Our Gemara on amud aleph explains that the tribes measured the value of land in Israel based on its proximity to Jerusalem. The closer the land was to Jerusalem, the more valuable it was considered. This seems logical—land closer to the center of spiritual life would naturally be more desirable.

However, this Gemara appears to contradict a fundamental Jewish ethic known as sechar halicha, the reward for the effort expended in performing mitzvos. This concept is not just a nice thought for Shalosh Seudos speeches, but it is deeply embedded in halacha. For instance, the *Mishna Berura* (90:37) rules that if there are two synagogues in a city, it is preferable to go to the farther one, all things being equal, in order to receive the reward for the extra effort in walking the longer distance. Similarly, the Tzitz Eliezer (12:17) discusses whether it is better to walk to synagogue, gaining the reward for the effort, or to drive, thereby arriving quicker and having more time to study Torah. He concludes that walking and receiving the reward for the extra effort is preferable. The Ben Ish Chai (Torah Lishmah, O.C. 40) also rules that walking is preferable to riding for this very reason.

Interestingly, the Maharal (Nesiv Ha-Avodah 5) asserts that this principle of sechar halicha specifically applies to going to a shul, and not necessarily to other mitzvos. He explains that since the Shekhina is present in the synagogue, the act of walking and the length of time spent yearning and striving to reach the destination enhances the connection to the Divine. Thus, the longer and harder the journey, the deeper the attachment to the mitzvah of going to shul.

This raises the question: How do we reconcile the Gemara's emphasis on proximity to Jerusalem with the concept of sechar halicha, where more effort is seemingly preferable? The simplest answer lies in the distinction between practical, material value and spiritual value. Matters of personal devotion and attachment, such as dveikus (closeness to God), are subjective and private, and therefore don’t factor into commercial evaluations of land. While spiritual effort and longing are personally meaningful, the marketplace appraises value based on convenience and practicality. For instance, if one accidentally punctured a friend's tire, it would be absurd to claim, "You should thank me! Now you'll have more reward for the effort it will take to get to shul." This would be a classic example of what is expressed in Yiddish as "frum oif yenem's cheshbon"—being falsely pious at someone else’s expense.

Another important insight from this discussion is the nuanced and profound teaching of the Maharal. His idea that the very struggle and yearning itself enhances the attachment to a mitzvah is both deep and practical. In relationships, people often become frustrated when their needs aren’t immediately gratified, or when they face difficulties. However, reframing the struggle as part of the sweetness of the connection can lead to greater satisfaction. The yearning itself creates depth and the ultimate joy when the desired closeness is finally achieved.

This perspective on effort and attachment is a valuable lesson in both our spiritual and personal lives, reminding us that the challenges we face can enhance our connections and ultimately deepen our bonds.

(Much of the source material on sechar halicha was drawn from an excellent article by Rav Tzvi Ryzman.)