The Beauty of Shabbos

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Finally, after generations of enslavement in Mitzrayim and a dramatic redemption, Klal Yisroel reaches the apex of creation, standing at Har Sinai and receiving the Torah from Hakadosh Boruch Hu. They hear the Aseres Hadibros and are awed and inspired to live lives of holiness, following the will of the Creator.

One of the mitzvos included in the Aseres Hadibros is Shabbos. We study the posuk of “Zachor es yom haShabbos lekadsho” (20:8), which literally translates as “Remember the Shabbos day to make it holy.”

The pesukim then state that we are to work six days of the week and rest on the seventh, not doing any work on that day, because Hashem created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. Therefore, He blessed the Shabbos day and sanctified it.

The Ramban explains the posuk of “Zachor es yom haShabbos lekadsho” to mean that it is a mitzvah to remember to sanctify Shabbos and keep it holy. He cites the posuk which states, “Vekarasa laShabbos oneg likdosh Hashem” (Yeshayahu 58:13), and writes that when we rest on Shabbos, we do so because it is a holy day. We therefore take a break from even thinking about mundane matters. Instead, we seek to satiate our souls in the way of Hashem and study Torah.

In Parshas Beshalach (16:28–29), the Torah discusses Shabbos in reference to the monn. A double portion fell on Friday because none fell on Shabbos. The posuk states, “Reu ki Hashem nosan lochem es haShabbos — See that Hashem has given you the Shabbos.”

The Seforno explains that the posuk is teaching us to reflect on the fact that Hashem has given us Shabbos, which has two components that set it apart from the rest of the week: firstly, through its mitzvos, and secondly, because it is a gift that Hashem gave to the Bnei Yisroel.

This is probably based on the Gemara in Shabbos (10b), which states that Hashem told Moshe that He has a good gift among His treasures by the name of Shabbos, and He wishes to present it to Klal Yisroel.

What is the gift? Is it the entirety of Shabbos, or is it a component of Shabbos?

In the sefer from Rav Meir Soloveitchik al haTorah, in Parshas Beshalach, it is brought from the Brisker Rov that he deduced from a Rashi in Bereishis (2:2) that the rest component of Shabbos, menucha, is not just a lack of work, but a special creation that Hashem presented to us. He says that Shabbos has two components. The first is its mitzvos, and the second is the menucha.

The Brisker Rov concluded that the menucha of Shabbos was especially created for the Jewish people and is the gift that Hashem gave us.

What is the gift of menucha?

Rav Shimshon Pincus (Shabbos Malkesa 3:4, 2) explains that when a person engages in intense physical labor, he naturally becomes tired and requires rest. This is rooted in the laws of nature, as it reflects a deep spiritual truth: that the source of all life is spiritual. The physical realm, by contrast, is not only distinct from the spiritual, but also serves as a barrier, distancing a person from his spiritual essence and, in turn, from his true source of vitality.

When someone immerses himself entirely in physical labor, he becomes disconnected from this spiritual energy, leading to exhaustion. However, when he ceases his physical exertion and rests, his physical side no longer obstructs his spiritual side. This allows him to reconnect with his true source of life, replenishing his energy and restoring his vitality.

This is compounded when we sleep and our neshamos ascend on high to their Creator, becoming reconnected to their life source. They return to us fully charged, and we wake up energized to take on the day.

The gift that Hashem gave us with Shabbos is that on this day we totally separate from gashmiyus — physical labor, activities, and thoughts — and return to ruchniyus, that which is spiritual. The holiness of Shabbos envelops us. Once we are unburdened from the physical aspects of life that have enveloped us for the past six days, we enter the realm of the kedusha and menucha of Shabbos, as we proclaim, “Yom menucha ukedusha l’amcha nosata.”

Shabbos disconnects us from gashmiyus, enveloping us in the source of energy and life. This is the ultimate gift of menucha that Hashem presented to us.

In order to merit this gift, however, we have to do our part and not only refrain from doing the physical labor of the 39 melachos, but, on Shabbos, elevate ourselves from the mundane through our actions and also through our thoughts. We refrain from discussing, reading about, or thinking about work and the everyday concerns that occupy our minds during the week. Shabbos is a time to step away from the ordinary and reconnect with a higher, spiritual realm. The more we do so, the better off we are and the more energetic we will be.

Menuchas Shabbos is not about lounging around, engaging in shallow conversations, or indulging in gossip without regard for the truth or the harm it may cause. It is not about speaking ill of others, mocking them, or simply passing the time with vacuous chatter.

Those who seek to experience the gift of menuchas Shabbos do so by elevating their ruchniyus through learning, refining their behavior, thoughts, speech, and what they read and focus on.

Shabbos is not solely about refraining from the 39 melachos. It is about rising above our physical, material side as much as possible. It is an opportunity to connect more deeply to our spiritual essence.

Shabbos is a precious gift from Hashem. The more we recognize and appreciate this gift, the closer we draw to Him and the better off we are. Viewing Shabbos as a burden only robs us of the deep opportunities it offers. It keeps us stuck in the triviality of the physical world, sapping our energy and preventing us from experiencing the true depth and perception that this holy day can provide.

The holiness of Shabbos is so profound that, according to the Vilna Gaon, when we eat and drink on Shabbos to fulfill the commandment of oneg, experiencing the joy of eating and drinking on Shabbos, it is as sacred as if we were partaking in a korban. The reason for this, he explains, is that by engaging in these physical acts, we bridge the gap between the physical and spiritual realms, connecting the material (gashmi) and the spiritual (ruchni).

Rav Dovid Cohen elaborates on this by explaining that the essence of kedushas Shabbos lies in elevating the physical world and connecting it to the neshomah. Eating and enjoying food, though a physical act, becomes a spiritual one when done with the intention of fulfilling the mitzvah. As a result, this act is considered so holy that it is as if the person were consuming the meat of a korban.

Imagine that, although we are in golus, without the Bais Hamikdosh and without korbanos, every Shabbos we have the opportunity to eat in a way that is equal to eating korbanos. We don’t have to travel anywhere or do anything special. All we need to do is sit at our Shabbos table, immersed in the sanctity of the day, enjoying the delicacies our mothers and wives prepared for us and the family. Most likely, the recipes they used were handed down to them from their mothers, who received them from their mothers for hundreds of years, each one of whom cooked for a family of mekadshei Shabbos who had the pleasure equivalent to eating korbanos that were shechted in the Bais Hamikdosh.

No matter where they lived or how hard they worked all week, they all enjoyed the transformative powers of Shabbos, the yom menucha ukedusha.

Davening in the Zichron Moshe Shul in the heart of Yerushalayim’s Geulah neighborhood is a special pleasure. The shul and its shtieblach welcome Jews of all stripes, who combine to form the beautiful mosaic that is Geulah in particular and Yerushalayim in general.

I have written previously about the Friday morning when I was there and saw a man sleeping on a bench. His clothing was dirty. His sleep was repeatedly interrupted as he scratched himself in pain from not having showered in many days. It was a pitiful sight, though not unusual in that hallowed shul.

On Friday evening, I passed the shul and stopped by the window of the large bais medrash. I looked toward the mizrach, and there, next to the rov, was the man who, that morning, had been sleeping in squalor on a bench in that very room. From the window, I saw him as he sat at the mizrach wall, facing the mispallelim. He was bedecked in a Yerushalayimer gold bekeshe and shtreimel. He was shining as he sat there with a broad smile on his face. He looked like a malach.

Shabbos transformed him. He was a new person.

It was Shabbos, and he was a new being, almost unrecognizable from what he had been just a few hours before.

I stood there, soaking in the image and thinking that this is how the geulah will be. We are overcome with shmutz, dirt, pain, and sadness. We are in golus, exiled among the nations and among those who have strayed. We are far from home but we do not despair because we know that the day of our redemption is quickly arriving. We will be cleansed, freshened, and made anew. Joy will return. And in the very place where we experienced pain, humiliation, and suffering, we will find comfort.

Meforshim wonder about the connection between the geulah and the heightened moments when Shabbos enters every week, moments that are combined in the universally recited Lecha Dodi.

We raise our voices and sing, welcoming the kallah, yet the words we chant aren’t as much about Shabbos as they are about Yerushalayim.

We shift from Likras Shabbos to Mikdash Melech, focusing on the Palace of the King. We hope for Hisna’ari and call out for Hisoreri, breaking into dance as we envision the time of Yosis Olayich Elokoyich.

Commentators ask why we chant these poetic expressions about the redemption and Yerushalayim as Shabbos begins. What is the connection?

In Zichron Moshe, as I stood at that window, I saw the transformational power of Shabbos and understood the answer to this question.

Every Shabbos, we are each able to rise from the dust of the workweek, from the darkness of golus — mei’afar kumi.

When Moshiach comes, we will do so as a people, together, just as we sing in Lecha Dodi: “Hisna’ari mei’afar kumi livshi bigdei sifarteich ami al yad ben Yishai bais halachmi korvah el nafshi ge’olah.”

May we all merit, each week, the transformation that Shabbos offers, and the ultimate transformation that Moshiach will bring when he redeems us from the struggles of the six days and ushers us into the world of eternal Shabbos.

The Smack, the Darkness, and the Light

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

We learn in this week’s parsha about the makkah of choshech, a darkness so thick that it paralyzed an entire civilization. Mitzrayim was plunged into a suffocating blackness that immobilized its people, leaving them unable to move, see, or function. Yet, amid that oppressive gloom, the Jewish people walked with light wherever they went. Two worlds existed side by side: one blinded and frozen, the other illuminated and alive; one enveloped by darkness and one enjoying bright light.

Chazal teach that only one-fifth of the Jewish people merited leaving Mitzrayim. The rest, tragically, did not survive. They lacked the inner strength of faith, the resolve to cling to Hashem and to the mesorah handed down through the generations. They perished quietly, concealed by the darkness itself, their loss unnoticed by a world that could no longer see.

The Rishonim and Acharonim regularly remind us that Jewish history does not merely repeat itself. It reveals itself. Maaseh avos siman labonim. What happened to our forefathers is a map for their children. The descent into, and emergence from, Mitzrayim foreshadows our own journey toward redemption. The Jewish people, scattered across continents and cultures, will face confusion, hardship, and suffering until the destined moment arrives.

We live today in ikvesa deMeshicha, the final footsteps before Moshiach. And just as the road out of Mitzrayim passed through choshech, so too our era is cloaked in darkness. It presses in from all sides, blurring truth, distorting values, and numbing sensitivity.

Those who cleave to Torah and mitzvos possess light, as the posuk states, “Ki ner mitzvah v’Torah ohr.” Torah illuminates when the world grows dim. It provides clarity, direction, and stability when everything feels uncertain. Those who abandon it, especially under pressure, often find themselves without anchors, sinking into moral confusion, greed, anxiety, and despair.

We confront a relentlessly shifting society, one eroded by fading morals and relentless temptation. New challenges arise daily. To merit Moshiach, we must work to preserve what makes us who we are. We must remember why we were created and what our mission is. Every decision we make requires us to consider whether this action brings the geulah closer or pushes it further away. If it adds light to the world, it deserves pursuit. If it deepens the darkness, it must be resisted.

The rise of tumah blinds many to what should be self-evident. The challenges and tests are severe. Emunah and bitachon are stretched. Tzaros multiply. The righteous suffer, the vulnerable falter, and Jews everywhere look ahead with apprehension.

We can only imagine the anguish during the darkest days of avdus in Mitzrayim, as multitudes of Yaakov Avinu’s descendants lost hope. Mitzrayim’s decadent culture beckoned them.

Then choshech descended, not as a sudden blow, but as a creeping presence, quiet and consuming. It did not announce itself with thunder or terror. It slipped in gently, disguising itself as progress, sophistication, and freedom. Those caught within it believed that they were moving forward, stepping into light, even as their vision dimmed and their footing faltered. The darkness was not merely the absence of light. It was a distortion of reality itself.

For those who mistook illusion for enlightenment, the darkness felt reassuring at first. Then the choshech thickened. It immobilized. It silenced. It erased. Those who had loosened their grip on emunah found that there was nothing left to hold them upright when the world went dark. Their disappearance was almost imperceptible, concealed beneath the shroud of night. No cries echoed. No monuments were raised. They simply slipped away, casualties not of persecution, but of confusion.

This was the strongest aspect of the makkah. The darkness did not destroy indiscriminately. It revealed who possessed inner light and who had extinguished it. The geulah was clearly unfolding just as Hakadosh Boruch Hu told them it would, but not everyone could see it, and not everyone could endure its demands. The promise of freedom passed over those who had freed themselves from the truth.

This is the enduring danger: What looks like light may, in truth, be darkness.

That danger did not end in Mitzrayim. It follows us into our daily lives — quieter now, more polished, more seductive. Choshech rarely announces itself as evil. It arrives cloaked in confidence, wrapped in slogans of self-expression, progress, and enlightenment. It promises ease, validation, and belonging. And like the darkness of Mitzrayim, it dulls our vision just enough that we stop noticing what we are losing.

In our world, false light abounds. Ideas that erode morality are marketed as compassion. Self-indulgence is rebranded as authenticity. The abandonment of limits is celebrated as freedom. Values once considered corrosive are elevated as virtues. While it all shines brightly, beneath the surface lies decay.

The test now is not whether we can recognize obvious evil, but whether we can distinguish truth from its clever imitations. Not everything that feels good is good. Not everything that is popular is right. Not everything that glows leads forward. Choshech today is the confusion that convinces a person to trade depth for comfort, meaning for acceptance, and eternity for immediacy.

Pursuing truth demands courage, because truth often resists convenience. When the world urges us to loosen our grip on principle in exchange for applause or ease, we must remember how quickly false light turns into immobilizing darkness.

In a world skilled at disguising corruption, the pursuit of truth becomes an act of quiet defiance. It is how we ensure that when darkness descends, we are not among those who vanish unnoticed, but among those who still shine, steady, enduring, and real.

In our world, darkness can masquerade as light, cloaked in language that sounds faithful to our mesorah but is, in truth, opposed to the sacred values and traditions handed down through the generations. It arrives gradually, through a steady drip of foreign ideas, methods, and attitudes, smoothly packaged in familiar words and comforting concepts. Disguised in this way, they slip past our defenses, quietly take root, and begin to reshape our thinking from within.

We must remain vigilant and steadfastly devoted to the mesorah of our rabbeim and parents, not allowing ourselves to be diverted from the path of growth, excellence in learning, and living as true Torah Jews. Our strength lies in constancy, in loyalty to the values that have guided our people through every golus and every challenge.

Just as a flashlight pierces the darkness of a night journey, so does the Torah illuminate our way. When a blackout descends, people do not surrender to the dark. They switch on lanterns to restore vision and allow life to continue. The Torah, as transmitted to us by our rabbeim, who are likened to malochim, is that lantern. As the world grows dim, gray, and confused, the Torah provides clarity, direction, and warmth.

At a time that cries out for illumination, each of us must add sparks. We must expose falsehood, clarify reality, and prepare ourselves and the world for Moshiach. So much is plainly evident, yet we watch as the world’s media, culture, and institutions twist facts to advance their agendas. In the broader world, darkness often prevails. Truth is optional, and falsehood carries little consequence.

Just as the Jews in Mitzrayim were subjugated by a hypocritical ruler and a duplicitous society, hypocrisy defines our age, increasingly so in its treatment of Jews. Nations with blood-soaked pasts lecture Israel for defending itself against terrorists bent on its destruction. Mass slaughter in Africa is met with silence, while Israel’s fight for survival sparks outrage and fixation. Iranians risk their lives in the streets demanding freedom, yet those who loudly chanted for a “Free Palestine” show no concern for them. Russia levels cities and commits atrocities, and it is met with weary acceptance. The spotlight remains fixed, relentlessly, on the lone Jewish state.

Meanwhile, Jews who once lived peacefully in Europe, the United States, and Canada now confront levels of anti-Semitism unseen in generations. From elementary schools to universities, hostility is not only tolerated but, in many cases, taught. Ancient libels, long thought buried, have been exhumed and repackaged as accepted truth. Modern media has given a megaphone to lunatics spewing disjointed hatred, allowing them to amass millions of followers eager to absorb the lies and once again fixate on the eternal scapegoat: the Jews.

The State of Israel was founded on the hope that sovereignty would end Jew-hatred and secure acceptance among the nations. History has delivered a harsher verdict.

Many are bewildered. Why the hatred? Why the double standards?

Those rooted in Torah are not perplexed. They know the answer articulated by the Ramban at the close of this week’s parsha.

Hashem brought the makkos to demonstrate that He created the world and governs it entirely. When He wills, nature proceeds as usual. When He wills otherwise, it bends instantly to His command. Nothing is random. Nothing is autonomous.

The Torah commands every generation to teach the next one about Yetzias Mitzrayim and its miracles. Doing so reminds us that Hashem orchestrates all events and that nothing “just happens.” There is meaning even when we do not grasp it. Hashem watches over each of us with care. Reward and consequence are real. We are never abandoned, and events do not unfold because of human moods, tyrants, rivals, or chance. They occur because Hashem wills them to, for reasons often beyond our understanding.

This is why so many mitzvos are zeicher l’Yetzias Mitzrayim. Remembering the makkos and the geulah from that sad situation reinforces that Hashem created, sustains, and directs everything in the world and in our lives.

As forces of falsehood and darkness contend for dominance, we must fortify our emunah and bitachon and live in a way that finds favor in Hashem’s eyes. We remain a nation of truth, morality, dignity, and integrity. We are not shaken by mockery, nor derailed by hypocrites, buffoons, or megaphone moralists.

Following the First World War, the Belzer Rebbe was forced to leave Belz due to hostilities and sought refuge in Hungary. As he began returning home, word spread that he would be stopping in the city of Holoshitz for Shabbos. Thousands of people from surrounding towns and cities made their way there, hoping for the rare opportunity to spend Shabbos in the presence of the great rebbe. Among them was Rabbi Naftoli Tzvi Ungar, who brought along his ten-year-old son. Many families did the same, unsure if they would ever have another chance to see the rebbe.

At the Friday night tish, however, the crowd was overwhelming. The young boy, eager to see the rebbe, was shoved and smacked by others pressing forward, all trying to catch a glimpse of the tzaddik. Terrified of being smacked again, the boy refused to accompany his father on Shabbos day, staying away from the rebbe’s tishen despite his yearning to be close.

At seudah shlishis, the rebbe asked Rabbi Ungar about his son’s whereabouts. Amazed that the rebbe had noticed that the boy was present at the Friday evening tish and then absent throughout Shabbos, Rabbi Ungar explained what had happened and that his son was afraid to return, lest he be smacked again.

The rebbe responded that Rabbi Ungar should tell his son, “Ah Yid tur nit dershreken ven her chapt ah gutteh klop — A Jew mustn’t be afraid when he gets a good smack.”

The rebbe was teaching that life is filled with moments that are uncomfortable, challenging, or even frightening. We encounter obstacles, slights, setbacks, and tests that shake our comfort and confidence. Yet, just as the “good smack” was not meant to harm the boy, so are the difficulties in our lives guided by Hashem’s hand. Nothing happens by accident, nothing is meaningless, and even what appears unpleasant can have purpose.

This lesson resonates profoundly when we consider the choshech of our own times. Just as Mitzrayim was shrouded in a darkness that paralyzed an entire nation, so does our modern world present illusions of light — values, ideas, and trends that glitter but are morally dim, that dazzle but corrupt. The darkness can be subtle, persuasive, and relentless. It challenges our vision, tests our faith, and tempts us to abandon what we know is true and sacred.

The Belzer Rebbe’s wisdom teaches that even in the face of such darkness, we need not fear. We may be jostled, misled, or even harmed by the pressures and smacks of life, yet Hashem’s guiding hand is always present. Just as the boy was reassured about the smack he had received, so must we trust that our emunah, bitachon, and perseverance are our light in the darkness. Torah and mitzvos are our lanterns, steady and reliable even when the world grows gray and black.

Illumination is not always gentle or easy. Sometimes the path forward requires courage, discipline, and steadfastness. Even when the world surges with hatred toward the Jewish people, even when false lights threaten to blind us, we hold fast to what we know is right, true, and eternal.

In a world of moral ambiguity, deception, and hostility, we must do our best to generate sparks of light. We must cultivate clarity, learn Torah on a deeper level, strengthen our emunah, be more careful in our kiyum hamitzvos, and shine by example. We should not shrink in the face of the dark, be deceived by illusions of brightness, or lose sight of the Divine guidance that watches over every Jew.

Torah and mitzvos are the enduring beacons of light, piercing the choshech that defines our time and carving a passage through the shadows. May they continue to illuminate our path, banish the darkness, and lead us swiftly to the coming of Moshiach.

The Art of Holding On

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

The first posuk in this week’s parsha states that Hashem appeared to Moshe and reminded him of how He had revealed Himself to the avos and promised them Eretz Yisroel (6:2). He told Moshe that just as He remembers His bris with the avos, so does He hear the cries of the Bnei Yisroel and will act to redeem them. Hashem instructed Moshe to tell the Jewish people that their suffering would soon end, and that He Himself would free them from the shackles of Mitzrayim.

Rashi explains that this was in direct response to Moshe’s question at the end of last week’s parsha (5:22), when he asked, “Lomah harei’osah la’am hazeh — Why have You made things worse for Your people, and why have You sent me to speak to Paroh?” Hashem’s reply reassured Moshe that His promises are unfailing, and that Moshe’s mission was part of the Divine plan to fulfill the covenant He had made with the avos.

Moshe’s mission was never random or accidental. Every step of his journey — from his hidden birth to his upbringing in Paroh’s palace, from his golus in Midyan to the moment he encountered the burning bush — was part of Hashem’s plan. Each challenge, each hardship, was preparing him to lead the Jewish people out of bondage and into freedom. As we learn the parsha, we understand that the miracles of Moshe’s life were not just extraordinary events. They were signs of the Hand of Hashgocha, guiding him, shaping him, and preparing him to fulfill the promise made to the avos.

There are times in history when the world seems poised against us, when despair feels heavier than hope, and the night stretches endlessly before the dawn. In those periods we must remember that even when life is darkest, the flame of Hashem’s Hashgocha is never extinguished. From the very first cries of our people to the promise of redemption, the story of Klal Yisroel is one of survival, resilience, and faith.

In every generation, we have faced threats that seemed insurmountable. Empires sought our destruction. Tyrants demanded our silence. Even when our backs were against the wall, our spirits flickered, small, fragile, but alive. That flicker is what Hashem sees, what He nurtures, and what He calls upon us to protect and strengthen.

And so it was at the very beginning of the story of Moshe Rabbeinu. An infant, born in the shadow of death, placed in the Nile to float between life and death, became the instrument through which Hashem would reveal to the world that no oppression is final, no darkness is eternal, and no nation, however broken, is beyond hope.

Sometimes, a single act of courage, as small as placing a child in a basket, is enough to change the course of history.

At the time that Paroh decreed that every Jewish baby boy be put to death, Moshe was born quietly, hidden from the eyes of the Mitzriyim. His mother, Yocheved, understood the danger surrounding him. Every footstep, every knock at the door, carried mortal threat. Yet, she also understood that her child was not merely another infant. He was part of Hashem’s plan. With courage and deep emunah, she placed him into a small teivah and set it upon the waters of the Nile. His sister, Miriam, watched from a distance, ready to follow the teivah wherever the currents carried it, ensuring that her brother would survive.

That basket was more than a vessel for a baby. It was a declaration of faith and courage in a world determined to snuff out hope. In the midst of cruelty, Yocheved entrusted her child to Hashem, believing that life could triumph even in the face of imminent death.

Faith - emunah and bitachon - must come before understanding.

Paroh’s daughter found the basket, heard the baby cry, and felt compassion stir in her heart. She rescued him, bringing him into the palace, where he was raised as her own. There, in the very heart of Jewish oppression, the future redeemer of Klal Yisroel grew up.

Moshe was surrounded by wealth and power, yet his soul remained tethered to his people. When he left the palace and witnessed a Mitzri striking a Jew, he intervened, refusing to remain silent. That single act forced him to flee Mitzrayim, leaving the comfort of the palace for the uncertainty of exile. He arrived in Midyan, married the daughter of Yisro, and became a shepherd, tending his father-in-law’s flocks in the vast wilderness.

From the grandeur of palaces to the stillness of desert plains, Moshe’s life seemed to have taken a bewildering turn. Yet, it was in that quiet wilderness that Hashem would reveal Himself, teaching Moshe that even the most ordinary moments can harbor extraordinary purpose.

One day, Moshe noticed a sight that captured his attention: a bush continuously burning with fire, yet not being consumed. The flames danced upon its branches, blackening them, yet the bush remained whole. Moshe did not walk by. He stopped, turned aside, and stared. He recognized that this was not an ordinary fire. Something holy was unfolding.

The Medrash teaches that just as Avrohom Avinu studied the world and concluded that it could not exist without a Creator, Moshe perceived that Hakadosh Boruch Hu was announcing His Presence. The burning bush was a message: Jewish history may be scorched, battered, and surrounded by flames, but it will never be destroyed. Even when circumstances appear hopeless, Hashem’s providence is always present, sustaining life, guiding events, and preparing redemption.

Sometimes, the smallest spark carries infinite meaning.

From that bush, Hashem spoke to Moshe and entrusted him with a mission that would shape the course of history: to return to Mitzrayim and redeem His people.

Moshe, in his humility, asked what he should tell the Jewish people when they inquired who sent him. Hashem replied, “Ehkeh asher Ehkeh - I will be with them.” Not only at that moment, but in every suffering, every exile, and every trial that lay ahead. Hashem was telling Moshe that even when the world seems most hostile, He is present, guiding and sustaining the Jewish people.

Moshe was no longer merely a shepherd. He had become the messenger of redemption, tasked with announcing that hope exists even in the darkest of times.

One might imagine that such news would be received with overwhelming joy. A nation crushed under whips and chains would surely leap at the promise of freedom. Yet, when Moshe delivered Hashem’s message, the Torah recounts something striking: “Velo shomu el Moshe mikotzer ruach umei’avodah kasha - The people did not listen to Moshe because of shortness of spirit and crushing labor.”

They wanted to hear him. But they couldn’t. Their suffering had not only exhausted their bodies. It had crushed their souls. They were too dispirited and fragile to absorb hope. Even when salvation is imminent, the weight of despair can make it impossible to hear.

Sometimes, we must learn patience as well as hope.

This posuk teaches that suffering is not only physical. It can shrink the soul. When people are beaten down for too long, even good news sounds unreal. Even hope can feel unreachable.

This is not only history. It is the story of our time.

We live in a world of waiting. People are glued to their devices, scrolling endlessly, waiting for good news. Just over the past couple of years, we waited for the Gaza war to end. We waited for the hostages to come home. We waited for airlines to resume flights to Eretz Yisroel. We waited for a real president, for economic stability, and for interest rates to drop so we could afford homes. We waited for justice to be restored. Though at times it felt as if we were waiting in vain, our waits were answered.

And still, we wait. We wait for America to become great again. We wait for peaceful brotherhood to be restored to Eretz Yisroel. We wait for an end to the Gaza mess. We wait for a total end to the wicked leaders of Iran and the threat they represent to Israel. We wait for an end to progressive nonsense and a return to common sense. We wait for an end to the recent rash of anti-Semitic hatred.

And of course, above all, we wait for Moshiach.

We know that he will soon come and bring us what Moshe brought to the suffering people in Mitzrayim: the announcement that suffering has an end and redemption is near.

Yet, the danger of our age is not only the bad news we hear too often from within and beyond our community. The danger of our age is exhaustion. People become overwhelmed by fear, uncertainty, political instability, social hostility, and personal struggles. Instead of remaining optimistic and hopeful, too often, people become depleted mikotzer ruach. Their spiritual lungs shrink. They can no longer breathe in hope, and they cannot hear the message of redemption. Their predicament weakens them as they see no way out, no rising sun on the horizon.

Sometimes, strength must be renewed by noticing small sparks of light.

Each headline reminds us that golus is real and that safety is fragile. But even amidst fear, there are sparks of light. Even amidst darkness, Hashem’s presence is manifest.

We know that nothing happens by accident. Wars, upheavals, and economic crises are all chapters in a Divine story. The nevi’im spoke of such times, and we pray that these upheavals are the footsteps of Moshiach.

Yet, waiting is difficult when people are exhausted.

During World War I, Jewish life in Eastern Europe was decimated. Entire towns emptied. Families wandered with nothing. Yeshivos moved from place to place, surviving on crumbs. Young men were drafted into armies they would never return from.

A bochur once approached the Chofetz Chaim, broken and despairing. “Rebbe,” he cried, “ich ken nit oishalten - I can’t go on.” The Chofetz Chaim told him about Adam Harishon. On his first day in this world, when Adam saw the sun set, he thought the world was ending. He cried, believing that his sin had destroyed it all. But the next morning, he awoke and the sun rose. Adam then realized that this is how Hashem made the world. There is night, and then there is day.

The Chofetz Chaim told the boy who thought he could not hold on, that this is the way of the world. There is night, and then there is day. There is darkness, but it is always followed by light. Hold on just a little bit longer, and you will merit seeing the light.

We saw that truth after the Holocaust. Six million Jews were murdered. Communities were wiped out. Yet, from the ashes arose families, yeshivos, and flourishing Torah life. The sun rose again.

Those survivors had ruach, spirit. They believed that darkness was not the end.

The Ohr Hachaim explains that the Jews in Mitzrayim could not hear Moshe because they were not bnei Torah. Slavery had crushed them so completely that they could no longer hope or breathe freely.

We, who have been given the Torah, must not allow ourselves to become overwhelmed mikotzer ruach. When we study Torah, it connects us with Hashem and strengthens us, for we are fulfilling our purpose.

Studying Torah restores our bitachon, which allows us to widen our perspective and appreciate that the light of redemption - personal and communal - will soon shine.

That is the message of the burning bush. A Jew may be scorched, blackened, and battered, but never consumed. Within every neshomah burns a hidden flame, waiting to be ignited.

Ever since the terrible attacks of October 7^th and the subsequent anti-Semitic hatred those attacks spawned, we have seen that flame awaken in Jews around the world. People who felt distant from Torah and mitzvos began feeling the pull of identity, destiny, and purpose. Pain shook something loose. Hearts opened. The fire began to burn again.

We must never give up on any Jew. And we must never give up on ourselves.

So many people suffer not only because of their difficulties, but because those difficulties erode their self-confidence. When people begin to doubt themselves, when they feel powerless against life’s trials, even small obstacles can feel insurmountable. To remain trapped in a cycle of sadness and defeatism is to prevent oneself from discovering the inner strength that Hashem has placed within every soul.

Everyone must believe in themselves - in their resilience, in their capacity to endure, and in their ability to rise above the challenges they face. A nisayon, a test or challenge, is not meant to crush us. It is meant to refine us. It calls upon us to confront adversity with courage, to grow through it, and to emerge stronger, wiser, and more faithful than before.

When we see our hardships as temporary, when we embrace them as opportunities for self-improvement and spiritual growth, we reclaim the power to shape our lives. Even the darkest moments contain sparks of potential. But if we allow despair to dominate, those sparks remain hidden and we deny ourselves the chance to overcome, to shine, and to fulfill the purpose Hashem has set before us.

Faith in oneself, combined with faith in Hashem, is what transforms challenge into triumph. It allows a person to move forward when the world feels heavy and unyielding, turning every difficulty into a steppingstone toward strength, courage, and ultimate redemption.

When despair takes hold, it can distort everything we see. We begin to view the world through a shadowed lens, noticing only failure, conflict, and loss. Every piece of news, every personal setback, and every interaction feels magnified into a threat. The economy seems hopeless, relationships appear broken, communities feel fractured, and the world itself can seem hostile and unwelcoming.

But this perspective, as powerful as it feels, is not the full truth. Even when our hearts are heavy and our minds are clouded by pessimism, there is much goodness around us. There are people willing to lend a hand, communities ready to support, and opportunities for renewal waiting to be embraced. Often, all it takes is a shift in focus, and a willingness to open our eyes and hearts, to allow that help and kindness to enter.

Despair isolates, but hope connects. It reminds us that we are not alone. Even in the depths of hardship, we can find allies, encouragement, and light. When we lift our gaze above the shadows of our own suffering, we discover that the world contains far more warmth, generosity, and potential than we could have imagined.

The moment we allow ourselves to see that truth, even a small spark of hope can grow into a flame, guiding us toward action, renewal, and the strength to rise above our challenges. It is in those moments - when faith in ourselves intersects with faith in Hashem, when hope begins to shine despite darkness - that we begin to reclaim our ruach and our capacity to change our circumstances.

Just as Moshe stood before the burning bush, unsure and humble, yet chosen to lead Klal Yisroel out of darkness into freedom, so are we called to rise above our own doubts and despair. Hashem has placed within each of us a spark, a flame of potential, a neshomah capable of strength and resilience even when the world feels overwhelming. If we embrace that spark and nurture it with emunah, bitachon, faith, courage, and action, we can overcome every nisayon, break free from every cycle of sadness, and open ourselves to the light of redemption.

Let us remember that even when the darkness feels endless, the flame of Hashem’s providence is always present. Just as Moshe was sent to bring hope to a people weighed down by suffering, each of us has the capacity to rise, to act, to believe, and to see the good that surrounds us. In doing so, we participate in the eternal story of our people, a story in which despair never has the final word and redemption always awaits.

May we be zoche to experience the ultimate redemption very soon with the coming of Moshiach.

Tapestry of Redemption

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

This week, we begin Sefer Shemos, the Sefer Hageulah. It is the sefer that tells the story of how a broken, enslaved people rose from the depths of despair to stand at Har Sinai to receive the Torah. It carries us from the bitterness of bondage to the ecstasy of redemption, from drowning terror at the Yam Suf to the highest spiritual moment in human history.

But Sefer Shemos is not merely a historical account. It teaches us what destroys a nation — and what saves it.

The Alter of Kelm would explain that just as Avrohom, Yitzchok and Yaakov are called the avos because they laid the foundations of Yiddishkeit, so do the parshiyos of Sefer Shemos function as avos, forming the bedrock of our emunah and guiding us how to live as Jews.

How we treat other people defines us. It shapes our souls and announces, louder than any slogan, who we are. When we are attentive to others, when we notice them, value them, and appreciate them, we grow. We become capable of achdus. And through that unity, we become capable of far more than we ever could accomplish alone.

Hashem designed human beings to need one another. A person cannot thrive in isolation. From the moment we enter the world, we survive only through connection. As infants, we are utterly dependent. Even as adults, nearly everything we require to sustain our lives — food, shelter, education, health, security — comes from the labor and kindness of others. Every act of care, every hand extended, is part of the invisible network that sustains us.

Arrogance blinds people to this reality. Those who refuse to acknowledge how much they owe others imagine themselves self-made. It should be obvious that without the contributions of many other people, they would be hungry, lonely, ignorant, and lost. Everything we know, everything we have, exists because someone else cared enough to give. Appreciating even the smallest kindness is part of the lifeblood of community.

A meaningful life cannot be lived alone. Peirud — division — is not merely a social flaw. It is spiritual corrosion. It weakens communities and hollows out the people who cause it.

The Torah is filled with mitzvos that cultivate humility and gratitude, mitzvos that remind us that the world is sustained by kindness and that Hashem showers us with blessing every day. Whatever we pursue in life, we must remember the ultimate goal. Not winning arguments. Not momentary triumphs. But building something enduring. Unity makes our efforts last.

The Torah tells us in Devorim (7:7) that Hashem did not choose us because we were many. We are, in fact, the smallest of the nations. And yet, when we are united, we become greater than the sum of our parts. Our deeds combine. Our merits accumulate. Other nations may be larger, but when we have achdus, no one can overtake us.

We must learn how to move forward together, not as individuals who happen to share a label, but as a people bound by shared purpose. Loving another Jew does not require agreement, and appreciating another Jew does not require seeing the world through the same lens. What matters is the shared neshomah beneath the surface, the spark that unites us despite our differences. When we recognize that spark, unity becomes real, lived, and enduring.

Even before Moshe Rabbeinu was born, this lesson was already being written. Shifra and Puah, his mother and sister, risked their lives to save others. They were renowned for their righteousness and rose to achieve levels of nevuah. Yet, despite their overarching greatness, the Torah refers to them by the names given them for their acts of kindness involving infants. Their identity was chesed. In reward for their chesed, they merited dynasties of Kehunah, Leviyah, and Malchus.

Kindness is greatness.

Moshe Rabbeinu survived because of chesed. A helpless infant, placed in a basket among the reeds, was saved by Basya, the daughter of Paroh. She named him Moshe, “because I drew him from the water.” The Maharal teaches that although Moshe had many names, this is the one by which he is eternally known, because it reflects an act of compassion. The Torah is Toras Chesed. Even Hashem calls Moshe by a name rooted in kindness.

Moshe’s greatness did not come from the palace. It came from his heart. The Torah says, “Vayigdal hayeled — And the youth grew.” How? “Vayeitzei el echov vayar besivlosam.” He left comfort behind and went out to feel the pain of his brothers. Though raised as royalty, walled off from what was going on, he took it upon himself to leave the blissful comfort of the royal palace to view what was happening in the lives of the lower classes. The suffering that he saw changed him forever.

When he saw a Jew being beaten, he intervened. When he saw a Jew striking another Jew, he recoiled in horror. “Achein noda hadovor,” he cried. Now I understand. Redemption cannot come where Jews fight one another. Disunity locks the gates of geulah.

That day’s events forced him to leave Mitzrayim. Upon escaping to Midyon, Moshe’s first act was chesed, standing up for vulnerable strangers at a well. That kindness led to his future, his family, and his destiny.

The Sefer Hachareidim writes at the conclusion of the sefer that prior to his passing from this world, Yaakov Avinu called for his sons, the twelve shevotim, and said to them, “Hikovtzu v’shimu bnei Yaakov — Gather together the sons of Yaakov.” He then told them that they should rid their hearts of jealousy, hatred, and competition, and view each other as if they are one person with one soul. Yaakov told them that if they could not achieve that unity, the Shechinah would not be able to rest among them.

The Rishonim (Rashi, Rabbeinu Bachya, Ibn Ezra, Rashbam) explain the pesukim (Shemos 29:45–46) which state that Am Yisroel “should know that I, Hashem Elokeihem, took them out of Mitzrayim so that I can dwell among them.” They write that this means that Hashem took us out of Mitzrayim in order for us to build the Mishkon. This denotes that they were unified at the time of Yetzias Mitzrayim or else they would not have been redeemed, for the Shechinah can only rest among us, and in the Mishkon, where we are united. Had we not been b’achdus, and had there been peirud, Hashem would not have removed us from there.

The pattern repeats throughout history. In every golus and every geulah, chesed and achdus are decisive. They carried us out of Mitzrayim, and they will carry us forward again.

If we remember who we are, if we reach for one another instead of turning away, we can build something radiant and enduring. Even small acts of appreciation — a kind word, a gesture of help — ripple outward, strengthening the bonds that protect and sustain the klal.

Our Torah is Toras Moshe, the inheritance of a gentle shepherd who led with compassion. It must be taught and lived in a way that builds people, not breaks them. Greatness is tied to sensitivity to the klal and to every individual within it. Such sensitivity awakens Heavenly mercy. Greatness is formed through many small acts of kindness born of an appreciation for every person and their needs and emotions.

The Torah says that after the passing of all the shevotim, there arose a “new” Paroh who did not know Yosef. Rashi explains that according to one view, this was not a new king at all. It was the same Paroh, who chose to pretend that Yosef had never existed. Gratitude became inconvenient. History was rewritten.

This tactic is ancient and familiar: Isolate, discredit, demonize.

The newly installed president of Venezuela and other leftists and anti-Semites blamed “the Zionists” for President Trump’s takedown of the dictator Nicolas Maduro. Facts were distorted, history was bent, and Jews were once again cast as convenient villains for events they did not create.

Actions concurrent with the inauguration of New York City’s new mayor were disconcerting to many Jews who are concerned about the direction he will take.

As Shabbos departs and the melava malka candles flicker, we feel the ache of transition, from light to labor, from holiness to struggle. We sing, “Al tira avdi Yaakov.” Do not fear. With the voice, restraint, and faith of Yaakov, we can endure.

Together, we hold the key to redemption. We come from different lands, speak different languages, and follow different customs. But beneath it all, we are family. One on one, Jews get along. We must not allow labels to tear us apart.

Where others bring darkness, we must bring light. Where others sow loneliness, we must offer brotherhood. When we are divided, Amaleik gains strength. When we stand k’ish echad b’lev echad, no force can overcome us.

We cry together. We rejoice together. We live for one another. We have tasted what redemption feels like.

Let us hold onto that taste. Let us strengthen achdus, deepen love, and remember that we are part of something larger than ourselves so that we can merit the geulah.

Unity does not mean sameness. Achdus does not demand that we think alike, dress alike, or experience life in the same way. Klal Yisroel has always been a tapestry woven from different strands, from the time of the twelve shevotim, each distinct in nature and approach, each bringing a different koach to the same sacred mission. Yehudah’s leadership, Yissochor’s depth, and Zevulun’s support are not competing paths, but complementary ones.

Our diversity is not a sign of weakness. It is a source of strength. A people built from many perspectives is more resilient, more complete, and better able to meet complex challenges. When different strengths stand together, blind spots are covered, balance is created, and the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. Achdus is not forged by erasing difference, but by weaving difference into a shared purpose.

Loving another Jew does not depend on agreement. Appreciating another Jew does not require us to see the world through identical lenses. It asks only that we recognize the shared shoresh beneath the surface, the common destiny that binds us together even when our paths look different. We do not have to blur distinctions in order to maintain connection.

When differences are handled gently, they enrich us. When they are handled harshly, they wound. Achdus is sustained not by winning debates, but by preserving dignity. It grows when we listen a little longer, judge a little less, and remember that the person before us is more than a position or a label.

Every Jew carries a cheilek Eloka mimaal, a spark of the Divine worthy of care and respect. When we speak kindly, when we give the benefit of the doubt, when we assume sincerity even where we disagree, we create an environment in which unity can breathe. Disagreement does not have to fracture us. Handled with warmth, it can deepen understanding.

Achdus is often built quietly, through patience, restraint, and small acts of consideration. It is found in choosing compassion over suspicion and connection over distance. When we relate to one another as people rather than categories, unity becomes not an ideal, but a lived reality.

There are many lessons for us in the parshiyos of Seder Shemos, but the need for achdus to bring about geulah is a primary one, especially during these times of darkening clouds as we pine for the geulah and Moshiach.

We don’t always have to agree, but when we disagree, it needs to be with respect and without hatred, as bnei and bnos Torah and not as people devoid of middos and derech eretz. Let us work to make ourselves worthy of having the Shechinah dwell among us, so that Hakadosh Boruch Hu can feel confident enough to bring us all home, surrounding the Bais Hamikdosh, with the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our day.

Blueprint for Golus

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Parshas Vayechi brings to a close Sefer Bereishis, the account of the creation of the world and the formation of our people. It is not merely the end of a sefer, but the conclusion of a foundational era, the period in which the avos and imahos forged the spiritual DNA of Klal Yisroel. From Adam and Chava, through Noach and his descendants, and onward to Avrohom, Yitzchok, and Yaakov, Sefer Bereishis is the blueprint for Jewish existence in every generation.

This week, the circle is closed. Yaakov Avinu, the last of the avos, grows old in exile. He gathers his children, gives them brachos that echo through eternity, and prepares for his passing. His final request is that he be buried in Me’oras Hamachpeilah, in Chevron, alongside Avrohom and Yitzchok. With that request, and with his passing, the era of the avos comes to an end and the long, painful chapter of Jewish exile begins.

Yet, the Torah introduces this final parsha with a word that seems, at first glance, jarringly out of place: “Vayechi — And he lived.”

Why does the Torah describe Yaakov’s years in Mitzrayim — a foreign land, steeped in immorality and destined to become the crucible of our suffering — as life? Why is golus framed not as decline, but as vitality?

The Torah does not waste words. When it says “vayechi,” it is teaching us something essential about how a Jew lives — and survives — in golus.

Meforshim raise an additional question. When the Torah records the lifespan of Avrohom or Yitzchok, it gives a single number, a total. With Yaakov, the Torah does something different. It tells us that he lived seventeen years in Mitzrayim. Why isolate that period? Why highlight those specific years?

The answer given by Chazal is striking: Those years were the best years of Yaakov’s life.

Yaakov’s life had been one of unrelenting struggle. Even before birth, Eisov sought to destroy him. He was forced to flee his parents’ home, suffered under Lovon’s deception for twenty years, and endured the death of Rochel Imeinu in childbirth. He experienced anguish at the actions of Shimon and Levi, heartbreak at the sale of Yosef, and more than two decades of grief, believing that his beloved son was dead.

Only after twenty-two years of mourning did Yaakov learn that Yosef was alive, and not merely alive, but ruling over Mitzrayim. At that moment, the Torah tells us, “Vatechi ruach Yaakov avihem—And Yaakov’s spirit came back to life.” His ruach hakodesh returned. He immediately set out to join Yosef.

Before descending to Mitzrayim, Yaakov stopped in Be’er Sheva. There, Hakadosh Boruch Hu appeared to him and reassured him not to fear the descent. Hashem promised that Yaakov’s descendants would become a great nation there, that He would go down with Yaakov, and that He would ultimately bring his children back home.

Yaakov understood what this meant. He knew that his journey to Mitzrayim would trigger the fulfillment of the gezeirah foretold to Avrohom: that his descendants would be strangers in a land not their own. He knew that golus was beginning. Yet, he went anyway.

Why?

Because Yosef was there, and because at times, life demands that we move forward even when we know that the road ahead will be difficult. As long as we remain tethered to Hashem and loyal to the truth, we can succeed and flourish.

The Torah then tells us that Yaakov lived in Mitzrayim for seventeen years — years so elevated that Chazal describe them as mei’ein Olam Haba, a taste of the World to Come (Tanna Devei Eliyohu, Perek 5).

How could exile feel like Olam Haba?

Yaakov resided in Goshen, a semi-autonomous region where his family could live together. What greater joy exists than living with one’s children and grandchildren, watching them grow, guiding them, and learning with them daily? Yaakov sent Yehudah ahead to establish botei medrash, ensuring that Torah would be the axis around which Jewish life revolved. Goshen became a spiritual enclave, insulated from the decadence and corruption of Mitzrayim.

For seventeen years, Yaakov lived surrounded by Torah, family, and purpose. During those years, Hashem spoke to him again. The Shechinah, which had departed during his years of anguish, returned.

That is why the Torah says vayechi. Because when there he began living again on a higher level.

Yaakov Avinu was the av of golus. He was the first Jew to live long-term outside Eretz Yisroel, and in doing so, he taught us how to live in exile without being consumed by it.

When Yaakov bowed to Yosef, Chazal tell us that he was not merely honoring political power. He was acknowledging spiritual heroism. Hu Yosef she’omeid betzidko. Despite everything he had been through and despite all those years he spent living alone in a terribly immoral country, Yosef remained Yosef. He stayed righteous.

Yaakov recognized the magnitude of Yosef’s accomplishment. Yosef had not grown up in Yaakov’s home. He had been thrust into the moral cesspool of Mitzrayim, surrounded by temptation, isolation and power, and he emerged unscathed. He built a beautiful Jewish home in golus. He raised children who were worthy of becoming shevotim.

This recognition was not incidental. It was pedagogical.

Yaakov Avinu’s guidance to his children — and to all future generations — was to create yeshivos, botei medrash, and schools where Torah and avodah anchor life; to build homes where shemiras hamitzvos and middos tovos are nurtured; and a family life that cultivates emunah and bitachon amidst the trials of golus.

Yaakov was teaching future generations how to look at children and students: not only at where they are, but at what they are contending with. He was modeling appreciation for effort, not just outcome. He was showing that success in golus requires a different kind of strength, and that those who remain faithful under such pressure deserve admiration.

Just as Yaakov Avinu ensured that his family would flourish spiritually despite the enticements and moral challenges of Mitzrayim, so must we equip our generation to thrive amid the pressures of the modern golus with love, discipline, guidance, and example.

It is difficult to be young. Young people today face relentless schedules, intense academic and social pressures, and nisyonos that prior generations never imagined. Days begin early and end late. Expectations are high. Failures are magnified. And all of this unfolds in the midst of a culture that actively undermines restraint, modesty, and commitment.

Yet, boruch Hashem, our young people want to succeed. They want to grow. They want to do the right thing.

Since Adom and Chava, temptation has been ever-present. Overcoming the yeitzer hara has never been easy. But adults derive strength from Torah, mussar, and years of experience. Children and adolescents cannot do it alone. They need guidance — loving, patient, consistent guidance from those who came before them.

This is chinuch.

Chinuch is not indoctrination. It is transmission — transmitting our mesorah in a way that the next generation can understand, internalize, and cherish. We begin when children are young, explaining mitzvos lovingly, modeling behavior, and setting expectations that are firm but humane.

Golus complicates everything, including chinuch. The distractions are louder. The influences are more aggressive. The line between inside and outside is increasingly porous. Keeping children focused on Torah and Yiddishkeit requires intention and attention.

This week, Rav Yaakov Bender came out with a book on chinuch whose title sums up our challenge as parents and mechanchim: Chinuch with Geshmak. In order to effectively inculcate our children with the truth of Torah, we have to do it with geshmak, with happiness and the joy of purpose.

The novi Micha tells us, “Titein emes l’Yaakov.” Truth was Yaakov’s defining trait. Emes anchored him through suffering and sustained him through prosperity. It was emes — clarity about Hashem’s role in the world — that allowed Yaakov to endure tragedy without despair and success without assimilation.

This lesson is more urgent today than at any time in recent memory.

We live in a world of illusion — the illusion of control, permanence, and acceptance. Jews have achieved unprecedented comfort in golus, particularly in the United States. We have wealth, influence, political access, and religious freedom. And yet, beneath the surface, something is cracking.

Anti-Semitism is surging, not in whispers, but openly. Synagogues are vandalized. Jewish students are harassed on college campuses. Jews are assaulted in the streets for wearing yarmulkas. Protesters chant for intifada in Western capitals. Terror apologists march freely while police stand aside.

And many Jews are stunned. How could this happen? We thought we belonged.

Yaakov teaches us that golus can be livable, even productive, but only if we never forget that it is golus. We have seen the success of that path throughout the ages and until this very day.

The Haggadah tells us, “Vayogor shom—And Yaakov sojourned there.” He did not settle. The Maharal and the Vilna Gaon explain that because Yaakov never sought permanence in Mitzrayim, his descendants merited redemption. Golus is survivable only when we remember that it is temporary.

Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin writes that as long as the Jews remained clustered in Goshen, the Mitzriyim left them alone. It was only after Yaakov’s passing, when the Jews began spreading out, becoming comfortable and assimilating, that trouble began. “Vayokom melech chodosh.” Anti-Semitism followed assimilation like clockwork.

This pattern has been repeated throughout history.

The Netziv writes that when Jews maintain separation, spiritually and culturally, hostility subsides. When we blur boundaries, resentment grows.

We see this unfolding before our eyes.

Assimilation has reached unprecedented levels. Today, nearly three out of every four Jews marrying in the United States are marrying non-Jews. Many Jews have hitched their hopes to political movements that are openly hostile to Jewish values and Jewish survival.

For decades, American Jews felt safe. The United States was Israel’s staunchest ally. That began to erode under President Obama, continued during the Biden years, and has metastasized into open hostility among large segments of the Democratic Party.

President Trump reversed that trend during his first administration. He stood by Israel publicly and privately, recognized Yerushalayim, supported Israeli sovereignty, and treated Prime Minister Netanyahu as a partner. Many Jews felt secure with Trump in the White House, believing his friendship was genuine, because his actions proved it. He has continued to be a good friend to Israel in his second administration, as he demonstrated again this week at his meeting with Binyomin Netanyahu at Mar-a-Lago.

Yet now, anti-Semitism has found a foothold on the Right as well as the Left and hostility toward Jews and Israel is becoming accepted in elite circles.

We live in an era of unprecedented Jewish comfort in the West — and unprecedented Jewish vulnerability. Antisemitism is no longer whispered. It is shouted through megaphones in public thoroughfares, shopping malls and college campuses. Jews are assaulted in broad daylight. Jewish institutions are vandalized, firebombed, and require armed guards. Politicians issue statements. Police cite “free speech.” Prosecutors decline charges. The message is heard clearly by those who hate us: proceed.

Conspiracy theories fester. Crude stereotypes resurface. Figures with large followings traffic in nonsense about Jewish power and loyalty. Disturbingly, these voices are tolerated, and even defended.

The vice president, J.D. Vance, a man who has aligned himself with at least one of the loudest offenders, has made statements that should give Jews pause. His rhetoric, at times careless and at times troubling, raises serious questions about how he would wield power if elevated further. Silence in the face of anti-Semitism is not neutrality. It is complicity.

This is not about parties. It is about reality.

Yaakov teaches us that no government, no culture, and no era of prosperity exempts us from vigilance. Golus can be comfortable, but it is never permanent.

The path forward is the one Yaakov charted in Goshen: Torah-centered living, strong communal institutions, and moral clarity.

Three times a day, as we conclude Shemoneh Esrei, we ask, “P’sach libi beSorasecha—Open my heart to Your Torah.” Then we ask Hashem to thwart the plans of our enemies: “Vechol hachoshvim olai ra’ah meheirah hofeir atzosom vekalkeil machashavtom.” These are not separate requests. They are cause and effect. When we cling to Torah and mitzvos, Hashem is there for us, regardless of where we are.

May we merit to follow in the path of Yaakov, living full Torah lives and enjoying much nachas, and may we merit to soon experience the end of golus with the geulah sheleimah.

Lifelines

 By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

The eight days of Chanukah, which ended this week, were a celebration of many things, among them emunah and bitachon. The Chashmonaim went into battle vastly outnumbered, armed with nothing but faith. That faith was richly rewarded, as the Chashmonaim merited ridding the Jewish people of their tormentors and restoring to them the Torah, avodah, and kedusha of which they had been robbed.

The Chofetz Chaim would often find reason to repeat the following moshol. A visitor once came to town, and on Shabbos he watched in amazement as the gabbai distributed the aliyos. The person who appeared to be the most prominent figure in the shul was passed over, as was an elderly talmid chochom whose appearance suggested seniority and distinction. Finally, unable to contain himself, the visitor approached the gabbai and questioned his choices. The gabbai smiled patiently. “You’ve been here for a week and already you have opinions?” he said. “Stay a few more weeks and you’ll begin to understand. The g’vir has a yahrtzeit next week and will receive an aliyah then. The talmid chochom made a simcha last week; he and his family all received aliyos. Everything I do has a cheshbon. But to appreciate what I do, you need to stay here long enough to see the whole picture.”

The Chofetz Chaim would conclude, “Ich bin shoin an elter Yid. I have lived a long time, and only now am I beginning to glimpse signs of the plan with which Hashem runs the world. Sometimes a person must wait fifty years to see how events come full circle.”

That is the message of Parshas Vayigash. What appears confusing, painful, or even senseless in the moment is often part of a larger design that reveals itself only with time. The darkness is real, but it is never final. The light may be delayed, but it is inevitable. And when it comes, we will see that every step, every setback, and every tear was leading us there all along.

The history of the Jewish people is marked by dramatic peaks and deep valleys, moments of extraordinary prosperity and strength followed by stretches of poverty and powerlessness. At times, the darkness seems absolute, with no light visible on the horizon. And then, often without warning, a sudden illumination appears, the course of events shifts, and what was bleak is transformed into clarity and hope.

On a personal level, we kindle small lights in the hearts of others, never knowing whether they will take hold. We don’t know if the flame will flicker and grow or be extinguished by stormy winds. We do our part. We do what we can. We hope and we daven. We believe that one day all the scattered flames will merge, igniting a great fire of emunah, bitachon, Torah, and avodah that will spread across the land. Each of us works to bring that day closer, as we await the ultimate fire of revelation and redemption.

Until that day arrives, the news of the moment can be difficult to bear. Life delivers cruel twists, and at times we can feel beaten, overwhelmed, and devastated. At such moments, Yosef calls out to us across the generations and says, “Al tei’otzvu! Do not become despondent.” It is all for good. People may mock you, betray you, take advantage of you, and question your worth and stability, but do not give up. Al tei’otzvu. Hold fast to your faith and you will overcome even an adversary stronger than you. It may take time. It may feel like a Sisyphean task. But eventually, Hashem’s kindness will be revealed.

In the previous parshiyos, we read the painful account of Yosef being sold into slavery by his brothers. They constructed a cruel deception for Yaakov Avinu, presenting Yosef’s garment soaked in the blood of a goat and telling their aging father that his beloved son had been killed. Yet, as Chazal tell us, Yaakov refused to accept their story. Something within him would not allow it.

Time passed and famine struck the land. The brothers were forced to descend to Mitzrayim in search of food. There, they encountered the viceroy, who was harsh, unyielding, and seemingly intent on tormenting them. He placed obstacle after obstacle in their path, denying them food, accusing them of crimes, and plunging them into anguish.

At the opening of Parshas Vayigash, Yehudah recounts the entire ordeal. He describes how the ruler questioned them about their father and a younger brother, how they explained that their father had already lost one son from that mother, and how losing the second would surely kill him. The viceroy appeared unmoved. If they wanted food, he demanded that they bring the youngest brother.

They complied, and upon their return, Binyomin was seized. Yehudah describes the devastation awaiting them at home, how they could never face their father without returning with his youngest son, and how Yaakov’s heartbreak over the loss of Yosef still haunted their lives.

Then, at the very moment when confrontation seemed inevitable, the viceroy shattered the tension. “Ani Yosef,” he declared. “Ha’od ovi chai? Is my father still alive?”

Yosef knew the answer. His question was itself an answer — a silent rebuke. “You speak now of concern for our father? Where was that concern when you tore a young boy from his arms and sold him into slavery?”

The Torah tells us that the brothers could not respond. “Velo yochlu echov la’anos oso.” They were stunned into silence, overwhelmed by shame and recognition.

Yosef then drew them close and said the words that echo through eternity: “Al tei’otzvu ve’al yichar be’eineichem.” Do not be depressed. Do not be angry. Hashem sent me here before you losum lochem she’airis ba’aretz, to prepare for you a place of survival.

“It wasn’t you who sent me here,” Yosef told them. “It was Hashem. This was not a mistake. You were not villains in a tragedy, but instruments in a Divine plan.”

He instructed them to hurry home to tell their father that Yosef was alive, honored, and powerful in Mitzrayim, and to bring Yaakov down with the entire family, where Yosef would sustain them through the famine.

The reunion was overwhelming. Yosef and Binyomin wept in each other’s arms. He embraced the other brothers and they cried together.

The brothers returned home bearing news that should have restored Yaakov’s soul: “Yosef is alive and he rules in Mitzrayim.” Yet, astonishingly, Yaakov did not believe them. “Lo he’emin lohem.”

How could this be? Yaakov had refused to accept Yosef’s death. Why would he now reject the news of his life?

Perhaps the answer lies beneath the surface. To accept that Yosef was alive meant accepting how he had survived. It meant confronting the unbearable truth that his own sons had sold their brother and deceived their father. That reality was harder to absorb than death itself.

But then the brothers told him kol divrei Yosef — not just the facts, but the message. They told him Yosef’s words: al tei’otzvu. They told him that Yosef said that this was all Hashem’s doing, that suffering had been the pathway to salvation.

And then, “vatechi ruach Yaakov.” Yaakov’s spirit returned. He was revived not only by the knowledge that Yosef lived, but by the emunah that Yosef embodied.

Yosef had endured abandonment, humiliation, temptation, and imprisonment, yet he emerged without bitterness, without resentment, convinced that there is a Master of the world who writes and directs the script. What appears destructive is often preparatory. What seems like a curse may be a blessing in disguise.

The great mashgiach, Rav Yeruchom Levovitz, would say, “We are always in His hands. Amol di rechte hant, amol di linke hant — Sometimes the right hand, sometimes the left, but He is always carrying us.”

This is the depth of the drama in these pesukim. This is the enduring lesson Yosef taught his brothers — and us.

Al tei’otzvu.

Jewish history is replete with people planted in a location where they could best impact others. Sometimes they had to be uprooted and replanted elsewhere, causing no small amount of hardship, but in the end, the Divine precision became clear.

This was true in our recent history, when the Holocaust devastated the European Torah world. A few hardy souls were waiting in America to greet the limping remnant. Most of these European immigrants had come to America before the war because they were forced to, perhaps due to hunger or some other threat. In time, it became clear that they were sent there lefleitah gedolah.

My grandfather, Rav Eliezer Levin, was one of the many who survived what appeared at the time to be tragedy. He had taken a leave of absence for one year from his rabbonus in Lita when his relatives dragged him to America. Fearing for his life as the winds of war circled over Europe, they brought him here and arranged a rabbinic position in Erie, PA. Needless to say, he could not adapt to Erie and wanted to return to his beloved Vashki and to his wife, children, and baalei batim.

The thought of bringing his family to die a spiritual death in Erie frightened him, but he could not return to his hometown. He had left his rabbinic position there in the hands of a trusted friend, who agreed to serve as rov until he would return from America. The friend would gain serious experience, aiding him in his pursuit of a position. However, when Rav Levin wrote that he was coming home to reassume the position, the friend was devastated. He said that he would never get another job and pleaded with Rav Levin to let him stay there, asking Rav Levin to find himself a different position.

Although it was his father-in-law’s position, which he had inherited and occupied for a number of years, Rav Levin did not have the heart to unseat the man from the job. Meanwhile, his family members secured a rabbinic position in Detroit for him. With no choice, he moved there and sent for his family. With their meager possessions, several of Rav Levin’s seforim, along with kisvei yad of his father-in-law, the family set sail on one of the last boats to leave Europe before the war broke out. They arrived just ahead of the destruction of Lithuania. The rabbi of Vashki and the entire town were wiped out. No one survived.

Rav Levin played a key role in establishing a Torah community in Detroit and actively assisted the roshei yeshiva of Telshe as they started their yeshiva in Wickliffe, Ohio, after being stranded here. His own children would emerge as prominent rabbonim and roshei yeshiva in this country, providing “michyah,” spiritual sustenance, “she’airis,” and “pleitah gedolah” as the generation faced starvation.

Examine the history of the rebirth of Torah in this country and around the world and you will find similar stories of people who had been doomed to living far from their homes, surviving the war, and planting the seeds of a blossoming nation.

More recently, although October 7^th was an awfully tragic day, survivors told stories of miraculous salvation that day, which led many to recognize Hashem’s existence and begin to practice Torah and mitzvos. People who were taken hostage that day and held in subhuman conditions in Gaza relate how they felt the hand of Hashem keeping them alive and eventually attaining freedom.

Stories of Hashgochah Protis abound. Stories are often told about a person being in the right place at the right time, thinking that they are in the wrong place and bemoaning their fate, only to learn that fate had intervened on their behalf. These stories depict how the Divine Hand reached down from Heaven and plucked the protagonists from disaster, with neither their knowledge nor acquiescence.

We know stories of people who thought their world was closing in on them and their life was ending, only to learn later that their salvation was cloaked in what they had perceived at the time as suffering.

But it is not enough to read and be reminded of such stories if we do not realize that our entire life is comprised of such stories.

And when those distressful times come, we have to hear Yosef as he calls out to us through the ages and says, “My brothers and sisters, grandsons and granddaughters, al tei’otzvu. Don’t despair. Don’t be desperate. Don’t think it’s all over. Never give up.”

When it seems as if the bad guys are winning, when you feel all alone, when your teacher, boss, or partner has screamed at you, or when you feel as if you’re at the end of your rope, know that it is not yet over and the plot can thicken and change. Sometimes it happens quickly, while other times it takes a while to see the sun behind the clouds. But you must know that it is always there.

Emunah and bitachon are our lifelines, motivating and driving us. Without them, we stumble and fall.

Every day, Eliyohu Hanovi would visit Rav Yosef Karo, author of the Shulchan Aruch and Bais Yosef. His teachings are recorded in the sefer Maggid Meishorim. The Bais Yosef writes in Parshas Behar that “the maggid,” as he referred to him, told him not to let a day go by without studying from the classic mussar work Chovos Halevavos, which reinforces concepts of yiras Hashem, emunah, and bitachon.

This is both a religious obligation and good advice. One who is lacking in understanding these ideas becomes depressed and lost, misguided and misdirected, in what can be a cruel and crushing world.

No matter what comes over us, we must remain positive and upbeat, continuing to live and do without hatred and contempt. Learning Torah and Chovos Halevavos, as well as Mesilas Yeshorim and other seforim of mussar, does that for us.

Dovid Hamelech says in Tehillim, “Aileh vorechev ve’aileh basusim.” Some trust in their tanks and some trust in their cavalry. “Heimah koru venofolu va’anachnu kamnu vanisodad.” They crumble and fall, and oftentimes when they go to battle, the weaponry they had worshipped fails them. Those whose lives are directed and guided by Torah and emunah will be able to rise and be strengthened, because their value system is not dependent on temporary, fleeting powers that can be, and are, susceptible to defeat.

Al tei’otzvu. No matter how daunting the challenge you are facing appears, it can be overcome.

The danger of entering a downward spiral and becoming entrapped in a lethargic state, brought on by the maddening acts other people are capable of and an inability to escape their harshness, has ruined many people, thwarting their ambitions and hopes for growth and a better day tomorrow.

What they so desperately need is to hear the comforting, loving call of al tei’otzvu. Don’t pay attention to those who seek to suppress you and usurp your innate human desire for success. Ignore those who seek to make you small and gravitate to the ones who try to expand your horizons, sharpen your focus, and broaden your vistas.

Don’t blame yourself for failure—al yichar apchem—and don’t let others pin blame upon you either. Know that you and every Jew are blessed with the potential for greatness. Know that whatever happens is for a higher purpose than you can understand.

The posuk states that when Moshiach comes, hoyinu kecholmim, we will be as dreamers. The Slonimer Rebbe explained that the posuk refers to the “dreamer,” Yosef Hatzaddik. On the day of Moshiach’s arrival, we will all be as the brothers were when Yosef told them that their struggles and suffering should be understood and perceived as causes for joy.

May that day and its revelations come soon. Until they do, al tei’otzvu.

No matter how daunting the darkness, we must remember that we are never abandoned. Like Yosef in Mitzrayim, like our ancestors uprooted and replanted in distant lands, we may face moments that feel insurmountable, when suffering seems unending and hope appears to vanish. Yet, each hardship and each challenge is a thread in a tapestry that only Hashem can see in full. What seems like despair may be the groundwork for future yeshuos. What feels like loss may plant seeds for much future growth.

Every generation witnesses unique challenges. In the Holocaust, families were torn apart, communities destroyed, and Torah worlds threatened with extinction, yet from those ashes, Torah blossomed anew in Israel, America, and across the globe. October 7^th reminds us that even amid the most immediate dangers, Hashem intervenes in ways hidden from our eyes. People survive, are strengthened, and come to a deeper awareness of His guidance. Last week’s tragedy in Australia could have been much worse. The murderers threw bombs into the crowd before they began shooting. Many lives were miraculously spared when the bombs did not go off.

These are not coincidences. They are expressions of Hashgocha Protis, the Divine hand at work in the lives of each Jew.

And so it is in our personal lives. When work overwhelms, relationships strain, or challenges appear insurmountable; when words wound, doors close, or plans fail; Yosef’s call echoes across the centuries: Al tei’otzvu. Do not despair. Do not surrender. Do not allow fear or frustration to deter you. Even when the world seems to press in, the Divine plan is at work. Emunah and bitachon are not abstract ideals. They are lifelines, anchors that allow us to navigate the storms with clarity, courage, and purpose.

When Moshiach comes, we will be like Yosef’s brothers, able to see the purpose in what once seemed like chaos, to recognize joy in trials that shaped us, and to understand that every struggle was a step toward redemption. Until that day, we hold fast to Yosef’s timeless message. We persevere. We endure. We hope. And we live with the knowledge that Hashem’s light is never far, even when the night seems endless.

No matter how heavy the burdens, how unfair the world seems, or how impossible the challenge appears, remember Yosef’s words: Al tei’otzvu. Trust Hashem, keep moving, and the light will find you.

May we merit the coming of Moshiach very soon.