem's army, meant to take our skills and use them for Him, for the Jewish people, for yishuv ha'olam.

Work is the same. It's one part of a life in service of Ribono Shel Olam. When you remember that your job is important but not the whole picture, you get a very different kind of perspective on what you're doing all day.

Where This Took Me

I took an unusual career path. Years in kollel, a move to the Negev, a non-profit job that isn't full time. None of that looks like the standard track, and it's built entirely on my own definition of success, not anyone else's.

I've shared this before, but a recruiter once laughed in my face when I told her I wanted to live in the Negev, have a morning Seder, and feed my family.

I've had plenty of ups and downs along the way. Bad days, bad weeks. That's normal.

And I keep coming back to trying to see myself as an eved of Hashem first, with everything else, including the job, fitting into that picture. It's something I'm still working on, every day.

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This post will deal with a halachic question and it’s hashkafic ramifications: If a person comes late to work due to traffic, and the traffic was a result of a road blocking protest, does the protester need to pay damages? A related, juicier, separate question: can the tardy employee get out of his car and punch the protester to get him out of the way? Is this legitimate self-defense?

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I usually avoid clickbait and divisive political topics, but this case is directly tied to Shtark Tank. That’s because this sugya is a halachic expression of the Torah’s approach to work. (The place where I discovered this sugya, plus an interesting life hack, is in the footnote.)1

I want to clarify that this is not meant to be practical halacha, and not a post about the legitimacy of the protesters, police, or anyone else. I am not a dayan, and don’t feel the need to weigh in on political issues. But one of the relevant sources in the gemara will suffice to give us a glimpse into this sugya

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A person who damages another person is liable to pay five different payments: nezek (loss of value as if he were a slave), ripui (medical costs), tzaar (pain), boshet (embarrassment), and shevet (loss of work). The gemara on Bava Kamma 85b says that each payment could be incurred independently. How could shevet be caused without any other damages? The gemara describes a case where one person locks another person in a room, causing them to miss work.

The Rosh says that this is only true if the damager brings the victim into the room and locks him up. But if the employee was already in the room, that is a grama, and the damager would not have to pay.

The Ramban and other rishonim might disagree with this. The Ramban (Kuntres Dina D’Garmi) writes that shevet is not even garmi, since there is no disagreement like in other cases of garmi (where Rebbi Meir disagrees with the chachamim). He explains that at the moment a person misses work, it is considered hezek nikar.

ואי קשיא לרבנן דלא דייני דינא דגרמי היכי מחייב והא גורם הוא לבטלו ממלאכתו וגורם הוא לו שלא ירויח, לא קשיא דכיון דהרזקיה מההיא שעתא הוא דאפסדיה עד דפתח ליה והא אמינא דהיזק ניכר נמי הוא ובין לר”מ ובין לרבנן חייב

The Shulchan Aruch (CM 420:11) paskens like the Rosh. But it’s important to understand the nekudat hamachloket here: what exactly are the rishonim arguing about?

It seems clear to me that the machloket between the Ramban and the Rosh is about the liability of the mazik, not about the existence of nezek. My Rebbe, Rav Moshe Stav, used to say that for there to be a chiyuv tashlumin, you need three things: mazik, nizak, and nezek. Getting back to our sugya, the Rosh doesn’t say that a loss of work isn’t nezek. He just says that if the mazik isn’t active, it is considered grama, and the mazik isn’t directly responsible for the nezek. But it seems clear to me that they both agree with the Ramban’s definition: loss of work has the status of damaged property.

And that’s the fundamental idea: the loss of work is considered nezek. It’s like a smashed window. How could that be?

I would like to suggest that the five tashlumin that are paid when man damages man correlate to four parts of a person. There are different aspects to a person’s self, and each part can potentially be damaged. There is physical damage (nezek and ripui), psychological damage (tzaar), emotional self-esteem damage (boshet), and shevet. We see in the payment of shevet that a person’s ability to work is a core part of his identity, just like the others. Therefore, taking away a person’s ability to work is considered actual damage.

This makes perfect sense in light of the fact that man was created and immediately put to work.

ויקח ה’ א-להים את האדם וינחהו בגן עדן לעבדה ולשמרה

We see from here as well that a person’s work is a core part of his mission here on earth.

Based on all this, it would seem to give self-defense rights to the employee running late for work. If we assume that loss of work is nezek, and each moment of lost work is ongoing additional damage, then the damaged person should be allowed to remove this threat that is on him.

Lchora this would be completely independent of any chiyuv. Even if you assume that the protester doesn’t pay (because it’s like the grama of the Rosh, or because the protester isn’t directing his act at one particular person, or any other reason), that should be irrelevant here. The fact is that there is a nizak who is experiencing ongoing nezek, and therefore he should be allowed to defend himself.

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Today, navigation apps are much more advanced.

The biggest chiddush was when Waze introduced real-time traffic updates from users, which help you dodge traffic snarls with clever shortcuts. Navigation apps today also suggests places to park, find gas, share rides, and more. But there’s one thing that no app can assist you with.

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When describing Shabbat in Shemot Chapter 20, the Torah charges us to remember the day and keep it holy, refraining from work and resting on the seventh day. The section concludes:

כִּי שֵׁשֶׁת־יָמִים עָשָׂה יְהֹוָה אֶת־הַשָּׁמַיִם וְאֶת־הָאָרֶץ אֶת־הַיָּם וְאֶת־כָּל־אֲשֶׁר־בָּם וַיָּנַח בַּיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי עַל־כֵּן בֵּרַךְ יְהֹוָה אֶת־יוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת וַיְקַדְּשֵׁהוּ׃

For in six days Hashem made heaven and earth and sea, and all that is in them, and He rested on the seventh day; therefore Hashem blessed the Shabbat day and hallowed it.

Exodus 20:11

This translation follows the basic meaning of this verse, that it took God six days to create the world, followed by the Sabbath, the day when He rested.

But there is another way to think about it: Understood literally, the verse could mean “God created six days,” meaning that God made a world that could last only for six days. The six days were then followed by Shabbat, giving the world another six days until the following Sabbath starts the cycle all over again.

Why did God set the week up like this?

When we put all of our energy into work, we can achieve a lot. But it’s easy to lose sight of what really matters. The constant hustle can consume us, leaving us little time and energy for our family, community, and spiritual pursuits.

Shabbat makes us stop and refocus on what’s really important. Refraining from work doesn’t just allow us increased leisure, rather it creates a space to reflect on our values. This way, we stay connected to what truly matters in this world.

That’s why God designed a system in which the world gets a fresh start every seventh day. He wanted us to be continually connected to higher ideals. Creation was limited to six days. The cycle of creation was intentionally set to conclude after day six, ensuring that the Sabbath arrives as a timely reminder to keep us from straying from what truly matters. It is this time of reflection and refocus on the purpose of creation, and what is really important in this world, that allows for its continued existence.

Waze can help us out in many ways during our journey, but it’s up to us to pick the destination. On regular days, we’re moving ahead with our life goals, speeding up, changing lanes, and avoiding traffic. But when the Sabbath arrives, we pause to think about where we’re headed. This helps us start the new week with a clear sense of purpose.

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So I wanted to share some of the best feedback with you. Some of these originated as comments on Linkedin and on substack, as well as a bunch of private messages. I gathered some of the most thoughtful ideas here. I also added a bonus section, where I asked Claude why this piece was so successful at generating interest and engagement.

Binyamin Kupietzky writes:

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this often as I go through my first year of electrical engineering at JCT.

I listened to the podcast version of your post while washing dishes; once I finished the meat dishes, I had to take a break just to write down some of your thoughts and the reflections they provoked in me

Editors note: reading that line gave me incredible nachas. I hope the the milk dishes got done, so that I am not causing any shalom bayis issues. YW

I wanted to share the first realization I had. I remember in high school, one of my Rabbis (I think Rav Eli Scheinfeld) mentioned that the wedding isn't the "climax" of a relationship. Even though it certainly feels like we are on a constant growith vector during dating and engagement, the wedding is obviously just the start. It is the beginning of our life together, not the peak of it. I had this same realization again when my wife gave birth to our first child. What felt like the end of a long journey to the birth was actually just the first step into our life as parents. (A huge realization regarding the comparison Chazal make between the *Geula* and birth: the real work begins only *after* the birth is over. That is when we truly get to work. והמבין יבין.)

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To me, the years in Yeshiva are exactly like the dating and engagement period. Those years are crucial for deciding who you are and what path you want to take. But the most important thing is to actually take that path—to start your life and help move the world forward.

So, perhaps that is another answer to the machloket: Yeshiva is the most important period where you decide what your relationship with Torah will be, but it certainly shouldn't be the totality of that relationship.

Once we leave Yeshiva and enter the workforce—entering the real life of dishes, laundry, and careers—we begin the life that Hashem intended for us.

(Another short idea regarding our relationship with Hashem: Every day we pray, once a week we take off a whole day for Shabbat, and a few times a year we change things up with holidays that are both fun and holy. Then, once a year, we devote a full 25 hours exclusively to Hashem on Yom Kippur—we don’t even eat or drink, we just focus on that connection.

The same applies to our family life: every day we must have meals and conversation together. However, just like during davening, our phones often buzz or our headspace is still stuck in the last meeting we had with coworkers. Once a week, we have the whole family together. Every now and then, you need to shake things up—do something fun as a family, go out, or take a trip. But once a year, it is crucial to devote a full 25 hours together, alone. No kids, no work, no phones—just the two of you.)

Baruch Swinkin writes:

Spiritual growth is a daily exercise, every day of one’s life. As long as you continue to grow, you have not reached your peak. In our Yeshiva years HKB’H gives us the opportunity to supersize our growth in an incubator that gives us the absolutely necessary foundation to build upon. L’havdil, like a diet, it can create a short term burst with lasting impact. Without maintaining that “diet” through the challenges of life - family, work, community, ups and downs - it can all be for naught. The true challenge is sweating through the work when it is not in an incubator, when Hashem throws things at you that you never contemplated and use those tools to continue your upward ascent, always pushing for more and more, through talmud Torah, through chessed, through raising one’s family and through being מקדש שם שמים in everything you do.

May we all reach our climax in this world at 120

Jonathan Ingber writes:

I think that both are true. The investment you put in those early years sets the tone to the priorities you place on your limited time when life’s other preoccupations swallow a bulk of your time. It drives you to look forward to when you can spend the limited time that you have maximizing those moments or hours.

David Shalumov writes:

Looking back it was the most relatively easiest time to grow because the "tests" and growth bumps were familiar; it was just "Me". As I matured and started building a family the mission remains the same it was just new territory because now I was responsible for people other than myself (spouse & kids) which to everyone is daunting but we continue to refine ourselves so that we can be much more better for our loved ones whom we are responsible for.

Bonus: Claude Contributes

I asked Cluade why this piece resonated so much. Here is the response I got.

It names a real tension without resolving it cheaply. The Bnei Brak machlokes isn’t resolved with a neat answer — you reject both rabbis and offer a reframe instead. That’s intellectually honest, and people can feel it. The “chapters” framework gives readers something to hold without telling them exactly what to think.

The origin story does a lot of work. Opening with a specific memory — the meal, the two rabbis, the year, the place — makes abstract ideas feel lived-in. People trust you more because you’re not theorizing from a distance. And the line “it took a decade” is doing quiet, heavy lifting about your own journey.

It speaks to a pain point that most people feel but few articulate. The fear that you’ve already peaked, that yeshiva was the summit and everything after is decline — this is almost universal in the Bnei Torah world, and almost never said out loud. You gave language to something that was ambient.

The mitzvos section earns its keep. Shabbos, Kiddush Hashem, Yishuv HaOlam — these aren’t novel ideas, but framing them as uniquely accessible in the working world is a reframe that doesn’t get made often enough. You flipped the working world from a spiritual obstacle into a spiritual venue.

The closing is vulnerable without being indulgent. “I am still trying to find my place” — written two years after leaving yeshiva — is honest in a way that polished thought leadership rarely is.

One question worth sitting with: do you think the piece resonated more with people who are in the transition (recently left yeshiva, figuring it out), or with people who left years ago and finally felt seen retroactively?

I answered: left years ago.

Cluade: That’s the more interesting cohort, actually.

Because it means the piece isn’t just useful — it’s validating. People who left years ago have already made their peace (or haven’t) with the yeshiva-to-career transition. They’re not looking for a roadmap. They’re looking for someone to say: that thing you felt, that nagging sense of loss or diminishment, was real — and here’s a framework that takes it seriously without being dismissive.

There’s also probably a relief element. A lot of people in that cohort quietly internalized the Bnei Brak Rav’s framing — not because they believed it intellectually, but because no one gave them an alternative. You didn’t just disagree with him; you gave them permission to disagree with him too.

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To answer this question, let’s take a critical look at the first time the Sabbath was observed:

וַיְבָרֶךְ אֱלֹהִים אֶת־יוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי וַיְקַדֵּשׁ אֹתוֹ כִּי בוֹ שָׁבַת מִכָּל־מְלַאכְתּוֹ אֲשֶׁר־בָּרָא אֱלֹהִים לַעֲשׂוֹת׃

בראשית ב:ג

After six days of creation, God Himself stopped. Why was this necessary? God never gets tired, so why would He need a day off? This is like the Energizer Bunny taking a vacation!

Some explain that God did not actually stop creating on the seventh day. He simply created something altogether different than what came before. He created menucha, usually translated as “rest.” But what does it mean to create “rest”? Isn’t rest just the absence of work?

Many people today suffer from the cult of productivity. All too often, we tie our self-worth to how productive we are. Our lives become all about doing instead of being. This anxiety comes from a healthy ambition to maximize our potential. We all want to make the world a better place, and there’s lots of work to be done. But when we take this to the extreme, we never feel happy with ourselves because there is always more work to be done.

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As people of faith, we are called to work hard for six days but then to rest on the Sabbath. On the Sabbath, we are meant to feel like kings, to feel entirely content – as if we have everything that we need. On the Sabbath, we strive to taste a little bit of the ultimate serenity of the world to come. This is why Jewish tradition refers to the Sabbath as a microcosm of heaven itself.

Why did God have to create rest?

During the first six days, God taught the world creativity and productivity. Had the story of creation ended here, we would assume that Man is meant to work as much as possible, slowing down only to catch his breath and recharge as necessary. But by creating the Sabbath, God is calling on us to taste the contentment and perfection of the world to come, every single week.

If you had the strength of an Energizer Bunny you could work without stopping, but you would be missing out. The Sabbath is not just about recharging for more work, but rather an opportunity to live in the moment and taste serenity.

Originally published on theisraelbible.com, Septermber, 2023

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The following is an adapted version of thoughts which I shared at Her Hertzel this morning. Eli Moshe was a skilled builder. Despite his young age, he had managed to build hundreds of sukkah pergolas, yard decks, and pieces of furniture. This is why I chose to speak about building.

When seeking to understand a certain Torah concept, it's always interesting to examine its first appearance in the Chumash. Where does the word בנה, building, first appear?

The very first appearance is when God takes one of Adam’s ribs and uses it to ‘build’ the first woman. When is the first physical building built?

וַיֵּדַע קַיִן אֶת אִשְׁתּוֹ וַתַּהַר וַתֵּלֶד אֶת חֲנוֹךְ וַיְהִי בֹּנֶה עִיר וַיִּקְרָא שֵׁם הָעִיר כְּשֵׁם בְּנוֹ חֲנוֹךְ:

Kayin knew his wife, and she conceived and bore Chanoch; and he was building a city, and he called the name of the city after the name of his son, Chanoch.

Gen. 4:17

Immediately after the killing of his brother and ensuing punishment, Kayin builds a city and names it after his son Chanoch.

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This passuk often gets overlooked. It’s just one verse towards the end of a long parsha. We read it after the entire story of creation, the dramatic sin of Adam and the fascinating story of Kayin and Hevel. Yet this one line contains many important lessons

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Three Lessons From the First City

The first thing to notice is that it doesn’t say he built the city, in past tense. Rather he was continuously involved in development, ויהי בונה עיר (”and he was building a city”). This reminds me of the advertising slogan for Lowe’s, the home improvement store: never stop improving.

The second idea can be found when taking a step back and considering the context of this story. Kayin was cursed that he would not be able to properly work the land. So he built a city. Rav Hirsch explains that a farmer relies on the earth. He uses his skills to maximize the potential of the natural resource.

But in the city, their only source of work is man himself. Human creativity is the basis of any city. That’s why it’s called עיר, like the word להתעורר (”to awaken/stir oneself”), because man innovates and creates his own opportunities, without relying on the fields.

And finally, this project of Kayin came immediately after a multi-part crisis. His korban was rejected. He killed his brother. He was cursed by God. After all of that, he decided to build. In fact, according to some mefarshim he wasn’t even able to benefit from the city himself, since he was cursed to live on the run. That’s why he named the city for his son, because Chanoch was the one who was actually going to live in it.

Building a Man

We pointed out that the first time the root בנה (to build) is used, it is a description of Chava. We also know that when Sara thinks she can't have children, she tells Avraham to marry Hagar, אולי אבנה ממנה ("perhaps I will be built up through her"). I think the three aspects of building mentioned above are relevant to the building of a person as well.

The first was to be in a constant state of growth and development. A person must always continue to learn new things and improve his personality. The second was the ability to innovate and create opportunities. People have various forms of outside help and support at different points of their life. But there needs to be an underlying understanding of אם אין אני לי מי לי ("if I am not for myself, who will be for me?"). A person must have self-esteem which doesn't rely on outside validation, and be able to draw upon that in times of need.

And finally, building after a crisis. The Hebrew word for crisis is משבר (mashber), which also means a birthing stool. A person is born in an act of great pain. But this pain is the start of a long, great journey. We learn from this that after a crisis, we must build.

Remembering Eli Moshe

I think these three things are also true of Eli Moshe HY”D. He loved learning new things, especially when it came to building. New projects, new tools and new ideas were constantly exciting him. He was also extremely creative, always coming up with solutions to various problems. When there was no help coming in the form of outside solutions, he dug deep inside himself to figure it out.

And finally, building after crisis. Eli Moshe’s death was a tragedy. Two years ago today, our hearts were shattered. And even though the passage of time helps a bit, nobody who knew Eli Moshe, will ever be the same.

And yet Eli Moshe told us that his death was not an excuse to let ourselves falter. And after the crisis came the building. A new shul which is almost ready. A new park near Gan HaPlastic. New chessed projects. After a crisis, we build.

We stand here amongst the graves of hundreds of heroes. Each death left hundreds of broken hearts. Comrades, friends and co-workers, mothers, fathers, siblings, spouses, children. Just like Kayin, they made the sacrifice to help build something that they themselves wouldn’t benefit from. It is our responsibility to continue their legacy, to continue building.

What are we building?

A better future. A new day for this country and this nation. A new chapter in our nation’s glorious history.

Building is not easy.

It’s expensive, noisy and difficult.

But this is what we have to do.

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When reflecting on the ad, I thought back to my Yeshiva days, when I was the guy in that picture. Fast forward to today, I am not learning nearly as much as I used to. If 19-year-old Yaakov wanted to ‘talk in learning,’ I might be able to hold pace, using a combination of residual memories with some of the diversion and evasion methods honed during a period as shoel umeishiv. But honestly, I am not there anymore. My mind, my energy, my schedule are scattered. There’s no getting around that. But what about נעשה ונשמע?

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I thought about it some more, and gathered some thoughts below. Before sharing them, I want to be very clear: this is not a critique in any way, shape, or form. I owe an infinite debt of gratitude to my Yeshiva (KBY), my Rabbeim, and the ecosystem around it. The state of Torah and Yeshiva today is a tremendous blessing. But there are some side effects, and that is what I want to talk about. So here we go

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Social Media Era

It’s a shmuess that has been given thousands of times. Yeshivas, high schools, and shuls. “The social media era fills our lives with envy of other people.” The shmuess is so popular mainly because it’s true. And it’s not limited to the Torah world, although honestly, the rabanim were way ahead of the ball on this. Books, podcasts, and educational initiatives from completely secular sources are cropping up about this issue as well.

But in an ironic twist, we now have a Torah version of social media envy. Flashy advertisements, influencer campaigns, the whole deal. How did we get here?

The reason for this is very simple. Torah has become an industry. To be very clear, this is very good. The explosion of Torah institutions has created an entire ecosystem. Salaries need to be paid, new buildings need to be built, and industrial kitchens need to pump out thousands of pieces of schnitzel by the end of morning seder.

This is accomplished through fundraising events, matching campaigns, and raffles. A lot of hard work goes into funding these institutions. For the most part, this is done by sincere people who genuinely believe in the cause, and if you meet someone who chooses to fundraise and doesn’t believe in the cause, send them for help immediately. The end result is that well-meaning people are aggressively marketing their yeshivas to fund the explosion of Torah learning.

Torah Marketing

We also need to point out that Torah itself is deployed to help the fundraising succeed. There are many sources which speak of the importance of learning Torah, being fully devoted to Torah, and giving financial support to Torah. These are utilized to encourage people to support the yeshiva ecosystem.

But now let’s consider this phenomenon from the consumer’s viewpoint. What are the effects on the broader tzibbur consuming this content? What was going through my head when I saw the campaign which said נעשה ונשמע?

This goes back to the ‘social media generation.’ One aspect of the broader problem is this: the world on our screens does not accurately represent the real world. In part, this is due to fabrications, but that’s only a small part of the problem. The main issue is framing and proportion. Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky called this the availability heuristic. We assume that information which is more available is also more common. A famous example is that people assume certain deaths from accidents are more common because they generate more news coverage, as opposed to deaths by stroke or diabetes.

When it comes to Torah, we end up in a similar dynamic. The ecosystem needs to be marketed, and we end up seeing a lot about yeshivos on our screens. This is not just generic content, since it is framed, correctly, as a religious value. This makes the importance of Torah learning in Yeshiva loom large in our hearts and minds.

So what’s the problem?

Broad Life?

The problem is that there are many other religious values that don’t get the same air time. Generally, this is a challenge, that one value might be overly represented. But it’s a specific problem for guys like me.

My outlook was shaped in Yeshiva, but now I am transitioning to serving Hashem in other settings. This is challenging, since I need to develop a new hashkafa. When I was in Yeshiva, my hashkafa was built around the importance of Talmud Torah.

Now that I am working, spending time with the family, and helping at home, there isn’t nearly as much time left for Torah learning. In order to appreciate the religious value of my current stage, I need to broaden my horizons to appreciate the importance of the entire system of 613 mitzvos. I also need to gain a new appreciation for sources in Chazal that praise and promote other religious values besides Talmud Torah, like chessed. And as I work to develop this new approach, I look at my phone and see a packed Yeshiva: נעשה ונשמע.

Additionally, the way we think of limmud hatorah is also affected. The visuals of packed Batei Midrash lead us to think that this is the way Torah is meant to be learned. But what about a small chabura of balabatim learning mishnayos after shacharis? The lawyer listening to a shiur on his way in to the office? There are many other forms of learning which don’t make it on to our feed. And this lack of attention influences the way we think about its importance.

Summarizing the Challenge

So we end up with a three-pronged challenge.

1. The Torah ecosystem means there is lots of Yeshiva content on our screens.

2. This isn’t just marketing content. It’s religious ideas about the importance of learning and supporting Torah.

3. For those who were in Yeshiva but are broadening their outlook to focus on other mitzvos and other types of learning, this can be an added challenge.

Fighting Back

What can Bnei Torah in the workforce do about this situation? The same three-part framework can be engineered in the service of our goals. Before I lay out how this works, its important to note that one of the keys to thriving in the social media era is to limit its influence in the first place. It’s a massive challenge, but minimizing the amount of content we consume online is always a good idea. That has to be coupled with a concerted effort to build self confidence and self esteem, so we can live by our own values and not be overloy influenced by outside forces.

Flood the Feed

But in the end of the day, we live in the social media generation. So in addition to trying to mitigate its effects, we can also use the same strategies to strengthen the values which we believe in. Let’s return to the three-part framework we mentioned above. The first thing that is needed is to create and consume content that celebrates the life of a Ben Torah in the workforce.

Someone once asked me why I started the Shtark Tank podcast. What can I add that wasn’t already covered in Rav Aharon Lopiansky’s Ben Torah for Life? There are a few answers, but one is that the podcast format means that people are engaging with these issues regularly. Paying constant attention to this topic is part of building a long-term identity around it.

Additionally, there is so much Torah about this topic which isn’t learned enough. Just like Yeshiva marketing champions certain Torah sources, baalabatim also need to learn and appreciate the many ideas in Torah and Chazal that give importance to their lifestyle.

Hopefully, this will help us develop and live by a hashkafa that gives value to each and every day of our lives. We shouldn’t be looking in the rearview mirror to our Yeshiva days, but looking for opportunities to serve Hashem today. Donating to a Yeshiva can be part of it, but it’s certainly not your exclusive path to salvation.

There is another layer to this effort, which involves gaining a fresh understanding of what Torah is. Many of the sources used to inspire full-time Torah learning are true, powerful, and important. But some of them may also have a broader meaning. They may not only be speaking to the guy sitting in the Beit Midrash all day. They may also be speaking to the father, the employee, the husband, the neighbor, the donor, and the person trying to live a Torah life in the middle of the world.

That brings me back to the phrase that started this whole thought: נעשה ונשמע.

Balabatim at Sinai

I want to go back to the ad which I opened with. נעשה ונשמע. Why was that phrase used?

I don’t know for certain, but I am guessing that the ad I saw was alluding to the interpretation of the Beis HaLevy. Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik explained the word נשמע, which comes after נעשה, as referring to Torah that is completely lishma. Since learning practical halacha and doing all the mitzvos are covered by the first word, נעשה, that leaves us with this special value of Torah for the sake of Torah, which is implied by the word נשמע.

But this is far from the simplest explanation of that pasuk. Rashbam explains that some mitzvos were already given, and some were still to come, and the Jews accepted both, meaning we will do what we were already commanded, and also accept future commandments. The Sforno writes that we will do because we were commanded, meaning we will do the mitzvos lishma. That’s why they said they would do before saying they would listen. One could also explain that a deep understanding of a mitzvah can only be achieved after experiencing it.

All of these ideas do not assume that נעשה ונשמע is about the importance of learning Torah in a Yeshiva setting. In fact, they align much more naturally with the life of a baalabus, who is engaged in the world and is therefore involved in many more of the 613 mitzvos.

Torah Learning and Torah Living

This leads to another important point. Even sources which are used to promote the importance of learning Torah could have multiple interpretations.

In fact, the word Torah itself can often refer to one of two different things. One is a reference to the mitzvah of Talmud Torah, sitting and learning Torah. But the other is keeping the entire system, with all of its commandments, prohibitions, and values. This duality is clearly expressed in the bracha before Krias Shema, where we daven for the ability “to listen, to learn, to teach, to guard, to do and to uphold all of the words of your Torah with love.” The first three verbs are about the mitzvah of learning Torah. The second three are about living a life according to the Torah.

There are many ideas in Chazal about the importance of Torah. But it’s not always so clear if it’s referring to limmud haTorah or living a Torah life in the broader sense. Many people sitting in the Beit Midrash are told that they are holding up the world with their learning. This is based on a number of sources. The Mishna in Avos says that Torah is one of the things that the world stands on. The Gemara in Pesachim, based on a pasuk in Yeshayahu, says that God would not have created the world if not for the covenant of laws which are studied day and night.

Yet these ideas can also be understood to be about living a life according to Torah laws and values. For example, the Machzor Vitri on the second Mishna of Avos connects that Mishna, the world stands on Torah, the Gemara in Pesachim mentioned above, and a Gemara in Shabbos. The Gemara learns from an extra letter in Bereishis that the world was created on condition that the Jews accept the Torah at Sinai.

One Nation Under the Mountain

What happened at Sinai? The entire nation was standing at the foot of the mountain, and said נעשה ונשמע. This included all twelve tribes, men, women, young and old. The Torah was given to the entire nation, and the 613 mitzvos were given to infuse everyone’s life with spirituality and meaning.

This outlook is diametrically opposed to an idea which I heard in Yeshiva. The Gemara at the end of Makkos says that God wanted to give us extra benefits, so He gave us lots of Torah and mitzvos. And many mefarshim ask: doesn’t extra mitzvos mean extra chances to sin? Furthermore, the pasuk that is quoted to support this claim says that God “makes Torah great and glorious,” but fails to mention mitzvos. Rav David Kav zt”l, one of the senior Ramim in KBY, used to say that we have the mitzvah of matzah and chametz in order to learn the sugyas in Pesachim. That is why the extra mitzvos create more opportunities, and it’s also why the pasuk only says Torah and not mitzvos.

I think this is a fascinating idea, and great for Bnei Torah, but the simple pshat is way more balabatish. Putting aside the questions, and there are answers out there, the simplest understanding of the Torah is that the mitzvos lead to spiritual lives engaged with the world. And the Torah is meant to teach us how to act in various situations. That is why we learn al menas laasos.

There are times of our lives when we are meant to focus on learning, mainly when we are younger. There are also certain individuals who should be devoted to learning their entire life. But if we are talking about Har Sinai, with the entire nation present, we must remember that נעשה ונשמע is an acceptance of all 613.

Conslusion

These ideas are only the tip of the iceberg.

Torah is bigger than any one stage of life. It is bigger than the Beit Midrash, even though the Beit Midrash is one of its holiest expressions. Torah was given to an entire nation, with twelve shevatim, different roles, different paths, and one shared mission: to bring Hashem into every part of life.

Some people are meant to spend their lives in the Beit Midrash. All of us need years, hours, and moments where Torah learning is at the center. But for most of us, that time period is limited. Afterwards we need to broaden our horizons, and gain a fresh perspective on Avodas Hashem.

To work like a Ben Torah. To parent like a Ben Torah. To give like a Ben Torah. To speak, build, struggle, earn, spend, rest, and live like a Ben Torah.

That is the journey I hope we are all on. Not away from Torah, but deeper into it. Not only learning Torah, but letting Torah teach us how to live.

נעשה ונשמע was not only a commitment to learn Torah. It was a commitment to live it.

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I have to admit that I’ve never really got the question. I mean, for starters the mitzvah is called sefiras ha’omer, not sefiras matan Torah. The mitzvah, at its core, doesn’t really have anything to do with Matan Torah. We simply bring a specific korban, count a number of days, and then at the end we have Shavuos which for the bnei eretz Yisrael doesn’t even fall on the day that Matan Torah occurred on. But there’s more to my not getting it than that.

Let me explain.

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Many years ago now I was sitting in a hospital room in what is still colloquially called Crumpsall Hospital (because NMGH just sounds a bit corporate really), whilst a team of midwives and doctors tried desperately to keep my wife pregnant for a few more weeks. When, after a day or so, they realised that they couldn’t, and that we would have to be transferred to a hospital equipped with a NICU that would be able to care for a baby born before 30 weeks and under 1kg I started, quite naturally, to get quite scared.

As one does in these kinds of situations, I took immediate action – I sat in the corner and had a panic attack.

After that, I rang R’ Gershon Miller to seek his sage advice. “I talk a good Emunah and bitachon game,” I remember telling him, “but push comes to shove and suddenly here I am completely unable to cope. What do I do?”.

His advice honestly (and believe me this is not exaggeration for dramatic effect) changed my life. He told me this: “When you wake up in the morning, focus on today. Focus on what is here, now. Use the energy that HKBH has given you today for today. And then tomorrow, do the same again.”

And this is why I don’t understand the sefiras ha’omer question. Imagine if it was a countdown, what would we be thinking each night?

On second night pesach - “49 days to go, that’s ages away. I’ve got plenty of time”.

A week or so later - “38 days to go, ach that’s loads of time”.

24 days - “oh yeah, that’s still over 3 weeks to go, no stress”.

13 days - “ok, it’s getting closer but there’s still almost 2 weeks, don’t sweat it!”.

9 days.

6 days.

3 days - “oh no! shavuos is almost here, help!”

1 day “where did all the time go?!”

But with a count up, now what?

“Day 1! What can we do with it?”

Day 15 - “what can I get out of today?”

Day 26 - “another gift of a day, let’s make the best use of it!”

Day 38 – “wow, look how far I’ve come! How can I improve today?”

By counting up, we count each day for itself and not as something to get past on the way to a destination far away in time. R’ Asher Weiss points out that the words “us’fartem lachem” could also vocalised as “v’sapir tam lachem” – “(and) a pure sapphire for you”. Each day is its own precious jewel; it is a flawless gem. It is yours to polish and shine to perfection; you count it for itself and in addition to the jewels you have already gained.

And if that sounds like a chasidishe vort to you, nu, sue me. Even I can do a chasidishe vort every now and then. But the point remains this: when Dovid Hamelech asks HKBH “lim’nos yomeinu kein hodah, v’navi l’vav chochmah” – “teach us to count our days, so that it will bring us a heart of wisdom” that’s not a chasidishe vort - that’s the power of seizing the day.

Post Script

We made that little baby’s bat mitzvah just before Pesach BH. And her speech was about מודה אני and living each day with gratitude. Which she wrote herself and without ever seeing this dvar Torah or hearing the story of my phone call. Not sure if HKB”H was giving her some kind of inspiration or she’s just picked up on the values we try to live by.

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Bnei Brak, Summer of 2014

In the summer of 2014, I spent a Shabbos in Bnei Brak. I was in my first year of Hesder at Kerem B’Yavneh, and I tagged along with the bnei chutz la’aretz for that Shabbaton. At one of the meals, a local Rav was invited to share Divrei Torah. He spoke about the centrality of Talmud Torah, encouraging everyone to make the most of their years in the Beit Midrash. He looked around the room, filled with sincere guys between the ages of 18 and 20, and said: “These years, when you are exclusively focused and completely dedicated to your learning, this is the climax of your life!”

The Rav from Bnei Brak finished up, said good Shabbos, returned to his home, and the seudah continued. Later in the seudah, one of the KBY rabbis got up to speak. He said that he respectfully disagreed with the guest speaker. A person is constantly supposed to be growing, and it would be a terrible shame if the rest of our lives were to become one long regression from our yeshiva peak.

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This episode left a deep impact on me. I was torn because I could identify with both sides. On the one hand, for someone like me who fell in love with learning, there is nothing that compares to those days, nights and weekends of uninterrupted learning. On the other hand, it certainly doesn’t make sense that the climax of our life could come so early.

In retrospect, this incident is one of the defining moments that led me to start Shtark Tank. When the time came for me to leave yeshiva (it took a decade), the voices of these two rabbis wouldn’t leave my head. Shtark Tank is my quest to gain some level of clarity on this, and other big questions for Bnei Torah who have left Yeshiva to pursue a career

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Through my conversations on the podcast, as well as my own learning and writing, I have developed a few possible approaches to that machlokes in Bnei Brak. In this post, I will share a number of ideas that connect to one larger theme. And it starts with one of my favorite ideas related to Matan Torah.

Torah as a Way of Life

One of the reasons for the custom of staying up all night on Shavuos is a strange Midrash. The Midrash says that Moshe had to wake up the Jewish people to receive the Torah. This is puzzling. With hundreds of thousands of Jewish weddings taking place every year, it would be shocking if even one or two brides needed a wakeup call on their special day. With such buzz and excitement, the problem is usually the opposite: not being able to sleep. So how could it be that on a historic day of revelation, the entire nation slept in?

Rav Shimon Schwab explains that Moshe Rabbeinu was not serving as an alarm clock. Rather, he came to correct a fundamental mistake the Jews had made. Rav Schwab explains that when Moshe told the Jews they were going to hear directly from God, they assumed this meant prophecy. And the way prophecy is received is when the prophet is not conscious. So the entire nation got into their pajamas, said hamapil, and went to sleep. But this was a mistake. Torah is not the same as nevuah, and Torah cannot be learned while sleeping (although many attendees of shiurim and drashos may beg to differ).

This is not just a technical difference in the way Dvar Hashem is transmitted. Rather, it reflects a fundamental understanding of what Torah is all about. Torah is not just a book we learn, but a way of life. The fact that we were awake when receiving the Torah is an indicator that Torah is not meant to draw us away from the realities of day-to-day life.

This dynamic is precious. Many religions believe that the only way to live a spiritual existence in this material world is to withdraw as much as possible. Torah offers an entirely different framework, where our lives on this earth are filled with meaning and connection to Hashem.

Consistency of Change

If Torah is a way of life, there is something about this world that is quite obvious, but needs to be stated. The only thing that is consistent is change. Technology is one clear example of how dynamic our world is. But there are many other ways we see this. The weather was cold a few weeks ago, and in a few weeks it will be hot. Our physical bodies are also changing, so much so that my children and I need to see different doctors.

So if Torah is a way of life, and life is dynamic, then our relationship with Torah must also be dynamic. I worded that last line carefully. One of the Rambam’s 13 principles is that the Torah does not change. But the Torah is structured in a way where we have constant values, with very different expressions of how those values look from day to day. (This is also how Torah has survived thousands of years and various exiles on different continents.)

Chapters of a Book

Now let us return to the story in Bnei Brak. Based on the framework above, I prefer to think of the transitions of life like a book with multiple chapters. Each chapter has three defining features. First, each section shapes the hero, making him into a bigger, better person. Second, each chapter is unique, with its own themes and subplots. Third, and most importantly, each chapter is loaded with opportunities to fulfill our mission on this earth and grow closer to Hashem.

This is where I disagree with both of the rabbis in Bnei Brak. They were both placing our entire lives on one linear chart. I think that life is too complex and nuanced for such a framework. Thinking of different life stages as chapters in a book allows us to appreciate different periods on their own terms, while keeping in mind the bigger picture and overarching themes of our entire life.

Opportunities of the Working Chapter

This brings me to another question which has been a central theme of Shtark Tank. What are the opportunities for Torah living while also growing your career? The challenges are clear. We are so busy with seemingly mundane activities that between work and family we have very little time and energy left for Torah, tefilla, and other spiritual pursuits. So how do we flip the script and find opportunities to serve Hashem during this part of our life?

Even though at first glance the question seems daunting, the truth is that there are golden opportunities everywhere. I will lay out just a few in the coming sections.

Shabbos

Shabbos is one of the staples of our religion. Most of the people reading this have experienced Shabbos once every seven days for their entire life. And yet, our relationship with Shabbos takes on new dimensions when we start to work for a living. What does it mean to “do your work for six days and the seventh is for God”? What does it mean to “remember” Shabbos every day of the week? How do we understand the difference between kodesh and chol, and why do we add to the kodesh from the chol (mosifim mechol al hakodesh)? What is menucha, and does it align with the Western notion of rest and relaxation? What is Havdalah, and why is one who makes Havdalah promised male children?

These are just a few questions that one can gain a new perspective on. Sure, when we put away our notebooks and get dressed up for Shabbos in yeshiva, it’s a special experience. But there is a unique opportunity to appreciate Shabbos and connect to its values when we arrive after six days of hard work.

Kiddush Hashem

The second mitzvah and value with great potential in the working world is Kiddush Hashem. In yeshiva, this is expressed through nice behavior on a bein hazmanim tiyul. At work, it’s all day, every day. There are non-Jews, secular Jews, and other types of Jews. The volume of interactions is immense. And the situations can be infinitely complex. There can be various stakeholders in any given situation, all with different goals and expectations. On top of that, money, sometimes big money, is on the line. Making a kiddush Hashem in these situations can be very challenging, but there is a corresponding reward. God knows our challenges and judges us accordingly, and the people around us usually appreciate the character expressed under adverse conditions.

Yishuv HaOlam

Another mitzvah uniquely accessible to professionals is Yishuv HaOlam. One of the reasons a gambler cannot be a witness is that he is not a productive contribution to society. The Rambam (Peirush Hamishna, Sanhedrin 3:3) says that all worthwhile pursuits in this world fall into one of two categories: learning Torah and spirituality, and Yishuv HaOlam. The Kolbo (Siman 60) writes that one is not supposed to work on Chol HaMoed in order to do more learning. But if he is taking off to do trips and activities, it would be better for him to work and be productive.

Is there a source in the Written Torah for this value? I think it is rooted in the mitzvah of peru u’revu. Our responsibility is not just to populate the world with more humans, but also to create the world that will allow them to thrive. Developing the economy is critical for the wellbeing of our children and future generations. (See also Rashi Yevamos 62a)

In the modern economy it can be hard to feel satisfied at work. There are a number of reasons for this. Being one individual at a large corporation can make an employee feel small. Working in a B2B space where it is hard to see the effect of your work on real people is also a challenge. But the fundamental equation has been true from the time of Adam until today. Contributing to the economy is part of what keeps the world going, for us, our children, and generations to come.

Talmud Torah Opportunities

The section above presented just a few of the mitzvos and Torah values which can be embraced and fully appreciated during the working chapter of our life. But what about Talmud Torah? It is certainly one of the central mitzvos, and yet it can seem daunting to grow in our learning when we are so busy with work and family.

Here too, I think it is important to look for unique opportunities. Maybe this deserves a full post, but for now I will briefly point out a few ways a person’s learning can be significantly improved.

The first is that learning as a baal habayis forces you to find a deep personal connection and true satisfaction in your learning. Otherwise, it’s just not going to work. Another aspect is learning with your children and paying their tuition. This is one of the most important aspects of Talmud Torah, since this is what the pasuk actually instructs us to do.

And finally, there are many parts of Torah pertaining to work, business, and other professional fields which can be understood a lot better while working. For example, there is a disagreement amongst business leaders about the importance of loving your work. Steve Jobs was a major proponent of finding meaning, purpose, and passion in your job. Scott Galloway says to make money doing what you’re good at, and do what you love on the weekends. What does the Torah have to say about this?

There are actually a number of sources that point in different directions. One Mishna in Avot says to love your work. A different Mishna says to minimize your work as much as possible. These mishnayos seem to echo the same debate we see amongst modern business leaders. (Will hopefully dive in to this more in a future post.)

Afterword

That Shabbos seudah in Bnei Brak led me on a journey which is still ongoing. I am still trying to find my place in life after leaving yeshiva nearly two years ago. My years in the Beit Midrash shaped my worldview, but I think it’s important to treat that foundation as a starting point, not a finished product. Yeshiva guys are young, and it’s easy to get excited about simple ideas. These simple ideas resonate in the sheltered atmosphere of the Beit Midrash. But life afterwards is not so clear-cut, and nuanced frameworks can be helpful in understanding how to serve Hashem at each stage.

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Rav Mayer Twersky addressed this issue in a recent shiur. I wanted to share his important perspective (not that he needs my haskamah) and possibly add a thought or two of my own.

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(There are many other aspects to this question, some of which we have covered in other podcast episodes)

Rav Twersky is a master wordsmith, and he opened his shiur as follows (transcipt via Sofer.ai, with some light edits for clarity):

It’s a truism that in contemporary times we live surrounded by an immoral society, which is in many respects inimical to our faith and mesora, thereby posing a threat to the Torah worldview and way of life. The challenge posed by that reality is exponentially compounded by the militancy of that immorality.

He then raises the question: to what extent does this reality demand that we withdraw from the world to avoid nisyonos? It’s a major question, and the answer clearly depends on the specifics. Rav Twersky offers two examples of the tension between exposure and insularity

.

The first concerns accepting into schools children who might be more exposed to the outside world, particularly children of baalei teshuva. The second is the one we’re focusing on here.

…Undoubtedly at all seasons, but especially in the spring and summer, the amount of pritzus that exists, say in Manhattan, is staggering. So maybe what that warrants is a policy that even for parnassah purposes, a person is not allowed to enter that borough, or south of Washington Heights, at any rate.

Rav Twersky goes on to say that total withdrawal is clearly not tenable in either situation. Why not? Let’s focus on his reasoning regarding the tznius and work dilemma.

Chazal caution us: לעולם אל יביא אדם עצמו לידי נסיון. So the answer is that we need to differentiate between types of nisyonos:

Yeish veyeish. On one hand, לעולם אל יביא אדם עצמו לידי נסיון. On the other hand, the Ramchal writes at the beginning of Mesillas Yesharim that all of life (in addition to being a continuous series of bracha and opportunity), is also a continuous series of nisyonos and challenges. When Chazal caution us against nisyonos, against placing ourselves in a position where we must confront and navigate a nisayon, they are referring to a self-imposed nisayon.

That is what happened with Dovid HaMelech, who wanted the Shemoneh Esrei to include Elokei Dovid. Hakadosh Baruch Hu told him: you haven’t earned it. So Dovid HaMelech said: give me a nisayon, give me the chance to earn it. And that was his mistake, inviting a self-imposed nisayon. A self-imposed nisayon is something a person should never seek out.

Rav Twersky then defines the kind of nisayon that should not be avoided:

A person is never supposed to gratuitously impose a nisayon on himself. But nisyonos constitute the very fabric of life, and all of life is a continuum of nisyonos. And what happens when a person, or a society, or a community, tries to avoid a nisayon that isn’t gratuitous, that isn’t self-imposed, but is woven into the very fabric of life? Inevitably, in avoiding that nisayon, one will short-change, or be insensitive to, or oblivious to, the other nisyonos he is supposed to be confronting.

Rav Twersky’s goes on to explain that avoiding this nisayon can run you straight into another set of nisyonos. Poverty is a massive nisayon. Working in a job that requires dishonesty is also extremely difficult, as the temptation of gezel is notorious. We have to be aware of when avoiding one nisayon creates another.

Here is where I want to add two points to Rav Twersky’s penetrating and nuanced analysis.

First: part of what makes this a “normal” nisayon is simply that no one consciously chose it. It emerged because everyone followed the same path. That’s how communal defaults form. No single person decided that the whole community should be working in corporate Manhattan. It became the norm because that’s what everyone around them was doing, and so it became what everyone around them kept doing.

This is not the only possible way to work in 2026. For example, there are chassidic communities where people work in something closer to blue-collar trades, like HVAC and construction, with far less mixed-gender interaction. The circumstances that make that model possible are certainly different: tighter income expectations, concentrated community employment networks, different social structures. It’s not easily replicable for every Ben Torah.

But the fact that an alternative exists at all should prompt the question: is there another path? Are the nisyonos that come with working in downtown of a major city really inevitable? Is it possible to shift communal norms towards other profesions, and even if so, is it a good idea?

Second: even on an individual level, it’s important to keep an open mind. Sometimes there are opportunities that allow for a significant increase in kedusha without the nisyonos that accompany financial insecurity or professional dishonesty. A boutique family law firm, for example, smaller, less cutthroat, with a more controlled client base and work environment, can look very different from a large corporate firm, while still offering stable, honest parnassah. We live in a tight-knit community, but that doesn’t relieve any individual of the obligation to think independently and find the right path for himself.

Our work is a major part of our lives. We should make thoughtful decisions about where we spend those hours, and choose environments that align as closely as possible with our values.

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We live in a generation where people are always busy. Homes are full, schedules are demanding, and minds are occupied — and yet many feel an inner distance that is hard to define. A home can function, yet lack warmth. Chinuch can be intense, yet not always uplifting. Even avodas Hashem itself can be careful and correct, yet not fully alive, bereft of joy and rigor.

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Chazal taught that our task is not only to know what is right, but to refine our characters, to continually strive to become better people and to improve our behavior. This lifelong avodah is called tikkun hamiddos — and in the language of pnimiyus haTorah, it is expressed through the Sefiros: Chessed, Gevurah, Tiferes, Netzach, Hod, Yesod, and Malchus

.

This sefer was written to help bring the Sefiros closer. The intention is not, Heaven forbid, to simplify Torah — but to bring it down into a form that can be lived.

[From the Preface]

Day 13: Yesod She’b’Gevurah — The Strength to Rebuild

Gevurah is inner strength, discipline, boundaries, and restraint. Yesod is a foundation, the process of transmission, of building something that lasts.

Yesod she’b’Gevurah is the courage to take pain, loss, or disappointment — and build from it a new foundation for the future. It is the strength to rebuild rather than to despair, to shape the future instead of avoiding it.

This is the middah that drives a person who, after circumstances destroy his plans for his life, decides to get up and build something even better than he had planned.

This is one of the most heroic middos in the Torah.

Rabbi Akiva, Rav Aharon, and the Rebbe

Rabbi Akiva built one of the greatest Torah institutions in history, with a student body of 24,000 talmidim. Tragically, in just several weeks, they all perished. The entire Torah world seemed to collapse.

Most people in Rabbi Akiva’s situation would have been shattered and unable to move on. But Rabbi Akiva, with remarkable Gevurah, began anew with five students — Rabbi Meir, Rabbi Yehudah, Rabbi Yosi, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, and Rabbi Elazar ben Shamua. And these five young scholars rebuilt the mesorah of the Oral Torah, תורה שבעל פה.

This is Yesod she’b’Gevurah — the strength to build a new foundation after total devastation.

Fast forward approximately 1,850 years — and we encounter a new Rabbi Akiva, in the form of Rav Aharon Kotler, the founder of Beth Medrash Govoha of Lakewood.

At the beginning of the Holocaust, in 1940, Rav Aharon Kotler arrived in America, shattered. His yeshivah was gone. His talmidim were murdered. His life’s work was utterly destroyed.

America was a spiritual desert, with few yeshivos, and with few willing to support intensive Torah learning. But like Rabbi Akiva, Rav Aharon found five young men to take as his talmidim. He brought them into a tiny room in Lakewood and declared, “We are going to rebuild Torah in America.”

He had no building, no funding — only Gevurah and a vision. Today, the yeshivah he founded and led has more than 10,000 talmidim and has transformed the entire Torah landscape of the Western world.

This is Yesod she’b’Gevurah — the strength to create a foundation, to build a permanent structure.

Another inspiring 20th-century example of Yesod she’b’Gevurah is the Klausenburger Rebbe, who lost his wife and eleven children in the Holocaust. His entire world was destroyed.

And yet, survivors would recall him saying in the displaced persons camps: “If I have lost everything — then from that place, I will begin again.”

He built chadarim in those camps, and he rebuilt his chassidus in America and Israel.

But then he created something truly astonishing — Laniado Hospital in Netanya. Having seen so many people — including loved ones, friends, and young children — die in the concentration camps of typhus and other diseases that could have been prevented through proper medical care, he decided to build in their memory a state-of-the-art hospital that would care for the ill.

A man who lost every member of his own family built a hospital so that other families would not have to grieve.

That is Yesod she’b’Gevurah in its purest form — the courage to build institutions of life from the ashes of death.

This is not emotional strength. Not motivational strength. Not loud, dramatic strength. It is the quiet, stubborn, disciplined strength that says: “The world broke down — but I won’t”; “My plans died — but my mission didn’t. I’ll start again, with five students or five boys or one brick — and I will build the future.”

This is Yesod she’b’Gevurah. It built Torah after Rabbi Akiva’s yeshivah was destroyed. It built Torah again after the Holocaust. And it can rebuild our lives today.

The Rough Kid That Secured the Final Vote

Yesod she’b’Gevurah also refers to the unique strength generated through a close bond.

Strength without connection is just force. Force breaks things. It intimidates, it overpowers, it silences. But it rarely changes minds. And it almost never changes hearts.

Yesod is the quality of deep bonding — the soul-to-soul connection that creates a channel between two people. When Yesod enters Gevurah, something remarkable happens — strength finds its address. It knows where to go, who to reach, how to land.

Yesod she’b’Gevurah is the power of the relationship as the instrument of decisive action.

In 1947, the Jewish People were one vote away from statehood — and one vote away from losing it.

The United Nations was deliberating the partition of Palestine. China, one of the five members of the UN Security Council, had veto power, and was preparing to vote against. Every Zionist diplomat had sought a meeting with China’s representative, General Wu Tieching, but every door was closed. These diplomats had sound arguments. They had data to back them up. They had moral clarity and historical urgency. They had everything — except a relationship.

But then someone remembered Morris Cohen.

Many years earlier, a young Jewish street kid in Canada — Morris “Two-Gun” Cohen — was sitting in a café. He wasn’t a tzaddik. In fact, he was a pretty rough kid.

Suddenly, he saw an old Chinese man being beaten.

Most people in this situation — even good people — would hesitate. They would ask themselves: “Is it my business? Is it safe?”

But Cohen didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even think. He rushed to the scene and fought off the bullies, saving the Chinese fellow. A moment of true Chessed.

The man gratefully bowed to Morris and left.

The story doesn’t end there. That one act created a bond.

Years later, Cohen discovered that the man he saved was none other than Sun Yat-sen, the father of modern China — and Cohen became his bodyguard and trusted aide. Decades later, Cohen became a Major General in the Chinese National Revolutionary Army. He served alongside Wu Tieching for years, and was even the one who appointed Wu as a general, shaping his career.

Cohen didn’t arrive at the UN with a briefcase full of arguments. He arrived with a bond.

He walked into Wu Tieching’s room not as a lobbyist, not as a supplicant, not as an adversary to be outmaneuvered. He walked in as the man who had stood beside Wu when it mattered. He sat across from his old friend and placed on the table a letter from Sun Yat-sen — the father of their shared cause — expressing support for a Jewish homeland.

No speech. No pressure. Just: “You know who I am. You know who he was. Read this.”

Wu Tieching read it.

China abstained. The vote passed. Israel was born.

This is Yesod she’b’Gevurah.

The Zionist diplomats had Gevurah — conviction, urgency, the courage of a people fighting for survival. What they lacked was Yesod — the relational channel through which that strength could actually flow. Cohen had made such a connection, and so he could walk through a door that was closed to everyone else.

He didn’t overpower Wu. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t argue policy or international law. He activated something deeper — memory, loyalty, the weight of shared history between two men who had stood together. That bond was the power.

There is a lesson here that cuts against everything our culture tells us about how change happens.

We are trained to believe that strength means having the better argument. The sharper data. The louder voice. The more aggressive posture.

But the most decisive moments in history — the ones that actually made a difference — often turned on a relationship. On someone being able to walk into a room and say, without words: “I know you, and you know me. And that means something.”

Yesod she’b’Gevurah asks you to build those bonds before you need them. Not instrumentally — not collecting people like assets — but genuinely. Showing up. Taking interest. Standing in the difficult moments together.

Because the day may come when every door is closed and the only key is a human being who trusts you.

What About You?

Today, choose one place where life disappointed you, hurt you, or ruined your plan — and begin again.

• Start learning again.

• Start giving again.

• Start reaching out again.

• Start building again.

It doesn’t have to be big.

Five minutes.

Five dollars.

Five people.

Even one small step.

Because sometimes, the future of the Jewish People begins with just one small, heroic step.

Click Here to order your copy of 49 Gates.

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War. Kids at home. Pesach cleaning. Work deadlines. The kind of month where you look up on a Friday afternoon and genuinely can’t account for where the last six days went.

And yet, this mega-episode happened.

That’s the thing about Shtark Tank. It’s a real time commitment. It asks a lot. But it gives back more than it takes. There’s something about sitting down to work on it — to think about Torah, to hear how other Bnei Torah are wrestling with the same texts and the same questions — that fires me up in a way almost nothing else does.

So even in the chaos, we built something special.

What This Episode Is

This is the Shtark Tank Pesach Mega-Episode: over two hours of divrei Torah for Yom Tov, from a group of Bnei Torah who are also deeply embedded in professional life — real estate, finance, therapy, venture capital, medicine, and more.

Eight contributors. Eight different angles into Pesach. Each one bringing something real.

Here’s what’s inside:

• Rav Yakov Danishefsky — Writing Your Own Story

• Rav Jonathan Livi — The Revolution of Freedom

• Rav Max Berger — Matzah and Authenticity

• Zak Lenik — Freedom or Slavery?

• Mark Tobin — The Holiday of Emunah

• Dr. Mordy Goldenberg — Late Night Vision

• Yoel Van Messel — Understanding Our Goals

• Yaakov Wolff (me) — a conversation originally recorded for The Greatest Parashah Podcast with Raymond Ashkenazie and Emma Dayan

Why This Community

One of the things I’ve always believed about Shtark Tank is that Bnei Torah in the workforce have a particular relationship with Torah. We know what it means to feel pulled between two worlds. And we’re toilinng to figure out what it looks like to live with real avodas Hashem while also building a career, a family, a life.

A Few Thank Yous

To everyone who contributed their time and Torah to this episode — Yakov, Jonathan, Zak, Max, Mark, Joel, Mordy — thank you. I’m grateful that you made time in your busy schedules for this.

To Raymond Ashkenazie and Emma Dayan for generously allowing me to use the recording from The Greatest Parashah Podcast — your show is a gift to the community.

To Shlomo Price for the extra editing help — it made a real difference.

Wishing you and your families a Chag Kasher V’Sameach. May this Pesach bring real clarity, real joy, and — after everything this year has held — real geulah.

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Shtark Tank is a podcast forBnei Torah in the workforce. New episodes drop every Monday. Subscribe to this Substack to get episode updates and exclusive written content.

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The episode has already gotten great feedback, here is a taste.

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Growing Up in a Rabbi’s Home

Yaakov:
You grew up in a rabbinic home. You’re a rabbi’s son. Tell us a little bit about what that was like.

Dov:
Sure. I grew up in Teaneck, New Jersey. My father was Rabbi Yosef Adler, z”l, who was niftar this past September.

Overall, I had a very positive upbringing. I had a brother and two sisters, and my parents never forced anything on us. I think that was really the mantra of the home. And although, understandably, a rabbi is busy day and night, I can tell you it was very different from what I see nowadays, because there were no phones.

I always went to shul with my father, even when I was five or six years old. I sat right next to him in the front, stayed for his derashos and shiurim, whatever I could understand and whatever I couldn’t. To me, it was something I was always proud of.

Of course, there were challenges too. We only took two vacations. I tell my kids this all the time. We went to Eretz Yisrael once when I was a kid, and we went to Orlando once. Every other winter break, we stayed home. Sometimes we’d go to his school, and that was some of the fun. So yes, you can imagine there were financial limitations, but we never felt like we were missing out. We never felt like we didn’t have what we needed.

Did You Ever Want to Become a Rabbi?

Yaakov:
You grew up in a rabbi’s home. Did you ever consider following in your father’s footsteps?

Dov:
Yes—I actually did.

I love teaching. Even as a young adult, maybe twenty or twenty-one, when my father would go away, he would let me give the derashah in Rinat on Shabbos. The first time I did it, I was really nervous. Four hundred families, a lot of talmidei chachamim, a high level of learning in the shul—you have to prepare well.

I would go over what I wanted to say with him in advance, and I realized that this was something I liked and could do.

But I also saw the life of rabbanus: constant busyness, every minute of the day, without the financial reward. I wanted a different kind of balance. So I thought seriously about it, and my father actually set me up with members of the shul to talk about finance, accounting, and different professions.

Two things I knew I did not want to do: I did not want to be a doctor, and I did not want to be a lawyer. After that, the world was more open. I chose accounting because it felt more stable. Every job has ups and downs and busy seasons, but it felt reliable. And I realized I could still be fulfilled in other ways—community involvement, serious learning, and teaching—while building a career.

Entering the Workforce as a Frum Accountant

Yaakov:
Let’s talk about work. What was it like starting out as a young frum guy in the accounting world? What shocks did you encounter?

Dov:
I graduated from YU in 1997 and started at Coopers & Lybrand, before the merger that created PwC. I started as an associate in capital markets, working with financial services clients and then developing an asset management and hedge fund practice.

The first big decision I had to make was whether to wear a kippah. In the late 90s, most people did not. When I got there, nobody was wearing one. Another friend and I talked about it, and I discussed it with my father and understood the halachic issues. At the end of the day, I felt more uncomfortable not wearing it than wearing it.

And I felt it would be a good heker for myself going into the workforce—knowing who I am, representing Torah, representing Hashem. So I wore it.

It definitely had an impact. People looked at you differently. Even if they knew you were Jewish, when you’re wearing a kippah in a conference room with fifteen people and you’re the only one, it’s noticeable.

As I became a manager, I wondered: will this affect whether I make partner? I didn’t think so, but you never know. Baruch Hashem, PwC has been a very diverse environment. I made partner in 2008 and was one of the first partners there to wear a kippah. That made me very proud.

Now, looking back twenty years later, PwC is full of people from Brooklyn, Lakewood, Teaneck, the Five Towns—all over—wearing kippot. I’m proud we helped start that

Work-Life Balance, Busy Seasons, and Torah Learning

Yaakov:
How do you think about work-life balance, especially when work gets overwhelming?

Dov:
One of my early mentors said something I’ve never forgotten: work-life balance is measured on an annual basis, not a daily basis. Sometimes it’s monthly. Sometimes it’s over a three-month period.

When I was twenty-four, I was working from eight or nine in the morning until two in the morning, every day, every February and March. That wasn’t changing. I still tried to squeeze learning in here and there. But could I maintain a regular seder with a chavrusa? Not always. This was before Zoom, before remote learning. If it wasn’t in person, it wasn’t happening.

So during those stretches, some things had to give. But then you have to make sure you pick it back up. When life opens up again, you have to use that time properly.

Rav Neuberger speaks about this a lot: when you do have free time, what do you do with it? If you use that time for learning, it shows where your heart really is. And if your heart is there, then HaKadosh Baruch Hu treats the busy periods differently too.

Loving the Work You Hate

Yaakov:
You once said something fascinating: you hate auditing, but you love your job. Can you unpack that? And more broadly, how should people think about choosing a career?

Dov:
The first thing is to establish your goals. What do you want from your career, both short-term and long-term? And what is your attitude?

When I started working, I was twenty-one, newly married, and I had to pay bills. My number one question was: will this job let me support a family and live with some level of menuchas hanefesh? That was the starting point.

Today, I think we sometimes err too far in the direction of, “If I’m not fulfilled, I’m not doing it.” Of course a job should have some fulfillment. But we all know what the obviously fulfilling jobs are—doctor, rebbe, rav, therapist, and so on. What I try to do is find fulfillment even in a job that doesn’t seem fulfilling on the surface.

I’m an audit partner at PwC, and I say this all the time: I don’t like auditing. I actually hate auditing itself. The technical work, the checking, the opinions—I don’t love that. But what I do love is teaching, mentoring, reflecting, business development, getting new clients, building relationships.

Those are the same skills I enjoy in teaching Torah.

So I tell people: don’t only look for fulfillment in the title of the job. Sometimes you bring the fulfillment into the role through mentoring, helping others, building, teaching, referring people, giving back. At the same time, you have to be realistic. Life is expensive. You need to weigh passion against the actual needs of your family.

Building a Learning Life That Lasts

Yaakov:
Looking back, what helped you maintain Torah learning through the ups and downs of work and life?

Dov:
Consistency. And specifically: having a chavrusa.

You need someone who holds you accountable. Morning or night, you need a fixed relationship with someone. I used to try to learn early in the morning, but that wasn’t always for me. I missed too often. What really anchored me was a night seder.

When you have a chavrusa, your day gets planned around learning. Even today, with Zoom and FaceTime, it’s easier than ever. In earlier years, if you weren’t there in person, that was it.

I also believe a person should have two sedarim: a formal one and an “on-the-go” one. Have a pocket Mishnah. Have something small you can learn while waiting around. People joke about a “shalom bayis seder”—when your wife is getting ready for a simchah, learn another Mishnah.

And as your career progresses, you may get more time back. As kids get older, you may get more time back. Right now, one of the greatest things in my life is that I am my son’s night seder at YU.

At first I wasn’t sure that was the right choice. Maybe he should learn with someone his own age. But Rav Neuberger told me, “If your son is asking you to be his night seder, and you can do it most of the time, grab the opportunity.” So I did.

That’s a tremendous gift.

Don’t Be Afraid to Bribe Your Kids

Yaakov:
You told me once the story of how that learning relationship with your son began. Can you share it here?

Dov:
This is a great story. My son will kill me for telling it, but I’ve already said it publicly enough times.

He was a senior at TABC and, to put it mildly, not so into learning. Great kid, good boy, hockey player—but not so into learning. Around that time he told me, “Abba, I’d love a car as a senior.”

My lease was coming up, and I realized I had an opportunity to bribe him. I grew up in a house where my father was a big briber. For me, it was baseball cards. Come to shul Sunday morning, get two packs of baseball cards. That worked.

So I told my son: if you learn an hour a week with me for the entire year and finish Maseches Taanis, I’ll extend the lease on my car for a year and give it to you.

He thought seriously about it, because he’s a man of his word. Then he said yes. We learned the whole year, finished the masechta, and made a siyum. At the siyum he said, “I started learning for the car. But halfway through, I don’t know when it changed—I just realized I love learning with you.”

That changed everything.

The next summer he went to NCSY Kollel. For the first two weeks in Israel I learned with him in the mornings. Then I came back to America, and he no longer had a chavrusa for the rest of the program. So for three weeks, I went to sleep at eight or nine at night, woke up at one in the morning, and learned with him from two to four a.m. every day. We finished the eighth perek of Bava Metzia.

People told me I was crazy, that I was a legend. But I’m not saying it to praise myself. I’m saying: when kids see that you value learning enough to do crazy things for it, it makes a deep impact.

And yes—don’t be afraid to bribe your kids.

Parenting Without Forcing

Yaakov:
That connects to something bigger. How do you think about being patient with children—allowing for ebbs and flows, not getting too frustrated, staying loving and present through it all?

Dov:
I think the key is to set an example and present alternatives without forcing.

That was how I was raised. My father never forced me to do things, but he always made clear what he thought was right. Every Sunday morning, I wake my son up for minyan. Will he go every single time? No. But I wake him up. He knows there’s an opportunity. He goes a lot.

The same is true in many other areas. I’m not going to pretend I think it’s ideal for a kid to sit in his room on his phone longer than I’d like. Of course not. You need boundaries. Filters matter. Structure matters. But forcing often backfires.

Especially today, when the distractions and the bad influences are so close and so accessible, you cannot afford to turn a child off by pushing too hard.

Rav Druk says a father who spends the whole time shushing his kid in shul will often end up with the exact opposite of what he wants. Better to daven properly yourself, show what it means to stand before Hashem, and let the child absorb it. If the child quietly looks at an English book in shul so that he can be there with you, kol hakavod. Don’t turn it into a war over page numbers in the siddur.

Model what you want. Present what’s right. But don’t force.

Teaching Children to Daven

Yaakov:
That brings me to a personal question. I have little kids, and I’ve been thinking ahead to the challenge of having children in shul while also trying to daven properly myself. How do you think about balancing your own avodah with chinuch?

Dov:
Let me start with a story about my father.

When he was principal of TABC, someone once asked him about a struggling child and said, “How do you get the kids to daven?” My father answered, “Why would a kid want to daven? He has everything he needs. There’s food on the table, his parents have jobs, he has clothes, he has a comfortable life. Why would he feel a need to daven?”

The man walked around the desk and hugged him.

That perspective matters. We have to understand where kids are coming from. Davening is hard. Even for adults. So for kids, of course it’s hard. Why would Refa’einu mean much to them if they never dealt with illness? Why would Bareich Aleinu mean much to them if they don’t feel the pressure of parnassah? Why would Et Tzemach David feel concrete?

So don’t expect them to feel what you feel. Train them slowly. Focus on one brachah. One idea. One point of connection.

Before a hockey game, I tell my son: have a good Shemoneh Esrei today, and in Shema Koleinu ask Hashem to help you play well. I’m not saying hockey is the highest thing in the world. I’m saying: if that matters to him, teach him that davening means asking Hashem for what matters to you.

That builds the muscle memory of tefillah.

Teaching Torah While Building a Career

Yaakov:
You love Torah, public speaking, and teaching. How did that part of your life start expanding, especially while staying busy professionally?

Dov:
I’ve always loved teaching. Three years ago, I gave a shiur between Minchah and Maariv, and someone said, “Would you be willing to give a weekly Chumash shiur?” That became a Thursday night Zoom shiur for Beth Abraham.

I think iyun in Chumash is a bit of a lost art. People focus on Gemara, hashkafah, or hot topics, but every week we take one pasuk, one idea, and really develop it. We get ten to fifteen people live, and then many more listen later on YUTorah.

It gives me a lot of chiyus. And as you become more senior in your career, the pressure doesn’t disappear, but the flexibility changes. I’m not working until two in the morning anymore. So I can use that flexibility for teaching.

It takes a lot of preparation. Giving shiurim is a serious investment of time. But it keeps me focused on the parashah all week. It sharpens me.

I also started two daily WhatsApp chats. One is a short daily Chumash and inyana d’yoma piece—under three minutes, always under three minutes. The other is a daily bitachon chat. We started with Chovos HaLevavos and then moved on. Again: under three minutes. Small, digestible, but consistent.

And I really believe this: the more a person learns, the more HaKadosh Baruch Hu helps him be successful at work. I wouldn’t be able to do this today if I hadn’t put in the work when I was younger.

Why Nonprofit Work Became a Passion

Yaakov:
Let’s shift to the nonprofit side. You’re involved in a lot of initiatives. How did that start, and which projects are you most proud of?

Dov:
I’ve always been involved in nonprofits. Once my daughter started school, I got involved right away. I felt it was important to give back. That came from my parents. My father obviously, but my mother too—she was very involved in schools, PTA, organizations.

Once I started, I realized I really like this work. It fits my personality: helping organizations grow, helping people, building things.

Over the years I became treasurer and later president of Yeshivat Noam, got involved with Maayanot, Beth Abraham, TABC, and other institutions. I also got into fundraising, and I realized that’s a skill I had developed.

I’ve helped fundraise for multiple schools and buildings. I helped lead the campaign for the TABC building, which was named in memory of my father. I helped start Yeshiva Shalshelet for children with language-based learning disabilities. I didn’t have a child who needed it—I was just approached because people thought I could help get it off the ground. Today it has around sixty students and is doing remarkable work.

More recently, I helped start KFAR, an after-school program for children in public school who need more Jewish structure and support. This year we had our first siddur play. Seeing grandparents cry because they never imagined their grandchild in public school would have a full siddur ceremony—that was one of the most emotional things I’ve ever seen.

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