Parashas Beshalach: Paro's Bechirah, Hashgachah, and the Power of Ratzon

Topics

• What Does It Mean That Hashem 'Made Sport' of Mitzrayim?
• The Danger of Enjoying Another's Downfall
• The Puppet Show: Who Was Really Controlling Paro?
• Why Does the Torah Say Paro Sent the People?
• Lev Melachim B'Yad Hashem: The Very Life of a King
• Why Paro Was Punished: Bechirah, Kiddush Hashem, and Chesed
• Could Paro Still Do Teshuvah?
• Admission Is Not Yet Teshuvah
• Hashgachah, Disasters, and Yosef's Broader Purpose
• Yosef at the Pit and Returning from a Levayah by Another Way
• Why Were So Many Jews Unwilling to Leave Mitzrayim?
• Chesed Ne'urayich: The Courage to Change and the Responsibility to Others
• MiYaldei Ha'Ivrim: The Brother Who Cries
• A Talmid's Imitation of His Rebbe
• Eliezer, the Erev Rav, and the Measure of a Person's Ratzon
• 'Ein Davar Omed Bifnei HaRatzon'—Is That Really True?
• How Does a Person Learn to Want Torah?
• Learning Desire Through Repetition—and Learning from Creation
• Turning the Powers of Desire Toward Torah
• The Makkos and the Power to Choose
• After the Shiur: Remaining Questions About Bechirah
• After-Class Discussion: The Meaning of Amalek
• Final Fragment

Transcript

## What Does It Mean That Hashem 'Made Sport' of Mitzrayim?

You know what's interesting? Hashem tells Moshe, *Es asher his'alalti b'Mitzrayim*—what I did to Mitzrayim, how I made sport of them. What does that mean? What is humorous about the suffering in Mitzrayim? We are talking about terrible events. Which part of them is supposed to be a joke?

When an ordinary person sees suffering, the proper response should be pain and compassion. Some people enjoy frightening scenes in horror films, but that should not become our response to genuine human tragedy. So what could it mean to describe what happened to Paro as *his'alalti*?

Think about how we react to disasters in the world. There may be a terrible earthquake with many casualties. We hear about it on the radio, feel bad for a little while, and then continue as usual. Why are we not truly shaken?

Rav Yechezkel Levenstein, Reb Chatzkel, the great mashgiach, has a whole *sichah* in his discussions of emunah about an earthquake that happened in his time. I recall seeing it around page kuf-mem-tes, though the exact edition needs checking. He asks how people can witness such a tragedy and fail to be *mis'orer*, stirred to examine their lives.

At first he considered a simple answer: perhaps people lack genuine emunah. Everybody knows how to say *baruch Hashem*, *be'ezras Hashem*, *im yirtzeh Hashem*. Hashem is always on our lips. But when it comes to *ma'aseh*, when we have business to manage, do we really live with the knowledge that the Ribono Shel Olam runs the world? Or do we imagine everything depends on our calculations and *hishtadlus*?

Let me say something about the greatness of Reb Chatzkel. People do not appreciate what a *gadol* he was. I was reading on Shabbos how Rav Shach helped bring him to the Ponevezh yeshivah. The Ponevezher Rav asked Rav Shach what he thought of the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur tefillos. Rav Shach answered that they were good, but if Reb Chatzkel were there it would be even better.

The Ponevezher Rav promptly gave Rav Shach what he needed to travel and said, in effect: 'Go bring Reb Chatzkel here.' Rav Shach went to get him, and Reb Chatzkel became mashgiach at Ponevezh for many years. I also heard that Rav Shach would sit with a shtender simply to watch how Reb Chatzkel davened, to learn from the very way he stood in tefillah. That was the emunah these people lived with.

So Reb Chatzkel considers whether our lack of response to tragedy is a lack of emunah. But then he rejects that explanation as insufficient. Even if you do not believe in Hashem, you should still be frightened! An earthquake can happen anywhere. You are not protected simply because the terrible thing happened somewhere else.

And then he offers an explanation of human nature that I find genuinely frightening. He says there is something within a person that can be drawn to hearing about destruction and the suffering of others. That is a disturbing thought. But look at how people react to sensational news, and you begin to see the problem.

## The Danger of Enjoying Another's Downfall

Rabosai, there is a saying in the news business: 'If it burns, it earns.' The greater the catastrophe, the more people pay attention. They call it a 'juicy story.' Juicy! Why should another person's suffering be something 'juicy'?

That is the weakness of human nature Reb Chatzkel was describing. We must be careful not to turn the misfortune of others into our own enjoyment.

So ask yourself: if someone had lived through the makkos in Mitzrayim, would it have been appropriate for him to laugh? How could the Torah say *Es asher his'alalti b'Mitzrayim*? Is it possible to speak about Hashem as though He enjoys the destruction of people? Certainly that cannot be the explanation.

Chazal teach that when the Egyptians were drowning at the Yam Suf, the malachim were prevented from saying shirah: *Ma'aseh yadai tov'in bayam, v'atem omrim shirah?* My handiwork is drowning in the sea, and you are singing? Klal Yisrael said shirah, but even there we have to understand the distinction between thanking Hashem for salvation and delighting in human death.

I saw another *ha'arah* attributed to Reb Chatzkel in connection with the capture of Eichmann. People were excited when he was caught. But the capture and punishment of a murderer could not bring back the people who had been murdered. Reb Chatzkel, as I understood him, warned against treating the downfall of a wicked person as a spectacle for personal enjoyment. That is not the same as rejoicing in a miracle or in rescue.

There is a Gemara in Megillah about Esther asking the Chachamim to establish the remembrance of Purim for generations: *Kiv'uni l'doros.* The Chachamim feared that celebrating the event could arouse hostility among the nations. Esther answered that the story was already recorded in the royal chronicles. I understand a deeper distinction here.

Purim is not a festival celebrating that Haman was killed. It is a celebration of the salvation Hashem brought to Klal Yisrael. That is entirely different. Even today there are memories of Mordechai and Esther among Persian Jews, and people speak of a monument associated with them in Iran. [This contemporary detail and the exact historical circumstances require checking.] The point is that the miracle itself is what we commemorate.

Chazal also teach us not to rejoice at the downfall of an enemy. And yet the pasuk says, *Ba'avod resha'im rinah*—when wickedness perishes there is *rinah*. What does *rinah* mean? Why not use a straightforward expression of celebration or dancing?

I have suggested a *pshat*: *rinah* can be the language of **tefillah**. When we see the fall of evil, we turn to the Ribono Shel Olam and say, 'Now we recognize Your hashgachah more clearly. We see that You govern the world.' That response directs us toward emunah rather than cruel pleasure in another person's suffering.

So we do not take to the streets for the sake of enjoying death. We turn to Hashem. That is the type of *rinah* I want us to think about.

## The Puppet Show: Who Was Really Controlling Paro?

Now let us return to the question. The pasuk says, *Yoshev baShamayim yischak*—the One who sits in the heavens laughs. What is the laughter about?

There is a famous expression: *Ha'adam choshev, v'HaKadosh Baruch Hu tzochek.* A person makes his plans and believes he controls events; the Ribono Shel Olam shows how limited those plans really are.

Imagine, *l'havdil*, a puppet show in a theater. People laugh as the puppets move back and forth. Why is it funny? Because we can see someone above the stage pulling the strings! The puppet appears to make decisions, but another hand is moving it.

Paro, rabosai, was like a puppet in the hands of Hashem. That is how I want to understand *Es asher his'alalti b'Mitzrayim*. The 'sport' is not the suffering of human beings. It is the spectacle of a man who believes he is the greatest ruler in the world while the Ribono Shel Olam demonstrates that He alone governs events.

Think about the pasuk, *Ki ani hichbadti es libo v'es lev avadav*. Hashem hardened Paro's heart. Paro desperately wanted the makkos to stop. Everything around him was falling apart. But the Torah describes his inability to release his hold over Klal Yisrael. It was as though he were trying to stop the puppet while the strings kept moving.

Have you ever seen a ventriloquist? The performer has a dummy, and he pretends to be furious because it won't stop talking. 'Be quiet! Stop! Don't say that!' he shouts. Everyone laughs because the performer himself is producing the voice. The person supposedly struggling to silence the dummy is also the one making it speak.

That is the picture I am describing. Paro imagined he was directing the entire drama. In fact, the story of Mitzrayim was showing that the Ribono Shel Olam was in control.

But one second. This creates a very serious *kashya*. If Paro was unable to choose otherwise because Hashem hardened his heart, how could he be held responsible and punished? That is not a small question. The *ba'alei mussar* and other mefarshim discuss it.

There is an approach, brought at length in *Michtav MeEliyahu* from earlier sources, that the miracles were so overwhelming that an ordinary person would have felt compelled to yield. To preserve Paro's ability to choose freely, Hashem strengthened his resistance. His heart was made harder so that the choice would remain a genuine choice. This is a different understanding from the puppet-image I have just used, and we have to hold both approaches carefully rather than confuse them.

That leads to another question. The Torah says, *Vayehi b'shalach Paro es ha'am*—when **Paro** sent out the people. Wait a minute! I thought Hashem took us out of Mitzrayim. We say it constantly: Hashem brought us out. So why does the Torah say Paro sent them?

Now you'll understand what I want to explain.

## Why Does the Torah Say Paro Sent the People?

*Vayehi b'shalach Paro es ha'am.* Wait! Who sent Klal Yisrael out of Mitzrayim? We always say Hashem took us out. Every part of our emunah in Yetzias Mitzrayim is that HaKadosh Baruch Hu brought us from one nation out of the midst of another. So why is Paro given the action of sending us away?

Of course, toward the end Paro did tell them to leave, and afterward he changed his mind and pursued them. But is that all the Torah wants to say in the opening words of Parashas Beshalach?

I am asking a deeper question. We just explained *Es asher his'alalti b'Mitzrayim* with a *mashal* of a puppet whose strings are held by the Ribono Shel Olam. If Paro really was being directed by Hashem, why describe the event as something **Paro** did?

Someone in the *olam* tries an answer. Go ahead—say it again. Yes, you're getting close. Very close! The Torah may be teaching us just how completely Hashem governs the world: when HaKadosh Baruch Hu wants something, even **Paro himself** will send His people.

Not merely that Paro will give permission, standing aside while Klal Yisrael leaves, but that Paro—who tried with all his strength to prevent them from leaving—will himself be the one who sends them. *K'sheHaKadosh Baruch Hu rotzeh, afilu Paro yishlach osam.* That is the wonder of the words *b'shalach Paro es ha'am*.

But now we must be very careful with *bechirah*. If Paro had no choice at the end, how was he deserving of punishment? The Rambam in Hilchos Teshuvah develops an answer: Paro had free choice in the beginning. Through his repeated wickedness and refusal to do teshuvah, he brought himself to a state in which the opportunity to repent could be withheld from him. The loss of choice was connected to his earlier choices. That is not the same as saying he was innocent.

So the Torah is showing us that the Ribono Shel Olam could make even this ruler become the instrument through whom the people departed. The man who declared he would never release them ended up saying, 'Go.'

And yet why was it important that Hashem arrange it in that particular way? Why not simply free Klal Yisrael without involving Paro in the final departure? That brings us to a much broader *yesod* about the rulers of the world.

## *Lev Melachim B'Yad Hashem*: The Very Life of a King

The Chovos HaLevavos discusses how the most powerful human beings are utterly dependent on Hashem. Paro looked invincible, the strongest ruler imaginable. And yet he was no more independent of the Ribono Shel Olam than the puppet in my *mashal*.

There were gedolim who were not preoccupied with the elections and political news of powerful nations. Local decisions could affect the community, and of course they cared about practical matters. But the great movements of rulers and nations were not simply in the hands of those rulers.

The pasuk says, *Lev melachim b'yad Hashem*—the heart of kings is in Hashem's hands. What does that mean? Why specifically the **heart**? Why doesn't it say the thoughts or decisions of kings?

I once heard a *pshat* from a great rav in Eretz Yisrael. Listen carefully. A person's whole physical existence depends on the beating of his heart. If it stops beating, the man who was so powerful a moment ago may no longer be alive. *Lev melachim b'yad Hashem*: the very life of the king, every beat of his heart, is in the hands of the Ribono Shel Olam.

That *mashal* teaches more than the obvious fact that everyone depends on Hashem for life. In the case of kings, the pasuk is telling us that the ruler, as an instrument in world affairs, exists to accomplish the ratzon Hashem. We are looking at a ruler and saying, 'He decides this, he decides that.' But the truth is that his power itself—and the course of events he sets in motion—is subject to Hashem.

Do you understand me? I don't think you do yet. I can see it on your face! I am not merely saying that Hashem watches a king from a distance. The whole *metzius* of a melech is dependent on Hashem. Every breath, every heartbeat, all the enormous power he imagines he possesses: *b'yad Hashem*.

Think of the heart pumping blood through a person's veins. In the *mashal* I heard, the 'heart' of the king is almost like a pump through which the Divine purpose operates in the world. It is the ratzon Hashem that determines where the affairs of the nation ultimately go.

Someone offers an expression: a remote control. Very good! You just got it. A remote control. *L'havdil*, as it were, we see Paro moving, issuing orders, and exercising authority; the Torah teaches us that the Ribono Shel Olam was governing the outcome.

That is why Paro could be the one to send Klal Yisrael out. If Hashem wants him to send them, even the ruler who opposed their freedom will become the means by which they leave. But what does that mean for the ruler's responsibility? We have to speak about that separately.

## Why Paro Was Punished: Bechirah, Kiddush Hashem, and Chesed

Here is a famous *kashya*. If Hashem chose Paro to be the instrument through whom the makkos would teach the world about Divine power, why should Paro be punished for fulfilling that role?

There are several approaches. One is that Paro was a wicked person through his own earlier choices. His conduct made him the kind of person who would serve this purpose. The Rambam's discussion in Hilchos Teshuvah is important here: the individual had an opportunity to choose beforehand and was responsible for the state he brought upon himself.

A second approach looks at the larger purpose of *onesh*. The world exists for *Kiddush Shem Shamayim*. Both the reward of tzaddikim and the punishment of reshaim teach the world that Hashem governs it. Paro's downfall became a lesson to all generations.

Someone interrupts with a small practical request; I need another piece for my son. All right, thank you. Now let's return to the point.

The ba'alei mussar explain that punishment can reveal *Kiddush Hashem*. That does not erase the moral responsibility of the person who is punished. It explains why the consequences of evil can also teach those who witness them.

Now I want to share a beautiful *pshat* from the Alter of Slabodka. He says that Paro should have looked at the makkos as **chesed** that Hashem was doing for him. Can you imagine? To be receiving punishment, and to understand it as kindness!

There is a pasuk quoted in the Seforno's discussion: *Ki lo echpotz b'mos hameis, ki im b'shuvo midarko v'chayah.* The wording in the recording combines familiar expressions from Yechezkel about Hashem desiring teshuvah and life rather than the death of the wicked; the exact citation has to be checked.

What is the idea? Hashem did not send the makkos merely to destroy Paro. Each event could have awakened him to do teshuvah and change his course. In that sense, the punishment was an opportunity for life. That is tremendous rachamim.

Why did Paro not take the opportunity? Because he saw the *onesh* as an attack to be fought rather than as a warning that could save him. He resisted the message instead of recognizing the chesed within it.

I know it is very difficult to say this to someone who is suffering. You cannot walk over to someone in pain and glibly tell him that he should be happy because it is really a kindness. That is not how you comfort a person. But as a *mussar* idea about Paro's response to the makkos, it opens up another way of understanding what Hashem was offering him.

We look through the sefer to locate the pasuk and exact wording; some of the interchange is broken in the recording. One listener asks again why the reshaim needed to serve as a warning. It comes back to *Kiddush Shem Shamayim*, *bechirah*, and the chance of teshuvah. Let us continue from there.

## Could Paro Still Do Teshuvah?

The whole world is here for *Kiddush Shem Shamayim*. A rasha who is punished can become an example to the world that Hashem rules it. Someone asks: if he becomes a vehicle for such an enormous Kiddush Hashem, is there any kind of *sechar* connected with that?

It is an interesting question. There is a midrashic teaching that Paro later became the king of Nineveh and lived for an extraordinarily long time. According to that tradition, he was present when the people of Nineveh did teshuvah. How can we understand such a reward for someone who was so wicked in Mitzrayim? Perhaps his role in making Hashem known to the world has something to do with it. [The identity and chronology of this midrashic Paro tradition require source review; I am following the teaching as presented.]

And perhaps that very experience helped Nineveh understand the urgency of doing teshuvah. Imagine a king telling his people, 'I have seen what happens when you refuse to listen to the Ribono Shel Olam. You had better take this warning seriously!' It is a *svara*, not something I am asserting as a historical fact.

Now let us return to a much stronger question. We have said, based on the Rambam, that Paro lost the ability to do teshuvah. But doesn't Paro himself say, *Hashem hatzaddik, va'ani v'ami haresha'im*—Hashem is righteous, and I and my people are wicked?

That is a pasuk! You don't need to quote a midrash for it. So did Paro do teshuvah or didn't he?

Someone in the *olam* says it was after Kriyas Yam Suf. Let's check that carefully. The pasuk is actually in the account of the plague of hail, before the sea; later midrashim about Paro's survival are a separate discussion. The source chronology here matters.

Still, the question stands. Originally Paro said, *Lo yadati es Hashem*—I do not recognize Hashem. Later he says, *Hashem hatzaddik*, Hashem is righteous, *va'ani v'ami haresha'im*. Isn't that an admission? Isn't that a form of teshuvah? How can we say his heart was blocked?

There are several ways to answer. One approach distinguishes between losing the **special siyata d'shmaya** that helps a person return, and a complete impossibility of choosing to return. Ordinarily, if a person opens even a little door, Hashem helps him. *Pischu li pesach k'chudo shel machat*—open a tiny opening, and enormous help can come.

Perhaps Paro lost that assistance because of his earlier deeds. It would be much harder for him, but a sufficiently powerful personal effort might still be conceivable. The precise relation of this approach to the Rambam's words has to be checked.

But I want to offer another answer—an answer based on what **teshuvah** really means.

## Admission Is Not Yet Teshuvah

What is teshuvah? If a man says, 'Hashem is right, and I was wrong,' is that automatically teshuvah? Not necessarily.

*Hashem hatzaddik va'ani v'ami haresha'im.* Paro admitted a fact: Hashem is the One in control, and what we did was wrong. That is a tremendous admission. But did he **change his will**? Did he genuinely decide to live differently?

The Rambam defines teshuvah in terms of leaving the sin, regretting it, and resolving not to return to it. Merely saying something true does not establish that the man has actually changed.

So here is the lesson of Paro. The ratzon Hashem will be carried out. Hashem wanted Klal Yisrael to leave Mitzrayim, and they left. Hashem could make it happen in such a way that Paro himself sent them away. That is the *Vayehi b'shalach Paro es ha'am*. The parashah is called Beshalach because Hashem arranged that **Paro would send** them.

But Paro could go through all that, say 'Hashem is right,' and still not have made the change that he himself needed to make. It is possible to recognize Divine power intellectually and remain unchanged in your desires.

Now you are asking a very good *kashya*. How does a person ever know whether he has genuinely chosen to change, or whether circumstances are merely pushing him to behave a certain way? Where is **my** action, and where is the ratzon Hashem working through events around me?

This gets to the difference between *bechirah* and *hashgachah*. In the exceptional case described of Paro after the hardening of his heart, the power of choosing was restricted in a way connected to his former choices. The result was that what happened through him demonstrated Hashem's mastery, not his personal transformation.

For a regular person, however, Hashem did not take away the capacity to choose. *B'derech she'adam rotzeh leilech, molichin oso*: a person is guided along the way he genuinely wishes to go. Hashem can help him, open doors for him, and bring circumstances into his life, while the decision of what he wants remains his responsibility.

No one can excuse his wrongdoing by saying, 'I am here only because Hashem wanted me here.' You chose what you chose. The Ribono Shel Olam's hashgachah does not erase your responsibility.

And now we have the huge question that follows: **How do hashgachah pratis and bechirah work together?** If everything is governed by Hashem, what belongs to the person? Hold on to that question. It is very important for what I want to explain.

## Hashgachah, Disasters, and Yosef's Broader Purpose

The whole world belongs to Hashem, and Klal Yisrael has a special role within His purpose. Chazal speak of the world being created for the sake of Yisrael. You can see how much attention a small land like Eretz Yisrael receives in international affairs. But don't turn this into speculation about the cause of every headline.

We recently heard about a terrible earthquake in Haiti. What should **we** take from it? Not that we know the hidden reason for another people's suffering. We should learn how fragile human security is. Anything can happen at any moment; nobody should assume that the ground under his feet can never give way.

Think of the bridge collapse in Minnesota. People were simply driving along—perhaps to a baseball game or somewhere ordinary—and the road gave way under them. A minute before, everything seemed normal. You don't need to debate the details of the news story. The point is that human life can change in an instant.

The Chofetz Chaim spoke about how a person can return from a levayah and still not be sufficiently moved to think about his own life. There are teachings about returning from a funeral by a different route; the exact halachic basis requires checking. But it is a symbol of the fact that you should not leave a levayah exactly as you came in.

Now I want to connect that to Yosef HaTzaddik. Chazal tell us that Yosef returned from Yaakov Avinu's burial and passed by the pit into which his brothers had thrown him. There he recited a berachah acknowledging the miracle Hashem had performed for him, *she'asah li nes bamakom hazeh*. The midrashic account speaks of the stop on the return journey.

Why did he make the berachah on the way back from the funeral rather than on the way there? One answer might be that while he was involved in honoring and burying his father, he was occupied with a mitzvah. But other mefarshim explain the sequence differently, even suggesting visits in both directions. We need the exact midrash and interpretations before deciding.

There is another *kashya*, discussed in the sefarim, including an explanation I associate with the Pardes Yosef. When Yosef's brothers saw him stopping at the pit, they feared he might seek revenge. But why? If a person survived a danger there, thanking Hashem for the miracle is a mitzvah! Imagine someone who escaped an attempt on his life later making *Birchas Hagomel*. Does that mean he now wants revenge on the person who threatened him? Of course not.

So why did Yosef's brothers become frightened?

Yosef had told them: *Lo atem sh'lachtem osi heinah, ki haElokim*—you were not ultimately the ones who sent me here; Hashem sent me here to preserve life. Yosef understood that the whole story was bigger than his private suffering. He had been placed in Mitzrayim to sustain his family, and through them Klal Yisrael.

If the miracle was not merely 'about me,' what did Yosef intend by returning to the pit and blessing Hashem there? And why was that visit troubling to his brothers? That is the question I want to pursue.

## Yosef at the Pit and Returning from a Levayah by Another Way

Why was Yosef's *berachah* at the pit troubling to his brothers? If he was simply thanking Hashem for a personal miracle, why would that frighten them? His usual explanation of his life was that Hashem had sent him to preserve the family. When he stood at the pit and said *she'asah li nes bamakom hazeh*, they may have heard a more personal memory of what they had done to him. That can help us understand their anxiety, although we need to check the precise *medrash* and commentaries.

Now let me tell you another explanation I found in the Pardes Yosef. The midrash says Yosef passed the pit on his way **back** from Yaakov Avinu's levayah. Why specifically on the way back? Perhaps the family travelled to the burial by one route and returned by another, and only on the return journey did they pass this place. You know, today we would say the GPS gave them an alternate route! But behind the little joke is a *minhag* and a lesson.

There is a custom to take a different route when returning from a levayah. Why? You could suggest various traditional reasons or *simanim*. But the ba'alei mussar explain it beautifully: when I come home from a levayah, *ani loke'ach derech acheres b'chayim sheli*—I am taking another road in my life.

I should not be exactly the same person who went there. I have seen that a human life comes to its end. I ought to return with a different appreciation of time and a new resolve about what matters. The physical change of route expresses a spiritual change.

The Pardes Yosef brings this idea in connection with the pasuk and Yosef's return. We should locate the exact printed wording, but the *mussar* is wonderful.

And why is that change so difficult? The Chofetz Chaim gave a sharp *mashal*. People think there is a special club of people who die, a kind of *chevra shtarbers*. They themselves are not members! They never paid membership dues, their names are not written in the register, and therefore they assume death has nothing to do with them.

A person can go to a levayah, see what happened, and return to ordinary life without taking the lesson personally. 'That belongs to somebody else,' he thinks. 'I'm not registered in that club.'

But of course nobody is outside the realities of human life. We should be moved to live differently.

There is even an old cemetery joke. Why does a beis hakvaros have a gate? Nobody there is going to run away! And someone answers: 'Because people are dying to get in.' All right, a little humor—but do not let the joke hide the point. A person should return from a levayah a changed person.

## Why Were So Many Jews Unwilling to Leave Mitzrayim?

Now, rabosai, let me tell you what I really want to speak about. The discussion of how people see suffering and are not moved is leading us here.

Chazal teach that a very large portion of Klal Yisrael did not leave Mitzrayim. One well-known midrashic reading of *vachamushim alu Bnei Yisrael* understands that only **one out of five** left. That is the basis for the statement that four-fifths did not make it out. I do not want you to read that as a modern historical census; it is a teaching of Chazal with different midrashic views.

There is also the midrash that those who did not leave died during Makkas Choshech, concealed from the Egyptians. Some details of the various versions must be checked, but here is the *kashya*: **Why wouldn't a Jew want to leave Mitzrayim?**

Think of the slavery. Generations of persecution, oppression, and murder. And now Hashem says it is time to go, and they have seen makkos that demonstrate His power. How could someone prefer to stay?

A simple answer is that **it is extraordinarily hard to change**. That is how people are built. My grandfather used to speak about this. A person may be in an awful situation, yet the very thought of getting up and leaving the place he knows is terrifying. He can know something is wrong and still be unable to make the move.

People had that difficulty in Europe when danger was approaching. Many saw terrible events around them, yet leaving home and all that was familiar was far more difficult than those looking back might imagine. It is easy for someone who was not there to say, 'Why didn't they simply leave?'

Think of the tefillah we say after Sukkos about leaving our house to go to the sukkah being considered like going far into galus. Just stepping outside the fixed home, even for a mitzvah, has the character of leaving an established place. We ask that such a departure be counted as a *zechus*. How deeply attached a person becomes to his accustomed world!

But the Torah praises Klal Yisrael: *Zacharti lach chesed ne'urayich, ahavas kelulosayich, lechtech acharai bamidbar b'eretz lo zeru'ah*. Hashem remembers the devotion of Yisrael for following Him into the wilderness.

Someone asks, 'But they had no choice. Of course they would leave a land in which they were suffering!' Not so fast. If it were so easy, why did so many, according to the midrashic teaching, remain? That is the question. You and I, looking backward, assume everyone would have packed a bag and run. But human beings do not always act that way.

My grandfather gave an important explanation. And I once added a little *vort* of my own on the word *ne'urayich*. I'll tell you about that.

## *Chesed Ne'urayich*: The Courage to Change and the Responsibility to Others

I once said to my grandfather: why does the pasuk call it *chesed ne'urayich*? *Ne'urayich* means youth. A young person can be willing to get up and make a change. He moves from here to Yerushalayim, then somewhere else; two years later you find him back again. He can be more flexible. An older person often finds it much harder to uproot himself.

Maybe the Torah praises Klal Yisrael because they acted with the courage and openness of youth. They were willing to leave familiar surroundings and follow Hashem into the unknown.

I told this to my grandfather, and he smiled. He liked the *pshat*. That was my little addition to his teaching about how hard it is for a person to leave.

But now here is his deeper answer. Suppose a person found that life in Mitzrayim had become bearable for him. Maybe he had a place to live and a routine. Maybe he no longer felt desperate to leave. Does that mean he deserves to die for wanting to stay? What terrible sin did he commit?

Some people say it was a lack of emunah. My grandfather challenged the idea that this explanation alone answers the question. It is not so simple to assume that every person who remained had no belief in Hashem. We have to look more deeply at what their unwillingness meant.

He said: **What about your brother?**

Perhaps for you it was comfortable enough. Perhaps you could tolerate life under the Egyptians. But your neighbor could not! Your brother was suffering and wanted to be free. How can you say, 'I am all right here; I don't care what happens to you'?

*Klal Yisrael* means that I am bound to another Yid. If it is unbearable for my brother, I cannot detach myself and say it has nothing to do with me. The failure was not simply unwillingness to change for one's own sake. It was a failure to feel that **my brother's suffering is my suffering**.

That is a deep *vort* from my grandfather, repeated also in my family. A Yid does not live by asking only whether he himself is comfortable. *Me to you, brother to brother.* I care about you. Your need matters to me.

Now I want to carry this into the life of Moshe Rabbeinu. When Basya opened the little basket and saw the child, the pasuk says, *V'hinei na'ar bocheh ... m'yaldai ha'Ivrim zeh.* She recognized him as a Hebrew child. How did she know?

Was it the sound of his crying? An Egyptian baby can cry too! Someone says he had a *kol na'ar*, a voice like an older child. But how does that prove he is an Ivri?

Look at the Baal HaTurim. There is an explanation that the *na'ar bocheh* was **Aharon**, Moshe's brother, who was standing nearby and crying. [This attribution and the underlying text require verification.] According to that reading, it was not merely the baby's cry that revealed something. Basya saw the sight of a brother crying over his brother. That is what identifies a child of Klal Yisrael.

And that brings us back to my grandfather's *vort*: a Jew is not indifferent when his brother suffers.

## *MiYaldei Ha'Ivrim*: The Brother Who Cries

According to this beautiful reading of the Baal HaTurim, the *na'ar bocheh* was Aharon standing by his brother Moshe's basket. Basya saw a brother crying because of the danger to his little brother, and that revealed something about Klal Yisrael.

You hear the *vort*, rabosai? If a brother can stand and cry over his brother's suffering, *siman mi'yaldei ha'Ivrim zeh*. That is how a Yid behaves. And therefore, if you could live comfortably in Mitzrayim while your brothers were suffering and feel nothing, you were missing something essential about belonging to Klal Yisrael. Take that thought with you.

Now there is another *teretz*, connected to Reb Chatzkel Levenstein and the ba'alei mussar.

A person reaches a certain place in life and becomes satisfied. 'I'm a good Jew. I daven, I learn, I keep mitzvos. What more do you want from me? I don't need to push myself further.' He becomes *mev'sut*, comfortable with his level.

According to this approach, the people who did not leave at the time of Choshech were not necessarily ignorant of Hashem. They did not want the **next step**—the journey out of Mitzrayim toward Kabbalas HaTorah. They were content to remain where they were spiritually. They stopped wanting *aliyah*.

Now look at the *Erev Rav*. The people who left with Klal Yisrael from among the Egyptians were not necessarily on a high spiritual level to begin with. Far from it! But they **wanted to go further**. They wanted to join something greater, to grow, to take a step toward Hashem.

Isn't that astonishing? Jews who had more spiritual knowledge could be left behind if they refused to grow, while people with much less could move forward because of their *ratzon*. Life is not measured only by where you are standing now; it also depends on which direction you want to go.

Someone asks: if the Erev Rav had such an important *ratzon*, why are they often blamed in later narratives when something goes wrong? An excellent question. The answer will teach us something about the difference between a person's inherited tendencies, his present level, and his desire to improve.

Let me bring you a comparison from Eliezer, the servant of Avraham Avinu.

Who was the greatest person in Avraham's house, aside from Avraham himself? Eliezer was a remarkable talmid, *doleh u'mashkeh miToraso shel rabo la'acherim*. He absorbed and transmitted Avraham's Torah. A great talmid sometimes so resembles his rebbe that people see the rebbe's *hanhagos* reflected in every movement.

And that reminds me of a fascinating teaching about Rav and his talmidim. Before returning to Eliezer, let me tell you what I mean.

## A Talmid's Imitation of His Rebbe

There is a teaching in Teshuvos HaGeonim, Sha'arei Teshuvah, about ten *middos dechasidus* that Rav practiced and that his students tried to follow. One of his practices was to be extremely disciplined about where he directed his eyes. He did not simply look from side to side out of curiosity.

Think of the pesukim about the Avos. The Torah sometimes says, *Vayisa einav vayar*—he lifted up his eyes and saw. Why mention the lifting of the eyes? For a person whose gaze is disciplined, looking toward something is an intentional act. He does not look all around him automatically.

There is also a beautiful teaching attributed to the Baal Shem Tov about Avraham Avinu. Chazal say *Gedolah hachnasas orchim yoser mikabbalas p'nei haShechinah*. Avraham was in the presence of Hashem when guests arrived. How did he know to turn toward the guests?

One answer is that Avraham knew the Torah. But the explanation attributed to the Baal Shem Tov is that Avraham's senses were so trained in *avodas Hashem* that if his eyes turned toward the guests, he understood there must be something he was meant to do. It was like the familiar idea that a tzaddik's feet carry him toward the beis medrash. His very habits were refined.

Now, a very difficult historical account is cited about students who tried to imitate Rav's discipline of sight but could not sustain it. Teshuvos HaGeonim, Sha'arei Teshuvah 178, discusses Rav Yosef and Rav Sheshes in this connection and describes them as losing their sight. The details, wording, and later interpretations must be checked with special care.

I want you to hear the question, not take this as any sort of practical instruction. **What right could a person have to injure himself in the name of imitating a rebbe?** There are serious halachic prohibitions concerning injury to oneself. This story cannot be turned into a general license or advice for anyone to harm himself.

Rav Nosson Wachtfogel, the mashgiach of Lakewood, is said to have discussed this *teshuvah* at length. One *mussar* approach draws attention to the seriousness of *shemiras einayim*. Other commentators explore the desire of a talmid to live by the *hanhagos* of his rebbe. But these explanations need careful sourcing and halachic qualification. They are not simple answers to the question of bodily harm.

So why did I bring this up? Because it shows how close a genuine talmid can come to his rebbe, to the point that he tries to reflect the rebbe's whole manner of life.

Now come back with me to Eliezer. In so many ways he looked like Avraham's own continuation. Nevertheless, there was a difference that will help answer the question about the Erev Rav.

## Eliezer, the Erev Rav, and the Measure of a Person's *Ratzon*

Eliezer was so devoted to Avraham Avinu that he was called *doleh u'mashkeh miToraso la'acherim*, drawing up his rebbe's Torah and giving it to others. *Zekan beiso*—the man who had acquired wisdom. He was a tremendous talmid.

And yet the midrashic discussion of Eliezer's wish for his own family to marry into Avraham's family contains a painful rebuff: *Arur* cannot be joined with *baruch*. Avraham reminds him of the difference between the families, connected with the curse of Canaan.

There is also a troubling midrashic account repeated in the recording about Eliezer's struggle with temptation during his mission involving Rivkah and an extreme response. I am not going to treat the disturbing details as established fact without locating the original source; nor is anything in the story a halachic model for injuring oneself. The important point in the shiur is that, however deeply Eliezer had absorbed his rebbe's ways, he still had to confront his own personal *shoresh* and challenges.

That helps answer the question about the Erev Rav. A person may be drawn toward Torah and *aliyah* but still carry old tendencies that require work. Wanting to become greater does not mean every flaw disappears at once. The Erev Rav could have a genuine desire to join Klal Yisrael and yet still face enormous spiritual difficulties.

And now I want to tell you the principle I heard many times from Rav Wolbe and from the ba'alei mussar: **A person is measured by his ratzon.** What does he truly want? Which way is he striving? His current achievements are not the whole story.

*Mah hu ha'adam?* What defines a person? His *ratzonos*. Let me explain why.

Your *ratzon* is what you contribute. The results that follow from it are given with *siyata d'shmaya*. You desire to learn, you exert yourself, you open the door; how much success you are granted afterward is a gift from Hashem.

There is a famous Gemara: *Yagata u'matzasa—ta'amin.* If you worked hard and found, believe it. The Gra asks: why put together two expressions that sound contradictory? *Yegiah* means effort, labor, struggle. *Metziah* means finding something that was not earned in the ordinary way.

You laugh at people who go along the beach with metal detectors hunting for coins, but ordinarily when someone says 'I found something,' he means it came to him as a find, not a regular wage for work!

That is the beauty of the Gemara. You do the *yegiah*. Your part is to want it and to work for it. The *metziah*, the spiritual discovery, is the gift that Hashem gives after your effort.

*Pischu li pesach k'chudo shel machat.* You open a tiny door through genuine desire and effort. The rest is from the Ribono Shel Olam.

So when we judge a person, do not ask only, 'How much has he already achieved?' Ask, 'What is his ratzon? What does he really want?' That is the person himself.

## 'Ein Davar Omed Bifnei HaRatzon'—Is That Really True?

You have to want. You have to put in the effort. The desire and the *yegiah* are yours; the result comes from the Ribono Shel Olam.

Now there is a familiar expression: *Ein davar ha'omed bifnei haratzon*—nothing can stand in the way of desire. Everyone quotes it as though it is a statement of Chazal. I have searched for it, and I don't know of a Gemara or ma'amar Chazal that says it in those words. Write that down. Don't automatically attribute every famous saying to Chazal. [An independent source audit should establish its earliest known use before publication.]

But more than that, I don't like the expression if it means that a human being's desire guarantees a particular result. That isn't emunah! A person can want something more than anything else in the world, and Hashem may decide that it should not happen. Wanting to win the lottery does not ensure that you will win. Wanting to marry a particular person does not mean you can make it happen.

Our *ratzon* is not a replacement for the ratzon Hashem. It is our **part** in the process. The results remain in His hands. If Hashem sees fit to give the person what he desires, he receives it; if not, the person must accept that the result was not his to command.

The statement *Yagata u'matzasa* is entirely different. You do the work; Hashem grants the *metziah*. So do not turn *ratzon* into the philosophy that human determination can conquer anything independently of Hashem.

Someone asks me to say it again in Hebrew. Fine. *Ein davar ha'omed bifnei haratzon* can sound as if the person's desire itself produces everything. I object to that. *Yihyeh lecha ratzon, Hashem ya'azor lecha.* You must want, and the Ribono Shel Olam will decide how to help. That is the point.

I want to tell you a beautiful story I read on Shabbos about Rav Shach. He was learning with a chavrusa in Slutsk. There was a discussion between the bachurim about the special power of learning many uninterrupted hours, *sha'os retzufos*, and the sort of request one might then make from Hashem.

One bachur said he would ask for parnassah. The other said, 'I want to become a gadol b'Yisrael.' According to the story, Rav Shach later reflected that he had received the kind of spiritual achievement for which he had yearned.

Don't misunderstand the story as a guarantee that the other person's prayer was ineffective, or that every wish a bachur expresses must come true. The lesson is **what a person wants to become**.

Your aspirations matter. What are you hoping to accomplish? Do you want only something that will make life comfortable, or do you want to grow into a greater *oved Hashem*? The desire itself points you in a direction.

I want to finish the thought with something that happened to me personally. It gave the Gra's explanation of *Yagata u'matzasa* a very special meaning in my life.

[EDITORIAL GAP: source chunk 16 could not be saved; original transcription preserved. Requires rewrite.]

## How Does a Person Learn to Want Torah?

If a person is born with particular *ratzonos*, who gave him those tendencies? The Ribono Shel Olam. So where is his personal bechirah? I ask you again: what does it mean to say a person's *ratzon* is his true identity?

I once asked Rav Chaim Kanievsky about this in very practical terms. How does a maggid shiur give his talmidim *cheshek* to learn? How does a father make his child want Torah? You can tell him to study, encourage him, make learning attractive. But how do you create desire itself?

Rav Chaim answered: **Tell them to learn.**

I asked him, 'That's the answer? I want to know how to make them want to learn!' And the point was that the **learning itself** brings *cheshek*. *Hal limud atzmo yavi cheshek*. When a bachur learns, he can begin to taste the enjoyment of Torah, and then he wants more.

I repeated the idea in Yiddish: learning with *cheshek* brings *cheshek* for learning. Rav Chaim smiled. It was an unusually memorable moment, and I told him I thought I had a proof for his words.

The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh has a beautiful expression in Devarim: *Mi sheto'em ta'am ne'imus haTorah*—one who has tasted the delightful sweetness of Torah pursues it with remarkable eagerness. Once you experience the taste, you want to experience it again.

Find me the Ohr HaChaim inside. I want everyone to hear the exact language. It is worth remembering.

Think about how a strong habit develops. A person does something for the first time and may feel little interest. But repeated experience can cultivate a real desire for it. I am using that as a *mashal* for building a good appetite for Torah: you don't always feel the *cheshek* **before** you start. Sometimes you must start, and the *cheshek* follows.

One of the talmidim says something that captures the point, and I am so pleased that I tell him how much I love what he said. I want you to understand it deeply, not merely nod along.

Learning generates appreciation, and appreciation generates further learning. That may explain why two people can start at different levels of desire and yet one can develop into a great *masmid*.

But I still have one more *kashya*. Why does one person taste Torah and immediately love it, while another can study and feel so little? What is it in the person that responds to sweetness? I want to take that question further.

Imagine tasting ice cream. You know what sweetness is when you taste it...

## Learning Desire Through Repetition—and Learning from Creation

Suppose you taste ice cream. It's sweet. Does that mean everyone who has ever tasted ice cream becomes consumed by the desire to eat it? Of course not.

When the Ohr HaChaim speaks about tasting the sweetness of Torah and then running after it with tremendous enthusiasm, he is describing a taste that becomes deeply rooted in the person. The enjoyment develops. One experience leads to another until the desire becomes very strong.

I use the example of habits and attachment. A person can acquire powerful habits for good or, unfortunately, for bad. The first experience may mean little. But repeated experience changes what the person wants. In Torah, the more a person learns with attention and effort, the more he can begin to appreciate its sweetness.

The Chofetz Chaim used to teach that many things created or invented in the world can serve as *meshalim* for *avodas Hashem*. Consider a recording device. You speak now, and afterward your voice can be heard again. A person may think words disappear the moment they are spoken, but technology helps him imagine how deeds and speech might be remembered and brought before the heavenly court.

Or consider the ability to see detailed images of places far away from us. Maps and satellite photography show areas a person cannot physically visit at that moment. If human beings can develop astonishing ways to observe the world, should it seem impossible that Hashem knows what happens everywhere?

Now there is a very lively debate with the talmidim about what satellites can actually see. I talk about satellites, Google Earth, and government surveillance systems. Someone asks whether they can see through roofs or clouds; I say yes, while others challenge me. Let us be clear that this is **an illustration**, not a reliable technical description. Ordinary optical satellite images do not look through solid roofs into rooms, and some claims in this exchange are exaggerated or incorrect.

But the *mussar* point I am trying to make does not depend on technical claims about satellites. A person who lives with emunah recognizes that the Ribono Shel Olam knows what he does even when no human being is watching.

Now I want to come back to habits. What can we learn from how a person develops a powerful attraction to something? Perhaps Hashem is showing us how the very same capacity for habit and desire can be directed toward Torah and good actions.

Don't worry, I know the *olam* wants to discuss the satellites more! Someone says the technology doesn't work that way. All right, I may have misunderstood what you were objecting to. The important question for our shiur is not the technology. It is how the powers of human desire can be developed and used in *avodas Hashem*.

## Turning the Powers of Desire Toward Torah

All right, you are correcting me about the satellites. Maybe I misunderstood which capabilities you meant. Fine. I am not giving a science class here. The *nekudah* is that everything we encounter in life can become a reminder that the Ribono Shel Olam governs the world.

The Chofetz Chaim's *mahalach* is that the natural powers Hashem placed in us can be directed toward good. A person can develop strong habits and attachments that are destructive. But he can also develop a tremendous passion for Torah.

*Barasi yetzer hara, barasi Torah tavlin.* I created the yetzer hara, and I created Torah as its antidote. The human capacity for longing, persistence, and repeated action can become a tool of *avodas Hashem*. We should not waste that power.

Even middos that are dangerous when used wrongly can have a proper direction. A person may have a strong instinct of anger; it must be controlled and used only where halachah truly permits moral indignation. A person may feel *ga'avah*; the pasuk speaks of someone whose heart was elevated *b'darchei Hashem*. The point is not to excuse bad middos but to understand that our strength can be disciplined toward good.

There is an old Chassidishe *vort*: even a mind inclined to unusual or crooked reasoning can be redirected toward being *dan l'kaf zechus*. Instead of inventing excuses for himself, perhaps he can exercise imagination in finding a generous explanation for his fellow Jew's conduct!

Everything in the person can be worked with.

So now we can answer a piece of the question about *ratzon*. You **develop** your desire through what you do. Not every inclination is fixed at birth. Some are natural needs; others are acquired and strengthened through repetition.

For example, I keep bringing more sefarim into the house. My wife wonders how I can keep buying so many! I tell her, 'What can I do? I have a tremendous attachment to learning and sefarim!' The more I learn, the more I want to learn.

Someone asks whether a person who wants to be the greatest *gadol* is guaranteed to become one. No. We are not discussing a guarantee of status or honor. If his real desire is *ga'avah*, that is not the same as wanting Torah. The healthy *ratzon* is to **learn**, to grow, to come closer to Hashem. If he learns, his love of learning can deepen.

Material desires are not all identical. Some are ordinary needs. Other attachments—to possessions, status, wealth or other things—develop as a person repeatedly gives them importance. You are not necessarily born with every particular desire. Some *yetzer haras* are already present; others you help create by the way you live.

Now let's return to Paro. His case will help us understand what happens when the personal power of *ratzon* is taken away.

[EDITORIAL GAP: source chunk 20 could not be saved; original transcription preserved. Requires rewrite.]

## The Makkos and the Power to Choose

There is still a great question about *bechirah*. Do animals possess anything that can be called choice? Chazal draw a *kal vachomer* from the frogs that entered the ovens in Mitzrayim. Chananyah, Mishael and Azaryah learned from them about giving oneself over for Kiddush Hashem. But how do we understand that when speaking of a *ba'al chai*?

The makkos repeatedly overturned the ordinary patterns of nature. Wild animals naturally avoid human settlements when they are afraid, yet during *Makkas Arov* animals entered the homes and places of the Egyptians. Frogs behaved in extraordinary ways, even entering ovens. Every part of the makkos revealed the rule of Hashem over what we consider fixed laws of nature.

I am suggesting another part of that lesson. The animals are shown, in the *mashal*, acting in accordance with the ratzon Hashem, against their ordinary instincts. And Paro, a human being created with moral *bechirah*, had reached a state where his opportunity to choose teshuvah was removed.

You hear the contrast? A frog can enter an oven in the fulfillment of its role in Hashem's plan, while Paro—the powerful melech—could not turn himself toward the ratzon Hashem. There is a deep lesson in this. I am using *bechirah* somewhat expansively in talking about animals; that is not identical to the halachic and philosophical question of whether animals possess human free will.

Why did Paro reach that point? **Because of his earlier choices.** He refused to respond when he still had the opportunity. He resisted and resisted until the chance was taken away. That is how I am reading the Rambam's teaching.

And what about us? For an ordinary person, the *ratzon* is something he has to cultivate. The more he chooses to do what is right, the more he can strengthen his desire for the right. The more he neglects it, the more the desire can fade.

That is the lesson I wanted to bring you, rabosai. A person's spiritual identity depends on what he is working to want. **You create your ratzon, and you can weaken it.** When your ratzon is for Torah, begin learning and let the taste of Torah deepen that desire. When your ratzon is to remain in the same place, you risk becoming spiritually stationary.

Paro showed what could happen at the far extreme: he refused to choose until the power of choice itself was taken away. We must learn from that and choose growth while the door is open.

I didn't realize how long I spoke today. These are deep *inyanim*. There is still more to say, but let us stop here.

[After the shiur there is a short exchange with the talmidim. Several remarks are indistinct, including a discussion of two explanations brought by Rashi; the relevant passage is not identifiable from this fragment.]

## After the Shiur: Remaining Questions About Bechirah

A few talmidim are still discussing the idea. There is a midrashic tradition that Paro received a prolonged life in recognition of the Kiddush Hashem that came through the events in Mitzrayim. Someone asks how that can be understood if the man was acting under compulsion rather than through full personal choice. I say that this is one of the matters that requires careful study inside the sources.

A talmid returns to the frogs and Chananyah, Mishael and Azaryah. The point he noticed is excellent, and I tell him so. The frogs entering the ovens illustrate a willingness to act contrary to instinct in order to fulfill the Divine purpose, in contrast to Paro's refusal to respond when he still had the opportunity.

'That is a great *ra'ayah* for the *nekudah* I was saying,' I tell him. 'You have to create your *ratzon*. You can strengthen it or weaken it. That is the lesson for life.'

The conversation then moves to an unrelated Gemara about the coming of Ben Dovid and the *neshamos shebaguf*. Someone asks how the expression *ad sheyichlu kol haneshamos shebaguf* should be understood. I recall different approaches among the Rishonim, but I do not settle the question here; the audible remarks are broken.

[The end of this after-class recording includes disturbing, poorly transcribed accounts of violence in the aftermath of a contemporary disaster and sweeping claims about the ancestry or character of entire groups. These statements and attributions cannot be verified from this recording and should not be published as factual descriptions or generalized about any people. They are retained in the untouched original transcription for careful editorial review.]

## After-Class Discussion: The Meaning of Amalek

The conversation continues after the main shiur, and much of it is fragmentary. A question is raised about whether certain identities or patterns described in Torah are understood strictly as lines of physical descent or also, according to some later interpretations, as ideological and spiritual characteristics.

For example, when we speak of Amalek, does the discussion concern only the descendants of the historical people, or can writers also use 'Amalek' to describe a pattern of ideas and behavior? I recall discussions associated with Rav Soloveitchik that distinguish these matters. I do not claim to have checked the exact texts here, and I do not want to use a serious halachic designation carelessly.

Some listeners ask how that relates to the midrashic discussions of Cham and other genealogical passages. The responses are overlapping and difficult to follow; no reliable halachic conclusion emerges.

There are then several unrelated practical conversations, a request to find a sefer, a question about a teaching concerning Moshe Rabbeinu, and remarks involving someone's family. The source words are incomplete. I tell the talmidim to look up the original text rather than building an explanation out of uncertain fragments.

## Final Fragment

As the conversation winds down, someone mentions accounts describing Moshe Rabbeinu's unusual strength, bearing and role as a leader. The statements about chronology and his family in this fragment are too broken to identify or verify responsibly.

A talmid returns to the main question: earlier we said that a person's tendencies ultimately come from Hashem, but now we are saying that the person cultivates his own *ratzon*. How exactly are those statements reconciled? It is a good question, one that was central to the *mahalach*, and the surviving words do not provide a new clear answer here.

Then somebody notices that the recording is still running. 'How do we close this? Press the stop button.'