After the Joy, the Journey

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

I would clearly understand if you were sad when Havdolah was recited and Simchas Torah ended.

After a month steeped in kedusha, of being enveloped in sanctity, joy, and deep connection with Hashem, we find ourselves back in the ordinary world. The decorations are carefully peeled off, taken down, folded and boxed away. The sukkah walls and the s’chach, which had lovingly embraced us with the tzila demehemnusa, are disassembled and stored. The esrog, once admired with awe, is set aside as a memory. The lulav, proudly shaken with that special nigun, lies limp in a corner. The melodies fade, the guests depart, and a quiet sense of spiritual displacement sets in.

We emerge from this cocoon of holiness and are suddenly exposed, spiritually and emotionally. We walk back into a world that hasn’t changed, but we have. The question becomes: Can we preserve the elevation? Can we hold onto the clarity, the hope, and the vision?

From the first utterance of “L’Dovid Hashem ori veyishi” during Elul, we were drawn into a sacred rhythm. Elul was the knocking on the door, a subtle, loving call from Above. Then, b’motzoei menucha, the serenity of Shabbos gave way to urgency as Selichos began. The stillness of the night was broken by the ancient cries of compassion, echoing through our shuls and hearts. As the month progressed, the shofar’s haunting blasts shook us awake from spiritual slumber, stirring something deep within.

Then came the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, ten precious, intense days of closeness, when the gates of Heaven felt within reach. And then, Yom Kippur, the day of purity. Dressed in white, we ascended to angelic heights, crying, singing, pouring ourselves out in tefillah and longing. As the sun set and Ne’ilah concluded, we were transformed. We emerged lighter, hopeful, and spiritually reborn.

But Hashem, in His kindness, didn’t let us fall from that peak. He lifted us again, higher. From the solemnity of teshuvah, we entered the joy of simcha. The sukkah welcomed us like a mother’s embrace. We sat beneath the stars, enveloped in Hashem’s love, celebrating the joy of being close to Him. We danced with the Torah on Simchas Torah, arms locked with fellow Yidden, singing “Yisroel v’Oraisa v’Kudsha Brich Hu chad hu.” We were joyous and fulfilled, removed from the mundane world, as we felt the beauty of the life Hashem chose for us to lead. For a moment, we were one. One people, one heart, one truth.

And then, it ended. The final dance, the final song, the final Havdolah. And we were thrust back into the mundane. No more shofar. No more white garments. No more daled minim. No more sukkah. Just echoes of greatness.

But what now? Were these weeks just a spiritual high? A temporary experience? Or were they a preparation for something deeper, something lasting?

In the zemer of Azamer Bishvochin, written by the Arizal and sung at our Shabbos tables every Friday evening, we say, “Yehei rava kamei d’sishrei al amei.” It is a heartfelt plea: “May it be His will that His Presence rest upon His nation.” Yodei Chein explains that these words reflect our longing for the Divine Presence to remain with us, not only during the holy days, but on the regular days that follow. We ask that the holiness we experienced during Tishrei not evaporate like a passing dream, but stay with us as we re-enter the world of work, responsibility, and routine.

With the kedusha and simcha gained during Tishrei, we start again, much improved.

We open the Chumash and read the first words once again: “Bereishis bara Elokim.” With these words, the Torah beckons us to return to the source, to the beginning, not just of the world, but of ourselves, with a fresh start. We carry everything we’ve acquired into this new beginning.

The first Rashi in Chumash sets the tone for our journey. Quoting Rabi Yitzchok, Rashi asks why the Torah begins with the story of creation instead of the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, “Hachodesh hazeh lochem.” His answer: So that when the nations of the world question our right to Eretz Yisroel, we can declare, “Hashem created the world, and He gave the land to whom He saw fit.” It was His to give, and He chose us.

But this explanation raises a question. As we know, the world doesn’t care for our biblical right or Divine promise. Why, then, is this message placed at the very start of the Torah?

Because it’s not just about political arguments. It’s about perspective. The Torah begins with creation to remind us that everything in the world is from Hashem, and everything that happens is part of His design. Eretz Yisroel belongs to us not because of political power or historical continuity, but because Hashem willed it so. The foundation of our emunah is that nothing is random.

The world wasn’t created for chaos. It was created with purpose, and that purpose is Torah and Klal Yisroel, as Rashi tells us in his second piece on the first posuk. He quotes the Chazal that the Torah begins with the word bereishis to teach us a lesson about creation. They explain: “Bereishis—the world was created for Am Yisroel and for Torah, bishvil Yisroel shenikre’u reishis, ubishvil haTorah shenikreis reishis.”

With this foundational truth, we step into the new year. Our lives matter. Our actions matter. Every word, every thought, every mitzvah is part of the divine choreography of creation.

But almost immediately, we are reminded that mankind often forgets that purpose. By the end of Parshas Bereishis, we read how humanity spiraled into darkness. Corruption spread, morality eroded, and Hashem, so to speak, “regretted” creating man. Yet, in this sea of failure, one man stood out: Noach.

The posuk tells us, “V’Noach motzah chein b’einei Hashem.” Noach found favor in the eyes of Hashem.

What was that chein? What made Noach different?

Noach, in a world consumed by sin, remained untouched. He lived with clarity. He understood that the world is not ownerless, that actions have consequences, and that there is a Creator to whom we are accountable. He studied the world and saw Hashem in it. He was not swayed by the crowd, not drawn into the cultural current. He walked his own path, a path of righteousness, honesty, and truth.

The Torah says: “Es haElokim hishalech Noach.” Noach walked with Hashem.

He walked only with Hashem and with no one else. He was alone. In a society that had completely lost its moral compass, he was a solitary voice of conscience. For 120 years, he built the teivah and pleaded with his generation to change. Not a single soul listened. Yet, he kept building. Kept warning. Kept believing.

Noach’s greatness lies not only in his integrity, but in his endurance. He didn’t give up when no one believed in him. He didn’t fold when he was ridiculed. He didn’t quit when he was alone. He remained loyal to his mission and, in doing so, he saved the world.

We must all be like Noach.

We live in a world filled with confusion. Morality is blurred. Truth is mocked. Torah values are called “intolerant.” The very existence of Eretz Yisroel is questioned, and in the face of terror and murder, the world condemns the victim. In just the past few years, we’ve witnessed a stunning rise in anti-Semitism, open and unapologetic. Prestigious universities host pro-Hamas rallies. Western democracies turn their backs on Israel. Lies are repeated so often that they are accepted as fact.

Amid the flood of falsehood, we must build a teivah. We must proclaim, like Noach did, that we don’t mind being alone, walking with Hashem on the path He laid out for us. We hold onto Torah. We raise our families with the Torah values passed on to us through our parents. We speak truth when it’s unpopular. We stay afloat, not because we are many, but because we are anchored.

The teivah, say the seforim hakedoshim, also represents the words of Torah and tefillah. The translation of teivah is “word.” When the world rages outside, we step into the protective haven of Hashem’s words. Into the rhythm of Shacharis, Mincha and Maariv. The melodies of Shabbos. The tune of a sugya and the hum of the bais medrash. The softness of a bedtime Shema with a child. That is our teivah.

We live in a time of terrible tragedies and see young people being struck down in a manifestation of the middas hadin. Just this past Sunday, four young bochurim were killed, their lives taken away in an instant. At the levayah of Shloimy Cohen, one of those bochurim, Rav Yeruchom Olshin quoted the posuk, “Anshei chesed ne’esofim b’ein meivin—Hashem gathers to Him good people and nobody understands why.”

He said that we must recognize that we are living during the difficult period of ikvesa d’Meshicha, a time when we must strengthen our observance and study of Torah and acts of kindness. There is no better time to start than now. Torah and gemillus chassodim form the teivah that enable us to survive the golus and merit the welcoming of Moshiach. 

Israel was attacked two years ago and the world pitied it and offered expressions of sympathy, but when the small country went to war against the army of murderers who had attacked it, the world slowly drifted away from the Jews. One by one, the countries and their citizens began blasting Israel and accusing it of genocide. In the United States, as well, anti-Semitic demonstrations were held from east to west and college campuses became bases for Jew-hatred. Western countries considered friendly to Israel declared pointless military embargos against the embattled state and then, in perfidious empty moves, recognized the nonexistent state of Palestine.

New York City, home of millions of Jews, is about to elect a pro-Hamas, anti-Semitic, communist mayor. Regardless of how you choose to interpret that, the outcome is unequivocally negative.

And then there are moments—bright, piercing rays of light—that remind us that the world has not entirely forgotten its conscience.

Just recently, the hearts of Klal Yisroel were lifted when twenty Israeli hostages, held for almost two years in unimaginable conditions, were freed. The tears of grief became tears of joy, and for a moment, a deep sigh of relief filled Jewish homes across the globe.

We davened. We hoped. And Hashem answered.

Not all of them, not yet. But some. And we saw that even in the darkest situations, salvation is possible.

The redemption of those hostages is a sign of hope. A reminder that Hashem is with us. We pray that their freedom is a good omen for Israel and for the Jewish people, and that the relentless violence will stop, stability will be achieved, and Hashem will bring shalom al Yisroel.

Last week, I attended the first Presidential Holocaust Commission event since my appointment by President Trump to the commission. It was a commemoration of the tragic events of Shemini Atzeres two years ago in southern Israel.

The event, which was held at the United States Holocaust Museum, featured several speeches, including one from a recovered hostage, Almog Meir Jan. He didn’t look particularly religious, but when he rose to speak, he covered his head with his hand and emotionally recited, “Shehecheyonu vekiyemonu vehigionu lazeman hazeh.”

In speaking with him, he told me that when he was freed, he decided that l’illui nishmas the soldier who died freeing him from captivity, he would distribute pairs of tzitzis. He even brought a bag of tzitzis to the event.

There are so many stories being told about people who survived that calamitous attack and, in its wake, found their way to Hashem. The tragedy inspired them to elevate themselves and ignite a flame within their souls.

Chazal tell us (see Pri Tzaddik) that had Noach’s generation responded to his pleas and done teshuvah, the Torah could have been given in their time. They could have had water, but not as a flood. Instead of mayim of destruction, they could have had mayim chaim, the waters of Torah. Instead of desolation, rebirth. Instead of curse, eternal blessing. All it took was listening. One change. One turn.

And so, we return to our question: After Tishrei, after the aliyah, how do we not drown?

We look to Noach. He reminds us that it is possible to stand tall when the world bows low. That it’s possible to walk with Hashem even if you’re walking alone. That chein is not found in popularity, but in purity.

Let us take the strength of Tishrei and carry it forward. Let us begin again, not with despair, but with hope. Let us walk into the weeks ahead as builders of our own arks, guardians of the sacred, carriers of the light.

Because the world was created for us. And if we walk with Hashem, we, too, will find chein in His eyes and be the ones who rebuild the world.

The world was created for Torah. By learning Torah, we sustain and strengthen both ourselves and the world. We add zechuyos for ourselves and for all of creation. We refine our character and make the world a better place.

By performing mitzvos and refraining from aveiros and actions that degrade and defile us, we fulfill our mission and the purpose for which Hashem placed us in His world.

Every day is a new beginning, an opportunity to fulfill our tasks and live with hope, moral strength, and divine guidance.

May Hashem continue to guide, protect, and bless us with peace, strength, and clarity in these challenging times, and may He bring us Moshiach soon, in our days.

The Deep Joy of Sukkos

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Sukkos, the Yom Tov of simcha, comes to us like a sun-drenched mountain after a long and hard climb. After the awesome days of the Yomim Noraim, when our souls were laid bare, our hearts taken over by yearning and tefillah, we emerge into the warm embrace of a Yom Tov whose very essence is joy. As the posuk declares (Devorim 16:14-15), “Vesomachta bechagecha vehoyisa ach someiach — And you shall rejoice in your festival, and you shall be only joyful.”

Only joyful.

How can such a command be fulfilled? Is it possible — after weeks of intense introspection, of confronting mortality, sin, and judgment — to cast the seriousness aside and rejoice, wholly, deeply, uninterruptedly?

The answer is whispered in the leaves of the sukkah, in the rustle of the s’chach above our heads, in the fragile walls that seem to tremble with eternity.

Yes, says the Torah. Yes, says the Zohar. And yes, says the Jewish soul.

Because this joy is not an escape from the seriousness of life. It is its reward.

The Zohar (Parshas Emor) reveals a breathtaking secret. During Sukkos, Hakadosh Boruch Hu comes to dwell with His beloved children in their humble sukkos. He does not demand palaces of marble or ivory. He does not wait for golden thrones or ornamental crowns. No. Hashem comes to the sukkah. The imperfect, breezy little sukkah. And He rejoices there with us.

What greater joy could there be than this? The Creator of the universe, the Master of all worlds, comes to sit beneath our s’chach, to bask in our love, to envelop us in His presence.

The Vilna Gaon, whose insights blaze like lightning across the heavens of Torah, would say that the most difficult mitzvah is not shiluach hakan, nor the depths of korbanos, nor anything that we would imagine.

The hardest mitzvah, said the Gaon, is the one that obligates us to be completely joyous on Sukkos, without any hint of sadness or distraction. Not just happy in theory. Not just smiling on the outside, but fully, truly, spiritually joyous.

Can we do it?

A young man who learned in the famed Volozhiner Yeshiva, the beating heart of Lithuanian Torah life, wrote a diary that was found and printed. His words transported me. I want to share them with you. He wrote:

“The small towns of Lita were solemn a whole year round; there was no income, and poverty was all they knew. But when Yom Tov arrived, old, dark bread was replaced with white bread, and everyone wore freshly cleaned clothing. Yom Tov brought a tremendous change. Everything was different. It felt like going from darkness to great light.”

Just pause for a moment. Imagine it. A shtetel cloaked in the grey of struggle suddenly transformed. The children run through the narrow streets with shining faces. Fathers who’ve worked all year for mere kopeks now wear pressed white shirts. And even if there’s just one chicken for the whole Yom Tov, it’s shared with laughter and song.

He continues: “During the Yom Tov of Sukkos, the town of Volozhin was adorned. All its inhabitants were swept up in celebration. The yeshiva bochurim sang and the cheder children danced around so merrily. From every corner of town, there was heard only much joy and happiness, as the town of Volozhin was overcome with rejoicing and festivity.”

Can you hear it? The singing? The joy? The walls of the sukkos glowing in the candlelight, as old and young sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing divrei Torah and perhaps singing niggunim?

And then, his final lines, bursting with emotion:

“This was true of all the Lithuanian shtetlach, but was most pronounced in Volozhin due to the presence of so many yeshiva bochurim. All year, they were in a different world — the world of learning. But when Sukkos came, their inner happiness burst forth and they added even more to the city’s exultation.”

Because Sukkos isn’t only about outer joy.

It’s about letting the joy that lives deep inside us emerge.

Let us now dive deeper.

The Torah tells us (Vayikra 23:42-43), “You shall dwell in sukkos for seven days…so that your generations will know that I caused the Bnei Yisroel to dwell in sukkos when I took them out of Egypt.”

Something is puzzling here.

The Torah doesn’t say “so that you will remember” as it does by other mitzvos. Regarding tzitzis, it says, “Lema’an tizkeru — so that you will remember.” Regarding Pesach, the same. So why, here, does it say, “Lema’an yeidu — so that they will know?”

Because Sukkos is not only about memory. It’s about knowing. Not history, but presence. Not nostalgia, but experience.

We are not merely commemorating something that once happened. We are stepping into it.

We are reliving the moment Hashem enveloped us in the clouds of His love. Every year, when those hashpa’os are evident, we relive the time of Hashem’s return.

The Tur asks a question that has often been repeated since he posed it: If Sukkos commemorates the Ananei Hakavod, the holy clouds that surrounded the Jewish people when they left Mitzrayim, why don’t we celebrate Sukkos during Nissan, when the Jews left Mitzrayim? Why do we celebrate it during Tishrei?

The Vilna Gaon (Shir Hashirim 1:4) gives a stunning answer. He says that the sukkah we build does not commemorate the original Ananei Hakavod that came after Yetzias Mitzrayim. Instead, it celebrates their return after they were taken away.

When the Bnei Yisroel sinned with the Eigel Hazohov, the clouds, the Shechinah, and the Divine intimacy departed. But then Moshe Rabbeinu ascended Har Sinai again to beg for forgiveness. On Yom Kippur, he descended with that forgiveness in hand.

And then, from the 11^th to the 14^th of Tishrei, the people gathered materials for the Mishkon, demonstrating their renewed commitment. On the 15^th of Tishrei, construction of the Mishkon began.

And the clouds came back.

That is what we celebrate on Sukkos.

Not just the kindness of Hashem in protecting us, but the return of His love after we fell.

This understanding gives new meaning to the calendar.

On Rosh Hashanah, we proclaim Hashem’s kingship. During the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, we repent and plead for mercy. On Yom Kippur, we are forgiven and cleansed. And then comes Sukkos.

Sukkos is the embrace.

It is Hashem saying, “Come back to Me. You are Mine, and I am yours.”

The Ramchal (Derech Hashem 4:7) writes that the light of the original Anonim reappears during Sukkos. Their power — the safety, the clarity, the closeness — is awakened again in our generation.

That means that when we sit in the sukkah, we are not just in a symbolic booth.

We are sitting in a space that echoes with Divine protection.

Unlike most mitzvos, where performance is the obligation, the sukkah requires not just sitting, but also building.

The Rama (Orach Chaim 624:5) teaches that righteous Jews begin building their sukkah immediately after Yom Kippur.

Why?

Because when a mitzvah comes to your hand, don’t delay it. “Al tachmitzena.”

But there is more.

When we build the sukkah, we are not merely erecting walls.

We are building a dwelling place for the Shechinah. A mikdosh me’at. A sanctuary. A home for Hashem in this world.

That’s why it matters how we build it. With kavonah. With thought. And of course, with joy. With hands that have just been purified in the fires of Yom Kippur.

A sukkah is a statement: “Hashem, I want You in my life.” As we proclaimed on Yom Kippur, “Ki anu bonecha v’Atah Avinu. Anu amecha v’Atah Elokeinu.” We are Yours.

The Be’er Heiteiv (639:1) quotes that building the sukkah is akin to being a partner with Hashem in the act of creation.

How so?

Because just as Hashem created a world in which His presence could dwell, so too do we — the newly cleansed Jewish people — create a small world, a sukkah, where He can reside once again.

The Shechinah, says the Zohar, rests in every sukkah built l’sheim Shomayim.

Even the simplest ones. Even yours.

Even the ones with plastic chairs and worn-out boards. The ones that leak and let in cold winds through the cracks. The ones with the latest decorations, the ones with last year’s signs, as well as the sukkos with no decorations at all.

If it’s built with love, determination and dedication to the mitzvah, Hashem is there.

Chazal use a breathtaking term for the sukkah: “b’tzeila demehemenusa — the shadow of faith.”

What is faith if not trust in what you cannot see, in what transcends your control? The sukkah, by halachic definition, must be a temporary dwelling. It sways in the wind. It leaks in the rain. It’s fragile — on purpose.

And that’s exactly why it becomes a place of deep serenity.

Because it teaches us that real security doesn’t come from brick and mortar.

It comes from emunah.

It comes from knowing that the very same G-d who held our ancestors in His Clouds of Glory in the desert surrounds us now — with no less love, with no less care.

The flimsy walls are stronger than steel when Hashem stands beside you.

The s’chach above your head? It may look like leaves, but spiritually, it’s the canopy of the Divine.

In a world spinning with uncertainty, where we grasp for control, where so much is unpredictable and so many are unfriendly, the sukkah invites us to let go, to lean in, and to know.

To know that He is with us.

And just when the sukkah feels most personal, most intimate, something else happens.

On each night of Sukkos, we welcome seven exalted guests, the Ushpizin, into our sukkah: Avrohom, Yitzchok, Yaakov, Yosef, Moshe, Aharon, and Dovid Hamelech.

Why?

Because their lives were comprised of challenges and trust.

Avrohom left everything behind to follow the voice of Hashem. Yitzchok was forced to leave home. Yaakov slept with his head on stones, running from Eisov. Yosef was sent into golus by his brothers. Moshe lived between palaces and tents, chased by kings and carried by prophecy. Aharon was involved in the Eigel story and lost two of his four sons on the day Klal Yisroel celebrated the consecration of the Mishkon. Dovid Hamelech spent much time not on a throne, but in caves and in exile.

When the Ushpizin come into our sukkah, it’s not as historical guests, but as teachers, as guiding lights with a permanent connection to Hakadosh Boruch Hu.

They sit beside us and remind us that when we are in the sukkah, we are not alone.

Let’s return to the Vilna Gaon’s statement: Sukkos is the most difficult mitzvah because it requires complete joy — and only joy.

Why is that so hard?

Because most of us live with tension, loss, disappointment, and unanswered questions. The world is heavy. Life is complex.

But perhaps Sukkos doesn’t demand that we ignore our struggles.

Perhaps it’s asking something more subtle and more profound: That after we have confronted our darkness during Elul and the Yomim Noraim, after we have faced our failures and cried out to Hashem with broken hearts, we are now invited to rejoice — because of that journey.

Sukkos is the joy that comes after teshuvah, not despite of it.

It is the joy of reconciliation. Of returning. Of being forgiven. Of being loved.

Imagine a child who ran away from home, hurt his parents, and rebelled. Then, one day, he knocks on the door, tears in his eyes. His mother throws her arms around him. His father kisses his forehead.

Now imagine the joy of that first Shabbos back at the table.

That is Sukkos.

In the times of the Bais Hamikdosh, Sukkos brought about the most awe-inspiring celebration ever known: the Simchas Bais Hasho’eivah. Chazal say (Sukkah 51a), “Mi shelo ra’ah simchas Bais Hasho’eivah lo ra’ah simcha miyomov — Whoever did not see the rejoicing at the Bais Hasho’eivah has never seen real joy.”

What made it so joyous?

It wasn’t a sumptuous meal. It wasn’t wine or bourbon. It wasn’t wealth.

It was water.

Simple, pure, tasteless water poured upon the mizbei’ach, elevated to holiness.

Because when you’re connected to Hashem, even water — even the simplest parts of life — is enough to dance over.

This, too, is the message of Sukkos.

You don’t need much to be joyous.

You need meaning.

You need clarity.

You need to know that Hashem is near.

And then, even a sukkah, with its temporary walls and a folding table, becomes the most glorious palace.

That is the arc of Tishrei. Rosh Hashanah awakens us to Hashem’s kingship. We are awed and stirred, fighting for our lives and everything that we need and hold dear.

Yom Kippur breaks us open. We are raw, cleansed, and sincere.

And then Sukkos lifts us. We are held, embraced, and surrounded by joy.

It is the joy that comes after winning a tough case, the embrace after the apology. It is the sunshine after the storm, the dawn after the long night.

This is the joy that broke through the poverty of Lita, that filled the diary of a Volozhiner bochur with wide-eyed awe.

This is the joy that turned wooden huts into spiritual sanctuaries.

The joy of Sukkos.

Sukkos, when we step inside the sukkah with reverence and sit with our families, neighbors and guests. We make Kiddush, recite the Shehecheyonu thanking Hashem for keeping us alive, eat a kezayis of challah, are careful with our speech, and remember that beneath the fragile roof, we are under the wings of Hashem’s protection.

How can we not be filled with simcha? After the Yomim Noraim, we are duty-bound to feel joy, for failing to do so would mean ignoring the immense blessings bestowed upon us with the Yomim Noraim. Nothing should be able to shake us and upset us.

When we are home with Hashem, we are reminded that He causes everything to happen and nothing that we experience happens on its own. Challenges that we face are placed there by Hashem to strengthen and improve us. It is all for the good.

May that knowledge bring us to simcha. Deep and lasting simcha.

May the clouds of Hashem’s Glory return in their fullest form with the coming of Moshiach speedily in our days.

Ah gutten Yom Tov.

From Me to We: The Heart of Rosh Hashanah

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Rosh Hashanah is here again. The sounds of the shofar, the weight of the tefillos, and the introspective mood of Elul and Tishrei all converge now. We say to ourselves: “I believe I’m basically good. I want a favorable judgment for the coming year. But where do I start?”

We know about teshuvah. Yet, somehow, when the first blast of the shofar echoes, we feel that something is missing, something deeper than the familiar path.

What do we do? How do we begin anew as individuals and as a people?

My grandfather, Rav Eliezer Levin, learned for many years in the famed yeshiva of Kelm, a place steeped in mussar and sincere spiritual striving. During Elul, he once told me, a sign hung on the wall that simply said, “Ein Melech belo am—There is no King without a people.” The conversation changed and he never did explain to me why they hung that sign and what the deeper message was. However, that sign stayed with me, like an echo I couldn’t quite place. Only later did I begin to understand its urgency and relevance.

Over time, I realized that the sign was not just a nice message. It was a call to action. It taught that Hashem is not crowned through solitary effort. Crowning Hashem means that we must accept Him together, as a people, not just as individuals. Our avodah on Rosh Hashanah is about crowning Hashem as King. This isn’t just symbolic. In the words of Chazal (Rosh Hashanah 34b), we recite the pesukim of Malchiyos in our davening specifically “kedei shetamlichuni aleichem—so that you will crown Me King over you.” Hashem’s malchus isn’t imposed. It’s accepted by us, His nation. But if we are fragmented, if we are divided, then the Melech’s rule isn’t complete. A divided citizenry makes for a weakened leader.

The phrase “Ein Melech belo am” reminds us that Hashem’s kingship depends on us. A fractured people can’t crown a King properly. The Alter of Kelm taught that achdus strengthens Hashem’s throne. Division undermines it. In our times—when so much feels uncertain, when our world is splintered and polarized—this idea is not just beautiful. It is essential. Rosh Hashanah is the anniversary of Hashem’s kingship over the world. Each year, we return to that moment. Each year, we recommit. Each year, we ask, “Are we a nation fit to crown our King?”

To understand what that takes, we examine the concept of achdus, Jewish unity. Achdus is not sameness. It doesn’t require uniformity in dress, in opinion, or in custom. Rather, achdus means recognizing our shared destiny and our shared Creator. Achdus means viewing one another with love, dignity, and respect. Even when disagreements arise—and they inevitably will—achdus requires that we recognize each other as limbs of the same body.

Unity is not about pretending we all agree. It’s about disagreeing respectfully, remembering that every Jew carries within him a piece of the Divine, a heritage from Sinai. When we mock or degrade another Jew, we don’t just harm that individual. We chip away at the collective. And when we build each other up, we raise the entire body of Klal Yisroel. The shevotim each had their own role, their own symbol , their own mission. And together they formed a nation. This is our ideal.

The Vilna Gaon taught that the root of all sin lies in bad middos. Teshuvah begins not just with regret or apology, but with the deep internal work of refining character. If we wish to stand before Hashem on Rosh Hashanah with merit, we must confront our arrogance, our jealousy, our impatience, and our selfishness. We must each seek to become people who are capable of unity. Achdus is not a passive state. It is the result of hard work. We cannot love others fully if we are consumed by our own ego.

Rav Yisroel Salanter famously said that someone who wishes to be victorious in the judgment of Rosh Hashanah must be part of the klal, the greater community. Hashem judges us not only as individuals, but as members of the klal. Are we contributing? Are we needed? Are we lifting others or are we merely focused on ourselves? When we live for others—when we serve, when we give, when we listen—we become part of the nation that crowns Hashem.

That shift, from “me” to “we,” is transformative. It alters not only how we relate to others, but how Hashem relates to us. When we become a people, we can crown a King.

The shofar, so central to Rosh Hashanah, mirrors this journey. Tekiah—the steady, clear sound—represents our unwavering declaration of Hashem’s malchus. Shevorim—the broken cry—mirrors our recognition of our faults, our brokenness, our need for teshuvah. Teruah—the staccato sobbing—echoes our inner turmoil, our longing for connection. And following those sounds of inner reflection, of teshuvah, we blow a tekiah again—a return to strength, resolve, and clarity. But the shofar is more than a personal cry. It is a national voice. The sound of the shofar reaches Heaven only when it arises from the unity of the Jewish heart.

Yet, unity, as stirring as it sounds, must be practiced to be real. Theoretical achdus doesn’t crown a King. Real achdus begins in how we speak to each other, how we treat each other, and how we think about each other. It begins with learning to disagree without contempt, to argue without mockery. It begins by making room for those who are different. It begins with being part of a kehillah, of a community, of a larger group, even when it is hard or thankless. It means sharing together moments of joy, of tefillah, of learning, and r”l of grief. It means not just popping in to a simcha and running out. It means being there, being part of it, and being happy for the people who are celebrating.

The calendar guides us through this process. Elul calls us inward to examine ourselves. Rosh Hashanah expands our focus outward to crown Hashem as King. The Aseres Yemei Teshuvah deepen our reflection and our longing. Yom Kippur purifies us. Sukkos draws us back together in physical closeness and joy. As we all know, the arba minim—the lulav, esrog, hadasim, and aravos—each represent different types of Jews. When they are held together, the mitzvah becomes complete. And finally, on Simchas Torah, we dance, not as individuals, yechidim, but as one people with one Torah. The entire arc of Tishrei is a movement from individualism to unity.

We are interconnected with others, and to the degree that we touch others’ lives and become indispensable, we become a more vital, integral part of Klal Yisroel.

Rav Shalom Schwadron was famed for his mesmerizing drashos, but in Eretz Yisroel, he was also famous as the chazzan on the Yomim Noraim at Yeshivas Chevron. His hauntingly beautiful nusach is followed in the yeshivos and botei medrash of Eretz Yisroel and has spread here as well, heavily influencing the tunes and sounds of Rosh Hashanah, adding cadence to the tefillos in a way that touches the soul of every mispallel.

The master communicator cobbled together different nuances from many others and formed a nusach that touched the soul, stirring and inspiring people who davened with him to seek great heights and perfection. One of Rav Shalom’s iconic classics is the way he sang the pizmon of Omnom Kein…Solachti.

Chevroner talmidim once asked the beloved baal tefillah for the source of the tune. He explained that this song was unlike all the others that originated from various Litvishe gedolim, baalei mussar, and chassidishe hoifen. He told the bochurim that he was orphaned as a child and was sent to live at the Diskin Orphan Home for some time.

“There,” he recalled, “a young boy, orphaned of both parents, sat next to me. He was so sad. He was a broken young boy. In his sadness, he would sit, lost in his own world, and hum a pitiful tune comprised of notes of longing and pain. I had never heard that tune before. No doubt it emanated from the boy’s wounded soul. Every time I heard him hum that mournful tone, I was deeply touched to the essence of my neshomah.”

When Rav Shalom began davening for the amud, that niggun flowed from his core, and when he came upon that beautiful pizmon, he saw it as a perfect match. As he began singing it, it caught on.

When he finished his story, Rav Shalom told the bochurim, “And every year, when I sing that tune, I think of the boy and what he must have been going through.”

When Rav Shalom would speak every Friday evening in Zichron Moshe, Jews of all types would flock from across Yerushalayim to hear his message—young and old, Litvaks, chassidim, Sefardim, shtreimels, black hats, blue hats, straw hats, no hats, white yarmulkas and white suits, golden bekeshes and shirtsleeves. Every type of Jew was there and felt comfortable, perceiving that the message was tailored especially for him. Everyone was together, am echod b’achdus, looking to be inspired. They laughed together and cried together, changing from minute to minute as Rav Shalom held them in the palm of his hand.

Rav Shalom, a man with a vast heart, was easily touched and touched many. He didn’t just go through a playlist and find a popular tune to dress up his tefillos. When he davened, he was b’achdus with everyone in the crowd. He thought about them and their needs, and he did his best to help corral the prayers on high. He thought of that little boy, the broken orphan from way back when, singing to himself a haunting tune, seeking to somehow overcome his loneliness and depression.

He thought of the bochurim yearning to shteig, davening for a zivug hagun. He thought of the older mispallelim who were davening for good health. He thought of everyone who longed for peace in the troubled land. And of course, he davened for Hashem’s people who had spent a month preparing themselves for this great day, working on their middos, on their learning, on their behavior, on their davening and shmiras hamitzvos, and everything else.

A rebbeshe ainikel and a phenomenal talmid chochom, Rav Shalom was very humble and full of love for everyone. He connected with that boy and his soul, channeling his emotions into the tefillos as a master representative, a shliach tzibbur, attaching himself to his brethren, bringing them all together as one. And in commensurate proportion, their voices rose in unison, marshaling their strengths and bringing them to the level of holiness the days call for.

The more we realize that we are part of a group ruled by Hashem, the closer we will be to achieving our goal. When we grasp that kol Yisroel areivim zeh bazeh and comprehend that we are small when we are alone but can achieve much when we are united, we will find favor in Hashem’s eyes and in the hearts of our fellow Jews.

During Elul and Tishrei, we rise above selfishness and apathy, accepting others, caring about them, contributing to their welfare, and seeking to make the world a better place. Chazal teach that tzedokah tatzil mimovess, and we can understand that to mean that the more we give, the more we share with others and care about them, the more unselfish and humble we are, the more we live b’achdus with everyone, the greater our chances of Hashem viewing us with the same type of kindness we exhibit with His children and nation.

The Rambam states in Hilchos Matnos Aniyim (10:1) that Am Yisroel will merit to be redeemed in the zechus of the mitzvah of tzedokah. Perhaps we can say that the Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because we lacked achdus and were consumed by sinas chinom. To overcome that deficiency and merit the geulah, we have to make room for others in our hearts, homes, and schools. We can disagree, but without belittling and hating each other. There is no better way to demonstrate that we have done teshuvah for the sins that caused the destruction than to invest tzedokah money in the dreams and hopes of others and enable them to live decent lives.

Someone who has worked on his middos and perfected them to the degree that he can be a productive and harmonious member of the klal is someone who can appreciate the oneness and unity of Klal Yisroel and thus fulfills his obligation of shetamlichuni Aleichem.

What did that sign hanging in Kelm mean? It meant to do teshuvah. It meant to learn mussar so you can perfect your middos. It meant that Hashem created you for a purpose—to be His nation, to be His people, to be His person. It meant to always remember that the reason you are here is not for selfish, fleeting enjoyment. It meant to remember that you are here to be mekadeish sheim Hashem, lishmoa bekolo uledovka bo. You are here to be a kadosh and to create kedusha.

Every believer knows that Hashem created the world, and Am Yisroel knows that He created the world for us. Rosh Hashanah is when that relationship is commemorated, celebrated, and renewed.

Ein Melech belo am means that our lives must be on the level of the nation that crowns Hashem.

It doesn’t happen automatically. It doesn’t happen just from reading an inspirational sign and singing inspiring tunes. It begins with a cheshbon hanefesh, an honest accounting of the soul. We must ask ourselves hard questions: Have I hurt someone this year? Have I mocked, excluded, or judged others? Have I been too consumed by my own needs to see the needs of others? What middos need my attention—humility, patience, gratitude, generosity? Do I perform mitzvos with excitement, joy, and a sense of fulfillment? When I daven, do I enunciate each word carefully? Do I care about what I am learning? Do Torah, tefillah and shemiras mitzvos touch and elevate me, or do I just go through the motions?

Teshuvah is not complete without real change. Regret for the past must be joined with commitment for the future. We must not only feel bad. We must do better. When we better ourselves, we become easier to love, easier to live with, and easier to respect. When we humble ourselves, we make room for others.

And when we do that, when we reach beyond ourselves, we unlock the deeper power of Rosh Hashanah. Following the emotional tefillah of Unesaneh Tokef, we cry out together as loud as we can that teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedokah overturn even the harshest decrees. Because those actions emanate from a heart that feels part of something bigger. When we forgive others and dig into our own neshamos as we seek forgiveness from Hashem, when we daven together, when we give, we become people who deserve mercy. We become a people worthy of crowning a King.

Let this year be one of healing and humility. Let this be a year when we soften our judgments, open our tables, speak more kindly, and serve more quietly. Let this be a year when we truly live the words “Ein Melech belo am.”

Because when we come together—not in uniformity, but in unity—we don’t just change ourselves. We change the world.

May we be zoche to a year of health, shalom, simcha, nachas, and growth as the Am Hashem. May we crown Hashem together, as one people, with one heart. May He accept us, welcome us and rule over us with chesed and rachamim.

May our teshuvah and achdus enable Moshiach to come this year. Amein.

Kesivah vachasimah tovah.

When Pesukim Walk the Streets

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

This week’s parsha of Ki Savo opens with the mitzvah of bikkurim, the offering of the first fruits. Through this mitzvah and the rich symbolism of the words and rituals surrounding it, we are taught how to find real, enduring happiness.

After months of backbreaking labor in his field or orchard, a man sets out on a journey. He selects the very first fruits of his harvest, the choicest of the Shivas Haminim, places them in a basket, and heads for Yerushalayim. There, standing in the holiest place on earth, he meets a kohein and begins to recite a strange passage. Rather than talking about the sweetness of the fruit or the joy of his success, he begins with history.

He starts by reciting “Arami oveid avi,” recalling the golus of Yaakov Avinu under the evil Lovon, the slavery of Mitzrayim, and the harshness of life under Paroh. Only then does he speak of the miraculous redemption, the land flowing with milk and honey, and the gift of the fruit that he brings to the mizbei’ach to present to the kohein.

Only after this entire process does the Torah instruct, “Vesomachta bechol hatov asher nosan lecha Hashem Elokecha- - And you shall rejoice in all the good that Hashem has given you.”

The message is profound. Happiness doesn’t come from having. It comes from remembering. The simcha that the Torah commands is not shallow joy. It is a deep, reflective rejoicing. Real simcha begins only when someone reflects on where he has been and what he has endured - the pain, the waiting, the uncertainty - and recognizes how far he came. For that is the joy that the Torah seeks for us, borne of perspective, context, and gratitude.

The path to fulfillment is rarely smooth. It is often lined with struggle, setbacks, and self-doubt. The farmer, who represents so many of us, works under a scorching sun, fends off insects, waits through droughts, davens through storms, and finally sees fruit. His instinct might be to enjoy the success and to finally relax, but the Torah tells him to pause, remember, and give.

That giving, that hakoras hatov, is the gateway to the simcha the Torah seeks for us.

Too often, we become lost in the negative. We focus on the struggles and become saddened. We become overwhelmed by the difficulties we face. We are not earning enough. Too much is demanded of us.

Yes, making a living is hard, but too often we become trapped in the problems that are part of life and lose sight of the good we have, beginning with life itself. We forget to thank Hashem that we have a job and are able to work. That we are healthy enough to stand, walk, and think. We focus on the negatives of our responsibilities and forget that they are signs of blessing.

The mitzvah of bikkurim is not just agricultural. It’s psychological. It asks us to reframe our lives. The farmer is told to think back to the beginning of the season when he planted and was uncertain if anything would grow. He had no guarantees. And yet, now, he holds a basket of abundance. The Torah compels him to see that and to recognize Hashem’s Hand through the entire process, from root to fruit.

We study this parsha now, just before Rosh Hashanah, because it speaks directly to what is asked of us at this time of year.

During Elul, we look back over the past year. Some parts of the year were hard, perhaps painfully so. Some parts were uncertain. But before we step into the Yomim Noraim days of judgment, we are told to do what the farmer does: reflect, remember and give thanks. To see what Yaakov went through in the house of Lovon and what the Jews endured in Mitzrayim, and then to appreciate the geulah. As we bring and study about bikkurim, we think about the toil and the fruit.

There are times when we feel overwhelmed. We feel stuck and trapped, with no way forward. People can feel crushed under the weight of financial pressure, business difficulties, family struggles, health crises, or inner turmoil. Some give up, thinking that their situation is beyond repair.

But that mindset is not one of Torah.

I have previously recounted this lesson from my rebbi, but it’s worth repeating and remembering. I was speaking with my rebbi, Rav Avrohom Yehoshua Soloveitchik, and he asked me how one of his talmidim is doing.

I answered, “Es geit em shver. He’s having a hard time.”

Rav Avrohom Yehoshua looked at me and said, “Bei dem Ribono Shel Olam, iz gornit shver. For the Master of the World, nothing is hard.”

That short response carries a lifetime of hashkofah.

We think in human terms. We see walls, but Hashem sees doors. We see difficulties, but Hashem sees opportunities. To us, it may seem hopeless. But for Him, nothing is impossible.

We become trapped by the moment and cannot look past it. Although the challenge may seem insurmountable, we must remember that “Bei der Ribono Shel Olam, iz gornit shver.”

Great people, those who live their lives by the sefer Chovos Halevavos and other sifrei mussar, are able to view life not as a string of isolated incidents, but as an evolving story written by the Creator. They don’t see world events as random or personal suffering as meaningless. They see Hashem behind every scene, even the darkest ones.

When the world - or their personal world - turns upside down and the people closest to them abandon them, or their friends mock them, or their chavrusa dumps them in middle of the zeman, they don’t panic during the storm, because they know that Hashem is steering the ship. By living with proper faith, emunah and bitachon in all situations, things will subside and they will see brocha and hatzlocha.

Rav Mordechai Pogromansky, one of the great Torah personalities of pre-war Lithuania, embodied this view. Even as he sat locked in the Kovno Ghetto, surrounded by death and destruction, he radiated calm. People gathered around him not just for Torah, but for emunah.

With the Jews walled into a small area that was constantly patrolled by vicious Nazis, he would tell those who would gather around him that he didn’t see the German beasts who were everywhere. He would say: “Ich zey nisht di Deitchen. Ich zey pesukim-I don’t see Germans. I see pesukim.”

He looked at the chaos and saw Tochacha. He saw the pesukim that we read in this week’s parsha playing out around him. The suffering was not the product of cruel men, but of a Divine system with meaning and purpose.

He wasn’t in denial. He was in tune.

Rav Pogromansky would repeat a teaching that he heard from the Kovno Rov, Rav Avrohom Duber Kahana-Shapiro, who died of illness in the ghetto. Prior to his passing, the Rov said that he was jealous of the kohein who hid the small jug of pure oil during the time of the Chashmonaim. That flask, which would one day ignite the miracle of Chanukah, was set aside during a time of despair, when the Bais Hamikdosh was defiled, churban was everywhere, most of the Jews had become Misyavnim, and the future looked hopeless.

The Kovno Rov referred to him as “der umbakanter suldat” - the unknown soldier. No one knows his name. But his small act of quiet faith changed everything. He knew that a time would come when the powerful Yevonim would be usurped of their power, when churban would yield to rejuvenation and shemen tahor would be needed to ignite the menorah.

While others surrendered to the darkness, he lit a spark for the future. He knew that he wasn’t seeing Yevonim, or Misyavnim, or churban. He was seeing pesukim.

He lived the words of the Orchos Chaim L’Rosh, “Al tevahel ma’asecha.” Don’t panic. Don’t act rashly. Stay steady.

This is classic Kelmer mussar. Clarity and calm, even amidst confusion. But you need not be from Kelm to live it. We can all become that unknown soldier, making small but holy choices even when everything feels bleak.

That’s why in many yeshivos, particularly during Elul, Orchos Chaim L’Rosh is read each morning after Shacharis. In Kelm, they sang it with a haunting niggun. Rav Nosson Wachtfogel would chant it in Lakewood with fiery intensity.

Each day, this reminder: Stay calm. Think long-term. See the pesukim.

Every Shabbos morning, in Nishmas, we thank Hashem for saving us from “cholo’im ro’im v’ne’emanim, evil and faithful illnesses.” What does it mean for an illness to be faithful?

The Tochacha in this week’s parsha (28:59) speaks also of “makkos gedolos vene’emanos, great and faithful blows,” and “cholo’im gedolim vene’emanim, great and faithful illnesses.”

The Gemara in Avodah Zarah (55a) states that before an illness descends upon a person, it must take an oath. It is instructed how long to stay, how much pain to inflict, and when to leave. The sickness agrees and is then dispatched.

That is ne’emanus. Even suffering follows orders. Even pain has a purpose and a limit.

When we’re in the middle of it, it’s easy to believe that things will never change. But nothing is forever - except Hashem’s love and plan.

Monday was a day of heartbreak—in Yerushalayim, in Gaza, and in every Jewish heart.

In Ramot, six holy innocent Jews were torn from this world by cruel, senseless violence. Twelve more were seriously wounded, their lives and families forever altered. The blood of the innocent cries out, and the chain of tragedy grows heavier with each link. Young and old alike, snuffed out in an instant. And for those left behind: darkness and grief. Parents. Siblings. Friends. All thrown into the fire of mourning.

The day had begun like any other in Yerushalayim. The sun rose over the golden city, casting light on people going about their morning routines. And then gunfire.

Panic. Screams. Chaos. People running for their lives.

When will it end?

That same day, far away in Gaza, four young Jewish soldiers—boys, really—were killed in their tank by Hamas terrorists. They never had a chance. Four more families shattered. Four more names added to the growing list of holy souls lost. Hy’d.

When Hashem decrees it, no border fence can stand in the way. No tank, no technology, can offer protection. When Heaven speaks, the illusion of control disappears. Pesukim are seen in the streets.

We see virtually the entire world lining up against us, preparing for a grand ceremony at that bastion of justice, the United Nations, where once-great nations of the West will join forces with Israel’s traditional enemies and recognize a non-existent state for a fictional nation. Anti-Semitism increases and no place is considered safe from the vile hate. Israel’s war with the forces of terror continues into its third year, as its hostages hover near death, and legions of marchers, propagandists, politicians and media mainstays accuse and convict Israel of genocide.

When we hear what is happening inside Eretz Yisroel, it can feel demoralizing. We see the rightist government on shaky legs, with the left flexing its might, putting together new coalitions comprised of old enemies, determined to squash us.

None of what is happening is new. None of it is unprecedented. The ongoing battles over yeshivos, over halacha, and over the soul of our people have been waged since the beginning.

The battles that are being waged now have been fought before. Ever since the founding of the state, the status of bachurei yeshiva and the role of halacha have been points of contention. Just as our spiritual fathers triumphed, just as yeshivos rose from the ashes and continued to grow, and just as the Torah community defied the predictions and prognoses of its demise and thrived, so will the good times return.

In this country, as well, we face multiple challenges in our communities, schools, shuls, neighborhoods, housing, and children. Costs are rising everywhere. As some wring their hands in despair and despondency, others see it all as birth pangs.

We have always survived. More than that, we have flourished.

The Torah world rose from the ashes of Churban Europe. It was rebuilt by people who saw the pesukim and did not panic. We must continue their legacy. The good times will return - for those who don’t give up.

Yaakov Avinu, as he descended to Mitzrayim, brought along cedar trees - arozim - that would later be used to build the Mishkon. Why? Because he knew. He knew that golus would come. He knew that slavery would follow. But he also knew that redemption would follow that - and that those very trees, planted in a period of darkness, would be used to build a house for Hashem that would be a source of light and holiness.

Yaakov wasn’t just bringing wood. He was bringing a message: The darkness won’t last. Prepare for the light.

That is why we read the parsha of bikkurim now.

Elul is not just about fear. It’s about faith. It’s about saying: I will plant. I will strive. I will plan my walk toward Yerushalayim with my fruit, even if I don’t yet see them. And Hashem, in His love, will grant me what I need and welcome me to the mikdosh through his emissary, the kohein.

The Ribono Shel Olam says, “Pischu li pesach kefischo shel machat, open for Me a door the size of a needle’s eye, v’Ani eftach lochem kepischo shel ulam, and I will open for you the entrance to a grand hall.”

Elul is about taking the step. That first step is hard, just like the first steps of a child. It’s hard to get off the floor, to forsake our sins, large and small, those that bring us joy and those that lead to depression. It takes faith and strength to take that first step. But when we do take it, Hashem will do the rest.

We live in turbulent times. Spiritually, socially, and politically, we feel the shaking beneath our feet. But we must respond the way Jews always have: with faith, with effort, and with gratitude.

We must examine our deeds, remember our history back to Yaakov and the times he suffered, recognize our geulah, and move forward.

Hashem saved Yaakov from Lovon and saved us from Mitzrayim. He will save us again - if we don’t give up. If we walk, He will carry. If we cry, He will listen.

The struggles we face are real, but so is the love of the Father who placed them in our path.

May we merit to be among those who bring our bikkurim with joy, even after a year of toil. May we learn from the unknown soldier. May we see our struggles not as dead ends, but as pesukim in progress.

May we all be inscribed for a year of light, clarity, peace, and revealed goodness.

Kesivah vachasimah tovah. Shnas geulah v’yeshuah.

Nachas

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

In our world, much of our lives revolve around our children. Our schedules conform to the school schedules and we do whatever we can to ensure and enhance our children’s growth and education. The mountains and vacation destinations emptied out as the summer people packed up and returned to the city life they had escaped from, because school was about to begin. The summer came to a quick conclusion because our children’s chinuch takes precedence over all else.

It’s been a long time since I began my schooling career at age four at Yeshiva of Spring Valley’s Pre-1A. I don’t remember what the first day was like and how long it took to get adjusted to my new life, so personal experience is not what prompted me to write about “the first day of school.”

It was something else. It was a letter from my grandson’s morah last year. The letter portrayed, for me at least, the greatness of those among us who dedicate their lives to the chinuch of our children — and grandchildren.

My grandson, who is now five years old, attended Yeshiva Nachalei Torah last year for kindergarten. The Lakewood school is run by Rav Meir and Rebbetzin Leah Pincovics. Mrs. Pincovics is the morah of the kindergarten class. The amount of information that she imparts to her young charges — and the geshmak they have in learning — is phenomenal. My grandson had a great year there, but his parents decided to send him to a different school for Pre-1A/Primary.

When he came home from the first day of yeshiva, there was an envelope waiting for him on the kitchen table. It was a letter addressed to him, handwritten by Morah Leah in various magic marker colors, wishing him hatzlocha in Primary and expressing confidence that he will shteig and become a big talmid chochom. She also wished him a kesivah vachasimah tovah, and to top it off, she included a candy in the envelope.

I was very impressed. Here she was setting up her school for opening day, writing a letter filled with love to a little boy who had left her school, giving him chizuk on a day she knew would be hard for him. Such dedication to the craft of chinuch deserves to be appreciated and applauded, as it reminds us why mechanchim are heroes of Jewish life. I decided to write about mechanchim and children and the first day of school.

As the school year begins, a familiar scene unfolds across our communities: freshly pressed uniforms, crisp notebooks, name tags on knapsacks, and the hum of school buses pulling up to yeshivos and Bais Yaakovs. Behind this back-to-school energy lies something far more delicate: the quiet, inner world of our children’s emotions.

For many children, especially the younger ones, these first weeks of school are filled with uncertainty. Everything is new. A new rebbi, a new morah, new kids, and new expectations. A classroom filled with pressure and unknowns. Even the most confident child can feel overwhelmed. The comfort of last year — the familiar routines, the teacher who they came to love and who loved them back, the classmates they trusted and made friends with — vanished overnight. Even the most confident child can suddenly feel small again.

And some, especially those who struggle socially or academically, walk into that classroom carrying invisible worries heavier than their backpacks.

The children sit on the edge of their seats, unsure of what is expected of them. Some look around the room at all the strange faces and wonder if they’ll be able to make friends this year. Some are already quietly comparing themselves, asking: Will my rebbi like me? Will I understand what he teaches? How will I ever adjust to this?

Children are people just as grownups are. They have feelings and emotions, fear and trepidations. Every year is a new beginning and each grade is a new world. They finally got comfortable in last year’s environment and made it work for themselves, and here they have to start all over again.

They dare not express their fears, as they don’t want to be perceived as babies. They want their parents to be proud of them and they want to be proud of themselves, but those first days and weeks of school can be crushing.

This is a time when our children need us — and their teachers — more than ever.

As parents, we have a sacred task: to provide emotional support, encouragement, and a sense of security. A calm conversation at the breakfast table, a validating conversation at bedtime, a reassuring word when they come home after school. These small gestures build emotional resilience and security, and can shape how a child experiences the school year. Our children don’t need us to fix everything. They need us to see them, to believe in them, and to give them the strength and support they need to move forward.

We need to let them know that everyone makes mistakes and that’s okay, because it is part of the learning process. We need to make sure that they know that growth takes time and effort, and that they shouldn’t become disheartened along the way.

But this journey doesn’t happen in a vacuum.

Standing quietly but powerfully at the front lines of this transition are the rabbeim and moros who devote their lives to chinuch. In our world, a teacher is never “just” a teacher. For their students, great teachers are a living embodiment of Torah, yiras Shomayim, and middos tovos. Every lesson they teach is not just about knowledge. It’s about identity. It’s about building bnei and bnos Torah who carry the spark of mesorah within them.

What makes a teacher great?

Great teachers see the potential in every student, even when those children can’t see it in themselves. They make students believe they can. They listen when no one else does. They notice when something is wrong. They find ways to reach the quiet ones, the struggling ones, and the ones who act out because they’re hurting.

Great teachers don’t just teach. They care.

This kind of dedication often goes unnoticed. It happens in early mornings and late nights filled with grading, planning, and worrying. It happens in classrooms. It happens in the moments when a teacher chooses kindness over frustration, encouragement over criticism, and hope over resignation. It happens when teachers bring out the greatness that lies inside every child and perfects the diamond they have been entrusted with, enhancing it, polishing it, and causing it to shine.

Being a rebbi or morah, or generally being involved in chinuch, is not just a job. It’s a calling. And those who answer that call do so not for fame or fortune — there is little of either — but because they believe in the power of chinuch and the importance of every child.

It’s not just their ability to explain a Rashi clearly or organize a creative project for parshas hashovua, which is of course of primary importance. It’s their sensitivity to the children sitting in the corner with fear in their eyes. Great teachers sense the nervous child who’s unsure of himself. They notice the teary eyes, the clenched jaw, the child who’s desperately hoping to be seen and appreciated.

They ensure that the better students excel and don’t become bored, and at the same time gently guide those who are falling behind. They speak words that build and encourage and don’t break.

Being a good mechaneich goes far beyond the lesson plan. It’s about connection. It’s about patience. It’s about showing up physically, emotionally and mentally every day.

Mechanchim and mechanchos give not only their time and energy. They give their hearts. They teach with love, with devotion, and with the unshakable belief that every child has greatness inside.

This mesirus nefesh is real. It is the rebbi who davens at the kever of the parent of a yasom who isn’t doing well in yeshiva. It’s the morah who checks in with a shy girl at recess because she noticed she hadn’t spoken all morning. It’s the teacher who davens with her names of her students on her lips, asking Hashem to give her clarity, confidence, and connection.

A remarkable rebbi — and there are many — has a student who is awkward socially and academically, who is dismissed by others as a “lost cause.” But the rebbi doesn’t see a loser in front of him. He sees a neshomah. Each day, he finds different ways to encourage that neshomah and help it grow, study and fit in, enabling it to blossom. Rabbeim and moros don’t only teach Torah. They make children. They fashion them into vessels capable of learning and understanding and growing in Torah and life.

That’s chinuch. That’s greatness.

Behind every report card, every kriah breakthrough, every improved middah, and every step forward is a rebbi or morah who gave of themselves, quietly, consistently, and wholeheartedly. So many go far beyond the call of duty. They give up their own time and family hours to prepare lessons or reach out to parents. They buy supplies with their own money and have a steady supply of treats to entice children to learn and behave and mature to the point where they no longer need enticements.

Teachers don’t ask for kavod and too often don’t get what they deserve.

As parents and as a community, we must recognize what they are doing. We must express our hakoras hatov, not just with thank-you cards at the end of the year, but by displaying respect, giving them chizuk throughout the year, and letting them know in tangible ways that they are appreciated. Now, too, as school begins again, it’s the perfect time to stop and appreciate those who step into the sacred role of melamdei Torah l’amo Yisroel day in and day out.

They are also people, and everyone, no matter what they do, can use chizuk, especially when they are taken for granted. 

As this new school year unfolds, let us remember what matters most.

To every rebbi and morah entering this year with a full heart, thank you. Your job is sacred. Your impact is immeasurable and eternal.

And to all the parents sending children off to school — sometimes teary-eyed and sometimes with a broad smile — know that your love, encouragement, and calm presence are the most powerful tools you can give them.

Let us remember that every child walks into school carrying hopes and fears. That what they need most is a warm smile, a safe environment, and someone who believes in them, at home and in the classroom.

Let us remember the greatness of our teachers — their patience, their passion, their mesirus nefesh, and the quiet heroism they display every single day.

May this school year be filled with hatzlocha and growth in yedias haTorah, emunah, middos and everything else.

And let us daven that rabbeim and moros be blessed with health, strength, siyata diShmaya, and nachas from their students. May their efforts bear fruit in ways they may never even see, and may we, as parents and a community, merit to have our efforts repaid with much nachas and joy.