Tipping the Scale: The Spiritual Myth of 50/50

Let’s start by looking at a few sources — from the Torah and the Talmud — that seem, at first glance, to share a common theme. I will hold off on explaining them for now and just let the words speak.

Bereishit 28:12

וַיַּחֲלֹם, וְהִנֵּה סֻלָּם מֻצָּב אַרְצָה, וְרֹאשׁוֹ מַגִּיעַ הַשָּׁמָיִם; וְהִנֵּה מַלְאֲכֵי אֱלֹהִים, עֹלִים וְיֹרְדִים בּוֹ.

“And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set upon the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven; and behold, angels of God ascending and descending on it.”

Rosh Hashanah 16b

אָמַר רַבִּי קְרוּסְפְּדַאי, אָמַר רַבִּי יוֹחָנָן: שְׁלֹשָׁה סְפָרִים נִפְתָּחִים בְּרֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה — אֶחָד שֶׁל צַדִּיקִים גְּמוּרִים, וְאֶחָד שֶׁל רְשָׁעִים גְּמוּרִים, וְאֶחָד שֶׁל בֵּינוֹנִים...

Rav Kruspadai said in the name of Rabbi Yochanan: Three books are opened on Rosh Hashanah — one for the completely righteous, one for the completely wicked, and one for the beinonim. The tzaddikim are written and sealed immediately for life. The resha’im for death. The beinonim are suspended from Rosh Hashanah until Yom Kippur. If they merit, they are written for life; if not, for death

Rosh Hashanah 17a

אָמַר רָבָא:אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁשְּׁקוּלִין — מַעֲבִירִין לוֹ עַל כָּל פְּשָׁעָיו.אָמַר רָבָא:אִם הָיְתָה בּוֹ עֲבֵרָה שֶׁל חִלּוּל הַשֵּׁם — דָּנִין אוֹתוֹ כְּחַיָּיב גָּמוּר.

Rava said: Even if one’s deeds are exactly balanced, Hashem may pardon all his sins... But with beinonim, if there is a sin of chilul Hashem, they are judged as fully guilty.”

Niddah 30b

מַשְׁבִּיעִין אוֹתוֹ: תְּהִי צַדִּיק וְאַל תְּהִי רָשָׁע...

“They (the angels) administer an oath to the soul before birth: ‘Be righteous and do not be wicked.’ And even if the entire world tells you that you are righteous — regard yourself as wicked.”

The Myth of the Middle: Is the Beinoni a Real Spiritual Category?

Let’s begin with Yaacov’s dream. A ladder, rooted in the earth, reaches heavenward. Upon it, angels ascend and descend—constantly. There’s no pause. No stillness. Why? Is this just a poetic image of angelic traffic — or is it revealing something deeper about the human soul? About life itself? That we are never still. That we are either rising or falling.

Then we encounter Rosh Hashanah 16b, which introduces a cosmic judgment: three books are opened—one each for tzaddikim (the righteous), resha’im (the wicked), and beinonim (the intermediates). The first two are sealed on the spot. But the bei`nonim? Their fate is suspended. They’re not written in either book. They wait. Until Yom Kippur. Why? Can a person remain a beinoni forever? And if not — what kind of “book” has no permanent entries? What kind of category has no conclusion?

Rosh Hashanah 17a provides a sharper edge. If someone’s deeds are exactly 50/50, Hashem may override the scale—either pardoning their sins (ma’avirin lo) or judging them guilty based on the presence of chilul Hashem. In other words, being a beinoni isn’t a final state. It’s unstable. It cannot last. Sooner or later, the scale tips — by merit, by sin, or by Divine discretion. So again: is it even possible to remain a beinoni? Or is that category more of a crossroads than a destination?

And finally, Niddah 30b. Before birth, the soul is made to swear: “Be righteous. Do not be wicked.” But what happens if you’re neither? If you live your whole life somewhere in the middle—good moments, bad ones, but never fully a tzaddik, and never truly a rasha? Have you fulfilled the oath? Or violated it? What if you die a beinoni—have you kept the promise, or broken it? You would, in effect, be a kind of spiritual Schrödinger’s Cat: both compliant and in breach, both loyal and disappointing, you weren’t righteous and yet you also weren’t wicked.

Put all these sources together, and they begin to whisper—or perhaps shout—a singular, existential question:

Is being a beinoni a real spiritual state? Or just a moment of moral tension meant to push us toward a choice—up or down, merit or guilt, life or death? Is neutrality ever truly sustainable? Or is it an illusion that demands resolution?

This question lies at the heart of the human condition. And the answers we find will shape how we view struggle, growth, and the purpose of our lives.

The Illusion of In-Between: Why the Beinoni Is Just a Moment, Not an Identity

The answer, as my mashgiach in yeshiva — Rav Reich — would so often say, is deceptively simple:“אין מציאות של בינוני – There is no such thing as a beinoni.”

But first: the Baal Shem Tov famously teaches that the ladder in Yaacov’s dream represents the life journey of the soul. Every person has their own ladder connecting Heaven and Earth, and the angels are our thoughts, desires, intentions, and deeds.

The ladder is the bridge, between physical world and the spiritual world. The ladder is set on the ground, but its head reaches the heavens — because every action in this world has a Heavenly impact.The angels going up and down are the soul’s movements. You’re never standing still. You’re either climbing closer to Hashem or slipping further away.

Similarly, at any given moment, you either have more merits or more sins. The scale is never perfectly balanced. The image of the beinoni — that razor’s edge between righteous and wicked — isn’t a lasting state. It’s a tool for decision-making, not a description of who you are.

The concept exists only to support what the Gemara in Kiddushin 40b teaches:

לְעוֹלָם יִרְאֶה אָדָם עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ חֶצְיוֹ חַיָּב וְחֶצְיוֹ זַכַּאי...עָשָׂה מִצְוָה אַחַת — אַשְׁרֵיּו שֶׁהִכְרִיעַ אֶת עַצְמוֹ וְאֶת כָּל הָעוֹלָם כֻּלוֹ לְכַף זְכוּת.עָבַר עֲבֵרָה אַחַת — אוֹי לוֹ שֶׁהִכְרִיעַ אֶת עַצְמוֹ וְאֶת כָּל הָעוֹלָם כֻּלוֹ לְכַף חוֹבָה.

A person should always view himself as though he is half guilty and half meritorious. If he does one mitzvah — fortunate is he, for he has tipped himself and the whole world to the side of merit. If he sins — woe to him, for he has tipped himself and the whole world to guilt.

The idea isn’t that you are a beinoni — it’s that you should see yourself that way. To internalize the immediacy of choice. The gravity of action. The nearness of the tipping point.The beinoni is a mental model, a lens, a moment of tension — but not a spiritual identity you can settle into.

Because if you try to live in that middle space, you’ll be forced out of it. By Yom Kippur, you will only be written in one of two books. Either Hashem will tilt the scale — as Rava describes in Rosh Hashanah 17a — by forgiving or condemning, or life itself will push you upward or pull you downward. But you will not remain still.

Rav Dessler teaches that every person has a unique bechirah point — the line where their real inner battle is fought. Actions beyond that point are habitual, either good or bad. It's only on that razor’s edge — where resistance is real and the outcome is uncertain — that spiritual growth actually happens.

That edge is the true meaning of beinoni — not a fixed identity, but a battlefield. You don’t live your whole life on that line, but you grow only when you're there.

That is why there is no permanent residence in the book of the beinonim. You have to clarify which direction you're headed. You can’t straddle both sides of the road — eventually, you’ll be pulled to one side or the other. The ladder of Yaacov’s dream — like the soul itself — demands movement. Ascending or descending. Rising or falling. Never staying put.

And so, the takeaway becomes piercingly clear:

You want to end up a tzaddik? Then win the next battle. And the one after that. Because that’s how tzidkut is built — not by being perfect, but by being conscious.

Every moment. Every challenge. Every decision… is the one that tips the scale.Not just for you — but for the entire world.

So the next time you’re in doubt — faced with a moral test, a flicker of temptation, a moment of spiritual fatigue — remember what’s at stake.

You are standing at the center of a scale.

One choice. One mitzvah. One act of restraint.

And the world changes.

Because in that moment, you’re not a beinoni.

You’re a decision waiting to happen.

Arachin and the Illusion of Spiritual Math

Last week, we explored the world of Arachin — the Torah’s enigmatic system for assigning a fixed monetary value to a person, not based on wealth, status, or deeds, but purely by age and gender. And we asked: what does this mean b’derush, in spiritual terms?

I shared then a beautiful comment from the Alshich, who suggests that Arachin isn’t about economics — it’s about reminding us that in spiritual essence, every person is valued equally. Because every soul - as long the person is alive - has unlimited spiritual potential. Because every living moment can be used for something of infinite value.

But there’s a deeper problem with assigning spiritual “worth.” How would we calculate it?

Our spiritual state is constantly shifting. We move up and down — like the angels in Yaacov’s dream, who were in perpetual ascent and descent. We are never still. Which begs the question: how can anyone quantify a person’s value at any given time?

We don’t see each other’s battles. We don’t know their history, their inner resistance, their starting line. We don’t feel the weight of their nisyonot, or the cost of their victories.

Even self-assessment is flawed. Even if we tried to tally up mitzvot and aveirot — turning our own lives into some kind of spiritual ledger — we’d be lost. Because mitzvot don’t come with fixed price tags. Their weight depends on effort, intention, and context. A small, hard-won mitzvah might carry far more weight than a hundred easy ones.

Therefore any system that tries to assign concrete values to mitzvot and aveirot — as if they were line items in a spreadsheet — is built on a false premise. That a sin always "costs" X and a mitzvah always "earns" Y. But Torah rejects that idea.

As it says in Pirkei Avot:

"הֱוֵי מְחַשֵּׁב הֶפְסֵד מִצְוָה כְּנֶגֶד שָׂכָרָהּ, וְשָׂכַר עֲבֵרָה כְּנֶגֶד הֶפְסְדָהּ… וְאַל תְּהִי מַשְׁקִיל כְּנֶגֶד מִצְוֹת, שֶׁאֵין אַתָּה יוֹדֵעַ מַתַּן שְׂכָרָן."“

Don’t weigh mitzvot — because you don’t know their true reward.

Nor - the commentaries add - can we fully comprehend the loss or punishment of an aveirah.

You can’t quantify the infinite. You can’t put Divine will into a calculator.

And so we return to Rav Reich’s words — “Ein metziut shel beinoni.”

The idea that we can measure ourselves precisely enough to say, “I’m exactly 50/50” — is not only spiritually dangerous, it’s ontologically false. We don’t have the data. We don’t know the weights. We don’t even know the scale.

The only thing we can know — is the next decision. The next mitzvah. The next moment.

Because that’s where we actually live. In the present. Not in the totals, but in the turning point.

And that’s where we win or lose everything.

Mitzvot Don't Cancel Aveirot

There is a bigger problem to aspiring to be average, to be a beinoni, to aim for 50/50, and that is Mitvot don't cancel Aveirot.

When we speak of judgment after death, there's a common misconception: that our mitzvot and aveirot are simply tallied up and pitted against each other. That if you did 200,000 mitzvot and committed 150,000 aveirot, you cash in your chips, collect the 50,000 mitzvah surplus and take the elevator to Gan Eden.

But that’s not how it works.

In truth, the mitzvot don’t cancel out the aveirot. Each one is judged on its own terms. You are first punished for your sins. Only afterwards are you rewarded for your mitzvot.

This is brought down clearly in Sanhedrin 111a, where the Gemara says:

“The sinners among Israel, although they have many mitzvot… are judged for their sins and rewarded for their merits.”

The Meiri explains there that this is actually a kindness, a chessed, from Hashem.

Why?

Because if mitzvot and aveirot did cancel each other out, we’d be the losers. Because the punishment for aveirot is limited in time, while the reward for mitzvot is eternal.

The Torah itself hints at this imbalance. In Shemot 20:5–6, we read:

"פֹּקֵד עֲוֺן אָבוֹת עַל בָּנִים עַל שִׁלֵּשִׁים וְעַל רִבֵּעִים… וְעֹשֶׂה חֶסֶד לַאֲלָפִים."“

He visits the sins of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generation… but He shows kindness for thousands of generations.”

Three or four generations of consequence for sin. But thousands of generations of reward for righteousness. That is not balance. That is disproportion — in our favour.

iStore vs. FreshMarket: A Simple Analogy

And to bring it down to earth, here’s a simple analogy that makes the point crystal clear. It's how I explained the concept to my children:

Imagine two shopkeepers — neighbors in the same shopping mall. One owns a FreshMarket: fruit, vegetables, nuts. The other owns an iStore: iPhones, MacBooks, iPads.

Neither has cash on hand, so they agree to a barter arrangement:

“You take three items from my store, and I’ll take three from yours.”

It sounds fair.

So the FreshMarket owner walks into the iStore and walks out with a MacBook, iPad, and iPhone.

Then the iStore owner visits FreshMarket and takes a packet of apples (obviously), a sack of oranges, and a bunch of carrots

.

Still “three for three,” right?

But something feels… off.

Because while the quantity is equal, the value is not.

That’s the problem with thinking that mitzvot cancel out aveirot.

Even if your mitzvot outnumber your sins — even if you “get six fruits for every three devices lost” — you’re still losing, not winning.

You’re trading eternal reward for temporary consequence. You're bartering away the infinite.

And so Hashem, in His mercy, says:

No. I will not let your mitzvot pay for your sins. You will suffer the consequences of your aveirot — but you will still receive every ounce of eternal reward for your mitzvot.

Because if He let them cancel each other out, we’d walk away with apples — and leave our Olam Haba on the shelf.

The 42 Journeys: Your Life, Mapped

From Constriction to Completion

This week’s parsha — Masei — reads, on the surface, like a travel log.

“These are the journeys of the Children of Israel, who went out of the land of Egypt...”And then it lists them — all 42 stops — from Mitzrayim to the edge of the Promised Land. From Ramses to Sukkot, Marah to Eilim, Har Shefer, Makhelot, Hor Hahar…Some names are familiar, others obscure. Some feel deeply symbolic, others appear entirely uneventful.

But none of them are random.

The Baal Shem Tov teaches — and the Sfat Emet (Matot-Masei 5641), Zohar, and Arizal echo this — that these 42 journeys aren’t just historical stops of the Jewish people in the desert. They are the spiritual blueprint of every single soul.

From the moment a soul leaves its personal Mitzrayim until it reaches the Promised Land, it walks these same 42 stages.

And every one of them has meaning.

If you explore the classical commentaries, you’ll find that each stop along the way holds its own message — a spiritual layer, a moment of inner experience. While different sources sometimes interpret these places differently, I’ll keep it simple: just the name, a translation, and one symbolic reading. I won’t unpack each one in detail, but I do want to highlight the overall pattern — and draw attention to a few stages that reflect emotional and spiritual states we’ve all encountered on our own journeys.

The 42 Journeys of the Soul — Symbolic Summary

#	Station Name	Symbolic Meaning
1	Raamses	Birth — entry into the world of spiritual slavery and ego
2	Sukkot	Divine embrace — Hashem shelters the fledgling soul
3	Etam	Boundaries — soul begins to confront the edge of comfort
4	Pi Hachirot	Crisis of faith — trapped with no way out; the need for surrender
5	Marah	Bitterness — first taste of suffering and the test of emunah
6	Elim	Spiritual rest — brief clarity and refreshment (12 springs, 70 palms)
7	Yam Suf	Crossing — the breaking of inner barriers, the leap of faith
8	Midbar Sin	Hunger — craving more, confronting inner lack
9	Dofkah	Weakness — moments of spiritual fragility and hesitation
10	Alush	Sustenance — experiencing Divine providence (manna)
11	Refidim	Spiritual laziness — loosening one’s grip on Torah
12	Midbar Sinai	Revelation — clarity, purpose, and mission
13	Kivrot Hata’avah	Burial of desire — unchecked material lust is the downfall
14	Chatzerot	Conflict — interpersonal struggles, like Korach’s rebellion
15	Ritmah	Despair — spiritual exhaustion and loss of direction
16	Rimon Peretz	Shattering — breaking through barriers with effort
17	Livnah	Purity — moments of light after darkness (לבנה = whiteness)
18	Rissah	Crumbling — deconstruction of ego and false security
19	Keheilatah	Gathering — soul begins to unify its scattered parts
20	Mount Shefer	Beauty — glimpses of spiritual elevation
21	Charadah	Awe — trembling before Divine presence
22	Makhelot	Community — connection to others on the path
23	Tachat	Lowliness — hitting rock bottom, humility
24	Tarach	Delay — the spiritual frustration of stagnation
25	Mithkah	Sweetening — internal healing begins
26	Chashmonah	Silence — spiritual introspection, quieting the noise
27	Mosserot	Rebuke — lessons learned from painful consequences
28	Bene Yaakan	Youthful yearning — childlike seeking of Hashem
29	Hor Haggidgad	Overflowing joy — bursts of spiritual inspiration
30	Yotvatah	Goodness — recognition of Divine kindness in one’s path
31	Avronah	Transition — preparing for deeper change
32	Etzion Gever	Strength — building inner resilience and confidence
33	Kadesh Barnea	Missed opportunity — facing the pain of unfulfilled potential
34	Mount Hor	Mortality — confronting loss (Aharon dies here)
35	Tzalmonah	Shadow — walking through spiritual darkness
36	Punon	Bitterness again — cyclical nature of inner struggle
37	Obot	Hollow places — confronting emptiness within
38	Iyei HaAvarim	Hindsight — reflection on past journeys and mistakes
39	Dibon Gad	Healing — emotional and spiritual recovery begins
40	Almon Diblathayim	Hidden sweetness — finding purpose in suffering
41	Mount Avarim (Nebo)	Vision — glimpsing destiny, even if not yet reached
42	Plains of Moav	Preparation — the soul’s readiness to enter its higher calling

The Journey Begins

The soul’s journey begins in Mitzrayim — the meitzar, the place of constriction. It’s the spiritual exile we’re all born into: emerging from the purity of the womb into a world of confusion, desire, distraction, and doubt. We’re not yet enslaved by Pharaoh, but already entangled in the pull of the physical and the voice of the yetzer hara.

And yet, even in that darkness, something stirs. Movement. The desire to leave. The journey begins — and the first stop is Sukkot, not named for a nation or a tribe, but for Divine shelter. A sukkah is fragile, temporary — and yet Hashem’s protection is real even in our earliest, most uncertain steps. It’s a reminder: even raw beginnings are held.

Then comes Marah — bitterness. The excitement of change gives way to disillusionment. Growth hurts. The Zohar teaches that Marah is a test of perspective: can you find sweetness in the struggle?

At Eilim, there’s calm again: twelve springs and seventy palms. Order. Harmony. A breath after panic. But at Refidim, the people loosen their grip on Torah — and Amalek attacks. Spiritual apathy leaves us vulnerable.

Later comes Kivrot HaTaavah, the graves of craving — where unchecked desire leads to collapse. And then Har Shefer — beauty, potential, a glimpse of what could be. Followed by Makhelot — gathering, unity, community.

But even the peaks are followed by valleys. Charadah — trembling. Hor Hahar — loss. Rissah — unraveling. Ritmah — despair. Almon Diblathayimah - spiritual burnout.

And yet, recovery follows: Mitkah, where sweetness returns. Chashmonah, hinting at the Choshen, the breastplate of the Kohen Gadol — a symbol of restored clarity and direction. The soul regains its footing.

Not every place is clearly understood. Some names are more developed in the commentaries; others remain mysterious. But when you zoom out, a rhythm emerges:

Constriction → Shelter

Bitterness → Sweetness

Falling → Gathering

Doubt → Vision

Loss → Light

Burnout → Reawakening

The journey isn’t linear. We rise, we fall, and we rise again — but never to the same place. Each descent plants the seed of the next ascent.

The Torah doesn’t list these 42 stops for historical recordkeeping. It lists them because every soul walks them. This is the ladder of life.

Not in the same order. Not with the same intensity.But always with the same depth of meaning.

And so we live.

We live with this map.

We live with the knowledge that life is movement — a climb, a slide, a stumble, a rise.

The soul doesn’t hover in place. Just like Yaacov’s ladder, there are only two directions: up or down. There is no neutral. No cruise control. No concept of being a beinoni in actuality. And that’s not a flaw — that’s by design.

And hovering over all of it is the truth from Rosh Hashanah: at every moment, we teeter on the edge. One mitzvah can tip the scale. One lapse can weigh it down. That’s not meant to frighten us — it’s meant to focus us.

“לְעוֹלָם יִרְאֶה אָדָם אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ חֶצְיוֹ חַיָּב וְחֶצְיוֹ זַכָּאי” 

— see yourself as suspended, in divine balance. Because you are. Every hour, every decision, is a chance to write the next chapter. You don’t have to be a tzaddik in the grand, lifelong sense. You just have to choose right now. The next mitzvah. The next expression of emunah. Just make it through this hour. Then the next.

A word of thanks

I usually end these messages with a thank you. But today, it feels different.

The truth is, I don’t write these posts for anyone else. I write them to steady myself. They’re not divrei Torah in the formal sense — they’re fragments of thought, reflections, survival tools. It’s how I hold onto meaning when so much feels ungraspable. It's how I process the ever changing landscape and seasons of life. And truthfully… it’s cheaper than therapy.

But I share them — even the raw, uncomfortable parts — because maybe someone out there needs them. Maybe, just maybe, someone else out there might be helped, or stirred, or reminded of something important. Maybe they offer a flicker of clarity or comfort. Maybe they remind someone to light a candle, to say a perek of Tehillim, to give tzedakah. And if even one mitzvah is done in Mikki’s merit, then that act becomes part of something eternal — not just for her healing in this world, but for her soul’s journey beyond it. Because mitzvot last forever. Even the smallest one can tilt the scale — for a person, a family, the world.

So thank you — from the depths of my heart — for your prayers, your mitzvot, your support. For walking this painful and precious road with us.

May all our efforts rise together as one unified plea to shamayim, and may Michal Chava bas Feiga Aviva be blessed with a refuah shleimah b’karov — a complete healing, in body and in soul.

And let’s not forget:

We weren’t created to aim for “beinoni.” We were created to strive higher — to become tzaddikim. Not perfect, but purposeful. Not flawless, but faithful.

But here’s the thing: no one becomes a tzaddik overnight. Growth doesn’t happen in grand leaps — it happens at the bechirah point — the moment of choice. That razor-thin edge where the struggle is real, the outcome uncertain, and the decision you make becomes part of who you are.

And sometimes, that decision is just to keep going.

In the world of oncology, we hear this often: take it one day at a time. But some days, even that feels too big. Some days, it’s one hour at a time. Sometimes, it’s just get through the next 15 minutes until the morphine kicks in.

And the same is true in avodat Hashem. If the thought of “becoming a tzaddik” feels impossible — break it down. What good can I do today? What honest choice can I make in the next hour? What mitzvah can I grab hold of right now, in this very moment?

Because that’s where the transformation happens — not in the totals, but in the turning point.

One moment at a time. One mitzvah at a time.

And sometimes — one breath at a time.