Speak Softly

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

The stories of Sefer Bereishis are far more than historical accounts. They are the foundational narratives that define our national identity and outline the spiritual contours of Jewish life. They are living arteries carrying the blood of the Jewish soul across time. The axiom of maasei avos simon l’bonim teaches that the experiences of our avos serve as templates for the future. Their interactions with the world, with each other, and with Hashem form a blueprint that continues to guide us through the generations.

This week’s parsha introduces a new stage in that unfolding blueprint: the emergence of Yaakov and Eisov. At first glance, they appear simply as siblings, twins born moments apart. Yet, the Torah quickly reveals that they represent two opposing worldviews whose struggle has shaped human history and continues to influence our personal and communal lives. It is the struggle between depth and superficiality, between yearning and indifference, between sanctity and spiritual numbness, between the voice of Yaakov and the hands of Eisov, between gentle truth and noisy emptiness.

Their conflict is a profound spiritual tension that will persist until the End of Days and is the tension of our time.

Even before their birth, the distinctions between Yaakov and Eisov are evident. Rivkah’s tumultuous pregnancy sends her seeking Divine insight, and she learns that she is carrying two nations, each destined for a radically different path. Chazal describe how the unborn Yaakov was drawn toward places of Torah, while Eisov gravitated toward idolatrous environments. Even before they entered the world, their inclinations diverged. Yaakov gravitated toward kedusha. Eisov was pulled toward noise, spectacle, to the adrenaline of idolatry and the sensory thrill of the surface world.

After their birth, their personalities continue on those divergent trajectories. Yaakov grows into an ish tam yosheiv ohalim, a wholesome, spiritually driven person who finds meaning in contemplation, study, and inner discipline. Eisov becomes an ish yodeia tzayid, a hunter who thrives on action, impulse, and the excitement of the physical world. One lives with deliberate purpose. The other operates on instinct and appetite.

A revealing difference between them emerges through their speech. Yaakov speaks with humility, respect, and sincerity, reflecting the values he inherited from Avrohom and Yitzchok. Eisov, by contrast, delights in manipulative displays of piety that mask his true character. His words may sound clever, even impressive, but they are ultimately hollow. They do not represent conviction. They are merely tools for achieving his goals.

The contrast becomes stark in the sale of the bechorah. Eisov returns from the field exhausted, oyeif, a word the Torah uses not only to describe physical fatigue but also to hint at spiritual emptiness. Seeing Yaakov cooking lentil soup, he demands, “Haliteini na min ha’adom ha’adom hazeh—Pour into me some of this very red stuff.”

The phrasing is crude and revealing. Eisov identifies the food not by taste, purpose, or meaning, but by color alone. The Torah notes that this incident is the reason why Eisov and his descendants are called Edom. The name stems from his fixation on superficial appearance. This moment exposes his worldview: life defined by surface impressions and immediate gratification.

Yaakov, aware that Eisov has no interest in the spiritual responsibilities accompanying the birthright, proposes a trade. Without hesitation, Eisov sells the bechorah. Then the Torah adds, “Vayivez Eisov es habechorah—And Eisov scorned the birthright.” He mocked the very idea of spiritual legacy.

This was not merely a poor decision. It was a rejection of sacred obligation. The bechorah represents continuity, service, and responsibility. Yaakov understands that and is willing to invest in it. Eisov dismisses it as worthless.

Every generation has its Eisov types who mock tradition, trivialize depth, and laugh at meaning.

Later, when Yaakov approaches Yitzchok to receive the brachos, the Torah describes Yitzchok’s confusion. He feels the hands of Eisov but hears something entirely different. “Hakol kol Yaakov—The voice is the voice of Yaakov.”

This phrase becomes an eternal identifier of the Jewish character. Yaakov’s voice is measured, respectful, and sincere. Yitzchok immediately senses truth in it. Just as one recognizes a familiar melody, he recognizes the spiritual “sound” of Yaakov’s words. Even when externally disguised, internally he remains unmistakably Yaakov.

Eisov, by contrast, masters the art of external performance. He knows how to speak in ways that impress and deceive, but his words lack the depth and consistency that emerge from genuine humility and respect for others.

A telling moment comes when Eisov cries to his father after realizing that the brachos were given to Yaakov. His tears are dramatic, but they are for show and do not reflect inner transformation. He is not remorseful for his wrongdoing. He is angry that he lost something he now desires. His tears stem from frustration, not teshuvah or reflection, and not from a wish to improve and become worthy of the brachos.

Gentle, respectful speech reflects humility, compassion, and integrity.

We, as Yaakov’s descendants, are expected to embody these qualities. Our identity as rachmonim, bayshanim, and gomlei chassodim is most tangibly expressed in how we speak to others.

Words are everything to a Jew. Our manner of speech defines us. The way we speak, the words we choose, and our tone all matter. We are to be refined, disciplined, and respectful. We admire people whose words are soft and thoughtful, not brash and irreverent. We respect and elevate men and women of truth, whose fidelity to honesty and tradition grounds them. We mock the loud bullies—those with quick put-downs and glib tongues.

The voice of Yaakov builds worlds. The voice of Eisov destroys them.

Hypocritical words uttered without conviction are hallmarks of Eisov’s legacy. They may sound clever or entertaining, but they corrode the soul and diminish the sacred. Throughout history, nations influenced by Edom have celebrated sarcasm, ridicule, and abrasive rhetoric. Superficiality becomes a cultural virtue, and sincerity is viewed as weakness.

This dynamic remains familiar today. We live in a world saturated with quick put-downs, viral insults, and snide commentary. It is easy to adopt that tone. But the Torah urges us to resist it and preserve the kol Yaakov, speech that reflects depth rather than derision.

Our speech must remain rooted in truth. We should never say things merely because they sound pleasant or persuasive, without the resolve to stand by them. This contrast has accompanied us throughout the generations. Eisov’s legacy is one of empty promises and commitments made only to be broken.

The story of Eisov naming the lentil soup edom also conveys a deeper message. Eisov and his descendants fixate on externals—appearance, color, and surface impressions. This superficiality also influences modern culture, which often prioritizes image over substance. Marketing, advertising, and social media feed on this instinct. People are judged quickly by what can be seen, not by who they are.

The Jewish way is different. It values depth, meaning, and essence. A Jew is defined by soul, not by surface. We are meant to look beyond what is immediately visible, perceiving the Divine spark in every person and the sacred potential in every situation.

One of the most moving aspects of Jewish identity is that our spiritual core never disappears. It may lie dormant, but it never dies. With soft words, patience, encouragement, and sincerity, that inner spark can be awakened. History is replete with stories of Jews who returned to Torah and mitzvos because someone spoke to them with genuine warmth. The kol Yaakov—gentle, sincere speech—has the power to revive a soul.

As descendants of Avrohom , Yitzchok, and Yaakov, we carry their mission forward. We speak and act with dignity, compassion, and purpose. We are tasked with demonstrating that Torah shapes not only our beliefs but our behavior. We are not meant to be abrasive or judgmental, nor glib or dismissive. The world receives enough of that tone from the culture around us. Our role is to remain faithful to the kol Yaakov—steady, thoughtful, and sincere.

Eisov’s defining trait is expressed in the words “Vayivez Eisov.” He mocked the sacred, revealing that he had lost touch with the spiritual legacy he was meant to uphold. We, by contrast, remain loyal to our traditions that govern how we conduct ourselves, how we speak, and how we observe the mitzvos.

There is another subtle but profound distinction between Yaakov and Eisov. The Torah describes Eisov as oyeif, tired. Beyond physical fatigue, this word conveys a spiritual condition. Eisov’s life is fueled by momentary whims, so he constantly needs new stimulation. When gratification fades, he is drained. This is why he cannot appreciate long-term commitment or invest in future goals.

This trait appears again in his phrase “michra kayom—sell me the bechorah for today.” His worldview is dominated by immediate experience. He cannot think beyond the present.

Yaakov, however, possesses a different kind of energy. He sees the future vividly enough to find meaning in the present. He can envision the avodah of the Bais Hamikdosh, the sanctity of korbanos, and the beauty of a life oriented toward Hashem. This vision fuels him with vitality. It is what enables him to study in the yeshiva of Sheim and Eiver for fourteen years without sleep. When someone possesses a sense of mission, fatigue becomes secondary.

The difference between the brothers lies not only in what they value, but in the very quality of their energy.

This principle is visible throughout Jewish history. The Jewish people have endured challenges that defy comprehension. We walked into the fires of Spain during the Inquisition, into the death pits of Lithuania, and into the gas chambers of Poland. And in between those awful times, we faced the quieter but equally difficult tests of assimilation, poverty, societal scorn and the seductions of modernity.

My dear friend, Reb Dovid Klugmann, gifted me the remarkable work, Dew of Revival, by Rebbetzin Esther Farbstein. The book is a collection of letters written by survivors of concentration camps after their liberation. Through their grief, they write of hope for the future. Having experienced the destruction of their bodies and spirit, their words soar as their broken bodies give way to their holy souls. Through agony and pain, their determination and faith shine through.

The letters are heartrending. The writers speak of their dreadful conditions in the camps, of relatives who perished, and of their survival. Through it all, they maintained their faith as they set about beginning a new chapter in their lives.

What sustained them? It was vision, an inner clarity of purpose that kept the flame of faith alive. They saw themselves as part of a story larger than their own lives. That perspective gave them the strength to persevere.

So it is with us. Though Jewish life presents many challenges, our resilience comes from maintaining focus on our mandate: to excel in Torah and mitzvos, to advance the world toward the final redemption, and to embody the kindness, compassion, and moral greatness exemplified by our forefathers and perpetuated by their descendants. With that vision before us, we remain steadfast.

In our time, the struggle takes a different shape. We are surrounded by constant distractions. Notifications, messages, and digital noise pull us in countless directions. The “lentil soup” of our generation is not a bowl of red soup, but the stream of trivial content that interrupts us every few minutes. We may not be running to idolatry, but we are often running from purpose without realizing it.

Screens present endless nezid adashims, digital lentil soup, colorful, tempting, addictive, and empty. Notifications appear minute by minute, dragging our attention into trivialities. Our minds become fragmented. Our hearts become tired.

These distractions make us tired—not physically, but spiritually. They scatter our focus and diminish our capacity to engage deeply with Torah, tefillah, and relationships. To counter this, we must consciously choose meaningful engagement and reclaim our attention. The kol Yaakov is heard only when we create space for it.

The Torah describes Am Yisroel as forever youthful: “Ki naar Yisroel v’ohaveihu.” This youthfulness does not refer to age but to vitality. We retain the ability to renew ourselves, to begin again, to approach mitzvos with fresh energy. This trait comes from Yaakov, who never grew complacent or weary of spiritual growth.

Stories of great Jewish leaders demonstrate this trait vividly. Stories abound of rabbonim gedolim who, though elderly and frail, carried themselves with youthful enthusiasm as they went about working for the public benefit, learning and teaching Torah, and showing people how to live full Yiddishe lives. The awareness of purpose revitalizes a person. Purpose propels them, giving them strength and conviction to carry on.

And even when they are all out of strength, they find the ability to press on just a bit more.

Rav Yitzchok Elchonon Spector, the leader of Jewry in his day, lay on his deathbed, eyes closed, as crowds of talmidim recited Shema around him. Suddenly, the great leader opened his eyes, turned to a wealthy person in the room, and implored him to donate money to help a poor girl get married. With that, he closed his eyes and breathed his last.

Today, we stand near the conclusion of a long historical journey. Many of the prophecies that our ancestors could only dream about are unfolding before our eyes. We sense that the struggle between Yaakov and Eisov is approaching its final stage. The noise of Eisov grows louder, but the whisper of Yaakov grows stronger.

Eisov’s friendships, alliances and promises, are increasingly being proven to be what they are, fictitious and unreliable. We never should have, and certainly can no longer, trust their assurances. The only one we can depend on is Hakadosh Boruch Hu. 

We must also remain focused on our ultimate goal. The cumulative efforts of generations have brought us to this point. Now it is our turn to push forward with conviction and reach the goal.

As the descendants of Yaakov, we are called upon to reflect his legacy. We are tasked with using our words wisely, treating every person with dignity, and investing our energy in Torah, mitzvos and other meaningful pursuits. We must rise above superficiality and remain focused on the values that have sustained our people through every chapter of history.

We are close to the finish line. Let us do our part with strength, clarity, and bitachon so that we will we merit the arrival of Moshiach speedily in our days. Amein.

Standing Strong

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

On the 87^th anniversary of Kristallnacht, the night when the windows of Europe’s Jews were shattered and the illusion of safety collapsed, Jewish residents of New York City once again find themselves in a familiar place: anxious, uncertain, and watchful.

We have a newly-elected mayor, a city whose moral compass feels unsteady, and a public square where anti-Semitism is no longer whispered but shouted. It is enough to make one shudder. The same poisonous ideas that once hid in the shadows now strut in daylight. Their champions sit in city councils, in Congress, in the Senate, and across social media feeds, shaping opinion and policy.

The facts don’t matter. What we say doesn’t matter. Words don’t matter, and debates don’t either. The New York City election reinforced and proved our fears, as a majority of voters supported an avowed anti-American anti-Semite.

A new day has dawned. We cannot look back and speak of what was. We must honestly assess the situation today and strengthen ourselves, for the weak will not survive, but the strong will.

We must remember our history, and if we don’t know it, we must learn it and teach it to our children. Am Yisroel has been under attack since time immemorial, and without fail, those who chased us, tormented us, killed us, and sent us into exile are all gone, while we are standing and thriving.

For generations, America has been different. It has been a malchus shel chesed, a land of kindness where Jews could breathe freely and build deeply. But now, many fear that the tide is turning. The recent election has forced open our eyes to an uncomfortable truth: the system that allowed us to flourish is changing. Groups that despise us are gaining power.

So where do we go from here?

Chazal remind us: “Ein lonu al mi lehisho’ein ela al Avinu shebashomayim.” We are not a people who depend on the whims of rulers or the polls of the moment. We have been here before, and we have outlasted Paroh, Nevuchadnetzar, Titus, Stalin, Hitler, and every would-be destroyer who thought we would fade into history’s footnotes.

We are still here. They are not.

We say it every morning during Shacharis: “Eileh vorechev v’eileh vasoosim, vaanachnu b’sheim Hashem Elokeinu nazkir,” Some of our enemies come after us with chariots and some with horses, but we daven to Hashem. They dropped to their knees and fell, but we have risen and stand strong.”

Rav Yosef Shlomo Kahaneman, the Ponovezher Rov, embodied this truth. Having watched the flames of Europe consume his world, he arrived in Eretz Yisroel with nothing. Yet, before he even had two shekels in his pocket, he climbed a barren hill in Bnei Brak and declared, “Here I will build a yeshiva,” and bought that property.

The world saw ashes. He saw a future. Those around him saw despair. He saw the potential for Torah to take root.

While Hitler’s legions marched through Lita and Nazi General Rommel’s tanks were ten days away from reaching Eretz Yisroel, Hashem was preparing the rebirth of Torah that would flourish there, a spiritual defiance stronger than any army.

While Jews the world over mourned their terrible losses and cried over the plight of millions locked in Europe as the war machine raged and concentration camps rose, there stood one lonely, penniless man planning for the future of Torah.

Such is Jewish strength. Throughout the centuries, since the destruction of the Botei Mikdosh, the Jewish people have persevered, drawing strength from their devotion to Torah and to their faith.

And Hashem has rewarded them.

We will soon read in Parshas Vayeishev the story of Yosef being sold by his brothers. The Medrash (Bereishis Rabbah 85) says that when Yosef was sold, Yaakov was mourning, Reuven was grieving, and Yehudah was seeking a wife, and at that very moment, Hakadosh Boruch Hu was creating the light of Moshiach.

At a time when we see destruction, when everywhere we look we find reason to fear for the future, Hashem is laying the groundwork for Moshiach. When it seems that we have no future, that the world is crumbling before us, we must strengthen ourselves. We must know that our strength is not physical. It is spiritual and eternal, stronger than any enemy who has ever risen to destroy us.

The enemies may think themselves invincible, attacking us with missiles and massive armies, but they must know that we have faced the strongest armaments through the centuries, and in every era it appeared we had no chance, yet we endured and our enemies fell. They inflicted pain, and caused great human and financial loss, but we overcame and survive until this day.

Even in our darkest chapters, Heaven was already scripting redemption.

So too in our day. While we see chaos and corruption, Hashem is quietly setting the stage for the light of Moshiach that will soon shine.

The Ponovezher Rov, after the war, stood before the Arch of Titus in Rome, the monument celebrating the Roman Emperor’s most “glorious” victory: capturing Yerushalayim, destroying the Bais Hamikdosh, and carrying its keilim to Rome.

He raised his finger and pointed toward the arch. “Titus, Titus! Where are you now? You are dust, but I and my people are still here!”

That moment captures the entire saga of our people.

Winston Churchill once said, “Success is not final. Failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts.”

The Jewish people have always continued. That is our greatest strength.

Last week’s election may sting. It may fill us with concern for what lies ahead. But our faith does not rise and fall with the political winds. We do what Avrohom Avinu did in last week’s parsha. After pleading with Hashem to spare Sedom, and realizing that his pleas were rejected and the decree would stand, the Torah tells us, “V’Avrohom shov limkomo — And Avrohom returned to his place.”

He accepted, he realigned, and he moved forward with purpose and faith.

That is our task now: to return to our place — the place of Torah, of chesed, of community, of emunah. To lift our eyes beyond City Hall and toward Heaven.

History’s verdict is already written. Those who draw strength from Hashem, from Torah, and from one another will not only survive, but will prevail.

We have risen before, and we will rise again.

And not only on a historical or national level. On a personal and practical level, the themes of emunah and resilience in daily Jewish life — chesed, dignity, and empathy — must reign supreme.

We read in this week’s parsha how Eliezer, the faithful servant of Avrohom, was sent on a sacred mission to find a wife for Yitzchok. As he neared his destination, he lifted his eyes heavenward and davened to Hashem for success. He devised a simple yet profound test: the young woman who would offer water not only to him but also to his thirsty camels would reveal herself as the one destined to continue Avrohom’s legacy.

And so it was. Before Eliezer could even finish his prayer, Rivka appeared, a young woman radiant in her chesed, eager to serve, overflowing with compassion. Her kindness was not a performance, but an instinct of the heart. It was this middah, this generosity of spirit - that made her worthy to become the mother of Klal Yisroel.

The test for entry into the house of Avrohom — the foundation of our people — was not brilliance, wealth, or power. It was chesed. The truest mark of greatness in our tradition has always been how one treats another human being.

And in our time, as we brace for what may be difficult days ahead and as we long for the final redemption from golus, we must once again prove ourselves worthy of Hashem’s kindness by showing kindness to one another.

For decades, Hashem has shown us mercy, carrying our people to the shores of America, giving us safety and prosperity after the infernos of Europe. We have built communities, schools, shuls, and yeshivos. Yet, sometimes, amid comfort and success, we forget the simple warmth that sustained us when all we had was each other.

We must relearn the art of caring, the sensitivity to see the person in front of us not as a burden or obstacle but as a tzelem Elokim.

We must be more thoughtful when we drive, when we speak, when we interact in business, at a simcha, or in moments of sorrow. To feel another’s pain, to share another’s joy — that is Avrohom’s house.

When we attend a simcha, let us not merely drop by with a quick mazel tov and rush away, but linger for a moment, look the baalei simcha in the eye, and let them feel that their happiness is our happiness.

And when we speak to others — young or old, rich or poor, familiar or stranger — let our words be gentle, our tone respectful. Every person yearns to feel valued. To make another Jew feel wanted, seen and cherished is to perform an act of holiness.

Kindness is not weakness. It is the truest expression of strength. It was Rivka’s chesed that built our nation, and it will be ours that sustains it and earns its final redemption.

As Rav Elozor famously taught (Sanhedrin 98b): “Mah yaaseh adam veyinatzel meichevlo shel Moshiach? Yaasok b’Torah uv’gemillus chassodim.” What should a person do to be spared from the challenges that precede the coming of Moshiach? Engage in Torah study and acts of kindness.

In uncertain times like ours, when fear and worry cloud the future, the answer remains timeless: Strengthen our connection to Torah, deepen our acts of chesed, and live with faith.

The Chofetz Chaim, in Sefer Ahavas Chesed, takes it a step further and writes that gemillus chassodim is so important and powerful that if the performance of chesed would spread throughout our people, the world would be filled with chesed, and all the suffering and hardship that confront our people would disappear.

He writes there, in the hakdomah, that “to the degree that a person accustoms himself to doing acts of goodness and kindness his whole life, to that degree he will receive Hashem’s goodness and kindness in this world and the next.”

Let us not become disillusioned. Let us not fret about the future. Let us know that we are an eternal people who have outlived Titus, the Crusades, Stalin, Hitler, and so many others.

From the churbanos of the Botei Mikdosh to the expulsion of 1492, to the Inquisitions, trials, and persecutions of every generation, our story has never been one of defeat, but of renewal, for wherever we appear to fall, Hashem plants the seeds of our rising.

By filling our lives with Torah and chesed, we contribute to building a future of light, hope, and redemption.

By increasing our emunah and bitachon, and our dedication to Torah, kindness, goodness, and gemillus chassodim, we will overcome our enemies of today and merit the coming of Moshiach very soon.

To Notice, To Care, To Act

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

There is much to write about and comment on this week. The elections and their results are hot topics, as are the goings-on in Eretz Yisroel and the recent disturbing comments by Vice President Vance. Opinions abound about causes, yet solutions feel distant and elusive.

But a primary lesson of this week’s parsha is that we concentrate on the way we treat others.

The parsha opens with Hakadosh Boruch Hu appearing to Avrohom as he recuperated from his bris milah. In the midst of the conversation, Avrohom saw three strange men approaching and ran to greet them and welcome them to his home.

Millions of people who have studied this parsha throughout the ages have asked why Avrohom interrupted his conversation with Hashem to offer food, drink and respite to three desert wanderers.

Avrohom Avinu, who was chosen by Hashem to be the father of our nation, had just passed another of the ten nisyonos, reaching the pinnacle of human achievement as Hashem, so to speak, came to visit him, yet he forfeited that opportunity to offer help to strangers. How are we to understand that?

Rav Dovid Soloveitchik explained that while meriting gilui Shechinah is a sign of immense spiritual attainment, the highest achievement for a person in this world is to perform mitzvos. Avrohom, as elevated as he was spiritually, understood that his ultimate obligation in that moment was to perform the mitzvah of chesed presented to him.

Whenever anything transpires, a Jew’s first question must be: What does the Torah say I should be doing now? There can be monumental occurrences taking place, but our minds must focus on what Hashem wants us to be doing at that time. Impulses, emotions, or the allure of personal spiritual highs must never overshadow our obligation to act in accordance with Torah guidance.

Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin served as rov of Brisk and later of Yerushalayim. He was known throughout Klal Yisroel for his stunning Torah brilliance and was also a tremendous baal chesed. When living in Yerushalayim, poor people would come to his home for lunch, which was the main meal of the day. Rav Yehoshua Leib would sit at the head of the table, engrossed in his learning, barely eating anything, while those in need enjoyed their daily nourishment.

One day, as everyone else was eating, he got up from his seat and went over to an elderly man sitting at the opposite end of the table. The Torah giant sat down next to the man and began cutting his bread into small pieces, peeling off the crusts, dipping them into soup, and feeding the man piece by piece. Observers noticed that the old man had no teeth and understood why the rov was feeding him the softened bite-sized portions.

After the meal, one of Rav Yehoshua Leib’s talmidim approached him and asked how he knew that the man had no teeth and was struggling to eat. “I was watching you as I was eating,” the student said, “and saw that you were totally absorbed in the sefer in front of you. How could you have noticed that the man needed help?”

Rav Yehoshua Leib responded to his student, saying, “I am surprised at you. Why are you asking such a question of me and not of Avrohom Avinu? Hakadosh Boruch Hu Himself came to visit him, and he was certainly entirely immersed in the supreme spiritual significance of closeness with Hashem.

“How could it be that in the midst of this encounter, he saw three people who appeared to be wanderers? Not only that, but he ran toward them to offer them food and drink. How is it possible to be at the height of spiritual ecstasy and still see what is transpiring outside of one’s immediate daled amos?

“How could he break his concentration, especially considering that the people he saw and interrupted for were lowly and profane?

“The answer,” Rav Yehoshua Leib told the man, who was nodding along, concentrating on every word the great gaon was saying, “is that this is the defining way for a Jew to act. This is what Hakadosh Boruch Hu demands from us: Even when you are totally engrossed in a deep sugya, even when you are completely enveloped in an awesome spiritual experience, you must pay attention to what is happening around you and notice if someone requires assistance.”

The Gemara (Yevamos 79a) states that there are three characteristics that define the Jewish people: rachmonim, bayshonim, and gomlei chassodim. We are merciful, we are modest, and we do acts of kindness. It’s not only that we help people in trying situations when they turn to us. The heart and eye of a Jew must always be cognizant of those around him, so that he can be proactive in alleviating their pain.

It is interesting to note that the Torah tells us that Avrohom interrupted a conversation with Hakadosh Boruch Hu to care for the anonymous travelers, yet it tells us nothing about that conversation. Instead, the Torah provides a lengthy description of how he provided for the strangers.

Everything in the Torah is intended to elevate us and to teach us how to conduct ourselves. Apparently, the important part of the story is that we learn from it how to do chesed and care for others.

How would we react in such a situation? If we were engaged in something important and a stranger came to the door collecting, would we respond with the same urgency and sensitivity? Being kind to someone we like or admire is easy. Greatness is measured by how we treat those who are unfamiliar, inconvenient, or even disagreeable. The way we treat a nudnik after a long, hard day reveals our character far more than any spiritual accomplishment.

Anyone can be nice to a likable person. The true test of greatness is how we treat ordinary people who may be different from us and for whom we have no special affinity.

Avrohom treated each visitor as a dignitary, because, to him, every opportunity to perform a mitzvah mattered. This perspective shaped the lives of countless gedolim and gutteh Yidden who followed in his footsteps.

People streamed to the tiny apartment of the Chazon Ish, whose yahrtzeit is this week, seeking his advice and blessings and to discuss matters of Torah and communal welfare. Often, he was in a weakened state and would lie in bed as people spoke to him. Somebody once asked him why he gave so much of his time to listen to and answer so many people. He explained, “If I had money, I would use it to help people. Since I do not, I fulfill the mitzvah of gemillus chassodim in this manner.”

In fact, on the day of his passing, when he was extremely weak, his attendants wanted to lock the door to his apartment to prevent people from entering to speak with him. When he learned of this, the Chazon Ish told them to unlock the door and allow people to enter. “Chesed is what keeps me alive,” he said.

Every person has an obligation to help others in any way he can. If he can’t write a check, he can make a call. If he can’t make a call, he can give advice. And if he can’t give advice, he can at least listen and show empathy. Needs are abundant and there is always a way to make a difference.

A secular Israeli couple became connected to Torah and moved to Bnei Brak to raise their daughter among religious people. Upon their move, they faced a serious problem that many who are not baalei teshuvah are unfortunately familiar with: No school would accept the girl they had sacrificed so much for. Someone brought the issue to Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach, rosh yeshiva of Ponovezh and leader of Torah Jewry, whose yahrtzeit is also this week, and made him aware of the problem.

As a student of Avrohom Avinu, and as a man whose every step was guided by what the Torah demanded of him in any given situation, Rav Shach phoned the person who headed Chinuch Atzmai, the religious school system in Israel, and asked for his assistance in getting the girl accepted into the local school. The leader told Rav Shach that he was unable to assist him in his mission. He explained that the principal of the school was a very tough woman, and he had a very hard time dealing with her. He was certain that if he reached out to her, it would be a wasted effort.

Rav Shach found the woman’s number and called her himself. When she answered, he said, “Hello, this is Leizer Shach calling. I want to speak to you about a fine girl who belongs in your school.”

How would you react if Rav Shach called you with a request?

Not this woman. She turned him down.

“They are baalei teshuvah,” she said. “I can’t take the girl in. The board of parents who oversee the school will never permit such a thing.”

Despite her arrogance and obstinacy, the gadol hador continued the conversation. “Please give me their names and phone numbers,” he said.

There were a dozen people waiting outside Rav Shach’s room to speak with him. He had many other pressing issues to deal with, but ensuring that a bas Yisroel had a school to attend was a priority.

Setting aside personal considerations and ego to fulfill this mitzvah, he sat at his table and called each parent representative one by one. “Hello, this is Leizer Shach. I am calling to discuss an issue with you…”

He spoke with each parent who was a class representative and resolved the matter. The girl was accepted to the school, and Rav Shach kept tabs on her development.

Rav Shach had never met the girl or her parents, yet he felt that the Torah demanded of him that if he could get the girl into the school, he had an obligation to do so. Without concern for his personal dignity or time, he sat by the phone, lobbying the principal and then the individual school board members on behalf of the girl. Every ben Yisroel and bas Yisroel is entitled to be in a Torah school, and if he could make that happen, he would.

This is demanded not only of a gadol b’Yisroel, but of every person. If we can help others in any way and in any situation, we have an obligation to set aside our personal considerations, ignore our ego or hesitations, and, no matter how uncomfortable it may be, do what we can to help them.

Getting a child accepted into a school in our community can be a most humbling task, and if we can do something about the situation in general, or about a particular family’s circumstance, it is incumbent upon us to do so.

It is beyond the scope of this article, but not too long ago, dedicated mechanchim would go door to door in Jewish communities, pleading with parents to send their children to a religious school. Today, in many communities, bli ayin hara, due to their tireless efforts, Torah has taken root and schools are flourishing—and, consequently, very selective. Yet, what prompted Rav Shach to make all those calls remains true: Every Jewish child is entitled to a seat in a classroom. And as rachmonim bnei rachmonim, we must be there for those children.

The success of Klal Yisroel, and one of the secrets to our endurance through centuries of adversity, is that there have always been—and still are—good people who, in the quiet of the night and the loneliness of righteousness, sacrifice much to do what is right and necessary in every situation. Because of such people, communal schools are built, teachers are paid living wages, and children are afforded a proper chinuch. Because of those who place Olam Haba before Olam Hazeh, there are rabbeim and moros in classrooms across the country and around the world this week teaching our children about Avrohom Avinu, Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin, Rav Shach, the Chazon Ish, and the countless gedolim and simple good people of every community who have helped individual Yidden and Klal Yisroel flourish.

That is the lesson of this week’s parsha and the reason the Torah records this story for Yidden of all generations to study and learn from. The opportunities for chesed are all around us. We need to learn from Avrohom Avinu’s example and seize them.

Quite often, a mitzvah is performed in anonymity, without fanfare or recognition, and there is little motivation that by doing it, you will be seen as some kind of hero. But we must do it anyway.

Every person experiences difficult times. Often, the hardest part of a nisayon is the loneliness that accompanies the struggle and the pain of feeling utterly alone. The embarrassment and agony of reaching out for help only add to the challenge.

So, while there may be countless hot topics to debate and discuss, the best thing we can do—for ourselves, for others, and for the world—is to tune in to the people around us, to notice and be there for them. It’s not always easy, and it can be draining, but this is what defines us and makes us better people.

We live in a challenge-filled era, the time leading to the arrival of Moshiach. Rav Elozor famously taught (Sanhedrin 98b), “Mah yaaseh adam veyinutzel meichevlo shel Moshiach? Yaasok b’Torah uv’gemillus chassodim.” To be spared from the terrible pangs that precede the coming of Moshiach, one must immerse himself in Torah study and acts of kindness.

There can be no better advice for us in these trying times. Let us follow it. May we all merit to be present at the coming of Moshiach, may it be very soon, in our days.

The Journey Is the Destination

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

There are words we use so often that, over time, they begin to lose their meaning. They become part of our vocabulary, but not our consciousness. One such word is nisayon.

We hear it frequently. When someone faces a difficult period — illness, financial strain, emotional pain, or disappointment — we nod and say, “It’s a nisayon.” The word rolls easily off our tongues. It comforts, in a way, because it reminds us that Hakadosh Boruch Hu is involved. But do we truly understand what a nisayon is?

Most of us assume that a nisayon means a test, that Hashem is testing us to see how we’ll respond. Will we overcome the challenge or succumb to it? Will we pass or fail?

But a nisayon is far more than a test. It is a window into the very purpose of life itself.

The concept of nisayon first appears at the beginning of this week’s parsha. Hashem tells Avrohom Avinu, “Lech lecha mei’artzecha umimoladetecha umibais avicha — Go for yourself, from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father’s home, to the land that I will show you.”

This command marks the beginning of Avrohom’s lifelong journey and is one of his ten nisyonos. Since we were children, we were taught that Hashem tested Avrohom ten times and he passed them all. Because of this, he became the father of Yahadus and the paradigm of spiritual greatness.

It sounds straightforward: Hashem gave him tests, he passed, and he earned the title of tzaddik. Like a student earning a degree, he met each challenge and received his diploma in righteousness.

But that understanding misses something essential.

The Ramban (Bereishis 22:1), in discussing the Akeidah, teaches that a nisayon is not a test in the way we usually think of tests. Hashem, after all, already knows whether a person will succeed or fail. The nisayon is not for Hashem to learn something about us. It is for us to learn something about ourselves and to raise ourselves. A person who has good intentions receives a small reward for his good thoughts, but a nisayon presents him with an opportunity receive a much greater reward for conducting himself properly in a trying situation.

The Ramban explains that through a nisayon, Hashem brings forth a person’s hidden potential. A nisayon is an opportunity to translate good intentions into good actions. It takes what is dormant inside us, the strengths we may not even realize we possess, and brings them to life. A nisayon is an opportunity for growth. A person grows by maintaining his faith and determination as he acts and reacts properly even in difficult situations.

Hashem gives nisyonos only to the righteous, writes the Ramban, because He knows that they will rise to the occasion. The wicked, who would crumble under the weight of challenge, are spared. For the tzaddik, the nisayon is a gift, a catalyst for spiritual growth.

In this light, a nisayon is not a punishment, not a trap, and not a test of loyalty. It is a Divine expression of confidence. Hashem, Who knows us better than we know ourselves, hands us a situation and says, “You can do this. I placed within you the strength to shine. And I will reward you for it.”

The Meshech Chochmah explains that Hashem’s words to Avrohom, “Lech lecha… el ha’aretz asher areka — Go to the land that I will show you,” can also be understood allegorically. The “land” represents the inner landscape of a person’s soul. Hashem was telling Avrohom: “Go and I will show you who you are. Go forth from the comfort of the familiar and you will discover the untapped greatness that lies within you.”

Each nisayon is a journey into our own undiscovered aretz asher areka, the place within us that we only see when we walk with faith into the unknown.

Every generation has its own nisyonos. In ours, the nature of the challenges has shifted, but the essence remains the same. People struggle with anxiety, family discord, confusion, loss, and feelings of inadequacy. Some attribute their struggles to past trauma or external forces, feeling trapped in cycles they cannot control.

There are also the unique situations that people face, such as the inability to earn enough to survive in our expensive world, being confronted with the pain of betrayal, the sting of duplicity, loneliness, and a host of prevalent social and financial issues.

But a person of emunah understands differently. He recognizes that nothing is random. Every difficulty is placed before us for a reason. Every moment of pain is part of a larger, loving plan designed by Hashem Himself.

When a person experiences suffering, he can choose one of two paths. He can view himself as a victim, chained to circumstances and wounded by others, or he can see himself as a beloved child of Hashem, entrusted with a personal nisayon crafted for his growth.

The first path leads to bitterness. The second leads to greatness, a good life strengthened.

We see this again later in the parsha at the Bris Bein Habesorim. Hashem revealed to Avrohom that his descendants would be strangers in a foreign land, enslaved and afflicted for four hundred years. Naturally, Avrohom was gripped by dread: “Vehinei eimah chasheicha gedolah nofeles olov.” The future of his children was dark and painful.

Yet, astonishingly, Avrohom found comfort. How could he be comforted by the knowledge of suffering? Because Hashem also told him that the exile would end with redemption: “V’acharei chein yeitzu b’rechush gadol.” There was meaning. There was purpose. There was a plan.

Although Hashem told him that his children would be oppressed for four hundred years, Avrohom was comforted because he was told that it was part of a greater plan. Four hundred years of enslavement should be crushing. The revelation that his people would be subject to such confinement and abuse should have caused Avrohom more pain. But he accepted it, for he knew that it was the will of Hashem and not something caused by happenstance. Although he was promised Eretz Yisroel, Avrohom was comforted, as he knew that there were many Divine calculations that determined the length of the exile. It wasn’t how he had envisioned it, and there would be many years of pain and deprivation, but he was happy, for he now knew that there were more factors involved in Hashem’s plan than he could fathom.

It wasn’t the ending Avrohom had imagined. It was slower, harder, and filled with tears. But because it was Hashem’s will, it was good. That realization was enough to bring him peace.

Many of our modern disappointments stem from misplaced expectations. We assume that life is supposed to be smooth, and that if we do what’s right, we deserve comfort, success, and happiness. People are sad and feel unfulfilled because they think that they are entitled to the perfect job, family, children, neighborhood and life.

And when life doesn’t follow that script, they feel cheated.

But that’s not the Torah’s definition of a “happy ending.” A happy ending is not one without pain. It’s one with purpose.

We find joy when we stop fighting Hashem’s plan and start embracing it. When we understand that the perfect life is not the one without challenges, but the one that uses those challenges as steps toward growth. We find happiness when we stop comparing our journey to others and realize that each person’s nisayon is tailored for him by the One Who knows us best. When we realize that a perfect life is one that embraces the challenges that it confronts, we can begin to anticipate achieving joy and inner peace.

Before World War II, one of the most dreaded pieces of mail a young man in Eastern Europe could receive was a draft notice from the Russian army. Once drafted, a Jew faced years of deprivation and danger, physically and spiritually.

A group of bochurim who had received draft notices traveled to the Chofetz Chaim for a brocha. The saintly gaon assured them that they would all be spared. But then he took one young man aside and said to him, “Es iz nisht geferlach if you are drafted. A person can be mekadeish Sheim Shomayim wherever he is. And while there, he can help others keep mitzvos.”

As it turned out, every one of those bochurim was spared, except that one. He was drafted into the army, where hunger, cold, and loneliness became his constant companions. One day, while stationed near a small town with a Jewish community, he shared his pain with the local rov, telling him about his loneliness and difficulty being a shomer Torah umitzvos. The rov was moved and decided to help. Through much effort, he and several askonim succeeded in persuading the authorities to permit kosher food for Jewish soldiers.

In time, the bochur convinced over forty Jewish boys to begin eating kosher.

The Chofetz Chaim’s words had come true. Hashem had a shlichus for him — to sanctify His Name in a place of darkness. His nisayon was his mission. His hardship was his opportunity. If you are destined to be in the army and can be mekadeish Hashem and encourage people to do mitzvos during your period there, then you have passed your test and fulfilled your responsibly and obligation.

We sometimes wonder how we can celebrate Purim with unbridled joy when we know the end of Esther Hamalkah’s personal story. The salvation of Klal Yisroel came at tremendous cost. Esther remained bound to Achashveirosh for the rest of her life. How can such an ending be happy?

Perhaps the answer lies in understanding nisayon. Esther’s joy was not in her comfort, but in her clarity. She knew that she was precisely where Hashem wanted her to be. Her shlichus was to serve as the queen, even at personal sacrifice. Knowing that, she could live with serenity and meaning. That knowledge itself was her happiness.

The Chovos Halevavos teaches that the person who has proper bitachon is the most joyous of all. Why? Because he lives with the confidence that everything that happens is orchestrated by Hashem for his good. The one who trusts doesn’t need to control the story. He just needs to play his role faithfully.

Rav Nissim Karelitz once recalled an unforgettable experience that occurred when he went to visit his uncle, the Chazon Ish, whose yahrtzeit falls this week. The Chazon Ish, frail and weak, expressed a desire to visit his sister and brother-in-law, Rav Nochum Meir, who lived far from him in Bnei Brak, a long, difficult walk for a man in his condition.

Despite his weakness, they set out together. After a few minutes, the Chazon Ish needed to rest. They found a fallen log and he sat down to regain his strength. Then he rose and walked a bit further, until he again had to stop and rest. This happened several times. Slowly, painfully, but persistently, they made their way across town.

When they finally arrived, the Chazon Ish turned to his nephew and smiled. “Do you see that?” he said. “We made it. Az men geit, kumt men un. When you go, you arrive.”

Then he added, “If I had stayed home, I might have sat there for twenty more years. But because I began to go, I arrived. Maybe slowly, maybe with rests along the way, but I arrived. The main thing is to begin.”

That line — “Az men geit, kumt men un” — carries a world of meaning. In life, there are days when everything feels heavy, when learning doesn’t flow, when the work doesn’t succeed, and when the heart feels drained. But the difference between those who reach greatness and those who remain stagnant is not that the great never feel weak. It’s that they go anyway.

The Chazon Ish, always weak and often bedridden, never viewed his frailty as an obstacle. He saw it as his nisayon. He didn’t bemoan his limitations. He used them as tools for ascent. Through perseverance, he became the spiritual father of a generation — not because his path was smooth, but because he kept walking.

Avrohom Avinu implanted this strength into the spiritual DNA of Klal Yisroel. The ability to withstand trial, to persevere, to believe in purpose even in the midst of pain — it all comes from him. Every Jew carries that inner spark - that inherited courage.

Nisyonos are not interruptions to life. They are the reason we are here. Hashem places us in specific circumstances to bring out our best — to reveal the aretz asher areka within each of us.

The Mesilas Yeshorim (Perek 1) writes that a person was created “to be mekayeim the mitzvos, serve Hashem, and withstand the nisyonos that he faces…” He says that every situation in life is a nisayon given to us to overcome. This is true regarding things that are good and things that aren’t. Whether a person is poor or rich, peaceful or troubled, everything in life is a nisayon, an invitation to choose faith, to choose action, to choose growth.

If, in a time of nisayon, we follow the yeitzer hara and focus on what’s missing, we will fall into despair and not accomplish much. But when we look at life through the lens of Hashgocha Protis, seeing every moment as a personal message from Hashem, we can handle whatever comes our way. We can live with meaning, strength, and joy.

The Torah’s lessons in Bereishis are not theoretical. They are blueprints for living. Avrohom’s journey began with two simple words: “Lech lecha — Go forth.” Every Jew has his own lech lecha, his own journey toward purpose. The path is usually not easy, but it is always meaningful.

When we meet hardship with emunah, we reveal who we are. When we accept our nisyonos as Divine gifts, we uncover reserves of courage and faith we never knew we possessed. And when we take that first step forward — even slowly, even trembling — we honor Avrohom’s legacy and fulfill our own.

May we all merit to learn the lessons of our forefather Avrohom, to see Hashem’s hand in every nisayon, and to walk our paths with strength, serenity, and joy, confident that every step we take brings us closer to the destination He has prepared for us.

Az men geit, kumt men un. When you go, you arrive.

May we all merit lives of happiness and fulfillment and be zoche to welcome Moshiach.