The Currency of Love is Effort

I stared at my computer screen after an hour-long Zoom date with my future wife. Everything had aligned beautifully, but then the matchmaker dropped the suggestion: "Why don't you visit her in Cleveland?" Eight hours each way for someone I'd just met virtually for one hour. After so many failed suggestions, could I really justify such a massive investment for a question mark?

I decided the potential was worth the risk and set out on a long drive to see if I’d finally met the one. Mid-April brought blue sunny skies as I pulled out of New Haven, but five hours into my drive on I80, blue skies turned to rain, rain turned to sleet, and sleet to a full blizzard. My Subaru, despite its all-wheel drive, slid precariously in six inches of highway snow. Realizing the danger, I pulled off to lower elevations, found a route through Pittsburgh that avoided the worst weather, and what should have been an eight-hour trip became twelve hours of harrowing near-accidents and white-knuckle driving.

I told myself, "This is either the best possible effort to start this relationship or the stupidest thing I've ever done."

Thank God, it launched the love story of my life.

The greatest rewards often demand our greatest investment of effort—even when the outcome remains uncertain. This principle, it turns out, forms the foundation of one of the Torah's most elegant lessons, delivered by the most unlikely messenger: a talking donkey.

The Cryptographic Donkey

In this week’s Torah portion, Balak, king of Midian, recruits the renowned prophet Bilaam to curse the Jewish Nation and protect his kingdom from their advancing army. As Bilaam journeys to fulfill his commission, an angel blocks his path three times. Each time, his donkey swerves to avoid the celestial being. Each time, Bilaam—blind to the angel's presence—strikes his donkey in fury.

After the third blow, God grants the donkey the power of speech, and she delivers her rebuke: "What have I done to you that you have struck me these three times?" (Numbers 22:28).

Seems like a reasonable response from a talking donkey, but embedded in her words lies an anomaly. Usually, the Hebrew word for "times" is pa'amim (פעמים), but the Torah uses regalim (רגלים) instead. The word regalim typically refers to the three pilgrimage festivals of the Jewish people. Why this unusual word choice?

Rashi answers: "The donkey hinted to him, 'You seek to uproot a nation which celebrates the three pilgrimage festivals (shalosh regalim - רגלים)?'" The donkey's complaint operates on two levels: you've struck me three times, and you're attempting to curse a people whose observance of three festivals makes them curse-proof.

The donkey’s cryptic message raises the obvious question: why would festival observance provide such supernatural protection?

Spiritual Shortcuts

To solve this puzzle, let's examine what follows. Bilaam arrives in Moav, meets Balak, and attempts to curse the Jewish people. After two failed attempts, Bilaam changes strategy: "Bilaam saw that it pleased the Lord to bless Israel; so he did not go in search of omens as he had done, but turned his face toward the desert" (Numbers 24:1).

What was Bilaam seeking in the desert that might turn God's favor against the Jews? The ancient translator Onkelos explains: "He directed his face toward the desert, where the Israelites had made the Golden Calf." For his final attempt, Bilaam turned to the Nation’s greatest sin to invoke God’s wrath.

Let’s put the pieces together: The Golden Calf exposed our greatest weakness. The three pilgrimage festivals offer our ultimate defense. But what connects these two concepts? Why, of all things, do the pilgrimage festivals atone for the sin of the Golden Calf?

As we discussed in Parshas Ki Sisa ¹, idolatry is a desire to access the power of God without the proper relationship. An appropriate analogy would be the "one-night-stand" of our day and age - all of the pleasure of intimacy with none of the resultant responsibility of building a relationship or raising a child. When the Jewish people worshipped the Golden Calf, they sought access to Godly power, but on their own terms. They wanted all the benefits with none of the responsibility. When it comes to relationships, particularly our relationship with our Creator, there is no greater sin.

So what is the remedy? Putting the other before ourselves, even when it costs us. And that's exactly what the three pilgrimage festivals accomplished.²

The Ultimate Investment

After the conquest of Israel, God's command of the three pilgrimage festivals became reality: every Jewish male had to travel to the Temple in Jerusalem three times yearly, abandoning home, business, and family for weeks at a time.³

For those living at the borders, this journey could demand nearly a month of commitment—two weeks traveling each direction plus a week in Jerusalem. This happened twice yearly at full duration, with Shavuot requiring slightly less time. Men would desert their businesses at crucial agricultural seasons, leave their families vulnerable, and trek across dangerous terrain.

Think about the security implications. With all the men away, women and children remained completely exposed. Hostile neighbors, already resentful of Israel's conquest, would find the perfect opportunity for attack. Yet generation after generation, Jewish families accepted this risk, trusting in divine protection that came precisely through their willingness to abandon human security for spiritual obligation.⁴

Whereas worshipping the Golden Calf represented ultimate spiritual selfishness, the pilgrimage festivals represented ultimate selflessness. The Jews invested extraordinary effort, accepted massive risk, and demonstrated complete faith—all to serve God rather than themselves. This complete reversal—from taking to giving—became their shield against all curses.

Invest to Connect

This principle scales from the cosmic to the personal. Just as the Jewish nation’s effort to connect with God by traveling for his festivals built their relationship with Him and atoned for past lapses, the same dynamic applies to our personal relationships.

My friend Rami captured this principle perfectly in his pre-wedding speech: "The currency of love is effort." Investment, risk, and sacrifice don't just express love—they create it.

Take a moment to reflect on your most important relationships—both human and divine. Where can you invest more effort in giving to others? The next time a loved one asks you for an inconvenient favor, go the extra mile. When a mitzvah feels like a burden, embrace the added challenge.

These investments of effort will pay dividends of love and divine protection for years to come.

Shabbat Shalom!
Avraham

1. The Parsha that contains the sin of the Golden Calf
2. The Golden Calf and the three festivals share an extraordinary mathematical connection that reveals the Torah's stunning precision. The verses tell us the Jews worshipped the Golden Calf from dawn until midday when Moses descended from Mount Sinai—exactly 6 hours, or 360 minutes of sin. Now here's the remarkable discovery: the three festivals total exactly 15 days (7 for Passover, 1 for Shavuos, 7 for Sukkot). Calculate it out: 15 days × 24 hours = 360 hours. The symmetry is breathtaking—360 minutes of sin, 360 hours of atonement. The festivals don't just spiritually counter the Golden Calf; they mathematically mirror it with perfect precision.

   But the Torah's elegance goes even deeper. Jewish law contains a principle called "bitul b'shishim"—a forbidden substance becomes nullified when mixed with exactly 60 times its volume. Since 6 hours equals precisely 1/60th of 360 hours, the 360 hours of pilgrimage festivals don't just commemorate our return to God—they literally nullify the 6 hours of Golden Calf worship according to halachic principles.

   This calculation comes from Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak ben Asher of Pershischa (1766-1813), known as the "Yehudi ha'Kadosh," Appears in an earlier Sefer, Kosnos Or: כתנות אור - ורזיר, מאיר בן יצחק (page 65 of 86) (hebrewbooks.org) , beginning of Parshas Balak.

3. "Three times each year, all your males shall present themselves before God, the Master and Lord of Israel" (Exodus 34:23). (NOTE: Though it was not required and sometimes impossible to achieve, families would often travel together for these festivals)
4. This commandment of the pilgrimage festivals provides compelling evidence for Torah's divine origin. A human author would never have included such a suicidal practice in his religion—it's completely illogical to mandate national vulnerability without any way to guarantee safety. Even if the author were somehow charismatic enough to get people to sign on, people would have abandoned the religion within the first year after experiencing catastrophic attacks. The fact that Jews observed these pilgrimages for centuries, including during established periods under King Solomon and beyond, proves they actually received the divine protection the Torah promised.