Reflecting and Connecting

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

We are now in the period known as the Nine Days, the days leading up to Tisha B’Av. The Shulchan Aruch teaches that we must minimize our joy during this time. The Mogein Avrohom goes further, urging us to abstain completely from joyous activity. Why? Because these days are not just historical, they’re existential. They are meant to keep us focused on the churban; the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh, and the exile that followed.

So we refrain from eating meat, drinking wine, listening to music, and wearing freshly laundered clothes. There are no weddings, major celebrations, or vacations. We try to dull our senses so that our souls can feel.

And yet, it often doesn’t work.

We observe all the halachos but remain emotionally disconnected. For too many, the Nine Days feel more like an inconvenience than an opportunity for introspection. We know what to do, but we don’t always know how to feel.

We’re supposed to reflect on what we lost over the years, on what it means to live in a world without the Bais Hamikdosh, on what it means to live in golus. But we’ve become so comfortable in this exile that we forget it’s golus and we don’t feel like we’re missing anything.

We think we’re home. But we’re not. We have it all wrong.

There are people who are forced to travel for a living. Every Sunday, instead of enjoying a day off like everyone else, they get into their cars, fight traffic, and head to the airport. They find a spot in the long-term parking lot, take the tram to the terminal, wait in anxious check-in lines, then through security lines, and then again at the gate, until they can board and sit in their cramped seat on the airplane.

Hours later, when they finally reach their destination, they wait for their luggage, then for the bus to the car rental counter, where they pick up the vehicle that will shuttle them from place to place for the week. They check into the best airport hotel they can find, unpack their bags, and settle in.

As punctual as the flight may have been and as comfortable as the hotel may be, these traveling salesmen are unhappy away from home. They miss their wives, their children, their homes, their beds, their shul, their friends, and their neighborhoods. As nice as the town they are visiting may be, it’s not home, and while they are there, they feel sad and lonely. Every unfamiliar face and every lonesome meal reminds them of what they are missing. They wish they were home, or at least homeward bound.

Children wait all year to go to sleep-away camp. While there, they are surrounded by friends, having a great time. Camp is amazing. Campers meet others from all over, swim, play ball, and go on exciting trips. But it’s not home. They get homesick. And when it’s their turn to call home, all they do is cry and beg to come back.

Being in jail is dreadful. Speak to people who’ve been there and they’ll tell you that even life in the so-called “camp jails” is miserable. Despite how they’re portrayed in the media, “camp jails” are very sad places. Every moment of incarceration is a punishment, a constant reminder that they are not home.

In each of these examples, the person who is away feels the absence deeply. He knows what he’s missing and he yearns to return.

The prisoners, and lehavdil the campers, are comforted in their longing by remembering home, thinking of home, and receiving visitors, updates, and packages from home. They know that they’ll be going home soon. Camp is just a few weeks long. Even a stay in camp-style jail is not finite. Those there don’t need to do anything in particular to be allowed to return home, but every day in jail feels torturous and endless.

These experiences serve as examples that portray what golus is and how we should feel while in golus. But in truth, golus is different—and far worse. In golus, we are far from home, and we don’t know for how much longer. Each day we wake up wishing we knew when we were going home, hoping that today will be the day.

Not only are we far from home, but we have forgotten that we ever had a home. Born into exile, we have never seen our home, never tasted the beauty of the Bais Hamikdosh. And so, we don’t cry for it.

But we should.

The Rambam (Hilchos Melochim 11:1) writes that anyone who does not believe in the coming of Moshiach, and who does not actively await him, is denying the entire Torah. It is not enough to accept that he will come someday. We must long for him. We must await his arrival every day.

The Gemara in Shabbos (31a) says that when a person arrives at the Heavenly Court, one of the first questions they are asked is: “Tzipisa l’yeshuah? Did you look forward to the redemption?”

The implication is clear. Yearning is not optional. It’s essential. But yearning must also lead to action. Part of expecting Moshiach to arrive every day is engaging in actions that will bring about his arrival. If we want him and anticipate his arrival, then it follows that we ourselves would be performing the actions that Chazal teach will lead to the geulah and encouraging others to do the same.

The Alter of Kelm offers a haunting parable. A man screams, “Help! My father is dying!” But when people rush over, they find him choking his own father. “If you want him to live,” they ask, “why are you killing him?” The Alter explains that we cry over the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh, but we also repeat the very sins that led to its destruction.

If we want to go home, we have to stop doing the things that are keeping us away.

During these days of Av, we mourn. Tisha B’Av is the repository of sadness and mourning for everything that has befallen us. We recall the time when the Bais Hamikdosh stood in the center of Yerushalayim. We reflect on the tragedies that have occurred to the Jewish people throughout the ages and are saddened as we recall them.

Tragedy and sadness are part of our essence. On Tisha B’Av, we remember the kedoshim who lost their lives in the current war. We remember the horrific attack on October 7^th, the victims of terror attacks in Eretz Yisroel, and the growing antisemitic attacks in Europe, the U.S., and around the world.

On Tisha B’Av, we mourn the six million victims of the Nazis, the millions of our brothers and sisters brutally killed in pogroms, the Jews who were murdered during the Crusades and the Inquisition, the millions killed at the time of the churban, the Jews sold into slavery, and those who were pillaged, beaten, robbed, and thrown to the lions in the Roman Coliseum.

Every European city and countryside is stained with Jewish blood. All year round, we look away from our history in these Western nations, but on Tisha B’Av, we recite Kinnos for the Jews who were killed in England, France, Germany, Poland, Spain, and Portugal, and we wonder to ourselves why Jews vacation in those places, spend money there, and buy their products.

On Tisha B’Av, we stop. We remember. We cry.

But not just for what happened. We cry for what is still happening—and for what isn’t happening—because we have not yet done what it takes to bring the redemption closer.

The halachos of the Nine Days are not rituals of deprivation. They are meant to influence our thoughts and emotions during this time. They are meant to lead us to teshuvah, to do what is necessary to merit being brought back home.

We know that the second Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because sinas chinom was prevalent at that time (Yoma 9b). However, the Gemara in Sanhedrin (104b) attributes the sin of the meraglim as the cause of the destruction. It was on the ninth day of Av when the Jews in the desert cried needlessly. Their bechiyah shel chinom has echoed through the generations, giving every era plenty of reasons to cry. It was they who created the tragic national day of mourning we now recognize as Tisha B’Av.

The meraglim saw themselves as small and insignificant while traversing Eretz Yisroel, and they accepted the attitudes and perceptions of others. Upon returning, they shared their pessimistic report and analysis with the people. “Woe to us,” they cried. “We are being led to a country that will destroy us.” They were insecure about their worthiness to receive Hashem’s blessing and protection. They feared that they were unworthy of the promises made to them that they would overwhelm the inhabitants of the Promised Land and inherit it.

They didn’t recognize their own greatness. The nation chosen as the favorite from among all others feared that they had been cast aside. Lacking self-confidence, they were easily misled by the doomsday predictions of the meraglim.

The meraglim didn’t see themselves as worthy. They were insecure, small in their own eyes. They projected that insecurity onto the nation, and the nation wept—not over facts, but over fear. That same spiritual low self-esteem later led to sinas chinom. Because when people don’t see their own value, they cannot see it in others.

Years later, during the period of Bayis Sheini, even though the Jewish people were religiously committed, the rot at the root of the cheit hameraglim still remained. The people were cynical, negative, and pessimistic. They didn’t believe that the Jewish people were worthy of Divine love. They hated each other because they didn’t appreciate the inherent greatness of every individual. Insecure, they were blind to their own self-worth. And like the Jews at the time of the cheit hameraglim, because they felt undeserving they failed to appreciate the blessings they had been given.

On Tisha B’Av, we sit on the floor as aveilim, reciting Kinnos, recalling how good it was, how close we were to Hashem, and the holiness and unity that permeated our lives. We bemoan the losses we suffered. Through our tears, we proclaim that we are still worthy of Hashem’s blessings and embrace. And by remembering that, we begin to undo the sins of the meraglim and of sinas chinom.

Low self-worth is one of the most destructive forces. It leads to passivity, jealousy, resentment, and hatred. It convinces us that we can’t make a difference, when, in fact, we are the difference. People give up on becoming great even before trying. They lose the motivation to excel because they don’t believe in themselves. This is one of the ways the yeitzer hora causes us to live hopeless, sad, and sometimes self-hating lives.

The Sefas Emes explains that a generation that doesn’t build the Bais Hamikdosh is considered to have destroyed it. Why? Because not believing in our power to build is part of the churban.

Our response to churban must be to have faith in ourselves—to know who we are, what we are, and what we can achieve.

The Third Bais Hamikdosh is a work in progress. Every kind word, every small step of teshuvah, every effort toward achdus, is another brick in its foundation. That’s why we say in Birkas Hamazon, “Bonei Yerushalayim”—Hashem is building Yerushalayim right now. The process is underway.

If we don’t believe that we can contribute to that process, we’ve misunderstood everything.

We lost the Bais Hamikdosh because of two related sins: bechiyah shel chinom, a futile cry, and sinas chinom, baseless hatred.

Realizing what a Jew represents is the greatest and most effective antidote to sinas chinom. Each of us carries so much power. To end golus and return the Bais Hamikdosh, we have to appreciate the mitzvos and ma’asim tovim of our friends and view their efforts with an ayin tovah.

Parshas Devorim, like the rest of the last seder of the Torah, is Moshe Rabbeinu’s farewell message to his people. This week’s parsha introduces us to the seder that recounts the stay of the Bnei Yisroel in the midbar and concludes with prophetic words concerning their entry into Eretz Yisroel.

The Jewish people went on to settle the land, erected the Mishkon in Shilo, built the Botei Mikdosh in Yerushalayim, and experienced two churbanos before being tragically evicted from the land promised to them. They were sent into golus, where we remain until this day.

Seder Devorim begins with Moshe Rabbeinu rebuking his people, because to merit geulah and entry into Eretz Yisroel, they had to engage in teshuvah. As the Rambam says (Hilchos Teshuvah 7:5), “Ein Yisroel nigolin ela beseshuvah—Klal Yisroel will only be redeemed through complete and proper teshuvah.”

Parshas Devorim, read before Tisha B’Av, begins Moshe Rabbeinu’s final address. He rebukes the people, but with love. With dignity. With hope. He wants them to do teshuvah so they can enter Eretz Yisroel. He speaks not to tear them down, but to build them up. His rebuke is laced with respect, because that is how true tochacha, correction, is accomplished. His words aren’t condemnation. They are conviction, spoken by someone who sees greatness in his people and motivates them to achieve it.

Perhaps we read this parsha before Tisha B’Av because it contains the lesson of how to bring people home—not by demeaning, not by screaming, not by shaming, but by believing in their potential and helping them attain it.

Human beings are complicated. We are made of soul and struggle, mind and heart, impulses and emotions, character traits, and a complicated psychology and thinking process. From our youth, we need teachers and parents to guide us and to teach us Torah, responsibility, and manners. We need them to show us not just how to act, but how to think, how to believe, and how to dream.

Along the way, we stumble. We drift. We forget who we are. And we need those who love us to remind us. Gently. To correct without crushing. To help us find the way back.

Every generation has its challenges. The temptations of today are unlike those of the past, but the answer is eternal: Torah, teshuvah, and tefillah. As the years stretch further from Har Sinai, we need help from each other more than ever.  Just like Noach in his day of whom Chazal say, “Noach hayah tzorich sa’ad letomcho,” we all need help to make it and can’t do it alone.

The way to help people is by speaking to them as Moshe did. His tochacha didn’t just point out flaws. It revealed the strength within the people to rise above their flaws. It showed them that they were still worthy. That they still mattered. That redemption was still within reach.

We must do the same. To help bring the geulah, we must speak to each other with love. Correct with compassion. Lift up instead of tear down.

If we see the greatness in one another and treat each other with the dignity that every Jew deserves, we won’t just be remembering the Bais Hamikdosh. We will be rebuilding it.

So many generations have passed. So many tears have been shed. So much Jewish blood has soaked into the soil of exile. On Tisha B’Av, we cry out: “Lamah lanetzach tishkocheinu?”

Hashem, for how much longer?

And then, we all proclaim together, “Hashiveinu Hashem eilecha venoshuvah. Chadeish yomeinu k’kedem.”

Hashem, bring us back. We want to return. We know You still love us. We are ready.

And then, as we rise from the floor, we pray that we will rise together, from destruction to hope, from mourning to meaning, from exile…to home.

Instead of being crushed by destruction and despair, we rise with hope and faith. As we complete the recitation of Kinnos, we declare to the world—and to ourselves—that although our bodies have been targeted for centuries, our spirit has never been broken. The flame of the Jewish soul continues to burn, yearning for Moshiach and doing whatever it can to bring his coming closer.

May that day arrive speedily, and may we soon celebrate Tisha B’Av not as a day of mourning, but as a Yom Tov of redemption and return.

The Road to Redemption

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

As we move through the summer, enjoying the slower pace, the warmer weather, and the reduced pressure, life as a Yid continues. Our responsibilities don’t lessen just because the pace of life slows. The mitzvos remain the same and our obligations remain unchanged. Only the setting shifts. What changes is how we approach what we are meant to do.

When the weather warms and people ease into vacation mode, everything takes on a more relaxed feel. Work changes, home life is altered, and the kids are in camp. Often, mitzvos are viewed as duties that can be done with less energy and focus.

But we must recognize that just as breathing, eating, and sleeping are not burdens, they are how we stay alive, so too are mitzvos. They are the essence of a Jew’s existence. Yet, just as with food, there’s a difference between merely surviving and thriving. We can live on bland, uninspired meals, or we can make the effort to prepare food that is nourishing and enjoyable. The choice is ours.

If we want our lives to be meaningful and vibrant, we have to invest in them. Apathy doesn’t destroy overnight, but it leads to a dull and disconnected life. Just as the body needs proper nourishment, so does the soul.

That’s how it is with mitzvos. When we perform them with geshmak, we begin to appreciate how they give our lives meaning and depth. But when we go through the motions, treating them like a burden, we strip them of their beauty. The difference isn’t in the mitzvah itself. It’s in our attitude. If we do them with simcha, they uplift us. If we approach them with resentment, they become heavy and draining.

When we open a Gemara or any sefer with excitement, the Torah we learn energizes us. But if we see our learning as a chore, it weighs us down. The yeitzer hora takes advantage of this season, seeking to distance us from the very things that bring our lives meaning, strength, and vitality.

This time of the year also gives us a unique opportunity. With fewer distractions and a calmer pace, we can step back and recalibrate - not necessarily what we do, but how we do it. When we daven, when we learn, when we do mitzvos and acts of tzedakah and chesed, we can use the quieter atmosphere to be more present in heart and mind.

There is a special beauty in the consistency of mitzvos. The same Shema we said during the hectic days of winter, we now say as the summer sun streams through the window. The words haven’t changed, but we can. The way we say them, the kavonah we bring, the care and attention we give, these are in our hands.

Like food that is lovingly prepared, mitzvos done with intention are more fulfilling. The experience becomes richer. When we perform mitzvos with meaning, instead of routine, our lives become deeper and more elevated.

There’s a story told about a man who visited a small town in Europe and decided to stop by the local cheder. He walked in and saw a rebbi sitting on a low bench, surrounded by young boys, patiently teaching them Alef-Bais. The children were squirming, the room was stuffy, and the rebbi looked tired, yet he spoke with warmth and smiled at each child.

After class, the visitor approached the rebbi and asked, “Tell me, with all your effort and how little you’re paid, how do you keep going?”

The rebbi smiled and said, “When I was younger, I thought that my job was to teach children Alef-Bais. As time went on, I realized that I wasn’t just teaching them letters. I was building neshamos. I was creating a foundation for a life of Torah and mitzvos in each one of them. With that realization, I stopped viewing what I do as a job and started seeing it as a zechus. It is an honor and privilege for me to be here every day with these kinderlach, building neshamos and giving them the tools they need to live successful, productive, Yiddishe lives.”

Summer gives us a moment to reflect, to reset, and to refocus. It’s the perfect time to shift from seeing mitzvos as obligations to appreciating them as opportunities. The choice is ours: Do we want a bland, mechanical life, or one filled with richness, joy, and connection?

The answer lies not in the calendar, but in our mindset.

With this in mind, we can draw a powerful lesson from this week’s parshiyos of Mattos and Masei, which recount our nation’s travels through the midbar and the various encampments along the journey to Eretz Yisroel.

Sifrei Kabbolah and drush are filled with deeper meanings and hidden insights regarding each location along Klal Yisroel’s path. This journey - with all its twists, turns, highs, and lows - was essential in preparing the nation to enter and inherit Hashem’s land, Eretz Yisroel. As we study these parshiyos, we pay attention to the mussar and chizuk encoded within them. As we revisit the moments of hardship and triumph, we discover guidance for the masa’os in our own lives.

We go through life experiencing ups and downs. We know that everything along our personal journey is orchestrated by Hashem. Some chapters have concluded, and many more are still to be written. As we move forward, we cannot allow temporary failures or setbacks to throw us off course. Just as our ancestors in the midbar faced challenges and setbacks, they also had moments of greatness and achievement. But their destination and their resolve never changed.

Adam le’amal yulad - man was created to toil. Each of us has our own masa’os, journeys toward our personal destination. Some are smooth and pleasant; others are filled with obstacles, detours, and roadblocks. No matter the nature of the path, our mission is the same: to keep moving forward.

Following the tragic episode of the Eigel, Hakadosh Boruch Hu informed Moshe of His displeasure with Klal Yisroel and His intention to eliminate them, describing them as an am keshei oref - a stiff-necked people (Shemos 32:9). Moshe pleaded on their behalf and they were granted forgiveness. He then asked Hashem, “Please go in our midst, as they are an am keshei oref” (34:9). The very trait cited as justification for their punishment was now invoked as a reason for mercy.

One explanation offered is that Moshe argued that this same middah - their stubbornness - could also serve as the key to their success. He was saying that this trait would be necessary for a nation that pledged itself to Torah and mitzvos to carry faith in their hearts through a long and bitter golus, remaining steadfast in their mission and focused on the ultimate goal.

They were forgiven and have been persistently striving for perfection ever since. We haven’t reached it yet, but with each passing day, we get closer, remaining committed to following Hashem’s path in all situations, whether pleasant or difficult, during busy seasons or quiet ones, in times of work or times of rest.

The Nine Days offer a fitting time to read about Jewish suffering through the ages. While secular historians often depict Jews in golus - in ghettos or concentration camps - as feeble, submissively led to slaughter by their Nazi tormentors, books written by bnei Torah paint a very different picture. These works leave the reader astonished by the unbreakable spirit of our people. The Jew, it becomes clear, was stronger than any Nazi beast. That strength came, in part, from their acceptance of Hashem’s will, His plan, and His design.

When we read the accounts of religious survivors who lived through the horrors of the Holocaust, we are struck by a dual emotion: profound sadness and deep admiration for the majesty of the Jewish spirit. Their stories provide a broader perspective on the tragedy of our entire exile since the churban, while simultaneously revealing the greatness of Am Yisroel, the eternal people.

Their words, forged in the fires of suffering, are infused with spirit, blood, and tears, an elegy not only of death, but of life. So many stories tell of kedoshim marching to the outskirts of towns singing songs of emunah as they headed toward certain death. In the streets of shtetlach, in boxcars bound for Treblinka, Jews died alone and in groups, at forest pits and in ghettos, proclaiming Shema Yisroel and singing words of Hallel, of Ani Maamin, of emunah and bitachon, proud that they were the hunted, not the hunters.

The chevlei Moshiach swallowed them up. In their merit, we now live in freedom and prosperity.

Last week, Yeshivas Telz commemorated the 20^th of Tammuz with heartfelt tefillos and stirring divrei chizuk, as it does each year. On that tragic day, the Jewish community of Telz - led by its revered rabbonim and roshei yeshiva - was marched to its death. The way the golus in Telz came to its horrific end is chilling and awe-inspiring, a haunting reflection of the depths of cruelty and the heights of emunah and dignity. It is a story that reveals the worst of what humanity is capable of - and the very best of what it means to be a Jew.

As we remember the kedoshim of Telz, we are reminded that their legacy did not perish in the forests of Lithuania. The blood of Torah giants and innocent neshamos cries out not only in sorrow, but in triumph, because their Torah lives on. The yeshiva they built with such devotion continues to illuminate the world. Their sacrifice obligates us not only to remember, but to live with the same clarity of purpose, the same unwavering commitment to Torah, avodah, and kedusha, especially in a world that so desperately needs it.

The survivors of the killing fields and concentration camps emerged broken in body but unbroken in spirit. If anyone had a reason to despair, it was they. And yet, with remarkable reserves of emunah and inner strength, they chose to rebuild. They carried much pain, but rarely let it show. They did not wallow in what was lost, but planted seeds for what could still grow. In their hearts, they understood that they had left one preordained stop in golus, only to continue the journey through yet another, and then another still, always moving forward, always holding on.

As a people, we have been moving about for thousands of years, from one city to the next, from one country to another. Now we have finally come so close to the redemption that we can hear the footsteps of Moshiach.

As we endure the chevlei Moshiach, the painful, turbulent days that precede the final redemption, we must strengthen ourselves and elevate our kedusha. We live in a time when the pull of distraction is constant, the challenges are relentless, and the temptation to slacken off is real. But now more than ever, we must hold tight. We have to raise our levels of kedusha so that we do not succumb to the forces that seek to hold back Moshiach from redeeming us.

The geulah is near, but only if we remain worthy of experiencing it.

Imagine that you’re on a long journey behind the wheel of a car. You’re tired. The road stretches endlessly ahead. For just a moment, you let go of the steering wheel or you close your eyes. What happens? You drift and veer off course. The same is true in avodas Hashem. Without constant focus on our learning, our tefillah and our mitzvos, we lose direction. We lose momentum.

Throughout history, there have been moments when the gates of geulah cracked open and we weren’t up to the task. We let them slip away.

This week, in Parshas Mattos, we encounter the request of the shevotim of Reuvein and Gad to remain on the other side of the Yardein, outside of Eretz Yisroel, so that they could better provide for their cattle. Moshe rebuked them sharply, for they prioritized what was secondary and minimized that which was important (Rashi 32:16).

The message is timeless. When we mistake the temporary for the eternal, we lose sight of our mission. And if we aren’t careful, we can end up outside the borders, not just geographically, but spiritually.

Parshiyos Mattos and Masei remind us of what it means to be a Jew on the move in golus without becoming disheartened and disoriented. We are never aimless, for we know that every step we take is another step of the journey toward geulah. Every stop, every move, is part of the story.

But for the journey to succeed, we must remain alert. We must know where we’re headed and what it takes to get there. We must keep our priorities straight and not allow ourselves to get detoured by things of temporary value and enjoyment.

So, as we breathe in the clean country air, ride bikes, play ball, shoot the breeze and enjoy the slow rhythm of summer days, let us remember that we are the am kadosh still in golus, but in the home stretch. 

Let us not be like those who lost their way in moments of spiritual drowsiness. Let us hold strong to the wheel, with our eyes on the road and our hearts turned upward. And before we pack our bags and head back to the city, may Hashem bring us all the way home with the coming of Moshiach.

The Courage to Rise

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

We live in an age marked by confusion, contradiction, and crisis. Familiar moral anchors are being uprooted, truth has become increasingly subjective, and people flounder when clarity is most needed.

Wherever we turn, fiction is portrayed as fact, tumah as kedusha, sacrilege as something holy and praiseworthy. We don’t know whom to trust, when to trust, or whether to trust at all. At times, we feel utterly lost. At other times, we’re shrouded in a fog, struggling to navigate our way to clarity.

As Jews, in a world that increasingly displays both hatred toward us and ignorance about us, this reality carries added danger. But the hazard of a teetering world should concern everyone. How does this happen? How do good, decent people become so lost and estranged from what was widely accepted just a short time ago? And how can we begin to rectify at least our own corner of the world?

In times of upheaval, society tends to freeze. People wait for someone - anyone - to speak up, to act, to lead. No one wants to challenge entrenched and corrupt powers for fear of being mocked or vilified. Good people who could bring change remain silent, paralyzed by the threat of public backlash or personal loss. It’s easier to complain in private than to rise up and confront the root cause of our frustrations.

This has been true throughout history. Leadership has always been scarce, and the absence of it has often led to chaos, corruption, and collective suffering. But it doesn’t have to be that way. People armed with moral clarity, conviction, emunah, and resolve can rise above the masses and change the course of history. This is true in the broader world, and it is true in our world as well.

Throughout our history, there have been gedolei Torah, rabbonim, and manhigim who, despite personal danger, forged ahead and led our people with emunah, bitachon, and Torah-based conviction. We grew up hearing their stories, and have repeated them to our children and students, for these accounts provide the strength and endurance our people need to persevere in golus and journey toward geulah.

In this week’s parsha, that individual is Pinchos. His story is told in the Torah to serve as a lesson for us, ensuring that we don’t falter in times of uncertainty and moral fog. His rebbi, Moshe Rabbeinu, had taught him what to do in exactly the situation in which he and the rest of the Jewish people found themselves. Pinchos acted without fear, following halacha, and in doing so, he saved the entire Am Yisroel.

Parshas Pinchos shows us how to respond when the world falls silent in the face of public sin, corruption, and decay. It reminds us that when sacred lines are crossed and others turn away, those who act - guided by Torah, truth, and humility - can repair the breach and restore holiness and goodness.

In times of fear and uncertainty, even the most capable individuals can falter. A new crisis appears - whether it’s societal, spiritual, or medical - and although there are trained leaders and experts, many freeze in the face of doubt. Competence in calm times is not the same as greatness in stormy times.

It’s often said that the true test of greatness is how one handles small matters and how one treats people whom others overlook or take for granted. But it is equally true that a person’s test lies in whether they can act with clarity and integrity when it matters most, when the stakes are high and the risks are real.

Pinchos didn’t act out of recklessness. He wasn’t driven by personal glory or vengeance. He acted because he saw the truth plainly and could no longer bear the chillul Hashem unfolding before the eyes of a passive nation. He acted lesheim Hashem, to stop the disaster that was befalling Klal Yisroel just days after the schemes of Bolok and Bilom had been foiled. The people had fallen so quickly and so far, that others were paralyzed by despair. Pinchos stepped forward.

The Torah introduces the protagonists of Pinchos’s act - Zimri, a leader of a shevet, and Kozbi, a royal princess - to underscore what Pinchos was up against. These were not powerless figures. They were elite and influential. Pinchos did not target the weak. He stood up to the powerful. He didn’t calculate personal cost or consider his own reputation. He saw a moral breach threatening the very soul of Klal Yisroel, and he acted - because someone had to.

It was this fearlessness, this refusal to be swayed by public opinion, that saved the nation from the plague. The message is clear: When fear of retribution controls us, we become partners in our own destruction.

A deadly plague was ravaging the people, and over twenty thousand had already perished. Their crime? Shelo michu - they didn’t protest Zimri’s actions. In a time of chillul Hashem, when the foundation of Klal Yisroel was crumbling, the natural response should have been to run to Moshe Rabbeinu and ask what to do. But only one person did that: Pinchos.

Pinchos wasn’t widely known as a moral leader or charismatic figure with many admirers. He was an ehrliche Yid who didn’t lose his bearings. He showed courage and pressed forward despite the difficulty and unpopularity of his task, simply because it was the right thing to do.

In a sense, he fled from kavod, and as Chazal say, kol haborei’ach min hakavod, hakavod borei’ach acharov - one who runs from honor, honor pursues him. Pinchos ran from fame and it chased after him. Hashem rewarded him with kehunas olam.

Pinchos lives on as Eliyohu Hanovi, who, throughout the ages, has followed Klal Yisroel wherever they have gone, occasionally revealing himself to the very holy and privileged, learning with tzaddikei hador and assisting those in need. Very soon, he will reveal himself to us all and announce the arrival of Moshiach.

Pinchos rose not only for his own generation but for ours as well. We, too, live in a world of inaction and moral ambiguity. At times, we witness public breaches of ethics, halacha, or basic decency, and we wait for others to take the lead. We rationalize our silence. We tell ourselves that it’s not our place.

But the Torah teaches us that in such moments, our silence becomes complicity. Great people see through the noise. They move beyond excuses. They do what needs to be done.

Sometimes, that action isn’t dramatic or confrontational. Sometimes, it’s as simple - and as powerful - as standing up for what is right: in a conversation, in leadership, in halachic integrity, or in the moral tone we set for our families and communities.

Pinchos was not a vigilante. He didn’t act on impulse. He first discussed the issue with Moshe Rabbeinu.

When we see wrongdoing or perceive evil, we must not act on our own judgment. We must consult our rabbeim, those greater than us, those who carry the mesorah from the giants of previous generations. We must never act rashly or cause harm - physically or emotionally - even if we feel justified, unless we are directed by those qualified to decide what is truly proper halachically and morally.

When Pinchos acted, the plague came to a halt. But more than that, he healed the rift between the Jewish people and Hashem. He brought about a return to shalom, peace and wholeness. That is why he was rewarded with brisi shalom, the covenant of peace.

In doing so, he followed in the path of his grandfather, Aharon Hakohein, who worked to bring peace between people, and between people and Hashem.

Today, we must also strive to heal not only the rift between man and Hashem, and between one person and another, but also the internal divisions within our families, communities, and nation. We must be kano’im when it comes to breaches in shemiras hamitzvos, but also become healers, restoring broken connections wherever they are found.

We are all capable of this. We can each be a Pinchos, not necessarily through bold, dramatic action, but by rejecting passivity, rising above the crowd, and grounding our actions in Torah and truth. It’s difficult to speak up. It’s often much easier to remain silent. But we must act when others are paralyzed by fear and lead when leadership is absent. The corrupt thrive when the principled are silent. The immoral succeed when the moral hesitate.

The world doesn’t need more spectators. It needs people willing to act, responsibly, wisely, and fearlessly. People who rise when others remain seated. People who care enough to step forward, even when the cost is great.

If we do, we won’t merely remember the Bais Hamikdosh. We will help rebuild it.

This week, we entered the somber period known as the Three Weeks. It was on this past Sunday, many centuries ago, that the Romans breached the protective gates of Yerushalayim. That breach led to a brutal siege and, ultimately, the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh on Tisha B’Av.

That destruction has never been fully repaired. Its wounds still remain.

If you go to Yerushalayim today, you can still see the broken wall the Romans pierced. It stands quietly near Migdal Dovid, passed daily by thousands on their way to and from the Kosel, often unnoticed. But it is still there. Still broken. Still bearing silent witness to what was lost.

If, when visiting the Kosel, you walk a bit farther along the southern wall of the Har Habayis, you’ll find massive boulders scattered at its base, stones believed to have once sat atop the Kosel wall. They lie there, undisturbed, silent reminders of the physical and spiritual glory that once stood and the devastation that followed.

It is worth going there. Worth standing there to reflect.

The Kosel remains a silent witness, a remnant of what once was, a stark reminder of what we lack.

But we’ve grown used to it. We go. We daven. We take pictures, sometimes with awe, but too often without reflection. The sight of those ancient stones no longer stirs us. Our eyes stay dry when they should be filled with tears. Our hearts remain still when they should tremble.

The great tzaddikim of previous generations would tremble at the sight of the Kosel. It wasn’t merely a destination for tefillah. It was - and still is - the place from which the Shechinah never departed. A visible scar of the churban. A raw reminder of our spiritual exile and our nation’s brokenness.

Halacha requires us to tear our garments upon seeing the Kosel or the ruins of Yerushalayim. It is meant to be an expression of grief, a jolt to awaken our mourning. But too often, the act is performed by rote, devoid of the pain it is meant to symbolize.

We must look at that wall not just with our eyes, but with our hearts. We must picture the Bais Hamikdosh that once stood proudly behind it. We must reflect on the pain, the destruction, the massacre that overtook our people. We must mourn not only the physical loss of the Bais Hamikdosh, but also the spiritual churban, the severing of the connection between Hashem’s home and His people.

So many of our current struggles trace their roots back to those dark days. It all began with a breach, not just in stone, but in spirit.

But if more people would rise like Pinchos - with courage, with clarity, with unwavering devotion to Hashem - we could begin to repair that breach. We could draw our people closer to the Source of life. We could open the door to teshuvah, to healing, and to geulah.

May this be the year it happens.

May this be the year we finally come home.

Fake News, Fake Peace, Fake Home

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

A recent Pew Research survey of 24 countries found that in 20 of them, a majority of those surveyed held an unfavorable view of Israel. Those countries include the U.S., Canada, England, Germany, and France, among others. In some places, such as Australia, Greece, Japan, the Netherlands, Spain, Sweden, and Turkey, over 75 percent of respondents did not view Israel favorably.

Simply put, they don’t like us out there. Israel has become a code word for Jews. When they say they don’t like Israel, what they really mean is that they don’t like Jews, just in a more socially acceptable way.

New York City voters recently selected an anti-Semitic socialist Muslim as their candidate for mayor, essentially making him the leading contender to run the country’s largest city, home to one million Jews.

The very city that millions of Jews emigrated to over a century ago in search of refuge from persecution and famine, the city that has felt like home ever since, has just hung up a large sign proclaiming: “You Are No Longer Welcome.”

This country has afforded us freedoms and opportunities our ancestors could only dream of. For generations, our people saw America as the goldeneh medinah, the golden land, a haven from the storms of exile. And indeed, it has been. We are fortunate to live in the freest, most generous nation in the history of the world.

But perhaps, in that blessing, we forgot something essential: We are still in golus. And golus, no matter how gilded, is still golus.

We made ourselves at home here. We built communities, opened schools and shuls, bought homes, and ran businesses. We became part of the American story and, in many ways, believed that it would never turn on us. We thought America was different. We thought that if we kept our neighborhoods clean, paid our taxes, contributed to society, and followed the law, we’d be accepted, maybe even loved.

But we’re learning now that the smiles weren’t as deep as we thought, and the warmth we felt may have cooled. The neighbors we wave to are not always the neighbors our parents once trusted. The people we pass on the street - the ones we assumed were indifferent or friendly - sometimes harbor a quiet resentment we chose not to see.

And as the fences go up, both physical and emotional, it’s time for a collective moment of soul-searching. Not out of panic, but out of purpose. Because the more we believe we are at home here, the more we risk forgetting where home really is.

This Sunday is Shivah Assar B’Tammuz, the gateway to the Three Weeks, a season etched with sorrow and longing. On this day, we begin to trace the footsteps of our nation’s pain—breaches, burnings, and exiles that echo through time. In the heart of summer, as the sun glows and life feels full, we pull back. We dim the joy just enough to remember that we are still far from home, not only in miles, but in spirit. These weeks ask us to pause, to look past the comfort and calm we’ve grown accustomed to, and whisper softly to ourselves and to Heaven: As comfortable as we have become, we haven’t forgotten where we belong. We want to go back.

Our people have been accused of many things throughout the years and have suffered terribly at the hands of tyrants and bloodthirsty mobs, unleashed time and again on the perennial scapegoat blamed for whatever was going wrong. Often, these pogroms were orchestrated by the very governments meant to protect their citizens.

During one such tense period, a meeting was convened between Russian government ministers and rabbinic leaders in an attempt to cool tensions and set the record straight. At a high-level meeting in St. Petersburg, one of the ministers stood up and unleashed a hate-filled diatribe. He told the assembly that Jews were of no value to the empire and were nothing more than a burden.

As his tirade intensified, he questioned why Jews even existed, claiming that they brought no benefit to the world and were entirely superfluous. All they do, he said, is cause harm and make trouble. His fury grew, and it became clear that he was preparing to call for a pogrom, inciting the illiterate peasants of the Russian republic against the Jews.

The Jewish delegation trembled in fear as the minister neared the conclusion of his speech. But Rav Yitzchok of Volozhin, known as Rav Itzele Volozhiner, began to smile. The minister noticed and became even more enraged. “There is nothing that I said that would give you reason to smile,” he thundered. “Tell me what’s so funny,” he demanded.

The great gaon responded that it was precisely the minister’s speech that made him smile.

“For years, we have been waiting to hear such talk from your lips, and now that I finally heard you say it, I can smile. The Torah foretells that in the times of Moshiach, the nations will say as you say now, ‘What did G-d do? Why did He create the Jewish people? Who needs them? Of what use are they?’ And when that happens, the Torah says, ‘The nation will rise like a lion cub and raise itself like a lion. It will not lie down until it consumes its prey and drinks the blood of the slain.’”

As the minister heard Rav Itzele quote the posuk from this week’s parsha, “Hen am k’lavi yokum v’cha’ari yisnasa,” he fell silent. Another massacre was averted.

These words were uttered by Bilam, the two-faced, hypocritical fraud whom Chazal describe as the antithesis of Avrohom Avinu, a man of few words who was kind, merciful, and the embodiment of all that is good. Bilam was his polar opposite. He spoke eloquently in poetic verse, but was a scheming backstabber and the embodiment of evil.

He has many students and followers.

With slick tongues, they feed opiates to the masses. With swagger and bravado, they present themselves as polished and all-knowing. But beneath the surface, they are as hollow and vapid as the empty promises they peddle.

Today, thanks to modern technology, every person who so desires has a platform to purvey these thoughts. Foolish people who spend their time unproductively troll about, seeking podcasts and posts with which to occupy their time. They read and hear silliness, perfidy, and ideas that cause them to think and act in an imprudent and thoughtless fashion. The ideas sound nice, the concepts convincing. Just as Bilam attempted to use his conniving tongue to cause destruction and calamity to our nation, too many people who are clever wordsmiths use their talent to mislead and harm the innocent. When that fails, they devise evil plots to cause damage. Such people, just like Bilam, may achieve fame, fortune and adulation, but it doesn’t last.

A person with no real experience, who never held down a real job, presents himself as a forward thinker and a positive force for good, and people buy into it. They ignore that he is a socialist, if they even know what that means, and are happy to hear him bash Jews and Israel. They think that by electing him, they’ll get everything for free, and before you know it, the young man is elected.

A donkey blocked Bilam’s path and detoured him from his plan. We pray that those in this world who seek our demise will similarly be blocked from carrying through on their intentions.

It’s tempting to place blame externally, and much of it may be justified, but if we truly want to rise like the lion Bilam described, we must look inward. Are we fulfilling our role as a mamleches kohanim v’goy kadosh? Are we acting with the dignity and unity that befits a people preparing for Moshiach?

As we begin the Three Weeks, marked by sorrow and national reflection, we remember that this is not just a time of mourning. It’s a time of yearning. We are not simply lamenting what we’ve lost. We are reminding ourselves that we are not yet home and that we do not belong in darkness. We belong in light.

The signs of golus are all around us. The hatred is masked as policy. The indifference is disguised as progress. The voices that once whispered their disdain now speak it openly. And yet, amid this painful clarity, we are reminded that Hashem is orchestrating events in preparation for something far greater.

We’ve witnessed miraculous deliverance in recent weeks—military miracles, intelligence breakthroughs, and moments of Divine restraint that defy logic. These are Hashem’s ways of reminding us that He hasn’t abandoned us, that even amidst hester ponim, He remains present.

When the nations put us down, when it becomes accepted to publicly bash Jews, when we are treated differently than others, we respond the way Jews have been responding since the churban. The nations ask, “What purpose do they serve?” And we answer not with words, but with our lives. We rise in tefillah, in Torah, in chesed, in emunah, in the quiet strength that has defied the centuries.

Walk into any Jewish home and you’ll notice the blank space opposite the front door. That space is there to remind us that there is a blank spot in our hearts and souls. As much as we feel at home here, as good as we have it, something is still missing. There is a hole, a wound. We will never be whole until the Bais Hamikdosh returns.

At every chupah, at the peak of the celebration, as the new couple is about to begin life together, the baalei simcha stand surrounded by family and friends, the chosson and kallah enveloped by a cloud of euphoria and good wishes. And then there is a pause. It is quiet and the sound of the chosson breaking a glass is heard. For no matter how good things seem, no matter how happy and safe we appear to be, we must never forget that at any time, the tranquility can be squashed.

Let us use this season of mourning to reignite our mission. Let us walk with dignity, speak with kindness, and live with purpose. Let us hold ourselves to a higher standard, not to appease the nations, but to honor our calling.

The term “fake news” has become familiar to all, but in a sense, what we have now is a fake existence in a fake world built on fake assumptions. When things don’t go our way, when the nations of the world hate us for reasons they don’t even understand, when young and old across the globe march against us, when there was essentially only one country that stood at our side during the recent war, and as we seek to end the war in Gaza and secure some semblance of peace in our beleaguered land, it serves as a stark reminder that we are in golus, living in a Potemkin village. It is nice and cozy here—warm at home in the winter and cool in the summer—but it is fake. It is but a dream, and we are dozing.

May we all be present at the great awakening, when the great shofar will be blown—uva’u l’Tzion b’rinah—and we will all greet Moshiach in Yerushalayim very soon.

Summer for the Soul

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

After parshiyos that discussed the tragic accounts of the meraglim and Korach, this week’s parsha begins with an elevated vision of life steeped in Torah. “Zos chukas haTorah, adam ki yomus ba’ohel.” This is the way of Torah: spiritual living demands sacrifice. Those who seek to bind themselves to Torah shed the layers of material life, dedicating themselves to growth, meaning, and eternity. Their lives revolve around Torah, and they steer away from pursuits that distract from their spiritual ascent.

Rashi, quoting the Medrash Tanchuma, tells us that the Soton and the nations of the world mock this mitzvah. They ask: What sense is there in the Parah Adumah? What logic can justify it? The Torah anticipates this, so it emphasizes that this command is a chok, a Divine decree beyond human understanding. We follow it because it comes from Hashem.

We are not expected to explain the Torah to those who mock it. We do not owe the world rationales for our practices. We follow the chok, the word of Hashem, with humility and resolve, and through that, we survive and flourish in a world saturated with falsehood.

A story is told of a lion that encountered a chicken and began to choke it. “Why are you doing this to me?” the chicken cried. “I never harmed you.” 

The lion answered plainly, “Because I can.”

For much of our history, that was the attitude of the world toward the Jewish people. For centuries, we were tormented without reason, our loyalty and intelligence questioned, our very existence scorned. The Torah teaches us not to justify ourselves to those who wish only to ridicule. Engaging with them is fruitless. Their questions are not sincere. Their aim is not clarity, but derision.

Torah, the ultimate wisdom, does not conform to conventional logic. Its truths are not confined to what the human mind can grasp. We accept the chukim alongside the mishpotim, with the understanding that our bond to Hashem transcends reason. Torah living is not a matter of intellect alone. It is a covenant rooted in submission, in faith, in eternity.

Greatness in Torah is not achieved through brilliance, but through purity, diligence, and humility. Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach would often recount the story of Rashi, who, before writing his timeless commentary, traveled extensively to ensure that no greater peirush already existed. Only after his search proved fruitless did he begin his monumental work. As he wrote, he fasted hundreds of times, begging that his words would reflect Divine truth and help propel people to the truth.

Rav Shach would become emotional as he retold this story. To him, it represented the essence of Torah greatness: not ego or intellectual conquest, but deep humility, responsibility, and fidelity to mesorah.

Rav Aharon Kotler, in Mishnas Rav Aharon on Parshas Korach, explores the unique role of shevet Levi, the shevet set apart from all the rest to serve in the Mishkon and rule on matters of halacha. They were not given a portion in the land, which would have encumbered them with caring for it, planting and harvesting for their sustenance. Instead, they relied on terumos and maaseros from the rest of the nation.

Rav Aharon asks: If their service was so vital, why were they left financially dependent on others? Wouldn’t this create instability and pressure, especially when considering that the reason for the terumos and maaseros - and them not owning property - was so that they would not be worried about earning a livelihood?

His answer is profound: Precisely because they were spiritual leaders, they needed to be protected from arrogance. Had they been self-sufficient and financially secure, they might have grown proud and disconnected from the people. But Torah leadership demands humility. Financial dependency served as a safeguard against conceit. For without humility, a person cannot merit siyata diShmaya, Divine assistance. Hashem detests arrogance, as the posuk says, “Toavas Hashem kol gevah lev.” Someone who is conceited cannot properly understand Torah and arrive at the proper p’sak halacha. Someone who is conceited will be lacking the siyata diShmaya necessary to pasken correctly.

To grow in Torah, intelligence alone is not enough. Torah is unlike any other form of knowledge. It is a Divine gift, granted to those who approach it with reverence and self-effacement. This principle holds true for communal leadership as well.

A group of askonim devised a solution to a communal issue. Before implementing it, they consulted with a senior communal leader, who told them that he favored their approach but must first consult with Rav Shach before signing off on it. When the plan was presented to Rav Shach, he rejected it outright, saying that he saw from the Chofetz Chaim that their approach is wrong.

The group was convinced that they had thoroughly analyzed the issue and arrived at a perfect solution. Convinced that Rav Shach rejected it because the plan wasn’t properly explained to him, they went themselves to meet Rav Shach to discuss with him their solution to the pressing communal crisis.

Rav Shach told them, “I will not debate your arguments, and for all I know, your thoughts might be correct. But Klal Yisroel is not led by conclusions and thoughts of smart people. Klal Yisroel is led by mesorah, tradition. If the mesorah from the Chofetz Chaim is that we don’t engage in something like that, then we don’t do it, no matter how smart it seems, for following our mesorah is the proper course of action.”

This is a vital truth in every generation. Too often, people believe that they know better than the Torah. They view themselves as visionaries, convinced that their solutions are superior to those passed down through generations. But such confidence often stems from arrogance, not insight. And without humility and mesorah, even the most well-intentioned leader can lead others astray.

We see people who are consumed by a problem and believe that they have the perfect solution. They fail to properly consider it, as they are convinced of their intelligence and leadership abilities, but due to their conceit, they lack the siyata diShmaya required to arrive at proper decisions.

They think that their reasoning is impeccable, but they fail to consider the mesorah—namely, how gedolim who came before them thought and acted.  

No one, as smart as he thinks he is and as pressing as the problem he faces is, has a right to present plans that differ from our mesorah. Doing so causes mayhem and fails to solve problems. The logic may be compelling, but it is still wrong.

People in our day are led astray by those who claim to understand the reasoning for different halachos and temper them to mesh with the times.

History has shown us the dangers of this path. The Conservative and Reform movements arose from attempts to modernize halacha—to “rationalize” it, to make it more palatable. The result was a tragedy of assimilation and spiritual confusion, as they caused many to deviate from halacha and mesorah, leading millions of Jews astray.

To us, it sounds ridiculous that they maintain institutions that they refer to as “yeshivos” and have halachic decisors who write so-called teshuvos, as if they are following the Torah. Through the implementation of what they refer to as logic, they have so dramatically twisted halacha as to make it meaningless for their millions of followers.

Once mitzvos are rationalized and twisted to conform to someone’s human understanding of them and their concepts, the halachos become compromised and eventually are totally lost.

Those who study Torah while lacking yiras Shomayim, respect for mesorah and humility ultimately destroy instead of build, obscure instead of reveal, and cause others to repel the Torah instead of drawing closer to it.

When they first began, we regularly reported on the actions and teachings of those in the Open Orthodoxy movement, who follow in the path of the founders of the Conservative movement. Their hypocrisy, true intentions and the sad path they have followed have become obvious to all. We should never cease to remind all that the leaders and clergy of this group are not Orthodox in thought, practice, attitude or approach.

Their teshuvos and drashos mock tradition and halacha, and are fanciful attempts to have the Torah conform with current progressive thought, bearing little relation to the reality of Torah thought and interpretation. Though they claim to uphold the Torah, their reinterpretations and institutions consistently erode its foundations.

Rav Elchonon Wasserman explained the posuk of “Tzidkoscha tzedek le’olam” (Tehillim 119:142) to mean that man cannot fathom the depths of Hashem’s justice, for society and its concepts are ever changing. What is considered just in one generation is viewed as unjust in the next. But “veSorascha emes,” the truth of Torah is everlasting. It neither changes for the times nor conforms to them.

Zos chukas haTorah. Torah is a chok. Torah is neither about impressive dissertations nor social welfare and contracting with a good marketing firm. It is about following the will of the Creator as expressed in Torah Shebiksav and Torah Shebaal Peh.

Chazal say (Taanis 30, et al), “Kol hamisabel al Yerushalayim zocheh veroeh besimchosah.” In order to merit enjoying the rebuilding of Yerushalayim, one must mourn its destruction.

When justice is man-made, there is always going to be inequality, mistakes, and feelings of division, for the system is inherently only as good as the mortals who formulate the laws and enforce and adjudicate them.

What society considers just is ever-changing. But the truth of Torah is eternal.

So when the parsha begins with the words “Zos chukas haTorah,” it is telling us that Torah is not a philosophy, nor is it a social framework or a platform for pontification. Torah represents the Divine truth through which the world was created and which we must follow to exist successfully in the world that was created through it and for it.

The lesson for us is that we cause the flame of Torah to burn brightly within us as a steady blaze that warms everything in its path. Let mitzvos be more than obligations. Let them be the song of our lives. Let us dance to the rhythm of halacha, not out of habit or pressure, but out of deep joy and knowledge that this is the correct way to live our lives.

Let us endeavor for our tefillah to carry the urgency of someone who knows he is speaking to the One who created heaven, earth and us. Let our learning feel like a reunion with eternity. When we sit down to learn, no matter the time of day or night, let the pages of the Gemara pulse in our hands, like living breath, providing us the very oxygen we need to survive.

Let us ensure that our homes and shuls shine with sincerity, the glowing warmth of love and authenticity. Let us raise our children so they see Torah as the heartbeat of life. Let our neighbors feel kindness radiating from us. Let us uplift people and not put people down. Let us be warm and not cold, friendly and not distant.

We are students of Torah, its bearers, its heirs. We are the link in a chain that stretches back to Har Sinai, a chain forged by brilliance and by fire—the fire of bitachon, sacrifice, and unwavering loyalty to Torah, halacha and mesorah.

The fire of Torah that brings life to everything.

The summer sun stretches long across our days, casting a softer light and a slower rhythm upon our lives. With the burdens of routine temporarily lifted, we instinctively breathe a little deeper, hoping to recharge, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

But the Torah doesn’t go on vacation. The weekly parshiyos continue to echo through our lives, each one a reminder of who we are and what we’re here for.

As we review Israel’s miraculous military triumphs that defied logic and revealed the Hand of Hashem, we are reminded that Jewish survival is never natural. It is always supernatural. At the same time, we begin to approach the somber days of Tammuz, entering the shadowed corridor of the Three Weeks, when we mourn not only the loss of the physical Bais Hamikdosh, but also the resulting spiritual distance that has become part of our lives.

And so, this calm season offers more than leisure. It offers clarity. It is a time to pause and ask ourselves the questions we so often silence during the year’s noise: Where am I really headed? Am I living deliberately, or drifting gently in the current? What can I be doing better and how can I accomplish that?

We sit on porches and benches, feeling the stillness, while inside something stirs. A whisper. A nudge. A subtle call to return. To reflect. To realign. Because even as the world seems to slow, the neshomah does not rest. It seeks direction, meaning, and connection. It seeks the fire of purpose, even in the warmth of summer.

This is the time to look inward, to look upward, and to let the sunlight not only warm our skin, but also awaken our hearts and help us prepare for the great day when the new light will shine with the coming of Moshiach very soon.

 

Face to Face With the Truth

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

For some time now, it has been evident that we are living through historic days. Choose any starting point. Take the Covid pandemic, for instance. A virus that emerged in China swiftly swept across the globe, infecting millions, claiming countless lives, and leaving lingering scars - physical, emotional, and societal. The pandemic wasn’t just a medical crisis. It rattled the foundations of the global economy. In the United States and beyond, businesses shuttered, industries transformed, and livelihoods vanished. The world was forced to adapt to a new, altered reality.

But the devastation went beyond illness and economics. In some places, politicians, drunk on power and driven by agendas, took aim at shuls and yeshivos, weaponizing “science” to shut them for months. In the name of science, they closed stores, banned gatherings, confined people to their homes, and injected millions with vaccines developed in haste, under the banner of urgency. They forced us to wear masks, telling us that they prevented the disease from spreading. Anyone who didn’t wear them while on an airplane was ridiculed and thrown off, unless they were eating, for while eating, the disease wouldn’t spread, even if the mask was off.

Covid toppled governments and governors alike, dancing hand in hand with the Malach Hamovess, until Hashem decided that His message had been sent that we are not in control. Despite humanity’s towering achievements in medicine, science, and technology, man remains powerless in Hashem’s world. It is He who rules, He who decides who shall live and who shall not, who shall rise to power and who shall fall, who should lead and who should follow, how the world turns- and when it stops.

We can turn back to Shemini Atzeres of 5783, a day that shocked Israel and the world. In a brutal and historic surprise attack, Hamas terrorists breached Israel’s borders. Within hours, 1,200 people were murdered, thousands were wounded, and 251 were taken hostage. The vaunted Israeli army and police, long revered for their readiness and strength, were of no help. For nearly seven hours, bloodthirsty savages rampaged with impunity, torturing and slaughtering men, women, children, and even infants.

The questions came quickly and painfully. How could it be? How could Israel - the most surveilled, protected state in the world - be blindsided? How could its famously secure border be torn open by a band of terrorists? Where were the defenders of Israel, the celebrated heroes of the IDF, praised for their bravery and vigilance? On the day they were needed most, they were absent. Some had been killed in the first wave. Others were cut off, communications severed. And as desperate civilians dialed for help, there was no answer. The lines were dead. The operators themselves had been murdered. It would take hours before rescue arrived, and it was far too late for many.

How could such horror unfold? Some have tried to offer answers. Others continue searching. But for many, the truth is clear: This was not merely a failure of intelligence or security. It was a decree from Heaven. When Hashem ordains something, no force on earth - not even the strongest army - can stand in its way. He does it for reasons that are beyond our human comprehension. Sometimes it takes decades or longer to see Hashem’s plan unfold, and sometimes it only takes a couple of years, as we are seeing now.

Because of the Hamas declaration of war on Israel and due to the terrible tragedy they caused, Israel immediately went to war to destroy and dislodge Hamas from Gaza. While opponents of the Israeli government, internally and externally, including President Biden and his administration, condemned Prime Minister Netanyahu for the war he was waging, he continued fighting a historic battle.

Israel eliminated the entire leadership of Hamas and tens of thousands of its fighters. Its rocket arsenal was destroyed, along with the threat it posed to Israel. One of Iran’s proxies had been removed from the chessboard. Their Lebanese proxy, which had threatened Israel for decades from its northern border, joined the war, bombarding Israel repeatedly with Iranian-supplied rockets. Finally, Israel eliminated their heads, their generals, and their leaders, and the threat they represented was done away with. Iran lost another proxy they had spent decades and billions of dollars building. It was historic.

In the aftermath of Hezbollah’s weakening, another Iranian proxy fell, this time in Syria. The longtime dictator, once feared and entrenched, suddenly found himself unable to hold back the rebels who had challenged him for years.

One historic event after another unfolded, and all were set in motion by the tragedy of October 7^th, a day of darkness that Hashem brought upon His people for reasons only He knows. What is clear, and what remains clear to this day, is the unmistakable presence of the Yad Hashem, guiding every step, seen and unseen.

And now we are living through another historic event that people will be reading about and discussing for years to come. After decades of warnings about the threat Iran posed to Israel’s existence, Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu ordered a surprise attack on Iran - its capital, Tehran, its nuclear infrastructure, and the leaders who directed it.

Miraculously, the Israeli armed forces succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. The small country that had fallen victim to an Iranian proxy two-and-a-half years earlier was enabled by Hashem to achieve superiority over Iran, conducting hundreds of unimpeded sorties across its skies, dropping bombs on strategic targets at will.

The Hand of Hashem was evident, and the existential nuclear threat was methodically dismantled. The country that had threatened the Western world, the Arab world, and Israel for so long was eviscerated by Mivtza Am K’lavi.

But the threat wasn’t yet fully neutralized. That happened on Shabbos Kodesh, Parshas Shelach, when we read how Yehoshua told the nation, “Hashem itanu al tira’um - Hashem is with us; you need not fear our enemies” (Bamidbar 14:9). The Ramban (ibid.) explains that Yehoshua was telling them that they bear witness to the many miracles that Hashem performs for them on a regular basis and should know that they have nothing to fear.

It was on that day that President Donald Trump ordered the total destruction of Iran’s three main nuclear facilities, previously believed to be impregnable. In a historic act, bombers flew directly from the United States and, without being detected, destroyed the feared sites with perfect coordination and precision.

American presidents had promised for years that Iran would not be permitted to obtain a nuclear weapon, but they never did anything beyond issuing statements at best, and, at worst, they enabled Iran to continue its dangerous march.

European leaders were also no help, and the UN is now busy criticizing the United States for removing the threat.

It was President Trump, criticized and mocked ever since he declared his candidacy for president in 2016, who demonstrated what leadership is. With moral clarity, he understood that there is good and there is evil, but there is no moral equivalence. After thoroughly reviewing every necessary component and warning Iran and the world that if they would not surrender, he would end their nuclear ambition, he followed through on his threat, proving that the fake news and Democrat lies about him being all bluster were just that: lies.

Those who wondered how Trump could have been elected in 2016 and then reelected in 2024 - with the entirety of the mainstream media and political establishment lined up against him, along with nonstop allegations and court cases - were once again shown unmistakably that lev melochim v’sorim b’Yad Hashem. He was placed in that position by Hashem for good reason.

When President Trump and Prime Minister Netanyahu took to the airwaves to inform their nations of what had just occurred, they both made a point of thanking G-d for making it happen.

When we see Netanyahu, who once took credit for everything, now including Hashem in his public remarks and telling his generals, commanders, and citizens that the main component in victory is siyata diShmaya, we know that something has changed.

Living in historic times has its downsides, but it has upsides as well, and seeing the Yad Hashem guiding the world is a major plus.

Each historic event, no matter how far apart in time or geography, seems to echo a shared theme: We are being shaken awake. Covid silenced cities. October 7^th shattered illusions. Taking out Iran’s nuclear weapons brought a hush to the world. That quiet wasn’t empty. It was filled with a message. Hashem is speaking, not in whispers but in roars.

We plan, prepare, and protect, but He overrides it all. Our schedules, our systems, our assumptions, they shatter like glass when His will moves against them. It is not punishment alone. It is a reminder. A world too reliant on itself forgets its Source. We chase progress and call it purpose. But Hashem has always been the One turning the pages of history.

And now, He’s turning them faster and more clearly. He is bringing us to the ultimate geulah, if we only cooperate.

We believed in our systems. We trusted the strongest army in the Middle East. But in these last few years, each pillar we leaned on has trembled.

Hospitals - overwhelmed. Governments - unsure. Armies - unprepared. How quickly the mighty are made small. How easily the “secure” becomes shattered. We saw the border breach and realized that there is no wall high enough to keep out a decree from Heaven.

But what did not falter? What remained untouched by virus, terror, or fear? The Torah did not collapse. The truth did not shift. Amid the chaos, Hashem remained constant. And for those who looked upward, emunah became firmer than any wall of stone.

In moments like these, people ask, “Where was Hashem?” But the deeper soul asks something else: “Where were we?”

Where were we when He gave us quiet mornings, healthy children, and parnassah without panic? Did we notice Him then? Did we thank Him? Or do we only notice when He reminds us through temporary pain that He never left?

Still, even in darkness, emunah lives. We saw it in the people who ran toward the rockets with tallis and tefillin. In the voices singing Acheinu while sirens screamed overhead. In the unity, the tefillah, the return. Bitachon didn’t die in the rocket fire. It burned brighter.

My dear friend, Rav Avrohom Zeivald, who directs Lev L’Achim, told me that the search among the secular community for a connection to Hashem and for learning Torah is now stronger than he has seen in the thirty years he’s been involved in kiruv.

A nation scattered across the world has been shaken into reality. Jews who hadn’t opened a siddur in years are now whispering Tehillim. Secular hands hold onto tzitzis. Bat Yam and Bnei Brak cry together. A nation is turning - slowly, painfully, but unmistakably - back to its Source.

We are being summoned to rediscover our soul. Teshuvah is no longer a theoretical concept. It is our lifeline. Hashem is not distant. He is reaching for us, and thankfully, we are reaching back.

That is what these historic times are meant to do. They strip away the noise, the illusions, and the layers we’ve wrapped around ourselves until we are left face to face with the truth we’ve always known - that we are in Hashem’s Hands.

Not in theory, not in a drosha, but in the stillness after the sirens, in the helplessness of the unanswered call, in the cry of a nation that knows no one else can save us. Those who pay close attention can hear, in the sounds of the sirens and the falling bombs, the resonances of a shofar and the footsteps of Moshiach fast approaching.

We do not understand the cheshbonos. We do not know why so many had to suffer. But we must know that this is the final refining, that the world is being hollowed to make room for eternal brachos.

We, who merit to live in the time of ikvesa d’Meshicha, know that the cracks in the world are not signs of destruction, but labor pangs before rebirth.

There is pain. But there is also awakening. There is tragedy. But there is also clarity. We are watching a world unravel, not randomly, but precisely and purposefully, preparing for something greater.

Don’t be influenced by the naysayers or the media. The present chaos is not the end. It is the beginning. We are being prevented from traveling to Eretz Yisroel, and those who are there are being held back from their regular routines, but know that very soon, all of Klal Yisroel will be brought to Eretz Yisroel on kanfei neshorim and will live lives of incomparable bliss.