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| Voice in the Crowd |

Gift of Fire     

Statues topple and the world goes silent, yet we are still able to hear that ancient roar, the song of the mountain

The funny thing is that I actually speak French. I grew up in a city where it was required by law, and I live there still. My American wife (whom I promise I did not marry for citizenship, I was already American) has enough of an expertise in the days of the week to avoid parking tickets.

Still, I find it pretentious when English-speakers use French expressions. You can make your point without saying “noblesse oblige,” “c’est la vie,” or “coup de grace.”

And yet, here I go, becoming a “the French have an expression for it” person. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose is loosely translated as “the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Here we are, coming to Shavuos 5785, 3,337 years since the encounter at Har Sinai.

It was Him and us, and the rest of the world went still. Once the chasunah was over, the world came back to life, making noise — so much noise, in fact, that it felt like our voices were drowned out. They made such a commotion that we got lifted up and tossed around like a leaf in the wind, scattered in every direction. We almost forgot our language, and even who we are.

The last five years or so, the change has been even more dizzying than at any time in recent history: the institutions the world relied on, whether militarily, diplomatically, culturally, financially, or medically, were exposed as unstable.

There is nothing to believe in, and, it turns out, there never was.

Statues topple and the world goes silent, yet we are still able to hear that ancient roar, the song of the mountain.

Years ago, I had the zechus to be present when editors of this magazine met with one of this generation’s leading roshei yeshivah. He commented that while people criticize Mishpacha for the advertisements that appear in its pages — insisting it attracts readers to a lifestyle that celebrates expensive cuts of meat, high-end furniture, and exotic vacations — there is a fundamental point they are missing.

Marketing agencies invest time and money trying to analyze the values, desires, and beliefs of their audience — and the ads they push are not a reflection on the platform used, but on the audience addressed.

It’s easier to bash the magazine than to look inward, the Rosh Yeshivah said, but the ads are essentially a mirror on a society, exposing a reality that makes people uncomfortable. Then he turned to offering practical guidance on the subject, but the vort stayed with me, because look….

Look at this magazine, and see what products are being peddled, week after week.

Dirshu, Zichru, Oraysa, Yorucha, V’hagisa, V’haarev Na, Semichas Chaver, Daf Hashavua, Hachzek, Lakewood Daf Yomi, Mercaz Daf Yomi, AllDaf, etc., etc., etc.

If you were one of those who allowed ads to define us as gluttonous or superficial, I hope you are drawing conclusions now as well.

The generation has become more learned! I don’t know if we will ever again see the charming, sincere “am ha’aretz d’Oraysa” of our youth, he who did not have the chance to go to yeshivah because he had to work or because he was busy escaping the Nazis, and if we somehow do see one, what his excuse will be.

The quality of the shiurim, the clarity of the translations, elucidations, and explanations, and the effectiveness of the platforms will make it hard to justify old-fashioned amhaaratzus.

(I was at a sheva brachos recently and one of the speakers, a mid-range balabos — who, ten years ago, would have offered a generic explanation on the words of invei hagefen and why davka grapes out of all the fruits — shared an entrancingly elaborate idea in the name of a relatively obscure kadmon. A cynical friend seated next to me commented that we are living in a generation in which, if a speaker shares an idea that seems to be an overshot, a bit out of range for him — if it’s lomdus, he lifted it from Reb Sruly Bornstein, and if it’s chizuk, from Reb Meilech Biderman. Either way, it’s a beautiful phenomenon, to hear “regular” people suddenly comfortably quoting the Noda B’Yehuda or Rav Reuven Margolius, the tzaddikim of Lechovitch or Dzikov.)

There are no more excuses.

The Torah was given in fire. That fire represents the ongoing relationship, the process by which it is given.

AI threatens all sorts of industries and professionals. It is capable of accumulating more information, with more detail, in less time than any human, brilliant as he might be. But AI will never be able to tell you that 40 lashes means 39, because this ruling goes beyond the realm of information into a realm in which those who see the fire, who hear its crackle and feel its warmth, are attuned to the will of the One Who gave us the Torah.

The fire of Torah means that the emotion is entwined with information: We were given words that have the potential to refine and elevate.

Many yeshivos are learning Kiddushin this zeman: a Shavuos-Kiddushin memory.

It was the first night of Shavuos, and the great Mirrer beis medrash was packed for the shmuess of the Rosh Yeshivah, Rav Nosson Tzvi Finkel, before Maariv.

The Rosh Yeshivah stood up to speak, a shtender on each side of him for support, exertion visible on his forehead as he struggled to find strength. His voice came out even more softly than usual, and it was clear that he felt weak. The audience stood up, pushing forward to hear, a huge semi-circle forming a wall around him.

Suddenly, he spread his arms apart, and his face lit up with joy. He looked around and said, “M’darf danken the Ribbono shel Olam for this matanah, the gift He has given us.

Kicha, Kiddushei kesef, Shaveh kesef, Chalipin, Mekadesh b’milveh, Matanah al menas l’hachzir, Amirah b’kiddushin,” the Rosh Yeshivah continued, listing off the sugyos at the start of the masechta, drawing out each word slowly and lovingly.

He stopped, then, overcome not by weakness, but by emotion, a person overwhelmed with gratitude for gifts received. And at that moment, we were all there with him, feeling just as blessed.

That was the whole shmuess — and it was a whole shmuess. Fire.

The gift is waiting for you. You don’t have to fill out any forms or answer a skill-testing question. Just turn the page, find the ad that calls your name, and go claim what’s already yours.

 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1063)

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