"I Can't !"

"I can't". How many times have we said those two powerful words? How many times have we heard others say them to us. So much of our life we excuse ourselves from taking on responsibility with "I can't". Yet in our heart of hearts, I suspect, in many of those cases, we know we indeed can if we only but really want to!.


In a few days we will sit down to the seder. We will recite the Hagadah. If you recall, while essentially in keeping with the theme of Pesach, the story we will tell is of the slavery in Egypt and of the Exodus, we begin by remembering a far earlier experience, that of our ancestors being idolaters and Abraham choosing to reject their beliefs in favor of a commitment to Hashem.

The Michtav MaiEliyahu wonders about prefacing the story of Pesach with the earlier story of our father Avraham. He asks why do we need to begin with Avraham's rejection of idolatry. What's in Avraham's decision that needs to be remembered seder night?


He answers with a compelling insight. He notes that at times you and I are faced with a challenge. We know we need to make a certain decision, to change a behavior, or to take on a new direction in our lives. Yet we also know that all the forces lined up against us making that decision, change, or commitment make it feel near impossible to realize. In one regard we have the freedom to choose. Yet in another way we feel so constricted, so much limit ted by our circumstances. We want to choose, yet we feel we can't.

Its to this situation that we open the seder story to the experience of our father Avraham. No one was more pressed to conform to values in which he did not believe than Avraham. The whole world of his day held onto idolatry and with it a corresponding culture. More even than resisting the threat of the fiery furnace of Nimrod, Avraham resisted the daily pressures to surrender his belief in the one G-d with its concomitant values and join in the societal norms of the people with whom he lived. It would have been totally understandable had Avraham decided "I can't" and while holding on to his belief in the one G-d in private, accepted the inevitable in embracing the beliefs of the world of which he was a part in public.

Yet Avraham said "I can" and more "I will". He rose above the tide that threatened to engulf him. He persevered and with that not only remained true to his beliefs, he founded a people and changed a world.

Rav Dessler in his Michtav MaiEliyahu argues that we open the seder reading of Avraham because in his story we find our challenge, the challenge of what it really means to be a ben chorin, a person free. To be free we need to be able, like Avraham, to say "I can" even when it feels overwhelming to do so. Like Avraham we need to know that freedom is not about the ability to choose but about making choices. And real freedom is exercised precisely when all the forces around us make that decision difficult.

In truth, whats more amazing about Avraham's story, even beyond his choice, is that he remained a loving and accepting person. Most persons when they have to fight against the stream tend to become hard edged, tough, unbending as persons, zealots just so they can ride over all the pressures aligned against them and their choice. Avraham remained person devoted to hesed. He invited guests different than himself. He argued to save Sedom, those living a life antithetical to his values. He engaged his world and sought to change it rather than conquer it.

When you and I sit down to our seder to celebrate our G-d given gift of freedom we are reminded of Avraham's story. We are reminded that though all too often we say "No, we can't" in fact "Yes, we can!". And not only can we, but we don't have to become an achzor, a hard edged, constricted person in order to do so. We can say 'I can" and remain loving, tolerant and accepting.

And so as we prepare for our seder lets think about our "I can't"s. Let's consider which of them we might change to "I can" and without surrendering our compassion and resolve to love. More than a symbol of freedom, in changing "I can't" to "I can" we become free.

Lets make this Yom Tov indeed a z'man chairuteinu, the season of our freedom, for us as persons as well as for our people!

Shabbat Shalom

Chag Samayach

Being Called

This week we begin the third book of the Torah and read the parsha of Vayikra. It doesn't take us long to encounter something provocative. Already in the first word "vayikra", "And He called", we find a small aleph. Why? Moreover it's rather odd that the Torah should begin a book with "And He called". We would expect the verse to read "And Hashem called to Moshe", why the pronoun He, rather than Hashem's name? Only after it reads "And He called to Moshe" do we find reference to Hashem, as the pasuk concludes "...and Hashem spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting saying".

Rashi on this verse brings a fascinating Gemara that tells us of the uniqueness of Hashem's call. The Gemara explains the words "to him" in the first verse to mean that the voice emanated from Hashem but only Moshe was able to hear it. The rest of Israel did not hear anything. It was exclusively "to him".

Rebbe Nachman understood all the above to be telling us something, not just about Moshe, but about ourselves and our relationship to Hashem. He taught that G-d tries to convey messages to each of us and at all times. G-d, however, does not speak to us directly, but through the medium of his creations. Everything we encounter from the flowers in the field to the butcher behind the meat counter, has some message for us from G-d.

Its not a loud message. It does not beg to be heard. No, on the contrary, its a small voice, and often obfuscated by other sounds and easily missed. Rebbe Nachman said, that's the meaning of the small aleph in the word vayikra, to teach us that in order to be called we have to pay attention, because the voice by which we are called is a soft and quiet one. Like Moshe, we too are called, but also like Moshe, the calling is with a small aleph, and unless we are attentive we will miss it.

And further Rebbe Nachman said, the message Hashem sends out to us is a personal one. Like the Talmud says about the call to Moshe, our message too can only be heard by us. No one else will perceive it. And likely many will doubt its authenticity, though we for whom it was sent, and who heard it with our own ears and eyes, know it to be true.

The work Rebbe Nachman would tell us is to cultivate the ability to listen. If we devote ourselves to the work of listening and we are really prepared to hear then, like Moshe, we too will be called. It won't be the direct voice of Hashem. We are not prophets. But it will be the He of vayikra. And once we hear it we will know it to be Hashem speaking to us as the verse concludes "....and Hashem spoke to him...".

I found this insight powerful. So much of our avoda to Hashem we think of in terms of doing.
We run from one mitzvah to another. We are busy talking, thinking, acting in the service of Hashem. What we rarely do is listen. We don't listen to each other. We don't listen to the universe that speaks to each of us the unique personal message of Hashem.
When we have a problem we pray, we give tzedaka, we ask advice. We rarely just wait with attentive ears to hear the meaning and message in our struggle, a message only available to us, and only if we will listen for it with an open heart.

The parsha is teaching us that a prerequisite to kedusha, the sanctification, that is the theme of the book of Vayikra is to learn to listen to the small but clear voice of Hashem that calls to us.
Its not enough to know by study. Its not enough to teach and preach. Its not enough to do mitzvot with meticulous attention. If I want to be holy I need to listen. I need to hear G-d's call to me. I need to hear the unique message I am meant to hear and ultimately abide.

If I haven't yet heard G-d's voice to me it does not mean there is no message. No, it means I have not been sufficiently attentive or worse I have unknowingly blocked myself from hearing what I do not want to hear. Because indeed G-d uses his creations to deliver His messages to us and at all times.

So as they say in the vernacular, lets you and I, listen up!

Shabbat Shalom

Gifting G-d

This week, in the parsha of Vayakhel and Pekudai, we come to the close of the second book of the Torah and as well conclude the discussion of the building of the Mishkan, the sanctuary of G-d in the wilderness. In the mostly technical reading, we read of a wonderful problem faced by Moshe and the Mishkan's artisans. The Torah says, " And the wise men who were doing all the sacred work came to Moshe, each from his respective assignment. And they said to Moshe, "The people are bringing to us more than we require for the work that G-d assigned for us to do"". We are told that in response Moshe made a announcement in the Camp that no one should any longer bring raw materials to the Mishkan, that indeed they had enough.

If the Israelites of the wilderness had their issues, stinginess was not one of them. Our ancestors were clearly generous. When it came to building the Golden Calf, to Aharon's disappointment, they immediately gave of their gold and silver. With the Mishkan, lehavdil, they exceeded the needs with their voluntary gifts of fine fabrics, gold, silver, other metals and jewels.

But I think its important to distinguish between the giving in the instance of the Golden Calf from the giving in the building of the Mishkan. When the Israelite's gave for the Golden Calf they were essentially giving for themselves. They were afraid and perceived themselves alone. They wanted security. The generosity they expressed for the idolatrous Calf was a response to their anxiety. It never was about giving but rather about getting.

The generosity the Israelites expressed in the building of the Mishkan was pure. They were giving for G-d, so He might have a home in their midst. They didnt have a personal stake in this.
Their needs were already being met. They were provided food and sustenance daily. The Shekhina provided shelter. The Torah tells us that the forty years in the wilderness even their clothes never wore out. There were no plaques in the Mishkan for which a person might get kavod for his/her donation. No one was poor. No one was deprived. When our parents gave to the building of the Mishkan, it was not about winning favor with G-d. They had no ulterior motive. They had all they needed. Their gift was indeed a gift. The quality of the gift made it suitable for kedusha, holiness, worthy for being formed into the House of G-d.

How rare it is for a gift to be so pure. Our sages have long ago taught us that the only pure kindness we do in this world is with the dead. Caring for the dead, washing the body, engaging in the burial, paying tribute, is called a chesed shel emet, a kindness of truth. It is the only kindness we do where we have no thought at all of being paid back in kind. The dead can't repay us. Every other kindness, even where a purity of heart prevails, is in some way tainted. Its impossible to give to another without some measure, albeit small, of self interest.

Have you ever thought of giving a gift to G-d? You are astounded by my question? You say to me, "What are you talking about?. I daven every day and learn several times a week. I keep Shabbat and make sure my children grow up committed to the faith. Every day of my life I am giving to G-d".

Ok, you make a point. But when we do what we do, in accord with what G-d wants of us, do we perceive ourselves as giving Him a gift. Are we not just making sure we stay on G-d's good side.
We are, after all, not the Generation of the Wilderness, we have many many needs and life for us is always uncertain. Sure we do what G-d asks of us, but is it for ourselves or for Him. Do we perceive G-d as needing something from us even as in the wilderness our ancestors were called upon by G-d to give Him a gift in order to build the Mishkan.

You shake your head and wonder what I am getting at. Well let me tell you what happened to me this week. Each shmoneh esray, silent prayer that I say, if my kavana is okay, at the close, I make a specific petition that Hashem should help me find the right shidduch. I include other single people I know longing for the right zivug in my prayer as well, and by name. One morning it occurred to me, Hashem too, the very Hashem I pray too for our shidduch, is pained for being separated from His beloved. Galut, the Exile, causes the Shekhina to suffer. Its not only for me/us that we want the Beit Hamikdash rebuilt. G-d wants it, even more urgently than us.
I thought how is it that I pray for my shidduch and for those I know and don't daven for Hashem to know the joy He so much wants with His children. Why don't I pray for Hashem's sake. How is it that all my prayers, even those that are focused on spiritual matters fail to be cognizant of Hashem and, if its possible to say, His longing!

I realized then that with all the mitzvot we do, I suspect few of us focus on giving to Hashem, on feeling His pain. Rather we focus on receiving from him, on getting our needs met, both physical and spiritual. We dont feel G-d suffering. We feel our own, even in matters of the spirit. Even when we pray for the end of the Exile and the building of the Bait Hamikdash, for our teshuva, its all about us, all very self absorbing. Who has shed tears for G-d?

In the midbar Hashem needed the gifts of Klal Yisrael. They were able to give with a purity of heart. From those gifts the holiest place on earth was built, the Mishkan. G-d had a home with His children. We can't build the Beit Hamikdash today. We can't donate the gold and material. What we can do is tell Hashem how much we want to. We can tell Him how much we want to build a home for Him. How much it hurts us that His Shekhina is in exile, that He is broken and not complete. No, more than tell Him. We can show Him. We can shed a tear for G-d.

The greatest gift we have to give Hashem is our heart. I don't mean our heart as in doing His mitzvot. I mean our heart as in feeling with Him His longing for the ultimate redemption.
May we both soon be united with our shidduch!

Shabbat Shalom

The Measuring Stick

Few episodes in the wilderness story of the People of Israel are as inscrutable as the story of the Golden Calf. Here the nation only just received the Torah at Sinai. They were daily recipients of the manna, special bread from heaven. They had witnessed miracle after miracle in there behalf. Yet when Moshe ascends the mountain to bring down the luchot habrit, the Tablets of the Covenant, and is, in their estimation, tardy in his return, they immediately revert to the idolatry of their past and indulge in the worship of a graven image.

Many of our greatest Torah commentaries have sought to explain this startling and calamitous turn of events. But for us and the purpose of this blog, which asks us to think about what the Torah story says to us about ourselves, the question is more personal. How are we like the generation of the midbar? In what ways do we have a similar propensity to slip badly in times of crisis and return to habits and behaviors in our past, habits and behaviors we long thought we had over-come.
I mean, it does no good to learn the Parsha and its story simply as a part of the history of our people. We need to ask ourselves, where am I in the story? How might I be vulnerable like my ancestors and what can I learn from them?

The first point that seems relevant to understanding the human side to the tragedy of the Egel Hazahav, The Golden Calf, is to realize that the sin happened in a crisis environment. The People found themselves alone in the wilderness without a leader. They could not go back and did not know how to go forward. All the coping mechanisms they had known, few indeed since they were a slave nation, were absent. In moments of crisis regression is natural.

In the recovery community, whether dealing with recovering alcoholics or gamblers, what we know is crisis makes people vulnerable to relapse. Its hard not to rely on the old, even though it be harmful, to get you by, when you have little experience trusting the new. In relationships, even those who fought so hard to separate from a bad spouse will often be tempted to return to him/her if they find themselves in a crisis and frightened.
Over and over again in moments of fear people return to harmful situations, thinking, " bad as it was then at least in that environment I survived." In crisis one often is only thinking about what it takes to survive.

Crisis often reduces us to childlike ways of thinking. We feel powerless to fend for ourselves. We so desperately want to hang on to something. We may make all kinds of deals with G-d if He saves us from our plight. We may give magical qualities to some Tzadik or to some tikun believing that he/it will save us. We need answers; we need deliverance. We struggle to find our mature spiritual self, the one that can find balance in a storm and say "no matter what happens Hashem is with me". "Gam kee alylech b'gay tzalmavet lo irara, kee ata imadi. " Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil for You are with me".
In crisis its not that there is no G-d for us. Its that there is no me. I lose myself.

In recent memory there was no time of national crisis like the years of the Holocaust. The crisis brought out both the best and worst in people. And it was not really possible to predict who would rise above their circumstances and demonstrate greatness of character, be generous, self sacrificing and heroic in caring for their suffering brethren. And who would succumb to the fear, become predatory, do whatever it took to survive, even if it meant taking from others suffering alongside them. Its no wonder our Sages taught "al taamin b'atzmecha ad yom motcha", "Don't be sure of your self until the day you die".

No, the fall of the People of Israel at the time of the worship of the Golden Calf should not surprise us. They had not yet developed the coping skills to respond to crisis. And we can find a bit of our ancestors in each of us. Its rare for the best in us to come out in crisis. More likely we will look for safety and survival, perhaps not in a Golden Calf, chas vshalom, but in familiar ports often neither good for us nor manifestations of authentic faith.

Yet crisis is the nisayon, the testing by which we may truly measure ourselves. While we don't seek out the crisis that tests us, we need to know that only in those times can we really see who we have grown to become and how much more we yet have to do. Crisis is in many ways the instrument of discernment. For most of us, crisis is humbling, it inevitably shows us we are far from being as complete as we once thought ourselves to be !

Shabbat Shalom

Making Memory

This week we mark Shabbat Zachor. Beyond the sequential Torah portion we read weekly, we read from a second scroll of the mitzvah to eradicate, not only the people but even the zaicher, memory, of Amalek from the earth.

Truth be told, there is no greater human tragedy than to be erased from memory. When we speak of the ultimate villains of history. like Hitler, we mention their name and then immediately add yemach shmo, may his name be forever blotted out.
Surprisingly the Torah tell us that if someone dies without children they run the risk of having their name blotted out. It is for that reason the Torah requires the mitzvah of Yibum, the levirate marriage. The brother of the deceased is to marry his childless widow so a child will be born "...al shem acheve hamet, vlo yemacha shemo byisrael" "...in the name of his deceased brother so that his name will not be blotted out from Israel".

We might wonder about the connection between the man or woman who dies childless and the nefarious villains of history. About both it seems the term yemacha shmo, blotted name, is used. Yet the person who dies without having had children may well be a great tzaddik, someone who has done great good and for many. How is it that we refer to their circumstances as alike. Can it be possible that the good person who dies childless really incurred the horrific curse of yemach shmo that we reserve for the worst perpetrators of evil?

Unconditionally the answer is "No!". One who dies without leaving children indeed sadly has his/her name blotted out. To mitigate the tragedy the Torah gave us the mitzvah of Yibum.
However it is not the same at all as the curse we hurl on history's villains. Of them we dont just say "yemach shmo". What we say is "yemach shmo v'zechro". For those who create great evil we do more than talk about the blotting out of a name. Like for the Amalekites, we call for the blotting out of their names and memory. Good people may not be able to continue to keep their name alive in this world without having had children, but they can do much to preserve their zecher, memory.

Worse than being remembered for bad, is not being remembered at all. Think about it. How many a notorious criminal was pleased to know that they would never be forgotten. It did not matter to them that their acts would leave them on the bad guys list. It was only important that they left a mark and would be remembered. They were not satisfied doing the little evil, that might go unnoticed or have a limited lifespan of memory. They wanted to do the big evil, one that would go down in history.

When Hashem calls for Amalek, the nation who personified evil, to receive the ultimate penalty for there unpardonable sin, He calls for their memory to be blotted out. We are to remove any indication that Amalek ever existed. In the end of days, when this mitzvah is fulfilled as it supposed to be, Amalek will, as it were, disappear, in name, in deed,and in memory. It will be as if they never were.

I will share with you something deeply personal. Some 2 1/2 years ago my wife passed away of metastatic cancer. She was only 54. She left an only child, a 13 year old daughter. Before she died she confided to me something. She told me she was entirely accepting of her untimely death, that she in fact had bargained for it. You see, Pamela was a cancer survivor and for many many years. Ten years earlier a spot had shown up on her lung, a recurrence of the cancer that had been in remission for many years and of the same cancer that eventually took her life.
At that time she pleaded with G-d not to take her. She said to G-d "Please don't take me now. My daughter is so young. Please just give me ten years. Just enough time so Bess will remember me. That's all I ask." Pamela then told me, the ten years just concluded. Her prayers were answered.
It was time to accept.

Sometimes when I tell that story people assume that Pamela would have wanted the ten years so she could help her daughter grow. I can see on their face that they are a bit surprised she bargained for the time for what might be seen as selfish motives. She wanted her only child to remember her.

What the puzzled person does not understand is how basic the desire is within each of us to leave a zecher, a remembrance. The greatest curse is to die as if you never lived. The victory over Amalek will never be complete until there is no memory of them left in the world. For the dying their is no comfort like in knowing they will be remembered.

In marking Shabbat Zachor perhaps it would be useful to not only focus on the evil we need to remember to eradicate from memory. We would do well to remember as well the zecher that will be our nechama someday when life is ebbing away. Leaving a meaningful zecher is not about one great gift or heroic act. Leaving a zecher is the work of a lifetime and as much evidenced in the little acts of kindness and often to those closest to us.

After a hundred and twenty years, when our time comes, may it be said of us "zichrono levracha", that indeed our memory is a blessing.

Shabbat Shalom

When to Help Is to Hurt

At the Shabbat table, when the host slices the challah, he is not to distribute the pieces to the guests one at a time, placing a piece in the hand of each guest. Rather he is to place the sliced challah on a common plate and let each guest take a piece for him/herself.
According to the Shulchan Aruch only a mourner may be given a slice in his/her hand directly(perhaps this is only true during the week when the laws of aveilut prevail).

The reason the host may not put bread in the hands of his guests is because it is demeaning to them. It is one thing to offer another of your hospitality. It is another to make him/her feel dependent. When the bread is offered and the guest takes, s/he is asserting his/her independence. S/he is choosing to take. When bread is put in the hands of the guest s/he is made to feel infantilized, fed by another. Even when giving one may not do so in such a manner as to lord over the recipient. Only for the the aveil, who, in his/her time of loss, is dependent on the care of the community, are we permitted and indeed encouraged to feed even by hand.

The sensitivity of halacha to the dynamics of human relationships is extraordinary. The host may intend only to benefit his/her guest. The guest may only feel gratitude for the food s/he is served. Yet if the way of giving creates an imbalance that makes the one superior and the other dependent, it is unacceptable.

Perhaps this helps explain a troubling pasuk in this week's parsha of Teruma. In charging Moshe with the work of collecting gifts for the construction of the Mishkan, the sanctuary in the wilderness, the Torah says, "From every man who makes a voluntary offering you shall take my teruma."
The verse seems conflicted. If the person makes a "voluntary offering" then why will Moshe "take" it. If its voluntary it will be "given" not "taken". We would expect the pasuk to read "From every man who makes a voluntary offering you shall receive...." rather that take.

In accord with the halacha we just discussed above we may understand here the Torah's intent.
Yes, each person may want to give to build the Mishkan. He may feel a generosity of spirit. And his gift is indeed desired and needed. Yet it is unbecoming for him to give. To give, whether to G-d or another, directly is to set-up the donor in a position of superiority relative to the recipient. It creates a unacceptable imbalance and the potential for the donor to believe himself G-d-like in sustaining those dependent on him.

That is entirely unacceptable. The most the benefactor to the Mishkan was permitted was to open his heart and make his gift available. Then it was for Moshe to take the gift, even as we take the challah from the plate of our host. We do not give to another in such a way as to make the other feel small. If its at all possible, we give in such a way so as to allow him/her to retain his/her dignity. Even in helping there are ways that sustain and ways that diminish.

A wise friend, who I often call my Resh Lakish, shared with me an interesting application of this concept. Like many of us , on the streets of Yerushalayim, the friend often gets asked for donations by people giving away small booklets or other items. Typically the friend will give a donation and decline to take the item distributed. Yet, on reflection, the friend remarked, it would be better to take the booklet offered. Not because the friend wanted it. But rather because it let the other retain his/her dignity. In accepting the booklet the tzedaka becomes more like a sale, as it were, even if only in form, and the recipient feels less compromised.

To learn how to give is an art, not only with the poor who we don't know, but even with our friends in their time of need. We need to think how we can help without making the other feel diminished or beholden to us. We need to think how we might give without engendering the sense of helplessness that makes a person feel small. The Rambam already outlined his 7 levels of giving Tzedakah, with sensitivity to the needy. We need to apply the same ideas to other spheres of our lives where help is needed but should be given so as to minimize the hurt of the one receiving in the process.

Shabbat Shalom

Between Pain and Suffering

What's the difference between pain and suffering? Two words that seem very similar. Yet they actually convey things much different from each other. Pain is a neurological phenomena. It is measurable, predictable and can be treated with pills, ointments or sometimes medical procedures. Suffering is the meaning we give to our pain. It is unique to an individual and his/her circumstances. Inasmuch as it relates to the individual no physiological intervention will remedy it. Only addressing the person has possibility to bring relief.

OK, there you have the key idea. Let's unpack it. Two people can have quantifiably the same amout of physiological pain, go through the same experience, and yet it will engender totally different feelings. One may be having a baby, something long hoped for and desired. The experience of labor produces considerable pain. But since the mother-to-be is fulfilling a long standing work of meaning she finds it entirely bearable. The other is tragically giving birth to a stillborn.
She has the same labor. Yet it feels not the same at all. She is grieving. Unlike the first woman, her labor will produce no joy. Neurologically they may be experiencing something similar. In reality one is suffering far more than the other.

The pain of healing does not feel the same as the pain of woundedness. The pain caused in realizing something of purpose does not feel the same as the pain caused by something we feel as meaningless. To a person whose world seems bleak a hang nail can be more intolerable than knee surgery to the person whose life is full. In truth what most often measures our discomfort is suffering, not pain. The interpretation we put on our experience causes us to feel it differently.
Sometimes it matters more that we treat the person, help them to re-interpret their experience, so as to bring relief rather than treat the symptom, no matter how severe.

The Parsha of Mishpatim is the gateway to realize this important truth. Near the reading's close we are told that Moshe, Aharon, Nadav and Avihu and the seventy Elders all saw the G-d of Israel. The pasuk there says "....and under His feet was the like of a sapphire brick, similar to the heaven in clarity."

What is this sapphire brick that they saw? Rashi interprets the verse to say that G-d kept a brick near him to forever remember the suffering of the Israelites in Egypt. Even when G-d could not save us he felt our woundedness. When at last the Israelites were redeemed that very brick became aglow with the clarity of the heavens. And G-d continues to cherish it.

There is much to think about in both the verse and in Rashi's commentary. But let me just focus on one small point. Okay, so Hashem felt with us the slavery in Egypt. Thats why he kept the brick under His feet. But why was it sapphire? sapphire is such a noble material. It should have been straw and mortar the materials of which the real bricks were made.

The answer is oh so compelling. Yes, for us, we experienced the suffering of the Egyptian slavery all the more because we were building structures to satisfy human egos. We gave our lives to edify the foolish desires of the Pharaoh. The work would have been enough to crush us. It was made all the worse because we saw it as meaningless.

On Sinai Hashem revealed the brick beneath His feet, the symbol of the very brick of Egypt, the bricks of our torment.
And low and behold it was not straw and mortar but sapphire. Why? Because even though we saw ourselves as enslaved to no purpose, in fact we were all the while being molded by that very experience of slavery, through those very bricks, into the people we would yet become.
We were forged in Egypt through our suffering. It was not really meaningless at all. Through our struggle we grew the inner character to become G-d's people. We never realized it. The bricks we toiled with were not the bricks of mortar and straw that served the evil Pharaoh. They were indeed the bricks of sapphire that transformed a nation.

The message we may well take from here is that all our suffering has meaning. We need to simply be open to what it offers us. Perhaps the message of our suffering is not clear to us now. But it has meaning nonetheless. Suffering is never without purpose. In knowing that, we have the capacity to transform bricks from straw and mortar to sapphire and to limit the overwhelming nature of our suffering, if not our pain.

Our suffering is not the junk of our life. It is as vital to our becoming as the stuff we deem pleasurable and maybe more so. We often cannot change our circumstances. We can always change our attitude towards our circumstances. And in realizing that even that which feels bad has meaning and purpose, we can find the wherewithal to endure.

Shabbat Shalom