By Rabbi
Yisroel Shusterman
This
week’s Parsha Perspective is dedicated by Mr. Binyomin Philipson in memory of
his late mother Mrs. Ellen (Elka bas Zisel) Philipson OBM
The locomotive was
making its first appearance in a little town of old. No one had ever seen a
horseless carriage before. Every one of the townspeople gathered at the new
station to witness history in the making. The gun was fired and with a flourish
of huffing and puffing the locomotive roared out of the station. Well… the
engine that is. Unfortunately, the shlemiel whose job it was to hitch
the other cars to the engine had forgotten to do so, and the long train of
carriages were left behind in a trail of smoke.
Sometimes, the most
meticulously laid plans - a business strategy, a football game plan, or even
(perish the thought), a synagogue resolution made on Yom Kippur - fail to come
to fruition - all because we neglected to hitch the engine to the train...
The introduction to
the Ten Commandments we will read in this week’s Torah reading, Yisro (Shmos [Exodus]
18:1–20:23), is, “And G‑d spoke all these words, to say…” (in Hebrew, leimor).
Now, when the Torah uses the word leimor, "to say," it
is usually because G‑d is telling Moses something important which
Moses in turn should pass on and tell the Children of Israel. So the word leimor makes
perfect sense. He said it to him to say it to them. But here we have a problem.
You see, every Jew was present at Sinai, and according to the mystics, that
includes even the unborn souls of future generations. So there was no need for
Moses to pass on anything to anyone. All the Jews heard the Ten Commandments
directly from G‑d. So why the word leimor? To say to whom?
Rabbi DovBer, the
great Maggid of Mezeritch, explained that here the word leimor means to
speak to you. That these words should not remain mere words, but should
resonate and say something meaningful to you personally. They should be said
and heard so that they continue to reverberate forever after in your minds,
heart and deeds. The Ten Commandments must not remain an abstract idea, an
unhitched engine, a nice philosophy or an interesting cultural practice -
something of no more significance to you than the rituals of the ancient Incas
of Peru. The Ten Commandments must be relevant enough to make a difference in
our lives; otherwise, whom did G‑d say them to and whatever for?
The Talmud describes
a thief who prays to G‑d for success before breaking in to commit a burglary.
The epitome of hypocrisy - G‑d told you, "You shall not steal," and
you have the audacity to ask Him to help you succeed in defying His wishes?
This has got to be the ultimate chutzpah! How do we get a handle on this
Talmudic thief's hypocrisy? The answer is that this thief, too, is a believer,
but his faith is superficial and doesn't permeate his being sufficiently to
influence his behavior. Deep down he has faith but he remains a religious goniff (thief)!
We all believe and
we all want to do mitzvahs, big and small. The trick is to translate our
inner piety into outer practice. What does my faith do for me? Does it speak to
me? How does it transform my behavior, my life? Does it make any tangible
difference in my everyday behavior? The Torah must not remain a theory on the
drawing board. The Torah and the Ten Commandments do indeed speak to us. The
question is, are we listening?
(Excerpts
from Chabad.org - by Rabbi Yossy Goldman)
May you have a meaningful and
uplifting Shabbos!
