Something is terribly wrong.

Israel is under attack, yet again. After experiencing rockets, riots and rapes, missiles and mortals, kidnappings, killings and complete devastation on October 7… the world is calling for them to seize fire. The land that is defending itself against terrorism, the land that treats their Arab citizens with more human decency and respect than their own countries, is the bad guy, yet again.

And this is by no means an anomaly. This has become a tragic constant in our times: Terrorism is all powerful and seem to have a great PR team behind them turning the terror they enforce on others into self-victimhood. They abuse and yet are the abused. Somehow the recipients of their anger and killings are turned into the abusers, while they come out the heroes. Forgive me if that’s a confusing read, but this is a confusing matter! Muslims commit atrocities against civilians on a sustained and ongoing basis, with very little global uproar. There is virtually no demand that the Muslim countries protest and once and for all eradicate this campaign of terror. You don’t hear any journalists trying to understand what type of environment is breeding citizens that brutalize innocent people, and do so in the name of G-d.

With all the news streaming from the Middle East, once again it is Israel that is under physical and political fire. How are they the bad guys?

What exactly is going on?

Perhaps the true reason that we don’t hear outrage against Hamas, is precisely due to the success of the power of terrorism: It so lowers the ante, that we begin to find it acceptable. Like an abused wife who becomes so desensitized and detached that she denies (or minimizes) her husband’s beatings. The carnage has tragically become so routine, so common, that we just dismiss it. Instead of outrage and anger, we chalk it up to just “another day” in the Middle East.

This is far beyond double standard. It’s chillingly reminiscent of Hitler, who deliberately convinced the world that the only way to deal with his madness was to appease him. Hitler kept pushing the envelope, betrayal after betrayal of his promises, until the world caught on. Even the equally cruel Stalin was fooled. Let alone Chamberlain, who infamously declared “Peace in our times. The great Hitler has been humbled.” As he was deplaning and waving the paper in his hand relinquishing the Sudetenland to Germany, the Nazis were brazenly marching into Poland. Churchill then said: “Appeasement is feeding the sharks in the hope that you will be eaten last.”

Don’t get me wrong. No doubt that the majority of Muslims and Arabs could, and may want to, be peace-loving. But one could argue the same for the majority of Germans during World War II. Yet, we hold them collectively responsible for allowing the Nazis to come to power. In face of the genocide and atrocities taking place under their eyes even their silence was a crime. In addition to the fact, that the Nazis were not some foreign import; they were the children and products of German society.

The Middle East is a breeding ground—a platform—for terrorism, for genocide (I don’t even have the right word for it). The schools are educating the children with certain ideas that are allowing for mass terror as a viable option to be exercised—or tolerated—in order to advance a cause. That simply is unacceptable.

The time has come to finally call them on it.

And this may be the ultimate reason why we don’t hear outrage: It’s just simply too unsettling to realize that we are dealing with a confrontation with 1 billion Muslims. A clash of civilizations is the last thing that people want to hear about.

However there may be no choice. Just as over a billion Christians were tamed, the same goes for the Muslims. Humanity must live in a civilized way. Especially people claiming religious beliefs must comply with G-d’s universal laws.

As we stand in proximity of Shavuot, when we relive the revelation at Sinai, this may be the best time to demand accountability of the Arab/Muslim world for their actions, and to call the rest of the world to demand a response.

* * *

The single most important event in history took place 3336 years ago.

Sinai set in motion a series of events that would change the world forever, and continues to impact our lives today.

At Sinai the human race received a Divine blueprint how to live our lives. This great gift was given for all of mankind, however at the time the nations of the world rejected it. As our sages tell us that the children of Esau and the children of Ishmael both were offered the Torah and they rejected it after seeing that they could not live up to its laws, namely the prohibition on murder, theft and sexual transgressions.

It would take over 1000 years for the children of Esau—the Roman/Western/Christian world—to begin embracing the Sinai principles. It would take another 700 years for the children of Ishmael—the Muslim/Arab world—to do the same.

Yet, even after the birth of Christianity and Islam both would struggle with these principles and wreak global havoc in the process. For centuries Christians terrorized the world in the name of their religion. The Crusades, the Inquisitions, the pogroms are a few examples of the awful horror the Christians inflicted in their search to eradicate so-called heresy. Only in the last few hundred years has Christianity been tamed.

Islam too has had periods of aggression, now rearing its ugly head and terrorizing the world.

The bottom line is that the children of Ishmael are still struggling with the message given at Sinai.

What was it at Sinai that the children of Esau and Ishmael rejected, and what is its message today that they need to embrace?

At Sinai the world changed. For the first time the human race was given the opportunity to bridge heaven and earth—to fuse spirit and matter. Until that point there existed an invisible wall between the transcendental and the material. A decree, a schism separated between above and below. “That which was above could not descend below, and that which was below could not ascend above.”

Sinai opened a door, never again to be closed, that allows mortals in a material world to become Divine. It gave us the power to spiritualize the material, and to make our lives sacred, not just ethical.

This was no small event.

Philosophers, thinkers, theologians and lay people have all always asked the eternal question: How high can a human being reach? Are we humans just sophisticated beasts, with limited potential? Can we ever reach heaven and beyond or bring heaven down to earth? Can we integrate spirituality into our material lives? Can we fuse the finite and the infinite?

The fact is that matter and spirit are in a perpetual struggle. Narcissism, greed, corruption are staples of life. When we look at ourselves each of us knows that we often feel that “I exist and nothing else” (“ani v’afsi oid”), to the detriment of others. When this feeling becomes extreme it can destroy lives of those around us.

On the other hand, we also have a spirit inside of us. We have the power to live noble lives, filled with dignity and selflessness.

So we have an inevitable clash. Matter by its very nature is selfish. Spirit is selfless. No wonder that people have always speculated whether these two worlds can meet, let alone merge.

In general we find two approaches evolving in history: Asceticism and immersion. One states that in order to experience spirit we must separate ourselves from the material tentacles of life, and “climb the mountain” to meditate and become absorbed in a higher reality. Basically, one must deny the material life. An extreme version of this would be the ascetic life. To achieve the sacred the material life must be compromised. The infinite may be reached, but only by denying the finite.

The other extreme is that we cannot really reach heaven. We must live ethically, build healthy homes and workplaces, and find spirit in limited ways within our limited lives. Because we are essentially mortal creatures, with inherent selfishness or even evil, we cannot expect anything more than the best an earthy creature can achieve. A variation of this includes the ability of achieving salvation but not through our own efforts but by embracing something beyond us. The infinite is not integrated into our own personal lives.

Sinai opened the door of a third option. Sinai created an interface that bridged heaven and earth, giving us the power to integrate matter and spirit, utterly and completely, without compromising one or the other. The finite can become one with the infinite; matter one with spirit; the sacred one with the secular. Briefly, because G-d is neither spirit nor matter, He gave us the power to completely integrate the two.

This third option, however, does not come easily. As limiting as the first two options may be, they seem simpler, while the Sinai option requires a continual straddling of the thin line between matter and spirit.

That is why Sinai did not come easily. The nations of the world could not accept—nor understand—how one can bridge the two worlds. They therefore rejected the Torah at the time. Even the Jewish people did not reach Sinai effortlessly. Twenty-six generations of hard work, culminating with the terrible Egyptian slavery, was necessary before the people would be ready for Sinai.

This struggle between heaven and earth has many manifestations, including the battle that we so often have witnessed between religion and secularism. If you are a firm believer how do you deal with the secular world? According to the two-abovementioned options you either have to wage a holy war against the secular, or your basically embrace the secular with limited sanctity.

Therein lies the essential root of the religious wars waged throughout history. Recognizing secular heresy as an enemy, the Christians and later the Muslims, engaged in aggressive battles with the forces they perceive as threatening.

These battles actually began in the home of Abraham. Abraham, father of all nations, was the one that began the process, which was consummated at Sinai, of discovering and embracing the method of integrating the Divine and the mundane. Yet this effort encountered many challenges, including the difficulties with his son Ishmael. “He [Ishmael] will be a wild man. His hand will be against everyone, and everyone’s hand will be against him” (Genesis 16:12). It came to a point that Ishmael had to be banished from Abraham’s home.

This battle only intensified in the home of Isaac, son of Abraham, in the struggle between the twin brothers, Esau and Jacob. “Two nations are in your womb. Two governments will separate from inside you. The upper hand will go from one nation to the other. The greater one will serve the younger.” The brothers are diametrically different characters. Esau is a “skilled hunter, a man of the field.” “Jacob was a wholesome man, who sat in the tents” – a scholar who dwelled in the tents of study.

The battle between Esau and Jacob represents the battle between the material and the spiritual, a struggle that would only be resolved at the end of times.

What was the core of Ishmael and Esau’s difficulties, one that would later cause their children to reject the Torah, while the children of Jacob were embracing it?

Chassidic texts explain that the problem was rooted in balance. Ishmael (son of Abraham) was an archetype of abundant chesed (love) without the discipline of gevurah (judgment and discretion). Esau (son of Isaac) was an extreme of gevurah without the sensitivity of chesed.

Jacob, by contrast, was tiferet. Tiferet is beauty—harmony within diversity. Tiferet has the power to fuse love and discipline into one symmetrical unit. Tiferet possesses this power by introducing a third dimension—the dimension of truth, which is neither love nor discipline and therefore can integrate the two. Truth is accessed through selflessness: rising above your ego and your predispositions, enabling you to realize truth. Truth gives you a clear and objective picture of yours and others’ needs.

Jacobs’ children were educated with this Tiferet balance. They thus were ready for Mattan Torah, to receive the Torah at Sinai, which is called Tiferet. This is why we don’t find the Jewish people embarking on any religious war against heretics, or converting the nations of the world to Judaism. Conversion is actually dissuaded in Jewish law. When you are a person of Tiferet—secure in your own beliefs; aware that all humans were created in the Divine image, and one need not be Jewish to serve G-d; maintain a perfect equilibrium between love and discipline; absolutely confident that the sacred and the secular can be integrated with the Divine, and that this integration will come to fruition; lacking any fear that evil may be more powerful than good—then you can maintain the highest standard of spiritual integrity without resorting to killing or terrorizing others to conform to your beliefs.

Ishmael and Esau lacked this balance. Unbridled love and untempered discipline, even if they are driven for a good cause, ultimately become aggressive forces of destruction. Too much undisciplined love spoils a child and can create a monster, like too much rain that floods and destroys the fields. Unlimited judgment and severity, without underlying love, becomes tyrannical.

Thus, at Sinai the children of Ishmael and Esau were not yet prepared to receive the Torah. But their time would come, and come it did. Maimonides writes that by the mysterious ways of Divine Providence, Christianity and Islam helped pave the way for the Messianic age by acquainting the world with the principle of Messiah, the Torah and mitzvot. As time would pass their beliefs would continue to refine and mature.

In the centuries that followed Esau and Ishmael’s descendants would go through their growing pains in learning how to balance religious beliefs and daily life. This would not be an easy process; history is witness to the devastation and bloodshed wreaked by this journey. But slowly, slowly, Sinai would seep into the fibers of all people. The process concludes with the refinement of the last two powers, Edom (Esau) and Ishmael, which leads to the Messianic age—a world where there is no more destruction and terror and all children of Abraham serve the One G-d of Abraham in peace and harmony.

After years of tyranny the Western/Christian world has finally bred countries like America that champion the fundamental principles of Sinai: All people are created equal with inalienable rights and freedoms. The children of Esau have come to embrace the teachings of Abraham, formalized at Sinai.

The time has come for the children of Ishmael to do the same. We need to look at the education system, the curricula that Muslim children are being taught, and analyze it with the same rigor that we do in the media with far more superficial issues.

I understand the risk of interfering in the sovereignty of another country’s education system. Yet, we must approach this with pure intentions, infused with humility, demanding of ourselves the same standards we expect of others. Then we have a right to demand of ourselves and others to live up to the standards that Abraham taught all his children and all of civilization.

America today plays a special role in this work. The foundations of this country are built on absolute principles of faith and trust in G-d. This is not just a country of economic opportunity. The success of corporate America and unprecedented prosperity is a result of an unwavering mission statement: All equal, in G-d we trust, diversity and individual, e pluribus unum — under one G-d.

This country must align itself with its mission – the business of this nation must reconnect to its higher calling. Then and only then does this country earn the right to hold itself up as an example to the world. Simply being a nation of great wealth and power does not by any means give it the moral high ground. Other nations, religions and peoples have much longer traditions and histories than the relatively new world of America. But America can demonstrate something unique to the world. As a country, it can rise above our own national issues and serve as a beacon of light teaching the world the universal principles of all humankind – the principle upon which this nation was founded – how to live in peace with G-d.

3336 years ago the children of Esau and Ishmael rejected the Torah. Perhaps G-d could not impose it on them. But we can.

Today we must call on them, and insist, that they finally accept what they rejected then – that they finally accept the Torah in its entirety.

After all we have endured in the last three millennia, and with the current state of atrocity in the Middle East, we can appreciate the need for all nations to embrace the mandate given to us at Sinai.

So, 3336 years later how far are we from Sinai? On one hand it seems quite far, but on the other Sinai may be just around the corner. It’s up to us to determine which one it will be.

Is there a more powerful challenge to us as we approach Sinai?

This is the call of the hour. The call of Sinai. The call that sounded 3336 years ago and resonated around the globe and throughout history. This call is still reverberating today, waiting for our response.

Anatomy of a Leper’s Conception

Some years ago a fellow came to see me to discuss his, as he put it, “miserable life.” “As far back as I can remember,” he told me, “I was shunned. People would ridicule and pick on me.”

“I don’t know what it is about me,” he continued, “but I seem to project a negative energy that elicits scorn and contempt.

“Then one week, looking for some solace in a Synagogue, I was following the Torah reading and there was description of my life: ‘This is the law of the leper… outside the camp’ (Leviticus 14:2-3), ‘he remains alone, outside the camp’ (13:46). Yes, I thought to myself, that’s me. Isolated, alone, a pariah, with no home, no family and no community.”

What do you say when someone shares such self-loathing feelings? I just cried.

But then, the man said something that gave me hope. “So as I was reading the Torah chapter, having finally discovered my tragic story, and I noticed that this week we actually read and combine two chapters, which together are called ‘Tazria-Metzora,’ literally translated in English as: Conceiving (Tazria) Leper (Metzora). How uncanny, I thought to myself. I was actually conceived and born a leper. I am inherently a repulsive person. My doomed destiny is set in stone…”

I was about to explain to him that these words (Tazria and Metzora) are just the two names of these respective chapters, and they are not be read as one statement. But then I realized two things: He was speaking from his wretched gut, and no matter how macabre, this was his personal read which resonated in his heart. My “Talmudic” explanations were irrelevant to this situation.

Secondly, I suddenly remembered that scholars actually do read Tazria-Metzora as one expression, and wonder at the bizarre convergence of these two paradoxical elements: The power and beauty of conception and the degradation and lowliness of the leper. Indeed, the Sefer Yetzirah (Book of Formation, attributed to Abraham) states: “Nothing is higher than pleasure (oneg); nothing is lower than leprosy (negah).” Oneg and negah consist of the same three Hebrew letters: Ayin, Nun, Gimmel. When the Ayin comes first it creates oneg (pleasure); when the letters are reorganized and the Nun comes first it creates negah (the leprous curse).

And they go on to explain that the deepest pleasure is derived from transforming the abyss; through revealing the deepest sparks that lay embedded within the depths. Thus Tazria-Metzora: new revelations conceived in the womb of darkness.

But I never heard this fellow’s reverse interpretation: A leper from conception. A monster from birth.

No. I was not going to accept that option, no matter how insistent he was. Monsters are not born, they are made. “No evil comes from above,” our sages tell us. Ugliness is man-made.

In truth, no man has the power to turn another man into a monster. Free choice allows one to tragically turn himself into a monster; but no one can take away another’s dignity.

This is perhaps the most fundamental truth of all truths, and the basis of the entire Torah: Every individual was created in the Divine Image, each with a pure soul, and no matter what happens in one’s lifetime, the sacred innocence remains intact. Perhaps cloaked, obscured, even to the point of total concealment, but still burning in some way, waiting. Waiting like a pilot flame to be fanned and brought alive.

Even growing up in the most abusive home, where instead of nurturing a child was hurt and rejected, the damage done, the wounds incurred, are only on the conscious level; the inner soul always maintains its potency, and with effort and persistence, and a pinch of creativity, can be brought back to the surface.

Tazria-Metzora is the operative term: Out of the pariah’s isolation greatness can be conceived. True, the leper is a lonely sufferer, outside the camp and community. But the continuing story in the chapter is the process of healing from this torture.

With this principle in mind, I told my pitiful visitor that no matter his experiences, he was a beautiful person within. He snickered. Nothing I could say would convince him. But I did not relent. The more he resisted, the more I accelerated the attack against his distorted, self-destructive convictions. Not to be misunderstood, this “attack” was done with utmost sensitivity and care, but nevertheless it was a deliberate attempt to demonstrate that the power of light and hope is stronger that the erosive power of darkness and resignation.

Keep hammering away, subtly and consistently, and slowly, slowly you chip away at the armor, melting it away as the saplings begin to sprout.

“You may feel that you were born a leprous pariah,” I told him once, “but that very sense doesn’t allow you to be complacent; it compels you to see this as an opportunity to dig deeper.

“This may indeed be your Parsha, but not the way you see it: Instead of your having been conceived a leper, allow your pariah-like feelings conceive new dimensions of light, that have hitherto never been revealed.”

At times, we all experience existential loneliness. The feeling of “not belonging,” that we are alone, different and isolated, without a sense of camaraderie and community. We then have two choices: We either give in to these sentiments and allow ourselves to be further demoralized. Or we use the emptiness as an impetus to birth new possibilities.

Above all, perhaps the most freeing thing of all is the mere fact that the Torah dedicates a portion to discuss the plight of the lonely soul, not to mention his healing journey. A certain strength and powerful healing forces are unleashed when we commune with others that are suffering as we do.

What happened with the individual whose experience initiated this article? Years have passed since our initial encounter. Today, after much hard work and the acceptance that it may take a lifetime of work, this gentleman is married with several children. He has found some measure of peace and happiness amidst his anguished life. He now soothes many other tortured souls, gives hope to the hopeless, and teaches people by example how light – the deepest light – can be found in the most forsaken places.

Recently, he shared with me that his turning point came on that sad afternoon when, instead of being dismissed, he heard for the first time that Tazria-Metzora is not about a leper being born, but about a leper giving birth.

Much has been written bemoaning the hypocrisies we witness daily of so-called pious people behaving in very impious ways. The Talmud perhaps captured it best in describing the proverbial thief who prays to G-d “before he goes out to steal” (Berachot 63a).

None of us are immune to inconsistencies and just plain old duplicity in our own behaviors – the contradictions between our actions and our expectations of others; the standards we claim to uphold and our lapses. And we always notice and criticize the flaws of others more than we do our own.

“A man sees all flaws except his own,” says the Mishne.

But when this dissonance appears in religious circles the disconcertment is amplified many times over. The contrast of a person being so devout on one hand, while being so coarse on another, is terribly unnerving.

To help us counter our human inconsistencies and especially religious dissonance, the Torah offers us powerful tools. One of them is the key mitzvah of counting the Omer – a 49-day period, beginning the second night of Passover, that focuses on refining our personalities.

Why does the counting commence at the outset of Passover? Technically, the reason for this is  because, as Leviticus states, the counting begins on the day that the Omer offering (a measure of barley) was brought in the Temple, which was the second day of Passover. But the question only carries over to the verse: Why not bring the offering after Passover and then begin the 49-day character refinement process after Passover? The energy of freedom emanates during Passover, so why the need to add in these days another element: character refinement?

When the Jewish people left Egypt you would think that after 210 years of harsh oppression, they should now be allowed to relax a bit before taking on their next challenge. Yet we see that virtually the day after they left Egypt they began to count the days, which included their hard work of introspection and character refinement in preparation for Sinai!

This timing teaches us a profound and vital lesson: Even when you are celebrating freedom, never take your blessings for granted. Every transcendent experience can just as quickly dissipate. As soon as you experience a revelation, an inspiration, an epiphany, channel it into personal growth and refinement. It is very easy to fall into the trap of relying on the crutch of religion when experiencing something special. The most important thing to always remember – even, or especially, when you are on a high – is that you must integrate the freedom into your personal life. And that requires hard work.

It’s one thing to be lifted on the Divine “wings of eagles” and be carried by G-d out of bondage. It’s quite another matter maintaining that freedom in our everyday routines.

Religion today – and humanity as a whole – is suffering from deep spiritual dissonance: Being religious is not necessarily equated with being refined. You would think that the more pious an individual, the more sensitive he or she would be, the more compassionate, the more giving and sublime. That is not very often the case. In most cases the more religious the person the less spiritual and vice versa. People who are deeply committed to religious rituals and dress in religious garb can at the same time be quite obnoxious.

Nachmanides writes (Leviticus 19:1) that in religious life there is a possibility of a “naval b’reshut haTorah,” a despicable person [who behaves so] with “permission” of the Torah. This means someone who uses the letter of the law in a disgusting way, to justify his inappropriate behavior. We therefore have the specific commandment “sanctify yourselves for I, your G-d, am holy.” We need to limit and refine even that which is permissible according to the Torah. Strict adherence to the laws is not sufficient; it needs to be saturated with sanctity and sensitivity. They must be performed not just by habit or mechanically, but in a way that permeates our beings and personalities and transforms our behavioral mechanisms.

Isaiah put it bluntly when he said in the name of G-d:

I cannot bear iniquity along with solemn assembly (Isaiah 1:12). These people come near to me with their mouth and honor me with their lips, but their hearts are removed from me. Their reverence for me consists of rules learned by rote from men (29:13).

Religion today is often associated with dogma, anger, condescension, judgmentalism, insensitivity and even arrogance – anything but deeper empathy and warmth. How is that possible? How can a person devoted to G-d not be the most refined person on Earth?

The answer lies in the profound dissonance that is possible in our dark universe, where the Divine reality is shrouded in layers upon layers of coarse materialism.

So we are given the mitzvah of counting the Omer and refining our characters just at the high point as we are leaving Egypt – to tell us that the religious high must be drawn into our personal behaviors, that a Divine experience is not complete and will not hold unless it refines our attitudes, sensitizes our senses and simply makes us better, more giving, more loving human beings.

This is also the meaning of the mitzvah of counting the Omer, And you shall count for yourselves (U’sefartem lochem): U’sefartem (from the word sapir, the lustrous sapphire stone) also means you shall shine. And the additional word lochem (for yourselves) – which seems superfluous – emphasizes that this consists not merely of counting, but of internal work. We need to internalize and integrate the experience, by refining our personalities to the point that we shine for ourselves – we emanate a glow and an aura from within that only comes from the refined beauty of a transformed psyche.

Freedom – even the great Egyptian Exodus led by G-d – is not complete until we integrate the experience into our personal lives. Passover gave us the Divine gift of freedom, taking us out of all our constraints and fears (mitzrayim). That is step one. But that alone doesn’t mean that we are free from within. True freedom is possible only when we free ourselves from our own emotional subjectivity and trappings, through the thorough process of introspection and character growth in the 49 days of the Omer.

U’sefartem lochem: Each day we count – reflect, refine and illuminate – another aspect of our emotional personality.

Then and only then do we become ready to absorb the 50^th day – the Sinai experience, an even greater transcendent dimension, when we receive the Divine blueprint and power to fuse matter and spirit. We don’t count the 50^th day, but we cannot reach it unless we first count and refine our 49 (7×7) personality features.

What a fascinating way to look at the post-holiday period. Usually one would think that after a long and beautiful holiday we return to our regular routines and move on. Omer tells us that as Passover ends we don’t just rush to buy the fastest pizza pie – and reenter our quotidian lives. We now have the great responsibility and the glorious opportunity to demonstrate our ability to shine – to shine from within – and illuminate our environment with distinction and dignity.

What defines greatness? A closer look at the significance of Shabbat HaGadol (lit. the great Shabbat) – the traditional name for the Shabbat preceding Passover – can perhaps shed some light on the meaning of greatness. And also give us a laugh or two – hey who can’t use a bit of humor?…

If you thought that long, drawn-out Rabbinic sermons are a modern phenomenon, think again. None other than the great 11th century scholar and commentator, Rashi, writes in his Sefer ha’Pardes (p. 343), in the name of a Rabbi Yitzchak Yuskuntu that the customary lengthy Shabbat HaGadol speech makes the Shabbat feel long and drawn out. Hence they called the day Shabbat HaGadol, gadol as in long and protracted – the long Shabbat. “When people do not move around, but stay in one place for an extended time and don’t have what to do, they customarily will say: ‘what a long day…’”

I tried researching the identity of Rabbi Yitzchak Yuskuntu that Rashi cites, but with no success. All Rashi writes is that he was a “katzin” (which usually means a prominent individual, a magistrate), and that he was from Hungary (“eretz hagar”). If anyone has any more information on this Rabbi, I would appreciate you letting let me know.

Just in case you think that this was an anomaly only in Rashi’s town (and in the vicinity of the above-cited Rabbi Yitzchak), this reason for Shabbat haGadol is brought down by quite a few other Torah authorities, like the 13th century scholar, R’ Tzidkiyahu ben Avraham in his Shibolei Haleket, R’ Yechiel in Tanya Rabsi and others.

I guess the difference between the Synagogue sermons in the Middle Ages and today is that people then stuck around even if the sermons dragged on and the day turned long and drawn out. While today most congregants would simply leave and not hang around too long… Was it the sermon or the people? Probably both: The sermons were better and the people were more committed. Today, on the other hand… – you can fill in the blanks.

Before drawing any bizarre conclusions that the Shabbat before Passover is so named (The Long Shabbat) simply due to people’s feelings about the lengthy sermons, we must qualify this statement with a very clear and loud declaration that our sages, including Rashi himself, offer other reasons for this Shabbat being called Shabbat HaGadol.

Primary among these reasons is the one given by the legal (halachik) authorities, namely the Tur, Shulchan Oruch (code of Jewish law) and the Alter Rebbe in his Shulchan Oruch (Orech Chaim sec. 430) – that a great miracle happened on this Shabbat a few days preceding the Egyptian Exodus. There are various opinions as to the nature of this great miracle. Here is a summary of them:

1)      The Jewish people were commanded by Moses to take a lamb and tie it to their bedposts on Shabbat, the 10th day of Nissan, five days before they were to leave Egypt. When the Egyptians inquired by the Jews why they were buying lambs en masse, they were told that these lambs were intended for the Paschal Offering, which would be sacrificed in preparation of the Plague of the Firstborn. For some reason, this information rattled the Egyptian firstborn, who immediately insisted that Pharaoh grant the Jews the liberty they demanded. When Pharaoh refused their request, the Egyptian firstborn waged war with Pharaoh’s army, and many Egyptians who were guilty of atrocities against the Jews were killed on that day.  This is the meaning of the verse (Psalms 136:10): “Who struck Egypt through its first born; for His kindness is eternal” (Alter Rebbe’s Shulchan Aruch, from Tosafot Shabbat 87b).

2)      On this day it was demonstrated that the Egyptians were powerless against the Jews. They were very disturbed by the fact that the Jews were planning to slaughter lambs, an Egyptian deity – but were incapable of doing anything to hamper their plans (Tur. Levush).

3)      The Egyptians wanted to kill the Jews for slaughtering their deity, and G-d miraculously spared them (Rabboseinu Baalei haTosafos Bo 12:3. Rashi in Sefer HaPardes cited above, as well as in Sefer haOrah and Siddur Rashi).

Despite these reasons, it still seems kind of puzzling that a sage on the caliber of Rashi should cite the above-mentioned reason that people felt that the sermon made the day seem so long. Why would it be important to tell us this? And why would anyone suggest such a satirical name to a day so special like the Shabbat before Passover?! Especially considering that there are many other very positive reasons for calling this day Shabbat HaGadol – reasons that reflect the special and great miracles that transpired on that day! In addition to the reasons cited above, many scholars over the generations have posited different beautiful insights into this name (like the Avudraham and the Pri Chadash. – Many are gathered in Rabbi Menachem Kasher’s Hagoda Shelemah. See also Bnei Yissachar and Shaar Yissachar, among others).

Another oddity about Shabbat HaGadol is the fact that this name is not mentioned in any Biblical or Talmudic literature.* The first time we find it mentioned is in the writings of Rashi (cited above) and his contemporaries, like R’ Simcha ben Samuel of Vitry in his Machzor Vitri (section 259). And they both write that the name is shrouded in mystery: “The Shabbat prior to Passover people are accustomed to call Shabbat HaGadol. And they don’t know why it’s called Shabbat Hagadol, [why it is distinguished as being] greater than the other Sabbaths of the year.”

And yet, they continue to provide the reason for this name due to the great miracle that happened on that Shabbat in Egypt! Since Rashi and the other sages know and are giving us the reason, why are they emphasizing the ignorance of the people in their time who call it by that name without knowing why?! And why is it that people at the time were not aware of the reason? Clearly the name of the Shabbat was quite popular, suggesting that it was passed on by word-of-mouth from generation to generation. Yet, the reason was not passed on except to a select few. The question remains: Where did this name originate? How far back?

The history of Shabbat HaGadol and its name seems to be muddled, almost intentionally, in obscurity. Not to say that Jewish law is unclear about the matter; the Shulchan Aruch is very lucid about the great miracle that happened on that Shabbat, and how we honor that every year on this Shabbat HaGadol. Many eloquent thoughts and yes, sermons, have been delivered over the years explaining the moral and spiritual lessons from these miracles. And yet, when we go back and explore the past, the origins of the name seem to fade in the annals of history.

I will not attempt to unravel the mysteries of Shabbat HaGadol. Instead, allow me to just point out that perhaps we may have here a full-blown manifestation of the paradoxes and absurdities of life, which is acutely reflected in Jewish life.

On one hand, Shabbat HaGadol celebrates the great miracles that preceded the Exodus. After years of oppression at the hands of the Egyptians, the oppressors finally got their due, as they turned on each other and witnessed their gods being destroyed, helpless to do anything about it. Year after year on this Shabbat throughout the millennia, sermons upon sermons were delivered, educating, inspiring, motivating, cajoling the people to honor these miracles, improve their lives and heighten their consciousness.

On the other hand, the Jewish people, though free at last, are never allowed to gloat and succumb to pride and self-importance.

To remind us of that fact, we don’t really know when and where the “Great Shabbat” got its name. Furthermore, in an almost tongue-in-cheek way – quite refreshing if you ask me – we are reminded that some of these sermons (even back then) may have gone too long; or if that sounds too harsh, that the long sermons made the people feel that the day was very, very long… “What a long day?”

They say that there is a very thin line between comedy and tragedy, as well as between intensity and lightness of being. Sometimes the only way to survive and not be trampled by existential loneliness and the contradictions of life is with a bit of humor and self-deprecation; not to take yourself too seriously. Not becoming smug in the face of success; and not to be depressed in the face of (perceived) failure.

Balancing the two – seriousness and cheerfulness, intensity and buoyancy, realism and optimism, sadness and laughter, pain and joy, success and humility – is the secret to resilience and success; the power to withstand all challenges and endure. The mystery of immortality.

And in some strange way, this is the secret of greatness. The mystique behind the Great Shabbat.

May everyone be blessed with a very meaningful, transcendent – and disarming – Passover.

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*) The term Shabbat Hagadol is mentioned Zohar II  204a and Tikkunei Zohar 40b. But it is not referring there (at least explicitly) to the Shabbat preceding Passover.