Parashat Naso: What is the Connection Between External Order and Fulfilling our Inner Mission?

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Parashat Naso
What is the Connection Between External Order and Fulfilling our Inner Mission?  

What is Preferable: External Order and Stability or Inner Warmth and Care?

I grew up in a highly functioning, law-abiding country where all the external frameworks operated like clockwork. The streets and sidewalks were clean, green, and beautifully maintained; the public systems – from libraries to healthcare – were well-funded and reliable. In fact, I recently noticed that according to U.S. News & World Report, Denmark ranks #1 in the world for quality of life, based on education, healthcare, political transparency, economic security, and general societal well-being. Growing up in such an efficient and stable environment should have brought a deep sense of contentment. Yet, I never felt truly fulfilled in what might be called ‘The Dreamland of Denmark.’

Despite its polished exterior and near-perfect punctuality – where trains always arrive precisely as announced – something essential was missing. I find myself far more at home in a land of constant challenge and unpredictable rhythms. Even during times of conflict and uncertainty, I choose to live in Israel – a place bursting with soul. While Israel may lack the external order of Denmark, it overflows with purpose, connection, and vibrancy. Yes, I may have to stoop to pick up stray candy wrappers on the sidewalk – a sight unimaginable in suburban Denmark – but I do so with joy, knowing I walk streets rich with meaning, history, and heart. A society may be perfectly orderly on the outside yet lacking in inner meaning and mission. In Israel, it’s not about appearances – it’s about essence. The laughter of children, the warmth of strangers, and the shared sense of mission here speak to something far deeper than surface-level perfection ever could.

Why Does Parashat Naso Mention the Suspected Adulteress, the Nazarite, and the Thief?

Parashat Naso seems to continue the national themes introduced in Parashat Bamidbar: the census of the tribes, the inauguration of the Mishkan, and the offerings of the tribal leaders. While reading HaRav Aharon Lichtenstein’s article, The Embedded Message, on Parashat Naso, I was struck by his observation that even within the structured and clearly defined national order of the wilderness journey – with its census, banners, and division of Levitical roles – the Torah does not lose sight of the moral and spiritual development of the individual. Interwoven in this narrative are seemingly personal and unrelated topics – the thief who confesses and repays (Bamidbar 5:5-10), the suspected adulteress (5:11-31), and the Nazir who abstains from wine and seeks higher holiness (6:1-21). Why are these inserted here, interrupting the flow of collective preparation for the sanctification of the Mishkan and entry into Eretz Yisrael?

Precisely because the Torah is teaching us that a nation’s spiritual destiny is only as strong as its individuals. In the midst of grand national missions – the revelation of the Shechinah in the Mishkan, and the historical march into the Land – the Torah zooms in on personal struggles: betrayal, longing, inner restraint, and restitution. The message is clear. The sanctity of the Mishkan depends not only on the proper placement of tribes or ritual service, but on the moral integrity of each individual. Without a foundation of personal fidelity, integrity, and spiritual yearning, the collective cannot sustain its calling.

The Torah thus ensures that no soul is forgotten. The lonely convert, the wayward woman, the aspiring ascetic – each has a place in the unfolding destiny of Am Yisrael. A society striving for holiness must care not only for its national structure but also for its moral fiber, woven one soul at a time.

What is the Ideal Relationship between Outer Details and Inner Refinement?

The ultimate goal is a radiant soul in a healthy body on both an individual and a national dimension. We don’t have to sell ourselves short, we can aspire toward the highest spiritual content encased in the most organized external parameters. For any community to thrive, we need law and order. Role divisions need to be clearly defined, and all community members must carry out their responsibilities and know who to turn to for questions and directions. Parashat Naso highlights the meticulous arrangements needed for the Israelites’ journey on their way to settling in the land.  It provides details about preparations for entering the Land of Israel, particularly focusing on the organization of the camp and the Levites’ responsibilities in carrying the holy vessels. When it comes to the G-d given mitzvot, even physical structures and external order become spiritual and infused with inner meaning and mission. The many details and even repetitions of the sacrifices of the princes of each tribe become infused with meaning, as they are intended not only to provide the external particulars but to teach us an inner lesson about character development.

Parashat Naso is the longest parasha in the entire Chumash because it repeats word for word the offering of each of the tribes instead of just paraphrasing that all the tribes offered the exact same such and such. This demonstrates that although the princes brought the same precise offering, none of them copied their friend. Each had his own personal relationship with his offering. Because of each tribe’s original intention, excitement, and awareness, the Torah described each of their offerings in its own section. Another reason for the repetition of the tribal sacrifices word by word is due to Hashem’s great pleasure with their identical offering of unity that rectified the sibling jealousy of Kain and Hevel. When external details are infused with inner refinement, then even otherwise tedious repetition becomes meaningful.

How Do We Carry the Sanctuary Within Our Unique Spiritual Mission?

The census in Parashat Naso, which continues the census begun in Parashat Bamidbar, moreover alludes to the inner spiritual intention within the exterior positions and roles. The designated roles of the families within the tribe of Levi in carrying and assembling the Mishkan hint at how each family had a unique portion of the holy structure to bear upon their shoulders, not just physically, but also spiritually.

במדבר פרק ד פסוק מז

מִבֶּן שְׁלֹשִׁים שָׁנָה וָמַעְלָה וְעַד בֶּן חֲמִשִּׁים שָׁנָה כֹּל הַבָּא לַעֲבֹד עֲבֹדַת עֲבֹדָה וַעֲבֹדַת מַשָּׂא בְּאֹהֶל מוֹעֵד:

“From thirty years old and up to fifty years old, all who come to serve the service of service and the service of carrying in the Tent of Meeting” (Bamidbar 4:47).

While Ha’amek Davar emphasizes the transition from supernatural guidance in the wilderness to a more hidden Divine providence in the Land, Parashat Naso moreover suggests that the service of carrying the Mishkan was not merely a physical duty – it was a spiritual apprenticeship. This desert service trained each individual to become a vessel for the Shechinah – a sacred preparation for dwelling with Divine presence in Eretz Yisrael. Each person had their role, their burden, and their sacred responsibility, just as each soul in Eretz Yisrael today has a unique spiritual mission to carry.
The Sefat Emet explains that just as each angel has a unique root and mission, so too each member of Am Yisrael longed to know their soul’s root and place of rectification. Though we cannot see this with our physical eyes, through the Torah, each person can find their spiritual origin. Some rare individuals may ascend entirely through their deeds, but even those who are not on that level can leap beyond their natural rung through longing and will alone. “Each man by his camp and under his banner” represents this dual path of fixed service and spiritual aspiration. In this way, every individual’s unique role in the camp mirrors their deeper mission in the Divine structure of the nation, especially as it manifests in the holiness of Eretz Yisrael (Sefat Emet, Bamidbar, year 5639).

Carrying Our Sacred Responsibility in the Land
The Levites carried the Mishkan in the desert. Today, we carry the sanctity of the Land in our own way. Living in Eretz Yisrael is not always easy – there are physical challenges, bureaucratic obstacles, and moments of loneliness. But just as each Levi had to bear his assigned portion – whether it was the heavy planks, the shimmering curtains, or the sacred vessels – each of us carries our piece of the collective inheritance.
Living in Bat Ayin, we can perceive how every soul brings a different panel, a different curtain, a different vessel to the collective sanctuary of our people. Each student who comes to learn Torah, plant a garden, raise children, or simply breathe in the holiness of the Land is carrying their part of the Mishkan – their avodat hakodesh. Each of us, with our unique contribution and role in the community, reflects our deeper spiritual mission, aligned with our soul’s root and place of rectification within the Divine structure of the nation.

Parashat Behar/Bechukotai: How does Keeping the Sabbatical and Jubilee Years Bring About Redemption?

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Parashat Behar/Bechukotai
How does keeping the Sabbatical and Jubilee Years Bring About Redemption? 

Why is it a Great Challenge to become a Guest in “Your Own” Garden?

Keeping the Sabbatical year in Israel can be challenging, especially for farmers, and even for very small-scale gardeners like myself. Being a workaholic, I find it difficult to let go of improving my surroundings. It’s not simple to abstain from working the land and truly let go, letting G-d take over. Rather than noticing which plants are unhappy, which one needs compost, or more water or light, the Sabbatical year – Shemitta – is about completely releasing ownership and appreciating what is.

It took me several seven-year cycles to finally reach a place where I could feel like a guest in “my own” garden. Truly internalizing that I don’t own it – that I am merely an eternal renter with a contract from the true Landlord, who reclaims His ownership every seven years – was not immediate. I still remember my first Shemitta year in Bat Ayin and how uncomfortable I felt when, from my kitchen window, I saw a neighbor casually trampling into my garden and helping himself to the ripest cherry tomatoes – the very ones I had planned to harvest the next day in honor of Shabbat.

It was a great challenge to silence my inner voice: “These are my tomatoes! I worked so hard to prepare the soil, plant the seeds, raise the stakes, and ensure they had enough water. How could he have the nerve… without even asking permission?!” While I was able to intellectually accept that the laws of Shemitta grant equal access to all produce growing in the Land of Israel, that inner voice still kept whispering in the back of my mind each Shemitta year – until my fourth Shemitta cycle in Bat Ayin.

Finally, during the most recent Shemitta, I learned to let go and truly relax. After living on the land for over 30 years, I was finally able to completely silence the voice of ownership, even letting go of concern for the fallen fruits that, if left too long, would become infested. No longer did I feel compelled to pick up every single fruit, rinse, inspect, mash, and add to preserves of every kind. For the first time, instead of noticing all the things that needed improvement in my garden, I could simply delight in its beauty.

How Does the Shemitta Year Parallel a Husband-and-Wife Relationship?

Living in Eretz Yisrael grants us a relationship with the land that mirrors the depth and sanctity of marriage. Just as a husband and wife must count seven days of separation following a woman’s cycle, so too do we release physical interaction with the Land every seven years. Just as Shemitta teaches us to relinquish our sense of ownership over the land, the laws of taharat hamishpacha (family purity) train a husband to let go of any illusion of ownership over his wife.

The Shemitta year ingrains within us the truth that we never fully possess the Land – we are only its caretakers. Likewise, the marital cycle of withdrawal and reunion emphasizes that a woman is not an object of possession, and that marriage is a partnership of mutual respect. Our relationship with the Holy Land is similar: it requires reverence, space, and time off for recharging. Stepping back for a time allows for renewal and reconnection. Coming together again breaks the feeling of entitlement and opens the door for deeper love.

The same is true in marriage. Stepping away from physical contact can break stale patterns, the pause offers fresh possibilities for growing together, and opens the heart to rediscovery – new pathways into each other’s souls. Keeping the hands-off laws of the Shemitta year, approaching the Land with humility, reverence, and gratitude, empowers us to reach new levels in the Land. As the Talmud teaches: “In the year following the conclusion of the Sabbatical Year, the son of David will come” (Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 97a). It is through letting go that we prepare the ground – and ourselves – for redemption.

Why is Exile the Consequence of Neglecting Shemitta Observance?

Since keeping the Shemitta year prepares us for redemption, it makes sense that neglecting fulfilling the mitzvot of Shemitta causes exile, as it states, “Because of the sin of neglecting the Sabbatical and Jubilee years, exile comes to the world...” (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 33a). This Talmudic statement is based on the following verses in Parashat B’Chukotai:

ספר ויקרא פרק כו פסוק לד אָז תִּרְצֶה הָאָרֶץ אֶת שַׁבְּתֹתֶיהָ כֹּל יְמֵי הָשַּׁמָּה וְאַתֶּם בְּאֶרֶץ אֹיְבֵיכֶם אָז תִּשְׁבַּת הָאָרֶץ וְהִרְצָת אֶת שַׁבְּתֹתֶיהָ: (לה) כָּל יְמֵי הָשַּׁמָּה תִּשְׁבֹּת אֵת אֲשֶׁר לֹא שָׁבְתָה בְּשַׁבְּתֹתֵיכֶם בְּשִׁבְתְּכֶם עָלֶיהָ:

“Then, the land will be appeased regarding its sabbaticals. During all the days that it remains desolate while you are in the land of your enemies, the Land will rest and thus appease its sabbaticals. It will rest during all the days that it remains desolate, whatever it had not rested on your sabbaticals, when you lived upon it (Vayikra 26:34-35).

Rashi explains that the seventy-year Babylonian exile was a measure-for-measure punishment – one year of exile for each Sabbatical year (Shemitta or Yovel) that the Israelites failed to observe. Over 436 years during which the people consistently sinned and neglected Shemitta, there should have been seventy sacred years of rest for the land. Because these years were disregarded, Hashem exiled the people to allow the land to “rest” in their absence. As it states: “Until the land was appeased for its Shabbatot… until the completion of seventy years” (II Divrei Hayamim 36:21).

The Torah teaches us to keep Shemitta to absorb the Infinite Light within Eretz Yisrael. The holiness of the land is reserved for those willing to meet the conditions to access this Infinite Light. Only by following this practice do we deserve to live in the Holy Land. This explains why the consequence of neglecting to observe Shemitta results in the severe punishment of exile from the Holy Land.

The Netivot Shalom deepens this understanding: The Shemitta year imbues the Land with holiness. When the laws of Shemitta are not upheld, the נְשָׁמָה/neshama – ‘soul’ of the Land departs. And with the departure of its soul, exile from the Holy Land inevitably follows (Netivot Shalom, Vayikra, p. 106).

Why Does Resting Bring About Restoration?

Shemitta applies only in Eretz Yisrael, revealing the land’s elevated spiritual stature and the unique sanctity of its fruits. The produce of the Holy Land contains a distinctive energy and holiness, as reflected in the blessings we recite over the seven species native to it. Rebbe Nachman teaches that ascending to the highest levels of spirituality is not linear – it often involves being pushed back. Yet if we accept these setbacks with simcha (joy), we actually expand our capacity to receive greater Divine light (Likutey Moharan 24). His student, Rav Nachman of Tcherin, explains that this process is foundational: learning how to face pauses and delays with joy becomes essential for progress in all areas of life (Yekara d’Shabbat on LM 24).
This idea is mirrored in many physical disciplines, where the rest between exertions is what brings about the deepest restoration. One of our meditative movement teachers used to say, “Let the pause do its good work.” In moments of stillness, we shift shape – we let go of who we were to become something new. In the process of meditative movement, the pause is essential to transformation – the shedding of the old habit of being. Likewise, after six years of working the land and drawing the spiritual dimension from within the Holy Land and its fruit, Shemitta invites us to stop. Only by letting go – by pausing completely – can we truly internalize the light of the Land.
In today’s fast-paced world, where we are constantly rushing and overextended, the mitzvah of Shemitta offers a powerful spiritual remedy. Taking a break isn’t easy; we fear losing ground. But relentless movement without renewal can lead to burnout. Shemitta teaches us how to pause before we collapse – how to breathe and become whole again. This seventh-year rest is not only agricultural – it is a Divine prescription for spiritual and emotional healing.
(Inspired by Rabbi Meir Elkabas, The Restraint of Shemittah)

The Return to Our Source During the Jubilee Year
Parashat Behar introduces the mitzvah of the Jubilee year – a spiritual milestone that challenges us even more than the Sabbatical year. After observing seven full Shemitta cycles, the Torah calls upon us to sanctify an additional year – the fiftieth – and to refrain from working the land for a second consecutive year:

ספר ויקרא פרק כה פסוק ח וְסָפַרְתָּ לְךָ שֶׁבַע שַׁבְּתֹת שָׁנִים שֶׁבַע שָׁנִים שֶׁבַע פְּעָמִים וְהָיוּ לְךָ יְמֵי שֶׁבַע שַׁבְּתֹת הַשָּׁנִים תֵּשַׁע וְאַרְבָּעִים (ט) וְהַעֲבַרְתָּ שׁוֹפַר תְּרוּעָה בַּחֹדֶשׁ הַשְּׁבִעִי בֶּעָשׂוֹר לַחֹדֶשׁ בְּיוֹם הַכִּפֻּרִים תַּעֲבִירוּ שׁוֹפָר בְּכָל אַרְצְכֶם:(י) וְקִדַּשְׁתֶּם אֵת שְׁנַת הַחֲמִשִּׁים שָׁנָה וּקְרָאתֶם דְּרוֹר בָּאָרֶץ לְכָל ישְׁבֶיהָ יוֹבֵל הִוא תִּהְיֶה לָכֶם וְשַׁבְתֶּם אִישׁ אֶל אֲחֻזָּתוֹ וְאִישׁ אֶל מִשְׁפַּחְתּוֹ תָּשֻׁבוּ: (יא) יוֹבֵל הִוא שְׁנַת הַחֲמִשִּׁים שָׁנָה תִּהְיֶה לָכֶם לֹא תִזְרָעוּ וְלֹא תִקְצְרוּ אֶת סְפִיחֶיהָ וְלֹא תִבְצְרוּ אֶת נְזִרֶיהָ:

“Then you shall count for yourself seven sabbatical years, seven times. The days of these seven sabbatical years shall amount to forty-nine years for you. You shall proclaim with shofar blasts... on the Day of Atonement... You shall sanctify the fiftieth year and proclaim freedom throughout the land for all its inhabitants. It shall be a Jubilee for you, and you shall return, each man to his property, and each man to his family. The fiftieth year shall be a Jubilee for you; you shall not sow, nor reap its aftergrowth, nor pick its grapes [for yourself] ... (Vayikra 25:8-1).

In this sacred year, we not only observe the agricultural release of Shemitta – refraining from planting and allowing the produce of the fields to be available to all – but we also witness a full societal reset. Land holdings return to their original families. All Hebrew slaves go free. The Yovel year represents a collective return to the roots of our truest self, reconnecting with what is most essential in our lives.

This is why the Torah emphasizes that Yovel is proclaimed specifically on Yom Kippur. As the Maharal explains, Yovel and Yom Kippur are intrinsically linked. Both are about return – whether of land, people, or soul. Just as the Jubilee returns land to its ancestral owner and releases the slave to freedom, Yom Kippur returns the sinner to innocence, restoring us to our original state of purity and perfection (Maharal, Gur Aryeh, Vayikra 25:9).

This return is not only personal but cosmic. The fiftieth year alludes to the Fiftieth Gate – the level of transcendent Divine light that lies beyond the bounds of human logic and limitation.  To let the land lie fallow for two full years – Shemitta followed by Yovel – is the ultimate act of emunah. It demands that we fully surrender all ownership and rely entirely on Hashem. Yet in that very restraint lies the seed of ultimate restoration. The more fully we let go, the more space we create for something infinitely greater to return.

May we merit to reach this sacred return – to come back to our highest selves, and be restored to our rightful portion in the Holy Land, aligned with the essence of our souls.

Here We Keep Shemitta

Parashat Emor: Why is the Spiritual experience of the Holidays only complete in Eretz Yisrael?

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Parashat Emor
Why is the Spiritual experience of the Holidays only complete in Eretz Yisrael?

Why is it so challenging to celebrate Jewish Holidays Properly Outside the Land of Israel?

When we lived in Memphis, Tennessee, back in 1990-1991, celebrating the Jewish holidays properly was not only a challenge – it often felt like something vital was missing. The holidays lacked the deep spark of connection and excitement we had experienced in the Land of Israel. There was no blossoming almond tree to greet us on Tu B’Shevat, and the awakening of nature had yet to arrive on Rosh Chodesh Nissan, when it was time to bless Hashem for the flowering trees. Celebrating the birth of the State of Israel felt hollow in the Diaspora, and we longed for the charged energy and exhilarating dancing at the Kotel on Yom Yerushalayim. I remember trying to celebrate Sukkot in our plexiglass sukkah, with its green plastic siding, set up in the communal parking lot behind our condominium. It stood in stark contrast to our memories of Sukkot in Israel, where joyous singing and music flowed from every neighboring sukkah, and you could feel how the entire people were dwelling together in one vast, unified sukkah.

And then came the rains – heavy downpours that flooded our sukkah and soaked our sleeping bags, furniture, and food. We tried spreading out our drenched blankets on nearby parked cars, only to be met by a shouting neighbor: “What are you doing, you crazy Jews? Is this how you try to relive the Israelites’ desert experience? Do you really think they dwelt in plexiglass booths with green plastic walls?” We felt quite ridiculous and very much out of place. Ironically, there was one hidden blessing in that moment: this same non-Jewish neighbor, appalled by our dripping sleeping bags, decided to throw them in her washer and dryer. And needless to say – we didn’t protest.

 

How are the Mitzvot of Sukkot Synchronized with the Land of Israel?

It is not coincidental that our holiday experience in the Diaspora especially clashed with Sukkot, whose celebration is linked with entering and dwelling in the Land of Israel. As it is written, “…when you gather the produce of the land.”

 

ספר ויקרא פרק כג פסוק לט אַךְ בַּחֲמִשָּׁה עָשָׂר יוֹם לַחֹדֶשׁ הַשְּׁבִיעִי בְּאָסְפְּכֶם אֶת תְּבוּאַת הָאָרֶץ תָּחֹגּוּ אֶת חַג יְהוָֹה שִׁבְעַת יָמִים בַּיּוֹם הָרִאשׁוֹן שַׁבָּתוֹן וּבַיּוֹם הַשְּׁמִינִי שַׁבָּתוֹן: (מ) וּלְקַחְתֶּם לָכֶם בַּיּוֹם הָרִאשׁוֹן פְּרִי עֵץ הָדָר כַּפֹּת תְּמָרִים וַעֲנַף עֵץ עָבֹת וְעַרְבֵי נָחַל וּשְׂמַחְתֶּם לִפְנֵי יְהוָֹה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם שִׁבְעַת יָמִים:

“But on the fifteenth day of the seventh month, when you gather in the produce of the land, you shall celebrate the festival of Hashem for seven days; the first day shall be a rest day, and the eighth day shall be a rest day. Then you shall take for yourselves on the first day, the fruit of the hadar tree, date palm fronds, a branch of a braided tree, and willows of the brook, and you shall rejoice before the Hashem your G-d for seven days.” (Vayikra 23:39-40).

The mitzvah of rejoicing before Hashem with the Lulav and its bunch is a tangible expression of joy and gratitude for the good land to which Hashem has brought us, and for the ingathering of its produce. These four species are more than symbolic – they embody the transition from a barren wilderness, “a place without figs, grapes, pomegranates, and water” (Bamidbar 20:5), to a fertile land rich in fruits, fragrance, and flowing rivers. That’s why, in memory of this transition, we take the most beautiful fruits with the most delightful fragrance, and the most attractive leaves the Land has to offer – readily available in Eretz Yisrael during the harvest season (Rambam, Guide of the Perplexed III:43). Thus, the mitzvot of Sukkot are deeply attuned to the Land’s agricultural and spiritual rhythm.

Why Does Parashat Emor Write the Mitzvot of Sukkot in Two Separate Sections?

The unique character of Sukkot as celebrated in the Land of Israel – distinguished from the festivals celebrated in the desert – is reflected in its dual mention in our parasha. While all the festivals share a common mitzvah of bringing sacrifices, commanded even in the wilderness, Sukkot includes mitzvot that are tied directly to life in the Land. The mitzvah of waving the four species contrasts with the desert experience, devoid of plant life, while the mitzvah of leaving our comfortable homes, bursting with goodness, and dwelling in the sukkah is specifically to remind us of the contrast to the past wilderness wandering, when we didn’t have homes within which to settle in our own land.  

Parashat Emor mentions Sukkot twice – first in verses 34-36, and again in verses 39-43 – with a summary of all the festivals placed in between (Vayikra 23:37-38). This split reflects the dual character of Sukkot: The first part pertains to every part of the world, whereas the second part is uniquely rooted in the experience of Eretz Yisrael.

The connection between the holiday of Sukkot and Eretz Yisrael is furthermore reinforced again in emphasized in Parashat Ekev: “You shall make the festival of Sukkot...when you gather in from your threshing floor and winepress” (Devarim 16:13), echoing “when you gather the produce of the land” (Vayikra 23:39). As the Rashbam explains, when our homes are filled with goodness – grain, wine, and oil – we are commanded to step out of that comfort and remember how Hashem had us dwell in Sukkot during our forty years in the wilderness, without homes or inheritance. By leaving our solid homes for temporary huts, on Sukkot, we give thanks to the One who gave us Eretz Yisrael and homes full of blessing (Rashbam, Vayikra 23:43).

How does Sukkot Highlight the Connection between the Jewish People and Their Land?

The festival of Sukkot highlights the bond between the Jewish people and their land more than any other holiday. The mitzvah to dwell in the sukkah is especially synchronized with the climate of Eretz Yisrael. It falls during a season when it is just cool enough to make it clear that we are not simply ‘camping’ outdoors, but fulfilling a mitzvah. At the same time, it is usually not yet too cold or rainy to make the mitzvah burdensome – unlike our experience celebrating Sukkot in Memphis, Tennessee, where storms flooded our sukkah and dampened both our gear and spirits.

Chag HaAsif – the Festival of Ingathering – celebrates the harvest season in the Land of Israel. It teaches us how the physical can be elevated through joy and gratitude. Rav Kook emphasized that in Eretz Yisrael, the body meets the soul. The holiness of the land itself imbues the physical acts performed within it with spiritual meaning. The Four Species – the materials used for shaking the lulav – further amplify this bond. Each of them grows in the Land of Israel and reflects its beauty and bounty. As Rav Kook explains, the holiday of Sukkot is so deeply tied to the sanctity of the Land and to the joy of her fruits that Chazal required us to intercalate the year to ensure that Sukkot would always fall during “the time of the ingathering of the crops of the Land.”

What is the Connection between Living in the Land of Israel and Dwelling in the Sukkah?

The Vilna Gaon teaches (as cited in Kol HaTor 1:7) that there is a profound connection between the mitzvah of living in the Land of Israel and the mitzvah of dwelling in the sukkah. In both cases, we enter the space completely, with our whole body. This concept is hinted at in the verse: וַיְהִי בְשָׁלֵם סֻכּוֹ וּמְעוֹנָתוֹ בְצִיּוֹן – “His sukkah was in Shalem, and His dwelling place in Tzion” (Tehillim 76:3)

The Vilna Gaon further explains: “The sukkah must be ta’aseh – built intentionally and not from something already made. So too with Tzion – it must be actively built through our deeds.” This echoes the Midrash on the verse: וּבָא לְצִיּוֹן גּוֹאֵל “A redeemer shall come to Tzion” (Yeshayahu 59:20) – which teaches that as long as Tzion is not built, the redeemer does not come. As our Sages say: “Once Jerusalem is rebuilt, the son of David will come.” In the Midrash: “The son of David does not come until Jerusalem is rebuilt” (Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 17b).

Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshischa similarly taught: “There is no mitzvah as beloved as the sukkah, for we enter it with all our limbs, his clothing – even our shoes and boots.” He added: “So too with the mitzvah of settling the Land of Israel. We enter it entirely, and it encompasses every part of us. One who dwells in the Land fulfills this mitzvah constantly – day and night, whether awake or asleep – without interruption. That is why it is considered equal to all other mitzvot.”

May we all merit returning to the Land of Israel and celebrating Sukkot in the highest way – experiencing the joy of all of Am Yisrael dwelling together in one vast, unified sukkah. In the merit of returning to the Holy Land, may we soon witness the rebuilding of the fallen Sukkah of David – the Beit HaMikdash.

Parashat Tzav: What is the Connection Between the Eternal Fire and the Land of Israel?

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Parashat Tzav
What is the Connection Between the Eternal Fire and the Land of Israel?

How Can we Keep Our Fire Going While Constantly Breathing Continued Life into Others?

“I don’t know how I can go on anymore – everything is just too much,” cried a student (let’s call her Sarah) at my kitchen table. “I just want a simple life, enjoying the closeness with Hashem experienced here in the Holy Land in peace and quiet,” she continued. “There are so many demands on me – everyone wants my attention, and to engage in deep heart-to-heart conversations with me, it’s just all too much!” Sarah’s words reflected my own feelings of being overwhelmed with demands, dealing with various emergencies, and tedious administrative tasks on top of all the Pesach cleaning. I wish I could just peacefully settle on my land, softly playing my harp, prayerfully tending to the garden, and writing my books without all the interruptions. Sarah’s words, “I need a break; I can’t go on anymore!” couldn’t have reverberated more in my own heart. How can I keep my fire going when I am constantly having to breathe continued life into my institution? How many years have I had to write new rules? Dealing with challenging students and staff, ensuring we have enough money to pay our bills and avoid going into minus, tossing and turning in bed about losing a staff member, and trying to shift staff roles to make sure all the vital chores would be covered? For nearly 30 years, I have nursed and diapered, pulsating my blood, heartbeat, and essential life force to keep everything going. I, like Sarah, longed for peace and quiet to serve Hashem without interruptions. Yet, how do we grow in the Torah way and in our relationship with Hashem? Perhaps our understanding of serving Hashem is topsy-turvy. “What does it really mean to serve Hashem without interruptions for a Jew?” I asked Sarah. “Doesn’t the name Yisrael mean, ‘You have struggled with G-d and with people and you have prevailed’ (Bereishit 32:28)? Don’t we learn from this that it is precisely through the interruptions to our ‘peace and quiet’ that we serve Hashem in the highest way?” So perhaps we need to exchange our mindset – from assuming that the challenging drama with people and with figuring out the way of G-d are interruptions to our Divine service – to realizing that it may be the ‘peace and quiet’ that interrupts our true Divine service of continuous struggle.

The Eternal Fire on the Altar: A Flame Burning in the Soul of Every Jew
Reading the opening in Parashat Tzav describing the eternal flame of the altar encouraged me to keep my own fire burning. It is only when we allow the chametz (ego) of Amalek to inject the poison of doubt into our bloodstream that we feel our strength ebbing out. Our fire will remain steadfast, as long as we keep strengthening our emunah that whatever challenge we are undergoing, it is 100% designated from our Creator to help us grow. There is no greater way of serving Hashem than keeping the fire of emunah going. Perhaps this is why the Torah repeats how the fire on the altar must never be extinguished:

ספר ויקרא פרק ו פסוק ה וְהָאֵשׁ עַל הַמִּזְבֵּחַ תּוּקַד בּוֹ לֹא תִכְבֶּה וּבִעֵר עָלֶיהָ הַכֹּהֵן עֵצִים בַּבֹּקֶר בַּבֹּקֶר וְעָרַךְ עָלֶיהָ הָעֹלָה וְהִקְטִיר עָלֶיהָ חֶלְבֵי הַשְּׁלָמִים: פסוק ו וְאֵשׁ הַמִּזְבֵּחַ תּוּקַד בּוֹ לֹא תִכְבֶּה:

“The fire on the altar shall be kept burning on it; it shall not be extinguished. The kohen shall kindle wood upon it every morning, and upon it, he shall arrange the burnt offering and cause the fats of the peace offerings to go up in smoke upon it. “A continuous fire shall burn upon the altar; it shall not go out” (Vayikra 6:5-6).

The repetition of keeping the fire of the altar burning suggests that this fire did not simply serve to cook the sacrifices offered to Hashem upon the altar. Rather, the eternal burning of the flame was crucial in and of itself, as an independent value, to arouse our internal flame – to keep going against all the odds – and burn away the doubts that weaken our spiritual determination.

A Sacred Tool for Spiritual Endurance

This eternal flame is not merely a technical detail of ritual worship. It symbolizes the ever-present relationship between Israel and Hashem. The fire and flame that must never be extinguished reflect the spark of divine connection that is meant to burn constantly within the heart and soul of every Jew.  The Maggid of Kozhnitz, author of Avodat Yisrael, quotes a teaching from the Siddur haAri, citing a tradition from the prophet Eliyahu, that a spiritual remedy for distracting thoughts, is to recite the verse: אֵשׁ תָּמִיד תּוּקַד עַל הַמִּזְבֵּחַ לֹא תִכְבֶּה/Aish tamid tukad al hamizbeach lo tichbeh – “A constant fire shall burn on the altar; it shall never go out” (Vayikra 6:6). This verse serves as a spiritual tool to remove impure thoughts and ignite inner holiness. The Maggid takes this further, identifying the Yetzer Hara – the evil inclination – as one who schemes “to kill his fellow,” meaning the Yetzer Tov (good inclination), through devious and misleading thoughts. These words seem to speak directly to Sarah and me, reminding us, as Rebbe Nachman is famously known to say: כִּי אֵין שׁוּם יִאוּשׁ בָּעוֹלָם כְּלָל – “There is no despair whatsoever in the world” (Likutei Moharan Mahadura Batra 78). When the yetzer hara gets the better of us (G-d forbid), making us feel that we can’t go on, reciting, אֵשׁ תָּמִיד תּוּקַד עַל הַמִּזְבֵּחַ לֹא תִכְבֶּה pulses renewed emunah into our spiritual arteries, strengthening our determination and stamina to keep going – as the old proverb says, “When the going gets tough, the tough gets going!” (Joseph P. Kennedy). The Maggid interprets the verse, “From My altar you shall take him to die” (Shemot 21:14), to mean that by invoking this verse about the eternal flame, we awaken the soul’s passion for holiness and dispel impurity – let me add: the impurity of despair. (Avodat Yisrael, Parashat Mishpatim, v’Chi Yazid Ish al Re’ehu l’hargo b’Ormah etc.). This teaches us that the inner fire of the Jewish soul, sparked by Torah and mitzvot, is deeply connected to the fire on the altar.  The eternal flame thus becomes a metaphor for our spiritual endurance – a fire that must be safeguarded, fed, and kept alive.

Eretz Yisrael – The Only Home for the Eternal Mikdash

The eternal flame, though kindled through divine service everywhere, reaches its full brilliance only in Eretz Yisrael. Although Parashat Tzav takes place during the Israelites’ wilderness period, the mitzvot surrounding the offerings and the constant fire are destined for ultimate fulfillment in the final Beit Hamikdash (Temple). According to Ramban all the details of the Mishkan are essentially a blueprint for the Temple in Jerusalem. Scripture alludes to this when it says, “For I have not dwelt in a house from the day that I brought up the children of Israel out of Egypt, to this day, but have walked in a tent and in a tabernacle. In all places wherein I have walked among all the children of Israel, did I speak a word with any of the tribes of Israel whom I commanded to shepherd My people Israel, saying: ‘Why do you not build for Me a house of cedar?’” (II Shemuel 7:6–7; see Ramban on Bamidbar 16:21). This reveals a deeper truth: the Mishkan was a temporary vessel for the eternal Temple, which could only find permanence in the Land of Israel. The Shechinah accompanied Bnei Yisrael in the desert, but her true home is in the land that Hashem chose. As it states, “For Hashem has chosen Tzion; He has desired it for His dwelling place” (Tehillim 132:13). This makes Eretz Yisrael not only our homeland but also the spiritual address for divine presence, and for the fire that must never go out. Just as the offerings must be brought only in the place that Hashem chooses, so too the ongoing spiritual service of the Jewish people reaches its apex only in the Land of Israel.

The Fire of the Soul – Kindled in the Land

The spiritual air of the Land makes one wise (Babylonian Talmud, Baba Batra 158b). It also deepens our connection to Hashem, heightens our awareness of His presence, and attunes us to the inner fire. Parashat Tzav reminds us that true divine service is not sporadic or seasonal – it is constant. The eternal flame is not just on the altar but within us. The fire that must never go out reflects the spark of divine connection that is meant to burn constantly within the heart of every Jew. That flame finds its fullest expression only in the place where it was divinely kindled – Eretz Yisrael. The Zohar teaches: “A constant fire on the altar – this is the Torah, about which it says: ‘Is not My word like fire?’” (Yirmiyahu 23:29; cited in Rav Tzaddok of Lublin, Pri Tzaddik, Parashat Tzav 4).  The eternal flame on the altar alludes to the inner fire of the Jewish soul – a flame kindled through Torah and mitzvot. Each act of divine service fuels that fire, like a new log placed on the altar of the heart, keeping the inner fire alive and glowing, especially in the sacred atmosphere of Eretz Yisrael. During the ongoing challenges of Israel’s current war, we witness the holiness of the Jewish flame of endurance. It is only through the eternal flame of emunah that our brave soldiers get their strength to keep fighting for everlasting peace. The Shelah HaKadosh writes that although the fire descends from heaven, it is still a mitzvah to bring fire from below. This teaches us that our earthly effort to maintain a spiritual flame invites divine response – our inner fire awakens the heavenly flame (The Shelah Hakodesh, Mesechet Pesachim, Matzah Ashira). Shelah’s message comes to life in the way the IDF and world Jewry are aroused to keep the flame of emunah burning – drawing down the Divine response of protection and miracles as never before.

Returning to the Place of the Flame

Just as the altar’s fire in the Mishkan was a continuation of the fire from Sinai – where the mountain burned with divine presence – so too did this fire descend from heaven and rest specifically on the altar of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. No other place was worthy of it. In our days, as we continue to yearn for the rebuilding of the Beit Hamikdash, we must remember that the foundation of that eternal house is built by our daily commitment to keep our inner altars alive. Living in Eretz Yisrael, learning her Torah, loving her holiness, and praying for her redemption – these are our logs and oil. The altar fire is not only a divine gift, but also a human calling. The faithfulness of the Temple fire is an invitation: keep your own flame burning. By nurturing the flame of emunah, we can overcome the temptations of despair and despondency. Just as the altar must be stoked daily, so too must we cultivate the fire of faith within us, until our inner flame becomes an everlasting light. In a world that seeks to dim the Jewish flame, the Land of Israel stands as the place where we can keep it burning – with faith, with love, and with tenacity. Just as the fire of the Tabernacle altar was never extinguished, and continued to burn upon the Temple altar, so too will it burn eternally in the final Temple we await. May we soon see the fire return to its rightful place – and may the holy flame within each of us rise up to meet it.

Parashat Vayikra: How Does Vayikra’s Small Alef Teach that the Land of Israel is Designated for Revelation?

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Parashat Vayikra
How Does Vayikra’s Small Alef Teach that the Land of Israel is Designated for Revelation?

 

Why Did the Teenager Cry so Profusely When Leaving the Land of Israel?
I’ll never forget it. Once, as I was boarding a flight for my annual international speaking tour, I passed a girl who looked like a typical gap-year student – denim skirt, casual T-shirt stamped with a bold quote. But it wasn’t her appearance that caught my attention. It was the sound of her loud, heartfelt sobs and the stream of sincere tears down her cheeks. I paused and asked gently, “Why are you crying?” offering her a tissue. “I’m leaving Israel – I’m leaving Eretz Yisrael! This is the saddest moment of my life. How can I be away from the Land of Israel?” she cried through her tears. As much as I wanted to engage in a deeper conversation with this girl, I had to move along – the line behind me was pressing forward. But even after I found my seat and recited the prayer for a safe air travel, I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl who cried so profusely because of leaving the Land of Israel. Her weeping was more than emotional; it was soulful. I’m sure if I had asked her to explain her deep attachment to Israel, she would’ve struggled to articulate it. Her connection was beyond explanation – it radiated from the depth of her Jewish soul. And perhaps her tears have etched into my memory so vividly because I feel the same way. Every time I leave Israel – even for a short visit to honor my parents – it feels like a murky cloud dulls my inner light. I sense myself drifting from my spiritual center, from the place where I feel most at home in my soul. Whereas some of my relatives fear visiting Israel, I always feel safest here, where the Divine Presence is near. Whenever I travel abroad, I remind myself of the Talmudic promise: “Those on the path to perform a mitzvah are not susceptible to harm” (Babylonian Talmud, Pesachim 8a). Still, I count the days until I return. And when I do, the moment the plane’s wheels touch the holy soil, and we break into applause, I am overcome by the quiet but unmistakable feeling of coming home. The holiness of the land touches me to tears of return.

Why is the Land of Israel the Only Place Where Prophecy Blossoms?

What does my spiritual homecoming have to do with Parashat Vayikra? I must admit that it is challenging to tie the Torah portions that don’t mention the land of Israel directly to the Land of Israel. We need to dig beyond the surface to discover the deeper underlying connections.

Parashat Vayikra opens with Hashem addressing Moshe after the Mishkan had been completed,

ספר ויקרא פרק א פסוק א וַיִּקְרָא אֶל משֶׁה וַיְדַבֵּר יְהוָֹה אֵלָיו מֵאֹהֶל מוֹעֵד לֵאמֹר:

“Then He called to Moshe, and Hashem spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying” (Vayikra 1:1). 

The first word of this verse וַיִּקְרָא/Vayikra – “He called,” contains an unusual scribal deviation – it is written with a small, diminished א/alef. The midrash and commentaries offer various explanations, many of which highlight Moshe’s humility, which we will address further on. Yet this small alef also carries a profound message about the nature of revelation – and the role of Eretz Yisrael as the spiritual epicenter of that calling.  The opening of Vayikra marks the moment when Hashem speaks to Moshe not from atop Mount Sinai, but from within the Mishkan. This shift in setting underscores the transition from a one-time, grand national revelation at Sinai to an ongoing, intimate relationship rooted in sacred space. The Shechinah did not dwell in the Mishkan while the people wandered aimlessly. It began once the Mishkan was erected, oriented toward entry into the Promised Land. Rabbi Yehuda Halevi makes a powerful claim: prophecy is bound to the Land of Israel. “But it is not possible for this unique spiritual faculty to reach its divine objective apart from this place, just as a vineyard cannot thrive outside its specific mountain soil.” He teaches that no one received prophecy except in the Land or for the sake of the Land. Avraham received prophecy in order to travel there. Even the exceptions – Yechezkel and Daniel, for example – experienced prophetic visions because of the presence of the Shechinah, which had been exiled with them, having once resided in the First Temple of Jerusalem. Thus, the unique spiritual potential of the Chosen People – the heart of humanity –to prophesy can only be fully actualized and blossom within the Holy Land. The land of Israel is referred to as “before Hashem,” about which it is said: “The eyes of Hashem your G-d are upon it always” (Devarim 11:12; The Kuzari 2:12-14).

How is the Small Alef a Sign of Moshe’s Humility?

The connection between the small alef and the significance of the Land of Israel can be understood through the importance of humility and submission to G-d’s will, as a prerequisite for upholding the sanctity essential for dwelling in Eretz Yisrael, where the Shechinah is most manifest. By humbling ourselves, we make room within to invite the Shechinah to dwell. Rashi explains that the small alef in the word Vayikra signifies Moshe’s modesty; unlike Bilam, to whom G-d “happened upon” (vayikar), implying a casual encounter, Hashem “called” (vayikra) Moshe, indicating a deliberate and affectionate communication. Moshe, in his humility, wished to downplay this distinction represented by the alef. Therefore, he reduced the size of the alef. ​ When Moshe was commanded to write the word Vayikra, he objected. He did not want to write this word in a way that showed that he had a close relationship with Hashem. Moshe, as the most modest man on earth, did not want to convey his prophecy as being higher than Bilam’s. Even when Hashem forced him to write Vayikra and not vayikar, Moshe did so only with a small alef, so as not to draw attention to his special relationship with Hashem (Ba’al Turim, Vayikra 1:1). The Kotzker Rebbe explains an enigmatic Midrasic comment. The verse states that Moshe “did not know that his face was shining” (Shemot 34:30). Moshe had to cover his face to conceal this overpowering light for the sake of teaching his people. Moshe’s face shone because of the extra ink left over from writing the Sefer Torah. The luminescence of Moshe’s face came from the ink that Moshe left over when he chose to write the word Vayikra with a small alef. That ‘leftover ink,’ therefore, represents Moshe’s humility (The Midrash Tanchuma, Parashat Ki Tisa 37).  This aspect of humility was what made Moshe so holy that his face reflected the celestial light of the Shechinah, making it impossible to behold him with human eyes.

How is the Land of Israel Designated for Ultimate Intimacy with Hashem?
From the very beginning of creation, Eretz Yisrael is the land “before Hashem” – the place where divine presence is most tangibly revealed, and where humankind’s mission to connect with the divine reaches its fullest expression. It is no coincidence that Cain and Hevel fought over it, or that Yitzchak and Yishmael, Ya’acov and Esav, all contended over who would inherit this holy ground. Rabbi Yehuda Halevi explains that this is not merely a geographic conflict but a spiritual one – a struggle over who will be attached to the divine purpose and who will fall away like a discarded husk (The Kuzari 1:95). Although the desert experience conveyed the most intimate connection with Hashem, who guided the Israelites with His Clouds of Glory and fed them manna from heaven, nevertheless, the Zohar teaches us that no matter how good it is in Chutz LaAretz – even from a spiritual standpoint – something is lacking, for true Jewish perfection can only be attained in The Land of Israel! Nowadays, until October 7, many Jews have enjoyed tranquil spiritual lives in the diaspora, with bursting Jewish communities and Torah institutions. Yet despite the spiritual intimacy of the Israelites during the desert wandering, their existence was considered imperfect, simply because it was still outside of Israel. We learn this from the Zohar that puts the entire Book of VaYikra in perspective, by explaining the small alef of Vayikra most astoundingly: Why is there a small alef?  Because this “calling” was imperfect.  Why so?  For it took place in the Mishkan (Tabernacle) and in a foreign land, because true perfection can only be found in the Land of Israel (Tosafot HaZohar 1, quoted in Itturei Torah, vol. 3, p. 7; cited by Rabbi Moshe D. Lichtman, Vayikra and the Land of Israel). The diminished alef at the beginning of Parashat Vayikra alludes to the truth that only by serving Hashem in His Chosen Land can we attain our ultimate goal.

The Soil Where Divine Communication Blossoms
This Zohar transforms how we read the first verse of Vayikra which sets the tone for the entire book of Vayikra. The small alef doesn’t only reflect Moshe’s humility – it whispers a truth about the Land of Israel. Though hidden and subtle, Eretz Yisrael is the soil in which divine communication blossoms. Even the Vayikra, the “calling,” is specific to the Holy Land. Just as prophecy cannot flourish outside the Land, the highest expression of the Mishkan – the Beit Hamikdash could not be established elsewhere. The Shechinah rests only where Hashem has chosen – in the land uniquely fit for revelation. Thus, the small alef of Vayikra is not a diminishment – it is a distillation. It represents the concentrated holiness of a place uniquely chosen to carry divine presence. The Midrash affirms this by listing the times the word “Li” (to Me) appears – in connection with the Kohanim, the Levi’im, Eretz Yisrael, Jerusalem, the Beit Hamikdash, korbanot, and even prophecy itself. Wherever the Torah says “Li,” that entity or place is bound to Hashem for eternity – in this world and the next (Midrash Vayikra Rabbah 2:2). May we merit to live in the Land of Israel not merely as an inheritance of the past, but as the present and future landscape of our divine calling – the very ground of redemption and closeness to Hashem. May we merit to experience the return of prophecy in the land of divine revelation!

Parashat Ki Tisa: What Can We Learn from Parashat Ki Tisa About Israel’s Current War?

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Parashat Ki Tisa
What Can We Learn from Parashat Ki Tisa About Israel’s Current War?

What Does it Mean that Jews are Called “A Stiff-Necked People”?
This week, in Kuzari class, we discussed proof for the authenticity of the Torah. I asked my students to imagine the possibility that Moshe came to his people and told them that 500 years ago everyone in the world spoke only one language – the language of Ever. In one day – when they built the Tower of Babylon – the whole of humanity became separated into different peoples, each one with his own individual language. In the same breath, Moshe spoke in detail about the relationship of each nation with its forefather, whether Shem, Cham, or Yafet. Would the people, known for being stiff-necked, critical, and skeptical, accept such revolutionary claims about human history if they had never heard of them before? I have personally experienced this difference between Jews and gentiles. For example, when a Jew from a secular home decides to embrace a Torah-observant lifestyle, they often encounter strong resistance from family members. Arguments like “Why would G-d care about all these nitty-gritty details of observance?” or “Why are you regressing to a medieval lifestyle?”  have been hurled at many a good ba’al teshuva (newcomer to Judaism) by his or her family. In contrast, I recently interviewed a potential conversion student whose parents, though atheists with no Jewish background, were willing to support her conversion in Israel with a $500 monthly stipend. Even after funding her college education, they wanted to continue supporting her, despite their disagreement with her religious choice. The following day, when I taught Rambam on Character Development, Nutrition, and Health, we discussed how the same trait can be either a gift or a detriment depending on how it is employed. This concept also applies to the notorious Jewish stiff-necked character trait explicitly addressed in Parashat Ki Tisa.

Does Being a Stiff-necked People Justify Divine Withdrawal or Divine Attachment?
Whereas stiff-neckedness is typically seen as a stubborn flaw, the Eish Kodesh offers a different perspective. Following the sin of the Golden Calf, Hashem tells Moshe that He will remove His Shechinah (Divine Presence) from accompanying the Israelites:

ספר שמות פרק לג פסוק ג אֶל אֶרֶץ זָבַת חָלָב וּדְבָשׁ כִּי לֹא אֶעֱלֶה בְּקִרְבְּךָ כִּי עַם קְשֵׁה עֹרֶף אַתָּה פֶּן אֲכֶלְךָ בַּדָּרֶךְ:

“[Go ascend] to a land flowing with milk and honey, for I will not go up in your midst, because you are a stiff-necked people, lest I destroy you on the way” (Shemot 33:3).

Due to their disobedience and stiff-necked worship of the Golden calf, Hashem intends to punish them by withdrawing His Presence from them on their journey to the Promised Land. However, Moshe later uses this same trait as a justification for Hashem’s continued presence: “Let Hashem go in our midst, for they are a stiff-necked people” (Shemot 34:9). How can the same trait justify both divine withdrawal and divine attachment? Hashem declares that because they are stiff-necked, He will not go with them, yet Moshe argues that precisely because they are stiff-necked, they deserve His presence! The answer is that קְשֵׁה עֹרֶף /ke’shei oref – ‘stiff-necked’ can be one of the greatest virtues. Someone who lacks this trait is fickle – easily swayed in different directions. At one moment, he may wish to serve Hashem, and the next moment, he might abandon that commitment. Such a person cannot withstand tests of faith. By contrast, a stiff-necked person – stubborn and strong-willed – is resolute and dependable. Once he makes a firm decision to serve Hashem, we can trust that he remains steadfast when facing trials. Therefore, Moshe Rabbeinu argued that being stiff-necked makes the Israelites worthy of Hashem Himself dwelling among them. However, stubbornness can be destructive when misused. If directed toward negativity – stubbornly clinging to bad behaviors and corrupt character traits – becomes a liability (Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, Piaseczner Rebbe, Sefer Eish Kodesh, Parashat Noach).

Why is Emigrating to Israel Called: “Making Aliyah”?

Parashat Ki Tisa is most often associated with Moshe’s fervent intercession for the Jewish people for the sin of the Golden Calf.  Yet, interwoven within the Parasha are powerful messages about the holiness of Eretz Yisrael and its role in the divine covenant, as a conduit for spiritual elevation. The unique bond between the Land of Israel and the Jewish people reveals how Eretz Yisrael is not just a physical inheritance but a reflection of divine reality. When a Jew emigrates to the land of Israel, it’s called to make ‘Aliyah.’ Literally, to ascend. The source for this expression may be found in Parasha Ki Tisa:

ספר שמות פרק לג פסוק א

עֲלֵה מִזֶּה אַתָּה וְהָעָם אֲשֶׁר הֶעֱלִיתָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם אֶל הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר נִשְׁבַּעְתִּי לְאַבְרָהָם לְיִצְחָק וּלְיַעֲקֹב לֵאמֹר לְזַרְעֲךָ אֶתְּנֶנָּה:

“Go, ascend from here, you and the people you have brought up from the land of Egypt, to the land that I swore to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Ya’acov, saying: ‘I will give it to your descendants’” (Shemot 33:1). 

Rashi, citing Babylonian Talmud, Zevarim 54b) notes that the land of Israel is higher than all [other] lands. That is why it says, ‘ascend.’ This concept of ascending to the Land of Israel is not limited to typography. Rather, it alludes to the spiritual heights that can be attained in the Land of Israel. The Torah is replete with references to how the Land of Israel is intrinsically connected to the Shechinah, the Divine Presence. See for example, “You shall not defile the land where you reside, in which I dwell, for I am the Hashem Who dwells among the children of Israel (Bamidbar 35:34). Eretz Yisrael’s very identity is as a dwelling place for Hashem’s Presence. Thus, the absence of the Shechinah would not simply mean a lessened experience – it would undermine the very essence of the land. “…This is why Eretz Yisrael is called אֶרֶץ הַחַיִּים – the Land of the living. One who emigrates to Israel is called an עוֹלֶה/Oleh – ‘one who ascends,’ and one who leaves the Land is called a יוֹרֵד/Yored – ‘one who descends,’ just like hell is called She’ol, the underworld, which involves descent (Maharal of Prague, Be’er HaGola 6:13).

Why Would Sending an Angel to Accompany the Israelites be Catastrophic?

At first glance, Shemot 33:1 - 4 appears to focus on the punishment for the Israelites’ sin,  depriving them of direct divine accompaniment. However, we can also read this passage as a revelation of Eretz Yisrael’s true nature: a land inherently linked with the Shechinah. The very essence of the Holy Land is G-d’s Presence within her. Hashem’s statement, “I will not go up in your midst,” (Shemot 33:3) signified a devastating withdrawal of divine intimacy. The Jewish people mourned not just because of a punishment but because they understood that entering the land without divine closeness would be an empty, incomplete experience. The Bat Ayin expands on this idea, explaining that Eretz Yisrael is the only land where divine revelation is fully manifest in the physical world. Just as Shabbat is the spiritual core (nekudah penimit) of the week, so too is Eretz Yisrael the spiritual core of the world. Within Eretz Yisrael, Jerusalem, the Beit Hamikdash, and the Kodesh HaKodashim radiate holiness throughout the land and beyond (Bat Ayin, Parashat Masei). Thus, the land reflects the Shefa Eloki (divine influx) while this revelation is concealed outside the Land. Moshe protested against Hashem’s decision because an intermediary (an angel) would imply a spiritual distance, which is uncharacteristic of the holy Land. “Eretz Yisrael is beloved, for Hashem chose it. When He created the world, He assigned each land to an angelic minister, but He reserved the Land of Israel for Himself…” (Midrash Tanchuma, Parshat Re’eh 8). There are no angelic intermediaries in the Holy Land. Whereas angels are appointed in charge of Chutz LaAretz (Outside of Israel), in the Land of Israel only Hashem is in charge of Eretz Yisrael.

Eretz Yisrael as the Conduit of Redemption

ספר שמות פרק לד פסוק י

וַיֹּאמֶר הִנֵּה אָנֹכִי כֹּרֵת בְּרִית נֶגֶד כָּל עַמְּךָ… הִנְנִי גֹרֵשׁ מִפָּנֶיךָ אֶת הָאֱמֹרִי וְהַכְּנַעֲנִי וְהַחִתִּי וְהַפְּרִזִּי וְהַחִוִּי וְהַיְבוּסִי:

“Behold, I will form a covenant in the presence of all your people… For I will drive out before you the Emorite, the Canaanite, the Hittite, the Perizzite, the Hivite, and the Jebusite” (Shemot 34:10-11).

This promise is not just about physical conquest – it reflects a metaphysical process. According to Lurianic Kabbalah, Yisrael is the epicenter of tikkun olam (cosmic rectification). The process of elevating divine sparks begins in the Holy Land (See Arizal, Sha’ar Hamitzvot, Parashat Re’eh). The tikkun (rectification) of the world begins in the Holy Land. The expulsion of the seven nations occupying the land is not merely a military event but a necessary step in preparing the land to be a vessel for divine light. Rav Tzvi Yehuda Kook emphasized that every war for the land is a phase in Israel’s redemption. Moshe’s plea for divine presence reminds us that Eretz Yisrael is far more than a physical inheritance – it is the very place where heaven and earth can meet. As we navigate our own journey toward spiritual fulfillment, we look to the Land of Israel as a guiding light, a reminder that our highest purpose is to bring divine consciousness into the world.