Rav Micha Cohn on How a Ben Torah Should Approach Drinking

Meir Kass

 

R’ Moshe Klein* sat with his family at his brother-in-law’s dining room table, surrounded by laughter, clinking cups, and Purim music blasting through the home. R’ Moshe—known by family and friends alike as a serious, disciplined ben Torah—had come determined to enjoy the seudah responsibly. Even on Purim, he believed he understood his limits.

It started slowly. A little challah with half a cup of wine. Then another cup, and then another. His head swam as someone refilled his cup before he could object. The room was getting a bit blurry, but he felt relaxed and light, free of the weight that usually followed him.

By the time the seudah was winding down, his speech had slurred and his legs wavered. His wife, Chana*, knew it was enough.

“Moshe, maybe it’s time we take the kids and go home,” she whispered.

“In a minute,” he replied. “Just one more l’chaim.”

 

A few moments later, he stood up.

“This neighborhood is way too quiet! I’m going to the neighbors to spread the simchah.”

Chana rose. “Moshe, we…”

Her voice drifted off as her husband walked right out the door.

“I’ll be right back!” he called out.

An hour passed, and Chana began to worry. She called his phone and listened as it rang without answer. Probably having a good time, she reassured herself.

But by midnight, the neighborhood was silent. Her sister-in-law, seeing the fear in her eyes, called the neighbors to find out where R’ Moshe was. They had seen him staggering around, but nobody was quite sure where he’d gone afterward.

At 1 a.m., she called Hatzolah, who, after doing some investigating, informed her that a man matching her husband’s description had been brought to the hospital. He had blacked out and was found on a street, freezing and unconscious.

When he woke, Chana sat beside his bed, her eyes red with exhaustion. Their children had been put to sleep at her sister-in-law’s.

Memory returned to R’ Moshe in fragments—the cups, the laughter, walking out. Then came the realization of what he had done.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“You’re going to have to explain that to the kids” was all Chana could reply.

 

The deuling duality

The proper place for alcohol in a ben Torah’s life is often fuzzy, suspended somewhere in the intersection of kedushah and its polar opposite. From the very beginning of a Yid’s life, alcohol is present. Kiddush is recited over it each week. A newborn tastes it at his bris. Marriage is consecrated under the chuppah through it. Purim—a day so inviting to kedushah that the loftiest day of the year is said to be only yom k’Purim (like Purim)—is defined by it. Far from being incidental, alcohol stands at the center of a Jew’s most meaningful and solemnest moments.

And yet, running parallel to this role are the warnings about alcohol. Sefarim speak scathingly about intoxication and excess. The great works of mussar warn how easily wine can weaken restraint and blur spiritual sensitivity.

Experience confirms what the sefarim caution. Nobody is completely unaware of how alcohol can damage families, sometimes irreparably. The same substance that accompanies kedushah can also usher in humiliation, devastation, and irretrievable loss.

At first glance, this appears to be a contradiction. How can something so closely associated with frivolity and harm be tied to moments of kedushah?

Of course, there’s no contradiction at all. Alcohol, like many powerful forces in life, is morally neutral. It takes its character from the purpose it serves. Much like a hammer, alcohol can be used to build or to destroy. The distinction between “good” and “bad” is made by the one utilizing it.

Yet, while this principle is obvious to most, the difficulty lies in living it. In today’s world, drinking is no longer exclusively reserved for rare occasions, and in many circles, drinking has become routine. L’chaims are no longer reserved for milestones but have become weekly gatherings, sometimes nightly rituals. What was once special has become standard. What was once controlled has become casual. And in that casualness, boundaries have begun to blur.

A ben Torah is taught to live with purpose and discipline. His life is built around awareness of time, speech, action, and influences. He measures himself constantly. Yet alcohol resists measurement. It softens edges, loosens restraint, and shifts perception.

From a hashkafic standpoint, when is alcohol a part of avodas Hashem, and when does it drift away from it? When does it enhance simchah, and when does it replace it? When is it controlled, and when is it controlling? When does it serve the person, and when does the person begin to serve it?

Where, exactly, does alcohol belong?

 

Drawing the line

The Voice posed this question to Rav Micha Cohn, the rav of the Oakley Hills kehillah in Jackson, whose many years of guiding bnei Torah has given him a nuanced understanding of the balance required. The framework he provided addresses several key components: the distinction between drinking and drunkenness, the concept of ta’avah yeseirah, the difference between personal outlets and cultural pressures, and the social dimension of alcohol consumption. Each element reveals something essential about where alcohol belongs—and where it doesn’t—in a ben Torah’s life.

“The starting point of any discussion about alcohol is the Rambam in Hilchos Dei’os,” Rav Micha says.

The Rambam (5:3) writes: Kol hamishtaker, harei zeh choteh u’migunah u’me’abeid chochmoso. Whoever becomes intoxicated is a sinner, disgraceful, and loses his wisdom. V’im hishtaker bifnei am ha’aretz, harei zeh chillel es Hashem. And if he becomes drunk in front of common people, he has desecrated Hashem’s name.

The Rambam makes clear that becoming drunk is deleterious, and in certain instances, an outright chillul Hashem. Rav Yitzchak Feigelstock, the rosh yeshivah of Mesivta of Long Beach, would note a distinction that emerges from the Rambam’s formulation: “Ah Yid iz nisht ah shikker.” A Yid can drink, but a Yid is not a drunk.

From a mental health perspective, a person who finds himself becoming intoxicated or even getting high when not socially appropriate, like on a random Tuesday night, may have a serious underlying issue and should seek professional help.

 

Enjoyment versus excess

There’s an important concept that Rav Moshe Feinstein discusses in Igros Moshe (Orach Chaim siman 156): ta’avah yeseirah—an excessive or self-created desire.

Hakadosh Baruch Hu created a world filled with things meant to be enjoyed: good food, a comfortable home, quality clothing, and countless other pleasures. We’re not only permitted to enjoy them; in many cases, we’re encouraged to. But when pleasures become perceived necessities, when occasional indulgences become defining elements of one’s identity or lifestyle, they turn into a ta’avah yeseirah. It’s no longer simply enjoying what Hashem provided. It’s manufacturing a need, and Rav Moshe paskens that doing so is assur.

“Rav Moshe’s framework is very relevant to alcohol,” Rav Micha explains. “If someone drinks b’mikreh—as an occasional enjoyment—there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. But when drinking stems from a sense of compulsion, whether from addiction or from social pressure, then it has entered the realm of ta’avah yeseirah. At that point, it’s not even about the quantity. Whether one shot or ten, the issue is the psychological need driving it.”

 

Enhancement or emptiness?

Another important point that Rav Micha says must be taken into account is the real value in the social connections forged in gatherings involving drinking. Maintaining a healthy social life is essential for our well-being, and the advantages provided by getting together with friends can’t be discounted.

But, he stresses, not every social gathering involving alcohol is the same.

The Mishnah says in Pirkei Avos (3:3) that if people gather together for a meal and don’t discuss divrei Torah, it’s like they ate from idolatry. The meaning of the mishnah is that a Yid should seek to elevate his social gatherings and interactions. The Rambam says that a talmid chacham should only partake in a seudas mitzvah, not a seudas reshus.

In one type of gathering, people come together around something meaningful. They learn, exchange ideas, engage in thoughtful conversation, or otherwise connect on a substantive level. As an aside, they may drink some alcohol to lighten the mood or just to enjoy a shot. In this setting, alcohol is secondary. It complements what’s already rich and worthwhile. It enhances an experience that would be valuable even without it.

In the other type of gathering, people assemble without meaningful content. The conversation revolves around trivialities, surface-level entertainment, or “hock.” There’s no depth in the gathering itself. In this environment, alcohol isn’t used to supplement the gathering, but to fill the vacuum. It becomes the central source of stimulation, compensating for the absence of substance.

“The difference between these two gatherings is tremendous,” Rav Micha says. “When alcohol or indulgence in food that has unfortunately become all too popular is the ikkar—the defining element or one of the defining elements of the gathering—it points to a lack of internal content, a hollow space begging to be filled.

“When drinking or indulgence in food acts as emotional padding, used to mask boredom or emptiness, it becomes a substitute for meaning. And at that point, one must have the self-awareness and self-honesty to ask themselves not only how much they’re drinking, but why they’re drinking in the first place.”

The pasuk tells us, “V’yayin yisamach levav enosh—wine gladdens the heart of man.”

“It’s true that a simchah can be enhanced by wine,” Rav Cohn explains. “But the focus of a simchah isn’t the wine. The place of wine is to accompany meaningful moments, but not as an end unto itself.”

 

Social pressures

Rav Micha also cites the Rambam in Shemoneh Perakim, who writes that different people require different things to have yishuv hada’as and feel settled and content. One person feels satisfied only with refined food; another finds fulfillment in a beautiful home or elegant clothing. Human beings need legitimate outlets and constructive channels for their personal pleasure and self-expression.

For some, developing expertise in wine may serve as such an outlet. Some chashuve bnei Torah find the art of winemaking a healthy outlet, and using their homemade wine becomes a special feature of their Pesach Sedarim. For others, it might be collecting Judaica, athletics, or learning a musical instrument. Regardless of the outlet, the principle is the same: if an activity contributes to one’s yishuv hada’as, doesn’t lead to addiction or harm, and isn’t inherently inappropriate, there’s room for it. Additionally, it’s always best when a person can channel these interests for a dvar mitzvah.

But there’s a critical difference between a personal outlet and a social performance.

“When engagement in something is driven not by internal need but by external expectation—‘this is what we do,’ or ‘this is who we are’—it takes on a life of its own. The whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts,” Rav Micha stresses.

“Consider vacations,” he says. “For generations, families traveled to places they genuinely wanted to experience and enjoy. Today, many feel compelled to vacation in particular destinations, not because they’re personally drawn there, but because that’s what their social circle does. There’s nothing inherently wrong with seeing the nifla’os haborei in Arizona or the Rocky Mountains. But if the decision is driven by social conformity, then the issue is no longer where you’re going, but why you’re going. The problem is the psychological dependency on validation.”

The same applies to alcohol and good food. One may enjoy a drink. But if drinking becomes an expression of belonging—if it’s done because “this is what our chevrah does”—then a critical component has changed. The drinking is no longer about enjoyment; it’s about identity. This is when it takes on a life of its own and spirals out of control. Much of the excessive materialism in our community that’s often lamented about is driven precisely by this phenomenon.

“Interest shouldn’t be confused with popularity,” Rav Micha clarifies. “In recent years, many people have discovered that they enjoy sourdough challah. If you genuinely prefer it, there’s no problem—enjoy it. But if the appeal is because everyone is doing it, then the motivation has changed. One is authentic preference; the other is social currency.”

 

Attitude is everything

Distilled to its essence, there’s one question every ben Torah should ask himself about his relationship with alcohol: Is drinking alcohol something I enjoy from time to time, or has it become a need? Can I enjoy a Shabbos meal without a shot or has it become embedded in my lifestyle?

“That question is the real test. It determines whether alcohol occupies a healthy, limited role in a person’s life or whether it has begun to assume something larger,” Rav Micha says.

If you feel compelled to take the drink—because of social pressure, cultural expectation, or emotional dependency—you’re on unstable ground. That’s where problems begin. If, however, your drinking remains within appropriate boundaries and isn’t shaping your identity or defining your gatherings, then there’s no inherent issue. The permissibility lies not only in the act itself, but in the attitude toward it.

“Alcohol isn’t intrinsically good or bad. It isn’t automatically virtuous, nor inherently corrupting. Its impact depends entirely on the individual and the mindset with which it’s approached,” he says. “When it’s enjoyed responsibly, without dependency, without excess, and without becoming the central feature of one’s social or personal life, it can remain in its proper place.

“But if it begins to function as a necessity or a defining feature of a gathering, then a ben Torah must pause. He must have an honest conversation with himself about what’s driving his behavior and whether that aligns with the life he seeks to build.”

The issue isn’t the drink. It’s the attitude. And that attitude is the choice every ben Torah must make.