The day of the Giving of the Torah was the day all of creation had been waiting for since the very beginning. Rashi (Bereishis 1:31) notes that the phrase “the sixth day” in the context of of the creation of the world was a hint not to just any sixth day, but to the Sixth of Sivan: the day the Torah was given.
The entire existence of the world hinged upon that moment. In fact, according to the Ramban, there is a mitzvah not only to remember the day the Torah was given, but never to forget it. And not merely as a historical event, but as something to be relived. In the words of the Ramban, our eyes and our hearts must be there every day (Hasagos HaRamban on Sefer HaMitzvos, Laavin 2). We must visualize it.
There was Moshe. There was Aaron. There was thunder, lightning, voices and flashes of fire. The mountain trembled, the sound of the great Shofar filled the air. It was an overwhelming scene of holiness and awe.
But why all the grandeur? Why make such a momentous occasion out of it if it ended, seemingly, in catastrophe? Before Moshe Rabbeinu had even descended from the mountain, there was the sin of the Cheit Ha’Egel and then the breaking of the Luchos. The entire course of Torah changed. Only on Yom Kippur did Moshe descend again, this time with the second Luchos.
So why is it so vital to remember the original Mattan Torah? What are we holding on to?
Let me tell you a story about one of the great Torah teachers of our generation: Rabbi Asher Arieli shlita.
Born in Bnei Brak in 1957, Rav Asher learned in the famed Ponevezh Yeshiva before moving to the Mir Yeshiva in Jerusalem. He married the daughter of the Mir’s revered Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Nochum Partzovitz zt”l. What began as a small Gemara class held in a dorm room has today become a global Torah phenomenon; his daily shiur attended to by over a thousand talmidim and broadcast around the world.
His shiur is breathtakingly deep, engaging, clear and thorough. Not a detail overlooked. In the three and a half years I had the privilege to learn in his shiur, I can’t recall Rav Asher hesitating once, repeating himself unnecessarily, or veering off topic. And yet, he is profoundly humble.
I remember asking him to serve as sandek (the one who holds the baby) at our son Akiva’s bris milah. He agreed, on one condition: we not announce his name during the ceremony. I also recall one Friday afternoon, when he called our home to wish me mazal tov on a halachic sefer I had recently published and given him. My wife answered the phone. He introduced himself simply by his first name. “I don’t really know much about halacha,” he said, “but it seems like a fine sefer. It must all be in your zechus (merit).”
So why do we commemorate such a moment of the original Giving of the Torah if it ended in failure?
It’s true that what we received there did not endure unbroken. The first Luchos were shattered. But the experience itself—the Revelation—was real. And that, says the Ramban, is what we must never let go of. It was an earth-shattering encounter with Hakadosh Baruch Hu, with Divine truth.
Chazal (Berachos 22a) teach us that every time we sit down to learn Torah, it must mirror that original moment: “with fear, awe, with trembling, and with sweat.” Torah is the foundation. Nothing else truly matters.
Listening to Rav Asher—whether he’s explaining a subtle distinction between two views in a Tosafos, or analyzing how a Rashba consistently interprets two different Gemaras in a similar vein—is like stepping back into that moment. There is power, there is clarity, there is truth. It feels like a taste of Har Sinai. And it can change a life.
Allow me to share an extraordinary story.
A senior student from the Mir Yeshiva was once riding in a taxi. The driver did not seem religious. Yet he turned and asked, “Do you know Rav Asher Arieli from the Mir?” The student replied that he did. The driver explained that Rav Asher had played a pivotal role in his family's life.
His son, a talented and intelligent young man, had just completed his army service. He was being asked to stay in the military or pursue top-tier university programs. The world was wide open to him.
One day, while taking care of some errands in Yerushalayim, the young man was caught in a sudden downpour on Shmuel HaNavi Street, not far from the Mir Yeshiva. Seeking shelter, he stood under an awning by a building. That building hosts a shiur Rav Asher gives twice a week in Hebrew.
Out of curiosity, the soldier began to listen. He was transfixed. He had never heard Torah presented like that before. He remained rooted to the spot, soaking in every word.
At the end of the lecture, Rav Asher walked out, and saw the young man still standing there. Without hesitation, Rav Asher offered to share his umbrella. They walked together. The soldier began to speak about the shiur, about what he had just heard. They spoke words of Torah together. And that was a turning point. That conversation changed his life.
The taxi driver concluded: “Today, my son is a full-time yeshiva student at the Mir, in the Beis Shalom building.”
As Shavuos approaches, we may not all be able to attend—or return to—Rav Asher’s shiur or a similar one from our personal past. But in our own current avodah and in our Torah learning, we can heed the Ramban’s call: to re-experience and reconnect to the awesome power of Har Sinai.
Because it wasn’t just a moment in history. It is the moment that continues to shape us. Forever.
