Midreshet Lindenbaum

📣📣 Parshat Shlach, Elana Max, HANC

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📣📣 Parshat Shlach, Elana Max, HANC

Iשלח לך - Send for thyself. As רשי terms it, “according to your own judgement.” Yet, how do we form such judgements? How do we know that what we choose is right and just? This year, we have been taught to hear Torah as it speaks to us, to see ourselves in the texts, and to understand the fluidity and all-encompassing nature of Halacha. We have been taught that Torah is ours. We have spent the year forming and challenging our ideology, our days deliberating how we want to live our lives, and our moments wondering about the nature of our growth. Here and now, we are leaving Midreshet Lindenbaum, stepping out into the world, and leaving the comfort of our philosophical incubator. We are nervous and excited, apprehensive and anxious. We are on the cusp of whatever comes next. Suddenly, searching for what comes next seems especially relevant. How are we to know what challenges face us, what worries are worth their weight, and what sacrifices we may have to make. We are paralyzed by the very same emotions that likely engulfed the Jewish people as they nearly entered the land of Israel. Life is about to change.
Unfortunately for the Jews in פרשת שלח, it does not change for the better. The spies that they choose to send, the ones they request from Hashem, report back that the land of Israel is full of strongmen they cannot defeat. As ספורנו says, “to the giants of the land, the spies seemed like grasshoppers, or even less significant. They did not bother to harm them as they did not think they represented any threat.” The Jews, upon hearing such disheartening news, spent the night mourning and hoping to return to Egypt. As punishment, בני ישראל are cursed to wander the desert for forty years. Those who sinned will no longer be able to enter the land of Israel and will all die over the following four decades. The Jews, once on the cusp of entering Israel, have now entered a period of stagnation. They begin to despair and lose hope in the promised land.
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📣📣 Parshat Bhaalotcha, Livi Kobrin, SAR

Parshat Beha’alotchah, begins with the purification and separation of the Leviim from the rest of Bnei Yisrael. In Bamidbar Perek Chet, pesukim 9-10, after discussing the purification that the Leviim must undergo, it says “והקרבת”, the Leviim “should be brought close (to the Ohel Moed)”, while the rest of the nation gathers to watch. When I initially read this pasuk, I thought that the root of the word “והקרבת” was referring to the sacrificing of a Korban, which shares the same root. According to my understanding, the Leviim were being brought to give korbanot to Hashem, while, in actuality of the pshat, they were being told to come close to Hashem and the Ohel Moed. However, I believe these two interpretations of the word “והקרבת” are not different at all. The Leviim were asked to come close to Hashem, and when a person brings a Korban, they are doing so in order to get close to Hashem, whether that be to repent, to show gratitude, or another reason. A Korban is by definition a tool with which people could come close to Hashem, a “close-getting tool”.

Nowadays, we equate davening with our version of bringing a Korban, but truthfully, there are many ways we can try to be “קרב” to Hashem. Sometimes there are physical methods that aid us, mitzvot such as sitting in the Sukkah or wrapping tefillin, but a lot of the times when we feel truly close to Hashem are when we’re with people who help push us closer to Him in our emunah and experiences. As the year comes to a close, I’m happy to say that I’ve met and built strong relationships with many people, both peers and teachers, who help me feel closer to Hashem every day, who truly embody “והקרבת” to the maximum level.
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📣📣 Parshat Naso, Serena Olshin, Ramaz

At the beginning of Parshat Naso, Hashem states that the Leviim were responsible for covering the Mishkan and its vessels when the camp traveled, using a covering made of tachash. The nature of this tachash is unclear in the text, with many translations rendering it as “dolphin skin.” However, this translation raises obvious difficulties, because how could Hashem have expected Bnei Yisrael to find dolphin skin in the middle of the desert? So what exactly is this mysterious tachash covering?
The identification of tachash is discussed in both the Talmud Bavli and the Yerushalmi, and the range of opinions shows how uncertain its meaning is. In the Yerushalmi, there is a machloket. Rabbi Yehuda identifies it as techelet, implying that tachash refers not to an animal at all, but to a dye for ram or sheep skins. This immediately resolves the problem of sourcing a sea animal in the middle of the desert, but it raises a different question: why does the Torah not just refer to it directly as techelet? Rabbi Nechemiah, on the other hand, identifies tachash as galaktinin, likely referring to some sort of non-kosher creature. This could potentially align with the idea of an unusual animal, but it remains unclear whether such a creature would have been accessible in the desert. The other Rabbis in the Yerushalmi maintain that tachash was a kosher animal that lived in the wilderness. This view is perhaps the most practical, since it describes something Bnei Yisrael could realistically have accessed at the time, though it still leaves open how this connects to translations that associate it with a sea creature.
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📣📣Parshat Bemidbar, Samantha Ryba, Yeshiva of Flatbush.

Perashat Bemidbar is often characterized by its focus on counting the nation; who, how, and why. In just the first few pesukim of Sefer Bemidbar, Moshe is instructed to take a census of all the men of Benei Yisrael by name, specifically from the age of 20 and up, as at that age they are able to “bear arms.” However, the process of counting the Leviim is completely different. They are to be counted from just one month old (3:15). This instruction from God is confusing: what purpose does a newborn child serve? In fact, the Leviim only begin their service at age 25 or 30.
Many commentators, including the Rashbam, suggest that the Leviim were counted from this age because they were used to redeem the firstborns of the other tribes beginning at 30 days old. Others approach this question more practically, explaining that one month marked viability in a child’s life, meaning they would likely continue to survive after reaching that age.
The Bemidbar Rabbah asks this same question and answers: “בשביל לכפול להם שכר” — “in order to double their reward” (Bemidbar Rabbah 3:8). In other words, the reward itself is being counted among the people who serve the Mishkan. Even though these infants obviously do not yet work in the Mishkan, the Midrash’s explanation is actually quite intuitive and speaks to the nature of the role of a Levi. As Rabbi Avi Harrari points out in his podcast, perhaps this “reward” is that these children grow up among Leviim, in households where serving God is the central purpose of life. The cultivation of that environment begins in infancy.
I’d like to imagine that just as I was brought up to be a Jewish woman from birth, spending Shabbat with my family, constantly learning Torah etc., so too were Levite children shaped by their involvement in the Levite community long before they formally began working in the Mishkan. Their holiness was not something suddenly acquired at age 25 or 30 when their service officially began. Rather, it was something cultivated from the very beginning of life through their environment and education.
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📣📣 Parshat Emor, Hila Shiller, SAR

The first half of Sefer Vayikra is often called Torat Kohanim, or the instruction of the priests. This week’s parsha, Emor, begins within that framework but then shifts outward, moving from the sanctity of priesthood to the sanctification of time itself. In doing so, it acts as a bridge between the Temple rituals (spatial holiness) and the moadim, the festival calendar that ritualizes the year for the nation (temporal holiness).

The kohanim occupy a unique role in Jewish life: they uphold routine. Rav Alex Israel highlights this by comparing the role of a priest with that of a prophet. A prophet must have charisma, constantly adapting to the people’s needs and circumstances. A kohen, by contrast, must resist spontaneity, serving God through consistency, precision, and repetition. This distinction is clear in comparing the story of priests Nadav and Avihu with that of the prophet Moshe. After stepping out of line, Nadav and Avihu received a severe and immediate consequence, whereas Moshe received opportunities for teshuva.
In order to uphold routine for the nation, the kohanim are bound by a detailed framework of daily and ongoing practices. Emor outlines many of these: when a kohen may become tamei through contact with the dead, whom the kohanim can marry, and aspects of the daily Temple service such as lighting the menorah. In this routine, the kohanim cultivate a life of kedusha. They transform the repetitive into something sacred, finding closeness to God דווקא within structure and routine.

This model becomes the foundation for understanding the moadim.
Emor introduces the festivals with the phrase
“אלא מעודי ה׳ מקראי קודש אשר תקראו אותם במועדם”
These are the “moadim” of God, the “mikrei kodesh,” which you shall proclaim at their appointed times.
The Torah uses two cryptic but key terms here: “moadim” and “mikra’ei kodesh.”

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