One of the main and most fundamental contentions of all moralists of all ages is that human nature is not basically unchangeable. Ask any teacher of religion whether change is possible in Man, and his answer is inevitably “certainly.” And yet, my friends, if you were to ask me that same question I would have to qualify that assertion. Is change possible? – Yes and no. If by “change” you mean the transformation of the entire character essentials, the metamorphosis of the basic qualities of the soul, the G-d – given talents and personality attributes, the answer is No. There are certain properties of the soul with which you are born, and which you cannot change, willy nilly. Yet that is not the end of the matter. Because if by “change” you mean not the basic change of the “kochos ha’nefesh”, the powers of the soul, but the salvaging of them: not the scrapping and subduing of the fundamental drives for Man, but their redirection and channeling, the answer is a resounding and wholesome Yes. A man may not be able to rid himself of the trait of stubbornness, but he can certainly direct his stubbornness to desired and beneficial directions. Simpler still, a man may not be able to cure himself from insomnia. But he can himself determine whether these waking hours be spent counting sheep or studying Torah.The Jewish ethical literature has two names corresponding to these two types of change, and there are two schools propounding these opposing these. One group claims that the highest goal is “shviras ha’midos,” the breaking and crushing of the evil drives of man. The objectionable trait must be broken and destroyed. The other group believes this unnecessary and impracticable. Rather it proposes “tikun ha’midos,” the correction and re-direction of these dark forces, the channelling of them from the destructive ends for which they had been employed, to new and constructive ends. Redirection, not breaking and destruction, is the highest aim of ethical development. And Hassidim…

Recently we of the Western World laughed knowingly at the backward Indians whose astrologers and Hindu priests confidently predicted the end of the world. No doubt, these superstitions per se are so primitive and ludicrous as to justify all the ridicule. However, was their concern about the end of the world really so very foolish? Or were they inadvertently, dramatizing the greatest, most agonizing, and most crucial problem facing all of us, East and West: that of the sheer survival of the human race? The end of the world may not come about, as the Hindu astrologers predicted, because of a conjunction of the other plants. But it may very well come about because of a disjunction and moral confusion of the inhabitants of this planet. It is not the eclipse of the sun, but the eclipse of the human heart that ought to fill us with terror. What is the nature of this unprecedented problem? It is not that we have too much knowledge, but that we do not know how to use what we have. It is not that we are too smart, but that we are too smart for our own good. Our brains have grown, while our hearts have shrunk. The mind of man has sharpened, while his soul has grown dull. His science has leaped forward, and his spirit has been stunted. In the terms of our own tradition, we have increased Chokhmah (wisdom, knowledge), and decreased Yirah (reverence, piety, ethical aspirations).Rabbi Hayyim Volozhiner, in his Nefesh Hayyim (Part 4 Chapter 4), on the basis of a Talmudic text (Shabbat 30a), has analyzed for us the problem of Torah and Chokhmah on the one hand, and Yirah on the other, by presenting them in an agricultural metaphor. Wisdom, he says, is like tevuah – the harvest, the produce of the fields, which the farmer seeks to store away. Yirah, the fear of God, is the warehouse in which the harvest of wisdom is stored. In other words, if there is more knowledge than conscience, more tevuah than otzar, the knowledge is wasted and even harmful. Man’s absorptive capacity of wisdo…

Our Sidra of this morning manifests certain stylistic peculiarities which are deserving of our attention. Surprisingly, the name of Moses is not once mentioned in this Sidra. Instead, three times in succession God addresses Moses using the pronoun v’attah, “and thou,” as if to emphasize some special assignment given to Moses by God. Thus we read, v’attah tetzaveh, “and thou shalt command” the Children of Israel to bring olive oil for the Menorah; v’attah hakrev, “and thou shalt draw near” Aaron and his children to dedicate them to the priesthood; and v’attah tedaber, “and thou shalt speak” to all skilled artisans to prepare the vestments of priests and the furnishings of the Temple. The Zohar too recognized the unusual construction of this passage, and attributed to the repetition of the pronoun v’attah great mystical significance, a raza ilaah, a supernal mystery whereby Moses was able to commune more directly with the Shechinah. In other words, the Zohar acknowledges, in mystical idiom, that we are here confronted by a special assignment given to Moses.What Divine secrets is the Torah trying to reveal to us? Let us analyze each of these cases briefly and see what the Torah says to us today – openly, not esoterically.Let us begin with the last case: v’attah tedaber el kol hakhmei lev, “and thou shalt speak to all the wise-hearted” to use their skills in the prescribed manner in order to prepare the vestments and the Temple furnishings. Actually, a modern reader encountering this passage for the first time might well be astounded. For our Sidra, to be truthful, probably appears to the eyes of the unacquainted with Judaism as little more than a manual for carpenters, weavers, and tailors. Such a person might justifiably ask: What business is it of Moses to instruct the artisans and artists in their work? What business, indeed, is it of religion to deal at all with art and crafts? Let Moses commission the artists, sublet the contract, and not interfere in the creativ…

There are two good reasons why I should not deliver this sermon. First, it can be argued that it is better for a Rabbi not to raise problems which might disturb the peace of mind and equanimity of his simple, devout people. And second, he ought not pose questions for which his answers are not always fully adequate. If nevertheless I have chosen to discuss this morning the moral challenge implicit in the Haftorah’s story of Samuel, it is because, first, I trust that my people are not simple and devout, but sophisticated and devout, and they are aware of the moral difficulties that I am discussing even without my broaching it to them; and, second, I have confidence in their maturity, that they know that one ought to keep the faith despite questions, that a truly religious approach is not one which presumes to have all the answers, but where one accepts even while he ponders questions and experiences their torment. In the words of one of the greatest Sages of Israel in recent generations, Rabbi Akiva Eger, פון א קושיא שטארבט מען נישט – one can survive challenges and questions; it can’t kill a person.The problem is this. The Prophet Samuel reminds King Saul of the commandment to destroy, to blot out the memory of Amalek. He urges him to undertake the campaign against this wild and uncivilized tribe, and to spare none of them, destroying even their livestock. Saul attacks the Amalekites and achieves victory. However, we read that ויחמל שאול והעם, that Saul and the people took pity upon Agag, the King of Amalek, and some of the sheep and cattle, and spared them. Apparently, Saul acted on the basis of conscience; he was a good and generous man.However, the Prophet chastises the King. Samuel reproaches Saul for having spared Agag and the cattle, and tells him that in consequence of his sin his dynasty will not last, and he will lose his crown. Samuel then orders the captive King brought before him. The King is heard to utter the words אכן סר מר המות, “indeed, the bitternes…

It is well known that the Sidra of Tetzaveh is unusual in that it is the only one in the whole Book of Exodus in which the name of Moses is not mentioned. What is less well known, but equally intriguing, is the succession of the second person singular pronoun, אתה (“you”), which occurs at the beginning of the reading this morning. Three times within the first five verses, God addresses Moses with the word אתה, “and you.” Thus, ואתה תצוה, and you shall command the Children of Israel that they bring you olive oil; ואתה הקרב, and you shall bring Aaron and his children the priests close to the service of the Lord; ואתה תדבר, and you shall speak to all the wise-hearted that they make the vestments of the priests. The problem was already raised by some of the early commentators, such as Ramban and Seforno. The Zohar too was aware of the strange repetition of this word, and it maintained that the word represents רזא עלאה, a supernal mystery.How can we understand it, even without plumbing its mythic depths?My suggestion is that all three come to teach Moses, in one way or another, the lesson of patience, tolerance, and forbearance.I begin with what I consider a startling hypothesis – at least when I discovered it, it startled and amazed me: Moses did not like the Jews!I do not mean that he was lacking in אהבת ישראל, the love of Israel, although he most certainly must have been accused of this by his enemies, critics, and detractors. Of course he loved Israel – more so than anyone who ever lived. Remember that Moses was the only human being in history to whom God made the offer that on his behalf He would abandon the Children of Israel, and raise up a new people from his, Moses’ loins, and that this people would be the Chosen People, descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – and Moses. But Moses refused. He gave up this stunning opportunity. Not only that, but his refusal bespoke his feeling of injury of his people, when he turned to God and said: Forgive this people, ואם …