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Shiur · Rav Mordechai Burg

How To Say Goodbye (Final Shiur of TD)

Jun 11, 202647 minTranscript
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A narrow path winding between trees in warm light

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Chazal teach that a person should not take leave of his friend through ordinary conversation, laughter, lightheadedness, or idle words, but through a dvar halacha because through that, “he remembers him.” Why are endings so spiritually powerful? Why does the Gemara specifically require halacha, not simply Torah? And why is the Gemara’s example connected to Adam HaRishon, Bavel, and the palm trees of Babylonia? In this final shiur of the Tomer Devorah year, Rav Burg explores the inner meaning of goodbye. A goodbye is not merely the end of an encounter. It is a threshold, the delicate space between presence and absence, where memory is formed and meaning is encoded. When we part from another person, we can escape the vulnerability of the moment through joking, distraction, or empty chatter. Or we can leave them with something life-giving. A dvar halacha is Torah that becomes movement, a path forward. It says: I may be leaving, but I am not leaving you empty. Through the image of the palm tree, Chazal reveal the secret of healthy attachment: even when branches spread outward, there remains one heart. Even in Bavel, the place of exile, confusion, and fragmentation, there can still be inner unity. True connection does not create dependency. It helps another person internalize light, direction, and strength. And sometimes, the people we meet awaken Torah within us that we did not even know we were carrying.

Transcript

Automatic transcript; may contain mistakes, especially in Hebrew.

There is a Gemara in Brachos. This is not a parashah. We're going to deviate from our normal every week program. I was preparing this shir to say over at the Mevaseret banquet, which was last night. As I was preparing it, I realized it was too long because at the banquet you get a couple of minutes to say something. And I realized this Torah is so deep that it requires 45 minutes to unpack. So I really want to do this well with you. There's a Gemara in Brachos 31a. I want you to listen carefully to the words of the Gemara. We're going to unpack every detail of this Gemara. It's going to really yield some beautiful fruit. The Gemara says Lo yipater ad mechavero, lo mitochsicha, v'lo mitochschoke, lo mitochkalos rosh, v'lo mitochdvarim betalem, elam itochdvar halacha.

When a person is parting ways with a friend, when you're taking leave of somebody, the Gemara says you shouldn't take leave from ordinary conversation and not from laughter and not from lightheadedness and not from speaking like idle matters. Rather, when you leave, you should say a dvar halacha. That's what we're supposed to do. You're supposed to leave someone, and the last thing you say should be a dvar halacha. And the Gemara says, "Shaken matzimu b'neviyam harishonim shesaimu deveyem devey shevach vetanhumen." We find that this was what the neviyam harishonim did. They would conclude their words with words of praise and consolation. Then the Gemara continues and it says, "V'chein tanamari barbereder of Huna, and Mari, the son of Rav Huna, who was the son of Rav Yirmiyah bar Abba, would teach the following: 'Al yipater adam mechaveru eli mitoch dvar halacha.'"

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You should leave your friend with saying a dvar halacha. Why? Shemitoch kach zachrehu, because if you leave from a dvar halacha, that's how you'll remember him, which is a very interesting thing. And then the Gemara goes on to give an example, and the Gemara's example is as follows: Rav Kahana was walking Rav Shimi Bar Ashi from the town of Pum Nahara to a palm grove in Bavel. And so they were. He was taking leave. They were. He was being malavehim out. He was walking him out, and they ended up in this palm grove. This, these palm trees. There was a grove of them in Bavel. And when they arrived at this palm grove in Bavel, Rav Kahana said to Rav Shimi Barashi. He said to him, "There's a phrase. There's a common phrase that people say that these palm trees of Bavel."

They've been in this place from the time of Adam Harishon. These, they arrived at this place, and he said, "It's like it's commonly known. It's like folklore that these palm trees have been here, mamish, since the beginning of time." And Rav Shimi Bar Ashi says to Rav Kahana, "You reminded me of something that Rav Yosi, the son of Rav Chanina, would say. And what would he say? Listen carefully. There's a pasuk in Nirmia, and the pasuk in Nirmia. If you listen carefully to the pasuk." The pasuk in Yirmiyah has a little bit of a difficulty. The pasuk says, "Be'aretz Asher lo aver ba'ish v'lo yoshav Adam Sham." There was a land which no man passed through, and no person has settled. Obviously, what's the difficulty in this pasuk? If nobody ever passed through there, then obviously what? No one ever settled there. And the Gemara raises this difficulty, and the Gemara answers as follows: It seems.

That Adamarisheon traveled the world. This is what the Gemara says: that Adamarisheon traveled the world, and wherever he passed, and he decreed this place will be settled, it was settled. And if he passed through a place and he said this place will not be settled, then it won't be settled. So based on this, this line that people say that this palm grove in Bavel was there from the time of Adamarisheon, it was true. Why? Because apparently Adam HaRishon went there and he passed through there, and he said this place is going to be settled. This place is going to have these palm trees grow there. Now the Meiri explains that this doesn't necessarily mean that it's the same exact trees. It means this place is going to be a place that's settled, and palm trees are going to be able to grow there. And that's the whole Gemara.

So it is a wild Gemara. If you actually take a second to think about all the different questions that come up in this Gemara, I wrote down five, six questions. If you actually take a second to think about this Gemara, it's a very strange Gemara. It's a Gemara for us. First of all, how should the Gemara have said it? If I was trying to write this Gemara, I would have said simply, 'What's the right thing to do when you're taking leave of your friend? Leave with a דבר halacha.' But is that what the Gemara says? The Gemara says when you're taking leave of your friend, don't do it mitoch sicha. Don't do it from just like a regular conversation. Lo mitoch schok. Don't do it from joking around. Lo mitoch kalus rosh. Don't do it from lightheadedness. What are you giving me all the rules for? Just tell me the right thing to do. Why do you have to tell me don't do it from the wrong place? That's the first question. The second question is.

It's an interesting thing. How should I leave from a dvar halacha? It doesn't say from a dvar Torah. It says from a dvar halacha. What's a dvar halacha? It sounds like if I thought, what does a dvar halacha sound like to you? Like I don't know, it's a halacha. This boer on Shabbos. This how you wash negel vaser in the morning. What does exactly mean? You have to leave from a dvar halacha, not from a dvar Torah, from a dvar halacha. And then it's like, and why? Because if you leave from a dvar halacha, then you'll remember your friend. I don't know about you. That's not what remembering sounds like or feels like to me. I have baruch Hashem wonderful friends. I don't really. Maybe you'll help me understand this. I don't really understand that if we leave and we say a dvar halacha, then I'll remember my friend. I think I'll remember my friend because of all the experiences that we had with each other. So imagine you have a girl that you spent the whole year with.

And you had all these amazing memories with her, and you went away for Shabbos with her, and you went on to Yulim together, and you had great conversations. But at the end, if you don't say a dvar halacha when you're leaving, that means you won't remember each other. Very difficult to understand. Then the Gemara says, 'What's an example of a dvar halacha? An example of a dvar halacha is this whole story of Adam Arishon and trees. What's the obvious problem with that?' That's not a dvar halacha. That's barely even a dvar Torah. That's like a. Commonly, people say that this palm grove in Bavel, it's been here since the time of Adam Rishon. And then he goes, oh yeah, it's based on a pasuk. So it's a dvar Torah that's like to explain what people commonly said. There's an element of a dvar Torah there. It's barely a dvar Torah.

So it's a funny thing. The Gemara says you have to leave from saying a dvar halacha, and then it gives an example of something that's for sure not a dvar halacha. And also, it's a funny way that it says it. It's like he says, 'Oh yeah, you reminded me of something that Rav Yosi ben Rav Chanina said.' Why didn't you just tell him the thing? It's like I want you. You should know. You just asked me this question. It reminded me of something that I once learned. Like where does that come from? And finally, I think the obvious question here is, what's this whole inner depth of palm trees? You see the Talmud Bavli reference. You get it? What's the palm trees? That's why I couldn't say in Mevaser. Like what's the palm trees and other Marisha and what's the inner significance of what's going on over here?

So those are the six questions. If you didn't catch them, it's okay. You're going to end up in the same place anyway. I want to just, for a moment, explore a pretty basic question, which I think we're definitely holding by right now, which is why are endings so powerful? It's a very powerful thing to be at the end of something. Last night, I don't know, I was in Mivaser until like 11:00, 11:30 at night, and just. The last meetings with all the guys, like it's just like there's something, like at the end, you're gonna be by the banquet. There's like there's like a lot of emotions that come up. There's a lot of tears. There's a lot of whatever everyone does. What? Why is an ending so powerful? You come to the end of camp when you're a kid, right? You come to the end of a school year.

Endings are a very powerful thing. The shaila is why are endings so powerful? In some ways, you'll forgive me for saying this. I think this is true. Endings are more powerful in a certain way than beginnings. Beginnings are like anxious. I have no idea what's going to be at the end. It's like I can't believe it's over. So there's a very real emotion that's at the end of something. So the shaila is why are endings so powerful? And I think, and I spent a lot of time thinking about this. I think the reason why endings are so powerful is because we are hardwired for connection. Every one of us, what we want more than anything is to be deeply connected, to belong to somebody else. That's what every person here wants. And by the way, if you think about it, it's like when you come to seminary, how much of seminary is the choice of what type of girls.

Go to that seminary because if I go to a different seminary, those girls could be great too. But this is what I've learned: the words you use, but they're not my type. They're not my type. Now, maybe that's a very judgmental thing to say in some cases. But more likely, what it means is something along the lines of if I go to a seminary with girls that are not my type, I don't think I'm going to have the connections that I'm hoping that I'll be able to walk away from seminary with. There's that vision of when I walk down to my chuppah, who are going to be the friends that are there dancing with me at my wedding? You probably heard. For sure, your high school friends will be there. The girls you grew up with. But everyone always says, but it's the girls you went to sem with. Those are going to be the girls that are going to be with you, and it's true. Hopefully.

It's hopefully you made some real connections here that are very powerful, and because we are hardwired for connection, a threshold is very difficult. What exactly does a threshold mean? I don't even know what to do with this board. It's right here. Thank you. I don't need a lot of space. Not this chaos. The a threshold is something like this. Have you girls ever heard of the term a liminal space? A liminal space is like a space in between. Let's think about this as a threshold. So here you are on one side of the threshold, and here you will be eventually on the other side of the threshold. But in this liminal space, right here in between, what you are is exceptionally vulnerable. As you cross over this threshold, you enter into this liminal space in between, and this liminal space—let's put a V there for vulnerable—is exceptionally vulnerable. Why? Because I'm moving. This is the key, especially when it comes to relationships. I'm moving from presence to absence. That's the key. For example, right now you're all on this side of the threshold.

And you're in the dorms together. You're in the chadar okel together. You have Shabbos Friday night together. Not so much Shabbos morning, and then Shabbos afternoon you have together, right? And so there's a presence. At the end of this year, we're all going to go somewhere together. And so this is an area that's marked by presence. But here on the other side, we're not going to be together. Here on the other side, we're all going home. And so, in this very vulnerable space of presence to absence, as I cross over that threshold, we're asking ourselves a question, which is, what is really with this relationship? Where do we go from here? Is it over? Right. And so, what happens is that something is ending. Right. Your shanah alif is ending. I'll tell you what. When I turned 40, it messed me up. It messed me up in a very serious way because I was like.

And I realize this, and this might scare you. I'm halfway done, and there's no going back, because pastas, today people are living longer lives because of modern medicine. But 80 is pretty good. If you make it to 80, you've had a pretty long life. And if you're 40, you're like, I'm halfway done, and there's no going back. And all of a sudden, 16 years old is in the rearview mirror. Objects in the rearview mirror are closer than they appear. And at some point it doesn't feel that way, and they're like, 'I'm not 16, and I'm not in my 20s, and I'm not in my 30s anymore, and life is actually happening. And what if I'm missing it? And it's like you only get one of these things, right? Even if you believe in Gilgulim, right, you only get one right now. So you're in this space where you're crossing over from presence to absence. You're losing something, but something else is being formed.

And here's what's being formed right now in this moment. You don't realize we are all in this moment, even though seminary is not over. Since we're in the waning moments, we're right here in the beginning of this threshold. Here's what's being formed right now, and this is why endings are so powerful. Right now in this moment, whether you realize it or not, the memory of what is being formed. The memory doesn't come from the beginning. The memory comes from the end. At the very end of something, as you're crossing into that threshold of moving from presence to absence, you're moving into that space of vulnerability because I don't know what it's going to be. What you're doing as you leave something is you're saying, 'This is how I reflect back.' I'll give you an example. This is a very silly example. I'll give you an example of this. I hated my high school in ninth grade. Absolutely hated it.

I didn't want to go to this high school. My friends from elementary school weren't going to this high school. My parents were making me go to this high school, partially because they founded the high school. I never wanted them to be a part of founding the high school. I fought my parents tooth and nail all of eighth grade that I didn't want to go to this high school. And when I showed up in ninth grade, the fight continued. And I would come home and I would say I'm miserable. Please let me go with my friends. I just want to go back with my friends. I had such good friends in middle school. Why can't I just go back with my friends? And finally, I realized halfway through ninth grade, my parents were not going to budge. I was so angry at them, but I said, "Fine, if this is what you want." I was absolutely miserable. And then an amazing blessing happened. They started throwing out kids from my class.

And we had this class of 45 kids. The school was really upset with the quality of guys that they had chosen, and all of a sudden they were throwing kids out left and right. In the process of throwing kids out, the guys who I guess were made to be thrown out or weren't happy there to begin with, they all started leaving. It was a mass exodus. We started with 45, we ended with 25, and three kids switched in. It was amazing. Because all the guys that I didn't like, all the guys that I didn't feel connected to, all the guys that I thought I could never compete with because they were too cool, they all left. And all of a sudden, in the middle of tenth grade, things started to click, and it started to get awesome. Then eleventh grade was amazing, and twelfth grade was even better. I accomplished absolutely nothing in four years of high school, but I made unbelievable friends, and I remember the night of graduation.

I remember clear as day the night of graduation, and it was amazing. We had graduation, our jokes, and then after graduation, we had the after party. Our parents trusted us, which was so dumb. Oh no, it's going to be fine. We're all doing this, and then we did something else. I remember, I'm 45 years old. I was 18 years old at the time, 17 years old at the time. I still remember the night of graduation. Why? Because at the very end, you know what you do? You frame everything that came beforehand. The story you tell yourself at the end of something is the memory you get to contextualize everything that came before. Right as you enter into this liminal space, right as you cross that threshold, the thing you do right here is called creating memory, and that's where meaning gets encoded.

And you should know your parents know this instinctively. Because what do your parents do when you walk out the door? What do your parents do? You walk out the door in the morning. You're a little kid. You're walking to that. You're walking to the bus. What does your mom say? Have a good day. How come your mom doesn't just say nothing? Why does your mom instinctively, as you're walking out the door? And let's say she wasn't there to put your knapsack on because for some reason we think it's normal to give tiny little children enormous knapsacks to schlepp onto a yellow school bus that they can't even take the first step up because the bus starts over here and the child is this big carrying a 50 pound knapsack like it's a really cruel thing that we do to children. This is my own trauma and because I was for sure the kid who was like you know like it doesn't work.

And then, so if your mother misses it, if you're walking out the door, what does your mother do? She does the embarrassing thing where she comes running and goes, 'Have a good day.' Why is your mother yelling at you? Have a good day. Why is it important for a parent to have to say good night to a child? Just let the kid go to bed. What's the difference? Why do you have to say good night to a child? What's the value in those last moments? You know what the last moments are. The last moments are a parent's attempt for a child, and again, parents do this instinctively. I don't think they realize what they're doing. As you are leaving home, and the mother wishes you have a good day. As you're going to sleep, we know instinctively that in those moments, you're contextualizing everything that came before it, and that positive memory of I went to school and I left happy. Parents want you to take that with you into school.

That's why, at the very end of your morning, they say, 'Have a good day,' and at the very end of your night, they say, 'Have a good night.' That's why we know this as Rebeyim. The last line of a she'er matters. You ever see? This is not. I shouldn't say this, but it's 100% true. And you know this. You know how Rebeyim wind down a she'er. And you could see it coming. Some rebbeim tell you they're winding down the she'er, and they actually wind down the she'er. And some rebbeim wind down the she'er, and there's the wind down to the wind down. It's like eight minutes later, they're still winding down the she'er. Can I tell you why they're doing? What they're doing is they're searching for the last line because they're not prepared with the last line. They don't know what it is that they want. They know the message, but they don't have that. Because when you have a powerful drop the mic last line of a she'er.

It gives power to the entire shear. Because the end of it, as you're leaving, it gives context. It creates the memory of what everything else was. Here's the key. You ready for this? This is a massive idea. This threshold right here, as you're moving into that liminal space, as you're moving from presence to absence, the thing that you want, the thing that we want from you, but the thing that you also want is consciousness. Because most people, when they cross over into this liminal space, they at best don't pay attention to it, and at worst specifically don't pay attention to it. They refuse to be conscious as they move over this threshold. I'll tell you why. Because if I stay unconscious, I get to avoid the vulnerability of the liminal space.

I get to avoid the vulnerability of the unknown. Now this is a massive concept, and if you remember, one of the questions we asked on the Gemara was, why does the Gemara start off by saying, when you leave somebody, don't leave mitoch sicha, don't leave mitoch dvaram betelim, don't leave mitoch kalus rosh, don't be lightheaded, don't be joking around, take this moment seriously when you leave. Why doesn't the Gemara just say take it seriously? Why does the Gemara have to tell you all the things you shouldn't do? The answer is because those are the things you're naturally going to do. Now, and you'll see this. Like as you're crossing over and you're starting this journey of leaving Torma Davar Shana Aleph, there's going to be, I imagine, a lot of people in this room who are going to do this. I don't want to pay attention to the fact that it's ending. Let's talk about something else. That was uncomfortable.

Thank you. Why do we do that? Why can't we acknowledge that it might be hard for this to be over? Because if we acknowledge, and then you had this, I'll tell you when I had this. This was one of my biggest mistakes that I've made in my life. When my oldest daughter was getting married, I was on the verge of tears for a very long time, because this was my first. She was like big. I remember when she was born and I became a dad. I remember holding her for the first time and thinking I should not be allowed to do this. I remember thinking I would die for you, man. I would do anything for you, and it's a very powerful moment. And now I'm gonna give her away to some guy who she dated for a minute.

I like her husband very much. When they got engaged, I went to buy him a Chasson watch, and of course he was very tsneishev at it. Abba, I don't need a Chasson watch. You buy me like a Mickey Mouse watch. I don't care. I don't want anything. And he was a very sweet boy. And as we're walking to the car, he looks at me and he goes, "You know, it's pretty crazy because you don't really know me, but you're willing to allow your daughter to marry me." And I was like, "Yeah, that is crazy." And I was like, "The only thing I know about you is that you're willing to say that out loud." Which gives me like some sense of calm, but really, giving away your daughter, that's big. And I kept choking them back. I don't want to pay attention to this. I want to have this moment. I said, when I'm walking down the aisle, I just want to fall apart. That's what I want. I want to be standing under the chuppah and I want to experience like the total presence of all the vulnerability of like.

Watching this little girl that we raised, and she's coming to her own, and she's standing under the chuppah. I just want everything to be in that moment, and I missed it. I spent so much time holding back the very real emotion that I was feeling that under the chuppah, I was totally numbed out. I wasn't numbed out like I just wasn't feeling anything. I was numbed out like the moment was so big I couldn't access the emotions. Had the chuppah, had the wedding. We came home. I walked upstairs to our room. I closed the door and I fell apart. And all the emotion that I was holding, it finally came out, and I was feeling so silly. I was like, I wanted this three hours ago. I wanted this to be six eight hours ago. I wanted this to be under the chuppah, experiencing this very real thing. But I was so.

Protected. I was so guarded in that moment. I was so numb. The moment was so big. I didn't have access to what was very real. I wanted to experience it. I wanted this moment of that threshold to be so powerful. But I, and I again, everyone does this in our own way because of the vulnerability of that moment. Because the moment is so big, you could miss the moment, and that's something people do. There's like you know how there are people that make jokes at a funeral. It's not because it's funny. It's because that's the best way they know how to cope with the vulnerability of death. And there's something very profoundly powerful about not missing out on big moments and being emotionally present and conscious and aware of what's actually happening in front of you. There's courageous people in the room right now who whether they'll admit this out loud or not.

But right now they're going, it actually is very hard, and I might be scared of what's coming next, and I don't know what's going to be, and I'm moving from presence to absence, I'm leaving Torma Devora, I don't know what's on the other side, I have a plan, but just because I have a plan doesn't actually mean anything, because who knows? It's like all the guys in yeshiva who go, they'll come in, this is basically what it sounds like, they go, I'm really scared of going to college. I'm like, why are you scared of going to college? You've been learning well all year. You're fine. You're bright. What's the problem? They're like, Rabbi, I cheated my way through high school. I didn't take a test legitimately since like third grade. So how do I know I can actually do this now? What they're really saying is not, I think I'm stupid. What they're really saying is, the success that I had in mivaseret. I don't know if that success breeds over to when I'm actually in college and who says that those skills translate? Because I've been lying to myself for so long. I don't even know if I have it.

So there's a movement from presence to absence. Some people in this room are courageous enough to say words like, "I'm scared of what comes next," or, "I mean, or maybe I'm not scared. I'm confident, but I'm also hopeful. And with hope comes heartbreak. And what happens if I'm, and we have these like, what happens if I'm the last one from my friend group who gets married? What happens if I'm the one that's left behind? Because right now we're all on level playing field, right? But as people start off in shaduchim, and you know, you're gonna have those girls that like. In a minute from now, are engaged. There's always like that girl in the room. I don't know who you are. One girl betrayed herself, right? But there's like there's that girl who's like, yeah, I'm getting engaged next week. I've been talking to Rabbi Rosenstein about it, but like we're working on it. Like he spoke to the boys Rabbi. He's really doing very well. The but there's that you know I'm saying there's like there's things that are here on the other side of this threshold that if you're intelligent.

If you're thoughtful and willing to pay attention to the hard feelings that are coming up, there's a very real experience that some people are having. Of course, some people won't. Some people will just go on their phones and doom scroll and plug into their music and avoid reality, which makes sense because sometimes reality is really hard. A goodbye is a spiritually charged moment because there's all this beauty in it. At this moment, where I'm going to frame everything that came beforehand, and in this moment where I'm crossing over into the unknown, some people literally miss it. That's a crazy thing to think that some people in this room right now are missing it. I can see some girls that are physically missing this moment. I imagine it's because they're too.

The moment is a very vulnerable moment, and some girls are locked in. They go, taka, it's a very real moment. And by the way, there are people that do this the entire year. I'm talking about it only on this side of the threshold. There are people because they know that this threshold is coming. They'll literally check out of life because they go, I don't want to ever leave this. I don't ever want to leave this cocoon of safety. So I'm just going to check out now, and their entire life becomes dvarim betelim and sicha and kalos rosh, and they never actually check into the moment because the moment could actually be terrifying. So here's the key. The key is if you really want to go from one space to another, if you want to cross over this threshold, there's two ways of doing it. If you have unhealthy attachment, that's the key word. If you have unhealthy attachment, and you'll forgive me for saying this, but I think.

Some of our seminary system and yeshiva system creates some unhealthy attachment, not intentionally, just as a reality. Unhealthy attachment is I need to cling to you because otherwise I'm not okay. I can't pass over this threshold because once I leave here, I'm not okay. And so it's terrifying, and I'll avoid this moment in time because what if I'm not okay? So the only way that I'm okay, and again, this is. I'm okay when I'm in yeshiva. I'm okay when I'm in seminary. I'm okay when I'm in Yerushalayim. I'm okay when I'm in this growth-oriented environment. But what happens when I go back to L. A. And Chicago and New York and New Jersey and Florida and Columbus and Cleveland and South Africa? And what happens then I'm not going to be okay. That's unhealthy attachment. Healthy attachment is this. Healthy attachment is.

When we leave each other, the gift that I can give you is that I can help you internalize that you carry with you whatever you need inside of you. So whether you're on this side of the threshold or on this side of the threshold, do you know what you are? You're okay, and that's what gives us the ability to pass over in life. How does a girl leave seven? There's this schmooze. I hate it. There's this schmooze that happens at the end of the year, and it goes like this. How do I take it with me? As if it's something outside of you. How do I take it with me? Like I'm getting on El Al. In your case, maybe, right? I'm right. On, okay, won't do that. The. How do I? Like I, I'm. They're just not gonna let me take on a third bag, so I'm gonna leave behind.

Thousands of dollars worth of clothing for the teachers in the neighborhood to come take for their children. That's how we clothe ourselves, right? The because there's just so only so much that will fit in my bags. How do I take it with me? I don't have enough. How do I take it with me? As a silly question, if the thing that you're taking with you is inside of you, healthy attachment means that the nature of our relationship. When I move from presence to absence, I'm okay to move to absence. Because I have presence inside of me. Just because I'm leaving seminary doesn't mean I'm leaving myself. And myself was not dependent on being in seminary, in a healthy seminary. And I think Talmud Torah is in a healthy seminary. The thing that they're trying to give you is they're trying to say the thing you have inside of you. Cultivate that, because then wherever you go, you know what you have. You have that.

That's healthy attachment. You don't need to be afraid to leave because we spent an entire year showing you who you are, not making you into something that you're not. If the goal was to make you into something that you're not, then it makes sense to be terrified of leaving. When I was in Toma Devora, I was able to be stark. I was able to be frum because in this environment, I was able to be this person. But now I'm going back to fill in the blank community. How do I know that I can keep it up? The answer is you probably can't. If it was something that you weren't, then of course you won't keep it up.

But if the whole goal of the seminary, the whole goal of the yeshiva experience, is to take a kid and not to make them something that they're not, but to actualize something that they are, then why would they leave that just because they're in a new situation? Adraba, they're prepared for that new situation. In the absence of this structure, is where they actually start to actualize all the things that they learned. It's like imagine you have somebody who's spending their whole life practicing to be a ballerina, and then they go, 'I don't know if I could do it on stage.' What have you been practicing for? The whole point was to bring it onto the stage. So this fear that we have, it's like 'I don't know if I could leave. I don't know if I could pay attention to this.'

Liminal to all the emotions that are going on in this liminal space, where I'm going to like encode everything that came before and find the meaning, and at the same time actually cross over. How do I deal with all the emotions that are coming up? If you had a healthy attachment in the first place, then of course you have the ability to pass over. What I'm reminded of is whether you went to sleepaway camp when you were a kid. If you went to sleepaway camp, were you homesick? Some of us were homesick. And if you were homesick, and especially—I don't know what it looks like with girls—but if you're homesick in the summer after fourth or fifth grade, if you go into a bunk by lights out on the first night, you hear the muffled cries of children. The muffled cries of children trying to be strong, that nobody should know that they're sad.

Because it takes a minute. And you have these really good counselors. There was my counselor in fifth grade, a guy named Yaakov Dreyfus, and he was really good. He made me feel really safe, and this was gonna be okay. It takes a couple of days until you get into it. My little brother, when he came to camp, was going through the same thing. I went to Yaakov and I said, even though you're not his counselor, could you speak to him and do for him what you did for me? It takes a couple of days, and then what happens? Then you go like, I could do this. And then other Rabbah, I can't wait to get back to sleepaway camp. Even though you were terrified when it first started, why? Because I know, like that, I'm capable of doing this. When we left each other, the feeling that you gave me, and this is the gift that parents give children. As you leave, the gift that we give each other is we give each other the gift of presence. We give each other the gift of self.

That's why when your mother says have a good day when you're leaving to go to school, she's saying you're capable now. You have everything you need inside of you. You're capable of getting on that bus and going to school. That's why little kids going to school for the first time is hard because they go, I don't know if I could do this. But then by the time fifth grade rolls around, they're not anxious to go to school anymore because it's like, I've been going to school for my entire life. I know exactly what I'm doing. Of course, if you grew up within one little community and you never actually leave, it can become challenging to do that. But then you figure out you could do that too. Do you guys realize none of you know if you could get married? You've never been married before. There's no rational reason to believe that you could get married, except for the fact that what? You have this very wonderful, totally irrational belief inside of you that goes, "I could do this." Why? Why do you think you could do that? None of us did it well.

That's why all of you are sitting here thinking, going, "I'm going to do it better than my parents." And by the way, that's what your parents thought about their parents, right? Why do you think you could do this? The answer is because there's something inside of you, a gift that was given to you by the people that loved you in life, and they said, "You got this." That's the gift that we give each other. It's called, listen carefully, a dvar halacha, not a dvar Torah. What does the word halacha mean? To walk. It means that in this moment. As you're about to leave, the gift that I give you is the capacity. I tell you something in this moment that gives you the capacity to actually walk across this threshold into a brand new environment. That's what a dvar halacha really is. And now we can understand the whole story about Adumari Shon and this date trees. What in the world is going on over here? So it's a Gemara and Sukkah 45b. You know what the Gemara says?

Just like a tamar, just like a date tree, only has one heart because the sap of a date tree doesn't actually go into the various branches; it stays rooted in its roots. Just like a date tree only has one heart, so too Klal Yisrael only has one heart. Now listen to this. This is wild. Rav Kahana accompanies Rav Shimi Barashi from the town of Pum Nahara, and where do they go? To a palm grove in Bavel, which means that physically, Rav Kahana and Rav Shimi Barashi are separating from each other, and ironically, where do they end up? They end up.

In a palm grove, which means they end up in a place where you have all these different trees and all these different heights and all these different branches. But what's the communication? Just because you're leaving doesn't mean we're not together. That's a very powerful imagery. Just like a palm tree has one heart, Kollel Yisrael has one heart. Rashi and Rav Kahana are taking leave of each other, and as they're leaving, what's the message they encounter? They encounter a place that says: You can leave. We're still together. I want to share with you. This is a very powerful thing. If and this only going to work for some of you. If you don't understand this, it's only because you haven't yet discovered the beauty of loss. But if you've discovered the beauty of loss in your life, if you've ever lost somebody in your life that you love deeply, a grandparent, whatever you know, people have different cases, a friend, whatever it is, if you've ever lost somebody that you love.

Then you know that despite the fact that they are as far away from you as they could possibly be, their voice still lives inside of you, and that's a very real thing. That in moments of separation, I could still be with you. We're unified. You're the farthest away in the world. You're right here. You're right here, and that's the gift. It's the gift of parents. It's the gift of friends. It's my Rebbe growing up, Rabbi Bender. He used to tell us every year at the end of the year the same shmooz. I really believe Ben Muna Shleimer, Rabbi Bender, who's been speaking for I don't know 50 years of Chenech. He's got like five shmooz, and they just come out in different ways. But every single year at the end of the year, he would yell at us, "Rabbi, you say, take your Rebbe in your pocket." And I think what he meant by that, if I could tie it up psychologically, is he used to say, before you act, think about what your Rebbe would say.

Maybe what my rebbe was telling us was your rebbe's voice should live inside of you. And just because you're parting ways, if he was really your rebbe, then his voice comes with you. And when the parent says "Have a good day" to the kid, her voice, that mother's voice, is living inside of that child. My grandmother's voice is living inside of me, even though she passed away five years ago. And sometimes when I'm sitting with a guy in yeshiva and I'm really frustrated. Maybe one of the things, boys. I don't know if you know this. Sometimes boys don't always make the best decisions. And sometimes I have to sit with a boy who made a bad decision. I'm on one side of the desk and he's on the other side of the desk. And I'm about to say something that maybe wouldn't be, because you have to say something. I hear my grandmother's voice in my, like in my heart. I hear it, and she goes like this: "He's just a kid." And then I always go like, right.

I think the thing you did probably doesn't match the person that I think you really are. And all the kids like, I burned down the dorms. You know what I'm saying? Because my grandmother's voice is. We had this many years ago. There was a boy who set fire to a couch in yeshiva, and I was like, why? Why? And it wasn't just set fire to a guy. He poured gasoline on the couch, and it was really dangerous. And I'm like sitting there.

And I hear my grandmas. That might not have been the most clever idea. There's something very beautiful about calling up the very real voices that accompany you on your journey. Even though we're very distant from each other, we're actually very close. And if you think about it, Bavel is perfect. What is Bavel? Bavel is the symbol of galus. It's the symbol of exile. It's the greatest possible expression of distance. And what do they discover in the greatest possible expression of distance? You're so exiled. You're so far from Hashem. There's literally a palm grove of date trees screaming out to us. It doesn't matter how far you go from Hashem. You're still infinitely connected. That's the single greatest mussar that we could possibly receive, and that's why it's connected to Adamirishon. Because what is Adamirishon? Adamirishon is every one of us. Every one of us was inside of Adamirishon. That we are all the descendants of Adamirishon. It's the greatest expression of unity.

And just like Adam's passage through the world, when Adam is walking through the world, and he says, 'Here will be a place that's settled, and here will not be the place that's settled.' That's what every one of us is doing to every other person. Every other one of us, we are all passing through each other's lives, and we're all leaving a mark. The only question is, when you walk through somebody's life, are you saying this is a place to settle or this is a place not to settle? Every single one of us is leaving a mark. There's a young man. I don't want to say when he came to me, but it was very recently, and he was in a tremendous amount of pain. And he was asking me the question, Rebbe, I don't know if I have any real friends. And he does have real friends, but you know, he passed through a lot of lives this year, and the fact that so many people he could pass through their lives, and they could pass through his, and he left those situations feeling.

They're not interested in settling this place. They're not interested in saying this a place where you could grow. This is a place of connection. Chaval, what would it have taken? A smile. What does it take to invite somebody for Shabbos? What does it take to sit down and have a conversation with somebody? What does it take to sit down in the chadar ochal across from a random person and say, 'Hey, what's going on?' You just have to be big. Every one of us is passing through everyone else's life, and it will stay for eternity. If you pass through somebody else's life and you go settled. It doesn't mean that it's always going to be those same palm trees, like the Meiri said. But the impact is forever. It's like that Rebbe's voice, right? That teacher's voice. You don't remember. Nobody ever remembers what a teacher said, right? It's like the lessons that we teach you. We know that it's like you know, the impact is like somewhere in there. But nobody remember. Twenty years later, you think you're going to remember anything that I said? Probably not. I don't even remember what I said, and that was ten minutes ago. We don't remember anything that we said, but we remember the way that person made us feel.

The impact is still there, and I think the best part of this is Rav Kahana's question awakened in Rav Shmii Barashi an answer, and he says, 'Your question reminds me of something that I learned, which means as follows.' And we'll finish with this. When two people part with a davar halacha, it's not one directional. It actually goes both ways. It's not only the teacher that awakens the students; it's the students that awaken the teacher. A question, very often, forces a teacher to remember something and to actually pull it out into reality.

Chazal say Harbei laMarati Merabosa. I learned a lot from my rebbeim. Yosar mechaverai meTamidai Yosarihuam. I learned the most from my students. The gift that you've given every one of your teachers this year is that you made us into teachers. Because we can't be teachers without students. None of us can be rebbeim unless you actually show up to class. And by the way, there's different ways of showing up to class. Some people hand in a green card. Which, by the way, is hysterical. You're literally all immigrants every single week. Enter of Arutz's ice. I want you to know. I thought of that like in the beginning. There, I was like, 'This is amazing.' Some show up, and I'm here, and then some show up, and they're here. And I want you to know, if you showed up and you were here, you gave us a gift that we really can't repay you.

Because we learn so much, because we have to call up these truths that are within ourselves to share them with you, and so I really want to say thank you. It really has been an amazing year, from that very first Shabbos that my wife and I were zayicha to come, until this very last year. I hope that we gave you the courage, the sense of self, a dvar halacha, an orientation, the capacity to cross over this threshold, leaving Toma Devora, and to go do amazing things. And what you gave us this year, we will never be able to repay. You gave us the greatest gift in the world. You forced us to become rebbeim, rakazot, mechanchot, and an amazing seminary. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you very much, girls. For the last time, have a beautiful Shabbos.

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