To Notice, To Care, To Act

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

There is much to write about and comment on this week. The elections and their results are hot topics, as are the goings-on in Eretz Yisroel and the recent disturbing comments by Vice President Vance. Opinions abound about causes, yet solutions feel distant and elusive.

But a primary lesson of this week’s parsha is that we concentrate on the way we treat others.

The parsha opens with Hakadosh Boruch Hu appearing to Avrohom as he recuperated from his bris milah. In the midst of the conversation, Avrohom saw three strange men approaching and ran to greet them and welcome them to his home.

Millions of people who have studied this parsha throughout the ages have asked why Avrohom interrupted his conversation with Hashem to offer food, drink and respite to three desert wanderers.

Avrohom Avinu, who was chosen by Hashem to be the father of our nation, had just passed another of the ten nisyonos, reaching the pinnacle of human achievement as Hashem, so to speak, came to visit him, yet he forfeited that opportunity to offer help to strangers. How are we to understand that?

Rav Dovid Soloveitchik explained that while meriting gilui Shechinah is a sign of immense spiritual attainment, the highest achievement for a person in this world is to perform mitzvos. Avrohom, as elevated as he was spiritually, understood that his ultimate obligation in that moment was to perform the mitzvah of chesed presented to him.

Whenever anything transpires, a Jew’s first question must be: What does the Torah say I should be doing now? There can be monumental occurrences taking place, but our minds must focus on what Hashem wants us to be doing at that time. Impulses, emotions, or the allure of personal spiritual highs must never overshadow our obligation to act in accordance with Torah guidance.

Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin served as rov of Brisk and later of Yerushalayim. He was known throughout Klal Yisroel for his stunning Torah brilliance and was also a tremendous baal chesed. When living in Yerushalayim, poor people would come to his home for lunch, which was the main meal of the day. Rav Yehoshua Leib would sit at the head of the table, engrossed in his learning, barely eating anything, while those in need enjoyed their daily nourishment.

One day, as everyone else was eating, he got up from his seat and went over to an elderly man sitting at the opposite end of the table. The Torah giant sat down next to the man and began cutting his bread into small pieces, peeling off the crusts, dipping them into soup, and feeding the man piece by piece. Observers noticed that the old man had no teeth and understood why the rov was feeding him the softened bite-sized portions.

After the meal, one of Rav Yehoshua Leib’s talmidim approached him and asked how he knew that the man had no teeth and was struggling to eat. “I was watching you as I was eating,” the student said, “and saw that you were totally absorbed in the sefer in front of you. How could you have noticed that the man needed help?”

Rav Yehoshua Leib responded to his student, saying, “I am surprised at you. Why are you asking such a question of me and not of Avrohom Avinu? Hakadosh Boruch Hu Himself came to visit him, and he was certainly entirely immersed in the supreme spiritual significance of closeness with Hashem.

“How could it be that in the midst of this encounter, he saw three people who appeared to be wanderers? Not only that, but he ran toward them to offer them food and drink. How is it possible to be at the height of spiritual ecstasy and still see what is transpiring outside of one’s immediate daled amos?

“How could he break his concentration, especially considering that the people he saw and interrupted for were lowly and profane?

“The answer,” Rav Yehoshua Leib told the man, who was nodding along, concentrating on every word the great gaon was saying, “is that this is the defining way for a Jew to act. This is what Hakadosh Boruch Hu demands from us: Even when you are totally engrossed in a deep sugya, even when you are completely enveloped in an awesome spiritual experience, you must pay attention to what is happening around you and notice if someone requires assistance.”

The Gemara (Yevamos 79a) states that there are three characteristics that define the Jewish people: rachmonim, bayshonim, and gomlei chassodim. We are merciful, we are modest, and we do acts of kindness. It’s not only that we help people in trying situations when they turn to us. The heart and eye of a Jew must always be cognizant of those around him, so that he can be proactive in alleviating their pain.

It is interesting to note that the Torah tells us that Avrohom interrupted a conversation with Hakadosh Boruch Hu to care for the anonymous travelers, yet it tells us nothing about that conversation. Instead, the Torah provides a lengthy description of how he provided for the strangers.

Everything in the Torah is intended to elevate us and to teach us how to conduct ourselves. Apparently, the important part of the story is that we learn from it how to do chesed and care for others.

How would we react in such a situation? If we were engaged in something important and a stranger came to the door collecting, would we respond with the same urgency and sensitivity? Being kind to someone we like or admire is easy. Greatness is measured by how we treat those who are unfamiliar, inconvenient, or even disagreeable. The way we treat a nudnik after a long, hard day reveals our character far more than any spiritual accomplishment.

Anyone can be nice to a likable person. The true test of greatness is how we treat ordinary people who may be different from us and for whom we have no special affinity.

Avrohom treated each visitor as a dignitary, because, to him, every opportunity to perform a mitzvah mattered. This perspective shaped the lives of countless gedolim and gutteh Yidden who followed in his footsteps.

People streamed to the tiny apartment of the Chazon Ish, whose yahrtzeit is this week, seeking his advice and blessings and to discuss matters of Torah and communal welfare. Often, he was in a weakened state and would lie in bed as people spoke to him. Somebody once asked him why he gave so much of his time to listen to and answer so many people. He explained, “If I had money, I would use it to help people. Since I do not, I fulfill the mitzvah of gemillus chassodim in this manner.”

In fact, on the day of his passing, when he was extremely weak, his attendants wanted to lock the door to his apartment to prevent people from entering to speak with him. When he learned of this, the Chazon Ish told them to unlock the door and allow people to enter. “Chesed is what keeps me alive,” he said.

Every person has an obligation to help others in any way he can. If he can’t write a check, he can make a call. If he can’t make a call, he can give advice. And if he can’t give advice, he can at least listen and show empathy. Needs are abundant and there is always a way to make a difference.

A secular Israeli couple became connected to Torah and moved to Bnei Brak to raise their daughter among religious people. Upon their move, they faced a serious problem that many who are not baalei teshuvah are unfortunately familiar with: No school would accept the girl they had sacrificed so much for. Someone brought the issue to Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach, rosh yeshiva of Ponovezh and leader of Torah Jewry, whose yahrtzeit is also this week, and made him aware of the problem.

As a student of Avrohom Avinu, and as a man whose every step was guided by what the Torah demanded of him in any given situation, Rav Shach phoned the person who headed Chinuch Atzmai, the religious school system in Israel, and asked for his assistance in getting the girl accepted into the local school. The leader told Rav Shach that he was unable to assist him in his mission. He explained that the principal of the school was a very tough woman, and he had a very hard time dealing with her. He was certain that if he reached out to her, it would be a wasted effort.

Rav Shach found the woman’s number and called her himself. When she answered, he said, “Hello, this is Leizer Shach calling. I want to speak to you about a fine girl who belongs in your school.”

How would you react if Rav Shach called you with a request?

Not this woman. She turned him down.

“They are baalei teshuvah,” she said. “I can’t take the girl in. The board of parents who oversee the school will never permit such a thing.”

Despite her arrogance and obstinacy, the gadol hador continued the conversation. “Please give me their names and phone numbers,” he said.

There were a dozen people waiting outside Rav Shach’s room to speak with him. He had many other pressing issues to deal with, but ensuring that a bas Yisroel had a school to attend was a priority.

Setting aside personal considerations and ego to fulfill this mitzvah, he sat at his table and called each parent representative one by one. “Hello, this is Leizer Shach. I am calling to discuss an issue with you…”

He spoke with each parent who was a class representative and resolved the matter. The girl was accepted to the school, and Rav Shach kept tabs on her development.

Rav Shach had never met the girl or her parents, yet he felt that the Torah demanded of him that if he could get the girl into the school, he had an obligation to do so. Without concern for his personal dignity or time, he sat by the phone, lobbying the principal and then the individual school board members on behalf of the girl. Every ben Yisroel and bas Yisroel is entitled to be in a Torah school, and if he could make that happen, he would.

This is demanded not only of a gadol b’Yisroel, but of every person. If we can help others in any way and in any situation, we have an obligation to set aside our personal considerations, ignore our ego or hesitations, and, no matter how uncomfortable it may be, do what we can to help them.

Getting a child accepted into a school in our community can be a most humbling task, and if we can do something about the situation in general, or about a particular family’s circumstance, it is incumbent upon us to do so.

It is beyond the scope of this article, but not too long ago, dedicated mechanchim would go door to door in Jewish communities, pleading with parents to send their children to a religious school. Today, in many communities, bli ayin hara, due to their tireless efforts, Torah has taken root and schools are flourishing—and, consequently, very selective. Yet, what prompted Rav Shach to make all those calls remains true: Every Jewish child is entitled to a seat in a classroom. And as rachmonim bnei rachmonim, we must be there for those children.

The success of Klal Yisroel, and one of the secrets to our endurance through centuries of adversity, is that there have always been—and still are—good people who, in the quiet of the night and the loneliness of righteousness, sacrifice much to do what is right and necessary in every situation. Because of such people, communal schools are built, teachers are paid living wages, and children are afforded a proper chinuch. Because of those who place Olam Haba before Olam Hazeh, there are rabbeim and moros in classrooms across the country and around the world this week teaching our children about Avrohom Avinu, Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin, Rav Shach, the Chazon Ish, and the countless gedolim and simple good people of every community who have helped individual Yidden and Klal Yisroel flourish.

That is the lesson of this week’s parsha and the reason the Torah records this story for Yidden of all generations to study and learn from. The opportunities for chesed are all around us. We need to learn from Avrohom Avinu’s example and seize them.

Quite often, a mitzvah is performed in anonymity, without fanfare or recognition, and there is little motivation that by doing it, you will be seen as some kind of hero. But we must do it anyway.

Every person experiences difficult times. Often, the hardest part of a nisayon is the loneliness that accompanies the struggle and the pain of feeling utterly alone. The embarrassment and agony of reaching out for help only add to the challenge.

So, while there may be countless hot topics to debate and discuss, the best thing we can do—for ourselves, for others, and for the world—is to tune in to the people around us, to notice and be there for them. It’s not always easy, and it can be draining, but this is what defines us and makes us better people.

We live in a challenge-filled era, the time leading to the arrival of Moshiach. Rav Elozor famously taught (Sanhedrin 98b), “Mah yaaseh adam veyinutzel meichevlo shel Moshiach? Yaasok b’Torah uv’gemillus chassodim.” To be spared from the terrible pangs that precede the coming of Moshiach, one must immerse himself in Torah study and acts of kindness.

There can be no better advice for us in these trying times. Let us follow it. May we all merit to be present at the coming of Moshiach, may it be very soon, in our days.

The Journey Is the Destination

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

There are words we use so often that, over time, they begin to lose their meaning. They become part of our vocabulary, but not our consciousness. One such word is nisayon.

We hear it frequently. When someone faces a difficult period — illness, financial strain, emotional pain, or disappointment — we nod and say, “It’s a nisayon.” The word rolls easily off our tongues. It comforts, in a way, because it reminds us that Hakadosh Boruch Hu is involved. But do we truly understand what a nisayon is?

Most of us assume that a nisayon means a test, that Hashem is testing us to see how we’ll respond. Will we overcome the challenge or succumb to it? Will we pass or fail?

But a nisayon is far more than a test. It is a window into the very purpose of life itself.

The concept of nisayon first appears at the beginning of this week’s parsha. Hashem tells Avrohom Avinu, “Lech lecha mei’artzecha umimoladetecha umibais avicha — Go for yourself, from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father’s home, to the land that I will show you.”

This command marks the beginning of Avrohom’s lifelong journey and is one of his ten nisyonos. Since we were children, we were taught that Hashem tested Avrohom ten times and he passed them all. Because of this, he became the father of Yahadus and the paradigm of spiritual greatness.

It sounds straightforward: Hashem gave him tests, he passed, and he earned the title of tzaddik. Like a student earning a degree, he met each challenge and received his diploma in righteousness.

But that understanding misses something essential.

The Ramban (Bereishis 22:1), in discussing the Akeidah, teaches that a nisayon is not a test in the way we usually think of tests. Hashem, after all, already knows whether a person will succeed or fail. The nisayon is not for Hashem to learn something about us. It is for us to learn something about ourselves and to raise ourselves. A person who has good intentions receives a small reward for his good thoughts, but a nisayon presents him with an opportunity receive a much greater reward for conducting himself properly in a trying situation.

The Ramban explains that through a nisayon, Hashem brings forth a person’s hidden potential. A nisayon is an opportunity to translate good intentions into good actions. It takes what is dormant inside us, the strengths we may not even realize we possess, and brings them to life. A nisayon is an opportunity for growth. A person grows by maintaining his faith and determination as he acts and reacts properly even in difficult situations.

Hashem gives nisyonos only to the righteous, writes the Ramban, because He knows that they will rise to the occasion. The wicked, who would crumble under the weight of challenge, are spared. For the tzaddik, the nisayon is a gift, a catalyst for spiritual growth.

In this light, a nisayon is not a punishment, not a trap, and not a test of loyalty. It is a Divine expression of confidence. Hashem, Who knows us better than we know ourselves, hands us a situation and says, “You can do this. I placed within you the strength to shine. And I will reward you for it.”

The Meshech Chochmah explains that Hashem’s words to Avrohom, “Lech lecha… el ha’aretz asher areka — Go to the land that I will show you,” can also be understood allegorically. The “land” represents the inner landscape of a person’s soul. Hashem was telling Avrohom: “Go and I will show you who you are. Go forth from the comfort of the familiar and you will discover the untapped greatness that lies within you.”

Each nisayon is a journey into our own undiscovered aretz asher areka, the place within us that we only see when we walk with faith into the unknown.

Every generation has its own nisyonos. In ours, the nature of the challenges has shifted, but the essence remains the same. People struggle with anxiety, family discord, confusion, loss, and feelings of inadequacy. Some attribute their struggles to past trauma or external forces, feeling trapped in cycles they cannot control.

There are also the unique situations that people face, such as the inability to earn enough to survive in our expensive world, being confronted with the pain of betrayal, the sting of duplicity, loneliness, and a host of prevalent social and financial issues.

But a person of emunah understands differently. He recognizes that nothing is random. Every difficulty is placed before us for a reason. Every moment of pain is part of a larger, loving plan designed by Hashem Himself.

When a person experiences suffering, he can choose one of two paths. He can view himself as a victim, chained to circumstances and wounded by others, or he can see himself as a beloved child of Hashem, entrusted with a personal nisayon crafted for his growth.

The first path leads to bitterness. The second leads to greatness, a good life strengthened.

We see this again later in the parsha at the Bris Bein Habesorim. Hashem revealed to Avrohom that his descendants would be strangers in a foreign land, enslaved and afflicted for four hundred years. Naturally, Avrohom was gripped by dread: “Vehinei eimah chasheicha gedolah nofeles olov.” The future of his children was dark and painful.

Yet, astonishingly, Avrohom found comfort. How could he be comforted by the knowledge of suffering? Because Hashem also told him that the exile would end with redemption: “V’acharei chein yeitzu b’rechush gadol.” There was meaning. There was purpose. There was a plan.

Although Hashem told him that his children would be oppressed for four hundred years, Avrohom was comforted because he was told that it was part of a greater plan. Four hundred years of enslavement should be crushing. The revelation that his people would be subject to such confinement and abuse should have caused Avrohom more pain. But he accepted it, for he knew that it was the will of Hashem and not something caused by happenstance. Although he was promised Eretz Yisroel, Avrohom was comforted, as he knew that there were many Divine calculations that determined the length of the exile. It wasn’t how he had envisioned it, and there would be many years of pain and deprivation, but he was happy, for he now knew that there were more factors involved in Hashem’s plan than he could fathom.

It wasn’t the ending Avrohom had imagined. It was slower, harder, and filled with tears. But because it was Hashem’s will, it was good. That realization was enough to bring him peace.

Many of our modern disappointments stem from misplaced expectations. We assume that life is supposed to be smooth, and that if we do what’s right, we deserve comfort, success, and happiness. People are sad and feel unfulfilled because they think that they are entitled to the perfect job, family, children, neighborhood and life.

And when life doesn’t follow that script, they feel cheated.

But that’s not the Torah’s definition of a “happy ending.” A happy ending is not one without pain. It’s one with purpose.

We find joy when we stop fighting Hashem’s plan and start embracing it. When we understand that the perfect life is not the one without challenges, but the one that uses those challenges as steps toward growth. We find happiness when we stop comparing our journey to others and realize that each person’s nisayon is tailored for him by the One Who knows us best. When we realize that a perfect life is one that embraces the challenges that it confronts, we can begin to anticipate achieving joy and inner peace.

Before World War II, one of the most dreaded pieces of mail a young man in Eastern Europe could receive was a draft notice from the Russian army. Once drafted, a Jew faced years of deprivation and danger, physically and spiritually.

A group of bochurim who had received draft notices traveled to the Chofetz Chaim for a brocha. The saintly gaon assured them that they would all be spared. But then he took one young man aside and said to him, “Es iz nisht geferlach if you are drafted. A person can be mekadeish Sheim Shomayim wherever he is. And while there, he can help others keep mitzvos.”

As it turned out, every one of those bochurim was spared, except that one. He was drafted into the army, where hunger, cold, and loneliness became his constant companions. One day, while stationed near a small town with a Jewish community, he shared his pain with the local rov, telling him about his loneliness and difficulty being a shomer Torah umitzvos. The rov was moved and decided to help. Through much effort, he and several askonim succeeded in persuading the authorities to permit kosher food for Jewish soldiers.

In time, the bochur convinced over forty Jewish boys to begin eating kosher.

The Chofetz Chaim’s words had come true. Hashem had a shlichus for him — to sanctify His Name in a place of darkness. His nisayon was his mission. His hardship was his opportunity. If you are destined to be in the army and can be mekadeish Hashem and encourage people to do mitzvos during your period there, then you have passed your test and fulfilled your responsibly and obligation.

We sometimes wonder how we can celebrate Purim with unbridled joy when we know the end of Esther Hamalkah’s personal story. The salvation of Klal Yisroel came at tremendous cost. Esther remained bound to Achashveirosh for the rest of her life. How can such an ending be happy?

Perhaps the answer lies in understanding nisayon. Esther’s joy was not in her comfort, but in her clarity. She knew that she was precisely where Hashem wanted her to be. Her shlichus was to serve as the queen, even at personal sacrifice. Knowing that, she could live with serenity and meaning. That knowledge itself was her happiness.

The Chovos Halevavos teaches that the person who has proper bitachon is the most joyous of all. Why? Because he lives with the confidence that everything that happens is orchestrated by Hashem for his good. The one who trusts doesn’t need to control the story. He just needs to play his role faithfully.

Rav Nissim Karelitz once recalled an unforgettable experience that occurred when he went to visit his uncle, the Chazon Ish, whose yahrtzeit falls this week. The Chazon Ish, frail and weak, expressed a desire to visit his sister and brother-in-law, Rav Nochum Meir, who lived far from him in Bnei Brak, a long, difficult walk for a man in his condition.

Despite his weakness, they set out together. After a few minutes, the Chazon Ish needed to rest. They found a fallen log and he sat down to regain his strength. Then he rose and walked a bit further, until he again had to stop and rest. This happened several times. Slowly, painfully, but persistently, they made their way across town.

When they finally arrived, the Chazon Ish turned to his nephew and smiled. “Do you see that?” he said. “We made it. Az men geit, kumt men un. When you go, you arrive.”

Then he added, “If I had stayed home, I might have sat there for twenty more years. But because I began to go, I arrived. Maybe slowly, maybe with rests along the way, but I arrived. The main thing is to begin.”

That line — “Az men geit, kumt men un” — carries a world of meaning. In life, there are days when everything feels heavy, when learning doesn’t flow, when the work doesn’t succeed, and when the heart feels drained. But the difference between those who reach greatness and those who remain stagnant is not that the great never feel weak. It’s that they go anyway.

The Chazon Ish, always weak and often bedridden, never viewed his frailty as an obstacle. He saw it as his nisayon. He didn’t bemoan his limitations. He used them as tools for ascent. Through perseverance, he became the spiritual father of a generation — not because his path was smooth, but because he kept walking.

Avrohom Avinu implanted this strength into the spiritual DNA of Klal Yisroel. The ability to withstand trial, to persevere, to believe in purpose even in the midst of pain — it all comes from him. Every Jew carries that inner spark - that inherited courage.

Nisyonos are not interruptions to life. They are the reason we are here. Hashem places us in specific circumstances to bring out our best — to reveal the aretz asher areka within each of us.

The Mesilas Yeshorim (Perek 1) writes that a person was created “to be mekayeim the mitzvos, serve Hashem, and withstand the nisyonos that he faces…” He says that every situation in life is a nisayon given to us to overcome. This is true regarding things that are good and things that aren’t. Whether a person is poor or rich, peaceful or troubled, everything in life is a nisayon, an invitation to choose faith, to choose action, to choose growth.

If, in a time of nisayon, we follow the yeitzer hara and focus on what’s missing, we will fall into despair and not accomplish much. But when we look at life through the lens of Hashgocha Protis, seeing every moment as a personal message from Hashem, we can handle whatever comes our way. We can live with meaning, strength, and joy.

The Torah’s lessons in Bereishis are not theoretical. They are blueprints for living. Avrohom’s journey began with two simple words: “Lech lecha — Go forth.” Every Jew has his own lech lecha, his own journey toward purpose. The path is usually not easy, but it is always meaningful.

When we meet hardship with emunah, we reveal who we are. When we accept our nisyonos as Divine gifts, we uncover reserves of courage and faith we never knew we possessed. And when we take that first step forward — even slowly, even trembling — we honor Avrohom’s legacy and fulfill our own.

May we all merit to learn the lessons of our forefather Avrohom, to see Hashem’s hand in every nisayon, and to walk our paths with strength, serenity, and joy, confident that every step we take brings us closer to the destination He has prepared for us.

Az men geit, kumt men un. When you go, you arrive.

May we all merit lives of happiness and fulfillment and be zoche to welcome Moshiach.

After the Joy, the Journey

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

I would clearly understand if you were sad when Havdolah was recited and Simchas Torah ended.

After a month steeped in kedusha, of being enveloped in sanctity, joy, and deep connection with Hashem, we find ourselves back in the ordinary world. The decorations are carefully peeled off, taken down, folded and boxed away. The sukkah walls and the s’chach, which had lovingly embraced us with the tzila demehemnusa, are disassembled and stored. The esrog, once admired with awe, is set aside as a memory. The lulav, proudly shaken with that special nigun, lies limp in a corner. The melodies fade, the guests depart, and a quiet sense of spiritual displacement sets in.

We emerge from this cocoon of holiness and are suddenly exposed, spiritually and emotionally. We walk back into a world that hasn’t changed, but we have. The question becomes: Can we preserve the elevation? Can we hold onto the clarity, the hope, and the vision?

From the first utterance of “L’Dovid Hashem ori veyishi” during Elul, we were drawn into a sacred rhythm. Elul was the knocking on the door, a subtle, loving call from Above. Then, b’motzoei menucha, the serenity of Shabbos gave way to urgency as Selichos began. The stillness of the night was broken by the ancient cries of compassion, echoing through our shuls and hearts. As the month progressed, the shofar’s haunting blasts shook us awake from spiritual slumber, stirring something deep within.

Then came the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, ten precious, intense days of closeness, when the gates of Heaven felt within reach. And then, Yom Kippur, the day of purity. Dressed in white, we ascended to angelic heights, crying, singing, pouring ourselves out in tefillah and longing. As the sun set and Ne’ilah concluded, we were transformed. We emerged lighter, hopeful, and spiritually reborn.

But Hashem, in His kindness, didn’t let us fall from that peak. He lifted us again, higher. From the solemnity of teshuvah, we entered the joy of simcha. The sukkah welcomed us like a mother’s embrace. We sat beneath the stars, enveloped in Hashem’s love, celebrating the joy of being close to Him. We danced with the Torah on Simchas Torah, arms locked with fellow Yidden, singing “Yisroel v’Oraisa v’Kudsha Brich Hu chad hu.” We were joyous and fulfilled, removed from the mundane world, as we felt the beauty of the life Hashem chose for us to lead. For a moment, we were one. One people, one heart, one truth.

And then, it ended. The final dance, the final song, the final Havdolah. And we were thrust back into the mundane. No more shofar. No more white garments. No more daled minim. No more sukkah. Just echoes of greatness.

But what now? Were these weeks just a spiritual high? A temporary experience? Or were they a preparation for something deeper, something lasting?

In the zemer of Azamer Bishvochin, written by the Arizal and sung at our Shabbos tables every Friday evening, we say, “Yehei rava kamei d’sishrei al amei.” It is a heartfelt plea: “May it be His will that His Presence rest upon His nation.” Yodei Chein explains that these words reflect our longing for the Divine Presence to remain with us, not only during the holy days, but on the regular days that follow. We ask that the holiness we experienced during Tishrei not evaporate like a passing dream, but stay with us as we re-enter the world of work, responsibility, and routine.

With the kedusha and simcha gained during Tishrei, we start again, much improved.

We open the Chumash and read the first words once again: “Bereishis bara Elokim.” With these words, the Torah beckons us to return to the source, to the beginning, not just of the world, but of ourselves, with a fresh start. We carry everything we’ve acquired into this new beginning.

The first Rashi in Chumash sets the tone for our journey. Quoting Rabi Yitzchok, Rashi asks why the Torah begins with the story of creation instead of the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, “Hachodesh hazeh lochem.” His answer: So that when the nations of the world question our right to Eretz Yisroel, we can declare, “Hashem created the world, and He gave the land to whom He saw fit.” It was His to give, and He chose us.

But this explanation raises a question. As we know, the world doesn’t care for our biblical right or Divine promise. Why, then, is this message placed at the very start of the Torah?

Because it’s not just about political arguments. It’s about perspective. The Torah begins with creation to remind us that everything in the world is from Hashem, and everything that happens is part of His design. Eretz Yisroel belongs to us not because of political power or historical continuity, but because Hashem willed it so. The foundation of our emunah is that nothing is random.

The world wasn’t created for chaos. It was created with purpose, and that purpose is Torah and Klal Yisroel, as Rashi tells us in his second piece on the first posuk. He quotes the Chazal that the Torah begins with the word bereishis to teach us a lesson about creation. They explain: “Bereishis—the world was created for Am Yisroel and for Torah, bishvil Yisroel shenikre’u reishis, ubishvil haTorah shenikreis reishis.”

With this foundational truth, we step into the new year. Our lives matter. Our actions matter. Every word, every thought, every mitzvah is part of the divine choreography of creation.

But almost immediately, we are reminded that mankind often forgets that purpose. By the end of Parshas Bereishis, we read how humanity spiraled into darkness. Corruption spread, morality eroded, and Hashem, so to speak, “regretted” creating man. Yet, in this sea of failure, one man stood out: Noach.

The posuk tells us, “V’Noach motzah chein b’einei Hashem.” Noach found favor in the eyes of Hashem.

What was that chein? What made Noach different?

Noach, in a world consumed by sin, remained untouched. He lived with clarity. He understood that the world is not ownerless, that actions have consequences, and that there is a Creator to whom we are accountable. He studied the world and saw Hashem in it. He was not swayed by the crowd, not drawn into the cultural current. He walked his own path, a path of righteousness, honesty, and truth.

The Torah says: “Es haElokim hishalech Noach.” Noach walked with Hashem.

He walked only with Hashem and with no one else. He was alone. In a society that had completely lost its moral compass, he was a solitary voice of conscience. For 120 years, he built the teivah and pleaded with his generation to change. Not a single soul listened. Yet, he kept building. Kept warning. Kept believing.

Noach’s greatness lies not only in his integrity, but in his endurance. He didn’t give up when no one believed in him. He didn’t fold when he was ridiculed. He didn’t quit when he was alone. He remained loyal to his mission and, in doing so, he saved the world.

We must all be like Noach.

We live in a world filled with confusion. Morality is blurred. Truth is mocked. Torah values are called “intolerant.” The very existence of Eretz Yisroel is questioned, and in the face of terror and murder, the world condemns the victim. In just the past few years, we’ve witnessed a stunning rise in anti-Semitism, open and unapologetic. Prestigious universities host pro-Hamas rallies. Western democracies turn their backs on Israel. Lies are repeated so often that they are accepted as fact.

Amid the flood of falsehood, we must build a teivah. We must proclaim, like Noach did, that we don’t mind being alone, walking with Hashem on the path He laid out for us. We hold onto Torah. We raise our families with the Torah values passed on to us through our parents. We speak truth when it’s unpopular. We stay afloat, not because we are many, but because we are anchored.

The teivah, say the seforim hakedoshim, also represents the words of Torah and tefillah. The translation of teivah is “word.” When the world rages outside, we step into the protective haven of Hashem’s words. Into the rhythm of Shacharis, Mincha and Maariv. The melodies of Shabbos. The tune of a sugya and the hum of the bais medrash. The softness of a bedtime Shema with a child. That is our teivah.

We live in a time of terrible tragedies and see young people being struck down in a manifestation of the middas hadin. Just this past Sunday, four young bochurim were killed, their lives taken away in an instant. At the levayah of Shloimy Cohen, one of those bochurim, Rav Yeruchom Olshin quoted the posuk, “Anshei chesed ne’esofim b’ein meivin—Hashem gathers to Him good people and nobody understands why.”

He said that we must recognize that we are living during the difficult period of ikvesa d’Meshicha, a time when we must strengthen our observance and study of Torah and acts of kindness. There is no better time to start than now. Torah and gemillus chassodim form the teivah that enable us to survive the golus and merit the welcoming of Moshiach. 

Israel was attacked two years ago and the world pitied it and offered expressions of sympathy, but when the small country went to war against the army of murderers who had attacked it, the world slowly drifted away from the Jews. One by one, the countries and their citizens began blasting Israel and accusing it of genocide. In the United States, as well, anti-Semitic demonstrations were held from east to west and college campuses became bases for Jew-hatred. Western countries considered friendly to Israel declared pointless military embargos against the embattled state and then, in perfidious empty moves, recognized the nonexistent state of Palestine.

New York City, home of millions of Jews, is about to elect a pro-Hamas, anti-Semitic, communist mayor. Regardless of how you choose to interpret that, the outcome is unequivocally negative.

And then there are moments—bright, piercing rays of light—that remind us that the world has not entirely forgotten its conscience.

Just recently, the hearts of Klal Yisroel were lifted when twenty Israeli hostages, held for almost two years in unimaginable conditions, were freed. The tears of grief became tears of joy, and for a moment, a deep sigh of relief filled Jewish homes across the globe.

We davened. We hoped. And Hashem answered.

Not all of them, not yet. But some. And we saw that even in the darkest situations, salvation is possible.

The redemption of those hostages is a sign of hope. A reminder that Hashem is with us. We pray that their freedom is a good omen for Israel and for the Jewish people, and that the relentless violence will stop, stability will be achieved, and Hashem will bring shalom al Yisroel.

Last week, I attended the first Presidential Holocaust Commission event since my appointment by President Trump to the commission. It was a commemoration of the tragic events of Shemini Atzeres two years ago in southern Israel.

The event, which was held at the United States Holocaust Museum, featured several speeches, including one from a recovered hostage, Almog Meir Jan. He didn’t look particularly religious, but when he rose to speak, he covered his head with his hand and emotionally recited, “Shehecheyonu vekiyemonu vehigionu lazeman hazeh.”

In speaking with him, he told me that when he was freed, he decided that l’illui nishmas the soldier who died freeing him from captivity, he would distribute pairs of tzitzis. He even brought a bag of tzitzis to the event.

There are so many stories being told about people who survived that calamitous attack and, in its wake, found their way to Hashem. The tragedy inspired them to elevate themselves and ignite a flame within their souls.

Chazal tell us (see Pri Tzaddik) that had Noach’s generation responded to his pleas and done teshuvah, the Torah could have been given in their time. They could have had water, but not as a flood. Instead of mayim of destruction, they could have had mayim chaim, the waters of Torah. Instead of desolation, rebirth. Instead of curse, eternal blessing. All it took was listening. One change. One turn.

And so, we return to our question: After Tishrei, after the aliyah, how do we not drown?

We look to Noach. He reminds us that it is possible to stand tall when the world bows low. That it’s possible to walk with Hashem even if you’re walking alone. That chein is not found in popularity, but in purity.

Let us take the strength of Tishrei and carry it forward. Let us begin again, not with despair, but with hope. Let us walk into the weeks ahead as builders of our own arks, guardians of the sacred, carriers of the light.

Because the world was created for us. And if we walk with Hashem, we, too, will find chein in His eyes and be the ones who rebuild the world.

The world was created for Torah. By learning Torah, we sustain and strengthen both ourselves and the world. We add zechuyos for ourselves and for all of creation. We refine our character and make the world a better place.

By performing mitzvos and refraining from aveiros and actions that degrade and defile us, we fulfill our mission and the purpose for which Hashem placed us in His world.

Every day is a new beginning, an opportunity to fulfill our tasks and live with hope, moral strength, and divine guidance.

May Hashem continue to guide, protect, and bless us with peace, strength, and clarity in these challenging times, and may He bring us Moshiach soon, in our days.

The Deep Joy of Sukkos

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Sukkos, the Yom Tov of simcha, comes to us like a sun-drenched mountain after a long and hard climb. After the awesome days of the Yomim Noraim, when our souls were laid bare, our hearts taken over by yearning and tefillah, we emerge into the warm embrace of a Yom Tov whose very essence is joy. As the posuk declares (Devorim 16:14-15), “Vesomachta bechagecha vehoyisa ach someiach — And you shall rejoice in your festival, and you shall be only joyful.”

Only joyful.

How can such a command be fulfilled? Is it possible — after weeks of intense introspection, of confronting mortality, sin, and judgment — to cast the seriousness aside and rejoice, wholly, deeply, uninterruptedly?

The answer is whispered in the leaves of the sukkah, in the rustle of the s’chach above our heads, in the fragile walls that seem to tremble with eternity.

Yes, says the Torah. Yes, says the Zohar. And yes, says the Jewish soul.

Because this joy is not an escape from the seriousness of life. It is its reward.

The Zohar (Parshas Emor) reveals a breathtaking secret. During Sukkos, Hakadosh Boruch Hu comes to dwell with His beloved children in their humble sukkos. He does not demand palaces of marble or ivory. He does not wait for golden thrones or ornamental crowns. No. Hashem comes to the sukkah. The imperfect, breezy little sukkah. And He rejoices there with us.

What greater joy could there be than this? The Creator of the universe, the Master of all worlds, comes to sit beneath our s’chach, to bask in our love, to envelop us in His presence.

The Vilna Gaon, whose insights blaze like lightning across the heavens of Torah, would say that the most difficult mitzvah is not shiluach hakan, nor the depths of korbanos, nor anything that we would imagine.

The hardest mitzvah, said the Gaon, is the one that obligates us to be completely joyous on Sukkos, without any hint of sadness or distraction. Not just happy in theory. Not just smiling on the outside, but fully, truly, spiritually joyous.

Can we do it?

A young man who learned in the famed Volozhiner Yeshiva, the beating heart of Lithuanian Torah life, wrote a diary that was found and printed. His words transported me. I want to share them with you. He wrote:

“The small towns of Lita were solemn a whole year round; there was no income, and poverty was all they knew. But when Yom Tov arrived, old, dark bread was replaced with white bread, and everyone wore freshly cleaned clothing. Yom Tov brought a tremendous change. Everything was different. It felt like going from darkness to great light.”

Just pause for a moment. Imagine it. A shtetel cloaked in the grey of struggle suddenly transformed. The children run through the narrow streets with shining faces. Fathers who’ve worked all year for mere kopeks now wear pressed white shirts. And even if there’s just one chicken for the whole Yom Tov, it’s shared with laughter and song.

He continues: “During the Yom Tov of Sukkos, the town of Volozhin was adorned. All its inhabitants were swept up in celebration. The yeshiva bochurim sang and the cheder children danced around so merrily. From every corner of town, there was heard only much joy and happiness, as the town of Volozhin was overcome with rejoicing and festivity.”

Can you hear it? The singing? The joy? The walls of the sukkos glowing in the candlelight, as old and young sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing divrei Torah and perhaps singing niggunim?

And then, his final lines, bursting with emotion:

“This was true of all the Lithuanian shtetlach, but was most pronounced in Volozhin due to the presence of so many yeshiva bochurim. All year, they were in a different world — the world of learning. But when Sukkos came, their inner happiness burst forth and they added even more to the city’s exultation.”

Because Sukkos isn’t only about outer joy.

It’s about letting the joy that lives deep inside us emerge.

Let us now dive deeper.

The Torah tells us (Vayikra 23:42-43), “You shall dwell in sukkos for seven days…so that your generations will know that I caused the Bnei Yisroel to dwell in sukkos when I took them out of Egypt.”

Something is puzzling here.

The Torah doesn’t say “so that you will remember” as it does by other mitzvos. Regarding tzitzis, it says, “Lema’an tizkeru — so that you will remember.” Regarding Pesach, the same. So why, here, does it say, “Lema’an yeidu — so that they will know?”

Because Sukkos is not only about memory. It’s about knowing. Not history, but presence. Not nostalgia, but experience.

We are not merely commemorating something that once happened. We are stepping into it.

We are reliving the moment Hashem enveloped us in the clouds of His love. Every year, when those hashpa’os are evident, we relive the time of Hashem’s return.

The Tur asks a question that has often been repeated since he posed it: If Sukkos commemorates the Ananei Hakavod, the holy clouds that surrounded the Jewish people when they left Mitzrayim, why don’t we celebrate Sukkos during Nissan, when the Jews left Mitzrayim? Why do we celebrate it during Tishrei?

The Vilna Gaon (Shir Hashirim 1:4) gives a stunning answer. He says that the sukkah we build does not commemorate the original Ananei Hakavod that came after Yetzias Mitzrayim. Instead, it celebrates their return after they were taken away.

When the Bnei Yisroel sinned with the Eigel Hazohov, the clouds, the Shechinah, and the Divine intimacy departed. But then Moshe Rabbeinu ascended Har Sinai again to beg for forgiveness. On Yom Kippur, he descended with that forgiveness in hand.

And then, from the 11^th to the 14^th of Tishrei, the people gathered materials for the Mishkon, demonstrating their renewed commitment. On the 15^th of Tishrei, construction of the Mishkon began.

And the clouds came back.

That is what we celebrate on Sukkos.

Not just the kindness of Hashem in protecting us, but the return of His love after we fell.

This understanding gives new meaning to the calendar.

On Rosh Hashanah, we proclaim Hashem’s kingship. During the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, we repent and plead for mercy. On Yom Kippur, we are forgiven and cleansed. And then comes Sukkos.

Sukkos is the embrace.

It is Hashem saying, “Come back to Me. You are Mine, and I am yours.”

The Ramchal (Derech Hashem 4:7) writes that the light of the original Anonim reappears during Sukkos. Their power — the safety, the clarity, the closeness — is awakened again in our generation.

That means that when we sit in the sukkah, we are not just in a symbolic booth.

We are sitting in a space that echoes with Divine protection.

Unlike most mitzvos, where performance is the obligation, the sukkah requires not just sitting, but also building.

The Rama (Orach Chaim 624:5) teaches that righteous Jews begin building their sukkah immediately after Yom Kippur.

Why?

Because when a mitzvah comes to your hand, don’t delay it. “Al tachmitzena.”

But there is more.

When we build the sukkah, we are not merely erecting walls.

We are building a dwelling place for the Shechinah. A mikdosh me’at. A sanctuary. A home for Hashem in this world.

That’s why it matters how we build it. With kavonah. With thought. And of course, with joy. With hands that have just been purified in the fires of Yom Kippur.

A sukkah is a statement: “Hashem, I want You in my life.” As we proclaimed on Yom Kippur, “Ki anu bonecha v’Atah Avinu. Anu amecha v’Atah Elokeinu.” We are Yours.

The Be’er Heiteiv (639:1) quotes that building the sukkah is akin to being a partner with Hashem in the act of creation.

How so?

Because just as Hashem created a world in which His presence could dwell, so too do we — the newly cleansed Jewish people — create a small world, a sukkah, where He can reside once again.

The Shechinah, says the Zohar, rests in every sukkah built l’sheim Shomayim.

Even the simplest ones. Even yours.

Even the ones with plastic chairs and worn-out boards. The ones that leak and let in cold winds through the cracks. The ones with the latest decorations, the ones with last year’s signs, as well as the sukkos with no decorations at all.

If it’s built with love, determination and dedication to the mitzvah, Hashem is there.

Chazal use a breathtaking term for the sukkah: “b’tzeila demehemenusa — the shadow of faith.”

What is faith if not trust in what you cannot see, in what transcends your control? The sukkah, by halachic definition, must be a temporary dwelling. It sways in the wind. It leaks in the rain. It’s fragile — on purpose.

And that’s exactly why it becomes a place of deep serenity.

Because it teaches us that real security doesn’t come from brick and mortar.

It comes from emunah.

It comes from knowing that the very same G-d who held our ancestors in His Clouds of Glory in the desert surrounds us now — with no less love, with no less care.

The flimsy walls are stronger than steel when Hashem stands beside you.

The s’chach above your head? It may look like leaves, but spiritually, it’s the canopy of the Divine.

In a world spinning with uncertainty, where we grasp for control, where so much is unpredictable and so many are unfriendly, the sukkah invites us to let go, to lean in, and to know.

To know that He is with us.

And just when the sukkah feels most personal, most intimate, something else happens.

On each night of Sukkos, we welcome seven exalted guests, the Ushpizin, into our sukkah: Avrohom, Yitzchok, Yaakov, Yosef, Moshe, Aharon, and Dovid Hamelech.

Why?

Because their lives were comprised of challenges and trust.

Avrohom left everything behind to follow the voice of Hashem. Yitzchok was forced to leave home. Yaakov slept with his head on stones, running from Eisov. Yosef was sent into golus by his brothers. Moshe lived between palaces and tents, chased by kings and carried by prophecy. Aharon was involved in the Eigel story and lost two of his four sons on the day Klal Yisroel celebrated the consecration of the Mishkon. Dovid Hamelech spent much time not on a throne, but in caves and in exile.

When the Ushpizin come into our sukkah, it’s not as historical guests, but as teachers, as guiding lights with a permanent connection to Hakadosh Boruch Hu.

They sit beside us and remind us that when we are in the sukkah, we are not alone.

Let’s return to the Vilna Gaon’s statement: Sukkos is the most difficult mitzvah because it requires complete joy — and only joy.

Why is that so hard?

Because most of us live with tension, loss, disappointment, and unanswered questions. The world is heavy. Life is complex.

But perhaps Sukkos doesn’t demand that we ignore our struggles.

Perhaps it’s asking something more subtle and more profound: That after we have confronted our darkness during Elul and the Yomim Noraim, after we have faced our failures and cried out to Hashem with broken hearts, we are now invited to rejoice — because of that journey.

Sukkos is the joy that comes after teshuvah, not despite of it.

It is the joy of reconciliation. Of returning. Of being forgiven. Of being loved.

Imagine a child who ran away from home, hurt his parents, and rebelled. Then, one day, he knocks on the door, tears in his eyes. His mother throws her arms around him. His father kisses his forehead.

Now imagine the joy of that first Shabbos back at the table.

That is Sukkos.

In the times of the Bais Hamikdosh, Sukkos brought about the most awe-inspiring celebration ever known: the Simchas Bais Hasho’eivah. Chazal say (Sukkah 51a), “Mi shelo ra’ah simchas Bais Hasho’eivah lo ra’ah simcha miyomov — Whoever did not see the rejoicing at the Bais Hasho’eivah has never seen real joy.”

What made it so joyous?

It wasn’t a sumptuous meal. It wasn’t wine or bourbon. It wasn’t wealth.

It was water.

Simple, pure, tasteless water poured upon the mizbei’ach, elevated to holiness.

Because when you’re connected to Hashem, even water — even the simplest parts of life — is enough to dance over.

This, too, is the message of Sukkos.

You don’t need much to be joyous.

You need meaning.

You need clarity.

You need to know that Hashem is near.

And then, even a sukkah, with its temporary walls and a folding table, becomes the most glorious palace.

That is the arc of Tishrei. Rosh Hashanah awakens us to Hashem’s kingship. We are awed and stirred, fighting for our lives and everything that we need and hold dear.

Yom Kippur breaks us open. We are raw, cleansed, and sincere.

And then Sukkos lifts us. We are held, embraced, and surrounded by joy.

It is the joy that comes after winning a tough case, the embrace after the apology. It is the sunshine after the storm, the dawn after the long night.

This is the joy that broke through the poverty of Lita, that filled the diary of a Volozhiner bochur with wide-eyed awe.

This is the joy that turned wooden huts into spiritual sanctuaries.

The joy of Sukkos.

Sukkos, when we step inside the sukkah with reverence and sit with our families, neighbors and guests. We make Kiddush, recite the Shehecheyonu thanking Hashem for keeping us alive, eat a kezayis of challah, are careful with our speech, and remember that beneath the fragile roof, we are under the wings of Hashem’s protection.

How can we not be filled with simcha? After the Yomim Noraim, we are duty-bound to feel joy, for failing to do so would mean ignoring the immense blessings bestowed upon us with the Yomim Noraim. Nothing should be able to shake us and upset us.

When we are home with Hashem, we are reminded that He causes everything to happen and nothing that we experience happens on its own. Challenges that we face are placed there by Hashem to strengthen and improve us. It is all for the good.

May that knowledge bring us to simcha. Deep and lasting simcha.

May the clouds of Hashem’s Glory return in their fullest form with the coming of Moshiach speedily in our days.

Ah gutten Yom Tov.

From Me to We: The Heart of Rosh Hashanah

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Rosh Hashanah is here again. The sounds of the shofar, the weight of the tefillos, and the introspective mood of Elul and Tishrei all converge now. We say to ourselves: “I believe I’m basically good. I want a favorable judgment for the coming year. But where do I start?”

We know about teshuvah. Yet, somehow, when the first blast of the shofar echoes, we feel that something is missing, something deeper than the familiar path.

What do we do? How do we begin anew as individuals and as a people?

My grandfather, Rav Eliezer Levin, learned for many years in the famed yeshiva of Kelm, a place steeped in mussar and sincere spiritual striving. During Elul, he once told me, a sign hung on the wall that simply said, “Ein Melech belo am—There is no King without a people.” The conversation changed and he never did explain to me why they hung that sign and what the deeper message was. However, that sign stayed with me, like an echo I couldn’t quite place. Only later did I begin to understand its urgency and relevance.

Over time, I realized that the sign was not just a nice message. It was a call to action. It taught that Hashem is not crowned through solitary effort. Crowning Hashem means that we must accept Him together, as a people, not just as individuals. Our avodah on Rosh Hashanah is about crowning Hashem as King. This isn’t just symbolic. In the words of Chazal (Rosh Hashanah 34b), we recite the pesukim of Malchiyos in our davening specifically “kedei shetamlichuni aleichem—so that you will crown Me King over you.” Hashem’s malchus isn’t imposed. It’s accepted by us, His nation. But if we are fragmented, if we are divided, then the Melech’s rule isn’t complete. A divided citizenry makes for a weakened leader.

The phrase “Ein Melech belo am” reminds us that Hashem’s kingship depends on us. A fractured people can’t crown a King properly. The Alter of Kelm taught that achdus strengthens Hashem’s throne. Division undermines it. In our times—when so much feels uncertain, when our world is splintered and polarized—this idea is not just beautiful. It is essential. Rosh Hashanah is the anniversary of Hashem’s kingship over the world. Each year, we return to that moment. Each year, we recommit. Each year, we ask, “Are we a nation fit to crown our King?”

To understand what that takes, we examine the concept of achdus, Jewish unity. Achdus is not sameness. It doesn’t require uniformity in dress, in opinion, or in custom. Rather, achdus means recognizing our shared destiny and our shared Creator. Achdus means viewing one another with love, dignity, and respect. Even when disagreements arise—and they inevitably will—achdus requires that we recognize each other as limbs of the same body.

Unity is not about pretending we all agree. It’s about disagreeing respectfully, remembering that every Jew carries within him a piece of the Divine, a heritage from Sinai. When we mock or degrade another Jew, we don’t just harm that individual. We chip away at the collective. And when we build each other up, we raise the entire body of Klal Yisroel. The shevotim each had their own role, their own symbol , their own mission. And together they formed a nation. This is our ideal.

The Vilna Gaon taught that the root of all sin lies in bad middos. Teshuvah begins not just with regret or apology, but with the deep internal work of refining character. If we wish to stand before Hashem on Rosh Hashanah with merit, we must confront our arrogance, our jealousy, our impatience, and our selfishness. We must each seek to become people who are capable of unity. Achdus is not a passive state. It is the result of hard work. We cannot love others fully if we are consumed by our own ego.

Rav Yisroel Salanter famously said that someone who wishes to be victorious in the judgment of Rosh Hashanah must be part of the klal, the greater community. Hashem judges us not only as individuals, but as members of the klal. Are we contributing? Are we needed? Are we lifting others or are we merely focused on ourselves? When we live for others—when we serve, when we give, when we listen—we become part of the nation that crowns Hashem.

That shift, from “me” to “we,” is transformative. It alters not only how we relate to others, but how Hashem relates to us. When we become a people, we can crown a King.

The shofar, so central to Rosh Hashanah, mirrors this journey. Tekiah—the steady, clear sound—represents our unwavering declaration of Hashem’s malchus. Shevorim—the broken cry—mirrors our recognition of our faults, our brokenness, our need for teshuvah. Teruah—the staccato sobbing—echoes our inner turmoil, our longing for connection. And following those sounds of inner reflection, of teshuvah, we blow a tekiah again—a return to strength, resolve, and clarity. But the shofar is more than a personal cry. It is a national voice. The sound of the shofar reaches Heaven only when it arises from the unity of the Jewish heart.

Yet, unity, as stirring as it sounds, must be practiced to be real. Theoretical achdus doesn’t crown a King. Real achdus begins in how we speak to each other, how we treat each other, and how we think about each other. It begins with learning to disagree without contempt, to argue without mockery. It begins by making room for those who are different. It begins with being part of a kehillah, of a community, of a larger group, even when it is hard or thankless. It means sharing together moments of joy, of tefillah, of learning, and r”l of grief. It means not just popping in to a simcha and running out. It means being there, being part of it, and being happy for the people who are celebrating.

The calendar guides us through this process. Elul calls us inward to examine ourselves. Rosh Hashanah expands our focus outward to crown Hashem as King. The Aseres Yemei Teshuvah deepen our reflection and our longing. Yom Kippur purifies us. Sukkos draws us back together in physical closeness and joy. As we all know, the arba minim—the lulav, esrog, hadasim, and aravos—each represent different types of Jews. When they are held together, the mitzvah becomes complete. And finally, on Simchas Torah, we dance, not as individuals, yechidim, but as one people with one Torah. The entire arc of Tishrei is a movement from individualism to unity.

We are interconnected with others, and to the degree that we touch others’ lives and become indispensable, we become a more vital, integral part of Klal Yisroel.

Rav Shalom Schwadron was famed for his mesmerizing drashos, but in Eretz Yisroel, he was also famous as the chazzan on the Yomim Noraim at Yeshivas Chevron. His hauntingly beautiful nusach is followed in the yeshivos and botei medrash of Eretz Yisroel and has spread here as well, heavily influencing the tunes and sounds of Rosh Hashanah, adding cadence to the tefillos in a way that touches the soul of every mispallel.

The master communicator cobbled together different nuances from many others and formed a nusach that touched the soul, stirring and inspiring people who davened with him to seek great heights and perfection. One of Rav Shalom’s iconic classics is the way he sang the pizmon of Omnom Kein…Solachti.

Chevroner talmidim once asked the beloved baal tefillah for the source of the tune. He explained that this song was unlike all the others that originated from various Litvishe gedolim, baalei mussar, and chassidishe hoifen. He told the bochurim that he was orphaned as a child and was sent to live at the Diskin Orphan Home for some time.

“There,” he recalled, “a young boy, orphaned of both parents, sat next to me. He was so sad. He was a broken young boy. In his sadness, he would sit, lost in his own world, and hum a pitiful tune comprised of notes of longing and pain. I had never heard that tune before. No doubt it emanated from the boy’s wounded soul. Every time I heard him hum that mournful tone, I was deeply touched to the essence of my neshomah.”

When Rav Shalom began davening for the amud, that niggun flowed from his core, and when he came upon that beautiful pizmon, he saw it as a perfect match. As he began singing it, it caught on.

When he finished his story, Rav Shalom told the bochurim, “And every year, when I sing that tune, I think of the boy and what he must have been going through.”

When Rav Shalom would speak every Friday evening in Zichron Moshe, Jews of all types would flock from across Yerushalayim to hear his message—young and old, Litvaks, chassidim, Sefardim, shtreimels, black hats, blue hats, straw hats, no hats, white yarmulkas and white suits, golden bekeshes and shirtsleeves. Every type of Jew was there and felt comfortable, perceiving that the message was tailored especially for him. Everyone was together, am echod b’achdus, looking to be inspired. They laughed together and cried together, changing from minute to minute as Rav Shalom held them in the palm of his hand.

Rav Shalom, a man with a vast heart, was easily touched and touched many. He didn’t just go through a playlist and find a popular tune to dress up his tefillos. When he davened, he was b’achdus with everyone in the crowd. He thought about them and their needs, and he did his best to help corral the prayers on high. He thought of that little boy, the broken orphan from way back when, singing to himself a haunting tune, seeking to somehow overcome his loneliness and depression.

He thought of the bochurim yearning to shteig, davening for a zivug hagun. He thought of the older mispallelim who were davening for good health. He thought of everyone who longed for peace in the troubled land. And of course, he davened for Hashem’s people who had spent a month preparing themselves for this great day, working on their middos, on their learning, on their behavior, on their davening and shmiras hamitzvos, and everything else.

A rebbeshe ainikel and a phenomenal talmid chochom, Rav Shalom was very humble and full of love for everyone. He connected with that boy and his soul, channeling his emotions into the tefillos as a master representative, a shliach tzibbur, attaching himself to his brethren, bringing them all together as one. And in commensurate proportion, their voices rose in unison, marshaling their strengths and bringing them to the level of holiness the days call for.

The more we realize that we are part of a group ruled by Hashem, the closer we will be to achieving our goal. When we grasp that kol Yisroel areivim zeh bazeh and comprehend that we are small when we are alone but can achieve much when we are united, we will find favor in Hashem’s eyes and in the hearts of our fellow Jews.

During Elul and Tishrei, we rise above selfishness and apathy, accepting others, caring about them, contributing to their welfare, and seeking to make the world a better place. Chazal teach that tzedokah tatzil mimovess, and we can understand that to mean that the more we give, the more we share with others and care about them, the more unselfish and humble we are, the more we live b’achdus with everyone, the greater our chances of Hashem viewing us with the same type of kindness we exhibit with His children and nation.

The Rambam states in Hilchos Matnos Aniyim (10:1) that Am Yisroel will merit to be redeemed in the zechus of the mitzvah of tzedokah. Perhaps we can say that the Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because we lacked achdus and were consumed by sinas chinom. To overcome that deficiency and merit the geulah, we have to make room for others in our hearts, homes, and schools. We can disagree, but without belittling and hating each other. There is no better way to demonstrate that we have done teshuvah for the sins that caused the destruction than to invest tzedokah money in the dreams and hopes of others and enable them to live decent lives.

Someone who has worked on his middos and perfected them to the degree that he can be a productive and harmonious member of the klal is someone who can appreciate the oneness and unity of Klal Yisroel and thus fulfills his obligation of shetamlichuni Aleichem.

What did that sign hanging in Kelm mean? It meant to do teshuvah. It meant to learn mussar so you can perfect your middos. It meant that Hashem created you for a purpose—to be His nation, to be His people, to be His person. It meant to always remember that the reason you are here is not for selfish, fleeting enjoyment. It meant to remember that you are here to be mekadeish sheim Hashem, lishmoa bekolo uledovka bo. You are here to be a kadosh and to create kedusha.

Every believer knows that Hashem created the world, and Am Yisroel knows that He created the world for us. Rosh Hashanah is when that relationship is commemorated, celebrated, and renewed.

Ein Melech belo am means that our lives must be on the level of the nation that crowns Hashem.

It doesn’t happen automatically. It doesn’t happen just from reading an inspirational sign and singing inspiring tunes. It begins with a cheshbon hanefesh, an honest accounting of the soul. We must ask ourselves hard questions: Have I hurt someone this year? Have I mocked, excluded, or judged others? Have I been too consumed by my own needs to see the needs of others? What middos need my attention—humility, patience, gratitude, generosity? Do I perform mitzvos with excitement, joy, and a sense of fulfillment? When I daven, do I enunciate each word carefully? Do I care about what I am learning? Do Torah, tefillah and shemiras mitzvos touch and elevate me, or do I just go through the motions?

Teshuvah is not complete without real change. Regret for the past must be joined with commitment for the future. We must not only feel bad. We must do better. When we better ourselves, we become easier to love, easier to live with, and easier to respect. When we humble ourselves, we make room for others.

And when we do that, when we reach beyond ourselves, we unlock the deeper power of Rosh Hashanah. Following the emotional tefillah of Unesaneh Tokef, we cry out together as loud as we can that teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedokah overturn even the harshest decrees. Because those actions emanate from a heart that feels part of something bigger. When we forgive others and dig into our own neshamos as we seek forgiveness from Hashem, when we daven together, when we give, we become people who deserve mercy. We become a people worthy of crowning a King.

Let this year be one of healing and humility. Let this be a year when we soften our judgments, open our tables, speak more kindly, and serve more quietly. Let this be a year when we truly live the words “Ein Melech belo am.”

Because when we come together—not in uniformity, but in unity—we don’t just change ourselves. We change the world.

May we be zoche to a year of health, shalom, simcha, nachas, and growth as the Am Hashem. May we crown Hashem together, as one people, with one heart. May He accept us, welcome us and rule over us with chesed and rachamim.

May our teshuvah and achdus enable Moshiach to come this year. Amein.

Kesivah vachasimah tovah.