Speechless

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

With the paper closed for two weeks to give everyone here a chance to reinvigorate themselves, I decided to take a trip to Europe. I had only been there once and thought that it might be nice to visit Paris, London, or other cities to see how Jews live there and to tour the historic sites, famous buildings, and towers.

But more than that, I wanted to visit the shtetel where my mother was born, a small place called Vashki, where her father and grandfather served as the town’s rabbonim. From what I’ve read, the houses still look exactly as they did when my mother lived there. Maybe I’d even be able to find her family’s home and see if it still had the same dirt floors she once walked on.

I imagined walking those same roads, picturing how my ancestors lived, and spending time in the shtetel that was once theirs.

I would visit the cemetery and daven at the kever of my great-grandfather, whose kesovim I later published. I’d also go to the kever achim, where the cursed Nazis murdered the town’s Jews in cold blood. I would think about what was done to them and thank Hashem that my mother’s family survived.

I thought about the awful churban that took place in that shtetel, and in every Lithuanian town and city. I thought about the lives cut down, the Jews slaughtered simply for being Jews, and the nations that stood by and did nothing. Six million murdered, not only by the Nazis, but often aided by their neighbors.

I had the whole trip played out in my mind.

And then I thought better of it.

Why should I travel to a country whose soil is soaked with Jewish blood? Why spend a single penny there? Why reward them for their complicity?

No, no. I would not go.

And then I asked myself: Why would I even want to go to France, a capital of Jew-hatred? Why support them? Why admire their architecture, their history?

No, I decided. I won’t go. I won’t see the Eiffel Tower, or Versailles, or the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.

I won’t experience the angry stares in Paris or the nasty looks in London.

I’ll go to Yerushalayim, where I belong. The city at the heart of the Jewish people. I’ll daven at the Kosel, spend Shabbos in the holy city, and travel around Eretz Yisroel, gathering mitzvos with every step. I’ll meet family and friends, and the avira d’ara d’Yisroel will uplift and invigorate me.

So, off to Israel we went.

But our plans changed soon after we arrived. We landed at 4 a.m. on Tuesday, and as we stepped outside to find a taxi to Yerushalayim, it felt as though we had walked into an oven. The heat was stifling — 100 degrees and rising. That oppressive heat lasted through the week. We ventured out only in the early mornings and late evenings, spending the sweltering days indoors.

But it wasn’t just the heat that cast a shadow over our trip.

There were levayos.

Soon after we arrived, we learned that Rav Shmuel Deutsch had been niftar. He was a towering talmid chochom, a gaon hagaonim who seemed to know kol haTorah kulah. I had known him for 43 years.

My mother was a special woman who passed away way too young. After I got married, I decided to publish a sefer l’illui nishmasah. Her father, Rav Leizer Levin, gave me teshuvos that had been written to his father-in-law, Rav Avrohom Hoffenberg. He had brought them with him when he left Lita. I thought that publishing them as a Sefer Zikaron would be a proper tribute. I had no experience publishing seforim or deciphering rabbinic handwriting, but I was determined.

My interest in seforim led me to befriend Rav Yosef Buksbaum, head of Machon Yerushalayim. I consulted with him about aspects of publishing a sefer, but the teshuvos touched on some sugyos I was not well versed in, and I lacked the marei mekomos needed to properly understand them.

Rav Buksbaum said to me, “There’s a talmid chochom in your neighborhood who can help you. His name is Rav Shmuel Deutsch. He lives right near you in Ezras Torah, on Rechov Even Ha’azel.”

I asked around and was told that he was a prized talmid of Rav Shach and Rav Berel Soloveitchik. I’d often see him after davening, talking with Rav Shimon Moshe Diskin, another talmid chochom muflag. I was too intimidated to approach him. Who was I, a young American yungerman, to ask for help with matters that must have been elementary to him? Surely, I thought, he’d look down on me or dismiss me.

But actually, from the first time I stepped into his home, he was warm and welcoming.

I visited him often. Anytime I had trouble reading a manuscript, understanding a rov’s intent, or tracking down marei mekomos, I turned to him. And he always helped, quickly and with clarity. He could decipher any handwriting, identify every source, and explain the most complex topics in minutes.

We became close. As long as I lived in Yerushalayim, I would visit him regularly.

Rav Deutsch earned renown as a rosh yeshiva at Kol Torah and as a close talmid of Rav Shach, instrumental in founding Degel HaTorah and other key initiatives.

When I returned to America, I’d visit him whenever he came to Monsey and then we lost touch for a while but reconnected when he opened his yeshiva. The last time I saw him was in Lakewood, where he was recovering from an illness in his son’s home.

I was deeply saddened by his passing, as was the Olam HaTorah, which mourned the loss of a rosh yeshiva, moreh derech, and oveid Hashem.

In the Olam HaTorah, it was known that from his youngest years, Rav Shmuel was immersed in an atmosphere of Torah greatness. His profound connection with Rav Shach shaped his life. Rav Shach saw in him not just a sharp, brilliant mind, but also a rare sense of humility and responsibility. With Rav Shach’s guidance, Rav Deutsch combined harbotzas Torah with powerful leadership.

For over 40 years, he served as a rosh yeshiva in the famed Yeshiva Kol Torah, inspiring thousands of talmidim with his depth in lomdus, his personal warmth, and his sincere care for their growth. To his talmidim, he wasn’t just a rebbi. He was a father figure, a mentor, and a role model whose influence continued long after they left yeshiva.

Beyond the bais medrash, he played a key role in shaping Torah policy in Eretz Yisroel through Degel HaTorah and later the Peleg Yerushalmi. Yet, despite his stature, he remained a man of quiet humility, focused on Torah and his talmidim.

His levayah was a manifestation of kavod haTorah, and we were blessed to be in Yerushalayim for it.

We visited some family and friends, and davened at the Kosel a few times. But most people, including many of my rabbeim, were away.

Still, Shabbos in Yerushalayim is always special. Some members of my wife’s family joined us. The oppressive, historic heat finally lifted, and we basked in the warmth of a Yerushalayimer Shabbos.

But when Shabbos was over, I was struck by the cold reality of life: I learned that my dear, beloved uncle, Rav Berel Wein, had been niftar over Shabbos.

Rav Berel Wein wasn’t just beloved by me. He was cherished by the entire Jewish world. His life embodied Torah scholarship, insight, and timeless mentchlichkeit.

He was a briach hatichon, a central pillar, heir to an illustrious rabbinic family and student of the great transplanted Lithuanian roshei yeshiva. From them, he absorbed Torah, hashkofah, and what the Slabodka mussar tradition refers to as gadlus ha’adam, the greatness of man. Though they taught in Yiddish and heavily accented English, he translated their values into the clear, modern language of American Jewry and transmitted their timeless wisdom to generations of baalei batim, talmidim and the many other people who fell under his influence.

With dazzling brilliance, eloquence, and clarity, he brought hundreds of thousands closer to Torah, to Hashem, and to a deeper understanding of what it means to be a Jew.

Although he was a distinguished rov, rebbi, and rosh yeshiva, he became renowned as a historian almost by accident. He had begun giving a weekly Jewish history class in his shul, which became popular. He recorded the classes and sold them — “Rabbi Wein’s History Tapes” — as a fundraiser for his yeshiva, Shaarei Torah.

The rest, as they say, is history.

His breadth of knowledge and unique ability to convey eternal Torah truths with clarity, warmth, and relevance drew countless listeners. With masterful storytelling and a warm, engaging, Chicago-accented voice, he became the storyteller of Jewish destiny.

He brought Jewish history alive, not as a list of facts and dates, but as a living saga of the Jewish people. He transformed it from something distant into something vibrant and deeply personal. He helped his listeners feel part of a nation with a noble past and an enduring mission. He taught us to be proud of our people, to draw strength from their trials, and to see ourselves as links in an unbroken chain stretching back to Har Sinai.

As a maggid shiur and rosh yeshiva, he was revered for his penetrating lomdus and for the personal guidance he offered with humility and care. As a rov and communal leader, he combined halachic integrity with deep sensitivity, standing as a spokesman for Klal Yisroel and a representative of Torah Jewry in the modern world.

At heart, Rabbi Wein was a gentleman, a beautiful human being: approachable, gracious, and filled with quiet dignity. A man of few words, he always had the perfect vort, story, or quip — sharp, thoughtful, and on point. He wore the mantle of Torah leadership and scholarship with grace. He never sought honor for himself; instead, he elevated those around him.

He was a personal inspiration to me, a model of what one can become when G-d-given talents are used in service of the greater good. For as long as I can remember, he was always teaching and guiding me, through his words, his presence, and his example. He never imposed, never lectured. It was all so natural that I often didn’t realize how much he was being mechaneich me — in Yiddishkeit, in public life, and in service to others — until much later.

And one more thing: When he spoke publicly, he took my breath away. Literally. He would deliver a drosha or a speech, and when he was done, I just sat there, frozen in place, wishing he would go on. His brilliance, his depth, and the way he conveyed his message left me speechless.

His teachings, seforim, and books are an enduring legacy. His voice will continue to guide. His stories and insights will continue to inspire generations to come.

I was privileged to be at his levayah, and as I sat there, I realized that Hashem had brought me to Eretz Yisroel — for no apparent reason — so that I could be there to say goodbye to my last surviving uncle.

The last time I saw him was this past Shavuos. As always when we were in Yerushalayim, we went to visit him. It was a typical family visit, warm and familiar. He told me that he had published a new book and wanted to give me a copy. Though he could no longer see, he reached for a book, then for a pen, and said he wanted to autograph it, which he did.

Then he said, “It was so nice of you to come. I love you — and I’ve loved you for many years. I wish you well.”

He wasn’t one to express emotion openly, so the words struck me. And then he said: “This is not my last book. I have one more coming, and that will be it.”

And then, without drama or sadness, he added: “And that book has already been written.”

His tone was so matter-of-fact. I searched for something to say, but the right words didn’t come. I finally asked, “Uncle, why do you speak that way?”

And he said: “Pinny dear, that is what life is all about. Eventually, it comes to an end.”

And once again, for one final time, he left me speechless.

● ● ●

I had come to Eretz Yisroel with a vague plan and no clear reason, only to realize that Hashem had brought me there not just to daven at the Kosel or escape the blood-stained soil of Europe, but to say goodbye. To be present for the final chapter of a man who shaped my life and the lives of so many others.

In a land soaked with kedusha, during days scorched by sun and softened by Shabbos, I found myself standing at the crossroads of history, family, and Torah. I came to walk in the footsteps of ancestors, and instead, I found myself walking alongside giants of my own lifetime.

Rav Shmuel Deutsch and Rav Berel Wein were unique individuals who shaped generations through their brilliance in learning. Though they were very different from each other, each taught in their own way that Torah is not only learned, but lived and given over.

And so I left Eretz Yisroel not only with memories of unbearable heat and unexpected levayos, but with something deeper: a renewed understanding of what it means to be part of the unbroken chain of our people — to carry memory, to honor legacy, and to live a life that gives back more than it takes.

Yehi zichrom boruch.

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.