Shortly before his bar mitzvah in 1916, R’ Chaim Michel Ber Weissmandel zt”l prepared his bar mitzva p’shetl (speech) all by himself. His grandfather, aware of his grandson’s brilliant mind, was concerned that, in delivering the self-prepared p’shetl, the young boy would become overly proud and possibly haughty. To persuade R’ Michel Ber from speaking, he promised the boy a large sum of money should he refrain from delivering the p’shetl. R’ Michel Ber agreed, and, with the money earned, he bought himself a copy of Rabbeinu Bachaye’s commentary on the Torah.
Nearly 40 years later, R’ Michel Ber finally delivered his p’shetl, not to those celebrating his bar mitzvah but to his students. The students were astounded by the depth of the p’shetl, and even more amazed that R’ Michel Ber had himself prepared it for his own bar mitzva.
I’m no R’ Michel Dov, I didn’t prepare my own p’shetl, and it hasn’t been 40 years since my bar mitzva. But the connection between Parshas Mikeitz, Shabbos, Chanuka, and Rosh Chodesh (which often coincide) is not coincidental, and it is the confluence of these events that was the focus of my p’shetl.
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The darkness mentioned at the primordial time of creation (Bereishis 1:2) refers to the Greeks, who darkened the world with their decrees against the Jewish people, demanding that the Jewish people write “on the horns of an ox that you have no portion in the G-d of the Jewish people” (Bereishis Rabba 2:4). Specifically, the Greeks barred the Jews from observing three commandments: Rosh Chodesh, Bris Mila, and Shabbos. No idolatry. No conversion. No kashrus. Only Chodesh, Mila, and Shabbos.
To understand the connection between these three commandments one need hearken back yet further in the annals of history, to Parshas Mikeitz in fact. Upon interpreting Paroh’s dreams, Yosef offers some unsolicited advice for saving the Egyptians during the seven years of famine: “set aside one fifth of [the crops of] the land of Egypt during the seven years of plenty” (Bereishis 41:34). The word used by the Torah, “v’chimesh”—literally, to set aside a fifth—stands for Chodesh, Milah, Shabbos. Yosef was advising Paroh on survival during the famine, but he also was advising the Jewish people on how to survive during the Egyptian exile—i.e., through the merit of their careful observance of these three commandments.
The Jewish people followed this advice. Though they were destined to be exiled in Egypt for a period of 430 years, the most difficult period of their slavery lasted for 86 years (Shir HaShirim Rabba 2:28)—precisely one fifth of 430. In the merit of their careful observance of Chodesh, Mila, and Shabbos—as urged by Yosef—the most difficult period of the galus was reduced to a fifth (a “chomesh”), and they were freed before the 430-year term had been completed.
So the commandments of Chodesh, Milah, and Shabbos are apparently quite significant. Yosef had long hinted at their special significance, and the Greeks singled them out for prohibition from all other commandments during the time of Chanuka. But why?
There’s a commonality to these three commandments: they are all about receiving G-d’s Divine Presence. Circumcision is the physical acceptance of the mastery of G-d; through it, man becomes a vehicle for G-d’s Divine Presence (Zohar 1:93; Sota 10b, 36b). Shabbos prepares us to serve as a dwelling place for the Shechina. As the Zohar explains, when we are taught to guard the Shabbos “l’dorosom” (“for their generations”) it also means “l’dirosom” (“as a dwelling place”), because when we keep the Shabbos the Divine Presence dwells amongst us. And Rosh Chodesh too is a time when G-d dwells among us: “Were the Jewish people to merit receiving the countenance of their Father in heaven once per month, that would be sufficient” (Sanhedrin 42a).
Because these commandments forge a special relationship between G-d and the Jewish people, it is no surprise that the Greeks chose to outlaw these three. In so doing, they sought to render us unfit to serve as a dwelling place for G-d’s presence, thereby causing a separation between G-d and His people.
Yosef sought to counteract the Greek decree by stressing the meticulous observance of these commandments. Indeed, it is no coincidence that, in proclaiming their evil decree, the Greeks demanded that the Jews write it on the horns of an ox—Yosef is referred to as an ox (Devarim 33:17). The Greeks essentially demanded that the Jewish people ignore the warnings of their forefather, Yosef, and discontinue the observance of these vital commandments.
G-d’s response? The miracle of Chanuka. Like Shabbos, like Rosh Chodesh, and like Milah, Chanuka attests to the fact that G-d dwells among us. As we ask, rhetorically, “Is [the Menorah] needed for its light? [Of course not.] Rather, the purpose of the Menorah is as a testimony that G-d dwells among the Jewish people” (Shabbos 22b). Chanuka is thus the perfect antidote for the Greek decree.
R’ Nosson Nota Shapira (the Megaleh Amukos) offers another explanation of the Greek insistence upon using the horns of an ox.
We are taught that if an ox causes damage using its teeth or feet, it makes no difference whether the ox belongs to a Jew or a non-Jew; on the other hand, if the ox causes damage using its horns, liability depends on who owns the ox—a non-Jewish owner is liable, whereas a Jewish owner is not (if the victim was the ox of a non-Jew) (Bava Kama 38a). This is learned from the fact that “G-d stood and measured the earth; He saw and freed the nations” (Chavakuk 3:6). When non-Jews failed to keep the Seven Noahide Laws, they lost certain protections of Jewish law.
As you can well imagine, this didn’t sit right with the non-Jews. In fact, the Roman government once dispatched two emissaries to study the Torah, and they deemed it correct in every respect but one: this difference between a Jew and a non-Jew in the damage caused by the horns of an ox (Bava Kama 38a). Obviously, it bothered the Romans a great deal.
Apparently, it bothered the Greeks too, and it was for this reason that they demanded that the Jews disclaim their relationship with G-d on the horns of an ox. Such a pronouncement would show the Jews: there would no longer be any difference between Jews and non-Jew in civil law, and the Jews would creep ever closer to Hellenization.
The Gemara offers another explanation of “G-d stood and measured the earth; He saw and freed the nations”—when G-d saw that non-Jews were not keeping the Seven Noahide Laws, He declared that non-Jews who abided by them would no longer receive the reward as if commanded to do so (“metzuvah v’oseh”) but the much lesser reward of one who is not commanded to do so (“eino metzuvah v’oseh”). The former receives much greater reward because he or she must confront and defeat the Evil Inclination (see also Tosfos, Kiddushin 31a).
This explains how we survive the first portion of life (until bar or bas mitzvah) with only an Evil Inclination and without the Good Inclination (Koheles Rabba 4:13). Because we are not obligated to perform the commandments until we attain the age of majority, the Evil Inclination does not work against us. It is only after we reach the age of majority—at which point we are obligated to perform the commandments—that the Evil Inclination seeks to prevent us from doing so. To level the playing field, G-d endows us with the Good Inclination at that time.
The custom to celebrate becoming a bar mitzvah with a festive meal is derived from an incident involving R’ Yosef (Yam Shel Shlomo, Bava Kama 7:37). Upon learning that the reward for one who is obligated to perform the commandments is greater than that for one who is not, R’ Yosef—who was blind, and thus not obligated—declared that he would throw a party if someone could establish that the blind are obligated to abide by the commandments, as that would garner him greater reward (Kiddushin 31a). The clear import of R’ Yosef’s statement is that one who becomes obligated to abide by the commandments should celebrate as much with a party. Becoming a bar mitzvah—and thus obligated to perform the commandments—is no less deserving of a festive celebration.
I’ve kept you all from this festive celebration long enough. Thank you all for sharing in my simcha and me we merit to share many miracles ba’yamim hahem baz’man hazeh.
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As with many a bar mitzvah p’shetl, I really can’t claim much (read: any) credit for it. That belongs to my father. In the decades since my bar mitzvah, though, I’d like to think that a thing or two has rubbed off on me. Sometimes the apple falls far from the tree. In my case, hopefully it does not.