The Art of Holding On

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

The first posuk in this week’s parsha states that Hashem appeared to Moshe and reminded him of how He had revealed Himself to the avos and promised them Eretz Yisroel (6:2). He told Moshe that just as He remembers His bris with the avos, so does He hear the cries of the Bnei Yisroel and will act to redeem them. Hashem instructed Moshe to tell the Jewish people that their suffering would soon end, and that He Himself would free them from the shackles of Mitzrayim.

Rashi explains that this was in direct response to Moshe’s question at the end of last week’s parsha (5:22), when he asked, “Lomah harei’osah la’am hazeh — Why have You made things worse for Your people, and why have You sent me to speak to Paroh?” Hashem’s reply reassured Moshe that His promises are unfailing, and that Moshe’s mission was part of the Divine plan to fulfill the covenant He had made with the avos.

Moshe’s mission was never random or accidental. Every step of his journey — from his hidden birth to his upbringing in Paroh’s palace, from his golus in Midyan to the moment he encountered the burning bush — was part of Hashem’s plan. Each challenge, each hardship, was preparing him to lead the Jewish people out of bondage and into freedom. As we learn the parsha, we understand that the miracles of Moshe’s life were not just extraordinary events. They were signs of the Hand of Hashgocha, guiding him, shaping him, and preparing him to fulfill the promise made to the avos.

There are times in history when the world seems poised against us, when despair feels heavier than hope, and the night stretches endlessly before the dawn. In those periods we must remember that even when life is darkest, the flame of Hashem’s Hashgocha is never extinguished. From the very first cries of our people to the promise of redemption, the story of Klal Yisroel is one of survival, resilience, and faith.

In every generation, we have faced threats that seemed insurmountable. Empires sought our destruction. Tyrants demanded our silence. Even when our backs were against the wall, our spirits flickered, small, fragile, but alive. That flicker is what Hashem sees, what He nurtures, and what He calls upon us to protect and strengthen.

And so it was at the very beginning of the story of Moshe Rabbeinu. An infant, born in the shadow of death, placed in the Nile to float between life and death, became the instrument through which Hashem would reveal to the world that no oppression is final, no darkness is eternal, and no nation, however broken, is beyond hope.

Sometimes, a single act of courage, as small as placing a child in a basket, is enough to change the course of history.

At the time that Paroh decreed that every Jewish baby boy be put to death, Moshe was born quietly, hidden from the eyes of the Mitzriyim. His mother, Yocheved, understood the danger surrounding him. Every footstep, every knock at the door, carried mortal threat. Yet, she also understood that her child was not merely another infant. He was part of Hashem’s plan. With courage and deep emunah, she placed him into a small teivah and set it upon the waters of the Nile. His sister, Miriam, watched from a distance, ready to follow the teivah wherever the currents carried it, ensuring that her brother would survive.

That basket was more than a vessel for a baby. It was a declaration of faith and courage in a world determined to snuff out hope. In the midst of cruelty, Yocheved entrusted her child to Hashem, believing that life could triumph even in the face of imminent death.

Faith - emunah and bitachon - must come before understanding.

Paroh’s daughter found the basket, heard the baby cry, and felt compassion stir in her heart. She rescued him, bringing him into the palace, where he was raised as her own. There, in the very heart of Jewish oppression, the future redeemer of Klal Yisroel grew up.

Moshe was surrounded by wealth and power, yet his soul remained tethered to his people. When he left the palace and witnessed a Mitzri striking a Jew, he intervened, refusing to remain silent. That single act forced him to flee Mitzrayim, leaving the comfort of the palace for the uncertainty of exile. He arrived in Midyan, married the daughter of Yisro, and became a shepherd, tending his father-in-law’s flocks in the vast wilderness.

From the grandeur of palaces to the stillness of desert plains, Moshe’s life seemed to have taken a bewildering turn. Yet, it was in that quiet wilderness that Hashem would reveal Himself, teaching Moshe that even the most ordinary moments can harbor extraordinary purpose.

One day, Moshe noticed a sight that captured his attention: a bush continuously burning with fire, yet not being consumed. The flames danced upon its branches, blackening them, yet the bush remained whole. Moshe did not walk by. He stopped, turned aside, and stared. He recognized that this was not an ordinary fire. Something holy was unfolding.

The Medrash teaches that just as Avrohom Avinu studied the world and concluded that it could not exist without a Creator, Moshe perceived that Hakadosh Boruch Hu was announcing His Presence. The burning bush was a message: Jewish history may be scorched, battered, and surrounded by flames, but it will never be destroyed. Even when circumstances appear hopeless, Hashem’s providence is always present, sustaining life, guiding events, and preparing redemption.

Sometimes, the smallest spark carries infinite meaning.

From that bush, Hashem spoke to Moshe and entrusted him with a mission that would shape the course of history: to return to Mitzrayim and redeem His people.

Moshe, in his humility, asked what he should tell the Jewish people when they inquired who sent him. Hashem replied, “Ehkeh asher Ehkeh - I will be with them.” Not only at that moment, but in every suffering, every exile, and every trial that lay ahead. Hashem was telling Moshe that even when the world seems most hostile, He is present, guiding and sustaining the Jewish people.

Moshe was no longer merely a shepherd. He had become the messenger of redemption, tasked with announcing that hope exists even in the darkest of times.

One might imagine that such news would be received with overwhelming joy. A nation crushed under whips and chains would surely leap at the promise of freedom. Yet, when Moshe delivered Hashem’s message, the Torah recounts something striking: “Velo shomu el Moshe mikotzer ruach umei’avodah kasha - The people did not listen to Moshe because of shortness of spirit and crushing labor.”

They wanted to hear him. But they couldn’t. Their suffering had not only exhausted their bodies. It had crushed their souls. They were too dispirited and fragile to absorb hope. Even when salvation is imminent, the weight of despair can make it impossible to hear.

Sometimes, we must learn patience as well as hope.

This posuk teaches that suffering is not only physical. It can shrink the soul. When people are beaten down for too long, even good news sounds unreal. Even hope can feel unreachable.

This is not only history. It is the story of our time.

We live in a world of waiting. People are glued to their devices, scrolling endlessly, waiting for good news. Just over the past couple of years, we waited for the Gaza war to end. We waited for the hostages to come home. We waited for airlines to resume flights to Eretz Yisroel. We waited for a real president, for economic stability, and for interest rates to drop so we could afford homes. We waited for justice to be restored. Though at times it felt as if we were waiting in vain, our waits were answered.

And still, we wait. We wait for America to become great again. We wait for peaceful brotherhood to be restored to Eretz Yisroel. We wait for an end to the Gaza mess. We wait for a total end to the wicked leaders of Iran and the threat they represent to Israel. We wait for an end to progressive nonsense and a return to common sense. We wait for an end to the recent rash of anti-Semitic hatred.

And of course, above all, we wait for Moshiach.

We know that he will soon come and bring us what Moshe brought to the suffering people in Mitzrayim: the announcement that suffering has an end and redemption is near.

Yet, the danger of our age is not only the bad news we hear too often from within and beyond our community. The danger of our age is exhaustion. People become overwhelmed by fear, uncertainty, political instability, social hostility, and personal struggles. Instead of remaining optimistic and hopeful, too often, people become depleted mikotzer ruach. Their spiritual lungs shrink. They can no longer breathe in hope, and they cannot hear the message of redemption. Their predicament weakens them as they see no way out, no rising sun on the horizon.

Sometimes, strength must be renewed by noticing small sparks of light.

Each headline reminds us that golus is real and that safety is fragile. But even amidst fear, there are sparks of light. Even amidst darkness, Hashem’s presence is manifest.

We know that nothing happens by accident. Wars, upheavals, and economic crises are all chapters in a Divine story. The nevi’im spoke of such times, and we pray that these upheavals are the footsteps of Moshiach.

Yet, waiting is difficult when people are exhausted.

During World War I, Jewish life in Eastern Europe was decimated. Entire towns emptied. Families wandered with nothing. Yeshivos moved from place to place, surviving on crumbs. Young men were drafted into armies they would never return from.

A bochur once approached the Chofetz Chaim, broken and despairing. “Rebbe,” he cried, “ich ken nit oishalten - I can’t go on.” The Chofetz Chaim told him about Adam Harishon. On his first day in this world, when Adam saw the sun set, he thought the world was ending. He cried, believing that his sin had destroyed it all. But the next morning, he awoke and the sun rose. Adam then realized that this is how Hashem made the world. There is night, and then there is day.

The Chofetz Chaim told the boy who thought he could not hold on, that this is the way of the world. There is night, and then there is day. There is darkness, but it is always followed by light. Hold on just a little bit longer, and you will merit seeing the light.

We saw that truth after the Holocaust. Six million Jews were murdered. Communities were wiped out. Yet, from the ashes arose families, yeshivos, and flourishing Torah life. The sun rose again.

Those survivors had ruach, spirit. They believed that darkness was not the end.

The Ohr Hachaim explains that the Jews in Mitzrayim could not hear Moshe because they were not bnei Torah. Slavery had crushed them so completely that they could no longer hope or breathe freely.

We, who have been given the Torah, must not allow ourselves to become overwhelmed mikotzer ruach. When we study Torah, it connects us with Hashem and strengthens us, for we are fulfilling our purpose.

Studying Torah restores our bitachon, which allows us to widen our perspective and appreciate that the light of redemption - personal and communal - will soon shine.

That is the message of the burning bush. A Jew may be scorched, blackened, and battered, but never consumed. Within every neshomah burns a hidden flame, waiting to be ignited.

Ever since the terrible attacks of October 7^th and the subsequent anti-Semitic hatred those attacks spawned, we have seen that flame awaken in Jews around the world. People who felt distant from Torah and mitzvos began feeling the pull of identity, destiny, and purpose. Pain shook something loose. Hearts opened. The fire began to burn again.

We must never give up on any Jew. And we must never give up on ourselves.

So many people suffer not only because of their difficulties, but because those difficulties erode their self-confidence. When people begin to doubt themselves, when they feel powerless against life’s trials, even small obstacles can feel insurmountable. To remain trapped in a cycle of sadness and defeatism is to prevent oneself from discovering the inner strength that Hashem has placed within every soul.

Everyone must believe in themselves - in their resilience, in their capacity to endure, and in their ability to rise above the challenges they face. A nisayon, a test or challenge, is not meant to crush us. It is meant to refine us. It calls upon us to confront adversity with courage, to grow through it, and to emerge stronger, wiser, and more faithful than before.

When we see our hardships as temporary, when we embrace them as opportunities for self-improvement and spiritual growth, we reclaim the power to shape our lives. Even the darkest moments contain sparks of potential. But if we allow despair to dominate, those sparks remain hidden and we deny ourselves the chance to overcome, to shine, and to fulfill the purpose Hashem has set before us.

Faith in oneself, combined with faith in Hashem, is what transforms challenge into triumph. It allows a person to move forward when the world feels heavy and unyielding, turning every difficulty into a steppingstone toward strength, courage, and ultimate redemption.

When despair takes hold, it can distort everything we see. We begin to view the world through a shadowed lens, noticing only failure, conflict, and loss. Every piece of news, every personal setback, and every interaction feels magnified into a threat. The economy seems hopeless, relationships appear broken, communities feel fractured, and the world itself can seem hostile and unwelcoming.

But this perspective, as powerful as it feels, is not the full truth. Even when our hearts are heavy and our minds are clouded by pessimism, there is much goodness around us. There are people willing to lend a hand, communities ready to support, and opportunities for renewal waiting to be embraced. Often, all it takes is a shift in focus, and a willingness to open our eyes and hearts, to allow that help and kindness to enter.

Despair isolates, but hope connects. It reminds us that we are not alone. Even in the depths of hardship, we can find allies, encouragement, and light. When we lift our gaze above the shadows of our own suffering, we discover that the world contains far more warmth, generosity, and potential than we could have imagined.

The moment we allow ourselves to see that truth, even a small spark of hope can grow into a flame, guiding us toward action, renewal, and the strength to rise above our challenges. It is in those moments - when faith in ourselves intersects with faith in Hashem, when hope begins to shine despite darkness - that we begin to reclaim our ruach and our capacity to change our circumstances.

Just as Moshe stood before the burning bush, unsure and humble, yet chosen to lead Klal Yisroel out of darkness into freedom, so are we called to rise above our own doubts and despair. Hashem has placed within each of us a spark, a flame of potential, a neshomah capable of strength and resilience even when the world feels overwhelming. If we embrace that spark and nurture it with emunah, bitachon, faith, courage, and action, we can overcome every nisayon, break free from every cycle of sadness, and open ourselves to the light of redemption.

Let us remember that even when the darkness feels endless, the flame of Hashem’s providence is always present. Just as Moshe was sent to bring hope to a people weighed down by suffering, each of us has the capacity to rise, to act, to believe, and to see the good that surrounds us. In doing so, we participate in the eternal story of our people, a story in which despair never has the final word and redemption always awaits.

May we be zoche to experience the ultimate redemption very soon with the coming of Moshiach.

Tapestry of Redemption

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

This week, we begin Sefer Shemos, the Sefer Hageulah. It is the sefer that tells the story of how a broken, enslaved people rose from the depths of despair to stand at Har Sinai to receive the Torah. It carries us from the bitterness of bondage to the ecstasy of redemption, from drowning terror at the Yam Suf to the highest spiritual moment in human history.

But Sefer Shemos is not merely a historical account. It teaches us what destroys a nation — and what saves it.

The Alter of Kelm would explain that just as Avrohom, Yitzchok and Yaakov are called the avos because they laid the foundations of Yiddishkeit, so do the parshiyos of Sefer Shemos function as avos, forming the bedrock of our emunah and guiding us how to live as Jews.

How we treat other people defines us. It shapes our souls and announces, louder than any slogan, who we are. When we are attentive to others, when we notice them, value them, and appreciate them, we grow. We become capable of achdus. And through that unity, we become capable of far more than we ever could accomplish alone.

Hashem designed human beings to need one another. A person cannot thrive in isolation. From the moment we enter the world, we survive only through connection. As infants, we are utterly dependent. Even as adults, nearly everything we require to sustain our lives — food, shelter, education, health, security — comes from the labor and kindness of others. Every act of care, every hand extended, is part of the invisible network that sustains us.

Arrogance blinds people to this reality. Those who refuse to acknowledge how much they owe others imagine themselves self-made. It should be obvious that without the contributions of many other people, they would be hungry, lonely, ignorant, and lost. Everything we know, everything we have, exists because someone else cared enough to give. Appreciating even the smallest kindness is part of the lifeblood of community.

A meaningful life cannot be lived alone. Peirud — division — is not merely a social flaw. It is spiritual corrosion. It weakens communities and hollows out the people who cause it.

The Torah is filled with mitzvos that cultivate humility and gratitude, mitzvos that remind us that the world is sustained by kindness and that Hashem showers us with blessing every day. Whatever we pursue in life, we must remember the ultimate goal. Not winning arguments. Not momentary triumphs. But building something enduring. Unity makes our efforts last.

The Torah tells us in Devorim (7:7) that Hashem did not choose us because we were many. We are, in fact, the smallest of the nations. And yet, when we are united, we become greater than the sum of our parts. Our deeds combine. Our merits accumulate. Other nations may be larger, but when we have achdus, no one can overtake us.

We must learn how to move forward together, not as individuals who happen to share a label, but as a people bound by shared purpose. Loving another Jew does not require agreement, and appreciating another Jew does not require seeing the world through the same lens. What matters is the shared neshomah beneath the surface, the spark that unites us despite our differences. When we recognize that spark, unity becomes real, lived, and enduring.

Even before Moshe Rabbeinu was born, this lesson was already being written. Shifra and Puah, his mother and sister, risked their lives to save others. They were renowned for their righteousness and rose to achieve levels of nevuah. Yet, despite their overarching greatness, the Torah refers to them by the names given them for their acts of kindness involving infants. Their identity was chesed. In reward for their chesed, they merited dynasties of Kehunah, Leviyah, and Malchus.

Kindness is greatness.

Moshe Rabbeinu survived because of chesed. A helpless infant, placed in a basket among the reeds, was saved by Basya, the daughter of Paroh. She named him Moshe, “because I drew him from the water.” The Maharal teaches that although Moshe had many names, this is the one by which he is eternally known, because it reflects an act of compassion. The Torah is Toras Chesed. Even Hashem calls Moshe by a name rooted in kindness.

Moshe’s greatness did not come from the palace. It came from his heart. The Torah says, “Vayigdal hayeled — And the youth grew.” How? “Vayeitzei el echov vayar besivlosam.” He left comfort behind and went out to feel the pain of his brothers. Though raised as royalty, walled off from what was going on, he took it upon himself to leave the blissful comfort of the royal palace to view what was happening in the lives of the lower classes. The suffering that he saw changed him forever.

When he saw a Jew being beaten, he intervened. When he saw a Jew striking another Jew, he recoiled in horror. “Achein noda hadovor,” he cried. Now I understand. Redemption cannot come where Jews fight one another. Disunity locks the gates of geulah.

That day’s events forced him to leave Mitzrayim. Upon escaping to Midyon, Moshe’s first act was chesed, standing up for vulnerable strangers at a well. That kindness led to his future, his family, and his destiny.

The Sefer Hachareidim writes at the conclusion of the sefer that prior to his passing from this world, Yaakov Avinu called for his sons, the twelve shevotim, and said to them, “Hikovtzu v’shimu bnei Yaakov — Gather together the sons of Yaakov.” He then told them that they should rid their hearts of jealousy, hatred, and competition, and view each other as if they are one person with one soul. Yaakov told them that if they could not achieve that unity, the Shechinah would not be able to rest among them.

The Rishonim (Rashi, Rabbeinu Bachya, Ibn Ezra, Rashbam) explain the pesukim (Shemos 29:45–46) which state that Am Yisroel “should know that I, Hashem Elokeihem, took them out of Mitzrayim so that I can dwell among them.” They write that this means that Hashem took us out of Mitzrayim in order for us to build the Mishkon. This denotes that they were unified at the time of Yetzias Mitzrayim or else they would not have been redeemed, for the Shechinah can only rest among us, and in the Mishkon, where we are united. Had we not been b’achdus, and had there been peirud, Hashem would not have removed us from there.

The pattern repeats throughout history. In every golus and every geulah, chesed and achdus are decisive. They carried us out of Mitzrayim, and they will carry us forward again.

If we remember who we are, if we reach for one another instead of turning away, we can build something radiant and enduring. Even small acts of appreciation — a kind word, a gesture of help — ripple outward, strengthening the bonds that protect and sustain the klal.

Our Torah is Toras Moshe, the inheritance of a gentle shepherd who led with compassion. It must be taught and lived in a way that builds people, not breaks them. Greatness is tied to sensitivity to the klal and to every individual within it. Such sensitivity awakens Heavenly mercy. Greatness is formed through many small acts of kindness born of an appreciation for every person and their needs and emotions.

The Torah says that after the passing of all the shevotim, there arose a “new” Paroh who did not know Yosef. Rashi explains that according to one view, this was not a new king at all. It was the same Paroh, who chose to pretend that Yosef had never existed. Gratitude became inconvenient. History was rewritten.

This tactic is ancient and familiar: Isolate, discredit, demonize.

The newly installed president of Venezuela and other leftists and anti-Semites blamed “the Zionists” for President Trump’s takedown of the dictator Nicolas Maduro. Facts were distorted, history was bent, and Jews were once again cast as convenient villains for events they did not create.

Actions concurrent with the inauguration of New York City’s new mayor were disconcerting to many Jews who are concerned about the direction he will take.

As Shabbos departs and the melava malka candles flicker, we feel the ache of transition, from light to labor, from holiness to struggle. We sing, “Al tira avdi Yaakov.” Do not fear. With the voice, restraint, and faith of Yaakov, we can endure.

Together, we hold the key to redemption. We come from different lands, speak different languages, and follow different customs. But beneath it all, we are family. One on one, Jews get along. We must not allow labels to tear us apart.

Where others bring darkness, we must bring light. Where others sow loneliness, we must offer brotherhood. When we are divided, Amaleik gains strength. When we stand k’ish echad b’lev echad, no force can overcome us.

We cry together. We rejoice together. We live for one another. We have tasted what redemption feels like.

Let us hold onto that taste. Let us strengthen achdus, deepen love, and remember that we are part of something larger than ourselves so that we can merit the geulah.

Unity does not mean sameness. Achdus does not demand that we think alike, dress alike, or experience life in the same way. Klal Yisroel has always been a tapestry woven from different strands, from the time of the twelve shevotim, each distinct in nature and approach, each bringing a different koach to the same sacred mission. Yehudah’s leadership, Yissochor’s depth, and Zevulun’s support are not competing paths, but complementary ones.

Our diversity is not a sign of weakness. It is a source of strength. A people built from many perspectives is more resilient, more complete, and better able to meet complex challenges. When different strengths stand together, blind spots are covered, balance is created, and the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. Achdus is not forged by erasing difference, but by weaving difference into a shared purpose.

Loving another Jew does not depend on agreement. Appreciating another Jew does not require us to see the world through identical lenses. It asks only that we recognize the shared shoresh beneath the surface, the common destiny that binds us together even when our paths look different. We do not have to blur distinctions in order to maintain connection.

When differences are handled gently, they enrich us. When they are handled harshly, they wound. Achdus is sustained not by winning debates, but by preserving dignity. It grows when we listen a little longer, judge a little less, and remember that the person before us is more than a position or a label.

Every Jew carries a cheilek Eloka mimaal, a spark of the Divine worthy of care and respect. When we speak kindly, when we give the benefit of the doubt, when we assume sincerity even where we disagree, we create an environment in which unity can breathe. Disagreement does not have to fracture us. Handled with warmth, it can deepen understanding.

Achdus is often built quietly, through patience, restraint, and small acts of consideration. It is found in choosing compassion over suspicion and connection over distance. When we relate to one another as people rather than categories, unity becomes not an ideal, but a lived reality.

There are many lessons for us in the parshiyos of Seder Shemos, but the need for achdus to bring about geulah is a primary one, especially during these times of darkening clouds as we pine for the geulah and Moshiach.

We don’t always have to agree, but when we disagree, it needs to be with respect and without hatred, as bnei and bnos Torah and not as people devoid of middos and derech eretz. Let us work to make ourselves worthy of having the Shechinah dwell among us, so that Hakadosh Boruch Hu can feel confident enough to bring us all home, surrounding the Bais Hamikdosh, with the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our day.

Blueprint for Golus

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Parshas Vayechi brings to a close Sefer Bereishis, the account of the creation of the world and the formation of our people. It is not merely the end of a sefer, but the conclusion of a foundational era, the period in which the avos and imahos forged the spiritual DNA of Klal Yisroel. From Adam and Chava, through Noach and his descendants, and onward to Avrohom, Yitzchok, and Yaakov, Sefer Bereishis is the blueprint for Jewish existence in every generation.

This week, the circle is closed. Yaakov Avinu, the last of the avos, grows old in exile. He gathers his children, gives them brachos that echo through eternity, and prepares for his passing. His final request is that he be buried in Me’oras Hamachpeilah, in Chevron, alongside Avrohom and Yitzchok. With that request, and with his passing, the era of the avos comes to an end and the long, painful chapter of Jewish exile begins.

Yet, the Torah introduces this final parsha with a word that seems, at first glance, jarringly out of place: “Vayechi — And he lived.”

Why does the Torah describe Yaakov’s years in Mitzrayim — a foreign land, steeped in immorality and destined to become the crucible of our suffering — as life? Why is golus framed not as decline, but as vitality?

The Torah does not waste words. When it says “vayechi,” it is teaching us something essential about how a Jew lives — and survives — in golus.

Meforshim raise an additional question. When the Torah records the lifespan of Avrohom or Yitzchok, it gives a single number, a total. With Yaakov, the Torah does something different. It tells us that he lived seventeen years in Mitzrayim. Why isolate that period? Why highlight those specific years?

The answer given by Chazal is striking: Those years were the best years of Yaakov’s life.

Yaakov’s life had been one of unrelenting struggle. Even before birth, Eisov sought to destroy him. He was forced to flee his parents’ home, suffered under Lovon’s deception for twenty years, and endured the death of Rochel Imeinu in childbirth. He experienced anguish at the actions of Shimon and Levi, heartbreak at the sale of Yosef, and more than two decades of grief, believing that his beloved son was dead.

Only after twenty-two years of mourning did Yaakov learn that Yosef was alive, and not merely alive, but ruling over Mitzrayim. At that moment, the Torah tells us, “Vatechi ruach Yaakov avihem—And Yaakov’s spirit came back to life.” His ruach hakodesh returned. He immediately set out to join Yosef.

Before descending to Mitzrayim, Yaakov stopped in Be’er Sheva. There, Hakadosh Boruch Hu appeared to him and reassured him not to fear the descent. Hashem promised that Yaakov’s descendants would become a great nation there, that He would go down with Yaakov, and that He would ultimately bring his children back home.

Yaakov understood what this meant. He knew that his journey to Mitzrayim would trigger the fulfillment of the gezeirah foretold to Avrohom: that his descendants would be strangers in a land not their own. He knew that golus was beginning. Yet, he went anyway.

Why?

Because Yosef was there, and because at times, life demands that we move forward even when we know that the road ahead will be difficult. As long as we remain tethered to Hashem and loyal to the truth, we can succeed and flourish.

The Torah then tells us that Yaakov lived in Mitzrayim for seventeen years — years so elevated that Chazal describe them as mei’ein Olam Haba, a taste of the World to Come (Tanna Devei Eliyohu, Perek 5).

How could exile feel like Olam Haba?

Yaakov resided in Goshen, a semi-autonomous region where his family could live together. What greater joy exists than living with one’s children and grandchildren, watching them grow, guiding them, and learning with them daily? Yaakov sent Yehudah ahead to establish botei medrash, ensuring that Torah would be the axis around which Jewish life revolved. Goshen became a spiritual enclave, insulated from the decadence and corruption of Mitzrayim.

For seventeen years, Yaakov lived surrounded by Torah, family, and purpose. During those years, Hashem spoke to him again. The Shechinah, which had departed during his years of anguish, returned.

That is why the Torah says vayechi. Because when there he began living again on a higher level.

Yaakov Avinu was the av of golus. He was the first Jew to live long-term outside Eretz Yisroel, and in doing so, he taught us how to live in exile without being consumed by it.

When Yaakov bowed to Yosef, Chazal tell us that he was not merely honoring political power. He was acknowledging spiritual heroism. Hu Yosef she’omeid betzidko. Despite everything he had been through and despite all those years he spent living alone in a terribly immoral country, Yosef remained Yosef. He stayed righteous.

Yaakov recognized the magnitude of Yosef’s accomplishment. Yosef had not grown up in Yaakov’s home. He had been thrust into the moral cesspool of Mitzrayim, surrounded by temptation, isolation and power, and he emerged unscathed. He built a beautiful Jewish home in golus. He raised children who were worthy of becoming shevotim.

This recognition was not incidental. It was pedagogical.

Yaakov Avinu’s guidance to his children — and to all future generations — was to create yeshivos, botei medrash, and schools where Torah and avodah anchor life; to build homes where shemiras hamitzvos and middos tovos are nurtured; and a family life that cultivates emunah and bitachon amidst the trials of golus.

Yaakov was teaching future generations how to look at children and students: not only at where they are, but at what they are contending with. He was modeling appreciation for effort, not just outcome. He was showing that success in golus requires a different kind of strength, and that those who remain faithful under such pressure deserve admiration.

Just as Yaakov Avinu ensured that his family would flourish spiritually despite the enticements and moral challenges of Mitzrayim, so must we equip our generation to thrive amid the pressures of the modern golus with love, discipline, guidance, and example.

It is difficult to be young. Young people today face relentless schedules, intense academic and social pressures, and nisyonos that prior generations never imagined. Days begin early and end late. Expectations are high. Failures are magnified. And all of this unfolds in the midst of a culture that actively undermines restraint, modesty, and commitment.

Yet, boruch Hashem, our young people want to succeed. They want to grow. They want to do the right thing.

Since Adom and Chava, temptation has been ever-present. Overcoming the yeitzer hara has never been easy. But adults derive strength from Torah, mussar, and years of experience. Children and adolescents cannot do it alone. They need guidance — loving, patient, consistent guidance from those who came before them.

This is chinuch.

Chinuch is not indoctrination. It is transmission — transmitting our mesorah in a way that the next generation can understand, internalize, and cherish. We begin when children are young, explaining mitzvos lovingly, modeling behavior, and setting expectations that are firm but humane.

Golus complicates everything, including chinuch. The distractions are louder. The influences are more aggressive. The line between inside and outside is increasingly porous. Keeping children focused on Torah and Yiddishkeit requires intention and attention.

This week, Rav Yaakov Bender came out with a book on chinuch whose title sums up our challenge as parents and mechanchim: Chinuch with Geshmak. In order to effectively inculcate our children with the truth of Torah, we have to do it with geshmak, with happiness and the joy of purpose.

The novi Micha tells us, “Titein emes l’Yaakov.” Truth was Yaakov’s defining trait. Emes anchored him through suffering and sustained him through prosperity. It was emes — clarity about Hashem’s role in the world — that allowed Yaakov to endure tragedy without despair and success without assimilation.

This lesson is more urgent today than at any time in recent memory.

We live in a world of illusion — the illusion of control, permanence, and acceptance. Jews have achieved unprecedented comfort in golus, particularly in the United States. We have wealth, influence, political access, and religious freedom. And yet, beneath the surface, something is cracking.

Anti-Semitism is surging, not in whispers, but openly. Synagogues are vandalized. Jewish students are harassed on college campuses. Jews are assaulted in the streets for wearing yarmulkas. Protesters chant for intifada in Western capitals. Terror apologists march freely while police stand aside.

And many Jews are stunned. How could this happen? We thought we belonged.

Yaakov teaches us that golus can be livable, even productive, but only if we never forget that it is golus. We have seen the success of that path throughout the ages and until this very day.

The Haggadah tells us, “Vayogor shom—And Yaakov sojourned there.” He did not settle. The Maharal and the Vilna Gaon explain that because Yaakov never sought permanence in Mitzrayim, his descendants merited redemption. Golus is survivable only when we remember that it is temporary.

Rav Yehoshua Leib Diskin writes that as long as the Jews remained clustered in Goshen, the Mitzriyim left them alone. It was only after Yaakov’s passing, when the Jews began spreading out, becoming comfortable and assimilating, that trouble began. “Vayokom melech chodosh.” Anti-Semitism followed assimilation like clockwork.

This pattern has been repeated throughout history.

The Netziv writes that when Jews maintain separation, spiritually and culturally, hostility subsides. When we blur boundaries, resentment grows.

We see this unfolding before our eyes.

Assimilation has reached unprecedented levels. Today, nearly three out of every four Jews marrying in the United States are marrying non-Jews. Many Jews have hitched their hopes to political movements that are openly hostile to Jewish values and Jewish survival.

For decades, American Jews felt safe. The United States was Israel’s staunchest ally. That began to erode under President Obama, continued during the Biden years, and has metastasized into open hostility among large segments of the Democratic Party.

President Trump reversed that trend during his first administration. He stood by Israel publicly and privately, recognized Yerushalayim, supported Israeli sovereignty, and treated Prime Minister Netanyahu as a partner. Many Jews felt secure with Trump in the White House, believing his friendship was genuine, because his actions proved it. He has continued to be a good friend to Israel in his second administration, as he demonstrated again this week at his meeting with Binyomin Netanyahu at Mar-a-Lago.

Yet now, anti-Semitism has found a foothold on the Right as well as the Left and hostility toward Jews and Israel is becoming accepted in elite circles.

We live in an era of unprecedented Jewish comfort in the West — and unprecedented Jewish vulnerability. Antisemitism is no longer whispered. It is shouted through megaphones in public thoroughfares, shopping malls and college campuses. Jews are assaulted in broad daylight. Jewish institutions are vandalized, firebombed, and require armed guards. Politicians issue statements. Police cite “free speech.” Prosecutors decline charges. The message is heard clearly by those who hate us: proceed.

Conspiracy theories fester. Crude stereotypes resurface. Figures with large followings traffic in nonsense about Jewish power and loyalty. Disturbingly, these voices are tolerated, and even defended.

The vice president, J.D. Vance, a man who has aligned himself with at least one of the loudest offenders, has made statements that should give Jews pause. His rhetoric, at times careless and at times troubling, raises serious questions about how he would wield power if elevated further. Silence in the face of anti-Semitism is not neutrality. It is complicity.

This is not about parties. It is about reality.

Yaakov teaches us that no government, no culture, and no era of prosperity exempts us from vigilance. Golus can be comfortable, but it is never permanent.

The path forward is the one Yaakov charted in Goshen: Torah-centered living, strong communal institutions, and moral clarity.

Three times a day, as we conclude Shemoneh Esrei, we ask, “P’sach libi beSorasecha—Open my heart to Your Torah.” Then we ask Hashem to thwart the plans of our enemies: “Vechol hachoshvim olai ra’ah meheirah hofeir atzosom vekalkeil machashavtom.” These are not separate requests. They are cause and effect. When we cling to Torah and mitzvos, Hashem is there for us, regardless of where we are.

May we merit to follow in the path of Yaakov, living full Torah lives and enjoying much nachas, and may we merit to soon experience the end of golus with the geulah sheleimah.