The Enduring Promise

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

I had the zechus to play a role in the rescue of Sholom Mordechai Rubashkin from prison. Since his release, we speak at least once a week, exchanging thoughts on life, emunah, and the goings-on. Last week, we were speaking about bitachon - the faith and trust in Hashem that carried him through unimaginable darkness - and how he now goes around sharing his story and spreading the message that bitachon saves, using his experiences as examples.

Lesser men would have broken under the weight of what he endured. But he never gave up. He never stopped believing that Hashem was watching, guiding, and ultimately preparing a path to redemption. Even in the depths of his nisayon, when he sat alone in a prison cell, separated from his family, stripped of his business, vilified in the public eye, he never questioned whether Hashem had abandoned him. He didn’t understand why it was happening, but he knew that it was all part of a Divine plan.

And now, years later, as his story continues to uplift and inspire, he sees clearly what was once hidden: that only because of what he experienced, he is now uniquely equipped to speak with authenticity about emunah and bitachon. Through his messages, many have found strength in their own trials and challenges.

As we emerge from three weeks of mourning, of reflecting on the churban and the long, bitter golus, we are reminded of a miraculous truth: Am Yisroel chai. We are still here. Still strong. Still growing. Through centuries of persecution, Hashem has never abandoned us. Behind the veil of suffering, He has been gently guiding us, comforting us, and preparing us for redemption.

Without reflecting on what we’ve endured, we wouldn’t appreciate the miracle of our endurance. We wouldn’t recognize the beauty of our survival or the Divine orchestration that has sustained us as a nation.

“Nachamu nachamu ami - Be comforted, be comforted, My people.” Look how far we’ve come. Where are the empires that sought to destroy us? Where are those who chased us through the centuries? They are gone and we remain.

Soon, we will see the fulfillment of the tefillah, “Ohr chodosh al Tzion to’ir - A new light will shine upon Tzion.” In that light, all the pain will make sense. We will see that everything we experienced was, in truth, for the best.

Rav Yaakov Neiman, rosh yeshiva of Yeshivas Petach Tikvah, would recount a parable in the name of the Alter of Kelm that I am adapting for our day and age. A man travels to a wedding. The flight is long, the seat is cramped, and the food is barely edible. But he doesn’t mind. He is going to a joyous celebration, and he knows that soon he will be dancing with friends, enjoying a lavish feast, and sharing in the simcha of a new Jewish home.

This, said the Alter, is the journey of life. Someone who understands where he is headed can endure the discomforts along the way. His heart remains calm, even amid turbulence, for he trusts the journey and the One guiding it.

We are not the pilots. We don’t see the flight map. But we are passengers who trust the Captain.

Those who stay behind may avoid the inconvenience and the fear, but they also miss the joy, the music, and the connection. They miss the wedding.

Life is full of turbulence. Some days lift us high, while others weigh us down. But that ebb and flow is the rhythm of human existence. Feeling joy and sadness, and hope and despair, is the sign of a soul that is alive and engaged.

So too with our people. We’ve known moments of greatness and seasons of grief. We’ve seen days when the world seemed to embrace us and times when it turned against us with fury, when we were chased through the streets, hunted, beaten, and massacred.

We’ve faced sorrow, loneliness, and confusion. We’ve wandered and wept. But we’ve also built and blossomed. Against all odds, we have survived. More than that, we have thrived.

We may not understand the why, but we know the Who. Through it all, Hashem has never left us. He walks beside us in the darkness, even when we cannot see Him, carrying us forward toward the light.

As we emerge from the mourning of Tisha B’Av and enter the comforting embrace of the Shivah Denechemta, we’re reminded that our survival is not a historical coincidence. It is the fulfillment of a Divine promise. A promise that sustains us, even when the world is cold.

There is much we do not understand. But when we reflect on the churban and all that we’ve endured throughout the ages, we begin to see a pattern. We begin to feel the presence of a Father who never left His children. He is with us, comforting, strengthening, and guiding.

And so, we stand today, strong, proud, and hopeful, taking comfort in those eternal words: Nachamu nachamu ami - Be comforted, be comforted, My people. You are not forgotten. You are not alone.

The journey may be difficult, the challenges that test our spirit are tough, but the destination is glorious. And soon, very soon, the light will shine and we will understand that it was all good.

Think about it. Last week was Shabbos Chazon and the signs of mourning were everywhere.

This week is Shabbos Nachamu and you can feel the happy energy. Celebration is everywhere.

What has changed between last week and this one? Last week, we mourned the absence of a Bais Hamikdosh. This week, it still lies in ruins. We are sorely lacking so much. Why are we suddenly happy?

Yeshayahu, the novi of nechomah, speaks to us seven weeks in a row. This week, we read the first of those seven haftoros. What is nechomah anyway? What does the word mean?

The posuk in Bereishis (6:6) states after Adam and Chava sinned, “Vayinochem Hashem,” indicating that Hashem, kevayachol, “regretted” what He had done. Rashi explains that the word nechomah also refers to stepping back, reevaluating a situation and shifting perspective.

Apparently, this is a facet of comfort, the general use of the word nechomah. When we are able to look back and view the entire picture, everything comes into focus. We see the rough spots, but we also see the sun shining above the clouds.

Once again, we approach Shabbos Nachamu in a challenging place. The nations of the world are aligned against us as we attempt to live decent, honorable, peaceful lives. As we are forced to fight against evil, they chant for our deaths.

They hate us.

Throughout our history, the Jewish people have endured persistent hatred, sometimes masked by civility and other times expressed openly and violently. Today, we’re witnessing a troubling resurgence of that age-old animosity, now dressed in the language of politics and human rights.

What was once whispered is now said aloud. Public figures, celebrities, and influencers use their platforms to spread dangerous rhetoric. While they may claim to speak on behalf of the oppressed poor Palestinians, it’s often clear that their outrage is selective. They don’t really care about the Palestinians. They hate Jews and their true target is the Jew.

In Europe, Jews once again feel unsafe. This is not just history repeating itself. It’s history warning us not to forget. On a continent soaked with Jewish blood, it is in vogue to bash Jews, demonstrate against them, and create an atmosphere reminiscent of the darkest days of Jewry that many believed we would never return to.

In universities across the U.S. and beyond, those who stand with Israel find themselves silenced or shunned. Anti-Zionism is indistinguishable from anti-Semitism, as Jews are condemned for defending their lives and their homeland. The Left battles Israel at every opportunity, offering nonsensical, hypocritical excuses for their anti-Semitism.

Hatred adapts. The slogans may change, but the essence remains the same - an irrational resentment that stretches all the way back to Yishmoel’s hatred for Yitzchok and to Eisov’s jealousy of Yaakov. Whether disguised as medieval blood libels or modern accusations of genocide, the thread of hate continues, unbroken but unrefined.

And to top it all off, Western governments are falling over each other to proclaim that they will recognize a nonexistent Palestinian state. The hypocrisy of their pronouncements doesn’t bother them as they reward Hamas for what they did on October 7^th. While Hamas refuses to release hostages or stop the bloodshed, global leaders still point the finger at Israel, absolving murderers while condemning those who defend themselves.

And yet, through it all, Am Yisroel chai. We stand tall, resilient, and unwavering, not because the world has treated us kindly, but because Hashem has carried us through every storm.

We wonder when justice will triumph, when care and concern about the good and the kind will be paramount. We wonder when problems will be dealt with honestly and when the world will recognize us for what we truly are.

We recognize that we suffer persecution and discrimination because we are Jews. The world’s hatred of the Jew is not derived from their concern about human rights violations or political decisions.

Since we gathered at Har Sinai to accept the Torah, we have been cast apart from other nations, despised, reviled, stomped on and murdered. Miraculously, we endure.

Where do we find answers to our questions?

A young man boarded a bus to Bayit Vegan and saw one of its most distinguished residents, Rav Moshe Shapiro, sitting there. He approached the rov and asked, “How are we to understand what happened during World War II?”

Rav Moshe looked at him and nodded. “Shalom,” he said, effectively ending the conversation. He didn’t say another word.

Later, someone asked why he hadn’t answered the questioner. Rav Moshe explained, “He knows where I live in Bayit Vegan, and he knows how much time he had until the bus reached my stop. He asked a question whose answer is much longer and more complex than the few minutes of the bus ride, so he clearly didn’t want the real answer but a conversation, and I don’t have time for small talk.”

To understand the events of Jewish history, we must peer beyond the curtain, studying and scrutinizing the happenings of our people and the pesukim of the Torah. Small talk and pedestrian thoughts will not lead to understanding what has befallen our people throughout the millennia.

But to be deserving of Hashem’s protection and aid in battle, we have to be committed to Torah and those who are loyal to it. Israel was just miraculously saved from Iran, beating them in a twelve-day war. Ever since the dastardly October 7^th attacks, people have been recognizing the Hand of Hashem and seeking out a path to Torah observance.

However, while paying lip service to Hashem’s assistance, the majority of the country and many of its leaders repay the kindness with a renewed war on those who eschew careers and resources as they dedicate their lives to the study of Torah. As they upped the pressure and propaganda, France, England, Canada and others announced that they will recognize a Palestine state, a move that makes no sense on any level.

We read in this week’s parsha how Hashem will lead us into the Promised Land, where we will find homes filled with good. It is an attainable goal, assured to us by He who is “ne’eman leshaleim s’char.” If we follow the word of Hashem as laid out in the parsha, we will merit salvation, prosperity and peace.

We merit nechomah when we recognize that we are kachomer beyad hayotzeir, wholly dependent upon Hashem’s mercy for our very existence.

Parshas Vo’eschanon and the Aseres Hadibros are always lained on Shabbos Nachamu to remind us that our nechomah arrives when we follow the Aseres Hadibros and the Torah. It is through fidelity to Torah and Hashem’s word that we merit living peacefully in Eretz Yisroel and everywhere else.

A young bochur davened in the bais medrash of the Bluzhever Rebbe. On Chanukah, the mispallelim would file by the rebbe after hadlokas neiros to receive his brachos. The boy asked his friend to take a picture of him as the rebbe spoke to him.

The Bluzhever Rebbe noticed. When the bochur reached him, the rebbe took the boy’s hand and held it. “Bochur’l,” he said, “you probably want a picture with me because I am a relic of a vanished world. And while it’s important to remember what was, it is also important that you understand that within you and your generation lies the ability to guarantee its survival.”

We study what was because it gives us a charge for the future and a path forward.

That is why we rejoice now, comforted and secure in what we have learned over the past three weeks. Over this time, we got in touch with our source, origin and destiny, and recognize what we must do to own the future. We even draw comfort from the fact that we mourned and that we have never forgotten, despite so many years and so much suffering.

After studying the messages of Eicha and Chazon, we study the words of Nachamu. We understand where we were, where we are, and how we got here. We are thus able to experience consolation.

We studied that the Bais Hamikdosh were destroyed because of internal strife, machlokes and sinas chinom. And so, we resolve to love instead of hate, to build instead of destroy, and to bring peace into our lives, our communities, and our nation.

From the ashes of mourning, we emerge more aware, more connected, and more determined. We carry the memories of the past not as burdens, but as fuel - fuel to light the way forward. We cry not only out of pain, but also out of hope. Because the fact that we are still crying after all these years is itself a nechomah. It means we remember. It means we care. It means we still believe.

Now, as the voice of the novi echoes through the haftorah - “Nachamu nachamu ami” - we feel it in our bones. Comfort is not the absence of pain, but the awareness of purpose. We have not only survived, we have grown. We have not only mourned, we have dreamed. And we are getting closer.

Closer to geulah, closer to clarity, closer to the day when all pain will be healed and all questions will be answered.

May this Shabbos Nachamu be not only a moment of comfort, but the beginning of everlasting joy. May we soon hear the sound of the shofar shel Moshiach, dancing not just at the wedding of another Jewish home, but at the rebuilding of the eternal home, the Bais Hamikdosh.

 

Reflecting and Connecting

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

And yet, it often doesn’t work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But we should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hashem, for how much longer?

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

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

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

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

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

The Road to Redemption

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Courage to Rise

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May this be the year it happens.

May this be the year we finally come home.

Fake News, Fake Peace, Fake Home

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has many students and followers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summer for the Soul

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

The lion answered plainly, “Because I can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fire of Torah that brings life to everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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