Acharey Mot – When You Come to a Fork in the Road, Take It (in memory of יונה בצלאל בריף ז״ל)

The title of this D’var Torah comes from the fertile mind of Yogi Berra, who is credited with many such amusing and confusing one-liners, such as:

• “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
• “It’s deja vu all over again.”
• “Baseball is 90% mental. The other half is physical.”
• “Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.”
• “The future ain’t what it used to be.”

This one, however, is different.  It was not another silly, off handed ‘Yogiism’.  You see, Yogi Berra was giving directions to his house in Montclair, New Jersey.  The road – like many in New Jersey – split into a loop.  Either direction would therefore eventually lead to his home. “Whichever ‘fork’ you take,” Yogi assured his guest, “will bring you to my home.”

Parshat Acharei Mot contains a familiar formula:

וַיְדַבֵּר יה אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר: דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְאָמַרְתָּ אֲלֵהֶם: אֲנִי ה׳ אֱלֹקיכֶם

Speak to the Children of Israel, and say to them, ‘I am Hashem your God’.

This introductory declaration is not just formal or rhetorical.  It demands attention, especially when we realize that אֲנִי ה׳ אֱלֹקיכֶם not only begins the quote but is repeated verbatim it a few verses later.  In this way, God’s self-introduction frames what follows as a message of ultimate authority, coming not just through Moshe, but from ה׳ אֱלֹקינו Himself.

And what follows is monumental.  Many modern, practical and significant halachic precepts flow from these words.  But today, I am avoiding the commentaries that I so often rely upon when examining Biblical texts.  Today, I only want to look at the poetry of God’s words:

כְּמַעֲשֵׂה אֶרֶץ־מִצְרַיִם אֲשֶׁר יְשַׁבְתֶּם־בָּהּ לֹא תַעֲשׂו
וּכְמַעֲשֵׂה אֶרֶץ־כְּנַעַן אֲשֶׁר אֲנִי מֵבִיא אֶתְכֶם שָׁמָּה לֹא תַעֲשׂו
וּבְחֻקֹּתֵיהֶם לֹא תֵלֵכו
אֶת־מִשְׁפָּטַ֧י תַּעֲשׂ֛וּ וְאֶת־חֻקֹּתַ֥י תִּשְׁמְר֖וּ לָלֶ֣כֶת בָּהֶ֑ם אֲנִ֖י יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶֽם׃

You shall not do as they do in the land of Egypt, where you lived.
And you shall not do as they do in the land of Canaan, where I am bringing you.
You shall not walk in their statutes.
You shall do my ordinances, and you shall keep my statutes, and walk in them.
I am Hashem your God.

Notice how God points us both backward and forward.  Backward, to Egypt, to the land אֲשֶׁר יְשַׁבְתֶּם בָּה, a land our ancestors knew all too well.  Egypt may have been the land where our people suffered, assimilated and were degraded, but it also held a powerful, magnetic sway over them.  As is so often the case throughout world history, the people at the bottom of the rung of Egyptian society looked longingly at Egyptian society, seeing it as highbrow and ‘cultured’ rather than as ugly for permitted such great depravity.

And the verses point forward to Canaan, אֲשֶׁר אֲנִי מֵבִיא אֶתְכֶם שָׁמָּה, a land known to Bnai Yisrael only in their dreams and distant folklore.  It is beautiful land, to be sure, flowing with milk and honey.  But it, too, was also filled with moral hazards and landmines.  It is a land of fortified cities filled with “giants”, which means (for me today) decadence, immorality and wickedness.

The Torah thus warns: don’t walk the path of either Egypt or Canaan.  Embrace neither the known culture trappings of Egypt, or the unknown, exotic strangeness of Canaan. God warns us not merely against depravity but against cultural seduction—the kind that makes exile look attractive and home feel foreign.  Do not idealize their customs and traditions.  Instead, God commands, follow My statutes. Walk – בָּהֶם – in My ways.

That verb, לָלֶכֶת, appears twice in this short section. First, in the negative: וּבְחֻקֹּתֵיהֶם לֹא תֵלֵכו – do not walk in their decrees.  And again, as a positive charge: וְאֶת־חֻקּתַי תִּשְׁמְרוּ לָלֶכֶת בָּהֶם – observe My laws and walk in them.  Stay on the right path; avoid walking on the road to perdition.

Yona B’Tzalel Brif z”l, whose bar mitzvah – a decade ago – was celebrated on parshat Acharei Mot, certainly learned these verses as a boy.  He memorized them, chanted them, and studied them. At thirteen, he certainly understood the meaning of these words.  But in the days before he could even shave, Yona could not possibly have known the fullness of their moral weight, their relevance, their power.  Their poetic irony.

A decade later, during this ongoing war, a war that is nothing short of existential, Yona B’Tzalel came to embody these words.  Yona came to the (proverbial) fork in the road.

And he took it.

First he lost his legs.  Yet while Yona could no longer walk, he refused to lose his footing on derech Hashem. The path of mitzvot and Torah – לָלֶכֶת בָּהֶם – was one he walked with strength, even when walking itself became impossible.  His moral movement forward was unbroken.  His courage, his commitment, his deep sense of peoplehood and purpose, never wavered.

Yona’s journey in life came to an end as a result of his injuries.  His sacrifice remind us that kedusha, holiness, is not abstract. It is lived.  It is chosen. It is defended. It is sometimes paid for with arms.  It is sometimes paid for with legs or eyes.  And it sometimes comes at the highest cost.

The Torah commands us not to imitate the depraved cultures around us.  But this negative command is only half the story. The real task is to walk in His ways, to bring God into this world through action. Through justice. Through sacrifice. Through love of Klal Yisrael.

Yona did that. And in doing so, he sanctified God’s name—not with speeches or slogans, but with his legs.  And then with his life.

Let us remember Yona with resolve. Resolve to walk our own path בָּהֶם, in God’s laws. Let us continue the journey that Yona, and many others, can no longer finish.  And let us ensure that the ideals he gave his life for – Am Yisrael, Eretz Yisrael, and Torat Yisrael – continue to live.

Yona’s story echoes that of others who gave everything. One such example from an earlier generation.  Eldad Kravek, age 21, died in the Six Day War.  In his memory, Rachel Shapira inked a poem she entitled “Eldad”.  Later, her poetry was put to music.

Israel, of course, won the Six-Day War.  Still, Shapira’s haunting song captured the nation’s grief over its casualties:

 Parshat Acharei Mot begins with a Divine charge to Aharon HaKohen, who was grieving the untimely loss of two sons, young men on the cusp of adulthood, boys who were full of life one moment, and then snuffed out and gone.  The charge by God to Aharon: continue to live.

We, too, stand at a fork in the road.  May we have the courage and clarity to take it with faith and purpose.  “Yogi Berra once quipped, ‘If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be.’ It was meant as humor—but in a world of loss and sacrifice, we see its truth. This world is not perfect. But we honor those who, like Yona, gave everything to make it holier.

”יהי זכרו ברוך.  May Yona’s memory be for a blessing, and a call to action.

Shabbat Shalom!