Our Parasha relates one of the greatest tragedies of Jewish history. The people who had miraculously been saved from Egypt, witnessed the salvation at the sea, who had stood at Mount Sinai and experienced the encounter with Hashem, now will make the golden calf. Thousands of years later we are still shocked at how this privileged generation was brought down to its knees only a few days after receiving the Torah. The Zohar informs us that even our current exile is a retribution for that mistake. It is important to decipher what triggered such a mistake! The anthesis of Jews is Amalek, which sole purpose is to destroy our nation. Their preference is a total annihilation, but they are satisfied with severing our ties to Hashem, as this would cause our extinction. Amalek has been using the very same method for ages and it has worked. They instill doubts in our minds. Hence, in Hebrew, the numerical value of “Amalek” is “doubt”. This is exactly the technic used in our Parasha, people were awaiting for Moshe’s return, and some said; “The man Moshe who took us out of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him.” People started thinking, indeed Moshe was supposed to have returned, as he informed he would after 40 days at midday. It was then exactly midday, and no one was descending the mountain, the discussion reached a crescendo and it was accepted that something wrong had happened. Since our power is in our mouth, by speaking derogatively, Satan was invited and enhanced the belief that Moshe was not returning by showing a bed in the sky with Moshe on it but lifeless, as stated in Rashi. Panic spreads out, how will we manage without a guide in the desert? What will happen to our families and children? they will perish in the desert! Suddenly, our enemies become the saviors, they have the perfect solution, to create a magical creature that would lead us. The Zohar states that the Erev Rav that offered to make the golden calf were no others than Pharaoh’s magicians that had left Egypt together with the Bnei Yisrael. More specifically, the two magicians that made it were the two sons of Bilaam. Obviously, the Jews were taken aback; how could we possibly infringe the second commandment: to no serve idols? G.d forbids replied the Erev Rav, the intention is not to create an idol to serve it, we know it is forbidden. But to create only a “Eigel Maseicah” literally “a calf’s mask”, in other words, it will look like as an idol but would only be used to save us from a sure death in the wilderness. This seems totally rational, especially given the obligation by the Torah to save one’s life at any cost. Since idolatry was not involved it would be permitted. Aharon’s nephew, Chur the son of Miriam, who was one of the greatest sage of the generation, came out to rebuke the people and tell them how wrong they were, but he was met with anger and disbelief. The Erev Rav saw the opportunity to silence someone that could derail their plan. They killed him under noble pretense that he was endangering the entire nation and was therefore passible of death. Again, it seemed credible and according to Halacha. As long as the poison was fed a drop at the time people were happy to abide and to convince themselves that yesterday’s sworn enemies were today’s saviors. Thanks G.d only three thousand fell for it, which is less than half a percent of the men, though, one hundred percent of the nation must suffer the consequences until Mashiach. The poison is to accept the doubt, and this is the weakness of the Jews. Then, everything spiraled out to become a monumental blunder. The antidote to this type of misstep, which has unfortunately repeated itself several times over our history, is to always ask a Rabbi that knows Halacha. Some matters may seem simple and quite logical, but their outcome are dramatic. Since Moshe our Holy Shepherd it has been the tradition for every Jew to follow the guidance of his Rabbi to avoid pitfalls. Here’s a story that illustrates how proper guidance can save lives! About 30 years ago, an American Rabbi visiting Miami, Florida gave a lecture on the life and accomplishments of the famed “Chafetz Chaim” (Rabbi Israel Meir HaCohen Kagan, 1838-1933). He described the life of the great sage who lived a humble life as a shopkeeper in the village of Radin, in Poland, yet was recognized throughout the Jewish world as a great scholar, tzaddik (righteous person) and leader. There was another story the Rabbi wanted to tell, but he hesitated, for he only knew part of it. As he stood at the lectern, he thought for a moment and then decided that he would tell it anyway. He rationalized that even an unfinished story about the Chafetz Chaim would have a meaningful message. He began to relate an incident about a teenage boy in the Chafetz Chaim’s yeshiva who was found smoking a cigarette on Shabbos — the sacred day of rest. The faculty and student body were shocked, and some of the faculty felt that the boy should be expelled. However, when the Chafetz Chaim heard the story, he asked that the boy be brought to his home. At this point, the Rabbi interrupted the narrative and said, “I don’t know what the Chafetz Chaim said to the boy. I only know that they were together for a few minutes. I would give anything to know what he said to this student, for I am told that the boy never desecrated the Shabbos again. How wonderful it would be if we could relay that message — whatever it was — to others, in order to encourage them in their observance of Shabbos.” The Rabbi then continued with his lecture. After his talk, the hall emptied of everyone except for one elderly man, who remained in his seat, alone with his thoughts. From the distance, it seemed he was trembling, as if he was either crying or suffering from chills. The Rabbi walked over to the elderly man and asked him, “Is anything wrong?” The man responded, “Where did you hear that story of the cigarette on Shabbos?” He did not look up and was still shaken. “I really don’t know,” answered the Rabbi. “I heard it a while ago and I don’t even remember who told it to me.” The man looked up at the Rabbi and said softly, “I was that boy.” He then asked the Rabbi to go outside, and as the two walked together, he told the Rabbi the following story: “This incident occurred in the 1920’s when the Chafetz Chaim was in his eighties. I was terrified to have to go into his house and face him. But when I did go into his home, I looked around with disbelief at the poverty in which he lived. It was unimaginable to me that a man of his stature would be satisfied to live in such surroundings. “Suddenly he was in the room where I was waiting. He was remarkably short. At that time I was a teenager and he only came up to my shoulders. He took my hand and clasped it tenderly in both of his. He brought my hand in his own clasped hands up to his face, and when I looked into his soft face, his eyes were closed for a moment. “When he opened them, they were filled with tears. He then said to me in a hushed voice full of pain and astonishment, ‘Shabbos!’ And he started to cry. He was still holding both my hands in his, and while he was crying he repeated with astonishment, ‘Shabbos, the holy Shabbos!’ “My heart started pounding and I became more frightened than I had been before. Tears streamed down his face and one of them rolled onto my hand. I thought it would bore a hole right through my skin. When I think of that tear today, I can still feel its heat. I can’t describe how awful it felt to know that I had made the great tzaddik weep. But in his rebuke — which consisted only of those few words — I felt that he was not angry, but rather sad and fearful. He seemed frightened at the consequences of my actions.” The elderly man then caressed the hand that bore the invisible scar of a precious tear. It had become his permanent reminder to observe the “holy Shabbos” for the rest of his life.

By Rabbi Fridmann * [email protected] * 305.985.3461

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