Rabbi Joey Haber

The Good and the Bad

Let me begin with a Gemara in Maseches Sotah (21b).

The Gemara teaches that words of Torah endure only in a person who makes himself arum for them. Literally, arum means “stripped.” It is a striking expression. What does it mean to become “stripped” for Torah?

Rashi explains that a person must be prepared to remove himself from other involvements and make himself, in a sense, poor for the sake of Torah. He becomes like someone who possesses nothing else.

At first glance, that is difficult to understand. What exactly is Rashi asking of us?

I think there is a profound idea here.

For Torah to truly endure within a person—for Torah to become strong enough to shape a life—there must eventually be things we are willing to let go of. Spiritual growth cannot consist only of adding. At some point, it also requires subtracting. There are moments when a person has to be able to say, “I used to do that and I used to live that way. I used to allow that into my life. But I no longer do, because I am trying to live a Torah life.”

There are two things that have become remarkably easy in our generation.

It has never been easier to do good. And it has never been easier to access things that can pull us in the opposite direction.

Think about the first half of that statement. It is extraordinarily easy today to perform chesed. Opportunities to give are everywhere. You do not even have to leave your home. Someone somewhere is raising money for a family, a wedding, a medical need, a Torah institution, or a person in distress. You can take out your phone, press a button, and within seconds you have helped another human being.

Learning Torah, as well, has perhaps never been more accessible in Jewish history. There are more sefarim, more translations, more classes, more recordings and more opportunities to learn than previous generations could have imagined. You do not even have to attend a class anymore. You can listen while driving or while cooking and preparing for Shabbos. And if an hour-long shiur is too much, there are twenty-minute classes. If twenty minutes is too much, there are five-minute clips. If five minutes is too much, there are sixty-second messages. Inspiration has become available almost on demand.

And it goes far beyond online Torah. Look at how many children are receiving Jewish educations. Look at the number of young men and women continuing their Torah education after high school and the extraordinary growth of kollelim and adult learning programs. In communities across the Jewish world, institutions that hoped to attract ten people suddenly have fifty, a hundred, or even more. There is an enormous amount of good taking place.

But something else has happened at exactly the same time: it has also never been easier to do things that can damage us. It has never been easier to enter environments that once required effort to find and develop unhealthy habits that take control of life. Today, much of it requires almost no effort at all. And that creates a uniquely modern spiritual challenge.

Many of us are doing more good than ever before, while simultaneously continuing to hold on to things that are pulling us the other way. We are doing so much good, and yet at the same time, we may still be carrying habits and behaviors that do not belong in the life we are trying to build.

Someone could reasonably object: “Rabbi, what do you want from me? I used to do the bad things and now I am doing good things too. Isn't that progress? Would you rather I stop doing the good?” Of course not.

Let me give you an analogy.

Imagine a mother is upstairs and calls down to two of her children, “Could somebody please bring me a glass of water?” Seven minutes later, one child finally walks upstairs carrying half a glass. The mother looks at him and says, “It took you seven minutes—and you brought me half a glass of water?” The child is offended. “Why are you upset with me? My sister didn't bring you anything! At least I came upstairs. I'm the good one!” In a sense, he has a point.

Or imagine an elderly parent whose children do not visit often enough. One child comes every Friday. That is the child who hears all the complaints. “You don't call enough and you came late. You haven't visited since last week!” Meanwhile, another sibling barely comes at all and somehow hears nothing. Eventually the child who does visit thinks, “Why am I the one getting criticized? I'm the one who showed up.”

Perhaps you feel exactly that way.

“Why are you talking to me? I'm trying. I learn Torah, I give tzedakah, I care about Yiddishkeit and Hashem. Yes, there are things in my life that aren't perfect, but I'm the one who showed up. Why focus on what I'm still doing wrong?” That is a fair question.

So I want to make something very clear. The point is not that the good does not count. It counts enormously. Every mitzvah matters. But there is another stage of growth that eventually has to take place. Yiddishkeit cannot only become something we add to our lives. At some point, it must become something that changes our lives.

That, I believe, is what Rashi is teaching us.

To become arum for Torah means that there are things we eventually become willing to shed. We do not merely ask, “What new mitzvah can I add?” We also develop the courage to ask, “What no longer belongs?” That question is especially appropriate during Elul.

Elul is not a demand that we become perfect overnight. It is an invitation to become more honest and look at the life we are building and ask whether all of its pieces actually belong together. Sometimes the greatest evidence that Torah has become part of us is not another thing we have begun doing. It is something we are finally ready to stop doing.

With that introduction, let me share with you the first idea, which comes from last week's Parsha.

The Road Ahead

There is a fascinating juxtaposition at the beginning of Parshas Shoftim. The Torah begins, “Shoftim v’shotrim titen lecha,” which commands us to appoint judges and leaders (Devarim 16:18). Klal Yisrael must have people of stature—dayanim, talmidei chachamim, rabbanim, and leaders—who can guide the community. Then, just a few Pesukim later, the Torah says, “Lo tita lecha Asherah kol etz—Do not plant an asherah” (ibid. v. 21). An asherah is a tree associated with idolatry, something that assumes the forbidden status of avodah zarah.

The Gemara (Sanhedrin 7b) draws a connection between these two ideas. Appointing an unworthy judge or leader is comparable to planting an asherah. Now, why an asherah? If Chazal want to tell us that an unworthy Torah leader is terrible, compare him to an idol. Compare him to a thief, a sinner, or something obviously corrupt. Why specifically compare him to a tree used for idol worship?

I once saw a beautiful explanation in the name of Rav Chaim Brisker.

What is so unusual about an asherah? Precisely that there may be nothing unusual about it at all. Imagine two trees growing side by side. Look at them carefully. They may have the same trunk, the same bark, the same branches, the same leaves, perhaps even the same fruit. One is an ordinary tree. The other is an asherah.

From the outside, you might not be able to tell the difference. That is precisely the danger.

An unworthy religious leader can sometimes resemble the real thing almost perfectly. He may look the part and speak beautifully. He may quote Torah and carry himself like a person of spiritual stature. Everything appears to be there. And yet something fundamental is missing beneath the surface.

This is a lesson that extends beyond leadership.

One of the challenges of doing a great deal of good is that our genuine progress can sometimes make it harder to notice the areas that are still waiting for our attention. Other people may see us learning more Torah, attending more shiurim, giving more tzedakah, becoming more involved in the community, and taking on new mitzvos. They see growth and the growth is real. My primary concern is not how other people see us. My concern is that sometimes our very real growth can make it harder for us to notice the areas that still need attention.

A person acquires two or three beautiful habits over the course of several years, and slowly begins to think, “I'm doing great. I've arrived.” And perhaps you are doing great. But doing great and being finished are two entirely different things.

Let me give you another analogy.

Imagine you get into a car and decide that you are driving to Brooklyn. You begin the trip and you drive for quite some time. Eventually you reach a point roughly halfway there. You have covered real distance. You are unquestionably closer to Brooklyn than when you began. But then the driver suddenly pulls over, turns off the engine, gets out of the car and announces, “We're here.” You look around. “Where are we?” “Brooklyn,” comes the reply. “No, we're not.” “But look how far we've driven!” the driver says. “That's true,” you say. “We've come a long way, but we're still not in Brooklyn.”

That distinction is crucial. You can be much closer than you were and still not be where you need to be.

A person may begin attending a shiur every night, and that is wonderful. It is real growth. But perhaps there is another part of his evening, another habit or environment, that he himself knows no longer fits comfortably with the direction in which he is growing. The shiur is real progress. The question is simply whether he is willing to keep going.

And the person says, “But Rabbi, I'm learning every night. Isn't that worth something?” Of course it is worth something. “Would you rather I stop going to the shiur?” Absolutely not. I just don't want you to get out of the car. Don't mistake progress for arrival. Don't allow the new good in your life to convince you that there is no longer anything that needs to change. The rabbi may hug you when you walk into the shiur and tell you how wonderful it is that you are coming every night. And he should because you deserve encouragement. You are learning beautifully and you have grown. You have accomplished something significant. Be proud of that. But don't confuse “I have grown” with “I am done growing.” That may be one of the most important forms of honesty we can bring into Elul.

Elul does not ask us to deny our progress. It asks us to see our progress accurately. Yes, I am closer than I was last year; yes, there are things I do today that I never used to do; and yes, I have changed. But where have I stopped the car too early? Where has growth in one area made it easier for me to overlook another area that still needs attention? Where have I begun to look so much like the person I want to become that I have convinced myself I already am that person?

The goal is not to diminish how far we have traveled. The goal is to remember that there may still be a road ahead.

When the Chofetz Chaim Cried

Let me give you another example.

Imagine someone who gives an extraordinary amount of tzedakah. We all know people like this. Their generosity is remarkable. They support yeshivos, shuls, families, and organizations. At an appeal, they may stand up and pledge $2,600 or $26,000. And yet, I have had people come to me and say, “Rabbi, his generosity is extraordinary, but you have no idea how difficult it can be to work for him. People leave feeling hurt and unappreciated.”

There is something jarring about that. You think, “What do you mean? This person just gave an enormous amount of tzedakah. His name is on buildings. Everyone knows him as a baal chesed.” But suppose you approached that employer and said, “You cannot treat your employees this way.” He might respond, “What are you saying? You want me to stop giving tzedakah?”

No, absolutely not. Keep giving tzedakah. Your generosity is real and it is beautiful. But don't stop at the Amboy theater and convince yourself that you have reached Brooklyn. Giving generously does not absolve us of the responsibility to treat people properly. Being known as a baal chesed does not mean there are no other areas that need work.

That is the point. Just because I am improving does not mean I have arrived. Just because I left one place does not mean I have reached my destination. Just because I am better than I once was does not mean I am yet the person I am capable of becoming.

One of the dangers of receiving recognition for our growth is that sometimes the applause causes us to stop growing. People tell us how wonderful we are and praise the changes we have made. And it all deserves recognition. But if we are not careful, we can begin living with an unusual contradiction: we embrace the areas of Judaism that have become relatively easy for us while continuing to hold on to the behaviors that are much harder to surrender. We continue doing the good while still carrying some habits that have not yet caught up with the person we are becoming.

That brings us back to the Gemara with which we began.

Torah endures in someone who is ma'amid atzmo arum—someone prepared to strip something away. Real growth is not only about what I can add, but also about what I am prepared to relinquish. It refers to something that may have been part of my life for years, but which I finally recognize cannot accompany me to where I am trying to go.

Let me give you another example.

Imagine someone begins dressing more modestly.

That can be an enormous accomplishment. It may require courage, sacrifice, and a willingness to look different from friends or from the surrounding culture. It deserves tremendous respect.

Soon enough, people notice and say, “Look at you. Look how much you've grown!” Wonderful. But perhaps there are other areas of life that have not yet caught up with that growth—the things we watch, the places we go, or the influences we allow into our lives. Have we grown? Certainly. The question is simply whether we are willing to let that growth continue spreading.

There is a story I recently read, related by Rabbi Yechiel Spero, that captures this idea in a particularly powerful way.

Sometime around the 1950s, a yeshiva was struggling to establish itself and a potential donor, by the name of Mr. Sam Cohen, was scheduled to visit. He had the ability to give a substantial contribution, one that could make an enormous difference to the future of the institution. Naturally, the yeshiva prepared carefully. The grounds were cleaned, the hedges were trimmed and the building was made presentable. The students were likewise told to be on their best behavior. Everything was ready.

Finally, Mr. Cohen arrived. He pulled up in a convertible and he was not wearing a kippah.

As he approached the building, one of the rebbeim, Rabbi Mandel, walked over to him. “Excuse me,” he said. “Where is your kippah?” You can imagine the reaction of the administration. This was not part of the plan. Here was the donor they had been preparing to welcome, someone capable of transforming the financial future of the school, and one of the rebbeim had decided that this was the moment to question his religious observance.

Rabbi Mandel then asked if he could share a story about the Chofetz Chaim. Mr. Cohen agreed.

Rabbi Mandel told him that a wealthy donor once came to the Chofetz Chaim’s yeshiva in Radin and presented him with a very generous contribution. The Chofetz Chaim began to cry. The donor was confused. “Rebbe, isn't it enough?” He offered to give more. The Chofetz Chaim continued crying. The man increased his contribution again, but still the Chofetz Chaim wept. Finally, the donor asked, “What is wrong? If the donation isn't sufficient, tell me how much you need.” The Chofetz Chaim explained.

“The first contribution was more than enough. That isn't why I'm crying.” “Then why are you crying?” asked the fellow. “Your generosity shows me,” he replied, “what a kind and extraordinary person you are. And it pains me to think that someone with such a beautiful heart may not receive the spiritual reward he could receive because he is not keeping Shabbos.”

The donor was taken aback. “What do you want me to do?”

The Chofetz Chaim answered that a person with such generosity should consider bringing Shabbos into his life as well. The man thought about it. “Rebbe, you're right. I should. But I'm involved in several major business dealings right now. Perhaps in another month or two. Maybe by the end of the year, I'll begin keeping Shabbos.”

The Chofetz Chaim replied, in effect, “As far as I am concerned, I understand. But Shabbos is coming this Friday.” The man understood. “In your honor, Rebbe, I will begin keeping Shabbos.”

Rabbi Mandel finished telling the story and turned to Mr. Cohen. “You are obviously a generous man. You have come here because you want to support Torah, and that says something beautiful about you. But if Torah matters enough for you to support it, perhaps it should matter enough to shape more of your own life as well.” You can imagine how uncomfortable the moment must have been.

But Mr. Cohen's response was extraordinary. He told Rabbi Mandel, “No one has ever spoken to me with that kind of honesty.”

Rather than severing the relationship, he strengthened it. Rabbi Mandel became his mentor. Mr. Cohen continued supporting the yeshiva, reportedly even more generously than had originally been anticipated, and he would seek Rabbi Mandel's counsel regarding his charitable giving.

Why? Because he had found someone willing to be honest with him.

Perhaps that is what Elul asks us to do. Not only to find someone else who will be honest with us, but to become that person for ourselves. We look at the good we have done and say, “This is real. I should be proud of this. I have traveled a significant distance.” And then we have enough honesty to add, “But I still have somewhere to go.” Imagine you drove all the way to the Raritan Toll Plaza. That's impressive. Pat yourself on the back and appreciate how far you have come. But don't be fooled by the distance you have already traveled into believing there is no distance left to travel.

That does not make our growth false. It simply means our growth is unfinished. And that is the message. Don't erase the progress and don't belittle it or don't judge yourself for not being there yet. But keep going. Because Elul is not Hashem telling us, “Look how far you still have to go.” Elul is Hashem telling us, “Look how far you've already come. Now don't stop here.”

The Pious Fool

There is one more challenge that comes along with all of this.

The same Gemara in Sotah describes several types of people whose behavior can be destructive. Among them is the chasid shoteh, the “pious fool.” Sometimes a person's religiosity itself becomes distorted and instead of inspiring people, it alienates them.

The Gemara also speaks about the rasha arum, the conniving wicked person. Rav Sheshes explains that this can refer to someone who presents himself as a model for others, essentially saying, “Re'u va'asu kamoni—Look at me and do as I do.” He appears righteous and sounds righteous, and people assume he is righteous. And so they follow him.

That introduces a second danger to what we have been discussing. Until now, we have spoken about the way our behavior can affect how we see ourselves. But eventually, it can also affect the message other people receive from us.

Sometimes we find ourselves uncertain about whether a particular environment or behavior is right for us, and then we notice another religious person doing the same thing. Without even realizing it, their presence can reassure us: “I guess this must be okay.”

That means that as Torah becomes more visible in our lives, our choices can begin to influence more than ourselves. People notice how we live, and sometimes they take their cues from us without our even realizing it.

Someone may see a person attending a shiur every night while still participating in an environment that seems inconsistent with that growth, and conclude, “Apparently the two can comfortably coexist. I'll go to the shiur and the rabbi will be thrilled to see me and I'll learn. I'll get the chizuk and I'll even bring other people to the class. And then afterward, I can spend the rest of the time doing whatever I want. I’ll get the best of both worlds.”

Or people see the person who gives enormous amounts of tzedakah while treating employees terribly, and subconsciously conclude that perhaps the two can go together. At that point, the standard begins to shift. “They're religious, and they do it, so I can do it too.”

That is why our growth matters beyond ourselves. The more visibly we represent Torah, the more our behavior can quietly shape what others come to see as normal and acceptable.

Keep Driving

So we have identified the problem. Now, what is the solution?

I think the solution is actually very simple: keep driving. Don't mistake the halfway point for the destination. Keep going. And understand something important: some of our most meaningful growth will not happen in the easy things. It will happen in the hard things.

Someone once told me a story.

A husband was preparing to undergo a very serious medical procedure. I happened to have visited him the previous day while I was at the hospital myself. The following day, his wife sent me a message. She told me that shortly before the procedure, one of her husband's friends came to visit.

At some point, the question arose, “Are you wearing tzitzis?” The husband wasn't. He was about to undergo a frightening and serious procedure, and suddenly his wife wanted him to have this mitzvah with him. So she asked his friend, “Can he use your tzitzis?” The friend walked into the hallway, removed his own tzitzis, and handed them over.

But then there was a practical concern. Her husband was about to undergo a medical procedure, and she was worried about cleanliness and germs. So she took the tzitzis, found out where they could be washed, had them cleaned, and then brought them back so that her husband could put them on before undergoing the procedure.

As I read her message, my eyes began to fill with tears. Because that is hard. There is no audience and there is no public recognition.

Here is a woman frightened for her husband, standing in a hospital in the middle of an extraordinarily difficult moment, and somewhere within all of that fear and uncertainty she thinks, “I want him to have this mitzvah.” And then she goes through the trouble of making it happen. That is growth that reaches somewhere deep.

That is what Elul asks us to search for.

Not only, “What good things am I already doing?” but, “What is difficult for me? What am I still holding on to? Where is the area in which I know I still need to grow, but it is easy to overlook because of all the other good things I am already doing?”

The Gemara's language is precise. Torah endures in the person who makes himself arum for it. Sometimes Torah becomes ours not through what we acquire, but through what we are finally willing to surrender. And that surrender may look different for every person. For one person, it may be something on a phone. For another, it may be the way he speaks to his spouse, the way he handles his anger, or simply putting on tzitzis before walking into a hospital procedure. Nobody needs to know.

The question of Elul is not what other people think of the person I have become, but what Hashem knows I am still capable of becoming. Be proud of how far you have come and don't erase a single mile or stop the car. But there is still a road ahead, so keep driving.

Willing to Go to War

This idea is captured most beautifully in the opening Pasuk of this week's Parsha.

“Ki teitzei la'milchamah al oyvecha, u'nesano Hashem Elokecha b'yadecha—When you go out to war against your enemy, and Hashem your G-d delivers him into your hand” (Devarim 21:10). The Torah does not say oyveichem, your enemies, in the plural. It says oyvecha, your enemy, in the singular.

The commentaries explain this homiletically. The Torah is not speaking only about an enemy on the battlefield. It is alluding to another enemy as well: the enemy within us, also known as our personal yetzer hara. These are the weaknesses and impulses that each of us knows we struggle with.

“Ki seitzei la'milchamah al oyvecha.” When you are willing to go out and wage war against your enemy—your struggle, your weakness, your particular yetzer hara—Hashem makes a promise: “U'nesano Hashem Elokecha b'yadecha—Hashem will place that enemy into your hands.”

But first, you have to be willing to go to war.

If you are growing by doing the things that have become easier for you, that is wonderful. It is real progress and be proud of it. But don't stop. Keep fighting for the parts that are harder and keep working on the area you would rather avoid.

That does not mean you must become perfect. Nobody is perfectly consistent. We all have inconsistencies. One day we are strong and then another day we slip back into an old habit. One part of our personality may have grown tremendously while another part is still trying to catch up. That is not hypocrisy; that is being human. I am not asking anyone to stop being human and I am not suggesting that every part of our lives can suddenly line up perfectly overnight. I am asking for something much more attainable: let the growth continue. As we grow, let the growth gradually reach more and more of who we are.

Doesn’t Hashem Have Angels?

Let me finish with one final story.

A man once approached a rabbi with a question. “Rabbi, Hashem has angels and angels are holy and pure. Angels do exactly what Hashem wants. So what does Hashem need me for? I'm an ordinary human being. I make mistakes, I have weaknesses and I'm inconsistent. What can I possibly offer Hashem that He doesn't already have?”

The rabbi asked him, “What do you do for a living?” “I'm an artist,” he said. “Tell me,” went on the rabbi, “what is the most magnificent painting you have ever seen?”

The man thought for a moment.

“There is one painting I absolutely love. It depicts a sunrise over the ocean. It is magnificent. The colors, the light, the water—everything about it is extraordinary. It is worth millions of dollars.”

“I have a better idea,” interjected the rabbi. “Tomorrow morning, go down to the ocean at sunrise and take a photograph.” The artist looked confused. The rabbi continued.

“The photograph will be more accurate than the painting. Every wave will be exactly where it belongs and every ray of sunlight will be precisely as it appeared. And instead of millions of dollars, it will cost almost nothing. So why is your painting so valuable?”

The artist smiled. “Rabbi, you don't understand art. The beauty of a painting is precisely that it was created by a human being. The artist holds a brush in his hand and his hand can shake and he can make a mistake. He chooses which colors to use and what to emphasize and what to leave in the background. He paints the sunrise not merely as it exists, but as he sees it. The possibility of imperfection is part of what makes the painting beautiful.”

The rabbi looked at him and said, “That's why Hashem wants you.” Hashem already has angels. Angels are the photograph and they are perfect. But you are the artist. You have a brush in your hand. Your lines will not always be straight and your colors will not always blend perfectly. There will be places where you wish you could paint over what you have done. But that is precisely the beauty of a human life. We are not here because Hashem expects perfection. We are here because Hashem wants the painting. He wants the struggle and He wants the person who falls and gets back up, who changes and then struggles again, who moves forward and sometimes backward—but keeps painting.

The message is not that everything in our lives must be perfect. You're not a photograph and neither am I. But we are trying to make the painting as magnificent as we possibly can. If I am a rabbi, then I want the Torah I teach to be reflected, as much as possible, in the way I live. If I am growing in one area of observance, I want that sensitivity eventually to reach the other parts of my life as well: the way I speak, what I watch, where I go, and what I allow into my mind. And if I am becoming a person of chesed, I don't want to be kind only to strangers who need my money. I want to become kinder to the people who work for me, live with me, and depend upon me.

This brings us back to where we began.

We live in a remarkable generation. It has become extraordinarily easy to do good, and extraordinarily easy to access things that can pull us the opposite way. That means it is possible to live with contradictions without even noticing them. We can be inspired in one moment and distracted in the next. We can listen to Torah and then immediately open something that takes us away from it. That is the world in which we live.

If you are growing, be proud of yourself. If you have traveled further this year than you did last year, recognize it. If you have added Torah, tefillah, tzedakah, chesed, tznius, or any other mitzvah to your life, celebrate that progress. You have traveled a long way. All I am asking is: don't get out of the car at the Amboy theater. You're closer and you've grown, but there is still more road ahead.

Perhaps that is our avodah during Elul: not to become angels, but simply to identify one place in our lives where we know there is still some road left to travel—and to keep going. “Ki seitzei la'milchamah al oyvecha.” Be willing to fight the battle. And if we do, Hashem promises: “U'nesano Hashem Elokecha b'yadecha.” He will help us win it.

So be proud of how far you've come and stay in the car.

And this Elul, keep driving.

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