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Simcha Feuerman
Psychology, Torah and the Daf Yomi

Hitting Rock Bottom and Objects Are Closer Than They Appear Bava Basra 121-124

121

Hitting Rock Bottom

Our Gemara on amud aleph discusses one of the reasons why the 15th of Av became a traditional day of rejoicing, drawing from the experience of the Jews in the wilderness. After the sin of the spies, it was decreed that the entire generation would wander for 40 years and die out before entering the land of Israel. Eichah Rabbah (Pesicha) offers a poignant description of how the 15th of Av marked a turning point in their fate:

Rabbi Avin and Rabbi Yoḥanan said: The 15th of Av was the day when the dying in the wilderness ceased. Rabbi Levi explained: Every eve of the ninth of Av, Moses would instruct the camp, “Go out and dig,” and they would go out, dig graves, and sleep in them. In the morning, Moses would announce, “Rise and separate the dead from the living,” and they would stand up and take out those who had passed away. Each year, 15,000 or more would die until the total of 600,000 had perished over the 40 years. However, in the 40th year, when they went into their graves, no one died the next morning. Assuming they had miscalculated, they repeated this process on the tenth, the eleventh, the twelfth, the thirteenth, and the fourteenth of Av. When the full moon appeared, they realized that the decree had been lifted, and they proclaimed the 15th of Av a day of celebration.

Rashbam and Rabbeinu Tam explain various legal distinctions in this narrative, suggesting how the final 15,000 were somehow spared. In the end, it wasn’t just Kalev and Yehoshua who survived to enter the land of Israel, but a larger group from that final year. God’s decree was mercifully rescinded in the last year. But why?

Sefer Daf al Daf suggests an answer based on human nature. People tend to avoid facing uncomfortable truths until the last moment. Each year in the wilderness, a typical person from that generation might enter his grave with the thought, “I won’t be the one to die. I am more righteous, my neighbor will be the one.” But in that final year, everyone who entered their grave had no more illusions—this time, they truly believed their luck had run out. Paradoxically, it was this stark realization that led to their full repentance, and that repentance merited a special reprieve from God.

This reflects a broader psychological truth about repentance. We hedge and bargain with ourselves, thinking that the worst won’t happen to us. Only when we reach our darkest moments are all rationalizations stripped away, leading to genuine repentance. This idea is echoed in the Pri Tzadik (Rosh Chodesh Adar 5:1). The Gemara (Yoma 54b) relates that when the gentiles captured the Temple Mount and entered the Holy of Holies, they saw the Cherubs in an intimate embrace and mocked the Jews for having such an “obscene” image in their holiest place. If the Cherubs turn away from each other when God is displeased, why were they embracing at this moment of destruction?  The Pri Tzadik explains that the Jews were in denial that God would truly punish them and allow their defeat, so they did not repent. However, when the gentiles invaded, and the Jews saw that the threat was real, they began to repent. At that moment, despite the inevitability of destruction, God was pleased with their repentance.

This aligns with the famous verse from Psalm 121:1:

“I turn my eyes to the mountains; from where (me-ayin) will my help come?”

The word meayin can also mean “from nothing.” The Noam Elimelech (Devarim 3) explains that initially, a person looks to the “mountains”— to merit, strength, or external sources of salvation. But ultimately, one must realize that there is nothing and no one to rely on but God. Only when we acknowledge our utter vulnerability can we find true salvation.

This idea, of hitting rock bottom to find redemption, reminds us that at our darkest moments, when all illusions are shattered, we have the opportunity for real repentance and transformation.

122

Objects Are Closer Than They Appear

Our Gemara on amud aleph explains that the tribes measured the value of land in Israel based on its proximity to Jerusalem. The closer the land was to Jerusalem, the more valuable it was considered. This seems logical—land closer to the center of spiritual life would naturally be more desirable.

However, this Gemara appears to contradict a fundamental Jewish ethic known as sechar halicha, the reward for the effort expended in performing mitzvos. This concept is not just a nice thought for Shalosh Seudos speeches, but it is deeply embedded in halacha. For instance, the Mishna Berura (90:37) rules that if there are two synagogues in a city, it is preferable to go to the farther one, all things being equal, in order to receive the reward for the extra effort in walking the longer distance. Similarly, the Tzitz Eliezer (12:17) discusses whether it is better to walk to synagogue, gaining the reward for the effort, or to drive, thereby arriving quicker and having more time to study Torah. He concludes that walking and receiving the reward for the extra effort is preferable. The Ben Ish Chai (Torah Lishmah, O.C. 40) also rules that walking is preferable to riding for this very reason.

Interestingly, the Maharal (Nesiv Ha-Avodah 5) asserts that this principle of sechar halicha specifically applies to going to a shul, and not necessarily to other mitzvos. He explains that since the Shekhina is present in the synagogue, the act of walking and the length of time spent yearning and striving to reach the destination enhances the connection to the Divine. Thus, the longer and harder the journey, the deeper the attachment to the mitzvah of going to shul.

This raises the question: How do we reconcile the Gemara’s emphasis on proximity to Jerusalem with the concept of sechar halicha, where more effort is seemingly preferable? The simplest answer lies in the distinction between practical, material value and spiritual value. Matters of personal devotion and attachment, such as dveikus (closeness to God), are subjective and private, and therefore don’t factor into commercial evaluations of land. While spiritual effort and longing are personally meaningful, the marketplace appraises value based on convenience and practicality. For instance, if one accidentally punctured a friend’s tire, it would be absurd to claim, “You should thank me! Now you’ll have more reward for the effort it will take to get to shul.” This would be a classic example of what is expressed in Yiddish as “frum oif yenem’s cheshbon”—being falsely pious at someone else’s expense.

Another important insight from this discussion is the nuanced and profound teaching of the Maharal. His idea that the very struggle and yearning itself enhances the attachment to a mitzvah is both deep and practical. In relationships, people often become frustrated when their needs aren’t immediately gratified, or when they face difficulties. However, reframing the struggle as part of the sweetness of the connection can lead to greater satisfaction. The yearning itself creates depth and the ultimate joy when the desired closeness is finally achieved.

This perspective on effort and attachment is a valuable lesson in both our spiritual and personal lives, reminding us that the challenges we face can enhance our connections and ultimately deepen our bonds.

(Much of the source material on sechar halicha was drawn from an excellent article by Rav Tzvi Ryzman.)

123

Don’t Let Feelings “Into-Fear”

Our Gemara on amud aleph recounts a story that illustrates the intense drama and intrigue surrounding Yaakov as he navigated the cunning deceit of his father-in-law, Lavan:

Yaakov and Rachel engaged in a significant exchange before their marriage. Yaakov proposed to Rachel, and she responded by warning him, “Yes, but my father is a deceitful person, and you cannot outwit him.” She explained that her father, Lavan, would never allow her to marry before her older sister, Leah. Yaakov replied confidently that he could match Lavan’s deceit: “I am his brother in deceit, and he won’t be able to trick me.” To counter Lavan’s anticipated deception, Yaakov and Rachel agreed on secret signs to ensure Yaakov would marry her and not Leah.

As the story unfolds, Lavan indeed attempted to substitute Leah for Rachel under the wedding canopy. However, Rachel, in an extraordinary act of compassion, decided to give the secret signs to Leah to prevent her sister from experiencing the humiliation of being discovered as a substitute bride. This is how the verse came to be: “And it came to pass in the morning that, behold, it was Leah” (Bereishis 29:25). The Gemara explains that because of these secret signs, Yaakov did not realize it was Leah until the morning. Rachel’s modesty and self-sacrifice, as described here, is lauded by Rabbi Yonatan in the Gemara.

This story highlights a profound aspect of human nature. Rachel was deeply aware of what was at stake. She believed that marrying Yaakov was her rightful place, as Yaakov was intended for her, the younger sister, while Leah was seemingly designated for Esav, the older brother. In addition, Yaakov had explicitly chosen her. Rachel could have easily reasoned that if her father and Leah conspired to replace her, it wasn’t her responsibility to prevent Leah’s humiliation. From a technical standpoint, this was true.

Yet, as the wedding day approached, Rachel’s perspective shifted. She could no longer allow Leah to be publicly humiliated. What had been a distant concern suddenly became a painful and imminent reality, and Rachel’s empathy for her sister overwhelmed her initial logic. The thought of Leah being rejected and embarrassed at her own wedding was too much for Rachel to bear, and she chose to give Leah the secret signs, risking her own future with Yaakov in the process.

This powerful moment in the narrative speaks to the delicate balance between rational thinking and emotional empathy. At times, we may approach situations with cold logic, distancing ourselves from the potential consequences of others’ suffering. However, when faced with the full emotional weight of another person’s pain, as Rachel was, we may find it impossible to remain indifferent.

The challenge is knowing when to follow our rational thoughts and when to let empathy guide us. There are times when we must be firm and not let our emotions cloud our judgment, particularly when dealing with those who may be seeking to harm us. But at other moments, we need to allow our feelings to “interfere” and guide us to acts of compassion, even at personal sacrifice.

May Hashem give us the wisdom to discern when to trust our reason and when to trust our heart, knowing when to hold firm and when to be moved by compassion.

124

God Himself Will Comfort

Our Gemara on amud aleph discusses the halachic principle that a firstborn inherits a double portion. The Imrei Shefer (Vayikra 10:12) uses this idea to address a textual and halachic question regarding the Torah’s description of Aharon’s remaining sons. The verse refers to Elazar and Isamar as “Aharon’s remaining sons,” which typically implies a smaller remnant of a larger group, as noted by the Taz (YD 43:7). Aharon originally had four sons, and after the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, two remained. Why, then, does the Torah use the word “remaining” as if the loss were even greater?

The *Imrei Shefer* offers an insightful explanation. Nadav, being the firstborn, carries not just the legal inheritance of a double portion, but also a greater spiritual and familial responsibility. The fact that a firstborn receives a double portion is a recognition of this enhanced role. Accordingly, Nadav’s death is not merely the loss of one son but carries the weight of losing two. In this way, the Torah’s use of “remaining” is justified, as it reflects a greater loss: two out of five, not two out of four.

Rabbenu Bechaye offers a complementary and deeply moving interpretation of this same verse. In Vayikra 10:8, just before this description of Aharon’s surviving sons, we encounter a rare moment where Hashem speaks directly to Aharon, without using Moshe as an intermediary. Only a few verses later, however, we return to the more typical mode of God communicating through Moshe. Rabbenu Bechaye suggests that this direct speech to Aharon was unique, signaling a profound moment of divine compassion. Hashem interrupted the joyous inauguration of the Mishkan to comfort Aharon after the tragic deaths of Nadav and Avihu.

This idea is supported by a verse in Koheles (7:2): 

“It is better to go to a house of mourning than to a house of feasting; for that is the end of every man, and the living one should take it to heart.” 

Rabbenu Bechaye interprets “the living one” as a reference to Hashem Himself. God, so to speak, “interrupts” His own rejoicing to enter the house of mourning, offering comfort to those in grief. Aharon’s personal tragedy is so significant that Hashem directly intervenes to console him during this difficult time. This teaches us that even amidst celebration, God is acutely aware of human suffering and offers comfort, even when it may seem He is preoccupied with other matters.

This reminds us that while we may face tremendous loss and hardship, we are never truly alone. Just as Hashem reached out to Aharon during his sorrow, so too does God comfort us in our moments of grief. Though we may not always feel it, His presence is with us, offering solace and compassion in the most trying times of our lives.

 

About the Author
Rabbi, Psychotherapist with 30 years experience specializing in high conflict couples and families.
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