Rabbi Shraga Kallus

The Jewish Victory

The Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 30:3) teaches that after Yom Kippur, Klal Yisrael emerges carrying the lulav and esrog in our hands, which reflects the notion of, “Didan natzach —We have won.” We have emerged victorious from the judgment of Yom Kippur, and the Daled Minim are our weapons we carry to demonstrate our victory.

But there is something curious about that image. When a nation wins a war, soldiers do not generally celebrate by raising their weapons into the air. They raise their flag. The flag announces that the battle is over and that victory has been achieved. Why, though, would we emerge from Yom Kippur holding our weapons?

The war of Yom Kippur was never a war against flesh and blood. It was a war against the yetzer hara. And there is one fundamental difference between that war and every other war: the yetzer hara never signs a peace treaty. He does not surrender after Ne’ilah or disappear after the final blow of the Shofar. He does not concede because we fasted, cried, confessed, and resolved to change. He comes back. And therefore, the greatest evidence that we won on Yom Kippur is not that we put down our weapons. It is that we pick them up again.

We walk out of Yom Kippur and immediately begin preparing for another mitzvah. We build the sukkah and purchase the Daled Minim. We take the lulav into our hands and declare, “Didan natzach.” I won because I am still fighting. I won because yesterday I fought the yetzer hara, and today I am ready to fight him again. That is Jewish victory.

That is also why the Daled Minim themselves contain such powerful lessons for that continuing battle. Look at the aravah. According to Chazal, it represents the Jew who possesses neither ta’am nor rei’ach, neither Torah nor mitzvos (ibid. 30:12). At first glance, he appears to contribute the least. An aravah itself costs almost nothing. What significance could it possibly have? And yet remove that simple aravah, and the entire mitzvah is incomplete. Without him, we cannot do it.

What an extraordinary message for a Jew who looks at himself after Yom Kippur and thinks,  “What am I worth? I am not the esrog and I am not the hadas. I do not possess the Torah or the accomplishments of the people around me.” To that, Hashem says, “I need your avodah too. You are part of Klal Yisrael. Without you, something is missing from the entire bundle.”

That journey reaches its culmination on Simchas Torah. On Simchas Torah, look around the room while everyone is dancing. Can you tell who finished Shas and who barely opened a Gemara? Can you tell who is the greatest talmid chacham and who struggled throughout the year? For those moments, everyone is holding the Torah and everyone is dancing. Every Jew has a place in Torah.

That may be part of the profound progression from Yom Kippur through Sukkos to Simchas Torah. We leave Yom Kippur carrying our weapons, which declares that we are still fighting. We then take the Daled Minim and bind every kind of Jew together, and proclaim that we  still belong. And then we reach Simchas Torah and dance together and express that the Torah belongs to every one of us.

That is Didan natzach. Victory does not mean that the struggle has ended. Victory means that after everything, we are still holding the weapons, still doing the mitzvos, still holding onto one another, and still dancing with the Torah.

Rabbi Avrohom Stulberger

The Shortest Blessing

This Simchas Torah, we will read in shul the final berachos that Moshe Rabbeinu gave to Klal Yisrael before his passing. Among those berachos, Moshe says, “Semach Zevulun b’tzeisecha, v’Yissachar b’ohalecha—Rejoice, Zevulun, in your going out, and Yissachar, in your tents” (Devarim 33:180.

The Rabbeinu Bachye points out something remarkable.

Look at the berachah given to Yissachar: “Yissachar b’ohalecha.” It is two words. Yissachar, of all the Shevatim, was identified with Torah (Bereishis Rabbah 72:5). The Bnei Yissachar are also depicted as possessing extraordinary Torah knowledge and understanding (see Divrei HaYamim I 12:33). They were among the Torah leaders of Klal Yisrael. And yet their berachah is the shortest of them all. Why is that?

Rabbeinu Bachye explains that once Moshe said, “Yissachar b’ohalecha,” that Yissachar would merit to remain in the tents of Torah, supported by Zevulun, there was simply nothing more to say. There is no greater berachah. To be able to sit in the Beis Medrash, open a Gemara and build a life around Torah is the sweetest experience on earth. What else could Moshe possibly add?

These recent years, Simchas Torah can carry complicated emotions. There can be pain alongside the joy, memories of tragedy alongside the celebration, and concern for our brothers and sisters who remain in danger. And the question continues to arise as to how we dance. The answer, I believe, begins with understanding what we are dancing about.

Jews have danced with Torah in the darkest moments of our history. There were Jews who danced when they possessed almost nothing, and sometimes without even a Sefer Torah to hold. They could take away their homes and they could take away their possessions. They could imprison their bodies. But they could not sever the bond between a Jew, the Torah, and Hakadosh Baruch Hu. That is the dance of Simchas Torah.

We are not dancing because life contains no pain. We are dancing because despite the pain, we still have “Yissachar b’ohalecha.” We still have Torah and Hashem.

Throughout Sukkos, the Torah describes our simchah as “U’semachtem lifnei Hashem Elokeichem—You shall rejoice before Hashem, your G-d” (Vayikra 23:40). But Chazal describe Shemini Atzeres with an even more intimate expression. After all the days of Sukkos, HaKadosh Baruch Hu says to Klal Yisrael, “Kasheh alai preidaschem —Your departure is difficult for Me” (see Rashi, Bamidbar 29:36; Sukkah 55b). “Remain with Me for one more day,” Hashem says. The Torah does not merely describe us standing lifnei Hashem, before Hashem. But Hashem asks us, “Stay with Me. Let us dance.”

The purpose of Simchas Torah is to become more conscious of the Torah we are holding, more conscious of the privilege of being a Jew, more conscious of the extraordinary hashgachah pratis with which Hakadosh Baruch Hu accompanies Klal Yisrael, and more conscious that despite everything our people have endured, we are still here and we are still dancing with His Torah.

That is why some of the great people of our history experienced Simchas Torah as one of the spiritual high points of the entire year. After Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkos, we arrive at a moment when there is almost nothing left to ask for. We simply take the Torah into our arms and dance, proclaiming, “Ribbono Shel Olam, this is our greatest beracha. We have Your Torah. We have You.”

Rabbi Moshe Dov Heber

Quickly to the Beginning

If you look carefully at the Reshus l’Chassan Torah and the Reshus l’Chassan Bereishis, recited when we call up those honored with these special aliyos on Simchas Torah, you may notice a subtle but striking difference between them.

At the conclusion of Parshas V’Zos HaBracha, we call out, “Amod, amod, amod, Reb Ploni ben Ploni, Chassan Torah—Stand, stand, stand, Reb so-and-so the son of so-and-so, the Groom of Torah.” But when we are about to begin Parshas Bereishis, the language changes: “Maher, amod, amod, Reb Ploni ben Ploni, Chassan Bereishis—Quickly, stand, stand, Reb so-and-so the son of so-and-so, the Groom of Bereishis.” Noticeably, there is an added word—quickly. Why the sudden urgency? Why do we tell the Chassan Bereishis to hurry, when no such language appears in the call for the Chassan Torah?

I have heard an explanation offered in the name of various mefarshim that contains a beautiful insight into the Jewish relationship with Torah.

When the Chassan Torah is called to the Torah, the congregation is still in the midst of hearing the Torah reading. We are still learning, still listening, and still immersed in Krias HaTorah. And so we call upon the oleh who will complete the Torah. But the moment before Chassan Bereishis is different. V’Zos HaBracha has just ended and the Torah has been completed. But Bereishis has not yet begun. For one brief moment, Klal Yisrael stands between the end and the beginning. We have finished the Torah, but we have not yet begun it again.

And such a moment cannot be allowed to linger. Maher! Quickly! Call up the Chassan Bereishis. Begin again. Klal Yisrael cannot remain, even symbolically, in a state in which we have finished learning Torah. The instant we reach the end, we must already be moving toward the beginning. There can be no prolonged interruption between ending the Torah and beginning it again.

Perhaps this also explains a beautiful practice found at many public siyumei haShas. One person is honored with completing Maseches Niddah, the final masechta in Shas, and immediately afterward another is honored with beginning Maseches Berachos. Because for Klal Yisrael, Torah is never truly “finished.” We may complete a Parsha or we may complete a masechta. We may even complete the entire Torah or the entire Shas. But we are never finished learning.

The last word of Torah is never simply an ending. It is an invitation to begin again.

Rabbi Avrohom Ebstein

A Good and Long Life

The Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim 285:1) rules that even though a person hears the entire weekly parashah read publicly in shul each Shabbos, he is nevertheless obligated to review the parashah himself, shnayim mikra v’echad targum—reading the text twice and the Targum once. This is not merely a commendable practice, but an actual obligation. In fact, we do not find the Shulchan Aruch prescribing a specific daily quota of Gemara, Mishnah, or other areas of Torah study. Yet when it comes to Shnayim Mikra v’Echad Targum, there is an explicit obligation to complete the weekly parshah.

The source is the Gemara in Berachos (8a-b), which states, “L’olam yashlim adam parshiyosav im hatzibbur, shnayim mikra v’echad targum —A person should always complete the weekly parshah together with the community, reading the text twice and the Targum once.” The Gemara then makes an extraordinary promise: “Kol hamashlim parshiyosav im hatzibbur, ma’arichin lo yamav u’shenosav—Whoever completes the parashah with the community will have his days and years lengthened.

The commentaries explain that the Gemara’s language, “Yamav u’shenosav,” contains two distinct blessings. Yamav refers to the quality of one’s days, namely that the days themselves should be filled with beracha and hatzlachah. Shenosav refers to their quantity, such that the person should merit a long life. Thus, the Gemara is promising not merely longevity, but a life that is both long and good.

What is unique about Shnayim Mikra v’Echad Targum that warrants such an extraordinary reward? We do not commonly find Chazal attaching this particular promise of arichus yamim v’shanim to other areas of Torah study. What is it about this mitzvah that brings long life?

Perhaps the answer begins with understanding what Shnayim Mikra v’Echad Targum is intended to accomplish. The mefarshim explain that Chazal instituted this obligation so that a Jew should acquire yedias haTorah, a familiarity with and knowledge of the Torah itself. It ensures that a person does not merely hear the Torah being read, but personally goes through its words and develops an understanding of what the Torah says. The Levush explains that through Shnayim Mikra v’Echad Targum, a person becomes a baki, proficient, in Torah. Week after week, parshah after parshah, a Jew is steadily acquiring knowledge of the entire Torah.

This may also explain a fascinating halachah. Ideally, the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim 285:4) says, one should complete Shnayim Mikra v’Echad Targum before the Shabbos meal. If he did not, he should complete it afterward, before Minchah. If he still did not finish, there are opinions allowing him to complete it during the following days. And ultimately, the Shulchan Aruch records an opinion that one has until Shemini Atzeres to make up what he missed.

Why Shemini Atzeres? If someone missed a parshah, why not simply say that the opportunity has passed and begin again with the following week?

Shnayim Mikra v’Echad Targum is not merely a collection of fifty-four separate weekly obligations. At its core, it represents one magnificent undertaking: to know the Torah. We begin with Bereishis and continue week after week until V’Zos HaBrachah. The weekly parshiyos are the framework through which we accomplish that goal, but the larger objective is to travel through the entire Torah. Therefore, if you missed one parshah, do not leave a hole in your Torah. Go back and complete it. And ultimately, complete the entire Torah by Shemini Atzeres, when the annual cycle reaches its conclusion.

With this understanding, we can appreciate why the Gemara specifically associates this mitzvah with arichus yamim.

The Nefesh HaChaim explains that the moment a person sincerely resolves to perform a mitzvah, his decision itself creates a tremendous spiritual force. A person draws down an ohr makif, a surrounding holiness that assists him in carrying the mitzvah through to completion. This is part of the meaning of the teaching, “Haba l’taher mesayin oso—One who comes to purify himself is given assistance” (Shabbos 104a). When a person genuinely begins a mitzvah, Hakadosh Baruch Hu grants him siyata d’Shmaya to finish what he has begun.

Now think about what happens when a Jew begins Shnayim Mikra v’Echad Targum with Parashas Bereishis. He has not merely begun that week’s parshah. He has begun a journey through the entire Torah. He has undertaken the mitzvah of developing yedias haTorah, beginning with Bereishis and continuing all the way through V’Zos HaBrachah.

And when will that mitzvah be completed? On Shemini Atzeres. If beginning a mitzvah brings siyata d’Shmaya to complete it, then the person who begins Bereishis is granted Divine assistance to reach V’Zos HaBrachah. And in order to finish the mitzvah, he needs something very basic.

He needs to be alive.

That, then, is the meaning of “ma’arichin lo yamav u’shenosav.” By beginning the journey through Torah, a person brings upon himself the siyata d’Shmaya necessary to complete that journey. Hakadosh Baruch Hu gives him the days he needs to continue learning His Torah.

And then something remarkable happens.

We arrive at Shemini Atzeres and we finish V’Zos HaBrachah. The Torah has been completed. The mitzvah has reached its culmination. And almost immediately, what do we do? We begin Bereishis again.

The moment we complete the Torah, we begin another journey through it. We once again undertake the mitzvah of Shnayim Mikra v’Echad Targum. We once again begin the process of acquiring yedias haTorah. We draw down that siyata d’Shmaya to reach the end.

Perhaps that is why Chazal specifically tell us that one who is careful with Shnayim Mikra v’Echad Targum merits arichus yamim v’shanim. Every year, he begins a mitzvah that stretches across the entire year. And every year, we ask Hashem, through our actions, “Please give me another year to learn Your Torah.”

What an extraordinary opportunity and extraordinary blessing.

Rabbi Nosson Hirth

Meeting the Yetzer Hara

The story is told about Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev. During the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, he encountered the yetzer hara, who appeared unusually dejected. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak asked him, “What happened? Why are you so upset?” The yetzer hara explained that he had learned that a ship filled with esrogim was on its way to the Jewish communities, and soon the merchants would distribute them, and thousands of Jews would have the opportunity to perform the precious mitzvah of the Daled Minim on Sukkos. Nothing could have been more frustrating to the yetzer hara. Thousands of Jews would soon be performing the ratzon Hashem, the will of Hashem, exactly what he seeks to prevent.

After Yom Kippur, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak encountered the yetzer hara again. This time, however, everything had changed. The yetzer hara was elated. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak asked him, “What is the simchah? Why are you so happy?” The yetzer hara explained that he had been granted permission to sink the ship carrying the esrogim. The shipment was gone, and now there would be almost no esrogim available for Sukkos. Since even one missing species prevents the fulfillment of the mitzvah of the Daled Minim, the yetzer hara believed that he had achieved an extraordinary victory.

A few days into Sukkos, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak encountered him for a third time. But now the yetzer hara was miserable. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak could not understand it. “Why are you so upset? Your plan worked! The ship never arrived. The esrogim were lost. What could possibly have gone wrong?” The yetzer hara answered, “The Yidden outsmarted me. Because esrogim became so scarce, they worked harder than ever to obtain them. They searched everywhere, traveli9ng near and far, and spent enormous amounts of money. They did whatever they possibly could to fulfill the mitzvah. And because it was so difficult, they performed the mitzvah this year with more enthusiasm and more passion than ever before.”

The yetzer hara continued, “My entire plan backfired. Had I simply allowed the ship to arrive, they would have purchased their esrogim as they did every other year. They would have performed the mitzvah, and certainly it would have been beautiful. But this year, because I made it difficult, they performed the mitzvah with a bren, with a fire. I tried to take the mitzvah away from them, and instead I made their mitzvah greater.”

The message is especially relevant as Sukkos progresses. Before we realize it, Yom Tov will be over. All of these extraordinary opportunities—sitting in the Sukkah, the Arba Minim, Hallel, Hoshanos—will be gone until next year. Yet because we perform these mitzvos day after day, it is easy for them to lose their freshness. There are the distractions of Chol HaMoed, family trips, traveling, different schedules, and various responsibilities. The Lulav that felt so exciting on the first morning can easily become something we simply pick up and shake because that is what we do every morning of Sukkos.

But remember, sometimes the difference between two actions is nothing more than a few moments of thought: learning something about the mitzvah, thinking about what we are doing, appreciating that we have another opportunity to perform the ratzon Hashem, or remembering that very soon we will have to put the lulav and esrog away for another year.

The mitzvah itself may not change, but we who perform it can. Because when we do, we not only upset the yetzer hara; we bring tremendous nachas ruach to our Father in Heaven.

Rabbi David Yosef

We are about to celebrate Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah. Chazal teach that after the seven days of Sukkos, Hakadosh Baruch Hu says to Klal Yisrael, “Kasheh alai preidaschem— Your departure is difficult for Me” (see Rashi, Bamidbar 29:36). We have spent seven beautiful days celebrating with Hashem, rejoicing before Him and surrounding ourselves with mitzvos. And now, as Yom Tov is about to end, Hakadosh Baruch Hu tells us, “I do not want to say goodbye. I love you and I want you to remain with Me. Stay for one more day.” And so Hashem gives us Shemini Atzeret.

But there is an obvious question.

Hashem may give us one more day, but what happens after that? Eventually Shemini Atzeret ends as well. The next morning comes and Yom Tov is over. We return to work, to school, to our regular schedules and responsibilities. If “Kasheh alai preidaschem” means that Hashem does not want us to leave, what was accomplished by simply postponing our departure for another twenty-four hours?

Hakadosh Baruch Hu means to tell us this. “I have shown you how much I want this relationship. I gave you Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot. And when all of that is about to end, I ask you to remain with Me for one more day. I have shown you that I do not want to lose this closeness. Now I want to see what happens when Yom Tov is over.”

Hashem gives us the extra day, and then, in a sense, He turns the question over to us, and says, “I showed you that I want to remain connected to you. Now show Me that you want to remain connected to Me.” When the Sukkah comes down, will you take Me with you?

That is how we answer “Kasheh alai preidaschem.” We answer it with the Torah we continue to learn after Simchat Torah. We answer it with the mitzvos we continue to perform when there is no longer a Yom Tov atmosphere surrounding us. We answer it with our tefillah, our chesed, our maasim tovim, and with the choices we make on an ordinary morning in the middle of the year. The real test of our relationship with Hashem is not only how close we feel during the Yamim Tovim, but what remains when the Yamim Tovim are over.

That is why this final day is so closely bound to Simchat Torah. The Yom Tov season must end, but Torah never ends. We finish V’Zos HaBrachah and immediately begin Bereishis. There is no goodbye. There is only another beginning.

Hashem has shown us how much He wants us. Now it is our opportunity to show how much we want Him. And if we carry the closeness of these extraordinary days with us into the year ahead, then Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah does not really end. Its relationship continues throughout the year.

Rabbi Aharon Pessin

The Foreign Ambassador

A story is told of a foreign ambassador who once witnessed Jews celebrating Simchas Torah. He watched as they danced and sang, holding the Sefer Torah close to their hearts. Completely unfamiliar with what he was seeing, he turned to the mayor and asked, “What exactly are they holding? What is that large scroll, made of parchment and covered so beautifully? And why are they dancing with it?”

The mayor explained, “That is the Sefer Torah of the Jewish people. It is their Book of Law. It teaches them how they are supposed to live.” The ambassador was intrigued. “What does it contain?” he asked. The mayor explained that the Torah contains the commandments, or the dos and the don’ts of Jewish life. It governs not only what a Jew may or may not do, but how he speaks, how he conducts himself, and even, in certain respects, how he thinks and feels.

The ambassador could not understand it. “And they dance with this?” he asked incredulously. “We also have a book of laws in my country. But our citizens do not dance with it. People resent the law book. It tells them what they cannot do. It imposes restrictions and limitations upon them. Yet your people hug this book, kiss it, and dance with it?”

Perhaps the ambassador did not understand. Perhaps even the mayor could not fully explain it. But a Jew understands. Chazal teach, “Al tikrei morashah ela me’orasah—Do not read the Torah merely as our inheritance, morashah, but as our betrothed, me’orasah” (Berachos 57a). The relationship between a Jew and the Torah is not merely the relationship between a citizen and a legal code. It is a relationship of love. And when a chassan is united with his kallah, of course he dances.

The Torah may contain laws and limitations, but those limitations do not diminish us. They elevate us. The Torah refines our character, sanctifies our lives, and teaches us how to conduct ourselves both in private and in public. Without Torah, we would have no idea how extraordinary a human being is capable of becoming.

The Pasuk says, “V’ayir pere adam yivaleid—Man is born like a wild donkey” (Iyov 11:12). A human being enters this world with instincts, impulses, desires, and appetites. But then comes the Torah. The Torah teaches us how to speak, how to eat, how to conduct business, how to build a marriage, how to raise a family, how to control anger, how to treat another person, and how to relate to Hashem Hu. Through the Torah, the raw human being is refined and elevated into an adam. Torah enables us to live not merely as human beings, but as banim laMakom, children of the King of all kings.

That is why the ambassador could not understand our dancing. He saw restrictions and a book telling us what we cannot do. We see a Torah showing us what we can become.

Shlomo HaMelech describes the Torah as such: “Yekarah hi mipninim, v’chol chafatzecha lo yishvu vah—It is more precious than pearls, and nothing you desire can compare to it” (Mishlei 3:15). “Orech yamim biminah, bismolah osher v’chavod—Length of days is in its right hand, and in its left are wealth and honor” (ibid. v.16). And then comes the description that perhaps explains our dancing most beautifully: “Deracheha darchei noam, v’chol nesivoseha shalom— Its ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its paths are peace” (ibid. v. 17).

So yes, we dance with our Book of Law and we hold it close to our hearts. Because the Torah is not a burden that prevents us from living. The Torah teaches us how to live. It takes the person we are when we enter this world and shows us the person we are capable of becoming.

That is why on Simchas Torah, a Jew takes the Torah into his arms and dances.

Rabbi Eliezer Abish

The Song With a Pshat

There are different kinds of songs that we sing when we dance. There are songs with words, where singing the words again and again allows their message to penetrate more deeply. And then there are niggunim without words, which can sometimes draw people into the dancing in an entirely different way. But there is something particularly powerful about a song whose words and melody come together, because then we are not merely singing. We are internalizing an idea.

Many years ago, when the Ribnitzer Rebbe zt”l was living in Sea Gate, New York, the Skulener Rebbe zt”l, author of Noam Eliezer, came there for a two-week vacation. The two Rebbes had been close friends for many years, and when the Ribnitzer Rebbe heard that the Skulener Rebbe was nearby, he decided to visit him. Word quickly spread that the Ribnitzer Rebbe was going to see the Skulener Rebbe, and naturally, a group of people came along.

When the Ribnitzer Rebbe entered, the Skulener Rebbe greeted him warmly. “Ah, Chaim Zanvil! What a kavod that you came. I prepared a beautiful kibbud for you.” The Ribnitzer Rebbe looked around. He looked at the table. There was no cake, no l’chaim, nothing to eat or drink. He turned to the Skulener Rebbe as if to say, “Where exactly is this kibbud you prepared?” The Skulener Rebbe smiled and explained, “Chaim Zanvil, when I said that I prepared a kibbud for you, I meant that I prepared a niggun for you. I composed a song.”

The Skulener Rebbe then began singing his famous niggun to the words, “Zechor davar l’avdecha, al asher yichaltani—Remember Your word to Your servant, through which You gave me hope” (Tehillim 119:49). He sang the melody several times with great feeling. When he finished, the Ribnitzer Rebbe looked at him and asked, “Leizer Zusha, you composed this song yourself?” “Yes,” replied the Skulener Rebbe. The Ribnitzer Rebbe looked at him and asked, “Leizer Zusha, you have nothing better to do with your time than compose songs?”

The Skulener Rebbe looked back at his old friend and said, “Chaim Zanvil, we are not composing songs. We are saying a pshat.” And once again he began singing, “Zechor davar l’avdecha, al asher yichaltani,” repeating the niggun several more times. When he finished, the Ribnitzer Rebbe said, “The niggun is beautiful. But the pshat I still don’t understand.”

So the Skulener Rebbe explained. “Today’s generation is weak. It is difficult to inspire the younger generation to continue faithfully along the path of Torah. They hear that they have to keep this mitzvah and that mitzvah, observe every detail, maintain the traditions of their parents and grandparents, and live according to the demands of Torah. And sometimes they look at all of it and say, ‘Why so much? Why every detail? Why all these restrictions? Isn’t it too much pressure?”

“That,” explained the Skulener Rebbe, “is the pshat in the niggun.” He began singing the words from Tehillim: “Zedim helitzuni ad me’od—The arrogant ones mock me exceedingly” (ibid. v.51). They make leitzanus. They look at the Torah Jew and say, “So much? You have to keep every last mitzvah? Every last detail? Why can’t you relax a little? Why does everything have to be so serious?” But then comes our answer: “MiTorascha lo natisi—From Your Torah I have not turned away.” We are not being forced to remain with the Torah. We want the Torah! We love the Torah! We have no desire to move away from it.

The Skulener Rebbe began singing the niggun again, now with its meaning fully revealed. This time, when he finished, the Ribnitzer Rebbe looked at him and said, “Ah! A beautiful niggun — and a beautiful pshat.” And the Ribnitzer Rebbe stood up and began singing together with the Skulener Rebbe.

Two weeks later, a distraught father came to the Ribnitzer Rebbe. He was worried about his son, who seemed to be drifting away from the proper path. He saw the kinds of books his son was beginning to read and other changes that deeply concerned him. “Rebbe,” he asked, “what should I do?”

The Ribnitzer Rebbe told him, “Reb Leizer Zusha said a beautiful pshat in the niggun of Zechor Davar. Go home. Don’t speak to your son about anything. Just sing Reb Leizer Zusha’s niggun.”

The father followed the Rebbe’s instructions. He went home and began singing the niggun, again and again. His son could not understand what his father wanted from him or why he kept singing the same song. But the father continued. And after several weeks, he began to notice a significant change in his son. He returned to the Ribnitzer Rebbe and told him what had happened.

Sometimes when we sing a song, we are doing far more than singing a melody. We are saying a pshat. We are taking an idea that might otherwise remain in the mind and allowing it to enter the heart. When we sing “MiTorascha lo natisi,” again and again, we are declaring something about who we are: “I will not turn away from Your Torah.” Your Torah is mine, and I do not want to leave it.

That is something to remember as we approach Shemini Atzeres and Simchas Torah. When we sing and dance with the Torah, the songs are not merely the background music to the celebration. The songs themselves can be Torah. The niggun can itself be a pshat. And when we sing those words with enough feeling, again and again, they can penetrate deeply enough that long after the dancing has ended, the message will still be singing inside of us… “MiTorascha lo natisi.”

Dayan Yehoshua Posen

The Joy Within Us

Rav Moshe Shmuel Shapiro zt”l explains that during this Yom Tov season, we experience four different levels of simchah, each one rising higher than the one before it. The first is the simchah that applies to every one of the Shalosh Regalim: “V’samachta b’chagecha—You shall rejoice on your festival” (Devarim 16:14). It is a mitzvah to rejoice on Yom Tov, and the Torah gives us concrete ways through which that simchah is expressed and experienced.

But on Sukkos, we encounter another dimension. The Torah tells us, “U’semachtem lifnei Hashem Elokeichem—You shall rejoice before Hashem, your G-d” (Vayikra 23:40). This is no longer simply the simchah of Yom Tov. It is simchah lifnei Hashem, the extraordinary experience of rejoicing in the presence of Hakadosh Baruch Hu. This was expressed with particular intensity through the Simchas Beis HaSho’eivah, about which Chazal say that one who never witnessed its celebration never truly witnessed simchah (Sukkah 51a).

Then comes Shemini Atzeres, and we rise to an even higher level. Chazal describe Hakadosh Baruch Hu as saying to Klal Yisrael, “Kasheh alai preidaschem—Your departure is difficult for Me” (Rashi, Bamidbar 29:36). The nations have departed and the many korbanos of Sukkos have been completed. Now there is only Hakadosh Baruch Hu and Klal Yisrael. We are no longer merely rejoicing before Hashem. On Shemini Atzeres, we rejoice with Hashem.

But there is still one level higher. And we might wonder: what could possibly be greater than rejoicing with Hashem Himself?

The answer is reflected in the Pasuk (Bamidbar 23:21): “Hashem his G-d is with him, and the acclamation of the King is within him.” The Vilna Gaon explains that this refers to the joy over Torah, which Hashem has placed within us, as we say in the beracha after an aliyah, “V’chayei olam nata b’sochenu— He planted eternal life within us.” Hashem did not merely give us a Torah to study or a Torah to hold. He planted His Torah within us. Torah becomes part of the Jew himself. And when a person experiences the simchah of Torah not merely as something standing before him, and not merely as something he is holding in his arms, but as something planted within his very being, that represents an even higher level of simchah.

And so, there we have it. The progression which moves ever closer, from the simchah of the festival to the simchah before Hashem to then the simchah with Hashem, until ultimately the simchah of carrying His Torah inside ourselves.