Mehadrin Yidden

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let us explore the connection between Yaakov Avinu and Chanukah.

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

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

We can examine the depth concealed in these words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chanukah’s light continues to illuminate this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Atlas of Jewish Survival

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May that day come swiftly.

Our Anthem

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Recently, a fascinating sefer was published, woven from the cherished recollections of Rav Meir Heisler. It contains stories, anecdotes, and teachings he heard firsthand and shared with his talmidim in moments of closeness. Each page glimmers with hidden jewels, stories that had long rested in silence, unknown to the wider world. As you journey through its lines, a new appreciation blossoms for the gedolim it portrays, and life itself comes into focus with radiant clarity.

Rav Heisler recounts that he was once with Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach when somebody told him that a certain cheder had stopped learning Parshas Bereishis with its students. Upon hearing that, Rav Shach reached for the phone and dialed the number of the principal of that school. When he wasn’t able to reach him, he called the principal’s son-in-law and, with passionate urgency, demanded from him, “What does it mean that your father-in-law isn’t teaching Bereishis to the children? Tell him that the Chofetz Chaim would make a cheirem over this!”

The son-in-law responded that his father-in-law felt that the children would not understand Bereishis anyway, so why bother teaching it to them.

Rav Shach grew emotional and said to the man, “Oon heint farshteit er yu? Foon dem leben mir doch, nur foon do kindershe yuren- And today your father-in-law understands the pesukim of Bereishis? This is what sustains us - what we learned when we were young children!”

The parshiyos of Bereishis that we learned when we were young fascinated us and engraved themselves upon our neshamos. Those stories we learned, the songs we sang about them, the projects we made and the little sheets we brought home all became the bedrock of our emunah, enduring across the years.

Each year, when we learn the parshiyos, those memories awaken. Although we grow in our learning and understanding, the foundation of our knowledge of Chumash remains what our rabbeim and moros instilled in us when we were young and innocent. Ask children about these parshiyos and their eyes will sparkle as they recount the week’s story.

I remember, as a young, small child, sitting at a classroom desk and hanging on to every word of my rebbi as we learned Parshas Vayeitzei, describing Yaakov Avinu’s dream, his years in Lovon’s house, his marriages, and the birth of the shevotim. We were captivated by the image of many stones joining to become the single rock upon which Yaakov rested his head. We were taught that Yaakov slept on Har Hamoriah, site of his father’s Akeidah and the future site of the Botei Mikdosh.

The sun set early and all of Eretz Yisroel folded under Yaakov. In his sleep, Hashem promised him the land, protection, brachos, and innumerable descendants. Awakening, overwhelmed by the awesomeness, he declared, “This is a holy place. Hashem is here and I did not know.” He consecrated the stone and vowed ten percent of his possessions to Hashem.

Yaakov traveled on to Choron, discovering shepherds sitting aimlessly with their flocks at a watering hole. They explained that they had come to draw water for their sheep, but the underground well was sealed with a massive stone and they had to wait until more shepherds arrived so they could remove the rock together. When Rochel appeared with her sheep, Yaakov rolled the boulder away by himself, opening the well for all.

Yaakov was the av of golus. What unfolded as he left the home of his parents in Be’er Sheva and set out for Choron was the beginning of Yaakov’s first journey into exile, the start of a long and painful golus.

He walked until nightfall and lay down to sleep in a place that seemed completely devoid of holiness. Upon awakening, he realized that “ein zeh ki im bais Elokim - this is a place laden with kedusha, the house of Hashem and the gate to heaven.”

Yaakov Avinu was modeling for all future generations how to endure golus. Forced to leave lands that hosted us for generations, we often find ourselves in places that feel desolate, barren of anything meaningful. These places appear incapable of receiving any holiness, much less supporting lives of kedusha. They seem as lifeless as stone.

The golus experience is tragic, the Jewish family scattered across the world, enduring every form of oppression and suffering along the way. On the surface, it seems as though we have been torn from the presence of the Divine, thrust into a world stripped of holiness.

But as Yaakov Avinu taught us, even the darkest corners of the earth hold the potential for kedusha. A stone can become a mizbeiach. Ein zeh ki im bais Elokim. The secret to surviving golus is recognizing that we can bring kedusha anywhere.

We never give up on any place or any person. Not long ago, many believed that Torah could never flourish in America. The prevailing assumption was that anyone who came here was destined for a spiritually empty life, and for many years, that was the reality.

But Hashgocha arranged for giants who had internalized Yaakov’s lesson to arrive in America as they fled the horrors of Europe.

They planted yeshivos in a land where people insisted that Torah could not grow. They upheld shemiras Shabbos where it was nearly nonexistent. They persuaded parents to send their children to receive a Torah education, even when such choices were mocked as antiquated and misguided. They introduced kedusha into a place steeped in tumah.

Because of the determination of good people across the country, America is now home to vibrant frum communities from coast to coast and Torah is thriving on a remarkable scale. This transformation occurred because enough of Yaakov’s descendants believed that any place, no matter how inert, could be turned into a mizbeiach and a makom kadosh.

And not only in America. Across the globe, Torah is flourishing in places no one ever imagined. Wherever Jews go, holding fast to Yaakov’s message, the brocha he received that night in his dream  - “uforatzta yoma vokeidma vetzafona vonegba” - is being fulfilled in ways the world has never before witnessed.

No matter where our people end up, they build, they believe, they plant, and they grow. And in the process, they uncover and reveal sparks of kedusha in the largest cities, the smallest towns, and in the lightest and darkest corners of the world.

We never give up on anyone. We never say that he or she is beyond repair. We never say that they are beyond hope, for we know that there is holiness and good everywhere. Our task is to find it and to help the embers flare into flames.

The anthem of golus is “Achein yeish Elokim bamakom hazeh.” Never think that you are alone and abandoned. Never think that anyone is too far gone. Never think that there is a place that cannot be transformed into a home for Torah and kedusha.

We are all familiar with Rav Chaim Volozhiner’s prophecy that America would be our final station of golus. When we uncover enough watering holes here, we will finally be able to go home.

We have been spread across the world, and wherever we have gone, we have established botei Elokim, spreading kedusha and Torah where others insisted it could not be done. The cycle repeated itself every few hundred years. Jews would grow accustomed to their host country after bringing as much kedusha there as possible. Then the country would turn against them and the Jews would once again move on to the next bleak outpost. At last, we are here, spreading Torah across the fruited plain, awaiting that great day of “Vehoyah Hashem lemelech al kol ha’aretz.”

We often lose sight of those who refined and prepared the American landscape, enabling the Torah world to rise. The great impact of the famed post-war giants sometimes overshadows the silent, hidden avodah of those who came before them and first uncovered the “achein yeish Hashem” on these shores.

The going was rough in those early turn-of-the-century days, as millions of Jews fled the poverty and pogroms of Eastern Europe and came here seeking a better tomorrow. They settled in cities and towns across the country, eking out a living as peddlers, tailors, knitters, and shopkeepers. The ruach was stone cold. The water pits were blocked, refusing to open.

With the peddlers came rabbonim, who sat at home and learned by themselves and with the people. They wrote seforim and corresponded with the giants of Europe. They fought for Shabbos and Jewish education. My grandfather was one of those people. He was a Slabodka talmid living in Fall River, Massachusetts. He served as rov of four shuls and oversaw the local kosher bakeries and butchers. And when he wasn’t busy with communal obligations, he sat at his desk and learned, by himself, at all hours of the day and night, rarely sleeping in a bed. He sat and learned and wrote seforim. In fact, New England was dotted with towns that had great Litvishe rabbonim.

But for the masses, the temptations were many and powerful. People who refused to work on Shabbos found it nearly impossible to find employment. They went hungry. Their children begged for food, clean clothing, and heat. There were few Hebrew schools. There was little choice but to send the children to public school, where many were lost to assimilation. Every generation has its own unique nisyonos, which cannot be overcome without great determination and belief, and it is unfair for us to judge those who lived in those times.

Many failed, and many were lost, but those who persevered increased the kedusha here. The zechuyos created by limud haTorah and mesirus nefesh for kiyum hamitzvos accumulated, countering the klipos hora and enabling frum people to live and thrive here. They made it possible for shuls and yeshivos to be built, and for botei medrash and kollelim to flourish.

In Omaha, Nebraska lived Rav Tzvi Hirsch Grodzensky, cousin of Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzensky, who toiled in Torah. In Boston, Rav Zalman Yaakov Friederman presided over huge kehillos and ensured that there would be kashrus and rabbonim in Massachusetts, all while he learned and taught Torah. The great gaon Rav Eliezer Silver of Kovno eventually settled in Cincinnati, Ohio, and from his pulpit there he influenced the entire Torah world.

I once drove from Vail, Colorado, to Denver and decided to pull off at the exit for a little town named Leadville. As I drove through the town, I was astonished to see stores with Jewish-sounding names and a Jewish cemetery. I doubt that much of a Jewish community exists there today, but a hundred and fifty years ago it was a thriving Jewish metropolis.

Travel across this country and you’ll find Jewish cemeteries in the most unexpected places. You think you’re the first frum Jew ever to pass through some forsaken town off the beaten path, and then you see a bais olam and realize that neshamos were moser nefesh to uncover sparks of kedusha in that location, preparing the country for its spiritual rebirth and the world for Moshiach.

Generations of such people, who came to the final golus from Europe, brought with them Torah and mitzvos, sometimes living very lonely lives. Others were more fortunate. Whether they learned late into the night in the Rocky Mountains or led quiet tishen on Friday nights in places very far from Mezhibuzh, they were slowly but surely removing the rocks that blocked the waters of Torah from flowing. History may not record their efforts, but everything that came after those pioneers is because they uncovered the holy spark of “achein yeish Elokim bamakom hazeh,” and our flourishing existence here proves it.

Rav Moshe Mordechai Shulsinger recalled that during one of Israel’s wars, people asked Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach how they might help. He offered two suggestions. The first was to recite the first brocha of Birkas Hamazon from a bentcher. The second was not to be “fartayned” all day. “Don’t be perpetually aggrieved,” he said. “Some people go through every day of their lives with complaints against everyone. People have complaints against their spouse, parents, children, rabbonim, rabbeim, moros, and chazzan. They think that other people have tried hurting them, harming them, and insulting them. People become bitter, angry, and upset, and get into arguments.”

Stop, Rav Shach advised. Stop complaining. Stop seeing only the incompetence of those around you and begin seeing the blessings.

“A person can spend his day in kapdanus and bitterness,” Rav Shach would say.

Don’t say that this is an empty place. Don’t say that the water is buried beneath a rock too heavy to move. Don’t say that everything is bleak and hopeless. Instead, think, “Achein yeish Elokim bamakom hazeh.” See the potential. See the good. Help remove the stones and pebbles that prevent people from growing.

A person who is aware that Hashem maps every step and writes every chapter lives with emunah and simcha. Nothing happens without purpose. Yaakov Avinu, facing loneliness, poverty, and deceit, never complained. He saw Hashem’s Hand: “Achein yeish Elokim bamakom hazeh.”

Never do we see him offering ta’anos, focused on the evil done to him. He never assumes the role of the nirdof. He isn’t consumed by Lovon’s spite.

He saw the Hand of Hashem there too. “Achein yeish Elokim bamakom hazeh.”

Thus, he emerged from Bais Lovon rich in family and possessions.

Chinuch works the same way - seeing the value in every child, lovingly encouraging and motivating them from a young age to do good and be good. Chinuch succeeds by helping a child believe in himself, strengthening his confidence, and letting him know that if he aims to succeed, he will.

Hashem crafted man as a wondrous, spectacular creation, and infused each person with worth. Closing the door on a person is losing sight of Hashem’s glory. Every soul carries kedusha. Achein yeish Elokim bamakom hazeh.

Where Yaakov revealed Hashem’s Presence, the Bais Hamikdosh will stand, a testimony that throughout the journey of golus, Hashem has accompanied us, guiding us home.

Dark or difficult as life may seem, remember: “Achein yeish Elokim bamakom hazeh.” We have the strength to roll stones away, to clear paths for ourselves and others. Challenges are surmountable through effort, tefillah, emunah, and bitachon.

And so, Rav Shach reminds us: Do not dwell in complaints. Do not see obstacles as insurmountable. See the blessings. See the potential. See Hashem’s Hand in every step.

With this awareness, life transforms. Stones become wells. Darkness becomes light. And in so doing, we hasten the coming of Moshiach, may he arrive speedily in our day.

Speak Softly

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standing Strong

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

So where do we go from here?

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

We are still here. They are not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Hashem has rewarded them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That moment captures the entire saga of our people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We have risen before, and we will rise again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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