Tapestry of Redemption

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kindness is greatness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blueprint for Golus

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

How could exile feel like Olam Haba?

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

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

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

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

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

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

This recognition was not incidental. It was pedagogical.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is chinuch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This pattern has been repeated throughout history.

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

We see this unfolding before our eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is not about parties. It is about reality.

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

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

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

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

Lifelines

 By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

The eight days of Chanukah, which ended this week, were a celebration of many things, among them emunah and bitachon. The Chashmonaim went into battle vastly outnumbered, armed with nothing but faith. That faith was richly rewarded, as the Chashmonaim merited ridding the Jewish people of their tormentors and restoring to them the Torah, avodah, and kedusha of which they had been robbed.

The Chofetz Chaim would often find reason to repeat the following moshol. A visitor once came to town, and on Shabbos he watched in amazement as the gabbai distributed the aliyos. The person who appeared to be the most prominent figure in the shul was passed over, as was an elderly talmid chochom whose appearance suggested seniority and distinction. Finally, unable to contain himself, the visitor approached the gabbai and questioned his choices. The gabbai smiled patiently. “You’ve been here for a week and already you have opinions?” he said. “Stay a few more weeks and you’ll begin to understand. The g’vir has a yahrtzeit next week and will receive an aliyah then. The talmid chochom made a simcha last week; he and his family all received aliyos. Everything I do has a cheshbon. But to appreciate what I do, you need to stay here long enough to see the whole picture.”

The Chofetz Chaim would conclude, “Ich bin shoin an elter Yid. I have lived a long time, and only now am I beginning to glimpse signs of the plan with which Hashem runs the world. Sometimes a person must wait fifty years to see how events come full circle.”

That is the message of Parshas Vayigash. What appears confusing, painful, or even senseless in the moment is often part of a larger design that reveals itself only with time. The darkness is real, but it is never final. The light may be delayed, but it is inevitable. And when it comes, we will see that every step, every setback, and every tear was leading us there all along.

The history of the Jewish people is marked by dramatic peaks and deep valleys, moments of extraordinary prosperity and strength followed by stretches of poverty and powerlessness. At times, the darkness seems absolute, with no light visible on the horizon. And then, often without warning, a sudden illumination appears, the course of events shifts, and what was bleak is transformed into clarity and hope.

On a personal level, we kindle small lights in the hearts of others, never knowing whether they will take hold. We don’t know if the flame will flicker and grow or be extinguished by stormy winds. We do our part. We do what we can. We hope and we daven. We believe that one day all the scattered flames will merge, igniting a great fire of emunah, bitachon, Torah, and avodah that will spread across the land. Each of us works to bring that day closer, as we await the ultimate fire of revelation and redemption.

Until that day arrives, the news of the moment can be difficult to bear. Life delivers cruel twists, and at times we can feel beaten, overwhelmed, and devastated. At such moments, Yosef calls out to us across the generations and says, “Al tei’otzvu! Do not become despondent.” It is all for good. People may mock you, betray you, take advantage of you, and question your worth and stability, but do not give up. Al tei’otzvu. Hold fast to your faith and you will overcome even an adversary stronger than you. It may take time. It may feel like a Sisyphean task. But eventually, Hashem’s kindness will be revealed.

In the previous parshiyos, we read the painful account of Yosef being sold into slavery by his brothers. They constructed a cruel deception for Yaakov Avinu, presenting Yosef’s garment soaked in the blood of a goat and telling their aging father that his beloved son had been killed. Yet, as Chazal tell us, Yaakov refused to accept their story. Something within him would not allow it.

Time passed and famine struck the land. The brothers were forced to descend to Mitzrayim in search of food. There, they encountered the viceroy, who was harsh, unyielding, and seemingly intent on tormenting them. He placed obstacle after obstacle in their path, denying them food, accusing them of crimes, and plunging them into anguish.

At the opening of Parshas Vayigash, Yehudah recounts the entire ordeal. He describes how the ruler questioned them about their father and a younger brother, how they explained that their father had already lost one son from that mother, and how losing the second would surely kill him. The viceroy appeared unmoved. If they wanted food, he demanded that they bring the youngest brother.

They complied, and upon their return, Binyomin was seized. Yehudah describes the devastation awaiting them at home, how they could never face their father without returning with his youngest son, and how Yaakov’s heartbreak over the loss of Yosef still haunted their lives.

Then, at the very moment when confrontation seemed inevitable, the viceroy shattered the tension. “Ani Yosef,” he declared. “Ha’od ovi chai? Is my father still alive?”

Yosef knew the answer. His question was itself an answer — a silent rebuke. “You speak now of concern for our father? Where was that concern when you tore a young boy from his arms and sold him into slavery?”

The Torah tells us that the brothers could not respond. “Velo yochlu echov la’anos oso.” They were stunned into silence, overwhelmed by shame and recognition.

Yosef then drew them close and said the words that echo through eternity: “Al tei’otzvu ve’al yichar be’eineichem.” Do not be depressed. Do not be angry. Hashem sent me here before you losum lochem she’airis ba’aretz, to prepare for you a place of survival.

“It wasn’t you who sent me here,” Yosef told them. “It was Hashem. This was not a mistake. You were not villains in a tragedy, but instruments in a Divine plan.”

He instructed them to hurry home to tell their father that Yosef was alive, honored, and powerful in Mitzrayim, and to bring Yaakov down with the entire family, where Yosef would sustain them through the famine.

The reunion was overwhelming. Yosef and Binyomin wept in each other’s arms. He embraced the other brothers and they cried together.

The brothers returned home bearing news that should have restored Yaakov’s soul: “Yosef is alive and he rules in Mitzrayim.” Yet, astonishingly, Yaakov did not believe them. “Lo he’emin lohem.”

How could this be? Yaakov had refused to accept Yosef’s death. Why would he now reject the news of his life?

Perhaps the answer lies beneath the surface. To accept that Yosef was alive meant accepting how he had survived. It meant confronting the unbearable truth that his own sons had sold their brother and deceived their father. That reality was harder to absorb than death itself.

But then the brothers told him kol divrei Yosef — not just the facts, but the message. They told him Yosef’s words: al tei’otzvu. They told him that Yosef said that this was all Hashem’s doing, that suffering had been the pathway to salvation.

And then, “vatechi ruach Yaakov.” Yaakov’s spirit returned. He was revived not only by the knowledge that Yosef lived, but by the emunah that Yosef embodied.

Yosef had endured abandonment, humiliation, temptation, and imprisonment, yet he emerged without bitterness, without resentment, convinced that there is a Master of the world who writes and directs the script. What appears destructive is often preparatory. What seems like a curse may be a blessing in disguise.

The great mashgiach, Rav Yeruchom Levovitz, would say, “We are always in His hands. Amol di rechte hant, amol di linke hant — Sometimes the right hand, sometimes the left, but He is always carrying us.”

This is the depth of the drama in these pesukim. This is the enduring lesson Yosef taught his brothers — and us.

Al tei’otzvu.

Jewish history is replete with people planted in a location where they could best impact others. Sometimes they had to be uprooted and replanted elsewhere, causing no small amount of hardship, but in the end, the Divine precision became clear.

This was true in our recent history, when the Holocaust devastated the European Torah world. A few hardy souls were waiting in America to greet the limping remnant. Most of these European immigrants had come to America before the war because they were forced to, perhaps due to hunger or some other threat. In time, it became clear that they were sent there lefleitah gedolah.

My grandfather, Rav Eliezer Levin, was one of the many who survived what appeared at the time to be tragedy. He had taken a leave of absence for one year from his rabbonus in Lita when his relatives dragged him to America. Fearing for his life as the winds of war circled over Europe, they brought him here and arranged a rabbinic position in Erie, PA. Needless to say, he could not adapt to Erie and wanted to return to his beloved Vashki and to his wife, children, and baalei batim.

The thought of bringing his family to die a spiritual death in Erie frightened him, but he could not return to his hometown. He had left his rabbinic position there in the hands of a trusted friend, who agreed to serve as rov until he would return from America. The friend would gain serious experience, aiding him in his pursuit of a position. However, when Rav Levin wrote that he was coming home to reassume the position, the friend was devastated. He said that he would never get another job and pleaded with Rav Levin to let him stay there, asking Rav Levin to find himself a different position.

Although it was his father-in-law’s position, which he had inherited and occupied for a number of years, Rav Levin did not have the heart to unseat the man from the job. Meanwhile, his family members secured a rabbinic position in Detroit for him. With no choice, he moved there and sent for his family. With their meager possessions, several of Rav Levin’s seforim, along with kisvei yad of his father-in-law, the family set sail on one of the last boats to leave Europe before the war broke out. They arrived just ahead of the destruction of Lithuania. The rabbi of Vashki and the entire town were wiped out. No one survived.

Rav Levin played a key role in establishing a Torah community in Detroit and actively assisted the roshei yeshiva of Telshe as they started their yeshiva in Wickliffe, Ohio, after being stranded here. His own children would emerge as prominent rabbonim and roshei yeshiva in this country, providing “michyah,” spiritual sustenance, “she’airis,” and “pleitah gedolah” as the generation faced starvation.

Examine the history of the rebirth of Torah in this country and around the world and you will find similar stories of people who had been doomed to living far from their homes, surviving the war, and planting the seeds of a blossoming nation.

More recently, although October 7^th was an awfully tragic day, survivors told stories of miraculous salvation that day, which led many to recognize Hashem’s existence and begin to practice Torah and mitzvos. People who were taken hostage that day and held in subhuman conditions in Gaza relate how they felt the hand of Hashem keeping them alive and eventually attaining freedom.

Stories of Hashgochah Protis abound. Stories are often told about a person being in the right place at the right time, thinking that they are in the wrong place and bemoaning their fate, only to learn that fate had intervened on their behalf. These stories depict how the Divine Hand reached down from Heaven and plucked the protagonists from disaster, with neither their knowledge nor acquiescence.

We know stories of people who thought their world was closing in on them and their life was ending, only to learn later that their salvation was cloaked in what they had perceived at the time as suffering.

But it is not enough to read and be reminded of such stories if we do not realize that our entire life is comprised of such stories.

And when those distressful times come, we have to hear Yosef as he calls out to us through the ages and says, “My brothers and sisters, grandsons and granddaughters, al tei’otzvu. Don’t despair. Don’t be desperate. Don’t think it’s all over. Never give up.”

When it seems as if the bad guys are winning, when you feel all alone, when your teacher, boss, or partner has screamed at you, or when you feel as if you’re at the end of your rope, know that it is not yet over and the plot can thicken and change. Sometimes it happens quickly, while other times it takes a while to see the sun behind the clouds. But you must know that it is always there.

Emunah and bitachon are our lifelines, motivating and driving us. Without them, we stumble and fall.

Every day, Eliyohu Hanovi would visit Rav Yosef Karo, author of the Shulchan Aruch and Bais Yosef. His teachings are recorded in the sefer Maggid Meishorim. The Bais Yosef writes in Parshas Behar that “the maggid,” as he referred to him, told him not to let a day go by without studying from the classic mussar work Chovos Halevavos, which reinforces concepts of yiras Hashem, emunah, and bitachon.

This is both a religious obligation and good advice. One who is lacking in understanding these ideas becomes depressed and lost, misguided and misdirected, in what can be a cruel and crushing world.

No matter what comes over us, we must remain positive and upbeat, continuing to live and do without hatred and contempt. Learning Torah and Chovos Halevavos, as well as Mesilas Yeshorim and other seforim of mussar, does that for us.

Dovid Hamelech says in Tehillim, “Aileh vorechev ve’aileh basusim.” Some trust in their tanks and some trust in their cavalry. “Heimah koru venofolu va’anachnu kamnu vanisodad.” They crumble and fall, and oftentimes when they go to battle, the weaponry they had worshipped fails them. Those whose lives are directed and guided by Torah and emunah will be able to rise and be strengthened, because their value system is not dependent on temporary, fleeting powers that can be, and are, susceptible to defeat.

Al tei’otzvu. No matter how daunting the challenge you are facing appears, it can be overcome.

The danger of entering a downward spiral and becoming entrapped in a lethargic state, brought on by the maddening acts other people are capable of and an inability to escape their harshness, has ruined many people, thwarting their ambitions and hopes for growth and a better day tomorrow.

What they so desperately need is to hear the comforting, loving call of al tei’otzvu. Don’t pay attention to those who seek to suppress you and usurp your innate human desire for success. Ignore those who seek to make you small and gravitate to the ones who try to expand your horizons, sharpen your focus, and broaden your vistas.

Don’t blame yourself for failure—al yichar apchem—and don’t let others pin blame upon you either. Know that you and every Jew are blessed with the potential for greatness. Know that whatever happens is for a higher purpose than you can understand.

The posuk states that when Moshiach comes, hoyinu kecholmim, we will be as dreamers. The Slonimer Rebbe explained that the posuk refers to the “dreamer,” Yosef Hatzaddik. On the day of Moshiach’s arrival, we will all be as the brothers were when Yosef told them that their struggles and suffering should be understood and perceived as causes for joy.

May that day and its revelations come soon. Until they do, al tei’otzvu.

No matter how daunting the darkness, we must remember that we are never abandoned. Like Yosef in Mitzrayim, like our ancestors uprooted and replanted in distant lands, we may face moments that feel insurmountable, when suffering seems unending and hope appears to vanish. Yet, each hardship and each challenge is a thread in a tapestry that only Hashem can see in full. What seems like despair may be the groundwork for future yeshuos. What feels like loss may plant seeds for much future growth.

Every generation witnesses unique challenges. In the Holocaust, families were torn apart, communities destroyed, and Torah worlds threatened with extinction, yet from those ashes, Torah blossomed anew in Israel, America, and across the globe. October 7^th reminds us that even amid the most immediate dangers, Hashem intervenes in ways hidden from our eyes. People survive, are strengthened, and come to a deeper awareness of His guidance. Last week’s tragedy in Australia could have been much worse. The murderers threw bombs into the crowd before they began shooting. Many lives were miraculously spared when the bombs did not go off.

These are not coincidences. They are expressions of Hashgocha Protis, the Divine hand at work in the lives of each Jew.

And so it is in our personal lives. When work overwhelms, relationships strain, or challenges appear insurmountable; when words wound, doors close, or plans fail; Yosef’s call echoes across the centuries: Al tei’otzvu. Do not despair. Do not surrender. Do not allow fear or frustration to deter you. Even when the world seems to press in, the Divine plan is at work. Emunah and bitachon are not abstract ideals. They are lifelines, anchors that allow us to navigate the storms with clarity, courage, and purpose.

When Moshiach comes, we will be like Yosef’s brothers, able to see the purpose in what once seemed like chaos, to recognize joy in trials that shaped us, and to understand that every struggle was a step toward redemption. Until that day, we hold fast to Yosef’s timeless message. We persevere. We endure. We hope. And we live with the knowledge that Hashem’s light is never far, even when the night seems endless.

No matter how heavy the burdens, how unfair the world seems, or how impossible the challenge appears, remember Yosef’s words: Al tei’otzvu. Trust Hashem, keep moving, and the light will find you.

May we merit the coming of Moshiach very soon.

Lighting the Lights when Darkness Gathers

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

As Jews around the world prepared to usher in Chanukah, a Yom Tov defined by light, faith, and endurance, the celebration was shattered by violence. At a Chanukah gathering in Sydney, Australia, Jews were targeted and murdered simply for who they were and for what they were celebrating. Fifteen were murdered, and forty were injured, at an event meant to proclaim continuity, hope, and spiritual resilience. A moment meant to illuminate Jewish survival became a reminder of the golus and the hatred we have long endured.

The shock of what happened unsettles Jews everywhere, forcing us to confront a reality we would prefer to believe belongs to the past. Anti-Semitism, which civilized societies repeatedly vow to eradicate, continues to surface with renewed boldness. It does so not only on the fringes, but in public spaces, in broad daylight.

Throughout history, our enemies have targeted us on Yomim Tovim to inflict suffering. Each attack brings shock and searing pain, a stark reminder of ancient hatred. In those moments, we turn to Hashem, praying fervently for the geulah to come.

It is difficult to process such hatred without anger, fear, and confusion. People wonder how this can still be happening. They want to know why Jews, in countries that champion tolerance and pluralism, are still hunted for gathering openly as Jews. It is doubly painful that on Chanukah, when we celebrate the victory of light over darkness during the period of the second Bais Hamikdosh, we are directly confronted by the forces of darkness once again.

The Yevonim did not aim to kill us physically. Their intent was to rob us of our spirituality and our connection to Hashem and His Torah. The Yishmoelim, along with our other enemies of this day, seek to destroy us physically as they globalize the intifada and turn the killing of Jews into a sport.

Chanukah was never meant to be celebrated only in calm or comfortable eras.

Just last week an eerie video clip was released showing gaunt hostages in a tunnel lighting candles, reciting a brocha and singing Maoz Tzur. They was little oxygen and no window to the outside world. Yet even there, those suffering captives demonstrated that the light of the Jewish people is eternal. While lives can be extinguished, the spirit - the neshomah - endures and the light continues to shine. 

The Yom Tov, which is a response to darkness, does not deny evil or pretend that the world is safe. It confronts reality honestly and insists that light can be brought into it - that despite the darkness that surrounds us in golus, in our homes, and in our souls, we can introduce light and live by the light of Torah.

To understand how Jews are meant to respond at moments like this, we must look beyond headlines and return to the Torah’s deeper framework for understanding fear, truth, leadership, and moral clarity, a framework that began long before Chanukah with Yosef in Egypt.

Parshas Vayeishev concludes with Yosef imprisoned in Egypt, forgotten and abandoned. Betrayed by his brothers, sold into slavery, and falsely accused, Yosef finds himself stripped of family, freedom, and future. He occupies the lowest rung of society, a foreigner without allies or protection.

Yet, the Torah goes out of its way to show that Yosef is not spiritually diminished. In prison, he notices the distress of Paroh’s imprisoned ministers and asks why they appear troubled. He listens carefully to their dreams and offers interpretations with clarity and honesty. One interpretation foretells restoration, while the other foretells death. Yosef does not soften the truth or manipulate it for emotional comfort. He speaks plainly.

When Yosef asks the restored minister to remember him, the request seems modest and reasonable. Yet, the Torah tells us that Yosef is forgotten for another two years, during which time he clings with faith to Hashem and recognizes that his fate is in Hashem’s hands and that no man can help him.

Parshas Mikeitz opens with Paroh himself gripped by dreams that leave him shaken. Seven healthy cows are devoured by seven emaciated ones. Seven full stalks of grain are swallowed by seven thin, scorched stalks. Egypt’s finest minds are summoned, yet none can offer an explanation that satisfies the king.

The failure of Egypt’s wise men is striking. They were trained professionals, steeped in symbolism, psychology, and political instinct. Their inability to interpret the dreams was not a lack of intelligence. It was a lack of courage. Each interpretation they offered was filtered through self-preservation. None was willing to suggest that catastrophe lay ahead.

Only then does the freed minister remember Yosef.

Brought hastily from prison to palace, Yosef stands before the most powerful ruler in the world. Before speaking a single word of interpretation, he makes a declaration that defines everything that follows: “Bilodai - It is not me. Hashem will answer.”

Yosef explains that the dreams are one message, repeated for emphasis: Seven years of abundance will be followed by seven years of devastating famine. He does not stop there. He advises Paroh to prepare, to store, to plan. He insists that reality must be confronted honestly, not denied.

Paroh immediately recognizes something unique in Yosef. This is not merely wisdom. It is clarity untainted by fear. Yosef is elevated to viceroy, entrusted with the survival of an empire.

Why was Yosef able to see what Egypt’s wise men could not?

Paroh’s advisors lived close to power. Their livelihoods depended on approval. Their status depended on reassurance. They were incapable of imagining a future that made the king uncomfortable. Fear distorted their perception.

Yosef, by contrast, did not stand before Paroh as a courtier seeking favor, but as an ish Elokim, a servant of Hashem. His allegiance was not to authority, popularity, or safety. It was to truth, to Hashem. That allegiance freed him from fear and allowed him to see and relay reality clearly.

This is the deeper meaning of the Torah’s command, “Lo soguru mipnei ish - Do not fear any person.” The Torah does not deny fear as a human emotion. It warns against fear as a governing force. When fear dictates what we are willing to acknowledge or articulate, truth collapses. We do not fear man. We fear Hashem.

Throughout Jewish history, moments of survival and renewal have been driven by individuals who refused to allow fear to distort their vision. Yosef is the prototype for Jewish existence in exile - navigating foreign cultures, wielding influence without surrendering identity, and remaining loyal to Hashem even when surrounded by overwhelming pressure.

The battle commemorated by Chanukah was not primarily a military one. It was a war over Torah, meaning, values, and truth.

The Yevonim did not seek to annihilate the Jewish people. They sought to redefine them. Judaism, they argued, could exist as folklore or culture, but not as a Divine system of obligation. They outlawed Shabbos, bris milah, and Rosh Chodesh - the markers of covenant and sanctity - out of ideology.

The Yevonim celebrated aesthetics, philosophy, athletics, and human intellect. Pursuits severed from holiness and elevated as ultimate values became corrosive. Chazal describe Yovon as choshech, darkness, because darkness is not ignorance. It is the absence of moral clarity.

The greatest danger came not from Greek soldiers, but from Jewish collaborators, the Misyavnim. They spoke the language of progress and enlightenment. They mocked traditional observance as primitive and harmful. Like those who drifted away from Yiddishkeit over past generations, they viewed those who remained loyal to the Torah as backward, a mindset epitomized by “Fiddler on the Roof”-type portrayals. Beyond that, they regarded observant Jews with contempt and derision, assuming that they would simply fade away.

The Yevonim and Misyavnim promised health, acceptance, and sophistication in exchange for abandoning Torah and mitzvos.

Their arguments sound eerily familiar.

The Chashmonaim were not professional soldiers. They were Kohanim, experts in performing the avodah in the Bais Hamikdosh, transmitters and teachers of Torah. Matisyohu Kohein Gadol recognized that continuing the status quo of the prior 52 years would lead to spiritual extinction.

He rose up alone. He did not consult polls or assess public opinion. He did not wait for consensus. He called upon those who believed that Torah mattered more than comfort.

What followed defied every natural law. The weak defeated the strong. The few overcame the many. And when the Bais Hamikdosh was reclaimed, a single undefiled flask of pure oil, sufficient for one lighting of the menorah, was found. The miracle was compounded as it burned for eight days.

The miracle of the oil was the spiritual counterpart to the military victory. When human beings act with mesirus nefesh, with emunah and bitachon, the rules of nature - teva - bend. Physical limitations yield to moral courage.

The attack in Sydney is not an aberration. It is part of a long and painful continuum. Anti-Semitism adapts to its environment, adopting the language and values of each era. Sometimes it cloaks itself in religion, sometimes in nationalism, sometimes in moral outrage or political righteousness.

What remains constant is its obsession with Jews who refuse to disappear.

Anti-Semitism intensifies when societies abandon truth and absolutes. In such moments, Jews - who insist on covenant, obligation, and moral boundaries - become convenient targets. Hatred thrives amidst confusion.

In dark times, we light candles. We do not accept darkness, for we own the light - ki ner mitzvah v’Torah ohr. Every time we perform a mitzvah and every time we learn Torah, we bring light to ourselves and to the world.

Many of us have the minhag to place the Chanukah menorah in a window. While the primary mitzvah is to celebrate the Chanukah miracle with family, we proclaim it to others as well, reminding them of the miracle Hashem performed for us during the times of the Chashmonaim, and of those He performs for us daily, allowing us to survive and thrive despite hatred and darkness. In times of danger, we light inside the home, bringing the light of the Bais Hamikdosh into our homes and elevating our families. We do not succumb to the outside darkness. We do not allow ourselves to be enveloped by it. Rather, we cling to our mesorah, to Torah Shebiksav and Torah Shebaal Peh. We stand resolute in the shadow of the Ohr Haganuz and become enveloped in its holiness.

The Chofetz Chaim taught that before the arrival of Moshiach, there would be individuals who would fight lonely battles. History is not shaped by crowds, but by conviction. They may be few or they may be many, but armed with Torah, emunah, and bitachon, they will be proud and effective.

We see this truth repeated throughout history and even in our own times. Torah has been rebuilt after devastation, communities have been restored after destruction, and individuals have refused to abandon their faith even when the nisyonos were overwhelming.

The strength of Klal Yisroel lies in its yechidim - each person, steadfast in their faith, using their unique gifts to uplift the klal and bring it closer to the geulah. Just as the Chashmonaim rose against overwhelming odds to restore Torah observance, and as Yosef’s unwavering emunah allowed him to save his family and Mitzrayim, we, too, are called to stand firm in the face of darkness and to preserve light.

Chanukah honors those people and their resolve.

The word Chanukah is rooted in the Hebrew word chinuch, meaning “inauguration” or “education.” It is not only a time to commemorate the rededication of the Bais Hamikdosh, but also a time to internalize the lessons of renewal and education.

The Chashmonaim were the teachers and mechanchim of their generation. They motivated and inspired the Jewish people to undertake new beginnings, to renew their commitment to Torah, and to live lives guided by purpose rather than indulgence.

Chanukah demonstrates that no matter how dark the world seems or how strong the forces of evil may appear, there is always the possibility of renewal. Every person has the ability to rise, to inspire, and to influence others in a positive direction.

Hashem has granted each of us unique abilities and strengths. Recognizing this is the first step toward harnessing those strengths and fulfilling our mission. Fresh resolve, renewed focus, and an optimistic outlook can transform the impossible into the possible. This is the essence of Chanukah: the opportunity to rediscover ourselves, to uncover hidden talents, and to illuminate the world with our actions.

The Medrash in Vayeishev illustrates this principle beautifully. At the moment Yosef was sold into slavery, all seemed lost. Yosef mourned, Reuvein mourned, Yaakov mourned, Yehudah sought a wife, and Hashem was preparing for Moshiach.

What appeared to be a moment of despair and darkness was, in reality, the birth of future salvation. Similarly, even when we face trials and moments of grief, we must remember that Hashem’s hand is at work, preparing the seeds of redemption and growth. Our challenges are not the end of the story. They are the continuation of a process that can lead to transformation, revelation, and light.

The lights of Chanukah illuminate not only our surroundings, but also our inner world. They remind us of the hidden strengths and capabilities that exist within each of us. The miracle of the oil teaches that when we act with mesirus nefesh, we can transcend natural limitations. The Chashmonaim’s courage and dedication exemplify this truth. Despite being few in number, their bravery and faith created a miracle that changed the course of Jewish history.

Today, as we light the menorah, we are called upon to emulate their example, facing challenges with faith, hope, and determination, and bringing light into the darkness wherever we go.

The message is clear: Darkness is never absolute. It is only when we recognize our hidden potential and act upon it that the light becomes manifest. Chanukah offers a unique opportunity each year to reconnect with that potential, to reveal our own ohr haganuz, and to inspire those around us. By contemplating the meaning of the lights, we can internalize the lesson that no obstacle is insurmountable when we align our actions with Hashem’s will and draw upon the gifts He has placed within us.

As the menorah burns brightly in our homes this Chanukah, let us carry its light beyond the candles themselves. Each flicker is a reminder that even in the darkest moments, hope endures, courage blossoms, and miracles are possible. Just as the Chashmonaim kindled the flame of Torah and faith against overwhelming odds, so can each of us ignite sparks of goodness, kindness, and determination in our own lives and in the lives of others.

This Chanukah, let us celebrate the miracle that started it all and also the miracles that occur every day: the opportunity to begin anew, to grow, and to inspire. Let us allow the hidden light within each of us to shine forth, illuminating our families, our communities, and the world. For every act of Torah, every mitzvah, every act of chesed, and every word of encouragement is a candle in the darkness, a testament to the enduring strength of Klal Yisroel.

May the lights of Chanukah fill our hearts with taharah and joy, our homes with kedusha and peace, and our souls with renewed emunah and bitachon. May we each emerge from this Yom Tov inspired, empowered, and ready to bring light wherever we go, confident that even in times of challenge, Hashem’s light always shines, guiding us toward hope, a brighter tomorrow, and the geulah sheleimah bemeheirah.

 

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.