Be a Partner in the Pulse of Beis Mevakesh Lev - For almost 20 years, B’chasdei Hashem, this space has been a home for seekers—a place where Torah is accessible to everyone, everywhere, without a paywall. We’ve shared over thousands and thousands of pages of learning together. But to keep the lights on and ensure this library remains free and growing for the next generation of Mevakshei Lev, I need your partnership.
Your contribution isn't just a donation; it's the fuel that keeps these shiurim reaching hearts across the globe. Whether it’s the cost of a coffee or a monthly sponsorship, you are making this Torah possible.
[Donate via PayPal/Zelle: alchehrm@gmail.com] Thank you to my beloved friends for standing with me.
Rabbi Daniel Z. Feldman
The approach of Rosh Chodesh Adar brings with it Parashat Shekalim — the special Torah reading that inaugurates the sequence of four parshiyot leading into Purim and Pesach. On the surface, this is a technical calendrical matter: we read the passage of the half-shekel (Ki Tisa, Ex. 30:11–16) to recall the annual collection that funded the communal offerings in the Temple. Beneath the surface, however, lies a profound tapestry of ideas — halakhic, aggadic, and interpersonal — about what it means to give, and why that act of giving may be the very key to true joy.
The Mechanism: Why Adar?
The Talmud (Megillah 29b) explains the timing. The Torah states, “This is the burnt-offering of each month in its month” (Num. 28:14), meaning that from Nisan onward, communal korbanot must be purchased from the new year’s terumah. To ensure that fresh shekalim arrive in the Mikdash by Nisan, the announcement goes out on Rosh Chodesh Adar, a full month in advance. The Torah reading of Parashat Shekalim serves as that announcement — or, in our era, as its echo.
A historical question is relevant here. Did they actually read Parashat Shekalim from a Torah scroll during the time of the Temple, or was the original “announcement” (*hashma’ah*) simply a public declaration — with the formal Torah reading instituted only after the Churban? The Sefer HaChinukh (Mitzvah 105) implies that our reading today is a *zekher*, a memorial, fulfilled through *keri’at haTorah* in place of the actual shekel contribution, a fulfillment of the principle *u’neshalemah parim sefateinu*, “let our lips substitute for bulls” (Hoshea 14:3). The Levush (685:1) makes this explicit. The Binyan Shelomo (Siman 54) finds a textual hint: the phrase *le-khaper al nafshoteikhem* — “to atone for your souls” — appears twice in the parashah, once for the original obligation and once, he suggests, to allude to the enduring power of the reading even after the Temple is gone.
R. Eliyahu Greenzweig (*Keru’ei Mo’ed*, Siman 10) sharpens the historical question. He challenges the *neshalemah* model by noting that Maimonides discusses the shekalim reading only in *Sefer Zemanim*, not in the laws of sacrificial service — suggesting that the reading is not a substitute for the korbanot but an independent enactment that always existed alongside the obligation to give shekalim. The difference between then and now is not the reading itself but its audience: in the Temple era, the *hashma’ah* imposed an obligation on the *beit din* to announce, while today the obligation falls on each individual to hear the reading.
This bears on a halakhic curiosity as well. Ordinarily, when a special reading is added to the weekly Torah portion, a separate sefer Torah is brought out for it — primarily to spare the congregation the delay of rolling the scroll to a distant passage. In the case of Parashat Shekalim, however, the reading (in Ki Tisa) falls relatively close to the weekly parshiyot typically read in this season, which makes the practical need for a second scroll less obvious. R. Shmuel Salant accordingly ruled that a single scroll suffices, though Maimonides’ language suggests that two are used. The stronger rationale for two may be *hekker* — a visible distinction marking the shekalim reading as a self-standing enactment, not merely an appendix to the weekly parashah.
The Peri Tzadik cites a striking Midrash Tanchuma: Moses expressed concern that after his death, he would be forgotten. God reassured him: “Just as you stand now and give them Parashat Shekalim and lift their heads, so too every year when they read it before Me, it is as if you are standing there and lifting their heads.” The word *ki tisa* — “when you lift” — is not simply about counting; it is about elevation. The reading itself, not just the giving, enacts that elevation.
The Deeper Logic: Atonement Through Giving
What exactly does the half-shekel atone for? The sources yield multiple explanations — the sin of the Golden Calf, the sale of Joseph — and each points to a moment when the Jewish people fractured. There are also indications that the shekalim accomplished something much broader. Resh Lakish (Megillah 13b) teaches that God foresaw that Haman would one day weigh out silver to purchase the destruction of Israel, and so He arranged that Israel’s silver should precede Haman’s: “Better that My children’s money come first.” This is the basis for the widespread minhag, codified in Orach Chaim 694, to give *machatzit hashekel* before Purim — a practice that extends to women and children, even though they were not part of the original census-based obligation. The reason, as noted by the posekim, is that this latter-day practice is not a reenactment of the census but a *zekher la-nes* — a commemoration of the miracle, in which all of Kelal Yisrael participated.
Rav Chaim Yaakov Goldvicht zt”l, Rosh Yeshiva of Kerem BeYavneh, emphasized the intrinsic *koach ha-netinah* — the transformative power of giving itself. At its core, the act of giving requires a person to see past his own needs and decide that another’s needs take priority. That decision — freely made, without coercion — is a tremendous statement of commitment. It demands that the giver step outside the natural gravitational pull of self-interest and recognize that something beyond the self matters more. This is not merely generosity; it is an act of spiritual power, because it reverses the default orientation of human desire. The person who gives authentically has, in that moment, subordinated his will to a higher purpose — and that subordination, paradoxically, is what creates his greatest strength.
R. Yitzhak Isaac Haver understood the institution of the shekalim as a direct response to Haman’s accusation: *yeshno am ehad mefuzar u-meforad* — “there is one nation, scattered and divided” (Esther 3:8). The shekalim, collected equally from every member of the community and pooled for collective Temple needs, were a declaration of *achdut*, of unity. The atonement, then, arrives along two channels simultaneously: through the inner transformation that the act of giving produces in the giver, and through the communal bond that giving creates among all who participate.
The Shekhinah rests upon Israel only when they stand as one — and the shekalim reading, falling as it does in the lead-up to Pesach, is the preparation: by counting each individual equally through the machatzit hashekel, the many become one.
The Maharal deepens this further. The communal korbanot funded by the shekalim are understood as standing *be-makom ha-adam* — in place of the person. Through the shekel that enables the offering, each Jew is, as it were, offering *himself*. The shekalim thus represent not merely a financial contribution but a total giving-over of the self to God. They are *kenuyim la-Hashem* — acquired by God. Haman’s offer to “buy” them from Achashverosh fails on its own terms: you cannot purchase what already belongs to someone else. The shekalim are not merely a counter-payment; they are a prior claim of ownership that renders Haman’s transaction void.
R. Baruch Mordekhai Ezrachi (*Birkat Mordekhai*, Purim) elevates this insight to its fullest implications. The concept of *tzibbur* — a true community, with metaphysical standing before God — is itself a creation of Torah, and it is the machatzit hashekel that brings it into being. Even if a korban is purchased with money from a single Jew’s half-shekel, the Talmud considers it a *korban tzibbur* — a communal offering — because the half-shekel carries within it the power of the collective. Parashat Shekalim does not merely record a fundraising mechanism; it is the instrument through which *kelal Yisrael* is constituted as a tzibbur in the first place.
This is what Haman could not grasp. He saw Jews as isolated individuals — *mefuzar u-meforad* — and priced them accordingly. God’s response was not simply to predate Haman’s payment but to invoke an entirely different category of reality. The *refuah* preceded the *makkah* not chronologically but ontologically: God created the concept of *tzibbur* through the shekalim, and over a *tzibbur*, no Haman and no Satan has dominion. *Netzach Yisrael lo yeshaker* — the eternity of Israel will not be denied — because *kelal Yisrael*, as constituted by the shekalim, is not a sum of parts but an indivisible whole.
Haman’s Heirs and Our Response
The pattern Haman established has replicated itself with disturbing fidelity across the centuries and into our own moment. The accusation is always structurally the same: *yeshno am ehad* — there exists a people, different from all others — and the conclusion drawn is always the same: they must be isolated, delegitimized, and destroyed. What changes is only the costume the accuser wears.
In our generation, the resurgence of antisemitism — on university campuses, in international institutions, on the streets of cities that Jews had considered home — has confronted us with the recognition that Haman’s logic is alive and potent. The irrational devotion to hatred of Jews, the willingness to abandon every stated principle of fairness and human rights the moment Jews are involved, the spectacle of people who claim to stand for justice allying themselves with movements that celebrate the murder of Jewish civilians — all of this carries a familiar resonance for anyone who has read Megillat Esther carefully. The argument was never really about what Jews do. It is about what Jews *are*.
This is precisely why the shekalim response is not merely historical but urgent. Haman’s strategy — then and now — depends on the premise that Jews are isolated individuals who can be picked off one by one, whose solidarity is an illusion that crumbles under pressure. The machatzit hashekel is the refutation. It declares that the Jewish people possess a form of collectivity that no external force can dissolve, because it was not created by external circumstances — not by shared geography, not by shared politics, not by shared economic interest — but by a covenantal act of mutual giving before God. This is not a metaphor. It is a halakhic reality: the half-shekel literally constitutes us as a *tzibbur*, and a *tzibbur* cannot be dismantled by those who do not understand what holds it together.
Every act of Jewish giving — to one another, to communal institutions, to those in need — is not merely charitable; it is an assertion of the *tzibbur*‘s existence. Every time a Jew looks past his own concerns to prioritize another Jew’s welfare, he is performing the spiritual equivalent of depositing a half-shekel in the Temple treasury: I am not alone, and neither are you; we are bound to one another by something deeper than convenience, and that bond is what makes us indestructible.
Haman, too, gave — lavishly, strategically. He gave ten thousand talents of silver to the royal treasury. He gave Achashverosh the flattering assurance that eliminating the Jews would benefit the empire. He gave the nations of the world permission to indulge their darkest impulses. His giving was real, and it was powerful. The contest between these two modes of giving — one aimed at destruction, the other at building — renews in every generation. The question is always the same: whose giving will prevail?
The Chatam Sofer (*Derashot*, Parashat Shekalim) adds a dimension. The shekel, he says, transforms Haman’s bitterness (*mar*) into *mor* — myrrh, the fragrance of anointing, vitality, and sanctity. Chazal identify ten levels of illness and impurity rooted in *mar*, corresponding to the ten thousand talents of silver Haman offered. The parashah of shekalim is the Torah’s exact antidote — reading it aloud reverses and sweetens each level of spiritual toxicity. The reading is not merely a reminder of the historical shekel; it is itself an act of spiritual repair.
In a second derashah, the Chatam Sofer shifts from the cosmic to the emotional. The core purpose of reading Parashat Shekalim, he writes, is *le-orer ha-am le-hitztza’er al avod shiklenu* — to stir the people to grieve over the loss of our shekel, our Mikdash, our capacity to give in the way we once could. The reading awakens *teshuvah*: a longing to give again with full capacity, and the recognition that even now, giving wholeheartedly stands against Haman’s model of giving without heart.
This leads to perhaps the most celebrated aggadic image associated with shekalim: the *matbe’a shel esh*, the coin of fire. Moses was perplexed — how can a mere half-shekel atone for a human soul? God showed him a fiery coin from beneath the Throne of Glory. The Chatam Sofer reads the fire as representing what the physical coin cannot contain: the *nedivut* and *kavvanah* — the generosity of spirit and the intentionality — that transform metal into meaning.
Why specifically a *half*-shekel and not a whole one? Because, the Chatam Sofer explains, peace in the world comes only through the joining of *neshamot* via Torah and mitzvot. Each person’s contribution is inherently incomplete. The fire God showed Moses was the *shoresh ha-neshamah*, the spiritual root that connects every Jew to every other. When a person aligns his will with his Creator’s, he can align with his fellow — and the two halves become one. The fiery coin is not a model of what to give, but a vision of what giving *becomes* when it flows from the soul’s root: a force that unifies.
The *Minchah Sheluchah* adds a final nuance through a curious pairing in the Mishnah: on the first of Adar, we announce both about the shekalim *and* about *kil’ayim* — the prohibition against improper mixtures. The half-shekel declares each person incomplete, in need of another to become whole. The prohibition of kil’ayim warns that not every joining is legitimate. Unity must preserve the integrity of its components — two sides of the same coin, literally. In a time when Jews are pressured to dissolve their distinctiveness in order to be accepted, the pairing reminds us that authentic achdut does not require self-erasure.
The Joy of Adar
Rav Goldvicht taught that the *koach ha-netinah* — the ability to see past one’s own needs and place another’s first — is the source of all genuine power. R. Reuven Schwartz (in *Kiso Ve-Khoso*) connects this directly to the simchah of Adar: the four special parshiyot are themselves *mitzvot of Adar*, and their observance constitutes a form of *marbim be-simchah*. The simchah of Adar is not giddy anticipation. It is the joy that comes from negating selfishness and joining the *tzibbur* — from discovering that the direct pursuit of one’s own happiness is a dead end, while the pursuit of another’s happiness is always fulfilling. As Rav Yisrael Salanter is reported to have taught: another person’s *gashmiyyut* is my *ruhaniyyut*.
Consider the mitzvot of Purim: *matanot la-evyonim* is giving to those in need; *mishloach manot* is strengthening bonds of friendship; the Purim se’udah brings Jews together; even the wearing of masks de-emphasizes individual identity; and the shekalim fund the communal korbanot in which every individual’s contribution is subsumed into the collective whole. Each is an act of giving, and each is simultaneously an act of resistance against the Haman-logic that says Jews are alone, vulnerable, and dispensable. When we give to one another, we are constituting ourselves as the *tzibbur* that Haman insists does not exist.
This is the response demanded by our moment. The forces of *mefuzar u-meforad* — of scattering and division — press against us from without, and the temptation to retreat into fear and isolation presses from within. The enemies of the Jewish people invest themselves with ferocious, irrational devotion in our destruction; our counter must be an even fiercer devotion to one another. The shekalim reading arrives to remind us that the Jewish response to hatred has never been to match hatred with hatred; it has been to match destruction with creation, division with unity, bitterness with the fragrance of *mor*.
As we enter Adar and hear the ancient call of *mashmi’in al ha-shekalim*, we are invited not merely to remember a Temple tax, but to rediscover the secret that Moses embedded in the parashah from the very beginning: *ki tisa et rosh* — when you lift another’s head, your own is lifted as well. The path to joy runs not inward but outward. All for just half a shekel.
