Chazal famously derive a deeper, homiletic l miskayeim esson from this pasuk. The Gemorah (Berachos 63b), states: Ein divrei Torah ela b’mi she’meimis atzmo aleha, “The words of Torah are upheld only by one who ‘kills’ himself over it.” This metaphor refers to the self-sacrifice one must be willing to expend for the sake of Torah study. Meimis atzmo aleha means dedication, diligence, abnegating comforts and worldly pleasures, all for the purpose of Torah study, its understanding and internalization. True growth requires a form of self-sacrifice, whereby one “kills” his personal desires in pursuit of spiritual achievement.
Famous Torah scholars have studied diligently in order to achieve their goals. For some, their only goal is to study Torah – nothing else. Not long ago, this was a way of life in which both father and mother participated, devoting themselves towards realizing their goals for their children. When children are raised in a home in which Torah reigns supreme, when priority one in life is to achieve the crown of Torah – then parents have a fighting chance to see their dreams and aspirations realized. I underscore “fighting chance,” because nothing is for certain. So much can happen during the course of the journey. The finest home; the most perfect child, has no guarantees – because we have none. All we can do is hope and pray.
The following story emphasizes the overriding importance of Torah study and how one slight error in judgment can have a negative impact. It also demonstrates the quality of an elderly bubba, grandmother, and her love for Torah.
Savta Elka was an institution in Yerushalayim. Her love for Torah was boundless. On the first day of Selichos, Horav Eliezer Don Ralbag, zl (Rosh Yeshivas Eitz Chaim, niftar 1895), was walking to shul. When he passed by Savta Elka’s window, he heard her weeping copiously. He did not stand on ceremony, so immediately investigated the cause of the emotion. He discovered that one of her many grandsons had returned from cheder with a less-than-acceptable grade in Gemorah. This means that he did not receive his usual metzuyan, aleph plus.
“What happened to my precious grandchild?” she wailed. “He has always been an excellent student, diligent, loved learning, totally absorbed in Torah – and now this! Something must be wrong!” The Rosh Yeshivah was unable to reply to calm her down. Every year, he took upon himself a forty-day taanis dibbur. He did not speak from Rosh Chodesh Elul until after Yom Kippur. He wrote on a piece of paper that he would soon look into the matter.
Immediately following Maariv on Motzoei Yom Kippur, he visited one of the bochanim, examiners, who had tested the students. Seven scholars served in this capacity, and he visited each one until he located the bochein who examined Savta Elka’s grandson. The bochein added that he, too, was surprised. This boy had been an excellent student throughout his years in the yeshivah. Something had happened after Pesach that created a change in his learning. While he was still able to rattle off the Gemorah by heart without missing a beat, something was lacking in his havanah, understanding of the material.
Rav Ralbag’s next step was the boy’s home where he met with the father of the eleven-year-old boy. After receiving permission to speak with his son, he asked the boy point blank, “Why has your grade gone down this last semester?” The boy’s response should give the reader an idea what type of child this was and the level of Torah studies in the end of the nineteenth century Yerushalayim. “In the past, I would pray hard and long that I do well in my learning. Hashem always listened, and I did well. This time, for some reason, my tefillos were not accepted.”
The Rosh Yeshivah asked about his daily schedule. Had anything changed that might have affected his learning? He replied that, when he came home, he would usually play with friends. Recently, a new boy had moved into the neighborhood. His father had offered him some grapes, which he ate. He discovered later that the grapes had come from his uncle’s vineyard in Petach Tikvah. Apparently, he had forgotten to tithe/take maaser from them.”
“In other words,” said the Rosh Yeshivah, “you ate tevel, untithed fruit.” When he said this, the boy and his parents burst out in tears. It took the Rosh Yeshivah some time to calm them down. He said, “Baruch Hashem, on Motzoei Yom Kippur I was able to investigate and find the source of your inability to learn as you once did. Your teshuvah, penance, will be that you accept upon yourself to go to all the produce merchants and remind/encourage them to tithe their products.”
Rav Ralbag returned to Savta Elka’s home and relayed the entire story to her. He reaction is classic. “Oy vei, oy! A small cluster of grapes, a moment of pleasure, cost him a semester of learning!”
My postscript to the story. What is in a moment? Does it make such a difference? Clearly, it does. The Megaleh Amukos teaches that the roshei teivos, first letters, of the words, Reishis goyim Amalek, reish, gimmel, aleph (Amalek is the first of the nations, our primary archenemy) spells rega – a moment. This is what Amalek does to us. He convinces us to take off one rega/moment. He (the yetzer hora/Amalek) is cunning. He rarely demands that we abandon our learning or mitzvah observance outright. Instead, he whispers, “Just give me a minute.” A brief pause, a small distraction, a fleeting indulgence – and, before we realize it, precious time has slipped away. He knows that once we interrupt our spiritual momentum, it becomes exponentially harder to return.
This concept is reflected in the mitzvah of matzah. The Torah commands us to bake matzah swiftly, without allowing the dough to rise. The process is intentional – every moment counts. Time, in this context, is not merely a logistical concern; it symbolizes the need for spiritual vigilance. Just as the matzah must be prepared without delay, so, too, must we act with urgency in our service of Hashem.
The Jewish People were born into eternity through their exodus from Mitzrayim. Yet, their first test was one of time. The dough on their backs could not be permitted to rise. Had they paused, even momentarily, they would have fallen prey to hesitation and doubt. Instead, they overcame the pressures of time, demonstrating their readiness to transcend the constraints of the physical world.
Every day, we face this challenge. The yetzer hora urges us to delay, to justify a moment’s pause. “There will always be time to return,” he insists. But the lesson of matzah teaches us otherwise. Spiritual growth demands immediacy. When an opportunity to learn Torah or perform a mitzvah arises, we must seize it without hesitation.
This is how the Jewish People became a timeless nation – by mastering time itself. Each hurried step from Mitzrayim affirmed their commitment to a life of purpose, unshaken by distraction. And today, when we eat matzah on Pesach, we remind ourselves of that very resolve: To overcome the yetzer hora’s sly demand for “just a minute” and to choose eternity instead.
