Mehadrin Yidden

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Every year, as the nights grow long and the air carries the quiet promise of winter, Klal Yisroel reenters the world of Sefer Bereishis—its stories, its struggles, its beauty. With each passing week, we trace the footsteps of Avrohom, Yitzchok, and Yaakov, witnessing how their faith carved out a path of light in a world that was often dark.

It is no coincidence that these parshiyos escort us directly toward Chanukah. Yaakov’s battles, Yosef’s dreams, and the faith that pulsated through their journeys become the spiritual prologue to the lights that would one day illuminate the desecrated Bais Hamikdosh. In their footsteps, the Chashmonaim found their courage. In their light, the menorah found its spark.

Echoes of Chanukah reverberate through the Torah. Hidden within the pesukim, woven into stories we have known since childhood, lie whispered foreshadowings of Chashmonai uvonov, sparks of Chanukah light flickering long before the menorah ever burned.

Among the most wondrous revelations of these connections is the bond between Yaakov Avinu and Chanukah, two stories of light in darkness, of purity amid contamination, of spiritual defiance against overwhelming odds.

In the vastness of the Torah, we find astonishing connections between seemingly unrelated situations. The parallels between Yaakov Avinu and Chanukah are a prime example.

We are taught that Yaakov Avinu was niftar on the first day of the Yom Tov of Sukkos, and we know that Mitzrayim enacted seventy days of mourning for him. Thus, the mourning period ended on the 25^th day of Kislev, the first day of Chanukah.

Let us explore the connection between Yaakov Avinu and Chanukah.

The posuk (Bereishis 32:11) states that when Yaakov left the house of Lovon, he thanked Hashem for His blessings. “Katonti mikol hachassodim umikol ha’emes asher osisu es avdecha, ki vemakli ovarti es haYardein hazeh ve’ata hoyisi lishnei machanos—When I crossed the Yardein River to escape from Eisov, all I had was my stick, and now as I return to Eretz Yisroel, I am large enough to encompass two encampments,” Yaakov said.

What is the significance of Yaakov crossing the Yardein with his stick? The simple explanation is that Elifaz, the son of Eisov, robbed him of all his possessions, leaving him only with his walking stick.

We can examine the depth concealed in these words.

The posuk (Bereishis 28:12) states that when Yaakov awoke from his dream, he anointed the stone upon which he had slept with oil and called the place Bais El. But if Elifaz had taken all his possessions, from where did Yaakov obtain oil?

The Pirkei D’Rebbi Eliezer teaches that Hashem sent that oil down from heaven, and Yaakov used some of it to anoint the stone.

The Daas Zekeinim MiBaalei HaTtosafos gives a different explanation, saying that Yaakov hollowed out his stick and filled it with oil, ensuring that he would always have light with which to learn Torah wherever he wandered. He used some of that oil to consecrate the stone.

This answer of the Daas Zekeinim offers us an understanding of why Yaakov used the words “ki bemakli ovarti es haYardein.” By saying that he crossed the Yardein with his stick, Yaakov was indicating that the only possession he was left with was Torah, because he had the oil, which enabled him to study Torah.

Yaakov spent fourteen years in the yeshiva of Sheim v’Eiver studying Torah. Then he spent an even longer period in Lovon’s spiritually hostile house. But even there, he testified that he observed the mitzvos, as he stated, “Im Lovon garti, vetaryag mitzvos shomarti.” Not only did he not emerge impoverished, but he came out richly blessed.

Chanukah was established to commemorate the miracle that occurred when a small flask of oil was found with the seal of the kohein gadol and burned for eight nights instead of one. Before that, for fifty-two years, Am Yisroel was oppressed by the mighty Hellenists. A small army of tzaddikim rose up, fought them, and triumphed. They restored Torah study and observance to the nation.

Why, then, does our celebration center more on the miracle of the oil than on the stunning military victory?

Acharonim, notably the Pnei Yehoshua (Shabbos 21b) point out that after the war, the oil used for the menorah did not actually require a special seal due to tumah hutra b’tzibbur. Halachically, they were permitted to use oil that had been defiled.

But the Chashmonaim insisted on purity and searched for pure oil. They yearned to perform the mitzvah in its most beautiful form.

In response to their striving, Hashem brought about a miracle, guiding the righteous Chashmonaim to a single pure flask bearing the seal of the kohein gadol and then causing that oil to burn for eight days, long enough to prepare new, pure oil. Heaven met their longing with radiance.

This is why the mitzvah of Chanukah uniquely contains levels: basic, mehadrin, and mehadrin min hamehadrin. Chanukah celebrates the yearning of Am Yisroel to serve Hashem with hiddur, to elevate mitzvos, to go beyond the minimum. At the time of the miracle, that dedication shone brightly, and that spirit continues today.

History has no shortage of voices telling Jews, “Why bother? Why strain? Why go beyond the requirement?” Why seek perfect haddasim? Why exert effort for the finest Pesach matzos?

Why recite Shema so slowly and with careful intention? Why insist on hiddur when the basic halacha suffices? Why be like the Briskers or Chazon Ish-nicks? There is no need for that.

On Chanukah, we celebrate the joy of hiddur mitzvah and the strength of ignoring the mockers, scoffers, and apologists. We know that what brings honor in Shomayim is not always what generates admiration down here, nor is it always a feel-good cause or something that appeals to the masses.

We need never apologize for being ehrliche Yidden. Chanukah is a celebration of those who devote themselves to Torah and avodas Hashem with effort, intensity, and beauty.

The menorah is an eternal symbol of the Jewish people, for it reminds us of Hashem’s closeness to us and our dedication to Him. It reminds us of the glory of the Mishkon and Bais Hamikdosh, and of the transformative miracle as the Jews triumphed over the oppressive Yevonim.

A businessman once told his son’s rosh yeshiva that he was removing his son from learning and placing him in the family business. “He’ll never become the Chazon Ish anyway,” the father said. “Let’s be realistic.”

The rosh yeshiva smiled. “Why bring him into business? I, too, know your son. And I can assure you, if he goes into business, he will never become anything close to Elon Musk!”

The light of that small, precious flask continues to illuminate the Jewish soul, reminding us that Hashem cherishes those who strive, who yearn, who elevate, and who seek to bring their avodas Hashem to its fullest beauty.

The lesson of Chanukah is simple yet profound. Even a small amount of pure oil, guarded, treasured, and protected, can illuminate the entire world. The tiniest spark of spiritual devotion can defeat empires. And the light produced by hiddur mitzvah continues to glow long after the flames have gone out.

Chanukah invites us to step into that light, to strive, to beautify, to elevate, and to allow our inner DNA, our individual oil, passed down from Yaakov, to shine brightly.

Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach once overheard a man in shul proudly displaying his beautiful esrog. As people admired its color, symmetry, and perfection, he eagerly challenged them to guess how much he had paid for such a stunning cheftzah shel mitzvah.

The guesses rose higher and higher, but none approached the truth. Finally, with a triumphant smile, the man announced that he had paid only twenty-five dollars.

“How did you manage that?” they asked in amazement.

With satisfaction, he explained, “I know that demand is highest before Yom Kippur. As Sukkos approaches, vendors worry about being left with unsold merchandise. So I waited until the very last moment, late on Erev Sukkos, before buying my daled minim. My strategy worked, and I got this esrog at a bargain.”

After davening, Rav Shlomo Zalman sat down with the man and showed him the Gemara in Maseches Beitza (16). He read him the machlokes between Bais Shammai and Bais Hillel. If Shammai saw a nice cut of meat early in the week, he purchased it for Shabbos, reasoning that he might not find a nicer one. The Gemara states that Hillel was different—“middah acheres hoysah lo”—as he always had faith that he would find what he needed before Shabbos.

Why, asked Rav Shlomo Zalman, does Chazal call this a “middah acheres, another way”? It would seem that Hillel had traditional bitachon, which led him to believe that things would work out well and that he would be able to obtain the best foods for Shabbos.

Rav Shlomo Zalman gently explained that Chazal are teaching that Hillel didn’t only use this approach when it came to mitzvos, like honoring Shabbos. It wasn’t a lackadaisical approach. It was a middah acheres. It was Hillel’s personal attribute. He always assumed that Hashem would help.

“Someone who lives that way can use the same approach for mitzvos, too. But if you spent time selecting the right suit for your daughter’s wedding, and you booked the hall early, or you invested time planning the perfect vacation, then apparently you don’t have that middah. So why, for an esrog, is it okay to wait for the last minute?”

His point was clear: A person’s real priorities are revealed not by what he claims to value, but by what he puts the most effort into.

Chanukah arrives to reset those priorities. It calls us back to the inner core of Jewish identity, to become mehadrin Yidden, who invest in mitzvos with heart, care, and dignity.

When the Chashmonaim searched for oil sealed with the stamp of the kohein gadol, they were making a declaration, telling the people that our priority is to perform each mitzvah in the way in which it shines most.

This is why the miracle of the pach shemen is the centerpiece of Chanukah. The military victory was very impressive. It was an inspiring miracle that freed the Jewish nation from tyrannical rule by an evil nation. But its message for us is secondary to the lesson from the miracle involving the flask of pure, holy oil. The willingness to toil for a mitzvah, to labor for taharah, to hold out for kedusha and spiritual excellence is a legacy that remains from the Chashmonaim.

And so we return to Yaakov. He crossed the Yardein with nothing but a staff holding oil, symbolizing his dedication to Torah and mitzvos. He lived with uncompromising fidelity even in Lovon’s home. And because of that loyalty, he was blessed with family, success, and Hashem’s protection.

Similarly, Chazal established the eight days of Chanukah to remind us that our greatness does not emanate from military might nor from political triumphs, but from commitment to Torah. In the days of the Yevonim, the Misyavnim mocked those who stubbornly clung to mitzvos. They viewed themselves as sophisticated, modern, and enlightened. The loyal Jews were called primitive, rigid, and old-fashioned.

But the chachomim wanted that moment in history engraved forever in our consciousness.

More important than outside approval of the world is the steadfast pursuit of dikduk b’mitzvos and limud haTorah.

Chanukah’s light continues to illuminate this.

My grandparents were mocked by the people of their town and by their irreligious relatives, who claimed that by sending their son away from home to learn in yeshiva, they were dooming him to a life of privation and ensuring that nothing would come of him. He would grow up to be a shlepper, they said. As it turned out, he was the only boy of his generation from that town who remained religious.

In our day, there is no religious family that doesn’t send their sons to learn in yeshiva. Torah study is accepted and appreciated by everyone in our world. But many in the big world out there mock those who study Torah, and especially those who dedicate their lives to pursuing Torah study and greatness.

At the same time, there are many outside our community who do not share those values. We would hope that the lighting of the menorah and the celebration of the Yom Tov’s miracles would remind those who are removed from Torah of its centrality to our lives and purpose.

Despite all of Yaakov’s challenges, he maintained his lofty shlichus as the ish tam yosheiv ohalim.

Lovon and Eisov surely wondered what good Yaakov was doing for society. They wondered why he didn’t open a yeshiva, as his father and grandfather did. They questioned why he was so protective of his children, keeping them separated from the world and culture of the day.

We know the questions. We are still getting them. After all, we are Yaakov’s people.

Chanukah provides us with renewed resolve. The parsha gives us strength to remain loyal to what we learned from Yaakov.

Yaakov set out to build a nation with a makel in his hand. He had nothing but his faith, Torah, and hidden oil. His son Yosef, in this week’s parsha, had his dreams, with which he lived when all else was taken from him and he was sold into slavery.

One year, at the annual Chanukah gathering at Yeshivas Mir Yerushalayim, the rosh yeshiva, Rav Nosson Tzvi Finkel, entered. The crowd knew that their rosh yeshiva was weak from his illness. They were so enthused that they burst out in song. The scene was surreal. The dancing talmidim shouted themselves hoarse with devotion to the rosh yeshiva. Rav Nosson Tzvi himself, barely able to speak, exuded such love for the talmidim.

A question hung over the room: How? How could a man so limited by illness be able to say shiurim and shmuessen, give chizuk and advice, spearhead programs, and raise many millions of dollars to keep the yeshiva going? How was he constantly building and expanding? How could he inspire such enthusiasm?

Rav Yitzchok Ezrachi took the microphone and answered the question in everyone’s hearts. Looking at the rosh yeshiva, he quoted a posuk from the haftorah read on Shabbos Chanukah. The novi (Zechariah 4:6) says, “Lo bechayil velo bekoach ki im beruchi amar Hashem... Not with strength, nor with might, but with My spirit, Hashem says.”

That is the secret of how we accomplish what we do. That is how we survive in golus as the screws tighten upon us.

Yaakov had only a makel. Yosef had nothing except the Torah his father taught him and his faith in Hashem.

They had nothing, and yet Yaakov founded a nation, Yosef ruled over and sustained the world, and the Chashmonaim beat the most advanced army on earth.

Chanukah is a time to allow our spirits to soar, courageous and proud to give honor to the mitzvos and the One who commanded us to fulfill them, lemehadrin min hamehadrin.

The Yevonim epitomized the seductive power of external beauty and sophisticated culture, and our generation is perhaps living through that influence at its highest resolution. We inhabit a world overflowing with distraction, superficiality, and spiritual dilution. Each one of us today faces tests and challenges. Through our dedication to limud haTorah and kiyum hamitzvos, we can excel despite all the enticements.

We are not asked to fight empires or split seas. We are asked to guard the little flame inside us, the one that remains pure, the one that carries Yaakov’s legacy, Yosef’s resilience, and the Chashmonaim’s devotion, and the one that will lead us to the coming of Moshiach speedily in our day.

Atlas of Jewish Survival

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Every day, we navigate a world of uncertainty. The news troubles us and carries whispers of fear and chaos. We encounter challenges in our homes, workplaces, and communities that seem beyond our control. We have fears, doubts, and worries about our safety, our children, our livelihoods, and our people.

In the story of Yaakov Avinu, we find lessons for our journeys through life. We learn posuk after posuk depicting how Yaakov successfully confronted challenges, a testament to resilience and a reminder that a Yid can remain strong and unbroken even when the world presses in. His life teaches us that emunah, bitachon, and Torah empower us with perseverance, clarity, and steadfastness when all around us seems uncertain.

Yaakov Avinu’s story is not just another chapter in our history. It is the heartbeat of our existence in golus.

Yaakov led his children into golus, instilling in them the qualities they would need to persevere and thrive through a long exile. He dealt with Eisov and his malach. Although Yitzchok married the daughter of a rasha, he never lived with him nor had any dealings with him. Yaakov, however, lived with, worked for, and negotiated with his infamous father-in-law, Lovon.

Yaakov fled from one wicked person, his brother Eisov, into the clutches of another, Lovon. And when he finally left Lovon, he was confronted once again by his brother and his intention to kill him and his family.

Yaakov, the quiet talmid chochom, the ish tam yosheiv ohalim, whose voice was soft and whose strength was hidden, was the av who walked through the furnace of golus and emerged untouched.

Only Yaakov was forced to confront the shadows again and again - Eisov behind him, Lovon before him, wickedness at every turn, deception coiling around him like a serpent. He left the warmth of his parents’ home and the purity of the yeshiva of Sheim and Eiver to step into a world thick with corruption and dark with evil, yet he remained as holy and pure as he was in his parents’ home and when he learned in the yeshiva of Sheim and Eiver.

His life was a symphony of struggle, yet he never bent. He could say with clarity, “Im Lovon garti vetaryag mitzvos shomarti,” affirming that even in the home of a liar, he kept every mitzvah, “velo lomadeti mima’asov hara’im,” declaring that not one drop of Lovon’s spiritual poison - none of his crookedness - seeped into his soul. This is the gaon Yaakov, the dignity of remaining pure in a world built to break you.

The ma’asei avos, each account of the avos and their travels recounted in Sefer Bereishis, are not only our history. They are eternal choreography. Every step the avos took carved out the path that their descendants would walk. Yaakov’s journey, drenched in danger and layered with heartbreak and resilience, is the blueprint for Jewish life in golus. His voice echoes across centuries, reminding us that we must guard not only the mitzvos, but our very essence, lest the world’s corruption erode our inner truth.

Parshas Vayishlach in particular is an atlas of Jewish survival. The Ramban, with divine clarity, teaches that every encounter, every gesture, and every tremor between Yaakov and Eisov will replay itself across history with Eisov’s descendants. As long as they walk the earth, we must follow Yaakov’s way.

Centuries roll by, empires rise and fall, languages evolve, but the underlying reality remains unchanged. Diplomatic politeness masks ancient hostility. Polished civility hides the same animosity that burned in Eisov’s heart. Eisov remains Eisov. Yaakov remains Yaakov. The costumes shift, the smiles widen, the speeches grow smoother, but the essence endures.

Sometimes Eisov approaches with brutality, sometimes with warmth. Sometimes with arms stretched wide, dripping in faux brotherhood, and sometimes with threats veiled in elegant phrases. But Yaakov saw through him, and so must we.

The parsha begins by telling us that following his exit from the clutches of Lovon and his return to Eretz Yisroel, Yaakov sent malochim to Eisov. Rashi tells us that Yaakov dispatched actual angels to relay his message to Eisov. And we ask: Why the need for angels? Why couldn’t he have sent human emissaries? Why such spiritual force? The answer is that only angels would not be fooled by Eisov’s charm. Humans might be disarmed by his outward courtesy, misled by his tone, blinded by his apparent goodwill. But angels perceive the truth. When Yaakov heard that Eisov was approaching, he didn’t need more information. Movement alone was enough. Eisov moving toward Yaakov signals danger.

In our generation, we forget so easily. The young among us, born and raised in the comfort of the United States, can almost be forgiven for the shock that grips them each time the world’s ancient disdain is revealed. We read the headlines and gasp at the bias, as if the nations have ever truly loved us. And yet, for those who have studied Jewish history - and there is no reason more of us should not, know what our people have endured across the long, bitter centuries of golus - this is nothing new. The world’s indifference, and its sudden outrage, are quite familiar to us.

For the Jew, the eternal target of hatred, even when defending ourselves, we are condemned. When we fight back, the world cannot comprehend our survival. The nations cannot bear to see the victims rise, instead accusing us of the very crimes that have been perpetrated against us. One nation after another points fingers at us while supporting those who seek to destroy our land and our very existence. Across continents, the crowds of masses who march against us swell. Politicians bend, bow, and pander, and anti-Semitism grows like a shadow spreading over the earth. The world’s venom may change form, but its purpose remains unchanged. Yet, through all this, the Jewish soul endures. Like Yaakov, tested and tried from birth, we rise, we survive, and we preserve the light of our people, even when the world is deaf to our truth.

Despite this, people among us crave respect from those who have never offered it, chasing affection from those who cannot give it. Why do they still seek that approval? Why do they imagine that if we shine brightly enough, speak softly enough, and innovate impressively enough, the ancient hatred will dissolve?

Yaakov longed for peace, but never expected love. He wanted coexistence, not brotherhood. His strategy was humble and brilliant: divide the camp, ensure survival, and remain unbroken. To place hope in the nations’ goodwill is to forget the ancient warning of Chazal: “Hevu zehirin bareshus” - be wary of the powerful, for their friendship lasts only as long as it benefits them.

Too many Jews, dazzled by respectful conversation and diplomatic smiles, believe that gracious words signal true affection. Then, when anti-Semitism resurfaces predictably, they are startled, aghast, bewildered. But nothing has changed. Eisov sonei l’Yaakov. It is not cruelty. It is spiritual reality.

Even some of our own brothers speak with Eisov’s cadence. They belittle Torah as antiquated and mock shomrei mesorah as old-fashioned. They elevate rare, fringe opinions while ignoring the vast, eternal river of Torah. They drape their disdain in the language of progress, sophistication, and modernity, yet their words carry the same old chill.

Politicians, diplomats, cultural elites - all wield words as masks. Under the banner of “peace,” they attempt to soften us, weaken us, and reshape us. Eisov is b’gematria shalom (Baal Haturim, Parshas Toldos 25:25), because peace is the costume he wears to gain entrance into our hearts.

He speaks in peaceful tones, and his actions appear to be motivated by a desire to spread peace and brotherhood in the world. He presents himself as an intelligent, thoughtful person. Many people are impressed by his guile.

Success in any interpersonal dealing depends on clear knowledge of the person you are meeting and what they really want. Yaakov understood Eisov’s essence and had the vision to see beyond the exterior and appreciate his opponent. When we deal with other people, we must possess the awareness of our grandfather Yaakov. He gifted us this ability as part of his legacy to preserve the gaon Yaakov with doron, tefillah, and then milchomah.

We have to ensure that we are not impressed by the sweet talk and empty promises. We do not have malochim to act as envoys and discern the true intentions of modern-day Eisovs, but we do have the message of Yaakov Avinu, who taught us the halacha of Eisov sonei l’Yaakov, an ever-relevant truth.

One of the most futile pursuits of well-meaning Jews is what might be called headline-watching: the endless scanning of the world’s news, searching for signs of bias, for slights, for evidence that the nations are against us. Time and again, the slants, the prejudice, and the subtle and not-so-subtle sympathies toward those who oppose us leap off the page, as if the revelation itself could somehow change the world’s heart. And yet, history whispers the truth to those who will listen: The world has never truly loved us. Its envy, its duplicity, its relentless indifference are as old as the hills of golus. To be shocked by it is to forget the centuries etched into our bones, the lessons learned in golus, the sorrow carried in every generation.

A tragic hope of the early Zionist movement was the belief that the birth of a Jewish state would alter the hearts of the nations; that the world would finally accept our existence; that pogroms, hatred, and slander would fade like a dream at dawn. “When we have a state,” they said, “the goyim will no longer seek our destruction. The world will no longer pursue our ruin.” And yet, time and again, the truth proves otherwise. The hatred does not vanish. It mutates. It hides behind false smiles and polished speeches. It marches on in ways both subtle and brazen. The world may change in form, but Eisov remains, and the children of Eisov remain, ever cunning, ever opposed, ever present, and lately, their hatred toward us is more pronounced than ever.

This is the lesson of the gaon Yaakov. Yaakov Avinu, who walked among deceivers and adversaries, who negotiated with Lovon, who faced the wrath of Eisov and yet never lost his goodness, understood not only the world’s true face, but his own. With quiet pride, he knew his mission, he understood his role, and he acted with clarity and precision. To act rashly is easy. To wait, to restrain, and to assume a defensive posture while preparing for battle - that is the mark of greatness. Strength is not always measured in confrontation. Courage is not always shown in attack. Victory lies in the patience that comes from remaining loyal to Torah and its values. Tefillah leads to triumph, and at times the obligation of hishtadlus forces us to take decisive action.

Through this wisdom, through the discipline of seeing clearly, the Jewish people have endured, thrived, and preserved the holiness of their mission across centuries of oppression. Our goal has always been constant: not merely to exist, but to exist as shomrei Torah, as a people whose soul remains intact amidst the storms of the world. The wisdom of Torah guides us to know when to speak, when to offer doron, when to plead, when to daven, and when to defend with strength. The Torah, through recounting the lives of our avos and imahos, is our guide, teaching us the path of wisdom, the path of restraint, the path of courage in all its forms.

Even when surrounded by danger, deceit, and the unpredictable whims of others, Yaakov remained steadfast in his values, clear in his mission, and unwavering in his faith. Like him, we can endure.

The Torah we learn, the mitzvos we perform, and the tefillos we say all strengthen our path. The storms of life may rage, and the shadows may linger, but the light of Yaakov and the eternal resilience of Am Yisroel shine through them all. The world may test us, but it cannot break us. The day will come when truth will blaze, justice will prevail, and our people will rise in dignity and strength, carrying forward the legacy of the gaon Yaakov.

And so we wait - we yearn - for the day the novi describes in the week’s haftorah: “Ve’alu moshi’im beHar Tzion lishpot es har Eisov.” We await the day when the fog of exile will finally lift, when truth will blaze across the world, when Eisov’s masks will fall away, and the greatness of Yaakov and his offspring will shine with unfiltered splendor.

May that day come swiftly.