Stay Out of the Mud

Iran hung over Israel, the United States, and much of the Arab world like an albatross for nearly half a century following the Islamic Revolution of 1979. During those decades, successive American presidents promised to contain the regime, restrain its ambitions, or reform its behavior. None succeeded.

Instead, the ayatollahs grew steadily bolder. They financed and armed terror proxies across the Middle East, spread terror and instability through Hamas, Hezbollah, and the Houthis, threatened shipping lanes and oil supplies, and relentlessly advanced toward nuclear capability. As time went on, Iran entrenched itself even further.

For years, Israeli Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu warned the world about Iran and the danger it represented. Most Western leaders treated his warnings with discomfort or irritation. Barack Obama openly despised him and viewed Netanyahu as an obstacle to diplomacy. Joe Biden was similarly distrustful of him and his confrontational approach.

The first American president willing to embrace Netanyahu’s view of Iran was Donald Trump. Together with Israel, the United States eventually crossed a line previous administrations feared to cross, striking Iranian nuclear facilities during last year’s 12-Day War. More recently, they undertook a joint operation to degrade Iran and permanently remove the threat it represented.

Iran suffered devastating blows. Military infrastructure was damaged. The Ayatollah Supreme Leader and senior commanders were eliminated. Yet, authoritarian regimes possess a grim advantage over democracies: They can absorb enormous suffering without changing course. Tyrannies do not answer to public exhaustion, economic pain, or mounting casualties in the same way elected governments do. So regardless of how hard they are hit and how much they suffer, they absorb the blows and continue forward.

The military success exposed an older and more difficult problem: It is relatively easy to begin a war. The hard part is ending it.

Democracies grow weary quickly. Citizens expect results, timelines, and exits. They measure wars in news cycles and election seasons. Dictatorships measure them in generations.

That is the dilemma now confronting Trump and Netanyahu. Bombing campaigns can weaken a regime, but unless the regime collapses or surrenders completely, the question becomes: What comes next?

Trump wants to be remembered not as a wartime president trapped in another endless Middle Eastern conflict, but as a dealmaker and peacemaker. Ceasefires are declared, promises are extracted, negotiations resume, and the cycle begins again.

Trump no longer allows Netanyahu to lead him. He wants a way out, and Netanyahu does not appear to have one. Trump declared a ceasefire many weeks ago. Iran promised to keep the Strait of Hormuz open and negotiate an end to its nuclear ambitions. Neither has happened, and now a new deal is being negotiated that allows the tyrants to remain in power while once again accepting their word regarding keeping the strait open and negotiating an end to their nuclear program.

And perhaps that is the larger lesson.

Human beings often rush into conflicts, relationships, policies, and wars driven by emotion, instinct, or necessity, without seriously considering how they will conclude if events do not unfold according to plan. Beginning something is easy. Ending it wisely is much harder.

Children grab for toys without thinking beyond the moment. They see a toy and want to play with it. If another child has it or wants it and resists, the struggle escalates instinctively. Neither child can yet speak, so they grab and fight.

Maturity means developing the ability to see beyond the immediate impulse, to anticipate consequences, to understand limits, and to recognize that force alone rarely resolves complex struggles.

Growing up means learning to live with insight instead of inclination.

Not every adult fully learns that lesson.

Some people move through life reacting emotionally to every frustration, temptation, and provocation. They begin conflicts without considering how difficult they may be to end. They make decisions based on momentary feelings instead of long-term consequences.

People often rush into things emotionally, impulsively, or reactively, without considering the consequences, the endings, the costs, or whether they even have a plan.

Nations are often not much different.

Military campaigns can begin with dramatic speeches and decisive action. But once events fail to unfold according to plan, leaders suddenly discover that there is no simple exit. Democracies grow impatient. New leaders replace old ones. Temporary victories create new complications; overwhelming power cannot always produce a clean or permanent solution.

And so the world finds itself trapped in cycles that nobody fully thought through from the beginning.

But this problem is not limited to governments and wars.

In truth, people do this every day in their private lives.

A person says something sharp in anger without thinking where the argument will lead. Someone makes a reckless purchase without considering the consequences.

Human beings are often captivated by the immediate moment. We want something, so we reach for it. We are hurt, so we strike back. We are angry, so we react.

But mature thinking involves the ability to pause and ask not only, “What do I want right now?” but also, “Where will this lead?”

Wisdom is not merely the ability to act. It is the ability to think ahead.

Before speaking, before fighting, before committing, before reacting, before investing time, money, or prestige into a project, a person must ask himself: What happens if this does not work out? Where will this step that I am taking lead me? And what will this decision demand of me tomorrow, next month, or years from now?

Anyone can start something. Intelligence and maturity mean understanding the cost of finishing it, and sometimes not getting involved in the first place.

The Brisker Rov would illustrate this idea with a moshol about a young baal agalah whose wagon veered off the road and became stuck in thick mud.

The driver strained with all his might to free the wagon. He whipped his poor horses repeatedly, pushed at the wheels, and tried every trick he knew, but the wagon only sank deeper. Exhausted and frustrated, he realized that he had no choice but to trudge into town to seek advice from the veteran wagon drivers gathered at the local inn.

Spotting one baal agalah who looked particularly seasoned and wise, the young man approached him and poured out his troubles.

“I’ve tried everything,” he said desperately. “Nothing works. Tell me, how do I get out of this mess?”

The older driver listened quietly and then replied: “My dear friend, you are right. Once a wagon sinks that deeply into the mud, it is impossible to get out. But an experienced baal agalah knows that the real wisdom is not in figuring out how to escape the mud afterward, it is knowing how not to get stuck in it.”

That lesson applies not only to wagon drivers, but to nations and individuals as well.

For decades, the world allowed Iran to become entrenched, believing that somehow the problem could always be managed later through diplomacy, sanctions, threats, or limited military action. Now leaders across the world are struggling to answer a question that should have been asked long ago: How do you get out of a situation that was permitted to grow unchecked for nearly half a century?

But the lesson is not only about Iran. It is about us.

In life, people often act first and think later. They speak in anger and only afterward wonder how to repair the damage. They enter conflicts, commitments, and situations without considering where they may lead. Emotion and impulse overpower judgment and foresight.

The wise person tries to think several steps ahead before acting.

Anyone can charge ahead impulsively. Wisdom lies in seeing the mud before the wagon sinks into it.

Chazal reinforce this lesson in this week’s parsha. Rashi (6:2), quoting the Gemara (Sotah 2a), asks why the parsha of nozir immediately follows the parsha of sotah. He explains, “Loma nismicha parshas nozir l’parshas sotah, lomar loch shekol haroeh sotah b’kilkulah yazir atzmo min hayayin — Whoever sees a sotah in her disgrace should forbid himself from drinking wine.”

At first glance, the lesson seems difficult to understand. The person we are referring to has just witnessed the terrible consequences of sin. He has seen humiliation, pain, and destruction. We would think that the experience would strengthen his resolve never to sin.

Yet, Chazal understood human nature differently.

Being exposed to sin, even while witnessing its consequences, can weaken a person’s natural revulsion toward aveirah. The very exposure creates familiarity. The boundaries become less absolute. What once seemed unthinkable slowly becomes imaginable.

Therefore, the Torah says that someone who witnessed the sotah in her disgrace must take protective action. He must reinforce himself before temptation arrives. He must become a nozir and distance himself from wine so that he will not be led to spiritual failure. Transgressing an aveirah begins with small compromises, lowered defenses, and the mistaken belief that “it could never happen to me.”

That is the deeper lesson the Torah is teaching.

A wise person does not merely react once he is trapped in the mud. He thinks ahead and protects himself before reaching dangerous ground.

And if this is true regarding a sotah, where the person who committed the aveirah is disgraced and suffering the consequences, how much more so must a person be careful when surrounded by sinners who appear successful, happy, and carefree. When an aveirah is packaged attractively, when wrongdoing appears glamorous or rewarding, the danger becomes far greater.

The Torah therefore teaches us that a person must always think several steps ahead. We must know where certain roads lead, even when the beginning appears harmless or pleasurable. We must understand that aveirah always leads to kilkul.

Similarly, Chazal teach us in Pirkei Avos, “Hevei mechasheiv hefsed mitzvah keneged sechorah, usechar aveirah keneged hefseidah.”

When it feels difficult or costly to do a mitzvah, Chazal recommend thinking about the eternal reward it brings and recognizing that the temporary sacrifice is insignificant compared to the everlasting gain. And when an aveirah appears profitable, enjoyable, or enticing, think ahead to the spiritual damage, the loss, and the consequences it will inevitably bring.

The Torah is teaching us to live not by impulse, but by thought.

Sinners and fools live only in the moment, swept along by temptation, emotion, and desire. Bnei Torah are meant to live differently. A ben Torah thinks before he acts. He looks beyond the excitement of the moment and considers where a path ultimately leads before taking the first step down the road.

And no person should imagine themself immune to influence.

People often assume that they can read whatever they wish, expose themselves to questionable ideas and lifestyles, and remain untouched by them. They convince themselves that seeing improper behavior, hearing distorted attitudes, or consuming foolishness — and worse — will not affect their thinking or weaken their values.

But the Torah teaches otherwise.

Chazal understood that exposure itself changes a person. What once shocked him slowly becomes normal. What was unacceptable gradually loses its ugliness. The yeitzer hora rarely succeeds through sudden collapse. It works slowly, eroding sensitivities little by little until a person no longer recognizes how far he has drifted.

When the Second World War ended, many of the refugees of the Mir Yeshiva who had survived the war years in Shanghai emigrated to the United States. Among them was the great mashgiach, Rav Yechezkel Levenstein. Yet, he found himself unable to remain here for long.

He explained that when he first arrived in America, the sight of public chillul Shabbos horrified him. Seeing cars driving on Shabbos caused him deep pain. But as time passed, he noticed that he was becoming accustomed to it. The shock was fading. That realization frightened him so deeply that he left America and moved to Eretz Yisroel.

Today, many of us are fortunate to live in neighborhoods where Shabbos is publicly honored and cherished. The streets are quiet, the stores are closed, and the atmosphere itself reflects kedushas Shabbos. But no person should believe that he is beyond influence. Even if our streets are sheltered, our minds and hearts are constantly exposed to a world filled with temptations, distractions, and values profoundly at odds with Torah.

The lesson of the nozir is as relevant today as ever. We must think ahead. We must protect ourselves before the struggle begins. We must recognize which influences strengthen us and which slowly weaken us, even when the damage is not immediately visible.

After having just experienced the beautiful Yom Tov of Shavuos, we should carry this message with us. “Loma nismicha chag Shavuos l’parshas nozir.” At Har Sinai, on Shavuos, we were given a way of life through the Torah that teaches us to live thoughtfully, carefully, and deliberately. We need to ask ourselves where what we are doing will lead, what type of person it will make us, and whether it will bring us closer to Hashem or further away.

The world often glorifies spontaneity and living for the moment. Torah teaches responsibility, foresight, and self-awareness. It teaches us to see the mud before the wagon sinks into it. It teaches us to be a mamleches kohanim v’goy kadosh.

May we all merit living lives of Torah and mitzvos and merit the coming of Moshiach very soon.

 

Wings of Angels

Mountains are central to our history. The first mountain we encounter is Har Hamoriah, where Avrohom Avinu approached to bring his son Yitzchok as a korban.

On that mountain, malochim appeared to Avrohom and Yitzchok. On that mountain, Yaakov Avinu experienced kedusha and received tremendous brachos. On that mountain, the Bais Hamikdosh was built.

The mountain that hosted so much holiness also experienced great tragedy. Though it witnessed immense kedusha, during the time of the churban its holiness was defiled and tumah found a resting place there. We anxiously await the day when the Shechinah will once again return there together with the Bais Hamikdosh Hashlishi.

The Torah also speaks about Har Gerizim and Har Eivol, the mountains near Shechem. Upon one, eternal brachos were proclaimed. Upon the other, eternal curses were declared for those who do not follow the Torah. The mountain of blessings was lush and green, while the other remained barren and desolate. They remain that way until today.

In Nach, we read about the mountain upon which Eliyohu Hanovi confronted the false prophets of the avodah zorah known as Baal.

But of all the mountains, the one most central to who we are is Har Sinai. Though physically small, it towers over the entire landscape of Jewish history. On Shavuos, we picture millions of Yidden encamped around it, overwhelmed with tangible awe. They had traveled for forty-five days, following Moshe Rabbeinu through a hot and dusty desert in order to reach it.

Their journey had truly begun at brias ha’olam, when the world itself was created. The nation was moving toward its ultimate destiny. Bereishis, Chazal teach us, bishvil haTorah shenikreis reishis - the world was created so that the Torah could eventually be given to the Jewish people.

There was thunder and lightning. The sound of the shofar echoed powerfully, growing louder and louder. Smoke rose from the mountain, which stood beneath a thick cloud. The Divine Voice reverberated throughout creation, shaking the foundations of the earth. The Bnei Yisroel trembled with fear as they watched their leader ascend the mountain and disappear into the arofel, the thick fog.

On Shavuos, as we revisit the story of Moshe Rabbeinu ascending Har Sinai, we are reminded that the road to the highest levels of kedusha is rarely smooth or clear. More often, it passes through fog, smoke, and uncertainty. The Torah tells us, “Vayavo Moshe besoch he’anan,” and later, “Moshe nigash el ha’arofel asher shom ha’Elokim.” Moshe entered the cloud and approached the dense darkness where Hashem’s Presence rested. Moshe Rabbeinu did not receive the Torah beneath calm and peaceful skies. It came amid thunder, lightning, smoke, and heavy fog.

Perhaps that itself was part of the lesson.

A person may think that drawing closer to Hashem always comes with clarity, serenity, and immediate inspiration. But the Torah teaches otherwise. Very often, before reaching greater light, a person must first pass through confusion. Before attaining deeper holiness, he encounters resistance, distraction, and what Chazal call tishtush hamochin, a fogging of the mind and spirit.

Wherever there is kedusha, there is tumah attempting to oppose it. The greater the potential for holiness, the stronger the forces that seek to obstruct and contaminate it. To demonstrate this, at the very moment the world was about to become forever elevated through Kabbolas HaTorah, Har Sinai was surrounded by arofel, darkness, and smoke.

That pattern has repeated itself throughout history.

Whenever Yidden sought to build Torah, strengthen themselves spiritually, or establish places of purity and growth, opposition inevitably arose. Sometimes the resistance came from external persecution and hardship. At other times, it emerged internally, through confusion, cynicism, temptation, or spiritual exhaustion. The greater and stronger the structure of kedusha becomes, the more aggressively tumah attempts to seep through the cracks and poison it.

Yet, those who seek taharah do not become lost in the fog or frightened by it. They understand that it is part of the process. Moshe Rabbeinu moved forward into the arofel because he knew that beyond it rested the Shechinah itself.

The challenge facing those who strive for greatness in Torah and avodas Hashem is to continue advancing even when clarity fades. To keep learning, davening, building, and striving despite the noise, confusion, and distractions swirling around them. The yeitzer hora tries to convince a person that if he feels uninspired, overwhelmed, or spiritually blocked, he should retreat. But the lesson of Har Sinai teaches the exact opposite. Sometimes, the greatest growth occurs precisely when one pushes through the fog rather than surrendering to it.

This is the foundation of the nisyonos involving emunah and bitachon. It is easy to believe when everything is clear. But we must also recognize the Hand of Hashem when it is hidden, when life becomes difficult and events do not unfold the way we hoped.

Throughout the generations, our forefathers understood this truth. They knew that there are periods of darkness and hester, and that the path to kedusha, survival, and a blessed Yiddishe life is not by avoiding struggle, but by refusing to allow struggle to define or stop us.

That message is especially relevant in our generation, when distractions are endless and confusion is everywhere, when moral boundaries become blurred and spiritual fog surrounds us. We live in an age of superficiality, shortened attention spans, and short memories. It is easy to lose clarity regarding who we are and what we are meant to strive for. This is the modern form of arofel.

We must continue pushing our way through the fog, recognizing that if we persevere - if we maintain our sense of kedusha and Torah values - we can continue climbing until we reach the place we seek, “asher shom ha’Elokim,” the place beyond the darkness where Hashem resides.

The Brisker Rov was the mesader kiddushin at a wedding. Standing under the chupah, it came time for the chosson to place the ring on the kallah’s finger and declare her his wife. As the young man attempted to put the ring on her finger, he became so nervous that he began shaking and dropped the ring.

His father bent down, picked up the ring from the floor, and handed it back to the chosson. Once again, the chosson’s hand trembled, and as he tried to place the ring on his kallah’s finger, it slipped and fell to the ground. His father picked it up and returned it to him.

The nervous chosson made a third attempt to place the ring on the girl’s finger. Once again, the seemingly simple task escaped him and the ring dropped to the floor. This time, people began murmuring. Someone turned to the rov and remarked, “This seems like a sign that they should not be getting married. Perhaps their match is simply not bashert.”

The rov shook his head. “No, no,” he replied. “This is a sign that the couple was meant to marry now and not three minutes earlier.”

Upon hearing those words, the young man relaxed. His father handed him the ring once more, he placed it on the kallah’s finger, and declared, “Harei at mekudeshes li… kedas Moshe v’Yisroel.”

The study of Torah is difficult, and many times, while learning, we feel as though we are trapped in arofel, lost in a fog of confusion. We cannot follow the back-and-forth of the Gemara or understand the kushya or teretz of Tosafos. We convince ourselves that the sugya is beyond our ability to comprehend. We feel tempted to close the Gemara and find something easier to occupy ourselves with.

But we must remember that this is the way of the Torah. It does not come easily. Nevertheless, we immerse ourselves in it, and after much toil, we slowly begin to understand and appreciate its beauty and brilliance.

Rav Shmuel Auerbach related a story that he heard from a direct witness, ish mipi ish. One of the holy tzaddikim of Yerushalayim possessed a kemei’a that he would lend to people in need of a yeshuah. The Kabbalistic parchment had been written by the Taz, author of the Turei Zohov on Shulchan Aruch. The kemei’a was known to be exceptionally powerful, and many who used it saw their problems resolved.

The owner of the kemei’a was extremely curious about what was written on the concealed parchment that possessed such extraordinary power. Although opening an amulet generally causes it to lose its effectiveness, he reasoned that perhaps he could copy the secret names of Hashem and the malochim written on it onto a new parchment and preserve its power to help those in desperate need.

When he carefully opened the ancient sacred document, he was astonished to discover that it did not contain holy names or the names of ministering angels. Instead, in the handwriting of the Taz, there was only a single sentence: “Dear Creator of the world, in the merit of my deep toil to understand the words of Tosafos in Chullin on daf 96, please bring salvation and blessings to the person wearing this amulet.”

That is the power of Torah. This is the reward for laboring to understand the words of a Tosafos.

The Torah grants life to those who struggle through the arofel in order to understand and absorb its holy words and messages. The strength it gives its faithful adherents is eternal. But to attain a true understanding of Torah, we must possess patience, discipline, and wisdom. We must never give up or surrender.

The first Jews who received the Torah had their own arofel: the slavery of Mitzrayim and the descent into the deepest levels of tumah. Their faith sustained them as they followed Moshe Rabbeinu out of the country and through the Yam Suf. Within forty-nine days, they prepared themselves to receive the Torah at Har Sinai. They fought their way through the fog of Mitzrayim’s tumah and elevated themselves to the highest levels attainable by man.

On Shavuos, we read Megillas Rus, the story of Na’ami and her daughter-in-law, Rus. Two courageous women survived tremendous tragedy and rose above their personal arofel to become the ancestors of Dovid Hamelech and ultimately Moshiach. Rus HaMoaviah rose above the depravity of her homeland and became a devoted giyores. Nothing deterred her from remaining loyal to Torah and the Jewish people. She endured poverty and loneliness while pursuing the path she had chosen. In return, she merited royal descendants and eternal blessings. We continue to await the arrival of her descendant, the ultimate redeemer.

Rus had every reason to return to Moav and to the wealth she had left behind when she married into the family of Elimelech, yet she so eloquently bound her destiny to the Jewish people. Her story inspires us to persevere during difficult times. It is yet another reminder that those who follow the path of Hashem and cling to Torah and mitzvos with determination will ultimately flourish and succeed.

Rather than retreating, she moved forward. Instead of surrendering to what appeared to be overwhelming obstacles, she demonstrated that commitment to Torah is always preferable to any alternative. We, too, must never give up, no matter what difficulties we encounter in the observance or study of Torah.

When Hashem appeared to the Bnei Yisroel and offered them the Torah, they responded in unison, “Na’aseh venishma - We will do and we will hear whatever You tell us.” Their response was so praiseworthy that the Gemara in Maseches Shabbos (88a) relates that afterward, malochim placed two crowns upon the head of every Jew, one for na’aseh and one for nishma. A bas kol rang out proclaiming, “Who taught My children this secret?”

Many ask what was so extraordinary about na’aseh venishma that it elicited such a dramatic response. Perhaps we can explain that by responding in this manner, they were declaring: “Na’aseh - we will live according to the dictates of the Torah and follow its commandments. Venishma - and we will accomplish this through dedicating ourselves to the study of Torah. No difficulty will stop us from working as hard as we can to understand the words of the Torah. We will not become lost or deterred in the arofel.”

Na’aseh venishma. We have been repeating that pledge for thousands of years. Wherever we are, whatever language we speak, regardless of our geographical distance from major Jewish centers, despite the ravages of exile, golus, churban, and pogroms, we continue proclaiming together, “Na’aseh venishma.”

Those words are what distinguish us and what have sustained us throughout the ages. We have been protected by the Torah and by our loyalty to it and to what it demands of us. The other nations that once filled the world have disappeared throughout history. We remain because of those two words that guide and define us.

On the Yom Tov of Kabbolas HaTorah, we once again stand at Har Sinai and proclaim, “Na’aseh venishma.” We receive the Torah anew and are reminded of our mission and purpose. Shavuos is not merely a commemoration of what our ancestors accepted long ago, but a renewal of our own commitment to live as people shaped and elevated by Torah, today and every day.

My uncle, Rav Avrohom Chaim Levin, rosh yeshiva of Yeshivas Telz, once recalled a difficult period in the yeshiva when an incident had deeply shaken the rosh yeshiva, Rav Elya Meir Bloch. The atmosphere in the bais medrash was tense as the talmidim gathered to hear the rosh yeshiva speak. They expected a fiery rebuke, a painful description of how low a person can fall. As they entered and took their seats for the shmuess, they feared what he would say.

But Rav Elya Meir spoke about something entirely different.

“We already know how low a person can sink,” he said. “Now let us speak about how high a person can rise.”

And with the classic mussar emphasis on gadlus ha’adam, he delivered a shmuess about possibility, about the greatness contained within every Jew, and the heights each person can attain.

The great mashgiach, Rav Yechezkel Levenstein, would say that while it is a serious failing for a person not to recognize his deficiencies, it is an even greater failing not to recognize his strengths and qualities. A person who ignores his weaknesses cannot improve himself, but a person who ignores his greatness cannot even begin the journey upward.

Perhaps this is one of the central messages of Shavuos as well.

The Torah was not given to malochim. It was given to human beings who struggle, fail, become discouraged, and sometimes lose clarity. Yet, Hashem looked at those very human beings and entrusted them with His Torah because of what they are capable of becoming.

The yeitzer hora wants a person to focus obsessively on his weaknesses and failures, convincing him that holiness and greatness belong only to others. But the yeitzer tov reminds us that the opposite is true.

The fire of Har Sinai burns within the heart of every Jew.

The fire of Torah possesses the power to illuminate the neshomah and burn away the tumah that seeks to envelop it. Even during periods of arofel and choshech, confusion and spiritual exhaustion, every Yid possesses the strength to continue moving forward, to walk through darkness with purpose, and to strive upward as a kadosh reaching toward Heaven.

So often in life, there is a temptation to surrender, to convince ourselves that the burdens are too heavy, the distractions are too powerful, and the challenges are too overwhelming. A person may feel that he has stumbled too many times to ever rise again.

But the nation that declared “Na’aseh venishma” is not a nation that gives up.

The very essence of those words was the willingness to continue forward despite uncertainty, despite difficulty, despite not fully understanding what lay ahead. At Har Sinai, Klal Yisroel demonstrated that it understood that greatness is achieved by accepting the challenge of growth.

Every Shavuos, as we once again accept the Torah, we are reminded not only of our obligations, but also of our greatness. We remember that we were created for more than mediocrity and distraction. We were created to rise, to horeveh in Torah, to grow, and to become a great nation of great people.

For those who carry the words “Na’aseh venishma” within their souls, no challenge is insurmountable and no height is beyond reach.

We speak about greatness, holiness, and climbing toward Heaven. We speak about the crowns that were placed upon our heads at Har Sinai, about walking through the arofel, about becoming anshei kodesh while living in a difficult physical world filled with challenges. But all of this can sound lofty and distant, as though true greatness belongs only to malochim and not to ordinary people like us.

The Torah teaches otherwise.

There was once a great commotion in the town of Sadigura. Rav Yisroel of Ruzhin had come to visit, and crowds gathered to catch a glimpse of the great tzaddik and perhaps receive a brocha. A young child heard the excitement and asked what it was about.

“A rebbe as holy as a malach has come to town,” they told him. “The heilige Ruzhiner is here.”

Curious and sincere, the child pushed his way through the crowd until he stood before the rebbe. He carefully walked around him, studying him from every angle.

The rebbe noticed and asked the boy what he was looking for. “I was told that the rebbe is a malach, and my cheder rebbi taught us that in Akdamus it says that malochim have six wings. I am looking for your wings.”

The rebbe looked down at the cherubic young boy and smiled. Pointing to the six sons accompanying him, he said, “These are my six wings.”

The Torah does not ask us to escape our humanity and become malochim. It asks us to elevate our humanity. True greatness is not found in withdrawing from life, but in sanctifying it. The wings that lift a Jew Heavenward are not hidden somewhere beyond this world. They are built here - through raising children, building families, learning Torah, refining our character, helping others, persevering through struggle, and remaining loyal to Hashem and His Torah.

Moshe Rabbeinu entered the arofel not to stop being human, but to demonstrate that a human being can ascend far beyond what he imagined possible. Klal Yisroel stood at Har Sinai and affirmed that ordinary people of flesh and blood could live lives infused with kedusha and eternal meaning.

And every year on Shavuos, we stand there once again, hearing the call to greatness and reminding ourselves that despite the darkness of the times, despite the distractions of life, our weaknesses, and our struggles, we are the people to whom Hashem spoke at Har Sinai, and we are the people to whom He gave the Torah. That upward path still exists.

We are not malochim. But we possess the wings that can carry us as high as we wish to go.

Let’s go.

Ashreichem Yisroel.

Gut Yom Tov.

Every One Counts

This week’s parsha of Bamidbar opens a new sefer in the Torah and introduces the counting of the Bnei Yisroel and the precise arrangement of their encampments as they journeyed toward the Promised Land. Chazal instituted that Parshas Bamidbar is always lained on the Shabbos preceding Shavuos, and that connection is deeply significant. As we stand at the culmination of the days of Sefirah, during which we prepared ourselves for Kabbolas HaTorah, the lessons embedded in this parsha become especially relevant.

Rashi, on the opening posuk, explains that Hakadosh Boruch Hu counts the Jewish people because of His love for them. A person repeatedly counts and checks his treasured possessions not because he has forgotten them, but precisely because they are precious to him. What we value, we do not lose sight of.

The Gemara in Bava Metzia teaches that when a person loses money, we assume that he has already realized the loss and despaired of recovering it, because people instinctively and constantly check their pockets to make sure that their valuables are still there. Rarely does someone lose a wallet or checkbook without immediately noticing the loss. We carefully monitor what matters deeply to us.

That is the message of the census in Bamidbar. Every Jew counts because every Jew matters. Though we are many millions strong, no individual is expendable, interchangeable, or insignificant. No Jew should ever feel like a faceless statistic swallowed by the masses. No person should ever be made to feel that the world would manage fine without him.

The Torah’s insistence on counting every individual teaches that human worth is not measured by prominence, accomplishment, wealth, or influence. Every person is precious because every person bears the tzelem Elokim. Every neshomah is counted because every neshomah matters.

This lesson is particularly timely during the days of Sefirah. Chazal teach that the talmidim of Rabi Akiva perished because they failed to accord one another proper respect. It is difficult to understand how the disciples of the great Rabi Akiva - the very Tanna who proclaimed “Ve’ahavta lerei’acha kamocha zeh klal gadol baTorah” - could have stumbled in this area. Perhaps the sheer size of their numbers contributed to the failing. When there are 24,000 students, it becomes easier for an individual to feel less indispensable. The uniqueness of each talmid becomes blurred within the vastness of the crowd. Familiarity and scale can dull sensitivity.

But the Torah demands the opposite perspective. The greater the crowd, the greater the responsibility to ensure that no individual disappears within it.

The iconic Mirrer mashgiach, Rav Yeruchom Levovitz, whose 90^th yahrtzeit falls this Sivan, was once asked how he could possibly guide and influence the hundreds of bochurim in the Mirrer Yeshiva. How could one person serve as mashgiach to three hundred talmidim, each with different struggles, personalities, strengths, and aspirations?

Reb Yeruchom answered with a perspective that revealed the essence of Torah leadership and chinuch. He said, “I am not one mashgiach over three hundred bochurim. There are three hundred bochurim, and each one has one mashgiach.”

In those few words, he defined what it means to care for people.

Most people who viewed the Mir bais medrash saw a large yeshiva filled with hundreds of students. But Rav Yeruchom did not see a crowd. He saw individuals. He did not relate to his talmidim as part of a mass, nor did he speak to them as interchangeable members of a group. Every bochur was an olam malei, a complete world unto himself, with unique strengths to cultivate, weaknesses to address, and greatness waiting to be uncovered.

That was the secret of his influence. People flourish when they know that they are seen and when they are addressed as individuals, not merely as another member of the group.

Rav Yeruchom understood that chinuch and leadership cannot be built on generalities alone. A successful mashgiach, rebbi, rov, or parent is not someone who merely delivers shmuessen to a room full of listeners. A good mechanech listens, notices, understands, and connects. He recognizes when someone is discouraged, when someone else is struggling, when one person needs guidance, and when another simply needs encouragement and belief.

Rav Yeruchom did not ask, “How do I manage three hundred students?” He looked at each one and asked, “What does this bochur need from me?”

That perspective reflects the Torah’s view of Klal Yisroel. When Hashem commands Moshe to count the Jewish people in Parshas Bamidbar, the counting was not about statistics. It was about affirming the value of every individual. Each Jew was counted because each Jew mattered.

The greatness of a leader, a teacher, or anyone else lies in the ability to look beyond the crowd and see the individual standing before him.

There are people who speak to you without making eye contact. They may technically be talking to you, but they are not really looking at you. And when they do not look at you, you sense that they do not truly care about you. Their eyes drift beyond you or past you, because their minds are occupied elsewhere - with themselves or with something else entirely. People like that cannot genuinely connect.

And when someone does not truly look at you, you instinctively feel that he does not truly care about you.

Real connection demands presence. It requires more than speaking. It requires listening. More than hearing words, it requires recognizing the person saying them. The people who influence us most are not always the most brilliant or eloquent. They are the people who make us feel seen, understood, and valued.

My rebbi, Rav Elya Svei, was one of the leading roshei yeshiva of his generation and was sought out by people across the world for guidance and counsel. Yet, when I, or any other young bochur, stood before him in the bais medrash, speaking with him in learning or discussing personal matters with him in his office, there was no one else in the room.

He looked at you. He focused on you and your issue. At that moment, there was nobody else and nothing else more important. And because of that, the talmid felt that he mattered.

One time, when I was sitting with Rav Elozor Menachem Man Shach, the conversation continued for quite some time while people waited impatiently outside the room for their turn to speak with him. There was noise and commotion beyond the door, but Rav Shach did not hear any of it. He heard me. He looked at me. He focused on me, despite the fact that I was an American yungerman in my twenties.

One of the attendants entered the room and informed him that a certain dignitary was waiting outside, hinting that the gadol hador should quickly finish up with his anonymous American guest. Rav Shach looked at him quizzically and said, “But I’m speaking now to Lipschutz.”

The other person would have to wait.

To Rav Shach, to a gadol b’Yisroel, every Jew was choshuv. Every Yid deserved simas lev, to be focused on and treated with respect.

And that is part of what the Torah is teaching through the counting in Parshas Bamidbar. Hashem does not look at Klal Yisroel as an anonymous mass. He counts each Jew individually because He sees each Jew individually. Every person carries a unique mission, a unique struggle, and a unique worth.

This is one of the great lessons the Torah seeks to teach us before Kabbolas HaTorah. The talmidim of Rabi Akiva failed because they did not sufficiently honor one another as unique and irreplaceable individuals. They saw each other as part of a group instead of appreciating the value of each individual comprising the group.

In a large yeshiva, in a thriving community, or even within a family, it is easy for people to become numbers, faces in the crowd, individuals whose struggles and strengths go unnoticed. Parshas Bamidbar reminds us that this is not the Torah’s view of a Jew. Hashem counts us because Hashem treasures us. And those who seek to walk in His ways must learn to view others the same way.

People are often quick to criticize, quick to dismiss, and quick to condemn without fully understanding another person’s struggles, circumstances, or intentions. One of the central avodos of Sefirah is learning to restore dignity to other people - to see them, value them, and treat them with the respect due to someone created b’tzelem Elokim. The counting of the Bnei Yisroel was a public declaration of love, importance, and worth.

This message carries enormous relevance in our generation. Not many decades ago, the Jewish people stood on the brink of destruction. Every surviving Jew was cherished and appreciated. During those terrible years, Jews instinctively understood that every person mattered. Yet, prosperity and growth can sometimes weaken that sensitivity. When communities flourish and botei medrash and schools overflow, there is a danger of unconsciously taking individuals for granted.

There was a time when yeshivos struggled desperately to find students. Today, many institutions are bursting at the seams with talmidim and talmidos. But abundance must never diminish appreciation. A great yeshiva, even when crowded, never makes a single bochur feel invisible. A good school, even when it has more students than it ever dreamed possible, never makes a student feel superfluous. No child is extra. No student lacks needs, emotions, and feelings that must be attended to. There is room and a place for everyone. A thriving community must never allow any individual to feel forgotten.

The parsha continues by describing the arrangement of the encampments: “Ish al machaneihu v’ish al diglo.” Every shevet had its designated place. Every individual camped where he belonged.

The Torah here teaches another fundamental principle: Greatness comes not only from recognizing your value, but also from recognizing your place.

Every shevet has a mission. Every person has a role. The harmony of Klal Yisroel depended upon each individual understanding where he belonged. One of life’s great temptations is the assumption that we could do better if only we occupied someone else’s position. We imagine that if we stood where others stand, if we had their platform, influence, authority, or responsibilities, we would accomplish more than they do and fix what they are doing wrong. And so, people abandon their own mission while attempting to live someone else’s.

The Torah’s carefully ordered encampment teaches that greatness is not achieved by invading another person’s territory. It is achieved by maximizing the potential of the position Hashem assigned to us.

Since the country is focused on war, perhaps we can illustrate this with a moshol about a group of friends who were drafted into the army. One was assigned to the infantry, another to the air force, and another to the navy. Each was jealous, convinced that the other had been given a better, easier, or more prestigious role.

Eventually, they approached their commanders and requested transfers to different units. But the commanders explained that each was performing a vital role. An army cannot function with only infantry, only pilots, or only sailors. Every division is essential, and every role is indispensable to the success of the whole.

What creates the strongest and most effective fighting force is not uniformity, but rather when every soldier in every branch rises to his fullest potential and fulfills his mission with excellence. Only then can the army achieve victory.

So too with Klal Yisroel. Each person has a unique role and shlichus in this world. Instead of looking at others and wishing to be in their place, we are meant to focus on fulfilling our own mission with dedication and integrity. That is what builds the strength of the klal and brings each of us to our personal and collective purpose.

Sefirah is meant to restore order to our inner world. Just as the encampments in the desert were arranged with precision and purpose, these weeks are meant to help us organize ourselves spiritually and emotionally in preparation for Matan Torah. Much as the month of Elul prepares us for Rosh Hashanah, Sefirah prepares us for Shavuos.

Ever since the second day of Pesach, we have counted upward, day by day, from Yetzias Mitzrayim toward Kabbolas HaTorah.

And so, as Shavuos approaches, we must ask ourselves some questions. Have we grown during these weeks? Have we refined our middos? Have we become more patient, more humble, more respectful, more disciplined? Have we become more worthy of receiving the Torah anew?

Forty-nine days separate Pesach from Shavuos because transformation takes time. Forty-nine shaarei kedusha must be approached. Forty-nine steps must be climbed. Each day is another opportunity to rise beyond the distractions, superficiality, and moral confusion that dominate the world around us.

As the Am Hanivchar, we are called upon to live differently. Before we can stand at Har Sinai and realize our destiny, we must elevate ourselves and become better than we are - more refined, more compassionate, more elevated, more selfless.

Let us seek to excel in our roles, in our learning, and in our understanding of Torah.

Let us show, through the way we speak to one another and care for one another, that we have learned the tragic lesson of Rabi Akiva’s talmidim. Let us demonstrate through our actions that we are worthy of receiving the Torah.

May we all be zoche to growth in Torah and mitzvos and merit the coming of Moshiach Tzidkeinu bekarov.

Coming Home

 

As we learn the parsha each week and study the words of different meforshim, there are, invariably, ideas in the Torah that feel less like commentary and more like a quiet unveiling of history itself. The Meshech Chochmah in Parshas Bechukosai offers one of those. In a few penetrating lines, he not only explains the Tochacha, but maps the spiritual psychology of golus and the conditions that make the geulah possible.

The Tochacha is like a cascade of consequences: If Klal Yisroel follows the mitzvos, there will be brocha and hatzlocha. If not, chalilah, there are curses of increasing severity. In the posuk that discusses our period of golus (26:44), “V’af gam zos behiyosam b’eretz oyveihem lo me’astim velo ge’altim lechalosam lehofer brisi itom,” Hakadosh Boruch Hu promises that even when we are dispossessed and forced to live in foreign lands, He will not forsake us or allow us to be obliterated, nor will He annul the bris that He has with us.

The Meshech Chochmah explains that golus is not simply random suffering. It follows a tragic but recognizable progression. The way the Hashgocha works is that after being settled in a country for a few hundred years, a storm erupts and we are blown out of that place where we have grown comfortable. We move to a new exile. There is pain, instability, and dislocation. We feel like strangers. And then we come together, strengthen ourselves, and build up our Torah institutions. The foreign land becomes familiar. Livelihoods stabilize. Houses are built. Children who have never seen anything else are raised there. And then something subtle but seismic occurs: The Jew begins to feel at home.

The feeling of comfort in golus is the turning point.

Because once Jews feel comfortable in a foreign country, golus stops feeling like golus. The longing to return home, the yearning for the Bais Hamikdosh, begins to fade. The tension between what is and what should be disappears. And at that moment, history begins to move again, not gently, but forcefully.

And then, sometimes painfully, the illusion breaks. The Jewish people once again begin hearing those hate-filled voices that shout at them to leave and go somewhere else.

So has it been throughout the ages.

In recent days, Jews in England, particularly in London, have been reminded of this pattern in a most jarring way. A stabbing attack in Golders Green left two Jewish people who were walking on a street wounded. It was declared a terrorist incident.

Leading up to it, there were arson attacks targeting Jewish individuals, shuls, and even Hatzolah ambulances.

Authorities have raised the national threat level to “severe,” meaning further attacks are considered highly likely.

This is not fringe discomfort. It is a shift in atmosphere. Reports indicate thousands of antisemitic incidents a year, with many Jews expressing fear about openly living as Jews. And not only in England, but throughout Europe, Jews do not feel safe.

In this country, as well, there has been a marked increase in antisemitic incidents. Not too long ago, it was political suicide to speak against Jews and Israel, but today, there are Democrats who do so without jeopardizing their standing in the party.

What is perhaps most haunting is not only the violence, but the sense that something once assumed to be stable no longer feels so.

And here, the Meshech Chochmah’s words echo with unsettling clarity. Golus contains within it a built-in instability. When Jews begin to feel fully at home, Hakadosh Boruch Hu has a way of reminding them that they are not.

There is no justification for hatred or violence. Those who commit such acts are responsible, morally and humanly, for what they do. But we must know that it is not random. There is a pattern, a rhythm, and it is meant to keep us connected to where we belong, to remind us who we are, to keep alive the bris, the connection, with Hashem.

Golus begins with distance, moves toward comfort, and then, when that comfort becomes too complete, it is disrupted, because golus, by its very nature, cannot become permanent.

And so, what we are witnessing, painful as it is, carries a message that Jews have heard before across centuries and continents. We are not home. These reminders come to spark us to work toward geulah, to do what we must to bring about the redemption. Recognizing that golus is inherently incomplete is the first step in preparing to leave it.

In earlier generations, when the Jewish people were blessed with leaders who could discern and convey the Yad Hashem in all that transpired, people were not as confounded by events at home and abroad. In the times of the nevi’im, people were often forewarned before a calamity would strike, so that they could accept teshuvah upon themselves and prevent the tragedy. And even when they did not, afterward they were taught that it was the Yad Hashem that had struck, and they would engage in whatever was necessary to correct their ways.

Even after our people lost nevuah and Hashem began conducting the world through hester, people still had enough faith to recognize that nothing happens on its own and that everything takes place through Hashem.

As time went on and people became increasingly less learned, they lost the ability to see Hashem’s Hand in the various manifestations of His din. They began attributing events to natural causes, without recognizing that what they were witnessing were Divine messages directed at them.

We read the news and wonder what we can do to affect the situation. What can we do to temper the hatred for Jews? What can we do to bring about peace in Eretz Yisroel and peace in the world? What can we do about the internal war on the chareidi community in Israel? What can we do to bring stability and prosperity to our suffering brethren?

We won’t get the answers to these questions by following statuses, scrolling through pundits, or reading popular columns of analysis, interpretation, and speculation.

The answers are found in this week’s parsha, Bechukosai.

The posuk states quite simply, “Im bechukosai teileichu v’es mitzvosai tishmeru va’asisem osam.” If you will follow the chukim and mitzvos of the Torah, you will be blessed.

The Torah promises that if you follow the chukim and mitzvos, “vishavtem lovetach b’artzechem…venosati shalom ba’aretz ushechavtem v’ein macharid…v’cherev lo saavor b’artzechem, you will live safely in your land, there will be peace in the land, and you will sleep with no fear.”

Everything that is happening today is clearly prescribed in this week’s parsha. The history of the Jewish people is all in Parshas Bechukosai. When we were good, life was good. And when the people sinned and strayed, then what the pesukim say will happen (26:14–44) happens.

The posuk states, “Im bechukosai teileichu v’es mitzvosai tishmeru va’asisem osam.” The Toras Kohanim expounds on the words “Im bechukosai teileichu” that “Melameid sheHakadosh Boruch Hu misaveh sheyihiyu Yisroel ameilim baTorah…” From here we see that Hashem desires that the Jewish people be ameil in Torah.

Chazal teach us that “Im bechukosai teileichu” is not only a promise of brocha for those who observe the chukim, but the words contain a deeper charge, namely, “shetihiyu ameilim baTorah,” that we must toil in Torah. The brachos are a reward for observing the mitzvos, but they also flow from immersing in Torah, from laboring over it and living with it.

When we study the Torah, we are connecting with Hashem in the most direct way possible. We are engaging with His word, and it shapes us, our neshamos, our thinking, and the way we live. Through Torah, we become refined, purposeful, and more aligned with what we are meant to be.

“Shetihiyu ameilim baTorah” is the heartbeat of yeshivos and kollelim, those unique places where Torah is not just studied, but lived with intensity and dedication. It is there that ordinary people rise beyond themselves, where human beings, through effort and persistence, elevate themselves and become connected to something far greater. It is through that striving that we merit the brachos of Heaven.

That connection to the Torah strengthens us in the face of a world filled with distractions and pressures. Ameilus gives a person clarity and resilience, enabling us to withstand the constant pull of a society that often leads in the opposite direction.

This avodah is especially relevant during these days of Sefirah. As we count toward Shavuos, we are preparing ourselves to receive the Torah anew. Each day of the count presents an opportunity for growth, for refining our middos, for becoming more fitting recipients of the Torah.

We, maaminim bnei maaminim, are meant to see the Yad Hashem in everything that unfolds around us—in every bomb, in every missile, in every mission, in every antisemitic act, and in everything we have been blessed with.

But that vision does not come automatically. It is sharpened and deepened through Torah. The more a person is immersed in Torah, the more clearly he perceives Hashem’s presence, in moments of challenge and in moments of brocha.

What we must do is clear. We need to increase our Torah learning, approaching it with greater focus and depth. We need to strengthen our observance of mitzvos, performing them with more care and awareness. We need to daven with more kavonah, paying attention to the words and thinking about what we are saying. We need to be more mindful of what we allow into our lives, what we read, what we watch, what we bring into our homes, where we go, and what we put into our mouths.

We take pride in our mesorah, in the harchakos and takanos that preserve our distinctiveness and elevate us. We do not seek to mirror the world around us or mimic it. We are striving toward a different goal, aware that we are away and remaining focused on getting home.

Foreigners who cannot find meaningful employment in their home country travel to countries such as ours, working hard and sending money back to their families and saving for the day they can return home. The same way, through Torah, mitzvos, and teshuvah and correcting the failings that caused us to be sent into golus in the first place, such as lashon hora and sinas chinom, we get closer to the day we can return. Each word of Torah, each mitzvah, brings us nearer to the geulah.

As we are maavir sedrah this week and study the combined parshiyos, we should take the time to work on understanding the pesukim and their eternal messages about us, about the world, and about life.

Because the message of Parshas Bechukosai is not only a warning, it is a direction. Golus is meant to be transient. The instability, the discomfort, and the reminders that are repeated throughout our history are not there to confuse us, but to awaken us. They push us to ask not only what is happening, but what is being asked of us.

The answer is as clear today as it was when it was first given: “Im bechukosai teileichu.” To live with the Torah. To toil in it. To allow it to shape us, elevate us, and reconnect us to where we truly belong.

If golus begins when we forget who we are, then geulah begins when we remember.

The parsha of the tochacha also contains nechomah, for just as we are told that if we sin we will be struck down by our enemies and chased out of Eretz Yisroel, we are promised that Hashem’s bris with the avos will not be forgotten and we will be brought back home.

May it happen speedily in our day.