It’s only when the parent lets go and allows the child to fall that he truly learns to walk on his own

“Hashem has not given to you a heart to know, eyes to see, and ears to hear until this day.”  (Devarim 29:3)

A

fter delivering frightening threats of terrible punishments that would befall the Jewish people if they didn’t keep the Torah, now Moshe suddenly told them the pasuk above. Up until now, despite all the miracles they’d seen and experienced, it was only on that day that Hashem gave them an added level of understanding.  What suddenly changed?

Rashi explains that on that day, Moshe gave a sefer Torah to Shevet Levi. The other shevatim came to complain that they’d also stood at Har Sinai and received the Torah. They were worried that perhaps in the future, the Levites would claim that Hashem gave the Torah only to their shevet and not to the others.

Moshe was pleased by their argument and informed them that on that day, they’d become a nation and receive the ability to think, see, and hear properly. (Rabbi Ozer Alport, Parsha Potpourri)

According to family lore, I didn’t walk until well past my second birthday. Was it couldn’t or wouldn’t walk? Probably the latter, as it’s claimed I walked perfectly if someone was holding my hand or even my finger. If they let go, I promptly dropped to the floor.  Was I scared? Or just headstrong? I’ll never know.

What was so unique about their request that it was only now that they received this added elevated level?

The Chasam Sofer posits that what changed now was that Bnei Yisrael understood that Moshe was saying goodbye and would soon no longer be with them. Paradoxically, it’s precisely at the time when a person loses his teacher and is left on his own that he’s able to grow and reach new heights of spiritual accomplishment.  Therefore, although the Jewish people saw constant miracles and experienced tremendous spiritual enlightenment during their sojourn in the Midbar under Moshe’s leadership, they also remained reliant upon him. It was only as they prepared to part from him that they were able to reach a new, independent level of spiritual insight.

The idea of walking alone has been on my mind lately. My aunt, Chana Yuta bas Binyamin, was recently niftar in Seattle. I’m left with fond memories of her homemade pizza and her laughter and love. But I’m also left with the heavy sensation that her petirah marks the end of an era, one less person in the generation that precedes mine. And with that thought comes a fear of stepping forward to accept the yoke as the older generation.

Dovid writes in Tehillim (34:12), “Go, my sons, listen to me, I will teach you the fear of Hashem.” Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to say, “Come, my sons?”

Rav Yisroel Reisman explains that when a person’s living in close proximity to his father or teacher, he receives frequent spiritual lifts and has an easier time with nisyonos. The true challenge begins when he leaves his support structure behind and goes on his own, allowing him greater opportunities for independent growth and accomplishment. Rabbi Reisman compares this to a parent teaching a child to walk. Initially, the child needs the parent’s assistance as he learns this new skill, but ultimately, it’s only when the parent lets go and allows the child to fall that he truly learns to walk on his own. When the time inevitably comes for a person to leave the rarefied yeshivah or seminary environment where he was constantly surrounded by inspiring rebbeim and teachers encouraging him to grow, it can feel quite depressing. No matter how hard a person tries to replicate that sublime atmosphere, it’ll never feel quite the same, and his Torah learning and prayer will feel pale in comparison. However, he should take comfort recognizing that it’s specifically in this new setting that he can reach new, previously unattainable heights, as he learns to walk on his own.

Several years ago, we suddenly lost our family rav. At the levayah, one of the maspidim said, “It’s time now for we, the living, to shoulder the responsibility of leading the klal.” Instinctively, I hunched my shoulders — a subconscious denial — I’m too young, too puny, to be the wiser older one.

But time marches on and so do the marchers. Despite feeling unfit, I valiantly take the next step to fit into shoes so much greater than mine, while sending Up a prayer, “Please, can You hold my hand?”

 (Originally featured in Family First, Issue 911)