Words That Build, Not Break

Morris had passed away. His attorney gathered the family to read his last will.

"To my beloved wife Esther, I leave our home, 150 acres of land, and one million dollars.

To my son Barry, I leave my Lexus and my new Jaguar.

To my daughter Shirley, I leave my yacht and $250,000.

And to my brother-in-law Aaron, who always insisted that health is better than wealth... I leave my treadmill."

The opening verse in Torah portion Devarim is a highlight reel of the Jewish people's darkest moments, the times they doubted G-d, complained against Him, and betrayed His trust.

Yet notice how Moses delivers his rebuke. Instead of listing their sins explicitly, he simply mentions a series of place names:

"In the wilderness... in the Aravah... opposite Suph... between Paran and Tophel... Lavan... Hazeroth... and Di-Zahav."

Why? Rashi answers:

"Since these are words of rebuke, Moses mentioned the places where Israel angered G-d only by hint, out of respect for the Jewish people."

Out of profound love and respect, Moses concealed his criticism. Rather than embarrass the nation, he wrapped his rebuke in gentle allusions.

But this raises an obvious question.

If someone needs correction, why speak in riddles?

If your child bit another child at school, would you simply say, "Mrs. Cohen's classroom," and hope she understood?

If your teenager came home far too late, would you say, "Josh's house," and expect him to get the message?

Of course not.

If correction is necessary, speak clearly.

And if you don't want to criticize, then remain silent.

So why did Moses choose vague hints instead of direct words?

There is another question.

Why wait until the final month of his life?

Many of these events had occurred forty years earlier.

Why not address them when they happened?

Rashi answers that Moses learned this from Jacob.

Jacob, too, waited until his final moments before offering words of rebuke.

On his deathbed, Jacob gathered his twelve sons to bless them.

Most received blessings. Reuven received something else.

Nearly sixty years earlier, after Rachel's passing, Reuven interfered with Jacob's household arrangements by moving his father's bed from Bilhah's tent to Leah's.

The Torah records only four words: "And Israel heard." Jacob knew.

Yet he said nothing. Not that day. Not that year. Not for nearly sixty years.

Only on his deathbed did Jacob finally say:

"Reuven, you are my firstborn... but because you acted impulsively, you forfeited the privileges of the firstborn."

Why wait so long? Rashi explains Jacob's reasoning. Jacob told Reuven:

"I did not rebuke you earlier because I feared you would leave me and attach yourself to my brother Esau."

That is astonishing. Would a justified rebuke really drive Reuven away from his father and toward Esau?

And if so, why rebuke him now? Esau was still alive!

The answer is one of the Torah's deepest lessons.

Every one of us wants to grow. We know our weaknesses. We know our failures.

The problem is that when someone points them out, we often don't hear loving guidance.

We hear rejection. We hear: "You're not good enough." "You disappointed me again."

"You'll never change."

And so we become defensive.

But when criticism comes from someone whose love is unquestionable, everything changes.

Instead of hearing rejection, we hear faith.

Instead of hearing condemnation, we hear confidence.

"I know who you are." "I believe in you."

"You can become even greater." That is why Jacob waited.

Only after a lifetime of unconditional love could Reuven hear criticism without mistaking it for rejection.

The same is true of Moses. After forty years of carrying, protecting, defending, and loving the Jewish people, they knew that every word he spoke came from love.

His rebuke was not meant to push them away. It was meant to lift them higher.

A coach whose players know he genuinely cares about them can challenge them to greatness.

But if they believe he is only angry or disappointed, they shut down.

The same is true of parents, spouses, friends, and leaders.

Criticism given without love wounds.

Criticism rooted in love transforms.

Rabbi Sholom Ber Gordon began serving as the rabbi of an Orthodox synagogue in Newark in 1949.

At the time, Newark had a large Jewish population, but Jewish observance was weak.

Few people kept Shabbat, ate kosher, or sent their children to Jewish day schools.

The young rabbi did what he believed a rabbi should do. Week after week, he urged his congregation to stop driving on Shabbat, keep kosher, and provide their children with a Jewish education.

After several weeks, the synagogue president visited him.

"Rabbi," he said, "this is America. If you keep criticizing the congregation, you'll soon be looking for another job. Tell them they're good Jews. Compliment them, not criticize them."

Rabbi Gordon was torn. If he spoke honestly, he might lose his position. If he remained silent, he would fail in his responsibility as a rabbi.

As a devoted chassid, he traveled to seek the advice of the Previous Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, who was then seriously ill.

After listening carefully, the Rebbe looked at him and asked,

"Have you ever been in a shvitz, a sauna?"

"Yes," Rabbi Gordon replied. "What happens there?"

Rabbi Gordon explained that people sit in the intense heat, moving from one bench to another, each hotter than the last.

The Rebbe then asked, "At the highest bench, is there an attendant?"

"Yes," Rabbi Gordon answered. "When people are burning from the heat, the attendant strikes their backs with a rough broom."

"And what do they say?" "They ask him to hit them again." The Rebbe smiled.

"Now imagine that same attendant walked out into the street and struck someone with that broom. What would happen?"

Rabbi Gordon was silent. "The man would call the police, or hit him back."

"But after warming a person, raising him higher and higher, filling him with heat, then even when he is struck, he asks for more."

Then the Rebbe delivered the lesson that Rabbi Gordon never forgot.

"Don't begin by criticizing your congregation. First turn your synagogue into a shvitz. Fill it with warmth, inspiration, Torah, and love. Lift people higher and higher until their souls are on fire.

Then, when you challenge them to grow, they won't resent your words; they'll ask for more."

Rabbi Gordon later said that this one conversation gave him all the guidance he ever needed for the rest of his rabbinate.

This coming Wednesday night we begin Tisha B'Av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar.

For nearly two thousand years, this day has silently rebuked us. It reminds us of the destruction of both Holy Temples in Jerusalem, the First in 423 BCE and the Second in 69 CE, which, as we say in the Musaf prayers, were destroyed "because of our sins."

Our Sages teach that the Second Temple was destroyed because of baseless hatred between Jews.

Yet as we begin the Book of Devarim, we discover something remarkable.

Moses opens with words of rebuke, but he delivers them with profound love.

As Rashi explains, "Out of respect for Israel, he only hinted at their sins."

The rebuke was never meant to shame. It was meant to elevate.

The Rebbe explained that in Judaism, genuine rebuke is always wrapped in love. Its purpose is never to push a Jew away, but to help him discover the greatness that already exists within him.

On Thursday, as we sit on the floor and read Megillas Eichah, we will chant its heartbreaking opening words:

"How lonely sits the city that was once so full of people."

Jerusalem mourns.

The Jewish people mourn.

But the Rebbe pointed out something extraordinary.

The word "badad" alone does not only describe loneliness.

It also reminds us of Bilaam's prophetic blessing:

"Behold, it is a nation that dwells alone and is not reckoned among the nations."

The very word that describes our exile also describes our greatness.

We are "alone" because we are unique.

We are a people entrusted with a Divine mission, living by eternal values, dedicated to bringing G-dliness into the world.

Even in the opening verse of the saddest book in Tanach, G-d reminds us of our dignity.

As the Midrash says:

"Why are Israel compared to an olive? Just as oil never blends with other liquids but always rises above them, so too the Jewish people remain distinct among the nations." (Shemos Rabbah 36:1)

That is the message of Tisha B'Av.

Even in destruction, G-d's love never leaves us.

Even in rebuke, His faith in us never wavers.

And because we remain bound to Him, inseparable through every exile and every challenge, may we very soon witness the full revelation of Kavod Yisrael, the honor of the Jewish people, with the rebuilding of the Third and everlasting Beis HaMikdash, speedily in our days.

Shabbat Shalom, and may we only share good news,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky