The Israel Koschitzky Virtual Beit Midrash

Surf A Little Torah
Yeshivat Har Etzion

by Rav David Silverberg

After Yosef reveals his identity to his brothers, he reassures them that he harbors no hard feelings towards them for their mistreatment of him, and then embraces them and weeps. The Torah places particular emphasis on his embrace and with his only full brother, Binyamin, mentioning that the two brothers embraced another and cried on each other's shoulder (see 45:14). Rashi, citing the Gemara in Masekhet Megila (16b), comments that Yosef and Binyamin wept because they foresaw the calamities that will befall their descendants in each of their territory. The Sanctuary of Shilo was situated in the territory of Efrayim - Yosef's son - and ultimately destroyed. Similarly, the two Batei Mikdash, built in the region of Binyamin, were both burned to the ground.

Why would this prophetic vision of these calamities arise particularly now, during this emotional reunion between Yosef and Binyamin? Why at this moment would they bring to mind the great tragedies that would later befall the Jewish people?

On one level, this Gemara perhaps emphasizes the brothers' awareness that this entire ordeal marked the beginning of the Egyptian exile. As heartwarming as this family reunion was, the twelve brothers understood that the prophecy to Avraham Avinu of "Your offspring will be a foreigner in a land not their own" (Bereishit 15:13) was unfolding before their very eyes. Chazal saw this exile as the prototype of the tragic exiles Am Yisrael will experience much later in history. Yosef and Binyamin lament the pain and suffering that will unfortunately befall their descendants until they are finally reunited in their ancestral homeland - rather in the foreign, hostile land of Egypt. This is the approach taken by the Yefei Toar on Parashat Vayigash.

We may also suggest a more specific association between the three calamities mentioned by the Gemara and the narrative in Parashat Vayigash. Yosef and Binyamin lament the "sin'at achim," fraternal strife, that will ultimately spell disaster for the Jewish people and bring about their downfall. They look at the current situation that has emerged, the absurdity of ten brothers conspiring to eliminate the eleventh, and weep. Although the wounds of this particular chapter of hatred appear to have mended (to one extent or another), Binyamin and Yosef foresee this story's sorrowful repetition throughout Jewish history. Most famously, Chazal (Masekhet Yoma 9b) attribute the destruction of the Second Temple to sin'at chinam - baseless hatred among Am Yisrael. There are indications that variations of sin'at chinam led to the other two calamities, as well. In describing the events leading up to the destruction of Shilo, Sefer Shemuel I (chapter 2) tells of the corruption of the kohanim and the high priest's refusal (or inability) to admonish his sons for their misconduct. The kohanim manipulated those who came to bring sacrifices to the Mishkan and took for themselves meat that was not intended for them. This misuse of the priesthood to cheat others led to the destruction of Shilo at the hands of the Pelishtim. As for the First Temple, the aforementioned Gemara in Masekhet Yoma attributes this tragedy to Benei Yisrael's violation of the three grave sins of idolatry, murder and adultery. Elsewhere, Chazal (Shabbat 119b; Eikha Rabba 1:20) comment that the destruction occurred because Benei Yisrael did not admonish one another. If open lines of communication had existed, had people trusted and respected one another, then perhaps the nation could have formed a healthy society in which people were open to criticism and would accept the counsel and admonition of their peers. But just as Yosef's brothers looked upon him with suspicion and contempt, and did not consider discussing with him their concerns (which were, presumably, entirely legitimate), so were Benei Yisrael at the time of the Temple unable to develop a level of trust and mutual respect that would allow for healthy communication and honest, constructive criticism.

In conclusion, we should point to one broad message the clearly emerges from Chazal's comment on this verse. At this moment of personal emotion and family reunion, Yosef and Binyamin saw before them the long-term, historic implications of what is happening around them. They managed to transcend the limited realm of the personal and appreciate the repercussions of this ordeal that would manifest only centuries later. This perhaps teaches us an important lesson about broadening our perspective, of having the vision and foresight to concern ourselves with the broader implications of what we do. We should not think only in terms of our immediate, personal contexts, but rather see ourselves and what we do in terms of the eternal, historic destiny and responsibility of Am Yisrael.

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The Torah tells in Parashat Vayigash of the descent of Yaakov and his family to Egypt. Yosef reveals his identity to his brothers and then sends them back to Canaan to urge Yaakov to resettle in Egypt, where Yosef will care for him and spare him the ravages of the famine that had struck the region. Amidst his command to his brothers to bring Yaakov to Egypt, Yosef utters a somewhat peculiar sentence: "You can see for yourselves, and my brother Binyamin can see for himself, that it is indeed I who am speaking to you" (45:12). What exactly does Yosef mean, and how does this relate to the context at hand?

Rashi explains that Yosef senses his brothers' skepticism as to his identity and seeks to convince them. He shows them his berit mila and emphasizes the fact that he speaks lashon ha-kodesh (Hebrew). He adds that just as he harbors no ill will towards Binyamin, who did not participate in the sale, so has he no hard feelings towards them, either. Rashi's explanation does not, however, explain how this remark fits into context.

The Meshekh Chokhma suggests several different interpretations of the verse, all of which showing how this verse is included in Yosef's plea to his father to come down to Egypt. We present here the third and final explanation proposed by the Meshekh Chokhma. Yaakov may have preferred not to resettle in Egypt and to remain in Canaan, instead. (Indeed, he does not leave Canaan before receiving God's explicit blessing and promise that his offspring will return - 46:3-4; apparently, he was uneasy about this move outside his homeland.) He might have asked Yosef to simply send regular shipments of food and provisions from Egypt to support his father and his family in Canaan. Why must Yaakov move to Egypt? Anticipating this question, Yosef has his brothers impress upon his father "ki fi ha-medaber aleikhem" - literally, "that it is my mouth that speaks to you." Yosef has not become an Egyptian, despite his position of leadership in the country. Over these last, tumultuous twenty-two years, he has remained fully loyal to his heritage, to the teachings of Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov. It is still "my mouth" - the same Yosef as the one they sold - who speaks to the brothers. Therefore, regular communication with his foreign roots would undoubtedly trigger the suspicion and accusations of the native Egyptians over whom he rules. Given his refusal to abandon his prior cultural identification, establishing close ties with his family in Canaan would not be acceptable to the government and people of Egypt. Yaakov must therefore come to him.

This insightful analysis of the Meshekh Chokhma may shed some light on the famous question posed by the Ramban and others as to why Yosef did not notify Yaakov of his well-being immediately upon his rise to power in Egypt. Granted, his years in slavery and prison did not afford him the opportunity to send a postcard. But once he assumed the position of Egyptian viceroy, why did he not send a note home? We may perhaps suggest, in light of the Meshekh Chokhma's comments, that communicatiwith his father at that point was simply not feasible. Once he insisted on maintaining his Hebrew identity, the Egyptians would not allow him to make contact with his father in Canaan. Such contact would be acceptable only if Yaakov would resettle in Egypt. This presented Yosef with a considerable dilemma: what about his brothers? As far as he knows, they have no regret for what they did to him; they hate him and want nothing to do with him. Without question, under no circumstances would they willfully move to Egypt and come under Yosef's rule. Communication with Yaakov would therefore force Yaakov to decide between Yosef and the rest of the family. He would have to either abandon his ten children and reunite with Yosef in Egypt, or sever all ties with Yosef in order to remain with his brothers. Yosef wanted the family to stay together. Therefore, before summoning his family to Egypt, he ascertains that the brothers regret their mistreatment of him. As the Abarbanel famously explains, Yehuda's insistent appeal on Binyamin's behalf reflected the brothers' complete repentance for their sale of Yosef. Once this has been established, Yosef knew that having overcome their animosity towards him, the brothers would join Yaakov in Egypt, and he could thus invite his family to come under his care and survive the famine.

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Among the most dramatic moments of the drama-rich parasha of Vayigash is the reunion between Yaakov Avinu and his beloved son, Yosef, whom he had presumed dead for twenty-two years. The Torah records that at the moment of their reunion Yosef wept (46:29). Rashi, quoting the Midrash, comments that Yaakov did not weep; instead, he was busy reciting shema. Why would Yaakov recite shema specifically at this moment, when he sees his son for the first time in over two decades? What about shema rendered its recitation the most appropriate activity Yaakov could engage in just at this moment?

Rav Hersh Yaar, in his "Chamudei Tzvi," explains by taking a closer look at the meaning and significance behind the verse, "Shema Yisrael Hashem Elokeinu Hashem echad." Why must we declare the oneness of God on a daily basis? Rav Yaar cites an earlier source explaining that this declaration emphasizes that both what we perceive as good and that which appears bad originate from the same source - the Almighty. In the ancient world, many peoples could not accept the notion of a single divine power governing the forces of good and evil. Opposing forces in the world were interpreted as the manifestations of competing divine powers. The source cited by the Chamudei Tzvi draws an analogy to one who sees a surgeon perform an operation and then treat other patients by giving them fine food and drink. The onlooker concludes that these must be two different physicians - one cruel, heartless doctor who treats patients with violence and bloodletting, and the other who performs his work kindly and gently. He could not understand that the doctor's mode of treatment depended on the specific needs of the patient. Many have attributed Pharaoh's stubborn reluctance to free the Hebrew slaves to this belief. He was convinced that the plagues resulted from the God of evil; ultimately, however, the God of good would prevail. When we declare "Shema Yisrael," we affirm the single, shared origin of all phenomena to which we bear witness in the world. Whether His treatment of us appears kind or cruel, gentle or fierce, loving or harsh, He is one. (The Malbim, in his commentary to the verse of "Shema Yisrael," explains similarly.)

Yaakov's arrival in Egypt and reunion with Yosef ushered in a period of tranquillity and happiness that he had not before experienced. He had lived a life replete with fear, tension, anxiety, contention and sorrow, until these final seventeen years of his life under Yosef's care in Egypt. He wished to emphasize to his family who now settles in Egypt that "God is one." The same God who took Yosef away from him for over twenty years has brought them back together. The same God who had him flee to Lavan and sent Esav after him has now blessed him with peace of mind and happiness. Lest Benei Yisrael fall prey to the pagan influences of Egyptian culture, Yaakov emphasizes "Hashem echad" - God is one, regardless of His seemingly conflicting treatment of us.

This message would prove critically important as the bitter exile unfolds. In the Egyptian exile as well as every other stage of Jewish history, we have experienced good times as well as hardship. The common thread that has run continuously throughout all our experiences has been our faith and tradition, encapsulated in this heroic proclamation of "Shema Yisrael." We have never abandoned our firm belief in the one God who has the power over both good and evil, wealth and poverty, joy and sorrow, light and dark. This faith has enabled us to hope for better days during times of hardship. Lamenting the destruction of Jerusalem in Megilat Eikha, the prophet Yirmiyahu declares, "The kindness of the Lord has not ended, His mercies are not spent; they are renewed every morning - ample is Your grace!" (Eikha 3:22). Regardless of the difficulties we face, we are promised that God's kindness is renewed with every rising sun, that He is, has been, and always will be, the God of compassion.

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In Parashat Vayigash we read of Yosef's dramatic revelation of his identity to his brothers: "Yosef said to his brothers: I am Yosef; is my father still alive?" (45:3). The brothers, expectedly, respond with shock and speechlessness: "His brothers could not respond to him, for they were petrified from him." While on the surface we can easily understand the brothers' reaction, one of utter astonishment and bewilderment, accompanied with the fear of Yosef's retribution, Chazal beautifully capture for us an additional dimension of their dumbfounded response: "Abba Kohen Bardela said: Woe unto us on the day of judgment, woe unto us on the day of rebuke! …Yosef was the youngest of the tribes, and yet they could not withstand his rebuke… When the Almighty comes and rebukes every individual according to who he is, all the more so!" (Bereishit Rabba 93:10). According to the Midrash, the brothers react not only with shock, but with humiliation and shame. Yosef's revelation was for them a blistering admonition which they could not bear; it humiliated them to the point of speechlessness.

The obvious question arises, how in this brief sentence does Yosef admonish his brothers for selling him? All he said was, "I am Yosef; is my father still alive?" Where in these few words does Yosef rebuke his brothers?

A somewhat famous explanation was suggested by the Bet ha-Levi. In his plea on Binyamin's behalf at the beginning of parasha, Yehuda, representing the brothers, appealed for compassion for Yaakov's sake. Yehuda emphasizes that if the brothers return without Binyamin, Yaakov's beloved son, their elderly father will surely die (see 44:31,34). Yosef now turns to his brothers and asks, "Is my father still alive?!" Meaning, you claim that Yaakov's loss of a beloved son would kill him; then how did you sell me into slavery? Did you not realize that this, too, would "kill" our father? This, the Bet ha-Levi explains, is the ultimate rebuke, the one we ought to fear come our day of judgment. This rebuke exposes the contradictions with which we have lived our lives, it reveals that all our excuses to justify our misconduct are false and baseless. The brothers had nothing to say; their self-contradictory life has been exposed.

A slightly different approach is taken by the contemporary Rav Asher Weiss, author of the "Minchat Asher." He claims that Yosef's rebuke to his brothers took the simplest - and most effective - form possible: the irrefutable proof of one's erroneous presumptions. The brothers had for years worked under the assumption that they had to eliminate Yosef. As many Midrashim and commentators claim, this was not about childish bickering and simple domestic strife. Their sale of Yosef resulted from a conviction that he had no place in the family, that he enthe process of the development of Am Yisrael. Even as their ordeal in Egypt unfolds, and they attribute the crisis to their mistreatment of Yosef, they express no regret for the sale itself. They confess only to having heard the cries of Yosef without any sympathy (read 42:21 carefully). All throughout, they retained their confident conviction and belief that they did the right thing; Yosef's dreams of power and authority over them could not reach fulfillment, they felt, even if this means killing or selling him. Now, over twenty years later, their brother Yosef stands before them as the second most powerful man in the world, the man before whom they now prostrate themselves, begging for mercy, acknowledging that they are entirely subject to his authority and power. There can be no greater tokhecha (rebuke) than coming face to face with the reality one has committed years of his life denying. This, writes Rav Weiss, is the humiliation we potentially face when we stand judgment at the end of our lives. We build ideologies and theories to defend our behavior, to justify everything we do. In an instant, we will come face to face with the fallacies on which we hinged so much of our lives. It behooves us, then, to carefully and honestly scrutinize our conduct, and rigorously reevaluate the many presumptions on the basis of which we live our lives, to help avoid the shame and humiliation experienced by Yosef's brothers.

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After Yaakov Avinu arrives in Egypt, Yosef takes his father and introduces him to Pharaoh, who inquires as to the patriarch's age. Yaakov's response strikes us as somewhat peculiar: "Yaakov answered Pharaoh, 'The years of my dwelling are one hundred and thirty. Few and hard have been the years of my life, and they do not come up to the life spans of my fathers during their days of dwelling'" (47:9). Why doesn't Yaakov simply answer the king's question? Why does he bemoan his difficult life rather than simply telling Pharaoh his age? Indeed, one Midrashic passage, cited by the Chizkuni and other Ba'alei Tosefot (see Da'at Zekeinim), criticizes Yaakov Avinu for complaining about his life (as we discussed in a S.A.L.T. two years ago).

Many commentators, however, seek to justify and explain Yaakov's comments. One approach, adopted by the Ramban, Rashbam and Chizkuni, claims that Pharaoh inquired about Yaakov's age because he looked exceedingly old. Unaccustomed to meeting people wearing such an aged appearance, Pharaoh was curious to know just how old Yaakov was. The patriarch replied that in fact he has not yet reached exceedingly old age (a life span of one hundred and thirty years was still common at that time), but his crisis-ridden life, the anxiety, fear, hard work, and sorrow he had suffered during his relatively short life has made him look old.

Seforno explains much differently, taking a closer look at the text and distinguishing between two terms: "yemei chayai" ("the days of my life") and "yemei megurai" ("the days of my dwelling"). A careful reading of Pharaoh's question reveals that he asks Yaakov specifically about "yemei shenei chayekha" - the days of the years of your life. Yaakov, however, replies that "yemei shenei megurai" - the days of the years of my dwelling - number one hundred and thirty. Seforno claims that "megurai" denotes physical existence itself, whereas "chayai" refers to a certain quality of existence, a life of tranquillity and happiness. Yaakov tells Pharaoh that although he has physically lived for one hundred and thirty years, much of that period cannot be described as "chayai" - a life of peace and happiness. His forefathers, by contrast, enjoyed this quality of life ("shenei chayei avotai") over the course of their lifetime ("bi-mei megureihem"); although they, too, experienced the hardships of exile, they did not endure the ongoing struggles that Yaakov encountered. Thus, Yaakov responds as he does for purposes of clarification; Pharaoh had inquired about "yemei shenei chayekha," so Yaakov finds it necessary to draw this distinction between "shenei chayai" and "shenei megurai."

Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch likewise distinguishes between these two terms, only in a different direction. He claims that the difference involves not stability and tranquillity, but rather the religious and spiritual dimension of life. Whereas "megurai" denotes simply physical existence, "chayai" describes an existence characterized by spiritual achievement, the fulfillment of one's religious responsibilities and the realization of his potential. Pharaoh inquired as to "shenei chayekha," but Yaakov clarifies that this is not the correct question. He understood that Pharaoh asked about his age, not about his religious achievement. He therefore informs the king of "shenei megurai" - his years of physical existence, and then humbly laments what he perceives as his all too few years of "shenei chayai," of spiritual achievement. He confesses to having fell short of the accomplishments of his predecessors, of having failed to transform all his years from "shenei megurai" - mere physical existence - into "shenei chayai" - an existence rich in spiritual meaning and achievement.

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In describing Yaakov's reaction to the news that Yosef is still alive, the Torah mentions that Yaakov took note of the wagons Yosef had sent to transport him to Egypt. At that point, "The spirit of Yaakov… was revived" (45:27). A famous Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 94) explains that the wagons were intended as a subtle allusion to Yaakov by which he would be convinced that Yosef is indeed the one who now summons him to Egypt. The Hebrew word for wagon, "agala," also means "calf," hence alluding to the mitzva of "egla arufa," the calf whose neck is broken to atone for a murder when the murderer is unknown. The Midrash says that Yaakov and Yosef had studied the laws of this ceremony together just before Yosef left to see his brothers, never to return home again.

A much less familiar Midrash, however, is cited in the work, "Raboteinu Ba'alei Ha-Tosefot." This Midrash associates the wagons not with the law of egla arufa, but rather with a different "agala" - the "eglot tzav," the wagons brought by the twelve nesi'im (tribal leaders) as a special gift in honor of the Mishkan's consecration (see Bemidbar, beginning of chapter 7, which we recently read as the Torah reading for the first day of Chanukah). This Midrash enjoys a distinct advantage over the more common one, in that it presents a direct association between wagons and wagons; the popular Midrash draws an association based on the play on words, rather than the object of the wagon.

In any event, wherein lies the significance of the nesi'im's gift in this context? Why would Yosef make a point of reminding his father of this story in the Torah, the gift of the nesi'im?

The answer, as discovered by Rav Menachem Kasher zt"l in his Torah Sheleima (chapter 45, note 91), appears in the Peirush Rabbenu Efrayim on this parasha. There a Midrash is cited telling of how Yosef noticed his father planting cedar trees shortly before he departed from him for the last time. Yosef inquired as to why his father planted these trees, and Yaakov explained that his descendants will one day construct a Mishkan from cedar wood, which they will transport in wagons - the wagons donated by the nesi'im. Yosef reminds Yaakov of this conversation by sending "agalot" with his brothers. Presumably, as Rav Kasher suggests, Yosef also had in mind for his father to bring the cedar wood to Egypt on these wagons, as a different Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 94) tells, that Yaakov brought with him wood to Egypt to be later used in the construction of the Mishkan.

Still, the question remains as to why the wagons of the nesi'im play such an important role at this point. According to the Midrash cited in the Peirush Rabbenu Efrayim, Yaakov made explicit reference to the wagons that will be used in transporting the Mishkan. Why do these wagons deserve such emphasis?

Perhaps the answer lies in the glaring difference between the events that brought about the Egyptian exile and the of affairs when the Mishkan is consecrated. The special gift of the nesi'im was a joint effort, the result of twelve leaders representing twelve different tribes working together towards a common goal. It is precisely the friction between those same twelve tribes that led to the tragic ordeal of the Egyptian bondage. The inability of the twelve sons of Yaakov to work together, to leave aside their differences and recognize the importance of cooperation and teamwork, resulted in the relocation of the entire family in Egypt and triggered the long, bitter exile. As the Ramban famously explains in his introduction to Sefer Shemot (see also his introduction to Sefer Vayikra), the completion of the Mishkan and God's representative presence therein completes the process of redemption. As Yaakov sends Yosef to see his brothers, aware of the tension and friction between them, he foresees the cooperation between the tribes that will transport the Mishkan, that will bring God's presence into their midst as they march towards their eventual return to Eretz Yisrael. If Yaakov's sons left Eretz Yisrael because of their inability to work harmoniously with one another, then they will return to Eretz Yisrael by joining forces in the construction of the Mishkan, in building the unique, sacred quality of Kenesset Yisrael.

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As Yaakov makes his way down to Egypt, for what will become the onset of our nation's two hundred-year exile in that country, he stops off in the city of Be'er Sheva where God appears to him and gives His words of encouragement. The Almighty reassures Yaakov, sanctioning his departure from his homeland and guaranteeing his family's ultimate return thereto (see 46:2-4). Curiously, God appears to Yaakov specifically at night. While at first this may not strike us as something peculiar or even noteworthy, the fact that the Torah finds it necessary to make this point should catch our attention. In fact, only in three instances in Sefer Bereishit do we find a divine revelation to one of the patriarchs occurring specifically at night: in our parasha, when Yaakov departs Canaan to settle in Egypt; at the beginning of Parashat Vayetze, as Yaakov departs Canaan to escape his brother (the famous dream of the ladder - 28:10-15); and in berit bein ha-betarim - the covenant God makes with Avraham Avinu, in which he informs him of the eventual exile of his descendants (chapter 15).

These three prophecies all share one obvious, common denominator: they involve exile. As we noted in our S.A.L.T. series for Parashat Vayigash two years ago, Rav Meir Simcha Ha-kohen of Dvinsk, in his Meshekh Chokhma on our parasha, develops the clear association between nighttime and exile, the symbolism of darkness representing the hopelessness of oppression. Both times when Yaakov leaves the Promised Land, God appears to him at night and reassures him that this land remains promised even in the darkness of exile, even when no ray of light can be seen along the eastern sky.

The Meshekh Chokhma continues by extending this symbolism to the nighttime prayer of arvit, whose origins Chazal attribute to Yaakov Avinu. The Gemara (Berakhot 26b) in fact point to two origins of prayer: the patriarchs, and the Temple sacrifices. First, Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov instituted the three daily services of shacharit, mincha and arvit, respectively. But additionally, these prayers were formally established later, by Chazal, to correspond to the three daily sacrificial rituals in the Temple: the morning tamid (daily) offering, the evening tamid offering, and the "hekter chalavim ve-eimurin" - placing the fats and limbs of the sacrifices on the altar to burn through the night. In his trademark method of merging the two worlds of halakha and Jewish thought, the Meshekh Chokhma extracts a most powerful lesson from the dual origin of the nighttime prayer service. A basic rule of sacrifices forbids any sacrificial service at night; once the sun sets, the sacrificial order of the Temple comes to an end. The "hekter chalavim ve-eimurin" is allowed only because the initial stages of sacrifice - namely, the slaughtering and blood-sprinkling - occurred by day. Once the sacrificial process had already begun by day, the completion of the process may continue even after dark.

In brilliant fashion, the Meshekh Chokhma points to a parallel phenomenon in the world of prophecy. Normally, God grants prophecy only in Eretz Yisrael. (This rule took effect only after Benei Yisrael entered the land in the time of Yehoshua; obviously, this therefore did not apply to Moshe and others who lived before that time). The Gemara in Mo'ed Katan (25) notes the clear exception to this rule - the prophet Yechezkel, who was exiled from Jerusalem together with the Judean King Yehoyakhin and prophesied for the exiled Jewish community in Babylon. The Gemara explains that since he had initially received prophecy in Eretz Yisrael, he retained his prophetic powers, so-to-speak, even far away in Mesopotamia. Just as the sacrificial limbs may be offered at night so long as the initial stages occurred by day, so may a prophet receive divine revelation "by night" - in exile, outside our land, if his prophecy had begun "by day" - in Eretz Yisrael.

Herein, claims the Meshekh Chokhma, lies the unique quality and the unique lesson of the arvit service, which Yaakov instituted as he made his way into exile. What allows us to survive the long, dark, dreary night of exile is the concept of "hekter chalavim ve-eimurin," the notion that what we began "by day" can be completed "at night." Under normal circumstances, Torah and Jewish identity cannot be preserved outside Benei Yisrael's natural home, Eretz Yisrael. We can do so, however, in the same manner in which Yechezkel prophesied outside the land - by having begun our engagement in Torah and mitzvot in Eretz Yisrael. If we can connect to our past and to our heritage even in exile, if we identify with our ancient roots in the Temple in Jerusalem, if we perpetuate the traditions that lent us our distinctiveness when he enjoyed our independence and our Mikdash, then we are considered as having begun the "offering," the "prophecy," in Eretz Yisrael. We are then allowed to continue our observance even in the inhospitable conditions of exile. If, however, we become detached from our past, if we forget our origins in the land and in the Temple, then any attempt at establishing Jewish identity will fail. It will be like initiating the offering of a sacrifice at nighttime, which the Torah forbids. Only by connecting to our past can we hope to maintain our Jewish identity in the future.

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