Middle of the Road: R’ Yehuda Oppenheimer

The tragedy of the M’raglim did not begin with a lie. That is part of what makes the story so frightening.

Lag BaOmer has come and gone.

There is a striking shift in Sefer Bamidbar.

As we prepare for Pesach and remove chametz from our homes, Parshas Tzav presents us with a striking paradox. The Torah’s central offering of gratitude – the Korban Todah – is brought not with matzah alone, but with both chametz and matzah: “al challos lechem chametz yakriv korbano.”

There is a longstanding custom that Parshas BaMidbar is read on the Shabbos immediately preceding Shavuos. Various explanations are offered for this connection, but one of the most striking is also one of the simplest: The Torah was given in a desert: not in a great city, not in a fertile or comfortable place, not in the center of civilization, but in a barren wilderness – a place empty of distraction, empty of security, empty of everything except the encounter between klal Yisrael and the Ribbono Shel Olam.

Life in Israel over the past few weeks has developed a strange new rhythm. Usually, there is first a warning – a message on the phone that something may be coming – and then, sometimes minutes later, the siren cuts through the ordinary sounds of the day. Conversations stop mid-sentence, children are quickly gathered, and people step outside and make their way down the street to the public shelter. The door closes behind us, and for a few minutes we sit together waiting for the all-clear. Sometimes it is only a single siren, and a few minutes later everyone returns home. Other times, another siren follows, and then another, and we remain there longer than expected, listening, waiting, and checking our phones to see what may come next.