After the Joy, the Journey

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was that chein? What made Noach different?

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

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

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

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

We must all be like Noach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We davened. We hoped. And Hashem answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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