Rabbi Berel Wein zt”l

The Jew and the World

In this week’s Parsha, we encounter a Pasuk that reverberates throughout all of Jewish life and history. Of course, every Pasuk in the Torah does. But this one carries a particular resonance: “Eicha ya’avdu ha’goyim ha’eileh…—How do these nations worship their gods? V’e’eseh kein gam ani—and I too will do the same” (Devarim 12:30).

Moshe Rabbeinu forewarns the people that they will come to such a state of being, to such a question, at some point in their national and spiritual journey.

The commentaries disagree as to the exact meaning of this verse. Rashi, citing the Gemara (Sanhedrin 60b-61a), explains that this refers to the specific ways in which idols were worshipped. Take, for example, the idol Markulis (which some identify with Mercury, the Greek god). The service of Markulis consisted of throwing stones at the statue. That act—throwing stones—was the way its worshippers honored it. Interestingly, we see vestiges of this practice still today in Mecca, where Muslims throw stones at the Kaaba. It is a direct inheritance from ancient paganism.

Therefore, according to Rashi, if a Jew throws stones at Markulis, he violates Avodah Zarah, because that is its established form of worship. But what if a Jew does not throw stones? What if instead he washes it—an abnormal form of worship—the way Buddhists do to Buddha? From Rashi’s reading of the Gemara, that alone would not constitute the particular violation of Avodah Zarah specific to Markulis. The violation only occurs if the Jew performs the actual service uniquely associated with that idol (or performs a common form of worship customarily carried out in service of Hashem in the Beis Hamikdash, such as slaughtering an animal; see ibid. 60b). Washing an idol, however, falls under a different and more general category of prohibited idol worship, stemming from a different Scriptural source, namely, “Lo ta’avdeim—You shall not bow down to them” (Shemos 23:24; see Rashi, Sanhedrin, ad loc.).

Other commentaries reject Rashi’s explanation and interpret the Gemara differently. They hold that any form of service, any act of honor given in the name of an idol—even washing an idol— is Avodah Zarah in its pure and direct form. This is the meaning of the Pasuk “V’shem elohim acheirim lo tazkiru—Do not mention the names of other gods” (ibid. 23:13). The Torah demands complete separation from Avodah Zarah, in every shape and form.

The Rambam explains that the central purpose of many mitzvos overall is to distance us from idolatry (see Moreh Nevuchim 3:29). Avodah Zarah was, and remains, an overwhelming human attraction. Without strict prohibitions, mankind would be unable to resist it. And idolatry is not limited to statues and shrines, but appears in many forms.

What takes primacy in your life? What defines your choices, your values, your purpose? That can become your idol. Money, power, ideology all can be Avodah Zarah.

Jack Benny, the old American comedian, had a famous sketch in which a mugger puts a gun to his head and says, “Your money or your life.” Benny pauses for a very long time. Finally the mugger shouts, “I said, your money or your life!” Benny replies, “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” That pause—valuing wealth nearly as much as life itself—is idolatry.

This is precisely Moshe Rabbeinu’s warning. Israel’s struggle throughout history will not only be against external threats, but against the inner temptation to follow the world, to conform to the majority. Can it be, we ask, that fifty million Frenchmen are wrong? Can it be that the whole world is mistaken, and only a handful of Jews hold the truth? And because it is so hard to be the minority, the despised minority, the Torah warns, “Eicha ya’avdu… v’e’eseh kein gam ani”—beware of the pull to say, “I will do the same.”

The Gemara (Shabbos 67a) as well introduces the category of Darkei Emori, the ways of the nations. This does not always mean actual idol worship. Sometimes it refers to customs and habits of pagan society, which the Torah instructs us to avoid. If you imitate pagan behavior, eventually you absorb the mindset of the pagans themselves.

But how far does this go? Jewish history is filled with debates.

Germany vs. Eastern Europe: In 18th- and 19th-century Germany, Reform synagogues introduced organs into services, imitating churches. Organs were prohibited outright in Orthodox practice, but choirs became contentious. Orthodox German synagogues allowed male choirs, while Eastern European Jews recoiled, calling those shuls “chor shuls” and crossing the street rather than pass by them. Even if it enhanced the service, they felt it was Darkei Emori.

Flowers on Shavuot: A longstanding Jewish custom is to decorate synagogues with greenery for Shavuot, recalling the natural beauty of Mount Sinai at the giving of the Torah. The Vilna Gaon forbade this practice in the 1700s, arguing that churches adopted similar decorations, especially around Easter. Even though the Jewish practice was older, he held that once the non-Jews made it theirs, it must be abandoned. Many disagreed, and the custom continues widely today, though often with artificial flowers, a subtle compromise.

Clerical Robes: In Germany and England, rabbis often wore formal clerical robes, influenced by Christian clergy. In Eastern Europe, this was never accepted. The clothing of a talmid chacham noted in the Talmud was a special turban or hat (see Berachos 60b; Kiddushin 31a). Hats became deeply important in Jewish identity, but not robes. Nevertheless, in Germanic communities, robes persisted as a symbol of dignity. When I became a rabbi in Miami Beach, the founders of my small shul, of German origin, insisted I wear such robes. It was against my nature, so after a few months I stopped. They objected, saying, “It’s our custom.” We compromised, and for a while I wore formal attire on Shabbos, as though attending a wedding. Eventually I stopped that too. But the question lingered: was this Darkei Emori or not?

The Rambam, the great rationalist, pushed this principle even further. He taught that Jews must avoid not only idolatry, but all superstition (see Rambam, Hilchos Teshuva 5:4). There are no lucky numbers, no unlucky days, no omens, no charms. In the Tosefta (see Tosefta Shabbos Ch. 7), many superstitions are listed, and all are considered Darkei Emori.

Exile blurred these boundaries. Living for centuries among Polish Catholics or German Protestants, Jews inevitably absorbed local customs. Bread and salt to welcome guests, for example, was a Polish tradition that became ingrained in Jewish life. Some practices endured without objection. Others—like red strings—remain controversial, yet persist because they gained emotional or cultural weight.

The Rambam gives a striking example in his commentary to the Mishnah (Pesachim 4:9). The Gemara (Pesachim 56a) records that King Chizkiyahu hid away the Sefer Refuot—the “Book of Medicines”—so that people would not rely on it. Rashi (ibid. 56a) explains that people had stopped praying to Hashem, turning instead to the remedies of this book, and so Chizkiyahu removed it.

The Rambam forcefully rejects this. He argues that if the book contained genuine cures, Chizkiyahu would have had no right to hide it. Hashem provided healing in nature, and it must be used. Rather, the book contained quack remedies and superstitions tied to Avodah Zarah. That is why it was destroyed. The Rambam obliquely criticizes Rashi’s view, refusing to name him but saying, “I heard a wise man explain differently, but it cannot be correct.” His principle is clear: what works, works. What does not is Avodah Zarah.

This tension between influence and integrity is constant. Even Napoleon once visited a shtiebel in Poland and, seeing the noise and tumult, remarked, “How clever are the Jews! They even have separate services for the insane.” What looked to him like chaos was to us authenticity, refusal to imitate the church’s “decorum.”

Throughout history, Jews have had to ask: where is the line? How do we distinguish between what is permitted custom and what is forbidden imitation? Sometimes we erred on the side of stringency, other times of accommodation. But the Pasuk remains our guide: “Eicha ya’avdu ha’goyim… v’e’eseh kein gam ani.” How do these nations worship their gods?

Our world today, like theirs, is filled with mixtures: traditions, superstitions, imitations, and innovations. Moshe Rabbeinu’s warning is as relevant as ever. We must be true to halacha, faithful to Torah, wary of imitation, and vigilant against superstition.

To be a Jew is to resist the easy conformity of the world around us. It is to remain steadfast, even as a small minority, saying “no” when the world says “yes.” That is our calling, our challenge, and our strength.

Rabbi Paysach Krohn

Four Commitments for Klal Yisrael

You might remember July 4th, 1976, the Bicentennial of the United States. Two hundred years of American history were being celebrated across the nation. Everything was red, white, and blue.

At that time, I had a little minhag. Since I am a mohel, at every bris I would distribute baby yarmulkes. When the New York Mets were winning, for example, I gave out orange and blue. And in July of 1976, in honor of the Bicentennial, I gave out red, white, and blue.

But that same summer, something else happened; something far more significant than parades and fireworks. An Air France plane traveling from Israel to Paris, with a stopover in Athens, was hijacked. It was diverted to a place most of us had never heard of before: Entebbe, Uganda. The country was ruled by a raving madman who threatened to murder every Jew on board. Non-Jewish passengers were released, and only the Jews remained captive.

Israel was gripped with fear. Everyone knew someone—or knew someone who knew someone—on that plane. And so, a Yom Tefillah, a day of prayer, was proclaimed. It was to be held in the Mir Yeshiva in Jerusalem, the largest yeshiva building available, able to hold a thousand people. Everyone knew who would lead the prayers: the elderly Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Chaim Shmulevitz zt”l.

The Beis Midrash was packed, the tension so thick you could feel it. Rav Chaim emerged from his small apartment across the hall, took one look at the crowd, sensed the weight of the moment, and sat down. And then he began to cry. A thousand people sat in silence, listening to their Rosh Yeshiva weep.

Finally, he gathered himself, walked slowly down the aisle, ascended to the Aron Kodesh, kissed it, and turned to address the crowd. At first, no words would come. His lips trembled, his whole body shaking. And then he spoke one sentence, just one:

“Daven as if it was your father, your mother, your brother, your sister on that plane.”

That was all he said. And then the tefillah began.

That one line is everything. It is how we must approach our davening today. We have been reciting names, saying Tehillim, praying for soldiers and praying for hostages for months and months. And sometimes, when the words are repeated endlessly, the heart grows dull. Rav Chaim’s instruction remains our compass: Pray as if it were your own family.

One article in the Wall Street Journal carried a heartbreaking testimony. When Sahar Kalderon, who was held hostage for 52 days was released, her father remained in captivity. She wrote that when told she was going home, she begged, “Can I see my father one more time?” They allowed her a brief visit. She barely recognized him, though, with his long hair, an unkempt beard and terror in his eyes. They embraced, held each other, and wept. That was the last time she saw him.

Imagine if it were your father. Your mother. Your child. That is how we must pray.

And so, I’d like to share four practical commitments that we can each undertake. These are not my ideas. They come straight from Chazal.

First: Torah.

A few months ago, my grandson, Donny, called me. “Zaidy, could you come to my siyum?” Of course, I thought he meant he was finishing a Gemara. But he said, “No, Zaidy, I’m finishing Tanach.” I was astonished. He explained that he had joined the Nach Yomi program, founded by a man in Toronto, Reb Shia Hershkowitz.

Years ago, after his father passed away, Shia decided to do something meaningful l’iluy nishmaso. He began learning one chapter of Tanach every day. If a chapter was long, he split it into two or three. Soon, others in Toronto joined him. First it was a hundred people, then more. Within three to four years, they completed the cycle and began again.

When I saw that my grandson had done it, I joined. And I confess, I’m addicted. Every day I learn a chapter.

Often, Nach is neglected. Men, women and children should learn Tanach, and with ArtScroll, it is accessible, in Hebrew or in English.  So let us make this first commitment: More Torah.

Second: Gratitude.

We are all children of Hashem, and when our children are grateful, we long to give them more. Even if they aren’t, we still give; but when they are, our hearts overflow. Do we show enough gratitude to Hashem?

Let me give two examples.

Asher Yatzar. Every day, multiple times a day, we say this bracha. If our body’s openings were blocked or ruptured, we could not live. Let us take nine seconds to stand still and recite Asher Yatzar with kavanah. A woman once pointed out to me that the bracha itself says, “If these systems didn’t work, we couldn’t even stand before You.” So yes, let us stand still, unmoving and undisturbed, and say it with feeling.

Birchas HaMazon. We say three specific words: Hashem sustains us, “B’chein, b’chesed, u’v’rachamim— With love, kindness and mercy.” Why these three?

Chein refers to the appearance of food. Hashem could have made all nourishment gray and bland, like vitamin pills. Instead He gave us beauty: kiwi, chocolate mousse, sushi, whatever delights the eye.

Chesed refers to the taste. Every person has their favorites, such as pizza, steak or even cholent. Hashem could have made food tasteless, but instead He gave us pleasure.

Rachamim refers to the nutrition, the fact that food sustains life.

When we thank Hashem for food, let us remember: He didn’t need to make it beautiful or delicious. That was a gift of love.

Third: Tehillim.

Too often, Tehillim is said by rote, while people are already putting away their tallis and tefillin. But to say Tehillim properly is to channel Dovid HaMelech’s life. He suffered endlessly, with enemies everywhere, two sons who tried to kill him, a king who wanted him dead, siblings who dismissed him, and yet he never despaired. He poured his heart into song after song of trust in Hashem. That is why Tehillim works.

Some schools now assign each student a soldier’s name. When they say Tehillim, they think of that soldier. Others teach one kapitel, such as Shir HaMa’alos mi’ma’amakim (130), with its translation, and have the children say it every day with understanding. This is the model for us too. Don’t just say Tehillim; feel it.

Fourth: Tzedakah.

Shlomo Hamelech tells us: “Tzedakah tatzil mimaves—Charity saves from death” (Mishlei 10:2). This is true not only with one’s own life, but the life of another.

The Arizal prescribes that when saying the words in davening, “V’atah moshel bakol” as part of the larger verse, “V’ha’osher v’ha’kavod mil’fanecha v’atah moshel bakol—Wealth and honor are Yours, You rule over everything,” a person should place three coins in the tzedakah box. This reminds us that our money is not ours, but Hashem’s. We are merely His trustees. That recognition is itself transformative.

It doesn’t matter if it’s five hundred dollars or three cents. What matters is that each day we perform the act, acknowledging Hashem’s sovereignty over our resources.

And finally, beyond these four commitments, there is one more: love for each other.

A boy once asked Rav Matisyahu Salomon zt”l if he could attend the circus, since the Mashgiach had said it wasn’t appropriate. Rav Matisyahu gently told him no, and the boy, disappointed, agreed. The Mashgiach squeezed his hand and said, “We’re still friends, right?” Months later, Rav Matisyahu surprised the boy by showing up at his bar mitzvah. Surprised by Rav Matisyahu’s arrival, he explained, “We’re still friends. How could I not come?” That is love, and that is how to make a child feel special.

A seventy-year-old man who lost his leg in the Six-Day War travels every day to sit among the wounded soldiers, without his prosthesis. Why? To show them life is not over. He remarried, worked, raised children and became a grandfather. Visiting them shows that if he survived and rebuilt his life, they can too. If you have endured suffering and emerged whole, you have an obligation to put your arm around others in pain and tell them, “If I made it, you will too.”

We all know the story of Rabbi Akiva. He saw water dripping on stone, carving a hole, and realized that if soft water can pierce hard rock, surely Torah can penetrate the human heart. But in Avos d’Rebbi Nasan (6:2), the account has two extra words: pam achas—he saw it once. He didn’t pass that brook every day, musing. He saw it once, and in that moment, he made a decision that changed his life.

Sometimes Hashem sends us one story, one Pasuk, one moment. And if we are brave enough to act, everything changes.