01 Jun EVERY TIME, THE FIRST TIME

We all have memories of firsts. For a
child, it may be something as simple as
opening a brand-new box of Crayolas.
The wow of seeing the crayons seamlessly
lined up, with their pointy heads just
begging to be used. For an older child, it
could be starting off the first day of school
with the perfect new shoes or sneakers.
We get older. Our firsts change. How
happy we are the first time we put on an
amazing outfit, purchased for a special
occasion. Or, the thrill of getting behind
the wheel of a new car, taking in a whiff
of that distinct fresh-car scent.
But the spark of newness and novelty
doesn’t last. The crayons get worn down,
eventually breaking. The footgear gets
scuffed and used-looking. That special
dress, worn at first with excitement,
becomes same-old, same-old. And, that
fresh-car scent slowly fades away. With
time, the firsts just don’t feel the same.

It’s no longer so special.
Not so with Aaron and the lighting of the
Menorah. In this week’s parsha,
Beha’aloscha, Aaron HaKohein is given
the mitzva of lighting the Menorah. The
Torah tells us, “Va’ya’as kein Aaron, And
Aaron did so.” (Bamidbar 8:3) Rashi
quotes from a Sifri, “To declare the praise
of Aaron – shelo shina, that he did not
deviate.” Aaron did not make any
changes. He did precisely what was
instructed.
Why does the Torah need to tell us that
Aaron lit the Menorah in the exact way
that he was instructed? Would we expect
otherwise? After all, Aron was the Kohein
Gadol, and lighting the Menorah was a
commandment from HaShem.
Both the Kotzker Rebbe and the Vilna
Gaon explain that Rashi is alluding not to
the physical lighting of the Menorah, but
to the spirit, the heartfelt anticipation and
excitement Aaron felt each and every
time.

For 39 years, day-after-day, week-after-
week, month-after-
month, year-after-year.

It didn’t matter. He
never tired of the
mitzva. It never became
stale in his eyes.
To Aaron, each time was
the first time. It was
always with the same
devotion and dedication.
With the same energy
and enthusiasm. Aaron
never got burnt out from
completing his tafkid,
his task, but looked
forward to fulfilling his
special mitzva with hisla’a’vus, with
much anticipation and love.
I recently heard a beautiful vort from
Rabbi Simon Jacobson, illustrating how
one should properly look at the beauty of
keeping mitzvos. He was asked if Judaism
is meant to be easy or hard. He answered
with a chuckle and shared a story. A story
of someone who was given a sack filled
with 100 pounds of stones and told that
they would be his to keep if he carried
it across the road. Most people would
say, who needs 100 pounds of stones,
and reject the offer. But, what if it was
a sack filled with 100 pounds of
precious stones – diamonds. Most
people would not hesitate, and would
say, I’ll even take 200 pounds across
the street. No matter how heavy it is,
you shlep it. Somehow you find the
energy, the strength. Because even
though it’s the same weight as the 100
pounds of stones, when you recognize
and appreciate the value, it makes it
worth the effort. So, it is with
Yiddishkeit. Yes, there are regulations
and it demands commitment. If you
see it as stones, it’s a burden. But, if
you see Torah and mitzvos as diamonds,
it’s very light. It’s worth the effort.
A life lesson for us. To study Torah and
perform mitzvos with passion and
excitement. To look at each day as a
first. For Aaron, each time he lit the
Menorah, he did not view it as a burden,
as a repetitive rote function. To Aaron,
mitzvos were never stones, they were
always diamonds. Aaron’s actions
teach us that every time we review the
weekly parsha, every time we say
Modeh Ani upon awakening, and
Shema before going to sleep, we should
say the words with kavanna, with

sincerity and concentration. Each word,
not a stone, but a diamond. As it says in
the words of the Shema, “Asher Anochi
mi’tzavcha hayom, That I command you
today.” (Devarim 6:6). Rashi comments
that the mitzvos should not grow old in
our eyes, but they should be
“k’cha’dasha”. Always new, always
fresh, always special.
It all sounds wonderful, but is it doable?
How do we become an Aaron in spirit?
Perhaps, the answer lies within the very
flames Aaron kindled. The Hebrew word
for fire is “aish”, spelled aleph, shin.
Aleph for ahava, love. Shin for simcha,
joy. If we look at a Torah life with aish,
ahava and simcha, our inner flame will
not be extinguished. But, our spiritual
passion for Torah will only grow.
When my mother, The Rebbetzin, began
HINENI almost 60 years ago, she chose a
flame from which the word HINENI
emerged as the insignia for the
organization. A flame. Fire. The fire
within the soul. My mother would often
speak about the pintele yid, the little
spark within every Jewish neshama. A
spark that is waiting to become a flame. A
spark that she fanned by teaching Torah
to the masses with ahava and simcha.
And, the spark ignited, bursting forth into
a raging fire, touching thousands upon
thousands of neshamos, bringing so many
back to their roots. As my mother would
say, “If you will it, a giant flame will
come forth, a flame that will proclaim,
HINENI, Here Am I, Here Am I, my
G-d.”
Torah and mitzvos are not stones to be
carried but diamonds to be cherished.
When we approach them with ahava and
simcha, the flame within our neshama
burns brighter, and every mitzva becomes
new once again.