Vacation

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Readers of this publication are familiar with Rabbi Moshe Garfinkel, a fine, dedicated cheder rebbi and yorei Shomayim who regularly writes letters to the editor. Last night, he sent a letter to the editor, not the usual type, but one addressed personally to the editor. He had an issue he needed addressed.

He wrote that he was troubled that there would be no paper the week of Shabbos Parshas Re’eh, Rosh Chodesh Elul. He feared that people would miss out on the Elul chizuk usually offered here and asked that we speak about Elul this week of Shabbos Mevorchim Chodesh Elul.

The letter was written so meaningfully and nicely that I can’t reject the request, and I hope those of you in the country, or out of the country, on vacation will not mind the intrusion.

Rav Eliezer Turk of Yeshivas Kaminetz in Yerushalayim repeated a story that he heard from the Kaminetzer mashgiach, Rav Moshe Aharon Stern, who heard it from Rav Shmuel Auerbach. He told that when he was growing up in Yerushalayim, there was tremendous poverty. Many people suffered from hunger. They had literally nothing to eat. Many survived on bread and water the entire week.

A group of bochurim felt that they could not bear it any longer and decided that they were going to leave Yerushalayim and move to America. They saw little opportunity to escape the poverty of Yerushalayim if they would remain there. The options available for them to advance financially were very few, if any. They had enough. They decided that they would move together to America, the land of opportunity with unlimited potential. They would go there and figure it out and go on to live happy, fulfilling lives.

Their families were aghast. “Going to the treifeneh medinah? How could you even entertain such an idea? If you go live there, you will become goyim. You will get sucked in and forget about your heritage. You’ll forget about Yiddishkeit and Yerushalayim.”

The families begged them not to go. But they wouldn’t listen. They promised that they wouldn’t forsake Torah and mitzvos and set off to have better lives.

Very quickly, the families’ worst fears were realized. Bit by bit, they dropped mitzvos, until they gave it all up and went as far as marrying out of the faith. They were gone.

All except one. Out of the entire group, one bochur remained religious. He was able to resist all the temptations and didn’t forsake any drop of his heritage. His devotion to Torah observance remained as strong as it was when he arrived at Ellis Island.

After ten years, he returned home to Yerushalayim and told everyone his story. Unlike the others who forgot about Shabbos and tefillin, through all his time there, he said that he did not miss a day of putting on tefillin. At first, people didn’t believe him, but as they continued talking to him and watching his conduct, they became convinced that he was telling the truth. In due time, he was redd shidduchim, got married, and raised a fine generation of ehrliche children.

Somebody asked him how he was able to remain true to the Yerushalayimer ideals while off in the American melting pot, which swallowed so many good people in those days. As his friends veered off, what held him?

He said that it was a word he heard from a great man prior to his departure that kept him going through the years of his American exile. “Listen to the story,” he said.

“It was Shabbos Mevorchim Chodesh Elul, the last Shabbos before we left for America. I davened Shacharis at the second minyan at the Perushim shul in Givat Shaul in Yerushalayim. All the years, when I was there on Shabbos Mevorchim Chodesh Elul, when the chazzan would call out, ‘Rosh Chodesh Elul yihiyeh b’yom ploni,’ immediately you could hear the sound of people crying from all sides of the shul. In the women’s section, they would faint upon hearing the announcement. But that year, for some reason, there was apathy in the room. When the chazzan called out ‘Elul,’ there was no visible change on anyone’s faces.

“Nobody cried. Nobody fainted. Davening continued as usual.

“The Yerushalmi tzaddik, Rav Zerach Braverman, talmid of Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin, was also davening at that minyan. When he saw the apathetic manner with which Elul was greeted, he became very upset. As soon as Mussaf was over, he approached the bimah. He banged on it and screamed out from the depths of his soul, ‘Tayereh Yidden, my beloved fellow Jews, what happened here?! Elul was just announced. Shabbos Mevorchim Elul. Elul is about to spread its wings over us and we are indifferent? How can this be?

“‘ELUL!’

“Upon hearing the impassioned call from the depths of the heart of one of the special people of Yerushalayim, a fear spread over the people and they began to cry.

“So you’re asking me what kept me going all those lonely years? It was that word Elul, shouted by Rav Zerach. That ‘Elul’ reverberated in my ears all those years. Not just during Elul, but also during Kislev and Nissan and Sivon and any time I had a nisayon. The call of ‘Elul’ gave me the strength to withstand the temptation.”

Here we are, in the middle of the summer. Everything is going so smoothly and calmly. We are camped out in our summer homes and bungalows, floating down a river, or sitting around the pool, vacationing in a gorgeous or rustic resort.

And then, out of nowhere, we will be in shul Shabbos morning, engrossed in our thoughts, and we will hear the chazzan intone, “Elul!” We will say to ourselves: Elul already? Elul now, smack in the middle of the summer? No, it can’t be. Not now. Come back later.

A person catches a cold in the middle of the winter, gets fever, and has to go into bed. People ask him how he got sick. “How did you get that cold?” they wonder. The person in bed gives different answers. “It was cold yesterday and I went out without a coat.” Or he says that he left the window open in his room overnight and he woke up frozen. And other such reasons.

“But the real reason he got the cold,” Rav Chaim Shmulevitz would say, “is because he was cold during Elul. Had he warmed up during Elul, had he been upgevaremt during Elul, he wouldn’t have gotten a cold during Kislev.”

It’s our choice: Warm up for Elul and save ourselves aggravation later or remain chilled when the chazzan calls out “Chodesh Elul.”

The Tur (Hilchos Rosh Hashanah 581) states that Chazal instituted the custom of blowing the shofar during the month of Elul so that people will be alerted to perform teshuvah, as the posuk (Amos 3:6) states, “Im yitoka shofar be’ir ve’am lo yecherodu? Can a shofar sound in a city and the nation will not tremble?” This question demonstrates that the sound of the shofar causes people to be fearful.

However, this posuk, which is widely repeated and mentioned as the source of the custom to blow shofar during Elul, does not refer at all to teshuvah or Rosh Hashanah. The posuk mentions the shofar and its ability to evoke fear as a tool of war. When the shofar sounds, people panic, as they know that something serious is afoot.

We can say that the reason we blow shofar during Elul is to announce that change is in the air.

The Sefer Akeidah (Shaar 97) writes that the body declines over the winter and comes back to life along with the rest of nature during the spring and summer. When it is cold and snowy, the hibernation factor kicks in and man is driven indoors, unwilling and unable to navigate the roads of life amidst the cold and ice.

When spring and summer arrive, people awaken. Their moods improve and they spend more time outdoors, exercising and engaging in activities that increase physical pleasure. As the flowers and trees bloom and the weather warms, man’s physical strength and temptations increase.

The Yomim Noraim are for the neshomah what summer is for the guf, says the Akeidah. It’s the time when our souls come alive. Elul is spring, the month during which the neshomah begins preparing for the growth of Tishrei. A sense of anticipation, optimism and hope pervade the air. Much like a family spends happy hours in the spring planning their summer vacation, Jews map out their spiritual course during Elul for the coming season of din.

The Alter of Slabodka once returned to his yeshiva at the beginning of Elul after having spent the previous weeks in a resort town regaining his strength. The talmidim of the yeshiva, the repository of future gedolim, ventured forth to greet their mentor. Upon receiving them, the Alter delivered a short shmuess.

“We arrive from the physical vacation to a spiritual vacation. We come from the summer months spent in forests and fields and begin the months of the yemei haratzon, which we spend in the yeshiva. What distinguishes this vacation from that one?” he asked. “Just as vacation is necessary to strengthen the body, so is vacation necessary to strengthen the soul - even more so, for everyone is considered sick and in need of a vacation in regard to the neshomah. No one is healthy enough not to need this treatment…”

Apparently, the mussar giant was echoing the teaching of the Sefer Akeidah. A person’s body requires downtime, a time when it doesn’t feel pulled in every direction, thrust onto a merry-go-round of pressure. The soul does as well. Elul is the time when we concentrate on pleasing the soul.

So, after all is said and done, Elul doesn’t really intrude on our vacations. When Elul comes, we are still on vacation, just a different type, with different, more wholesome and vital forms of enjoyment. We get out of the pool, hop off the bicycle, put away the weights, the elliptical, and the StairMaster, and change into Elul mode. It restores life and vitality. By the time Tishrei comes, we will be fully charged and ready to go physically and spiritually.

The Power To Triumph

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Tisha B’Av is a day of sadness for the Jewish people, the day of mourning for the many tragedies that befell our people throughout the year and during the days of Av. This year, two more tragedies were added to the list, for it was on Tisha B’Av that levayos were held for two outstanding treasures of Klal Yisroel who passed away after suffering from disease for many years.

Rav Uri Mandelbaum of Philadelphia and Rav Yaakov Rajchenbach of Chicago were well known for their sterling character, generosity, and devotion to Torah and its causes.

They came from similar roots.

Rav Uri was born in Hamburg, Germany, fleeing with his family, arriving in Detroit in 1941. As all Jewish children in Detroit, he attended public school and Hebrew school, for there was no yeshiva in town. In 1945, Bais Yehudah opened as a half-day yeshiva, where the boys would learn part of the day in yeshiva and the other part in public school.

The yeshiva was headed by Rav Leib Bakst and Rav Simcha Wasserman. When Rav Uri was 17, Rav Bakst suggested that he go to Lakewood for a summer zeman. He enjoyed being in the yeshiva and returned for the following summer zeman as well. The third year, he went for the summer zeman and remained for Elul zeman, too. The rosh yeshiva, Rav Aharon Kotler, observed the potential in the young out-of-towner and saw to it that he was convinced to stay in Lakewood.

Rav Mandelbaum went to the Philadelphia Yeshiva as a talmid, was later chosen to serve as a rebbi, eventually rising to the position of menahel. His devotion to the yeshiva, of which he was part almost since its founding, was all encompassing. There was nothing that he would not do for the yeshiva.

Much the same was his dedication to the yeshiva’s bochurim, who knew that they could always count on him for whatever they needed. His home was always open to all, and many sought comfort and solace there. He and his wife provided a home away from home for the bochurim, providing them with chizuk and whatever else it was that they needed.

He never seemed to tire, and many wondered when and if he ever slept. His life revolved around Torah and chesed and raising his wonderful family. There was little time for rest.

When he became ill and began losing his physical abilities, he worked as hard as he could to continue his life of Torah and chesed. He would spend an entire week producing a vort on the parsha to distribute to his children, painstakingly utilizing his ebbing strength to type one letter at a time.

By doing so, he imparted to his family not only precious Torah thoughts, but also a portrayal of the way a Yid lives. Despite terrible nisyonos of a debilitating disease, he demonstrated with much strength and determination the tachlis of life, never complaining, accepting all with considerable emunah, and setting an example for his beautiful family and all who knew him.

In a phenomenal tribute, his children published a collection of those divrei Torah in a two-volume sefer called Meorei Ho’eish.

Rav Yankel Rajchenbach was well known for his exceptional character and devotion to Torah and its many causes. Nothing came easy for him. His life was full of challenges, which he overcame with his emunah, bitachon, inbred optimism, and determination.

Born in Lodz, Poland to refugees from the war, he was ill as a baby and the family was then forced to remain in Poland for ten years when the Communists assumed power. When they were finally allowed to leave ten years later, the family first moved to Israel before settling in Omaha, Nebraska, where Mrs. Rajchenbach had a brother.

Little Yankel was enrolled in the local public school, where he remained until his bar mitzvah. It was then that his father told his mother that they had to send him away to yeshiva in New York so that he would remain a frum Yid. For two years, he learned in a New York yeshiva, traveling back and forth via a grueling 34-hour bus ride.

When Rav Shmuel Faivelson and Rav Naftoli Hirschfeld opened a yeshiva in St. Louis, much closer to Omaha, he went there, a fateful move that would change and impact him for the rest of his life.

Imagine what that boy went through and what life must have been like for him, steady nisyonos molding his character and personality.

After years of aliyah in St. Louis and then in Chicago, he married his eizer kenegdo, who stood by his side since then, supporting and assisting him in all he did to benefit Klal Yisroel and raising an exemplary family. He then went to Eretz Yisroel, where he learned in kollel with mesirus nefesh, until fate returned them to Chicago and Reb Yankel needed to work to feed his family.

His life was well lived, a steady incline of growth and maasim tovim, first on a local scale and then nationally and internationally. When he became ill several years ago, he faced his nisayon with steeled determination rooted in emunah and bitachon, fighting on and continuing as much as he could with all that he did.

It was a Motzoei Yom Kippur in the Mirrer Yeshiva. Far from the familiar embrace of the hallowed building in Mir D’Lita, the yeshiva was in its temporary home in Shanghai. The holiest day of the year had just ended. A cloud of intensity and emotion had filled the large Bais Aharon shul, headquarters of hundreds of Mirrer refugees. The echoes of the day’s powerful prayers for themselves and their loved ones still in danger were reverberating off its walls.

The talmidei chachomim of the yeshiva had left to break their fast, removing their hats and jackets after a long, oppressively hot day. A lone figure remained in the cavernous room. The mythical mashgiach, Rav Chatzkel Levenstein, lingered in the bais medrash, walking back and forth, talking to himself in soft and mournful tones. His countenance, always luminous, was angelic at that exalted moment.

The mashgiach had not sat down throughout the long day. His Shemoneh Esrei of Shacharis continued until krias haTorah, when he was called for the aliyah of levi. His Mussaf continued until the start of Mincha, and again he remained standing in his Shemonah Esrei until just before Ne’ilah. At that time, he offered words of chizuk to the talmidim, ushering forth a last wave of energy before Yom Kippur concluded.

Now, with everyone gone, the mashgiach stood in the empty bais medrash, speaking gently. “Sometimes a person is able to raise himself and achieve great heights,” the mashgiach said, “but what happens is that after a while at that exalted level, he returns to being the same person he was. Why do we lose the roishem, the impression, of teshuvah?” The mashgiach left the question hanging and then concluded, “A person must work his entire life to be omeid b’nisayon, acquiring and internalizing the means to do battle and succeed.”

The goal of life is to be able to constantly work on elevating ourselves. The objective is to continuously seek to improve ourselves. Rav Uri and Reb Yankel both excelled in doing that from when they were youngsters until and including their final illnesses.

Life is an ongoing process, and without constant growth, it is futile. In life, the nisyonos keep coming. There is seemingly no rest from them. Our task is to continue rising, reaching the next level, firming up, and moving up to the next rung.

And that is what Rav Uri and Reb Yankel spent their lives doing, setting examples for all to follow.

The Alter of Kelm once said to his talmidim before Rosh Hashanah, “What is the worst gezeirah possible for us in the new year? That it will be exactly the same as the year before.”

When Golias was wreaking havoc amongst the ranks of Klal Yisroel’s army, a young shepherd showed up at the front to bring provisions to his brother. His name was Dovid. When he arrived at the encampment, he was disturbed by the power of that rasha and the reaction of Klal Yisroel. “Ki mi haPlishti ha’arel hazeh? Who does this impure Plishti think he is that he might mock and taunt the ranks of Elokim Chaim?” (Shmuel I 17:28).

Dovid’s older brother was upset at him, thinking that he had come to the front merely to watch “the action.” Dovid’s fighting words were passed on to Shaul Hamelech, and the young shepherd was brought before the king.

Upon meeting him, Shaul was convinced that the physically unintimidating Dovid could never battle the towering Golias. Dovid reassured him. “Your servant was a shepherd…and a lion and a bear came and lifted one of the sheep from the flock. And I went after and killed it and saved the sheep from its mouth… Both the lion and the bear your servant smote - and this Plishti will be as one of them…” (Shmuel I 17:34-36).

On the posuk that tells of the sheep, a seh, there is a mesorah of kri and ksiv - that the word is written as zeh, meaning this, but read as seh, meaning sheep.

The Vilna Gaon explains the interchanging of the word seh with zeh. Dovid Hamelech had a miracle happen to him. He was able to kill a wild beast with his bare hands. He understood that if Hashem allowed this to happen, there was a deeper purpose to what had transpired and a lesson for him for life. Dovid was determined to remember the incident so that when further nisyonos arose, he would recall that he had the power to triumph. He wanted to maintain the level.

The Gaon quotes a Medrash which states that Dovid cut off some wool from the sheep whose life he saved and made himself a cloak from that wool.

With this, the Gaon explains the depth of the mesorah in reading the posuk. “Venasa seh meiha’eider” is rendered as “Venasa zeh meiha’eider,” because Dovid would wear that cloak and point to it and say, “Zeh! This is from the wool of the sheep that was attacked by a lion, which I killed with my bare hands. Hashem allowed me to experience this miracle and I want to make sure I will remember it.”

Greatness is not something we are born with, but is achieved through a lifetime of work and much effort. Great people make it look easy, but it never is.

Rav Uri Mandelbaum never stopped doing and working on behalf of the yeshiva and its bochurim, as long as he was able to. His devotion and hisbatlus to the roshei yeshiva and other members of the hanhala knew no limits. He lived for others. He didn’t just learn mussar. He lived mussar.

Though he went on to earn prosperity and stature, Rav Yaakov Rajchenbach never forgot his humble beginnings, the years of poverty. He never looked down at anyone and was unfailingly kind and welcoming to all. He remembered when he couldn’t afford to buy chicken for Shabbos, and throughout all of his many achievements, he never grew haughty or self-important.

He never forgot his years in Omaha and the mesirus nefesh on the part of his parents and himself that he remain “ah frummeh Yid.” He worked b’lev v’nefesh for chinuch yaldei Yisroel, doing what he could to commit generations of Jews to Torah through day school and yeshiva education.

He never forgot what his rebbi did for him and remained close to him all the years he was able to. He worked to establish kollelim in Chicago and elsewhere, and was a prime supporter of the Chicago Telshe Yeshiva, where he had a daily learning seder. He was extremely respectful of roshei yeshiva and rabbonim, and deferential to their wishes and demands.

And now these two giants have entered the pantheon of Jewish treasures, their levayos on Tisha B’Av signaling the tragedy of their loss. May we be zoche to the speedy coming of Moshiach, when this day of sadness will become a day of joy and celebration.

Never Alone and Never Lost

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

When you walk into a room where people are sitting shivah, the atmosphere is heavy and sad. Not a word is exchanged. Then a menachem, a comforter, walks into the room. Initially, the people on the low chairs look up at their visitor with sad eyes. Then they slowly come alive, sharing stories of their departed loved one, exchanging reminiscences. “What do you remember?” they ask. “What can you share?” They then accept words of chizuk as expressed in the eternal phrase of nechomah: HaMakom yenacheim es’chem.

During these days of Av, we are all aveilim. We remember the time when the Bais Hamikdosh stood in the center of Yerushalayim. We reflect on how different and blessed life was at that time. We think about all the tragedies that occurred to the Jews throughout the ages and become sad, because we know that Tisha B’Av is the repository of sadness and mourning for everything that has befallen us.

The tragedy and sadness have become part of our essence. As believing Jews, we realize our history and what has happened to our people in the churban and ever since. We remember the six million, the Harugei Beitar, the millions of our brothers and sisters who were led into slavery, the millions who were killed throughout the centuries in pogroms, by the church, by the Muslims, in the Inquisition, and in other organized and unprovoked massacres.

The halachos of the Nine Days are meant to influence our thoughts and feelings during this time. An observant Jew is meant to be in a state of sadness these days, contemplating our losses, as a mourner would do. We are lacking if we don’t feel the losses in our hearts.

Parshas Devorim always comes prior to Tisha B’Av, for it recounts Moshe’s lecturing of the Bnei Yisroel for the sins they committed in the midbar.

Rashi (1:1) writes that all of the Jewish people were gathered together when Moshe addressed them. This miraculous occurrence that they should all be in one place and able to hear Moshe speak was brought on so that no person would ever be able to say that he missed the speech, but had he been there, he would have responded to Moshe. Therefore, everyone was there when he spoke, and Moshe said to them, “If you have anything to say, if you have a response to my criticism of you and what you did, speak up now.”

It seems a bit strange that at this late date in the extended travel through the desert, there would still be people who would castigate Moshe as he delivered parting words to Klal Yisroel, especially after he was reminding them of their past transgressions and how Hashem had punished them.

As Moshe continued his admonishment, we find in posuk 22 that Moshe reviews the story of the sin of the meraglim. He describes what went on and then (26-27) how the people reacted. “And you did not want to continue on the trip to the Promised Land and you rebelled against the word of Hashem. You sat in your tents besmirching Hashem and saying that He redeemed you from Mitzrayim because He hates you and wants to hand you over to the Emori nation to kill you.”

Moshe continues that at the time, he reprimanded them that Hashem would fight and care for them as He had done in the desert ever since He took them out of Mitzrayim. Yet, the people refused to believe. Hashem angered and swore that none of the people of that generation (besides Koleiv ben Yefuneh and Yehoshua bin Nun) would see Eretz Yisroel.

In Parshas Shelach, the Torah recounts the story of the meraglim, yet there, instead of saying that the people complained in their tents, the posuk says that after hearing from the meraglim upon their return from Eretz Yisroel (Bamidbar 14:1), the people loudly wept about their misfortune that night.

The Gemara states (Taanis 29a, et al.) that Rava said in the name of Rabi Yochanon that it transpired on Tisha B’Av. Hashem heard their cries and said that since they cried for no reason, He would give them something to cry about on this day throughout the generations.

The Ramban (ibid.) writes that he doesn’t see how that is derived from the pesukim in Parshas Shelach. Rather, he cites the pesukim in Tehillim (106:24-27) that recount the sin of the meraglim, and there Hashem’s reaction is written differently. It says that Hashem swore that He would dump that generation in the midbar and would deposit their children and future generations among the nations of the world.

Rashi (Tehillim 106:27) writes that at that time, Hashem declared that the Botei Mikdosh would be destroyed, for this took place on Tisha B’Av, and Hashem said, “They wept for no reason; I will give them what to cry about throughout the generations.”

The sin of the meraglim was indeed grave. Although Hashem had repeatedly promised that He was bringing them to a blessed land, the people sent meraglim there to check out what the country was really like.

By doing so, they showed a lack of faith, yet for that we are not punished. The crime was that when those people returned from scouting out the land, they were able to convince the people that the land would be difficult to capture and inhabit. The Jewish people accepted their negative appraisal of what lay ahead of them and began to weep. They were led astray by wicked, talented, important people. Was it their fault that the meraglim were blessed with oratory skills with which to excite the Jewish people? Although the people should have maintained their faith in Hashem and heeded His promises, can we fault them for being human and having human feelings and fears? Why was accepting the report of the meraglim considered more of a sin than sending them in the first place?

It would seem that our faith in the word of Hashem must strong enough that we cannot be swayed, even by propogandists who are able to advance themselves with their ability to convince people to support them, though what they really care is their own personal agenda. We must be strong enough that we can see through the ruse and not be misled by charlatans who predict tragedy and failure, as well as those who promise happiness and bliss for following their misguided direction.

Having been freed from Mitzrayim and led for as long as anyone can remember by Moshe, a proven, faithful messenger of Hashem, anyone who could cry because he was misled by a speech by people arguing with Moshe and Hashem has fail as a Jew and deserves to be punished. When the entire people are misled and retreat to their homes to bemoan their fate, they have collectively failed and come close to forfeiting their future.

Thus, while perhaps the Jews could have explained that their desire for meraglim was an expression of permissible hishtadlus to see how they would enter and take over the land, nevertheless, when the Jewish people went into a collective depression following the report delivered by the people who were supposed to be aiding in permissible hishtadlus of populating the land, it showed that the sending of the spies was a sign of a lack of faith and trust in Hashem and Moshe.

Rav Mordechai Pogromansky boarded a train one Friday morning to take him to a town he was planning to visit for Shabbos. A man who was headed to the same town sat down next to him and they began talking. He was a mohel and shochet, as well as a talmid chochom, and took advantage of the opportunity to engage Rav Pogromansky in conversation. They became so engrossed in learning that they didn’t notice when the train stopped at the town where they had planned to spend Shabbos.

By the time the mohel realized that they were far past their intended stop, it was too late to do anything about it. There was no train going back to their intended destination before Shabbos. He turned to Rav Pogromansky and informed him of their predicament.

“We are lost,” he proclaimed. “We don’t know where we are. We have nowhere to stay. We don’t have wine for Kiddush, challos for lechem mishnah, or food lekavod Shabbos. What shall we do?”

Rav Mottel consoled him. “A Jew is never lost,” said the tzaddik. “When a Jew ends up in a certain place, it is always with Hashgocha Protis, because Hashem wants him there.”

The next stop was coming up, and even though through the window it appeared as if the area was sparsely populated and they didn’t know anyone who lived there, when the train stopped, they got off. They began asking people if there were any Jews in the town. Nobody could identify any. The mohel was growing pessimistic and stopped asking, but Rav Mottel didn’t give up. He continued to ask people if there was a Jew in town. Finally, his persistence paid off and one of the people he asked directed him to the home of the town’s only Jewish family. They hurried there and knocked on the door.

When the homeowner opened the door, he began shedding tears of joy. To him, it was as if Avrohom Avinu and Eliyohu Hanovi had appeared. The guests, however, let him know that they were normal human beings just like him who had been sent to his door min haShomayim. Very happily, the man let them in and invited them to stay for Shabbos.

When he heard that one of them was a mohel, his joy was multiplied. He told them his story.

“A week ago, my wife gave birth to a baby boy. Today is the day he should be having a bris. I was davening the whole day, begging and crying for Hashem to send me a mohel to perform the bris on my son. Behold, you have been sent by Heaven.”

Rav Mottel was the sandek as the mohel performed the bris. The two guests remained with the overjoyed couple for Shabbos.

When they left the home after Shabbos, Rav Mottel turned to the mohel and said, “Remember, a Jew is never lost.”

The Jewish people began to weep that they were lost, alone in a desert, and heading for disaster, and for that they were punished. A Jew is never alone, never ends up somewhere without a reason, and is never heading to a place that has not been chosen for him by Hashem.

The Chiddushei Horim (cited in Sefas Emes, Devorim 5656) explains why much of Moshe Rabbeinu’s mussar in Devorim was delivered through hints. He says that this is because the sins that Moshe was referring to were committed by the generation that had left Mitzrayim. By now, they had all died as punishment for the chet hameraglim.

Moshe was addressing their children, the next generation, who played no role in those sorry acts. However, the sins committed created a black hole, as it were, that existed in the following generation and exists until our day. Moshiach can only come when that sin is rectified. It is for this reason that Chazal say that a generation in which the Bais Hamikdosh hasn’t been rebuilt is equivalent to the one in which it was destroyed. It is because we have not completed the rectification for those sins - and have not stopped committing them - that we are still “lost” in the exile.

Much the same, we all know that the second Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because of the hatred that was prevalent at the time. As the Gemara (Yoma 9b) states, “What was the main cheit that brought about the destruction of Bayis Sheini? Mikdosh Sheini shehoyu oskin baTorah uvemitzvos ugemillus chassodim, despite the fact that the people of that time busied themselves with Torah and mitzvos and charitable acts, it was destroyed because there was sinas chinom among them…”

The Yerushalmi presses the point further and proclaims, “We know that the people at the time of the churban Bayis Sheini would delve into Torah and were punctilious in their observance of mitzvos and the laws of maaseros, and possessed every proper middah, but they loved money and hated each other for no reason,” and that is why the churban was brought on.

We, in golus, are to repent for that sin and rectify it. Instead, we are still plagued by hatred and division. Disputes fester and grow, involving more people who deride each other.

When the Torah (Shemos 3:2) describes the famed burning bush, the posuk states that Moshe viewed the bush and behold, “hasneh bo’eir ba’eish, vehasneh ainenu ukol, the bush burned on fire and the bush was not consumed.”

The Kli Yokor questions that since the fire was burning and not the bush, instead of saying that the bush burned on fire, hasneh bo’eir ba’eish, the posuk should have said that the fire burned within the bush.

He answers that this hints to the idea that hatred – sneh is similar to sinah – that people have for each other causes aish, fire, to burn within the Jewish people and is the leading cause of why we are still in exile after all these years.

It is amazing that for over two thousand years, we have not been able to rid our people of sinas chinom. Petty fights, jealousies, and battles that seem senseless in hindsight and to people who aren’t participating in them have roiled our people for centuries and continue until this very day.

Somehow, in the midbar so many years ago, sinas chinom also crept into our DNA. It is not enough to be baalei chesed. It is not sufficient to be charitable, to be medakdeik bemitzvos, and to learn Torah day and night. We have to also stop the sinas chinom. We have to bring people together. We have to stop the different machlokos that rage in our world.

Am Yisroel is a blessed nation, the am hanivchar. We have what nobody else has. Who else has a day as beautiful and rejuvenating as Shabbos? Who else has joyous Yomim Tovim and mitzvos that provide meaning for life? Who else has the Torah to pursue, study and live by? Who else has a life of depth and meaning? There is nobody else who has what we have. Yet, we have certain deficiencies that we are unable to get out of our system.

If people who take advantage of others would not be tolerated, if they would be boycotted and shunned, they would be forced to change. If people who cause machlokes would be admonished in a way that everybody knows that there are repercussions for squabbles and fights and divisive actions, they would think twice before starting a fight.

If we would realize our greatness and recognize that the reason we so often appear lost and under attack in golus is because we have work to do and things to rectify, then Tisha B’Av wouldn’t be a day of sadness and mourning, but instead would be a glorious Yom Tov.

May it happen quickly in our day.