From the Desk of Rabbi Moshe Pinto, Shlita
The transition from the ethereal peace of the Sabbath into the mundane reality of the workweek is always a delicate psychological dance. Yet, as we enter the Hebrew month of Nisan, this transition takes on a profound, almost cosmic significance.
Nisan is not merely a month on the calendar; it is the genesis of Jewish time. As our sages teach, it is the season of beginnings—the creation of the spiritual world, the birth of the Jewish nation, and the dawn of our liberation from Egypt. If you are looking to initiate a new endeavor, whether material or spiritual, there is no more auspicious time than now.
But true renewal requires more than just a change of the calendar; it requires a recalibration of the soul.
As we conclude the Book of Exodus (Shemot) and open the Book of Leviticus (Vayikra), we are presented with a fascinating psychological framework, one that the great medieval philosopher Maimonides (the Rambam) masterfully outlined in his “Eight Chapters.” Maimonides taught that the secret to a successful, spiritually vibrant life lies in the “Golden Mean”—the delicate art of avoiding extremes. If you find yourself too stingy, you must momentarily embrace extreme generosity to pull yourself back to the center. If you are excessively prone to anger, you must practice extreme patience.
We see this pendulum swing in the Torah itself. The Book of Genesis is a text of staggering spiritual heights—the creation, the Patriarchs, the divine promises. Then, we crash into the Book of Exodus, a text characterized by intense physical hardship, slavery, and the gritty reality of nation-building. Now, as we enter Leviticus, the pendulum swings back. We return to an extreme of pure spirituality, asceticism, and the intricate holiness of the Temple sacrifices.
But how do we, as ordinary human beings, navigate these extremes in our daily lives?
The Psychology of Grudges and the Illusion of the Impossible
Consider one of the most famous, yet profoundly misunderstood, verses in the Book of Leviticus: “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
Coupled with the commandment, “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge,” it presents what seems like an impossible standard. Does the Torah truly expect us to feel the exact same depth of love for a stranger as we do for ourselves? Furthermore, does the Torah assume it is addressing the wicked when it tells us not to hold a grudge over a borrowed tool?
The great commentator Nachmanides (the Ramban) offers a piercing insight into the human condition: The Torah does not command the impossible. God does not demand that you love another person precisely as much as you love yourself, because human nature simply does not allow for it. Rather, the commandment is to remove the sting of jealousy. To “love your neighbor as yourself” means to genuinely wish for their success, wealth, and happiness to be as abundant as your own, without a trace of envy.
But what about the grudge? What if your neighbor refuses to lend you a tool, and the very next day, has the audacity to ask to borrow yours? Human logic dictates a perfectly symmetrical response: You didn’t give to me, so I won’t give to you.
Yet, the Torah commands us to hand over the tool without a word of resentment. Why? Because the Torah is teaching us a masterclass in managing human expectations.
People are inherently different. Some hold themselves to soaring ethical standards; others are constrained by their own pettiness. When you demand that others treat you exactly as you would treat them, you are setting yourself up for endless frustration. The Torah appends the phrase “I am the Lord” to this commandment to remind us: I created this person with their specific limitations, and I created you with yours. I am the judge of the world, not you.
When we stop demanding that everyone operate on our personal wavelength, the urge for revenge dissipates. We give, we let go, and we free ourselves from the toxic weight of resentment. It is no wonder Rabbi Akiva called this the “greatest rule in the Torah.”
The Ultimate Spiritual Power: The Art of Restraint
This concept of self-mastery brings us to a fascinating juxtaposition in last week’s Torah reading. Why does the Torah place the commandment to keep the Sabbath immediately before the instructions for building the Tabernacle (Mishkan)?
The building of the Tabernacle was the holiest endeavor in human history. The Israelites were literally constructing a home for the Divine Presence on Earth. Yet, God commands them to halt all construction when the Sabbath arrives.
This teaches us a profound lesson about spiritual ego. Often, we are so driven by what we believe is a “holy” or “righteous” cause that we lose sight of the ultimate truth: we are servants of the Divine. The Israelites were deeply eager to build the Mishkan. They wanted to fix the spiritual damage of the Golden Calf. But God said, Stop.
The greatest proof of spiritual maturity is not what you can achieve, but what you can restrain yourself from doing when God commands it.
We see this same dynamic at Mount Sinai. The Talmud teaches that the Jewish people were cleansed of the primordial spiritual impurity (the Zohamat HaNachash) when they stood at the mountain. Why? Because they exercised ultimate restraint. Their souls burned with a desire to ascend the mountain and touch the Divine, but God drew a boundary and said, “Do not ascend.” They held themselves back.
True spiritual purification happens in the moments we say “no” to our own desires—even our holiest ones—in deference to a higher will.
The Covenant of Salt: Stepping Out of Our Nature
This ability to change our nature is the essence of the Jewish journey. It is the story of Abraham and Sarah.
For decades, they could not have a child together. Why? Because their natural spiritual dispositions were at odds. Abraham was the embodiment of boundless Chesed (kindness and giving). Sarai was the embodiment of Din (judgment, structure, and exclusivity). Her very name, Sarai, meant “my princess”—a localized, contained greatness.
To bring the next generation of the Jewish people into the world, God had to change their names—and by extension, their natures. “Sarai” became “Sarah”—a princess for the entire world. She had to step out of her strict boundaries. Abraham, too, had to learn the boundaries of judgment. Only when they stepped outside their default natures could a miracle be born.
This is the secret of the salt required on every sacrifice in the Book of Leviticus. Salt is a preservative. It represents the transformation of the fleeting into the eternal. The “Covenant of Salt” teaches us that our spiritual lives cannot be treated as optional hobbies. When we make a commitment, when we decide to step out of our comfort zones, we must salt it. We must make it permanent.
As we step into the month of Nisan, the month of spring and redemption, let us take these lessons to heart. Let us drop the grudges that weigh us down. Let us learn the holy art of restraint. And let us have the courage to step outside our natural tendencies, salting our commitments so they may last for eternity.
Shavua Tov, and a blessed, joyous month of Nisan to you all.
