Hashem Watches Over Me

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

I was listening to Israeli radio to hear the latest on the war. As I tuned in, there was an interview being conducted with a man who lived in the building in Bat Yam right next to the one that was directly hit by an Iranian ballistic missile. He was describing how powerful the bomb was. He described the deafening boom, the shockwave that shattered every window in his apartment, and how he felt as though he was about to be sucked out through the gaping hole that had once been his dining room window.

The reporter asked him, “So would you say that you were saved by a neis (miracle)?”

The survivor responded, “Lo! No!”

I was wondering how thick-headed he could be to recount such an experience and not realize that it was a miracle that he was alive and whole.

But then he said, “I survived only because Hashem was watching over me!”

The reporter agreed, and I realized that the man had said it better than any sound bite. It wasn’t just a miracle. It was Hashgocha Protis. It was Hashem Himself, not randomness or fate, who had shielded him.

Once again, the peaceful air that had settled over Eretz Yisroel was shattered. On October 7, 2023, Simchas Torah, a day meant for dancing with the Torah and celebrating our eternal bond with Hashem, the Jewish people faced unspeakable horror. Over 1,200 were murdered and thousands more were wounded in the worst massacre of Jews since the Holocaust. Men, women and children, and even babies, were slaughtered, and over 240 hostages were dragged into Gaza.

This wasn’t just an attack. It was the launching of a war by Hamas, the genocidal proxy of Iran. Since then, Israel has fought relentlessly to eliminate Hamas and restore security to its citizens. Thousands of soldiers have been wounded. Hundreds have fallen. Ceasefires have come and gone. Hostages have returned—some alive, others in coffins—while others languish in Hamas tunnels and other treacherous surroundings. The trauma remains etched in the soul of the nation.

Although the pain lingers and thousands of men and women have been separated from their families for the war effort, somehow the sharp edge of the pain wore off and most people became accustomed to the situation. Life resumed a fragile routine. Rockets slowed. Schools reopened. People began to breathe again. Shelters stood mostly empty. For a while.

But that changed Thursday night, as Israel began the war it has been planning for over the past decades. After vowing that Iran would never obtain a nuclear weapon as it got closer and closer to that very goal, the now or never window was rapidly closing. If that evil regime wasn’t stopped within the next few weeks, they would have the feared weapon and Israel would be their first target.

The red line had been crossed. Iran, the regime that has repeatedly pledged to wipe Israel off the map, was inching ever closer to acquiring nuclear weapons. The world debated. Israel acted.

Israel began attacking Iran. Suddenly, a nation that had gone to sleep with their regular everyday worries were awakened at 3 a.m. by wailing sirens, shaking them out of bed and complacency, and foisting upon them a new, frightening reality.

Within minutes, dozens of ballistic missiles were flying toward Israel, reminding everyone that we are not living in normal times.

No matter how many times a person has rushed to a shelter, you never get used to it. War isn’t just noise and headlines. It is fear. It is disorientation. It is waking up in the middle of the night, clutching your children as you recite pesukim of Tehillim. It is losing all sense of routine. Schools are closed, businesses shuttered, flights canceled, deliveries halted. It is an unrelenting anxiety that clings to the body and soul.

Running to a shelter several times a night is not conducive to sleep or anything other than anxiety. Having your day interrupted by sirens and dashes into a shelter before a ballistic missile hits, is not only uncomfortable and nerve-racking, but frightening and life-altering.

Having no peace, not being able to sit still for any extended period of time, being constantly mindful that a war over your very existence is being waged, can be very unsettling and makes it difficult to properly function.

What do we say? How do we react? What are we supposed to think in times like this?

In the chaos of sirens and explosions, a Jewish heart instinctively calls out: Hashem yishmor. Hashem will guard us. Every rocket intercepted is a reminder of His mercy. Every near miss is a whisper of His will. Hashem alone determines who will live, who will be protected, who will rise from the rubble and testify, “Hashem was watching over me.”

We are a nation that has endured more than any nation in history, not due to might or power, but due to our deep, unwavering connection to the Ribono Shel Olam.

Iran, Hamas, Hezbollah—they are but pawns in a larger story.

As maaminim bnei maaminim, while others fight on a physical battlefield, we fight on the spiritual one through tefillah, teshuvah and tzedakah. Every added kappitel of Tehillim, every act of chesed, every extra moment of Torah learning strengthens the physical combatants far more than we can imagine.

Let the world call it physical luck or coincidence. We call it Hashem Yisborach. Because when the windows blow out, the walls shake, and you walk away alive, you know the truth:

Hashem was watching over me.

And when the war seems unending and the darkness overwhelming, we recall the words of the novi: “Ki lo yitosh Hashem es amo—Hashem will not forsake His people.”

Even now. Especially now.

In times of war, the natural reaction for many is to become amateur geopolitical analysts. Conversations quickly turn into discussions about why the enemy acted, what the real motivation was, and how brilliantly - or foolishly - Israel responded.

Someone inevitably pipes up: “This only happened because Trump won the election.”

Heads nod.

“If Biden - or Harris - had won, Netanyahu would never have pulled this off,” another adds, as listeners admire the sharpness of his insight.

Everyone throws in their two cents, quoting from analysts, Twitter threads, and WhatsApp chats. The group collectively convinces itself that its breakdown of military strategy is more astute than that of actual generals and heads of state.

But in all this noise, one thing is forgotten - the most important piece of the story.

This war, like every war, is happening because Hashem willed it. Not because Trump won. Not because Netanyahu is still in office. Not because of this treaty or that speech. These events don’t cause Divine plans. They serve them.

It’s not that Trump won and therefore the war happened. It’s the other way around. Trump won because Hashem wanted the world to move toward this moment.

Just as Paroh rose to power to set the stage for Yetzias Mitzrayim, so too, modern leaders are placed exactly where Hashem wants them to be to fulfill His ultimate design. The Ayatollah didn’t come to power by mistake because of the actions of an errant American president. The American presidents who empowered Iran ever since, or ignored its threats, didn’t do so by accident. All of this is part of a larger, unfolding script authored by the Ribbono Shel Olam.

The reason Trump won the presidency was so that he could carry out the wishes of Hashem. Because Hashem wants to set up the world for Moshiach to reveal himself and redeem us, He brought the world to this juncture.

He caused the wicked regime to threaten Israel and work towards obtaining the means with which they could actualize their dream of wiping out Israel. He brought the right players onto the scene and allowed Netanyahu to remain in power so that the next step in preparing Eretz Yisroel and the world for Moshiach could get underway.

When we forget that, we get distracted by headlines and forget our headline: Hashem watches over me.

And it’s worse.

The Rambam begins his Hilchos Taanis like this: “Mitzvas asei min haTorah, it is a mitzvah in the Torah, to cry out to Hashem and to do teshuvah when any type of tragedy strikes.” This mitzvah is derived from a posuk we lained last week in Parshas Beha’aloscha (10:9).

We have to know that when there is tragedy, it is because of our sins, and therefore, the way to overcome the calamity is by doing teshuvah.

People who attach natural explanations to what happened and explain the war or catastrophe with political or scientific considerations are cruel. They are engaging in cruelty because by doing so, they are denying Hashem’s involvement and preventing people from recognizing the real cause of what took place and doing teshuvah.

Surely none of us want to be defined by the Rambam as a cruel person, especially knowing that when the Rambam writes something in his sefer, he is not merely offering an opinion, but is articulating halacha and describing the true nature of the world according to the Torah.

In Shaar Cheshbon Hanefesh, the Chovos Halevavos teaches that someone who puts his faith in Hashem is never left alone. Hashem opens the gates of understanding, reveals hidden truths of His wisdom, watches over him with a guiding eye, and never abandons him to the limits of his own strength.

The Gemara in Maseches Avodah Zarah (2b) states that when Moshiach comes, the nations of the world will protest the punishment they are about to receive for their treatment of the Jews. They will claim that everything they did was to benefit the Jews and their service of Hashem and the Torah.

The Gemara says that Poras, Persia, which is today’s modern state of Iran, will proclaim that everything they did was to help the Jews. “We built many bridges, conquered many towns, and waged war,” they will say, “to enable the Jews to learn Torah.”

We can understand the grounds for claiming that they built bridges and other infrastructure to enable the study of Torah, but how does waging war help the Jews learn Torah?

Perhaps this can be understood to mean that they will claim that they waged wars and threatened the Jews in order to scare them into doing teshuvah and to engage in Torah study.

When the ruler of Iran repeatedly proclaims, publicly, to the entire world, that he intends to destroy Israel, we can believe him that he intends to do so. As he was engaged in his feverish race to arm the country with the nuclear weapons and the ballistic missiles needed to carry out his bloody intentions, the world stood by and pretended to work to curtail his ambitions.

And then, in a matter of hours, Israel cleared the way to fly freely over the country, bombing hundreds of targets and eliminating military leaders, nuclear scientists and the nuclear infrastructure.

In just a few days, a nation seventy-five times smaller and vastly outnumbered dismantled decades of Iranian buildup. Despite being a strong and proud country, Iran was unable to stop the repeated Israeli attacks or respond in the way it had planned and desired.

Though Israel took out many of its rocket launchers, Iran answered with fire, shooting hundreds of their deadliest missiles. But Hashem answered louder. Almost all were stopped. The death toll was minimal. Every life is precious and every death is mourned, but comparing what happened to what could have happened cannot be explained by any or all the experts in the world. This only happens because Hashem is on the side of Eretz Yisroel. This only happens because Hashem protects the Jewish people when they are deserving. This only happens because the entire scenario was planned by Him to bring us the promised redemption.

This only happens because Hashem watches over His people.

This is not strategy. This is not luck. This is not political genius.

This is Hashgocha Protis. This is the unfolding of a Divine plan. This is the sound of the approaching geulah.

So let us not waste the moment.

Let us raise our voices in passionate tefillah that Hashem will continue to spare us from the evil intents of the anshei Poras, Yishmoel and Edom.

Let us strengthen our commitment to Torah, to chesed, to tzedakah, and to the refining of our middos.

Let us build zechuyos with every word of Torah learned, every tefillah properly recited, every act of kindness done.

And let us not stop storming the heavens until we merit to see the day we have been waiting for with the coming of Moshiach.

May it happen very soon.

Echoes of Holiness

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Once again, I was granted the zechus to spend Shavuos in Eretz Yisroel, a land where holiness is not remembered but felt, where the air itself hums with ancient echoes.

When coming to Yerushalayim, you are coming to a place beyond space, to a rhythm beyond time.

Yerushalayim on any Yom Tov is a jewel alight with kedusha, but on Shavuos, it shimmers with something deeper. As the night unfolds, thousands flow like rivers through her narrow streets, drawn to the botei medrash by an inner fire, eyes wide, hearts yearning, feet quick with purpose.

By dawn, those same throngs converge upon the Kosel, seeking the moment of vosikin, as the first rays of sun bathe the wall from where the Shechinah never departed. At the moment the sun rises over Yerushalayim, the tens of thousands of people davening in dozens of minyonim of various dialects and nuschaos suddenly fall silent. There is a hush, a collective breath, as everyone begins to recite the silent Shemoneh Esrei at the same moment. And then the songs of chazoras hashatz return, followed by gorgeous renditions of Hallel, Rus, Akdadmos and Musaf. As minyonim finish, their mispalelim begin streaming home to celebrate the rest of Yom Tov.

To watch it and be part of it is like participating in a celestial symphony.

Another deep zechus was to daven at Kever Rochel, the resting place of Rochel Imeinu, the mother who still cries for her children. The Vilna Gaon writes that the Shechinah resides there, and as you stand at the kever, you feel it—not as a thought, but as a presence. A gentle weight. A listening stillness.

Although Chazal say that when we sit to learn Torah the Shechinah joins us, and there are definitely many other occasions and times when the Shechinah is present, in golus the Shechinah can feel distant, like a beloved voice heard through static. But in Eretz Yisroel, that voice grows clear, close and insistent.

At the Kosel, tefillah becomes something else entirely. You slow down. You breathe the words. You don’t just say them, you live them. With each syllable, your heart whispers, “Hashem is listening. I am seen.”

Even in the simplest shuls, modest buildings tucked into quiet alleyways, you see it: People davening with focus, dignity, and an inner calm. No one rushing in with coffee in hand. No tallis slung casually over the shoulder. Davening isn’t an obligation. It’s an encounter. A sacred audience.

Life there is different. Simpler. Not easier, but purer in a way. The apartments are small, the budgets tight. But the simcha, the sense of purpose, fills the space like sunlight through narrow windows. Bnei Torah live with less, but they live with more.

And in that spirit of simplicity and greatness intertwined, one of the most moving moments of my journey was visiting the soon-to-open museum in the humble home of the Chazon Ish.

To call it fascinating would be an understatement. Using modern tools, the museum gently draws you into the past. The screen flickers to life, and suddenly you’re in the shtetel of Kosovo. You hear the cluck of chickens, the creak of old wood, the voices in the bais medrash where the young Chazon Ish once learned. And then, as if aboard a dream, you find yourself seated in a train rattling through the Lithuanian countryside, heading toward history.

The life and experiences of the Chazon Ish comes alive vividly before you. You are then led into the Chazon Ish’s one-room apartment where he learned and lived in Bnei Brak. There is a period bed, the same size as the one used by the great gaon. There is a nearby table where he studied until he had no more strength, where he wrote the chiddushei Torah that are studied today by lomdim around the world, where he wrote teshuvos that changed behaviors, and where he wrote letters of chizuk and hadrocha that inspire and guide until today.

There is no comparable experience in our world. To be able to stand in a room of such historical significance, to be able to look around and see exactly what it looked like when the tzaddik lived, and to be able to stand there and contemplate what transpired in that room and the amount of Torah and kedusha that was generated there is an overwhelming experience. At least it was for me.

After being given the opportunity to stand there and let your mind wander, you are brought into the adjoining room where the Chazon Ish davened along with his minyan. You can stand in the very spot where the Chazon Ish stood and offered his tefillos to Hakadosh Boruch Hu. I said a few kappitlach of Tehillim, hoping that my words might follow the same path, riding on the tefillos paved by that great talmid chochom and tzaddik.

Adjacent to the shul is the small mikvah the Chazon Ish used, which is available for use for those who wish.

Bnei Brak today is a city of Torah in full bloom, a bustling metropolis of avodah and purpose. Yet, at its core, it remains rooted in that one-room apartment at Rechov Chazon Ish 37. From those walls, waves of Torah and kedusha spread outward, generation upon generation. What a sacred undertaking it is to preserve that beginning, to recreate the space where light once entered the world.

I was privileged to be guided through that space by Rav Reuven Korlansky, who graciously hosted me and brought me to meet his mechutan, the great gaon and rosh yeshiva Rav Isamar Garbuz. His brilliance shimmered through his words, as did his warmth.

Bnei Brak is close to me. Three generations of my relatives lay buried there: my grandfather, Rav Leizer Levin; his son-in-law, Rav Chaim Dov Keller; his son, Rav Avrohom Chaim Levin; and his grandson, Rav Shmuel Yehudah Levin.

At their kevorim, I davened with the weight of gratitude and longing, asking for brocha and hatzlocha in their merit. I felt their presence, quiet and strong, their voices and memories bright and sharp in my heart.

As I walk the streets there memories come back to me from the days I would go there to see Maran Rav Shach, the Steipler, and the city’s other gedolim throughout the years.

During our stay, I also visited my rabbeim, Rav Avrohom Yehoshua Soloveitchik and Rav Dovid Cohen, who provided chizuk and direction for our troubling and trying times. They were effusive and warm as they encouraged me to maintain emunah and bitachon, as we recognize that everything that is happening is being arranged by Hakadosh Boruch Hu. There is no better way to maintain equilibrium in a time when nothing that is happening seems to make any sense.

During our stay, we traveled from one end of the country to the other, from Naharia in the north, where the anteroom of Rav Dovid Abuchatzeira was filled with people waiting for a brocha and for clarity, to the Gaza border in the south, which was thankfully very quiet.

It was nice to be in places I had never previously visited, such as the supposed kever of Yehudah in Yahud, Castel, Moshav Chemed, and other off-the-beaten-track locales. I wandered through towns I’d never known, their silence steeped in stories. But no matter how far we traveled, no place stirred my soul like Yerushalayim.

Yerushalayim doesn’t just contain kedusha. It breathes it. Each stone tells a story, each alley whispering tefillos of centuries. She takes my breath away each time I visit all over again.

From being at the Kosel, to visiting and speaking with some of the iconic residents and characters, to walking the streets of Geulah where we stayed, there is a definite chein, a holiness wrapped in beauty.

When you meet the city’s rabbonim, tzaddikim, nistorim, storekeepers, tradesmen, people on the street and even the shleppers and the taxi drivers, there’s a sparkle in their eye, a touch of knowing. When you speak with them, you hear it: chochmah dipped in bitachon, humor laced with humility.

I love standing anonymously in the street, blending into the stones of the walls, and studying people as they scurry about doing their pre-Yom Tov errands. A purposeful rush takes over them, but they maintain their dignity and sense of kedusha as they engage in preparations for the various mitzvos hayom. Carrying bags of different sizes and colors, they patiently look for the best of everything with which to celebrate Shabbos and Yom Tov, as they traverse Rechov Malchei Yisroel and its little offshoots, patronizing the various shops.

Here, we hop into and out of our cars, storing our bags and stuff in the trunk, as we dart in and out of megastores filling our wagons. And there is nothing wrong with that. But it doesn’t come close to the beauty and color of carrying those bags of Shabbos and Yom Tov goodies along the holy streets and bumping into legions of holy, interesting and colorful people engaging in the very same activity.

The scene is a living painting, rich in color, alive with heart.

The Kosel is a place where you can study people’s faces as they encounter kedusha, some more serious about it than others. Faces are turned heavenward, eyes closed in pleading or thanksgiving. Some daven slowly, tears tracing silent paths. Others stand quietly, fingers grazing the stones, unsure of what to say, but knowing that something holy is happening.

There were the regulars, ehrliche Yidden who speak to Hashem with deep familiarity, and the visitors, with temporary yarmulkas and curious eyes, drawn by something they can’t identify.

Many came with children, holding little hands, whispering words of awe. You could see it on their faces: This was not just tourism. It was an encounter.

You hoped it would linger with them.

There were special personal moments as well, such as when my dear friend, Rav Natan Feldman of Tzuf Seforim Publications, presented me with the latest sefer authored by my son, Rav Yitzchok Elchonon, hot off the press. Celebrating my mother-in-law’s 90^th birthday was a great highlight, as was visiting my 90-year-old uncle, Rav Berel Wein, and being presented with his latest book on anti-Semitism, which came out this week. Visiting incognito the Shuvu school in Petach Tikva where the Bais Medrash is named for my father and seeing the learning going on there and the children’s angelic faces, was a special nachas.

My special friend, the tzaddik of Rechovot, Rav Zvi Shvartz, honored us with a visit on the second day of Yom Tov, along with some members of his family. He regaled us with divrei Torah and stories of how he began his kiruv revolution in that city, starting with a small shiur that he established while in kollel there, an effort that has led to thousands of baalei teshuvah over the decades. He is indomitable, exhibiting no signs of slowing down in his holy work of teaching and spreading Torah. His fire burns bright.

There were other visitors too. One came bearing flowers, but they weren’t for us.

A deliveryman arrived, flushed and sweating. The beautiful bouquet was meant for someone else, ordered from Brooklyn, but the address was wrong and the phone was off. He’d been searching door to door across buildings for over an hour. As Yom Tov approached, the flowers were wilting, and so was he.

We invited him in, gave him water, and offered him a seat.

He didn’t seem frum, at first glance. But when he began sharing divrei Torah, I noticed a small yarmulka resting at the back of his head. “Hashem sent me here,” he said, “so I’d have someone to share Torah with.”

There he stood, flowers in one hand, Torah on his lips, radiant with bitachon. He wasn’t worried about finding the correct recipient. Hashem would guide him to the right address. Repeating divrei Torah about the rapidly approaching Yom Tov of Shavuos was more important. Eventually, we found the intended recipient. He continued on, but the moment lingered.

Only in Yerushalayim.

Another encounter came in a taxi. Our driver had no yarmulka, but he possessed a mouth full of maamorei Chazal.

We asked him, gently, “If you know so much Torah, why no kippah?”

He answered, “I don’t want to be a chillul Hashem. If someone cuts me off and I yell...I’d rather that they think I’m a chiloni.”

And sure enough, when another driver—an Arab woman—tried to squeeze ahead, he leapt out of the car and began yelling. “Achshav atem meivinim?” he said, turning back to us. “Now you understand?”

I wanted to give him a shmuess about how a Yid is supposed to act in all situations, but I didn’t want to get into an argument with him.

He explained that he is religious, that his children are as well, and that his grandchildren—who all have names from Tanach—go to a mamlachti dati (religious public) school. His parents live in Nachlaot in Yerushalayim and are from Kurdistan. They follow the masoret of Yehudei Kurdistan and even speak Aramaic to each other and to their children. That’s right. They speak the language of the Gemara still today. Fascinating stuff.

There are more stories I could share, like my meeting with Uri Maklev of Degel HaTorah, a devoted servant of the klal and a shliach of the gedolim. But for now, I’ll close with what happened just as I left.

Sitting on the plane, the sadness of departure filling my chest, a man approached me.

“Are you Rabbi Lipschutz?” he asked in Hebrew.

I nodded. I didn’t ask how he knew.

He introduced himself as Avraham Elkaim. “I have a gift for you,” he said. His suitcase had been slightly overweight and airport security made him remove a book. It was a biography of his grandfather, Rav Nissim Toledano. He had  more copies in his other suitcase.

As an ehrliche Yid and baal bitachon, rather than complain and argue, he placed the book in his carry-on and said to himself, “Hashem wants this to end up with someone on the plane.”

He looked around, and when he saw me, he knew.

He handed me an autographed copy of this beautiful new sefer on his grandfather. The biography goes through his life, with each facet portrayed through another of the 48 kinyonim of Torah. I began leafing through it and found it to be a compelling work on a great man. Look for it in the bookstores. It should be there soon.

Receiving the book was emblematic of the way things happen in Eretz Yisroel, and since it happened on an El Al flight, legally we were still in the land where you see and feel the hand of Hashem all the time. As the posuk states, “Eretz asher…tomid einei Hashem Elokecha bah.”

And so, in that moment, I felt it again: the gentle nudge of Hashgocha, the quiet wink from Above.

Ashrei mi shezoche, fortunate are those who live in that land, who walk its streets and breathe its air. Fortunate are those who visit, who taste its sanctity. And fortunate are those who long for it, who whisper in their hearts: Ribono Shel Olam, bring us home.

May we all be reunited there soon b’vias goel tzedek bimeheirah b’yomeinu. Amein.

Crowned

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Shavuos may be the shortest of the Shalosh Regolim but its impact is immeasurable. For on this one day (or two, in chutz la’aretz), we remember and relive the special occasion which defines us: the giving of the Torah. This is the day for which the world was created, when Heaven touched Earth and a nation found its purpose. While our footsteps once led to the Beis Hamikdosh, our hearts still ascend year after year toward that same sacred encounter at Har Sinai.

“Kofah aleihem har kegigis.” Chazel tell us that Hakadosh Boruch Hu, so to speak, held Har Sinai over the Jewish people and told them that either they accept upon themselves to study and observe the Torah or He would drop the mountain upon them and they would be buried alive.

Many explanations are given for why Hashem forced them to accept the Torah under the penalty of death. One of the many is that the world was created for Torah and for the Bnei Yisroel to accept it. If they would not agree to study and be governed by the laws of the Torah, the world would cease to have a purpose and would be returned to its original inert state.

The path was laid by the avos, Avrohom, Yitzchok and Yaakov, and passed on to the shevotim and to their children. In Mitzrayim, their offspring grew exponentially, but sank to levels of depravity that endangered their ability to continue their glorious heritage.

Before they reached the point of no return, Hashem redeemed them, miraculously removing them from Mitzrayim. They went to the Yam Suf to escape the clutches of decadence and immorality and began the trek back to the hallowed land of their forefathers.

After 49 days of preparation, they were ready to fulfill their destiny and accept the Torah. They proclaimed the immortal words, “Naaseh venishma,” accepting upon themselves the Torah’s obligations and, by doing so, setting the world on its proper trajectory.

At that moment, Klal Yisroel proclaimed that although they were mortals fashioned of flesh and blood, they were willing to live on a higher and loftier plane, with the Torah as their guide.

Malochim objected to the notion of giving the Torah to humans, but after the Bnei Yisroel demonstrated their worthiness, the malochim placed crowns on their heads (Shabbos 88a). There are different interpretations as to what the crowns consisted of, what their significance was, and what they accomplished. Most likely, they did not resemble the adorable golden paper crowns that children wear to celebrate Shavuos and the receipt of their siddurim and Chumoshim, but those crowns keep the message alive and remind us of the heights we reached and can still attain even in our day.

Shavous contains the power and potency evident on the day the Torah was first given to us. Every year, on Chag Mattan Toraseinu, the gift that was first given at Sinai is regifted to those who have undertaken the proper preparations and made themselves worthy. Even in our day, when tumah is all around, it is possible to live a life of kedusha.

The further a person is removed from Torah, the more he is affected by tumah, silliness and ideas that weaken his inherent goodness.

The Meshech Chochmah at the end of Parshas Yisro writes that until Matan Torah, people were only able to serve Hashem through ruchniyus. When the Torah was given, acts that were previously purely gashmiyus and physical were invested with kedusha. With the acceptance of the Torah, people were empowered to sanctify themselves and all human needs and instincts.

That is why Hashem told Moshe Rabbeinu at the s’neh, the burning bush, “Shal ne’alecha mei’al raglecha - Remove your shoes from your feet.” He was saying, “Remove the vehicles for your gashmiyusdike physical lives as you approach Me.”

After Matan Torah, Hashem told the Jewish people, “V’anshei kodesh tihiyun li—And you shall be holy people” (Shemos 22:30). It’s a powerful instruction that reveals something essential about our identity and mission. Hashem did not ask us to become malochim. The Torah does not expect us to transcend our human nature. Instead, it teaches us to live fully human lives, while elevating ourselves with holiness.

We are meant to be people: working, building, raising families, maintaining relationships, facing challenges, and experiencing growth. But as we do so, we are expected to live as anshei kodesh, human beings who sanctify our lives through the Torah.

This concept lies at the heart of Shavuos. On this Yom Tov, we celebrate not only the giving of the Torah, but the idea that Hashem gave it to us flawed, growing, learning human beings. The Torah wasn’t given in the heavens, but here on earth. It wasn’t meant only for the spiritually elite, but for everyone: the busy parent, the student, the worker, the neighbor, the friend. Torah is a guide for life in this world, for people who strive to elevate the physical through the spiritual.

In fact, the Gemara points out something unique about Shavuos. While there is a machlokes regarding how other Yomim Tovim should be divided between spiritual pursuits (laShem) and physical enjoyment (lochem), on Shavuos, “hakol modim deba’inan nami lochem—all agree that there must be an element of lochem, of physical enjoyment.” This is not a contradiction to holiness, but a celebration of it. On Shavuos, we demonstrate that even our physical desires can be influenced, refined, and uplifted by the Torah.

Chazal (Pesikta Zutrasa, Va’eschanon) teach us: “Chayov adam liros es atzmo ke’ilu mekabel Torah miSinai,” every person is obligated to see themselves as if they are receiving the Torah today. We are all familiar with this directive regarding Yetzias Mitzrayim. In fact, a central theme of the leil haSeder is to perceive ourselves as if we were let out of Mitzrayim. On Shavuos, we need to view ourselves as if we are receiving the Torah.

Imagine if today were the day you stood at the foot of Har Sinai.

Imagine hearing the voice of Hashem, the thunder, the lightning, and the indescribable awe as the Aseres Hadibros echoed through the universe. Imagine feeling your neshomah and entire being rise, connecting to something far greater than yourself. Imagine walking through the wilderness, day after day, step by step, growing closer to your purpose, until you are finally standing at that mountain and hearing the truth that would change everything.

Now imagine your life without Torah. No mitzvos. No davening. No Shabbos or Yom Tov. No purpose, no anchor. Just an endless cycle of busyness and noise - meals, meetings, work, posts, clips, chats. A life filled with motion, but lacking meaning.

Then imagine discovering Torah for the first time  - today. Imagine being invited to learn Hashem’s word, to feel its depth, to live by its values. Imagine being given the opportunity to lead a life that has eternal meaning, clarity, and light. How grateful would you feel? How inspired would you be?

That’s what Shavuos invites us to experience. Not as a memory, but as a living moment.

Hayom hazeh nihiyeisa le’am. This is the day. Today, we are once again receiving the Torah. Today, we recommit ourselves to living as anshei kodesh.

Yes, we face distractions. Yes, it’s hard to concentrate on tefillah, to carve out time for learning, to push back against a world that often seems to pull us in every direction. But that’s the point. Torah wasn’t given to malochim. It was given to us. To human beings with struggles and limitations, but with souls capable of greatness.

Holiness is not a contradiction to humanity. It’s our potential.

Let us embrace it. Let us live it. Let us become, once again and always, anshei kodesh.

Hayom hazeh! Today and every day. Despite the degeneration of the world, despite the struggles we experience with every tefillah and the challenge of concentrating fully when we learn, despite the many forces competing for our attention and time, we have a new Kabbolas HaTorah.

Human shortcomings are but a hindrance that we can overcome.

There was once a time, not so long ago, when reverence for Torah was instinctive, deeply rooted in the hearts of even the simplest Jews. It wasn’t taught through slogans or campaigns. It was lived. It pulsed through communities, shaping their values, their choices, and their relationships with those who carried the torch of Torah.

In the town of Volozhin, this reverence was visible and tangible. Before each new zeman began, townspeople would gather at the train station, awaiting the arrival of the yeshiva bochurim. They didn’t come to observe. They came to serve. Competing for the chance to pull wagons loaded with the talmidim and their luggage, they saw honor in serving those who toiled in Torah.

When the famed Volozhin Yeshiva made a siyum upon completing a masechta, it wasn’t only the students who celebrated. The entire town felt the joy. Local tradesmen would make their way to the yeshiva to take part in the simcha. But they didn’t come as honored guests. They came as waiters.

At the celebratory meal, it was these upstanding members of the community who moved from table to table, serving food to the bnei hayeshiva. And when the celebration ended, they stayed behind to clean up. This wasn’t done begrudgingly. It was done with pride, with love, and with a sense of profound privilege. They may not have known every daf, but they knew what it meant to honor Torah. They set aside time to learn what they could and cherished those who spent their days and nights learning.

Today, we hear stories like this and we smile. There’s a sweetness to them, a charm that feels almost quaint. But more than that, they are windows into a world that understood something deep and eternal. A world that recognized the holiness of Torah and the people who bear its burden. A world that viewed service not as subservience, but as sacred opportunity.

Stories such as this one are not just nostalgic vignettes. They are a call to remember who we are and what we value. They are gentle reminders of a world that was, and of a world that we can, and should, strive to recreate.

Shavuos is a time to refocus on what Torah means to us and on how blessed we are to be able to spend time by a Gemara or Chumash or Shulchan Aruch, surrounded by more talmidei chachomim and yeshiva bochurim than there have been since the days of Sura and Pumpedisa.

We open our arms wide and accept the Torah just as those who came before us have done for thousands of years. We cherish its words, raising our children and helping guide them to see the honey under each letter.

It is who we are and what we are about. Our lives revolve around it. It is Torah.

With our feet dragging through the dust of life, temptations, parnossah and health challenges, we persist in walking with our eyes on Him and on His Torah, knowing that it is meant for us, to give us the tools to climb higher.

Modim anachnu loch shesamta chelkeinu m’yoshvei bais hamedrash. Thank You, Master of the universe, for allowing us to have a connection with Torah, to have tasted the truest joy of all.

We are the most blessed people, living in a blessed time. Let us show Hashem, our families and ourselves that we appreciate all that we have been given to be able to realize our purpose in this world.

Let us demonstrate that we are worthy of all that we have and use what Hashem has given us to enhance our own lives and those of our families and those around us. Let us show through our actions that we strive to become holier and better.

On Shavuos and throughout the year, we are called to draw closer to the Torah by learning more, by learning deeper and understanding better. To engage with Torah in a way that stirs our hearts and touches our souls, bringing us back to that sacred moment at Har Sinai, where everything began. To perform mitzvos with love, happiness and precision.

When the Bnei Yisroel gathered to receive the Torah and proclaimed, “Naaseh v’nishma,” 600,000 malochim descended from heaven and placed two crowns upon each person, one for naaseh and one for nishma. These were not just symbols of acceptance. They were testaments to our greatness, potential, and deep-rooted connection to Hashem.

But then came the sin of the Eigel. In its aftermath, 120,000 angels of destruction came and removed the crowns. It appeared as though the radiance was lost, the holiness withdrawn, the glory stripped away.

Rav Dovid Cohen, rosh yeshivas Chevron, offers a deeply comforting insight in his Beiurei Chochmah (p. 75), quoting the teachings of the Leshem. The malochim, he explains, only removed the crowns that adorned our physical bodies, our guf and chomer. The spiritual crowns, the ones embedded in our neshamos, our inner essence, were never taken. They remain, even now, resting within our souls, quietly shining.

We may not fully understand the depth of this mystical teaching, but one thing is clear: the kedusha inside us was never erased. Despite mistakes, despite pain, despite all we’ve been through, we are still crowned. We are still holy. That spark remains intact.

And so, we must stop saying that we’re not capable of reaching those heights. We must stop believing that holiness is out of reach, reserved for others but not for us. It is not true. We were at Har Sinai. Our neshamos were at Har Sinai. We carry that memory in our spiritual DNA. We carry those crowns within us.

Especially now, after all the challenges we’ve endured, it is time to rise. To remember who we are. To believe in what we still hold inside.

Let us show that we are more than resilient, that we are sacred. We are strong, we are good, and, yes, we are holy. We are an am kadosh comprised of anoshim kedoshim, looking to improve, to rise, and to fulfill our mandates of being anshei kodesh.

Our Identity

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

President Donald Trump returned from a highly publicized and triumphant visit to three Arab capitals, bringing with him promises of over $1 trillion in investments in the United States and elated by the royal treatment he received. It was, by many accounts, one of the most financially successful diplomatic trips ever undertaken by a U.S. president. Yet, unsurprisingly, his opponents offered little acknowledgment or credit.

Critics were quick to seize on certain aspects of the trip, notably his cordial remarks about the Qatari leader, widely recognized as a major supporter of Hamas. Others pointed to perceived diplomatic nuances throughout the visit that they deemed troubling for Israel. Despite these concerns, Trump reiterated his commitment to strengthening the Abraham Accords, which solidified peace agreements between Israel and four leading Arab nations.

In a notable meeting with a former Syrian militant turned political leader, Trump expressed his desire for Syria to pursue peace with Israel. Repeatedly in interviews, he emphasized his administration’s collaboration with Israel and voiced his admiration for Prime Minister Netanyahu. Still, detractors continued to raise alarms, suggesting that the president was drifting from his previously staunch pro-Israel stance.

Though there is no indication that Trump’s support for Israel has diminished, the controversy serves as a reminder of the ancient truth: “Lev melochim vesorim b’Yad Hashem—the hearts of kings and rulers are in the hands of Hashem.” Speculation and commentary cannot alter what will determine the future of this critical alliance.

Meanwhile, Israel continues its protracted campaign in Gaza, now nearing the two-year mark, with the stated goal of eradicating Hamas. Though much of the group’s leadership has been eliminated and significant caches of weapons and infrastructure have been destroyed, Hamas continues to fight on. A renewed and intensified Israeli military operation was launched last week, echoing earlier vows that this time they will not relent until Hamas is dismantled and all hostages are returned.

Israel’s military campaign in Lebanon succeeded in weakening Hezbollah and contributed to the eventual fall of Syrian dictator Bashar al-Assad. Yet threats persist. In Yemen, the Houthi rebels, despite sustained losses, still possess the capability to launch ballistic missiles toward Israel. One recent missile aimed at an Israeli airport miraculously missed its target by mere feet, narrowly averting what could have been a major catastrophe.

Terrorism within Israel itself, though underreported internationally, continues. Just last week, an expectant mother en route to the hospital was murdered in a terror attack. Her newborn fights for his life.

Across the globe, Israel faces a chorus of condemnation. Many nations issue hollow diplomatic reprimands while offering tacit support for Hamas and its allies. Meanwhile, thousands continue to march through the streets of Western cities, shouting anti-Semitic slogans, fueling a climate of hostility and moral inversion.

We look from afar and wonder what we can do. What can we do to help those who fear for their safety? What can we do to make the world a better place and bring about positive change?

The answers are not found in the conventional or social media, nor in interpersonal conversations that take place between well-intentioned people.

The answers are in this week’s parsha of Bechukosai. In it, Hakadosh Boruch Hu simply lays out for us how we can live happy, successful, and blessed lives, and how peace can reign in the Land of Israel.

The posuk states quite simply, “Im bechukosai teileichu v’es mitzvosai tishmeru va’asisem osam.” If you will follow the chukim and mitzvos of the Torah, you will be blessed.

You wonder what you can do to bring peace to Israel. You wonder what you can do to help alleviate the fear and privation that people there face daily. The Torah in this week’s parsha promises that if you follow Hashem’s commandments, “vishavtem lovetach b’artzechem… venosati shalom ba’aretz ushechavtem v’ein macharid… v’cherev lo saavor b’artzechem - you will live safely in your land, there will be peace in the land, and you will sleep with no fear.”

Everything that is happening today is clearly prescribed in this parsha. The history of the Jewish people is all in Parshas Bechukosai. When we were good, life was good. And when the people sinned and strayed, then what the pesukim say will happen (26:14–44) happened.

Most everyone is familiar with the words of Rashi on the opening posuk of the parsha. His words are so often repeated in shmuessen and drashos that they have become marching orders to generations of bnei Torah of all ages. But it’s always good to review them.

The posuk states, “Im bechukosai teileichu v’es mitzvosai tishmeru va’asisem osam.” The Toras Kohanim states on the words “Im bechukosai teileichu” that “Melameid sheHakadosh Boruch Hu misaveh sheyihiyu Yisroel ameilim baTorah…” From here we see that Hashem desires for the Jewish people to be ameil in Torah.

How does the Toras Kohanim derive this lesson from the words “Im bechukosai teileichu,” which appear to indicate that Hashem wants us to follow His chukim? The posuk says nothing about studying Torah.

Apparently, this question was troubling Rashi, leading him to quote a different message from the Toras Kohanim: I would think that the words “Im bechukosai teileichu” refer to their literal meaning—namely, observing the commandments known as chukim. But if that is the case, why does the Torah then repeat itself and say “v’es mitzvosai tishmeru,” referring once again to mitzvah observance?

Therefore, he writes those immortal words that “Im bechukosai teileichu” doesn’t only mean that we will be blessed if we follow the chukim. Rather, they contain another message: “shetihiyu ameilim baTorah,” that you shall toil in Torah. Those who toil in Torah will be blessed.

When we study Torah, we are connecting with Hashem. We study His word, and it affects us. It affects our neshamos and the way we conduct ourselves. We become better people and more attached to our purpose in life, strengthening our very being.

Shetihiyu ameilim baTorah is the hymn of our yeshivos and kollelim, islands of intense limud haTorah that produce exalted people.

The person who sits at his shtender struggling to grasp a Tosafos, lost in a world inhabited by him and Hashem, is who we aim to emulate.

And it is thanks to him, and thousands more like him, that the world exists.

I recently came across a story that portrays the potency of Torah and the zechus of those who study and support it.

There was a kollel yungerman who learned b’hasmodah rabbah for many years and developed into an outstanding talmid chochom. His wife took care of all the needs of the family so that he was able to learn, unencumbered by anything that would interrupt his limud haTorah.

She felt unwell and visited a doctor, who sent her for a series of tests. A short time later, her husband received an urgent call from the doctor. “I need you to come to my office immediately, without your wife,” the doctor said.

When he arrived at the office, the doctor told him that his wife was seriously ill and inoperable. The illness had progressed and was in its late stages. Treatments would not be effective. He said that they could operate and give her treatments, but that would not save her life. “She has, at maximum, two to three months left to live, so I suggest that instead of her suffering from the pain and hardship of the treatments, which will not help her anyway, she should be left alone to die peacefully.”

Shaken by the prognosis, the husband and wife were not about to give up. They sent the results of the tests to other doctors and medical institutions, but nobody gave them any hope, and nobody wanted to engage in the losing proposition of treating her.

The yungerman went to see his rebbi, the renowned rosh yeshiva, Rav Shmuel Berenbaum, to discuss the matter with him. After sobbing together with his talmid, Rav Shmuel told him that he would give him a brocha and Hashem would help.

The husband implored his rebbi once more. He spoke of his wife, not just as a partner, but as the quiet soul behind every line of Torah he had learned. She carried every burden so he need not carry any, tending to his and the family’s needs with love and devotion, asking for nothing, so he could learn without pause and without worry.

Rav Shmuel Berenbaum thought for a while and then said, “If this is truly the case, you have no need to worry. Hashem will help you and everything will turn out fine.”

The husband returned home and told his wife what the rosh yeshiva said, and they breathed a little easier.

Some time passed, and then came an unexpected call from a doctor representing one of the hospitals they had reached out to. He told them that the hospital was preparing to test an experimental treatment, something never tried before, and something that, after what followed, would never be tried again. He said that the chances of the treatment being effective were very slim and that it was likely to kill some of the patients they tried it on, so they were reaching out to terminal patients who had no other medical hope of survival.

The trial included twenty patients. Eighteen of them died during the trial. Two of the patients survived the treatments. One of them was the yungerman’s wife.

For weeks following the treatments, she was in a bad state, barely hanging on to life. But after three months, she began improving, until she totally recovered. She has remained healthy since then.

When the yungerman returned to his rebbi to share with him the news of his wife’s recovery, Rav Shmuel said to him, “Now I will tell you what I did when you left after telling me about your wife and her prognosis.

“When you went out, I locked the door and opened the Gemara that sat on the table before me. On the page that I opened to, the Gemara cited Abaye and Rava. I looked at the Gemara and said to them, ‘Since I was 16–17 years old, I have been studying your Torah and toiling over your teachings. I never asked you for anything and will never again, but now I will ask you for something. There is this person who is areingeton in studying your Torah day and night, and has been for decades. All of his learning is the zechus of his wife, who is totally devoted to enabling him to learn day and night. I am asking you, therefore, to do what you can to help her.’”

Torah is not merely a study. It is a bond between Heaven and earth, a force that bends the natural order when held with purity and devotion.

Just as the posuk promises, we see the power of ameilus baTorah, of those who sacrifice for it quietly behind the scenes. The pages of the Gemara absorb not just the words of the one who learns, but the whispered prayers, the missed meals, and the silent burdens borne by those who support that learning.

A wife gave everything, allowing her husband to be a yungerman who learns without pause. Her merit was so pure, so intertwined with the holiness of Torah, that even when medicine gave up, the zechus of Torah pulled through for her.

We learn of a rebbi, a giant in Torah, whose tears spoke louder than science, whose plea was not made to anyone else but to Abaye and Rava, the eternal voices of Torah.

And we learn that the Torah responds. It remembers those who toil in it, who sacrifice for it, and who stand by those who do.

We learn that while the world may see test results, percentages, and probabilities, Hashem sees mesirus nefesh and hears heartfelt tefillos.

And we learn that when a Jew opens a Gemara with tears in his eyes and faith in his heart, he is never alone. He is connected to Hashem and to the Tannoim and Amoraim in a deeper way than he can imagine. The world was created for Yisroel and for Torah, and when we learn Torah, we are fulfilling our mission and sustaining the world.

It is tragic that the leaders and the majority of the people in Israel do not appreciate this fact.

At a time when Israel desperately needs zechuyos to persevere in its existential battle against the forces of evil, the left’s deep-seated hostility toward Torah blinds them to the lessons of Jewish history. Just a few generations ago, ehrliche Yidden gave everything they had to observe mitzvos and study Torah, despite hardship and persecution. Now, their descendants, driven by leftist, secularist ideology, are waging a campaign against the very foundation of that endurance: Torah and those who dedicate their lives to it.

This is happening even as the country faces more enemies than it can manage and the European nations are lining up to recognize a Palestinian state.

One might expect introspection at such a moment. One might expect leaders to pause and ask: Why is the world turning against us? Why are there steady reports that the American administration is drifting away from us? Why do rockets still fall and soldiers still die? Why does internal terror persist? Where can we turn for a solution?

The answer is not hidden. It is written clearly in this week’s parsha. Study Torah. Support those who do. And Hashem will support you, fighting your physical and diplomatic battles on your behalf.

The message is open to all, waiting to be embraced.

A core part of being a religious, believing Jew is recognizing the centrality of Torah.

For as long as Jews have existed, Torah has been our identity, our mission, and our lifeblood. Those who strayed from it became detached from the Jewish people, their spiritual legacy fading with time. It is tragic that the leadership of the Jewish state has drifted so far from its roots that it now seeks to marginalize Torah by imprisoning, impoverishing, and otherwise punishing those who renounce materialism to devote themselves fully to its study.

And yet, despite their best efforts, yeshivos and kollelim are thriving. Organizations like Lev L’Achim, Shuvu, Oorah, and others are bringing more Jews back to Torah than ever before.

The answer lies before us. We must strengthen our own learning, introduce Torah to others, and cling ever more tightly to the eternal source of our nation’s strength. We must do more to support Torah and its causes.

In doing so, we will merit the brachos promised to those who uphold Torah, we will help bring peace to our land, and we will hasten the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our day.

A Lag Ba’omer Reflection: The Majesty Within

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Lag Ba’omer is one of those days on the Jewish calendar that the people themselves have turned into a day of great celebration. The Shulchan Aruch doesn’t mention anything special about the day. However, the Rama (493:2) writes, “In these countries, the custom is to take haircuts [on Lag Ba’omer], increase a little simcha, and we don’t recite Tachanun.”

Today, in Eretz Yisroel, the day is treated like a minor Yom Tov, and it is increasingly observed that way in our communities as well.

What is it about this day that has inspired Klal Yisroel to elevate it with such joy and celebration?

We know that it marks the end of the gezeirah that brought tragedy to the talmidim of Rabi Akiva. We also know that it is the day Rabi Shimon bar Yochai emerged from the cave where he received the full breadth of Torah, including Toras Hanistar, and the day he passed away. But clearly, there must be a deeper message, one that stirs the soul and energizes the nation.

We each carry within us the potential for greatness, and, tragically, the capacity to fall. The Torah captures this duality in the word odom.

The Shelah Hakadosh explains that this term is used for man because it encapsulates the full range of human potential. Odom is linked both to adameh, “I shall emulate,” referencing our mission to mirror the Divine, and adamah, the dust of the earth, the lowest substance.

Within this name lies both a calling and a caution: to ascend or to descend, to rise toward the heavens or to sink into the dust. Our life’s mission is to seize the daily opportunities that allow us to ascend to spiritual heights.

And yet, odom is written in the singular, because the journey is profoundly personal. Each person is born alone - odom shenivra yechidi - endowed with the power to shape their own world, to reach magnificent peaks or descend into deep valleys. Each soul is gifted by the Creator with potential, endowed with willpower, intellect, and energy. Every individual decides how - and whether - to use those gifts.

When Rav Aharon Leib Shteinman first visited the United States, he was relatively unknown to much of the American Torah world. Yet, during that visit, while addressing a massive crowd of Jewish children, he shared a seemingly simple Medrash that carries profound meaning.

The Yalkut Shimoni (Shmuel I, 1:78) recounts that before Shmuel Hanovi was born, a bas kol resounded across the world, proclaiming that a tzaddik named Shmuel would soon be born. In response, Jewish mothers everywhere named their sons Shmuel, each hoping that their child would be the one destined for greatness.

Eventually, as Shmuel’s noble conduct and brilliance became apparent, it was clear to all that he was the child to whom the bas kol had referred.

Rav Shteinman highlighted the depth of hope contained in that moment, the yearning of every Jewish parent that their child might grow to bring light and redemption to Am Yisroel.

Later that evening, after a long and exhausting day of meetings, public appearances, and shiurim, Rav Shteinman returned to his host’s home in Brooklyn. He had barely sat down when he was told that a young Russian immigrant boy had come to the house and was turned away. The child was sitting outside on the porch, weeping.

Rav Shteinman immediately asked for the boy to be brought in.

Through an interpreter, the child explained that he had recently arrived in New York from Russia and was attending a yeshiva for immigrant boys. He had come in the hope of receiving a brocha from the visiting gadol.

With the tenacity and inner resilience so characteristic of Russian Jews - traits that helped them cling to Yiddishkeit under brutal oppression - the boy persisted in his goal and ultimately received the brocha he had come for.

Rav Shteinman smiled warmly and bentched the boy, visibly moved by his determination. In that simple interaction, he showed everyone present that every Jew counts. Every child holds a spark of greatness and great potential.

We never write off a Yid. We never give up on anyone. No soul is too small, no background too broken. Every neshomah is a universe.

This eternal truth is at the heart of Lag Ba’omer, a day when joy radiates throughout the Jewish world. Why such exuberance on the day of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai’s passing? Because Rabi Shimon revealed the royalty hidden within every Jewish soul.

A powerful lesson from the Pnei Menachem, the Gerrer Rebbe, drives this point home.

A group of askonim once visited the Pnei Menachem, who was then rosh yeshiva in the Gerrer Yeshiva. They were trying to arrange a shidduch for a bochur with a difficult family background. They presented a suggestion; a girl they thought might be suitable. The rebbe listened patiently and then responded.

“I will share with you a principle that I’ve tried to live by. If you’re going to give someone an eitzah, if you’re going to offer advice, it must be something you yourself would accept. It is not proper to recommend a course of action that you wouldn’t follow. I understand that your situations are different and that you are more fortunate, but still, would any one of you consider this shidduch for your own sons?”

The room fell silent.

“If that’s the case,” the rebbe said, “then you cannot suggest it for this bochur either.”

Sensing their disappointment - they had clearly worked hard to help - the rebbe added gently, “I cannot endorse your idea, but I will give a brocha that he finds his true zivug soon and that your efforts bear fruit.”

As they turned to leave, the rebbe stopped them.

“Remember this always: Kol Yisroel bnei melochim heim. Every Yid is royalty. You can only truly help others if you see their dignity.”

Who taught us this vision?

Rabi Shimon bar Yochai.

It was Rabi Shimon (Shabbos 67 et al) who said, “Kol Yisroel bnei melochim heim,” and ruled halacha lemaaseh that every Jew may wear royal garments on Shabbos without transgressing the prohibition of hotza’ah, because every Yid is a ben melech. He perceived the splendor and majesty within every neshomah, recognizing the inherent greatness in each individual.

Where did Rabi Shimon learn this perspective? From his rebbi, Rabi Akiva.

Rabi Akiva began his journey as an unassuming shepherd, who no one expected would achieve anything extraordinary. But deep within him was royalty. He, too, was a ben melech. Through him, the Jewish people merited Rabi Shimon bar Yochai and received the legacy of Torah Sheba’al Peh.

On Lag Ba’omer, Jews across the globe light bonfires and sing songs in praise of Rabi Shimon and his rebbi, Rabi Akiva. They dance in circles, singing again and again the words, “Omar Rabi Akiva, ashreichem Yisroel - Praised be the Bnei Yisroel.” Thousands stream to the kever of Rabi Shimon in Meron, and those who are lucky are able to read the words - his words - painted atop the entrance, “Ki lo sishochach mipi zaro – The Torah will never be forgotten from the lips of Hashem’s children,” reflecting the greatness of Hashem, His Torah and His people.

When the shevotim sold Yosef and returned to their father, the posuk says, “Vayeired Yehudah.” Rashi quotes Chazal that the shevotim removed Yehudah from his position of leadership. Meforshim explain that they no longer treated him as a king.

My rebbi, Rav Elya Svei, asked that there is a principle of “ein melech belo am.” A king only maintains his position when he rules over a nation or an empire. Obviously, at that time, Yehudah didn’t rule over anyone, for Yaakov Avinu was alive and he was the leader of the family, so in what sense had Yehudah been treated as a king?

Rav Elya explained that the shevotim saw in Yehudah the traits and potential for malchus, so they accorded him the respect of a king. But when they returned home after selling Yosef and saw the pain that their act caused their father, they no longer viewed Yehudah as worthy of being a melech.

Yehudah wasn’t yet a king in title, but the brothers recognized his inner capacity for malchus. When he fell short of that, they withdrew their respect.

Rabi Akiva was the one who taught that “Ve’ahavta lerei’acha kamocha,” loving your fellow Jew, is not just a mitzvah, but the very foundation of the Torah. How could it be that Rabi Akiva’s 24,000 talmidim didn’t follow that prime teaching of their rebbi?

Rav Elya explained that the talmidim of Rabi Akiva respected one another as they were, but not for who they could become. They failed to honor each other’s potential. That, Rav Elya said, was their fatal mistake.

The Torah demands more.

And because of that failure, the world became dark until Rabi Akiva began again with five new students. From them came to us all of Torah Sheba’al Peh. Through them, Torah lived on and was not forgotten.

On Lag Ba’omer, we don’t just celebrate an end to tragedy. We celebrate a second chance, a future reclaimed, for on that day Rabi Akiva began learning with his new talmidim.

And so, we dance around flames that flicker with memory and hope. We sing the words of Rabi Shimon and his rebbi, Rabi Akiva: Ashreichem Yisroel! Fortunate are you, the nation beloved by Hashem.

Rabi Akiva taught, “Ve’ahavta lerei’acha kamocha.” Genuine Torah growth begins not with intellect alone, but with the heart - the ability to see in others the same dignity and care we wish for ourselves. This commandment speaks to the very middos that define a Jew and rests on a deeper truth: that every Jewish soul is inherently precious, deserving of honor.

The Zohar tells us that Rabi Shimon bar Yochai looked upon his talmidim and saw radiant joy on their faces. In their unity and sincere love they held for one another, he perceived something greater than happiness. “Because of your joy and brotherhood,” he said, “you have been found worthy of receiving the hidden secrets of the Torah.”

The day after Lag Ba’omer, we will listen to the krias haTorah of Parshas Emor and hear the song of Shabbos and the moadim. We will feel the freedom of Pesach, the glory of Shavuos, the awe of Rosh Hashanah, and the purity of Yom Kippur, followed by the joy of Sukkos. It’s a reminder of how each of us can lift ourselves above the mundane and enter the realm of melochim once again. The Jewish year is framed by such opportunities - the moadim, the meeting places between man and his Creator - which catapult us into a different dimension.

We contemplate how the Ribbono Shel Olam looked at a broken, weary nation and saw splendor and beauty. We learn from this the significance of each individual, the greatness of all of Klal Yisroel as a whole, and the inherent greatness that each one of us possesses. We remember that we are a mamleches kohanim, that we are bnei melochim, and that it is incumbent upon us to live that way and to treat others that way.

We recall that on Pesach, Hashem redeemed us not for who we were, but for who we could become. Before Torah, before refinement, He lifted us with love.

And we look toward Shavuos, when Hashem gave us the greatest gift.

Between Pesach and Shavuos, we walk the shoreline between redemption and revelation, framed by fire. And in the heart of it all, we find Lag Ba’omer, a day that reminds us that we are all bnei melochim, children of the King.

The teachings of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai enrich our spiritual side and our neshamos, and energize us physically and mentally as we endure the golus. He reminds us of who we are and what we are about. The Torah he transmitted elevates us exponentially, transforming us into a deeper, more refined people as we immerse ourselves in his sacred words.

As the world mocks and vilifies us, as concerns are raised about the security of Eretz Yisroel, as its neighbors negotiate deals and agreements that may have negative impacts, studying the Torah that Rabi Akiva and Rabi Shimon bequeathed to us raises us above all and reminds us not to let those who scorn us define us.

We are not burdens. We are not broken. We are a mamleches kohanim, a nation of priests and princes.

Rabi Akiva was never broken by tragedies that would have shattered others. Rabi Shimon risked his life to study with his son as Rome hunted him. They persevered, armed with emunah and bitachon, and Hashem sustained them and enabled them to grow and flourish and remain beacons of light and faith to their generation and all those who followed.

As the firelight reflects in our eyes, let us remember that “Na’aseh adam ne’emar ba’avurecha” - the Divine decision to create man was justified because of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai. Yet, it is also justified in each of us, when we choose to see through the lens of Torah. In doing so, we are blessed with the clarity, strength, and determination to persevere, grow, and flourish until the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our days.