How to Plan Love and Family - Rabbi Shraga Noson Dahan shlita

00:01 Speaker 1 One of the questions we have, a question we always ask, is: How many do we need at home? How many children? Because the more children we have at home, the more we have to divide our love and attention among them, as well as between the spouses. Maybe someone gets hurt in the process. The family budget is also relatively limited, and I have to divide it among everyone. How do we share everything we have among them all? Maybe a very small family is better: then we know we can give each person the attention they need. The same is true of a shul, for example. In a very large shul, everyone pulls in their own direction. In a small shul with ten people, everything is fine. I’ll make a shul only for people who suit me, who are on my wavelength, and then I can run the community with a firm hand. What is the right thing to do? What is the right thing to do, and how should we conduct ourselves? There are elite schools that accept only students with very strong learning abilities. I’ve seen headlines more than once: “A school for outstanding students.” If you’re a school for outstanding students, they can probably learn well with or without you. The question is, what are you teaching them? They’re outstanding already. When you teach at a school for outstanding students, you might only spoil things for them, because they’re already outstanding—never mind giving them something. And perhaps numbers and size actually have value. That’s what we’ll discuss today. Today we’ll talk about how to plan—how to plan to love the whole family. That’s a very important task. When we set out and start a family, we ask ourselves: What will our home look like?

02:18 Speaker 1 We examine everything very closely. We check whether we can budget for each thing. But twenty years later, we see that our calculations were one thing and our actual expenses were something else entirely. We need to think broadly, on a larger scale, and that applies in many, many areas. In our parsha, Parshas Bamidbar, we begin the Book of Numbers, where the Jewish people are counted several times in different circumstances. They’re counted after plagues, before setting out on their journey. “Take a census of the children of Israel”; “Count the congregation of the children of Israel.” What is this counting meant to accomplish? No one says, “Give them an assessment and find out what they know and don’t know. Check their cognitive abilities. Let’s see what they’ve learned.” None of that is said. We have a mitzvah to count the Jewish people. The question is why. Where is the substance? After all, our Torah teaches us to value substance, to give depth to every individual. Where is the substance? The Gemara in Berachos tells us about Rabban Gamliel. Rabban Gamliel was the head of the Sanhedrin. He was the head of the court, the exilarch, the head of the yeshiva. Not just the exilarch and head of the yeshiva: he was the nasi, and he established a yeshiva. But he said, “I won’t accept everyone—only someone whose inner self matches their outward conduct.” He gave an entrance examination. Those who qualified entered the yeshiva; those who didn’t—why have them waste time that could be spent learning Torah, when it would lower the standard of study? So he established a yeshiva where the level of learning was very, very high, even if that meant there weren’t many students. Not everyone agreed with him. Not everyone agreed with him. Then Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah came and took his place.

04:58 Speaker 1 He became the nasi. We all remember what happened that night: eighteen white hairs appeared in his beard, and he decided to change the approach. He said, “Anyone who wants to come in may come in.” If there had been a guard at the entrance checking who came and taking money from them, he said, “Everyone, learning is free. There’s no selection process. Anyone who wants to can come and learn; the Torah is open to everyone.” What about quality? “Quality? That’s not my concern. I teach. Whoever wants to may come and take.” Yes, whoever wants to may come and take. The Gemara says that on the very day he became nasi, they added between four hundred and seven hundred benches to the study hall. That tells us a few things. First, he really succeeded. He filled row after row after row. Second, there was clearly demand. If you told me that, over the year after he became nasi, the news gradually spread and students began to arrive, that would be one thing. But that’s not what it says. The Gemara tells us that on that very day, the study hall filled up with between four hundred and seven hundred new benches. In other words, the demand was there. People had been waiting, wanting only to learn, but not everyone managed to get in. Not everyone was given the attention they deserved, the individual consideration they needed. That means we missed them. Can we afford to miss students? Can we afford to miss souls? It’s a very difficult question. So, can we have two schools? That’s an excellent question. But can we let people fall through the cracks? No. So, as you said, that’s true: we can have two schools, but first and foremost we have to give every individual the attention appropriate to them. If we look, we’ll see what it says: “Take a census,” “Count.” What does it mean to count? Not just to count. I’m not counting heads—one, two, three. There are

07:17 Speaker 1 four hundred students in my school. I lift them up. “Take a census of the children of Israel”—literally, “Lift up the heads of the children of Israel.” I elevate them. I give each one value. It may look as though I’m counting them by their heads, counting skulls. But I’m counting what makes each of them unique. Sefiras HaOmer is a perfect example of counting. What does it mean to count? We know counting as one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten; ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy. The mystical teachings of the Torah, the teachings of Chassidus, come and teach us that counting means more than tallying. First of all, whom do I count? Those I love, those I love. Today, people count to show off: “My school has eight hundred students. How many does yours have? How many people are in your shul? Mine has eighty-two. How many does yours have?” But we’re meant to count because we love. When a person counts his coins, he counts them because he feels connected to them. He counts them; he gives each one a name. Names, yes. And the children of Israel, counted by their heads—we need to see each one “by their names, by their families, by their fathers’ houses.” Each person has their own character, their own lineage, the atmosphere in which they grew up. I don’t erase their individuality. Having a large number doesn’t mean I’ve blurred anyone’s identity. And then I lift each person up. What does it mean to count? Chassidus says: Like a sapphire, you have to polish it and make it shine. Every number represents an individual in their own right. Every number is an entire world. Think of a shul that is one person short of a minyan. One person. Does it matter whether I bring the Baba Sali, the Rebbe of Lubavitch, Moshe Rabbeinu, or Itzik from across the street? Any one of them completes

09:36 Speaker 1 For me, each one counts in exactly the same way, on exactly the same level. My job is to explain that to Itzik, to count him. When someone says, “You don’t count me,” what does he mean? You don’t pay attention to me. You don’t believe in me. You don’t give me a place. Count me. Does counting mean treating someone as one among many? No. Counting means giving someone value. In the army, they really do head counts. They call out, “Serial numbers, report in.” There, it really is about counting. In the army, you need numbers. Large numbers create strength. That’s the power of an army. If I have many soldiers—even in the infantry, for example—I need a lot of soldiers, and that gives me strength. But in the air force, I need an expert pilot. In other words, sometimes you need quality and sometimes quantity. When soldiers are lining up for battle, they really do use serial numbers. Serial numbers. Each one has a number. To me, he’s a number. If one number falls, we need another number in his place to complete the mission. But in everyday life, we’re not calling out serial numbers. We’re dealing with personal numbers, with souls, with people’s inner lives. Each person is a world unto himself. And the question is how we give each person his place. When we count each and every person, with his strengths, his depth, his abilities, and give him his place, we can gain two things. We can gain numbers—a large number of people—because quantity creates quality. If I give each person his individuality, what makes him special, then when I have a large space with many people, many children, many students, and each one knows his place and his abilities, each one nourishes the next, each one

11:52 Speaker 1 contributes to the next, each one strengthens the next, instead of each one getting in the next one’s way or feeling threatened by him: “He’s taking my food; he’s taking my funding.” Each person knows his own strength and what he can bring, and suddenly they all become one unit. That’s why, when the Jewish people received the Torah, they received it as a group. “And Israel encamped there opposite the mountain—as one person with one heart.” It says “encamped,” in the singular. It should say “they encamped”—there were many people. Why the singular? Because they were as one person with one heart. We come with strength; we can receive the Torah. Did all the Jewish people hear and understand the Torah in the same way? The basic understanding of the mitzvos, yes, but each soul absorbed it differently. Each person at his own level, each according to how he was created, each according to what would connect with his soul in serving Hashem. We have practical mitzvos, but even those we each do differently. One person gets very, very excited about eating matzah on Pesach. Someone else is deeply moved by saying the Haggadah. So do we need to create a home that’s all matzah or all Haggadah? No. We need to create a home that includes everything. That’s a home with harmony. Imagine an orchestra with only clarinet players. It would sound beautiful, but rather uniform. When we want to hear a complete symphony, we need everyone. I remember when I was young, my parents would take me to concerts, and there was one musician we always laughed about. He would spend the whole evening waiting for his moment. Then, after the music went along [unclear], suddenly it would build and build, and then—bam! He’d strike once. That was it; he was on a break until his next turn. Or there was someone with the cymbals.

14:08 Speaker 1 He would hold the cymbals like this, standing there waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. How didn’t he get discouraged? How didn’t he get discouraged? And then, suddenly—ting!—his turn came. Do you know why he didn’t get discouraged? He knew he was part of the ensemble. They came and told him, “You’re terribly important.” Do you know what a bass note coming in all of a sudden can do? He played his part, and suddenly he changed the whole tune. He took it somewhere else. I have a place; I have a role. I’m standing on the stage; I’m part of the whole group. What, you compare yourself to the violinist standing up front, playing and playing and playing? Yes, because I’m part of the team. And when you’re part of the team, you don’t even need to compete. You’re not even offended when they put you at the far end, because that’s where your sound has the best effect. That’s where it has the most depth, where it can hold everything without drowning out the others. People can hear both you and them. Everyone has his place. But the question is: are we conducting the orchestra, or are we trying to get the chaos under control? That’s the difference between being a conductor, a leader, a parent, and saying, “I’ve got a mess here. Let’s see if I can just get everything to work out.” Our job is to count them, to give each one that special light that puts him in his place. The Zohar relates an account about Rabbi Shimon’s students. The companions of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai needed rain. They needed rain. So they said to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, “You’re our companion, so come pray for rain for us.” What did Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai do? He was a great tzaddik. He didn’t need prayers. Prayers are for beginners. He was beyond that.

16:15 Speaker 1 Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai—want rain? No problem. He studied Torah and taught them: “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brothers to sit together in unity,” and rain came. The question is, why did they need to bring their need to their companion? And why did he teach them “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brothers to sit together in unity”? Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai had a special quality. Usually, when we ask Hakadosh Boruch Hu for something, we do something down here and make a request of Hakadosh Boruch Hu above. This is called isarusa dilesata—an awakening from below. The request rises upward, and then Hakadosh Boruch Hu responds and sends down the rain. That’s how it works in the ordinary world, but not for Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. He was on such a high level that he could simply arrange things in the higher world. It is said that, for Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, the world was already perfected, as though Moshiach were here—as though Moshiach were here in a spiritual sense. No rainbow appeared in the clouds in his time. He was on a very high level, and that’s why he could also detach himself from all worldly concerns. He detached himself completely from worldly concerns. Now, Torah has several layers. There are its revealed layers, the revealed dimension of Torah, and its hidden layers, the hidden dimension of Torah. For Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, there was no separation between the revealed and the hidden. For him, the Torah was one, already a complete whole. He saw it all in its fullness and light, and for him this was Torah, the Torah of truth, that heavenly Torah. With the words of Torah, he could cause rain to fall here on the ground. This is called isarusa dile’eila—an awakening from above, from above downward. Through studying Torah, he knew how to reach the higher worlds and bring rain down here immediately. That was Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, one of a kind in his generation, one of a kind in the world. But then why did they call him “our companion”? He was from another planet.

18:36 Speaker 1 He isn’t from our ordinary world. He’s from another planet. The Gemara in Shabbos, page 33, tells a story about Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. Rabbi Yehudah ben Gerim, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, and Rabbi Yosi were there, talking about what the Romans were doing. Some spoke in their favor, and some against them. For Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, it was impossible that the Romans could do something good for the Jews. Where he stood, things were either black or white; there was no mixing the two. Then Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai is told, “You can’t live in this world. Get out of here—it’s dangerous.” So he has a problem. Where does he hide at first? In the beis midrash. It says that his wife brings him food. But that isn’t enough for him. It isn’t enough. We said that he’s detached from life in this world. So if his wife brings him food, that means he’s still connected to the physical world, right? She brings him food, and food, too, is physical—food from his wife. So he goes somewhere that separates him even further: a cave. In the cave, he’s completely cut off from this world. He learns Torah from Eliyahu Hanavi. He and his son take off their physical clothes and sit in the earth, as if to remind them, “Fellows, don’t forget: you’re in a physical world, not a spiritual one.” So they’re entirely in the dirt, but without clothes. What do they have clothes for? For something spiritual: for davening. They have no involvement with physical things at all. Food—food is physical, right? How do they eat and drink? That’s physical. No. Hakadosh Boruch Hu performs a miracle for them—“a miracle occurred”—and a spring appears for them, along with a tree. A carob tree. It’s such a miracle that our Sages discuss whether they had to wait the three years of orlah for that tree. They say no, it was

20:49 Speaker 1 a special tree, a miraculous tree. The mitzvos that depend on the Land don’t apply to a miraculous tree, because it came ready-made. Some say that because it was a miracle, those mitzvos don’t apply to it. Others say that the miracle brought it into being already four years old—already old enough for its fruit to be eaten according to halachah. But you can see that it’s a miracle, something heavenly, not something we can understand. And so he spends twelve years in the cave. After twelve years he comes out entirely spiritual. For him, the physical and the spiritual don’t mix. When he leaves the cave, he can’t bear to see a world that mixes the holy and the mundane. It doesn’t work for him. It just doesn’t work. He looks at people and turns them into a pile of bones. Hashem sends him back to the cave, saying, “Have you come out to destroy My world? Go back to the cave.” He goes back for a year. After a year he comes out, and he understands that Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s world is one world, but the other world, the world of the Jewish people, is different. Then, suddenly, he sees people taking the mundane and making it holy. That’s our world. As the Gemara says, many tried to live like Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, but did not succeed. Not everyone can be Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. That’s Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. But is Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai alone? No. Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai isn’t alone; he’s part of a group. For Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai to reach such a level—to bring about miracles and set things right in the World of Truth, in the higher world—he can’t be alone. He has to have people behind him, to be part of a group, because without that

22:48 Speaker 1 the world cannot endure. Even Hakadosh Boruch Hu—chas veshalom, this doesn’t imply any partnership; Hakadosh Boruch Hu is alone, singular in His world. But even Hakadosh Boruch Hu says, “There is no king without a people”; “Make Me king over you.” The attribute of kingship is a very, very lofty attribute, but it has no meaning without a people. It has no meaning without a people. Kingship is the attribute that brings together the whole people, all these different strengths. But without a people, what is it worth? If I come to give a class and there’s nobody there, neither on Zoom nor in the room, I can talk to myself. If there’s someone to talk to, there’s someone to take it in, someone to process it. And that’s why they say to him, “You’re our friend too. Come daven for us.” Then what does Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai teach them? “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is when brothers dwell together in unity.” That’s a great principle. Remember this principle, and how it reaches into our families. What does “how good and how pleasant” mean? In serving Hashem, there is love. There are all kinds of levels of love. At home, too, there are different kinds of love. There’s love that comes from giving, love that comes from dependence, love that comes from emotion, and love that comes from delight—love filled with pleasure. You feel so good that you simply love. Someone goes out to a grassy field, a beautiful place with a peaceful view. He feels so good there that he loves the place. He takes delight in it. The highest level of love is love of Hashem. So there is boundless love, but there is also love filled with delight. That isn’t physical pleasure; it’s an inner delight. And how do we reach that delight and that love? “When brothers dwell together in unity.” If we understand that I’m not alone—I may be a great Torah scholar, but

25:17 Speaker 1 I still depend on my group. That’s what they did: they gave him his place, his unique role. That’s how you build a people, a community, a family. You give each person their own particular, distinctive place, and then nobody feels diminished. It’s the same at home. If the husband and wife do exactly the same thing all the time, it gets a little confusing. I know that today we want to raise everyone for an egalitarian society, where everyone does exactly the same tasks and the same things. There’s no problem with doing the same tasks, but we need to know who is responsible for what. What makes each member of the household unique? It’s okay that I don’t have qualities my wife has. That’s really okay, because that’s why we’re together in the same home. And the great secret is to see how we can raise many students while also setting boundaries for each person—giving each one a definition. What does “raise many students and make a fence around the Torah” mean? The plain meaning of “make a fence around the Torah” is to keep a person at a distance from wrongdoing, so they won’t commit transgressions. A fence is a boundary. The Sages made safeguards to keep a person away from sin. Do you know what a boundary is? To define yourself. A definition—what’s a definition?

27:05 Speaker 2 A boundary.

27:05 Speaker 1 A boundary. But what does it mean to define yourself? What is self-definition? Ask yourself: Who am I? What am I? What does Hashem your G-d ask of you? When you get up in the morning, ask yourself: Why am I here? What makes me unique? When you look at your children, look and ask: What makes this child special? How is this child different from a sibling? At home, we often like to compare them and look for how they’re alike. To succeed, we need to do exactly the opposite. How is this one different? How is this one different? How is this one different? That way, we can give each person their own definition, their own unique identity, and then they grow. They don’t grow on their own, because each is who they are. They understand that they’re part of everyone, part of the greater whole. And that’s what it says in Pirkei Avos: “Raise many students and make a fence around the Torah.” Define things. Tell them, “Here is the boundary. You are you. This is your goal; these are your tasks.” That way, you can serve Hashem with joy and gladness of heart. King Shlomo said, “Two are better than one.” King Shlomo was the wisest of all people. Does he need to tell us that two is more than one? Does he need to tell me that one plus one equals two? Do I need King Shlomo, the wisest of all people, for that? King Shlomo is saying: I didn’t say that the number two is better than the number one. Two are better because of what comes from their being together. What comes of it? Two accomplish much more. One person can’t have children alone. Two aren’t worth just two; they’re worth twenty, worth fifteen. They’re worth so much. When we work as a group, we generate far more strength, far more strength. That’s King Shlomo’s insight. “Two are better than one” means that what comes from the two is far greater than what

29:30 Speaker 1 That comes from one person. That strength doesn’t just double the strength; it triples it, or... And sometimes, to build a world from a threshing floor, you need numbers. What can you do? As it says in Koheles Rabbah, “One out of a thousand have I found.” What does “one out of a thousand have I found” mean? Say you want one Torah scholar who can issue halachic rulings. You need to teach a thousand. You teach a thousand—Mishnah, sorry, Torah. Of those, you teach a hundred Mishnah. Of those, you teach ten Talmud. And from those, one will become a leading scholar of the generation. But to reach that one, you need large numbers. You see, not long ago there was the International Bible Quiz. At first, they opened the tests to hundreds of students. Then they said, “Excellent, now just these, just these,” until in the end one girl won. That’s how we gradually narrow the field. Did the ones along the way learn nothing? They learned, they found their place, they were inspired. Quantity is what brings quality. And Rashi speaks about the counting. Why count the Jewish people? “To make known how dear they are.” I might have thought that being counted means I’m just another head, just another person. Rashi says: Do you know why you’re being counted? To make known how dear the Jewish people are. You are dear. I’m not counting you because you’re like your friend. I’m counting you because, wow, Moshe, how special you are! Wow, Yehudah, you’re special too! Shimon, you’re special too! Every single person, even though there are so many of us, is recognized for what makes him unique. And that really is the definition of the Jewish people. What are the Jewish people? Those who interpret the allusions say that the Torah has 600,000 letters. Now, there aren’t actually 600,000 letters; there are three hundred and something thousand. But there are several explanations. How do you reach 600,000? Some say by counting both the written text and the way it is read. Some

31:54 Speaker 1 say [unclear]. But 600,000 is a symbol of the Jewish people and of the letters of the Torah. The point is that the Jewish people are made up of all these different layers and the uniqueness of every individual, and we need those special differences. How do we give each person that sense of being special at home? We ask ourselves: How do I strengthen my home? I have a home, and I want to strengthen it. I have a family. So I’ve understood that I don’t have to stop at two children. I can have ten children and give each one attention, because the more children there are, the more blessing there is. It’s possible to provide for each one, feed each one, and bring each one joy. But sometimes, to give each one attention, I need to disconnect for a moment—disconnect from my surroundings. In the desert, the Sinai Desert, “in a parched and weary land without water.” Sometimes I specifically need a moment in a place where I have no other distractions. When I want to count my husband, when I want to count my wife—that is, to give her special attention, to see her special light, that sparkle, the diamond in her, the diamond in him, the diamond in our children. I want to look within them and help them grow. Sometimes we need to do that in the desert, in a place set apart, a place with the Clouds of Glory, the pillar of fire, the pillar of cloud—a place set apart, where I can truly give all my attention to the children, to my wife, to my husband. That’s when their uniqueness is recognized. Because if it happens in a big place, amid all the bustle of the city, they won’t receive that special recognition. So sometimes we need to make use of a moment in the desert and say: We’re setting out on a journey. And that’s a great secret in marriage too. We set out, we begin, we establish a home, we want to embark on a project. Don’t be afraid.

34:20 Speaker 1 Don’t be afraid to “lift up the heads of the children of Israel.” Don’t be afraid to lift people up. When we count our husband, our children... Sometimes we’re going on a trip. “Dad, where are we going?” “Don’t ask.” “Dad, you need to—” “Let us get ready. Give us a part in it. Give us a part in the... You’ll come, get on the bus, and arrive.” Sometimes it happens at school, on an outing. “Where are we going?” “Don’t ask. Get on, sit down, and don’t ask questions.” Don’t be surprised if afterward they don’t feel part of the journey—because they aren’t part of it. We didn’t give them their own unique place in that journey. When we’re on the journey of life and we want it to succeed, we have to include everyone: to position the entire Jewish people, each person with his own flag, his own family, his own unit, his own uniqueness. That’s what Hakadosh Boruch Hu commands us in the parsha. You want to travel through the desert? Lift them up; count them. “Lift up the heads of the entire congregation of the children of Israel.” Count them, raise them up, help them understand who they are, tell their story. Tell each one, “What makes you special on this journey? This is the destination. This is where we’re going. This is your unique part in it.” And then we see that the parsha really spells it out. “They shall carry it on the shoulder”—the Levi’im carry the Mishkan. Some are to the west, some to the east, some... each with his own unique role. And notice that although they are all together in the desert, each one has his own task, and no one looks into his neighbor’s home and asks, “Why does he have more? Why does he have less?” If the person playing the drums or the person playing the cymbals in a concert kept looking at what the violinist was doing, he wouldn’t play. “Why am I not a violinist?” Because you’re not a violinist. You’re a drummer. That’s how the orchestra is complete, and your place is there, not here. If

36:31 Speaker 1 we teach our children that each one has strength, each one has abilities, and they stop asking, “Why not me? Why not me?” then things will work much better. And that was what was special about the Jewish people in the desert. They were different tribes, with great differences between them, but they were together, together. The flags, the flags of the Jewish people, together. They were together, but no one entered anyone else’s tent. “How goodly are your tents, Yaakov, your dwelling places, Yisroel”—their entrances did not face one another. How hard is it for an entire camp to live together without anyone intruding into another family’s life? Each one protects his privacy and his uniqueness. So perhaps that’s the secret. When we want to strengthen a family, to lift up a husband, a wife, children, employees, the people around us, we have a few rules. First, let’s count them. Don’t ignore them. Second, let’s lift them up: “Lift up the heads.” Help them grow. Give each one room to be unique. Make the journey clear to them, even in the desert. Where are we going? Include them, and let every single person have privacy. The fact that you and I live together doesn’t mean we have no privacy. We preserve what makes each of us unique. We’re together, but each of us also has a private space of our own. That helps us not only with modesty and privacy, but also with fulfilling our very special purpose. For just as people’s faces differ, so do their opinions. Every single person has a task, and in the family, we are the conductors of this wonderful orchestra. Thank you all very much.