The Courage to Rise

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

We live in an age marked by confusion, contradiction, and crisis. Familiar moral anchors are being uprooted, truth has become increasingly subjective, and people flounder when clarity is most needed.

Wherever we turn, fiction is portrayed as fact, tumah as kedusha, sacrilege as something holy and praiseworthy. We don’t know whom to trust, when to trust, or whether to trust at all. At times, we feel utterly lost. At other times, we’re shrouded in a fog, struggling to navigate our way to clarity.

As Jews, in a world that increasingly displays both hatred toward us and ignorance about us, this reality carries added danger. But the hazard of a teetering world should concern everyone. How does this happen? How do good, decent people become so lost and estranged from what was widely accepted just a short time ago? And how can we begin to rectify at least our own corner of the world?

In times of upheaval, society tends to freeze. People wait for someone - anyone - to speak up, to act, to lead. No one wants to challenge entrenched and corrupt powers for fear of being mocked or vilified. Good people who could bring change remain silent, paralyzed by the threat of public backlash or personal loss. It’s easier to complain in private than to rise up and confront the root cause of our frustrations.

This has been true throughout history. Leadership has always been scarce, and the absence of it has often led to chaos, corruption, and collective suffering. But it doesn’t have to be that way. People armed with moral clarity, conviction, emunah, and resolve can rise above the masses and change the course of history. This is true in the broader world, and it is true in our world as well.

Throughout our history, there have been gedolei Torah, rabbonim, and manhigim who, despite personal danger, forged ahead and led our people with emunah, bitachon, and Torah-based conviction. We grew up hearing their stories, and have repeated them to our children and students, for these accounts provide the strength and endurance our people need to persevere in golus and journey toward geulah.

In this week’s parsha, that individual is Pinchos. His story is told in the Torah to serve as a lesson for us, ensuring that we don’t falter in times of uncertainty and moral fog. His rebbi, Moshe Rabbeinu, had taught him what to do in exactly the situation in which he and the rest of the Jewish people found themselves. Pinchos acted without fear, following halacha, and in doing so, he saved the entire Am Yisroel.

Parshas Pinchos shows us how to respond when the world falls silent in the face of public sin, corruption, and decay. It reminds us that when sacred lines are crossed and others turn away, those who act - guided by Torah, truth, and humility - can repair the breach and restore holiness and goodness.

In times of fear and uncertainty, even the most capable individuals can falter. A new crisis appears - whether it’s societal, spiritual, or medical - and although there are trained leaders and experts, many freeze in the face of doubt. Competence in calm times is not the same as greatness in stormy times.

It’s often said that the true test of greatness is how one handles small matters and how one treats people whom others overlook or take for granted. But it is equally true that a person’s test lies in whether they can act with clarity and integrity when it matters most, when the stakes are high and the risks are real.

Pinchos didn’t act out of recklessness. He wasn’t driven by personal glory or vengeance. He acted because he saw the truth plainly and could no longer bear the chillul Hashem unfolding before the eyes of a passive nation. He acted lesheim Hashem, to stop the disaster that was befalling Klal Yisroel just days after the schemes of Bolok and Bilom had been foiled. The people had fallen so quickly and so far, that others were paralyzed by despair. Pinchos stepped forward.

The Torah introduces the protagonists of Pinchos’s act - Zimri, a leader of a shevet, and Kozbi, a royal princess - to underscore what Pinchos was up against. These were not powerless figures. They were elite and influential. Pinchos did not target the weak. He stood up to the powerful. He didn’t calculate personal cost or consider his own reputation. He saw a moral breach threatening the very soul of Klal Yisroel, and he acted - because someone had to.

It was this fearlessness, this refusal to be swayed by public opinion, that saved the nation from the plague. The message is clear: When fear of retribution controls us, we become partners in our own destruction.

A deadly plague was ravaging the people, and over twenty thousand had already perished. Their crime? Shelo michu - they didn’t protest Zimri’s actions. In a time of chillul Hashem, when the foundation of Klal Yisroel was crumbling, the natural response should have been to run to Moshe Rabbeinu and ask what to do. But only one person did that: Pinchos.

Pinchos wasn’t widely known as a moral leader or charismatic figure with many admirers. He was an ehrliche Yid who didn’t lose his bearings. He showed courage and pressed forward despite the difficulty and unpopularity of his task, simply because it was the right thing to do.

In a sense, he fled from kavod, and as Chazal say, kol haborei’ach min hakavod, hakavod borei’ach acharov - one who runs from honor, honor pursues him. Pinchos ran from fame and it chased after him. Hashem rewarded him with kehunas olam.

Pinchos lives on as Eliyohu Hanovi, who, throughout the ages, has followed Klal Yisroel wherever they have gone, occasionally revealing himself to the very holy and privileged, learning with tzaddikei hador and assisting those in need. Very soon, he will reveal himself to us all and announce the arrival of Moshiach.

Pinchos rose not only for his own generation but for ours as well. We, too, live in a world of inaction and moral ambiguity. At times, we witness public breaches of ethics, halacha, or basic decency, and we wait for others to take the lead. We rationalize our silence. We tell ourselves that it’s not our place.

But the Torah teaches us that in such moments, our silence becomes complicity. Great people see through the noise. They move beyond excuses. They do what needs to be done.

Sometimes, that action isn’t dramatic or confrontational. Sometimes, it’s as simple - and as powerful - as standing up for what is right: in a conversation, in leadership, in halachic integrity, or in the moral tone we set for our families and communities.

Pinchos was not a vigilante. He didn’t act on impulse. He first discussed the issue with Moshe Rabbeinu.

When we see wrongdoing or perceive evil, we must not act on our own judgment. We must consult our rabbeim, those greater than us, those who carry the mesorah from the giants of previous generations. We must never act rashly or cause harm - physically or emotionally - even if we feel justified, unless we are directed by those qualified to decide what is truly proper halachically and morally.

When Pinchos acted, the plague came to a halt. But more than that, he healed the rift between the Jewish people and Hashem. He brought about a return to shalom, peace and wholeness. That is why he was rewarded with brisi shalom, the covenant of peace.

In doing so, he followed in the path of his grandfather, Aharon Hakohein, who worked to bring peace between people, and between people and Hashem.

Today, we must also strive to heal not only the rift between man and Hashem, and between one person and another, but also the internal divisions within our families, communities, and nation. We must be kano’im when it comes to breaches in shemiras hamitzvos, but also become healers, restoring broken connections wherever they are found.

We are all capable of this. We can each be a Pinchos, not necessarily through bold, dramatic action, but by rejecting passivity, rising above the crowd, and grounding our actions in Torah and truth. It’s difficult to speak up. It’s often much easier to remain silent. But we must act when others are paralyzed by fear and lead when leadership is absent. The corrupt thrive when the principled are silent. The immoral succeed when the moral hesitate.

The world doesn’t need more spectators. It needs people willing to act, responsibly, wisely, and fearlessly. People who rise when others remain seated. People who care enough to step forward, even when the cost is great.

If we do, we won’t merely remember the Bais Hamikdosh. We will help rebuild it.

This week, we entered the somber period known as the Three Weeks. It was on this past Sunday, many centuries ago, that the Romans breached the protective gates of Yerushalayim. That breach led to a brutal siege and, ultimately, the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh on Tisha B’Av.

That destruction has never been fully repaired. Its wounds still remain.

If you go to Yerushalayim today, you can still see the broken wall the Romans pierced. It stands quietly near Migdal Dovid, passed daily by thousands on their way to and from the Kosel, often unnoticed. But it is still there. Still broken. Still bearing silent witness to what was lost.

If, when visiting the Kosel, you walk a bit farther along the southern wall of the Har Habayis, you’ll find massive boulders scattered at its base, stones believed to have once sat atop the Kosel wall. They lie there, undisturbed, silent reminders of the physical and spiritual glory that once stood and the devastation that followed.

It is worth going there. Worth standing there to reflect.

The Kosel remains a silent witness, a remnant of what once was, a stark reminder of what we lack.

But we’ve grown used to it. We go. We daven. We take pictures, sometimes with awe, but too often without reflection. The sight of those ancient stones no longer stirs us. Our eyes stay dry when they should be filled with tears. Our hearts remain still when they should tremble.

The great tzaddikim of previous generations would tremble at the sight of the Kosel. It wasn’t merely a destination for tefillah. It was - and still is - the place from which the Shechinah never departed. A visible scar of the churban. A raw reminder of our spiritual exile and our nation’s brokenness.

Halacha requires us to tear our garments upon seeing the Kosel or the ruins of Yerushalayim. It is meant to be an expression of grief, a jolt to awaken our mourning. But too often, the act is performed by rote, devoid of the pain it is meant to symbolize.

We must look at that wall not just with our eyes, but with our hearts. We must picture the Bais Hamikdosh that once stood proudly behind it. We must reflect on the pain, the destruction, the massacre that overtook our people. We must mourn not only the physical loss of the Bais Hamikdosh, but also the spiritual churban, the severing of the connection between Hashem’s home and His people.

So many of our current struggles trace their roots back to those dark days. It all began with a breach, not just in stone, but in spirit.

But if more people would rise like Pinchos - with courage, with clarity, with unwavering devotion to Hashem - we could begin to repair that breach. We could draw our people closer to the Source of life. We could open the door to teshuvah, to healing, and to geulah.

May this be the year it happens.

May this be the year we finally come home.

Fake News, Fake Peace, Fake Home

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

A recent Pew Research survey of 24 countries found that in 20 of them, a majority of those surveyed held an unfavorable view of Israel. Those countries include the U.S., Canada, England, Germany, and France, among others. In some places, such as Australia, Greece, Japan, the Netherlands, Spain, Sweden, and Turkey, over 75 percent of respondents did not view Israel favorably.

Simply put, they don’t like us out there. Israel has become a code word for Jews. When they say they don’t like Israel, what they really mean is that they don’t like Jews, just in a more socially acceptable way.

New York City voters recently selected an anti-Semitic socialist Muslim as their candidate for mayor, essentially making him the leading contender to run the country’s largest city, home to one million Jews.

The very city that millions of Jews emigrated to over a century ago in search of refuge from persecution and famine, the city that has felt like home ever since, has just hung up a large sign proclaiming: “You Are No Longer Welcome.”

This country has afforded us freedoms and opportunities our ancestors could only dream of. For generations, our people saw America as the goldeneh medinah, the golden land, a haven from the storms of exile. And indeed, it has been. We are fortunate to live in the freest, most generous nation in the history of the world.

But perhaps, in that blessing, we forgot something essential: We are still in golus. And golus, no matter how gilded, is still golus.

We made ourselves at home here. We built communities, opened schools and shuls, bought homes, and ran businesses. We became part of the American story and, in many ways, believed that it would never turn on us. We thought America was different. We thought that if we kept our neighborhoods clean, paid our taxes, contributed to society, and followed the law, we’d be accepted, maybe even loved.

But we’re learning now that the smiles weren’t as deep as we thought, and the warmth we felt may have cooled. The neighbors we wave to are not always the neighbors our parents once trusted. The people we pass on the street - the ones we assumed were indifferent or friendly - sometimes harbor a quiet resentment we chose not to see.

And as the fences go up, both physical and emotional, it’s time for a collective moment of soul-searching. Not out of panic, but out of purpose. Because the more we believe we are at home here, the more we risk forgetting where home really is.

This Sunday is Shivah Assar B’Tammuz, the gateway to the Three Weeks, a season etched with sorrow and longing. On this day, we begin to trace the footsteps of our nation’s pain—breaches, burnings, and exiles that echo through time. In the heart of summer, as the sun glows and life feels full, we pull back. We dim the joy just enough to remember that we are still far from home, not only in miles, but in spirit. These weeks ask us to pause, to look past the comfort and calm we’ve grown accustomed to, and whisper softly to ourselves and to Heaven: As comfortable as we have become, we haven’t forgotten where we belong. We want to go back.

Our people have been accused of many things throughout the years and have suffered terribly at the hands of tyrants and bloodthirsty mobs, unleashed time and again on the perennial scapegoat blamed for whatever was going wrong. Often, these pogroms were orchestrated by the very governments meant to protect their citizens.

During one such tense period, a meeting was convened between Russian government ministers and rabbinic leaders in an attempt to cool tensions and set the record straight. At a high-level meeting in St. Petersburg, one of the ministers stood up and unleashed a hate-filled diatribe. He told the assembly that Jews were of no value to the empire and were nothing more than a burden.

As his tirade intensified, he questioned why Jews even existed, claiming that they brought no benefit to the world and were entirely superfluous. All they do, he said, is cause harm and make trouble. His fury grew, and it became clear that he was preparing to call for a pogrom, inciting the illiterate peasants of the Russian republic against the Jews.

The Jewish delegation trembled in fear as the minister neared the conclusion of his speech. But Rav Yitzchok of Volozhin, known as Rav Itzele Volozhiner, began to smile. The minister noticed and became even more enraged. “There is nothing that I said that would give you reason to smile,” he thundered. “Tell me what’s so funny,” he demanded.

The great gaon responded that it was precisely the minister’s speech that made him smile.

“For years, we have been waiting to hear such talk from your lips, and now that I finally heard you say it, I can smile. The Torah foretells that in the times of Moshiach, the nations will say as you say now, ‘What did G-d do? Why did He create the Jewish people? Who needs them? Of what use are they?’ And when that happens, the Torah says, ‘The nation will rise like a lion cub and raise itself like a lion. It will not lie down until it consumes its prey and drinks the blood of the slain.’”

As the minister heard Rav Itzele quote the posuk from this week’s parsha, “Hen am k’lavi yokum v’cha’ari yisnasa,” he fell silent. Another massacre was averted.

These words were uttered by Bilam, the two-faced, hypocritical fraud whom Chazal describe as the antithesis of Avrohom Avinu, a man of few words who was kind, merciful, and the embodiment of all that is good. Bilam was his polar opposite. He spoke eloquently in poetic verse, but was a scheming backstabber and the embodiment of evil.

He has many students and followers.

With slick tongues, they feed opiates to the masses. With swagger and bravado, they present themselves as polished and all-knowing. But beneath the surface, they are as hollow and vapid as the empty promises they peddle.

Today, thanks to modern technology, every person who so desires has a platform to purvey these thoughts. Foolish people who spend their time unproductively troll about, seeking podcasts and posts with which to occupy their time. They read and hear silliness, perfidy, and ideas that cause them to think and act in an imprudent and thoughtless fashion. The ideas sound nice, the concepts convincing. Just as Bilam attempted to use his conniving tongue to cause destruction and calamity to our nation, too many people who are clever wordsmiths use their talent to mislead and harm the innocent. When that fails, they devise evil plots to cause damage. Such people, just like Bilam, may achieve fame, fortune and adulation, but it doesn’t last.

A person with no real experience, who never held down a real job, presents himself as a forward thinker and a positive force for good, and people buy into it. They ignore that he is a socialist, if they even know what that means, and are happy to hear him bash Jews and Israel. They think that by electing him, they’ll get everything for free, and before you know it, the young man is elected.

A donkey blocked Bilam’s path and detoured him from his plan. We pray that those in this world who seek our demise will similarly be blocked from carrying through on their intentions.

It’s tempting to place blame externally, and much of it may be justified, but if we truly want to rise like the lion Bilam described, we must look inward. Are we fulfilling our role as a mamleches kohanim v’goy kadosh? Are we acting with the dignity and unity that befits a people preparing for Moshiach?

As we begin the Three Weeks, marked by sorrow and national reflection, we remember that this is not just a time of mourning. It’s a time of yearning. We are not simply lamenting what we’ve lost. We are reminding ourselves that we are not yet home and that we do not belong in darkness. We belong in light.

The signs of golus are all around us. The hatred is masked as policy. The indifference is disguised as progress. The voices that once whispered their disdain now speak it openly. And yet, amid this painful clarity, we are reminded that Hashem is orchestrating events in preparation for something far greater.

We’ve witnessed miraculous deliverance in recent weeks—military miracles, intelligence breakthroughs, and moments of Divine restraint that defy logic. These are Hashem’s ways of reminding us that He hasn’t abandoned us, that even amidst hester ponim, He remains present.

When the nations put us down, when it becomes accepted to publicly bash Jews, when we are treated differently than others, we respond the way Jews have been responding since the churban. The nations ask, “What purpose do they serve?” And we answer not with words, but with our lives. We rise in tefillah, in Torah, in chesed, in emunah, in the quiet strength that has defied the centuries.

Walk into any Jewish home and you’ll notice the blank space opposite the front door. That space is there to remind us that there is a blank spot in our hearts and souls. As much as we feel at home here, as good as we have it, something is still missing. There is a hole, a wound. We will never be whole until the Bais Hamikdosh returns.

At every chupah, at the peak of the celebration, as the new couple is about to begin life together, the baalei simcha stand surrounded by family and friends, the chosson and kallah enveloped by a cloud of euphoria and good wishes. And then there is a pause. It is quiet and the sound of the chosson breaking a glass is heard. For no matter how good things seem, no matter how happy and safe we appear to be, we must never forget that at any time, the tranquility can be squashed.

Let us use this season of mourning to reignite our mission. Let us walk with dignity, speak with kindness, and live with purpose. Let us hold ourselves to a higher standard, not to appease the nations, but to honor our calling.

The term “fake news” has become familiar to all, but in a sense, what we have now is a fake existence in a fake world built on fake assumptions. When things don’t go our way, when the nations of the world hate us for reasons they don’t even understand, when young and old across the globe march against us, when there was essentially only one country that stood at our side during the recent war, and as we seek to end the war in Gaza and secure some semblance of peace in our beleaguered land, it serves as a stark reminder that we are in golus, living in a Potemkin village. It is nice and cozy here—warm at home in the winter and cool in the summer—but it is fake. It is but a dream, and we are dozing.

May we all be present at the great awakening, when the great shofar will be blown—uva’u l’Tzion b’rinah—and we will all greet Moshiach in Yerushalayim very soon.

Summer for the Soul

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

After parshiyos that discussed the tragic accounts of the meraglim and Korach, this week’s parsha begins with an elevated vision of life steeped in Torah. “Zos chukas haTorah, adam ki yomus ba’ohel.” This is the way of Torah: spiritual living demands sacrifice. Those who seek to bind themselves to Torah shed the layers of material life, dedicating themselves to growth, meaning, and eternity. Their lives revolve around Torah, and they steer away from pursuits that distract from their spiritual ascent.

Rashi, quoting the Medrash Tanchuma, tells us that the Soton and the nations of the world mock this mitzvah. They ask: What sense is there in the Parah Adumah? What logic can justify it? The Torah anticipates this, so it emphasizes that this command is a chok, a Divine decree beyond human understanding. We follow it because it comes from Hashem.

We are not expected to explain the Torah to those who mock it. We do not owe the world rationales for our practices. We follow the chok, the word of Hashem, with humility and resolve, and through that, we survive and flourish in a world saturated with falsehood.

A story is told of a lion that encountered a chicken and began to choke it. “Why are you doing this to me?” the chicken cried. “I never harmed you.” 

The lion answered plainly, “Because I can.”

For much of our history, that was the attitude of the world toward the Jewish people. For centuries, we were tormented without reason, our loyalty and intelligence questioned, our very existence scorned. The Torah teaches us not to justify ourselves to those who wish only to ridicule. Engaging with them is fruitless. Their questions are not sincere. Their aim is not clarity, but derision.

Torah, the ultimate wisdom, does not conform to conventional logic. Its truths are not confined to what the human mind can grasp. We accept the chukim alongside the mishpotim, with the understanding that our bond to Hashem transcends reason. Torah living is not a matter of intellect alone. It is a covenant rooted in submission, in faith, in eternity.

Greatness in Torah is not achieved through brilliance, but through purity, diligence, and humility. Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach would often recount the story of Rashi, who, before writing his timeless commentary, traveled extensively to ensure that no greater peirush already existed. Only after his search proved fruitless did he begin his monumental work. As he wrote, he fasted hundreds of times, begging that his words would reflect Divine truth and help propel people to the truth.

Rav Shach would become emotional as he retold this story. To him, it represented the essence of Torah greatness: not ego or intellectual conquest, but deep humility, responsibility, and fidelity to mesorah.

Rav Aharon Kotler, in Mishnas Rav Aharon on Parshas Korach, explores the unique role of shevet Levi, the shevet set apart from all the rest to serve in the Mishkon and rule on matters of halacha. They were not given a portion in the land, which would have encumbered them with caring for it, planting and harvesting for their sustenance. Instead, they relied on terumos and maaseros from the rest of the nation.

Rav Aharon asks: If their service was so vital, why were they left financially dependent on others? Wouldn’t this create instability and pressure, especially when considering that the reason for the terumos and maaseros - and them not owning property - was so that they would not be worried about earning a livelihood?

His answer is profound: Precisely because they were spiritual leaders, they needed to be protected from arrogance. Had they been self-sufficient and financially secure, they might have grown proud and disconnected from the people. But Torah leadership demands humility. Financial dependency served as a safeguard against conceit. For without humility, a person cannot merit siyata diShmaya, Divine assistance. Hashem detests arrogance, as the posuk says, “Toavas Hashem kol gevah lev.” Someone who is conceited cannot properly understand Torah and arrive at the proper p’sak halacha. Someone who is conceited will be lacking the siyata diShmaya necessary to pasken correctly.

To grow in Torah, intelligence alone is not enough. Torah is unlike any other form of knowledge. It is a Divine gift, granted to those who approach it with reverence and self-effacement. This principle holds true for communal leadership as well.

A group of askonim devised a solution to a communal issue. Before implementing it, they consulted with a senior communal leader, who told them that he favored their approach but must first consult with Rav Shach before signing off on it. When the plan was presented to Rav Shach, he rejected it outright, saying that he saw from the Chofetz Chaim that their approach is wrong.

The group was convinced that they had thoroughly analyzed the issue and arrived at a perfect solution. Convinced that Rav Shach rejected it because the plan wasn’t properly explained to him, they went themselves to meet Rav Shach to discuss with him their solution to the pressing communal crisis.

Rav Shach told them, “I will not debate your arguments, and for all I know, your thoughts might be correct. But Klal Yisroel is not led by conclusions and thoughts of smart people. Klal Yisroel is led by mesorah, tradition. If the mesorah from the Chofetz Chaim is that we don’t engage in something like that, then we don’t do it, no matter how smart it seems, for following our mesorah is the proper course of action.”

This is a vital truth in every generation. Too often, people believe that they know better than the Torah. They view themselves as visionaries, convinced that their solutions are superior to those passed down through generations. But such confidence often stems from arrogance, not insight. And without humility and mesorah, even the most well-intentioned leader can lead others astray.

We see people who are consumed by a problem and believe that they have the perfect solution. They fail to properly consider it, as they are convinced of their intelligence and leadership abilities, but due to their conceit, they lack the siyata diShmaya required to arrive at proper decisions.

They think that their reasoning is impeccable, but they fail to consider the mesorah—namely, how gedolim who came before them thought and acted.  

No one, as smart as he thinks he is and as pressing as the problem he faces is, has a right to present plans that differ from our mesorah. Doing so causes mayhem and fails to solve problems. The logic may be compelling, but it is still wrong.

People in our day are led astray by those who claim to understand the reasoning for different halachos and temper them to mesh with the times.

History has shown us the dangers of this path. The Conservative and Reform movements arose from attempts to modernize halacha—to “rationalize” it, to make it more palatable. The result was a tragedy of assimilation and spiritual confusion, as they caused many to deviate from halacha and mesorah, leading millions of Jews astray.

To us, it sounds ridiculous that they maintain institutions that they refer to as “yeshivos” and have halachic decisors who write so-called teshuvos, as if they are following the Torah. Through the implementation of what they refer to as logic, they have so dramatically twisted halacha as to make it meaningless for their millions of followers.

Once mitzvos are rationalized and twisted to conform to someone’s human understanding of them and their concepts, the halachos become compromised and eventually are totally lost.

Those who study Torah while lacking yiras Shomayim, respect for mesorah and humility ultimately destroy instead of build, obscure instead of reveal, and cause others to repel the Torah instead of drawing closer to it.

When they first began, we regularly reported on the actions and teachings of those in the Open Orthodoxy movement, who follow in the path of the founders of the Conservative movement. Their hypocrisy, true intentions and the sad path they have followed have become obvious to all. We should never cease to remind all that the leaders and clergy of this group are not Orthodox in thought, practice, attitude or approach.

Their teshuvos and drashos mock tradition and halacha, and are fanciful attempts to have the Torah conform with current progressive thought, bearing little relation to the reality of Torah thought and interpretation. Though they claim to uphold the Torah, their reinterpretations and institutions consistently erode its foundations.

Rav Elchonon Wasserman explained the posuk of “Tzidkoscha tzedek le’olam” (Tehillim 119:142) to mean that man cannot fathom the depths of Hashem’s justice, for society and its concepts are ever changing. What is considered just in one generation is viewed as unjust in the next. But “veSorascha emes,” the truth of Torah is everlasting. It neither changes for the times nor conforms to them.

Zos chukas haTorah. Torah is a chok. Torah is neither about impressive dissertations nor social welfare and contracting with a good marketing firm. It is about following the will of the Creator as expressed in Torah Shebiksav and Torah Shebaal Peh.

Chazal say (Taanis 30, et al), “Kol hamisabel al Yerushalayim zocheh veroeh besimchosah.” In order to merit enjoying the rebuilding of Yerushalayim, one must mourn its destruction.

When justice is man-made, there is always going to be inequality, mistakes, and feelings of division, for the system is inherently only as good as the mortals who formulate the laws and enforce and adjudicate them.

What society considers just is ever-changing. But the truth of Torah is eternal.

So when the parsha begins with the words “Zos chukas haTorah,” it is telling us that Torah is not a philosophy, nor is it a social framework or a platform for pontification. Torah represents the Divine truth through which the world was created and which we must follow to exist successfully in the world that was created through it and for it.

The lesson for us is that we cause the flame of Torah to burn brightly within us as a steady blaze that warms everything in its path. Let mitzvos be more than obligations. Let them be the song of our lives. Let us dance to the rhythm of halacha, not out of habit or pressure, but out of deep joy and knowledge that this is the correct way to live our lives.

Let us endeavor for our tefillah to carry the urgency of someone who knows he is speaking to the One who created heaven, earth and us. Let our learning feel like a reunion with eternity. When we sit down to learn, no matter the time of day or night, let the pages of the Gemara pulse in our hands, like living breath, providing us the very oxygen we need to survive.

Let us ensure that our homes and shuls shine with sincerity, the glowing warmth of love and authenticity. Let us raise our children so they see Torah as the heartbeat of life. Let our neighbors feel kindness radiating from us. Let us uplift people and not put people down. Let us be warm and not cold, friendly and not distant.

We are students of Torah, its bearers, its heirs. We are the link in a chain that stretches back to Har Sinai, a chain forged by brilliance and by fire—the fire of bitachon, sacrifice, and unwavering loyalty to Torah, halacha and mesorah.

The fire of Torah that brings life to everything.

The summer sun stretches long across our days, casting a softer light and a slower rhythm upon our lives. With the burdens of routine temporarily lifted, we instinctively breathe a little deeper, hoping to recharge, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

But the Torah doesn’t go on vacation. The weekly parshiyos continue to echo through our lives, each one a reminder of who we are and what we’re here for.

As we review Israel’s miraculous military triumphs that defied logic and revealed the Hand of Hashem, we are reminded that Jewish survival is never natural. It is always supernatural. At the same time, we begin to approach the somber days of Tammuz, entering the shadowed corridor of the Three Weeks, when we mourn not only the loss of the physical Bais Hamikdosh, but also the resulting spiritual distance that has become part of our lives.

And so, this calm season offers more than leisure. It offers clarity. It is a time to pause and ask ourselves the questions we so often silence during the year’s noise: Where am I really headed? Am I living deliberately, or drifting gently in the current? What can I be doing better and how can I accomplish that?

We sit on porches and benches, feeling the stillness, while inside something stirs. A whisper. A nudge. A subtle call to return. To reflect. To realign. Because even as the world seems to slow, the neshomah does not rest. It seeks direction, meaning, and connection. It seeks the fire of purpose, even in the warmth of summer.

This is the time to look inward, to look upward, and to let the sunlight not only warm our skin, but also awaken our hearts and help us prepare for the great day when the new light will shine with the coming of Moshiach very soon.

 

Face to Face With the Truth

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

For some time now, it has been evident that we are living through historic days. Choose any starting point. Take the Covid pandemic, for instance. A virus that emerged in China swiftly swept across the globe, infecting millions, claiming countless lives, and leaving lingering scars - physical, emotional, and societal. The pandemic wasn’t just a medical crisis. It rattled the foundations of the global economy. In the United States and beyond, businesses shuttered, industries transformed, and livelihoods vanished. The world was forced to adapt to a new, altered reality.

But the devastation went beyond illness and economics. In some places, politicians, drunk on power and driven by agendas, took aim at shuls and yeshivos, weaponizing “science” to shut them for months. In the name of science, they closed stores, banned gatherings, confined people to their homes, and injected millions with vaccines developed in haste, under the banner of urgency. They forced us to wear masks, telling us that they prevented the disease from spreading. Anyone who didn’t wear them while on an airplane was ridiculed and thrown off, unless they were eating, for while eating, the disease wouldn’t spread, even if the mask was off.

Covid toppled governments and governors alike, dancing hand in hand with the Malach Hamovess, until Hashem decided that His message had been sent that we are not in control. Despite humanity’s towering achievements in medicine, science, and technology, man remains powerless in Hashem’s world. It is He who rules, He who decides who shall live and who shall not, who shall rise to power and who shall fall, who should lead and who should follow, how the world turns- and when it stops.

We can turn back to Shemini Atzeres of 5783, a day that shocked Israel and the world. In a brutal and historic surprise attack, Hamas terrorists breached Israel’s borders. Within hours, 1,200 people were murdered, thousands were wounded, and 251 were taken hostage. The vaunted Israeli army and police, long revered for their readiness and strength, were of no help. For nearly seven hours, bloodthirsty savages rampaged with impunity, torturing and slaughtering men, women, children, and even infants.

The questions came quickly and painfully. How could it be? How could Israel - the most surveilled, protected state in the world - be blindsided? How could its famously secure border be torn open by a band of terrorists? Where were the defenders of Israel, the celebrated heroes of the IDF, praised for their bravery and vigilance? On the day they were needed most, they were absent. Some had been killed in the first wave. Others were cut off, communications severed. And as desperate civilians dialed for help, there was no answer. The lines were dead. The operators themselves had been murdered. It would take hours before rescue arrived, and it was far too late for many.

How could such horror unfold? Some have tried to offer answers. Others continue searching. But for many, the truth is clear: This was not merely a failure of intelligence or security. It was a decree from Heaven. When Hashem ordains something, no force on earth - not even the strongest army - can stand in its way. He does it for reasons that are beyond our human comprehension. Sometimes it takes decades or longer to see Hashem’s plan unfold, and sometimes it only takes a couple of years, as we are seeing now.

Because of the Hamas declaration of war on Israel and due to the terrible tragedy they caused, Israel immediately went to war to destroy and dislodge Hamas from Gaza. While opponents of the Israeli government, internally and externally, including President Biden and his administration, condemned Prime Minister Netanyahu for the war he was waging, he continued fighting a historic battle.

Israel eliminated the entire leadership of Hamas and tens of thousands of its fighters. Its rocket arsenal was destroyed, along with the threat it posed to Israel. One of Iran’s proxies had been removed from the chessboard. Their Lebanese proxy, which had threatened Israel for decades from its northern border, joined the war, bombarding Israel repeatedly with Iranian-supplied rockets. Finally, Israel eliminated their heads, their generals, and their leaders, and the threat they represented was done away with. Iran lost another proxy they had spent decades and billions of dollars building. It was historic.

In the aftermath of Hezbollah’s weakening, another Iranian proxy fell, this time in Syria. The longtime dictator, once feared and entrenched, suddenly found himself unable to hold back the rebels who had challenged him for years.

One historic event after another unfolded, and all were set in motion by the tragedy of October 7^th, a day of darkness that Hashem brought upon His people for reasons only He knows. What is clear, and what remains clear to this day, is the unmistakable presence of the Yad Hashem, guiding every step, seen and unseen.

And now we are living through another historic event that people will be reading about and discussing for years to come. After decades of warnings about the threat Iran posed to Israel’s existence, Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu ordered a surprise attack on Iran - its capital, Tehran, its nuclear infrastructure, and the leaders who directed it.

Miraculously, the Israeli armed forces succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. The small country that had fallen victim to an Iranian proxy two-and-a-half years earlier was enabled by Hashem to achieve superiority over Iran, conducting hundreds of unimpeded sorties across its skies, dropping bombs on strategic targets at will.

The Hand of Hashem was evident, and the existential nuclear threat was methodically dismantled. The country that had threatened the Western world, the Arab world, and Israel for so long was eviscerated by Mivtza Am K’lavi.

But the threat wasn’t yet fully neutralized. That happened on Shabbos Kodesh, Parshas Shelach, when we read how Yehoshua told the nation, “Hashem itanu al tira’um - Hashem is with us; you need not fear our enemies” (Bamidbar 14:9). The Ramban (ibid.) explains that Yehoshua was telling them that they bear witness to the many miracles that Hashem performs for them on a regular basis and should know that they have nothing to fear.

It was on that day that President Donald Trump ordered the total destruction of Iran’s three main nuclear facilities, previously believed to be impregnable. In a historic act, bombers flew directly from the United States and, without being detected, destroyed the feared sites with perfect coordination and precision.

American presidents had promised for years that Iran would not be permitted to obtain a nuclear weapon, but they never did anything beyond issuing statements at best, and, at worst, they enabled Iran to continue its dangerous march.

European leaders were also no help, and the UN is now busy criticizing the United States for removing the threat.

It was President Trump, criticized and mocked ever since he declared his candidacy for president in 2016, who demonstrated what leadership is. With moral clarity, he understood that there is good and there is evil, but there is no moral equivalence. After thoroughly reviewing every necessary component and warning Iran and the world that if they would not surrender, he would end their nuclear ambition, he followed through on his threat, proving that the fake news and Democrat lies about him being all bluster were just that: lies.

Those who wondered how Trump could have been elected in 2016 and then reelected in 2024 - with the entirety of the mainstream media and political establishment lined up against him, along with nonstop allegations and court cases - were once again shown unmistakably that lev melochim v’sorim b’Yad Hashem. He was placed in that position by Hashem for good reason.

When President Trump and Prime Minister Netanyahu took to the airwaves to inform their nations of what had just occurred, they both made a point of thanking G-d for making it happen.

When we see Netanyahu, who once took credit for everything, now including Hashem in his public remarks and telling his generals, commanders, and citizens that the main component in victory is siyata diShmaya, we know that something has changed.

Living in historic times has its downsides, but it has upsides as well, and seeing the Yad Hashem guiding the world is a major plus.

Each historic event, no matter how far apart in time or geography, seems to echo a shared theme: We are being shaken awake. Covid silenced cities. October 7^th shattered illusions. Taking out Iran’s nuclear weapons brought a hush to the world. That quiet wasn’t empty. It was filled with a message. Hashem is speaking, not in whispers but in roars.

We plan, prepare, and protect, but He overrides it all. Our schedules, our systems, our assumptions, they shatter like glass when His will moves against them. It is not punishment alone. It is a reminder. A world too reliant on itself forgets its Source. We chase progress and call it purpose. But Hashem has always been the One turning the pages of history.

And now, He’s turning them faster and more clearly. He is bringing us to the ultimate geulah, if we only cooperate.

We believed in our systems. We trusted the strongest army in the Middle East. But in these last few years, each pillar we leaned on has trembled.

Hospitals - overwhelmed. Governments - unsure. Armies - unprepared. How quickly the mighty are made small. How easily the “secure” becomes shattered. We saw the border breach and realized that there is no wall high enough to keep out a decree from Heaven.

But what did not falter? What remained untouched by virus, terror, or fear? The Torah did not collapse. The truth did not shift. Amid the chaos, Hashem remained constant. And for those who looked upward, emunah became firmer than any wall of stone.

In moments like these, people ask, “Where was Hashem?” But the deeper soul asks something else: “Where were we?”

Where were we when He gave us quiet mornings, healthy children, and parnassah without panic? Did we notice Him then? Did we thank Him? Or do we only notice when He reminds us through temporary pain that He never left?

Still, even in darkness, emunah lives. We saw it in the people who ran toward the rockets with tallis and tefillin. In the voices singing Acheinu while sirens screamed overhead. In the unity, the tefillah, the return. Bitachon didn’t die in the rocket fire. It burned brighter.

My dear friend, Rav Avrohom Zeivald, who directs Lev L’Achim, told me that the search among the secular community for a connection to Hashem and for learning Torah is now stronger than he has seen in the thirty years he’s been involved in kiruv.

A nation scattered across the world has been shaken into reality. Jews who hadn’t opened a siddur in years are now whispering Tehillim. Secular hands hold onto tzitzis. Bat Yam and Bnei Brak cry together. A nation is turning - slowly, painfully, but unmistakably - back to its Source.

We are being summoned to rediscover our soul. Teshuvah is no longer a theoretical concept. It is our lifeline. Hashem is not distant. He is reaching for us, and thankfully, we are reaching back.

That is what these historic times are meant to do. They strip away the noise, the illusions, and the layers we’ve wrapped around ourselves until we are left face to face with the truth we’ve always known - that we are in Hashem’s Hands.

Not in theory, not in a drosha, but in the stillness after the sirens, in the helplessness of the unanswered call, in the cry of a nation that knows no one else can save us. Those who pay close attention can hear, in the sounds of the sirens and the falling bombs, the resonances of a shofar and the footsteps of Moshiach fast approaching.

We do not understand the cheshbonos. We do not know why so many had to suffer. But we must know that this is the final refining, that the world is being hollowed to make room for eternal brachos.

We, who merit to live in the time of ikvesa d’Meshicha, know that the cracks in the world are not signs of destruction, but labor pangs before rebirth.

There is pain. But there is also awakening. There is tragedy. But there is also clarity. We are watching a world unravel, not randomly, but precisely and purposefully, preparing for something greater.

Don’t be influenced by the naysayers or the media. The present chaos is not the end. It is the beginning. We are being prevented from traveling to Eretz Yisroel, and those who are there are being held back from their regular routines, but know that very soon, all of Klal Yisroel will be brought to Eretz Yisroel on kanfei neshorim and will live lives of incomparable bliss.

Hashem Watches Over Me

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

I was listening to Israeli radio to hear the latest on the war. As I tuned in, there was an interview being conducted with a man who lived in the building in Bat Yam right next to the one that was directly hit by an Iranian ballistic missile. He was describing how powerful the bomb was. He described the deafening boom, the shockwave that shattered every window in his apartment, and how he felt as though he was about to be sucked out through the gaping hole that had once been his dining room window.

The reporter asked him, “So would you say that you were saved by a neis (miracle)?”

The survivor responded, “Lo! No!”

I was wondering how thick-headed he could be to recount such an experience and not realize that it was a miracle that he was alive and whole.

But then he said, “I survived only because Hashem was watching over me!”

The reporter agreed, and I realized that the man had said it better than any sound bite. It wasn’t just a miracle. It was Hashgocha Protis. It was Hashem Himself, not randomness or fate, who had shielded him.

Once again, the peaceful air that had settled over Eretz Yisroel was shattered. On October 7, 2023, Simchas Torah, a day meant for dancing with the Torah and celebrating our eternal bond with Hashem, the Jewish people faced unspeakable horror. Over 1,200 were murdered and thousands more were wounded in the worst massacre of Jews since the Holocaust. Men, women and children, and even babies, were slaughtered, and over 240 hostages were dragged into Gaza.

This wasn’t just an attack. It was the launching of a war by Hamas, the genocidal proxy of Iran. Since then, Israel has fought relentlessly to eliminate Hamas and restore security to its citizens. Thousands of soldiers have been wounded. Hundreds have fallen. Ceasefires have come and gone. Hostages have returned—some alive, others in coffins—while others languish in Hamas tunnels and other treacherous surroundings. The trauma remains etched in the soul of the nation.

Although the pain lingers and thousands of men and women have been separated from their families for the war effort, somehow the sharp edge of the pain wore off and most people became accustomed to the situation. Life resumed a fragile routine. Rockets slowed. Schools reopened. People began to breathe again. Shelters stood mostly empty. For a while.

But that changed Thursday night, as Israel began the war it has been planning for over the past decades. After vowing that Iran would never obtain a nuclear weapon as it got closer and closer to that very goal, the now or never window was rapidly closing. If that evil regime wasn’t stopped within the next few weeks, they would have the feared weapon and Israel would be their first target.

The red line had been crossed. Iran, the regime that has repeatedly pledged to wipe Israel off the map, was inching ever closer to acquiring nuclear weapons. The world debated. Israel acted.

Israel began attacking Iran. Suddenly, a nation that had gone to sleep with their regular everyday worries were awakened at 3 a.m. by wailing sirens, shaking them out of bed and complacency, and foisting upon them a new, frightening reality.

Within minutes, dozens of ballistic missiles were flying toward Israel, reminding everyone that we are not living in normal times.

No matter how many times a person has rushed to a shelter, you never get used to it. War isn’t just noise and headlines. It is fear. It is disorientation. It is waking up in the middle of the night, clutching your children as you recite pesukim of Tehillim. It is losing all sense of routine. Schools are closed, businesses shuttered, flights canceled, deliveries halted. It is an unrelenting anxiety that clings to the body and soul.

Running to a shelter several times a night is not conducive to sleep or anything other than anxiety. Having your day interrupted by sirens and dashes into a shelter before a ballistic missile hits, is not only uncomfortable and nerve-racking, but frightening and life-altering.

Having no peace, not being able to sit still for any extended period of time, being constantly mindful that a war over your very existence is being waged, can be very unsettling and makes it difficult to properly function.

What do we say? How do we react? What are we supposed to think in times like this?

In the chaos of sirens and explosions, a Jewish heart instinctively calls out: Hashem yishmor. Hashem will guard us. Every rocket intercepted is a reminder of His mercy. Every near miss is a whisper of His will. Hashem alone determines who will live, who will be protected, who will rise from the rubble and testify, “Hashem was watching over me.”

We are a nation that has endured more than any nation in history, not due to might or power, but due to our deep, unwavering connection to the Ribono Shel Olam.

Iran, Hamas, Hezbollah—they are but pawns in a larger story.

As maaminim bnei maaminim, while others fight on a physical battlefield, we fight on the spiritual one through tefillah, teshuvah and tzedakah. Every added kappitel of Tehillim, every act of chesed, every extra moment of Torah learning strengthens the physical combatants far more than we can imagine.

Let the world call it physical luck or coincidence. We call it Hashem Yisborach. Because when the windows blow out, the walls shake, and you walk away alive, you know the truth:

Hashem was watching over me.

And when the war seems unending and the darkness overwhelming, we recall the words of the novi: “Ki lo yitosh Hashem es amo—Hashem will not forsake His people.”

Even now. Especially now.

In times of war, the natural reaction for many is to become amateur geopolitical analysts. Conversations quickly turn into discussions about why the enemy acted, what the real motivation was, and how brilliantly - or foolishly - Israel responded.

Someone inevitably pipes up: “This only happened because Trump won the election.”

Heads nod.

“If Biden - or Harris - had won, Netanyahu would never have pulled this off,” another adds, as listeners admire the sharpness of his insight.

Everyone throws in their two cents, quoting from analysts, Twitter threads, and WhatsApp chats. The group collectively convinces itself that its breakdown of military strategy is more astute than that of actual generals and heads of state.

But in all this noise, one thing is forgotten - the most important piece of the story.

This war, like every war, is happening because Hashem willed it. Not because Trump won. Not because Netanyahu is still in office. Not because of this treaty or that speech. These events don’t cause Divine plans. They serve them.

It’s not that Trump won and therefore the war happened. It’s the other way around. Trump won because Hashem wanted the world to move toward this moment.

Just as Paroh rose to power to set the stage for Yetzias Mitzrayim, so too, modern leaders are placed exactly where Hashem wants them to be to fulfill His ultimate design. The Ayatollah didn’t come to power by mistake because of the actions of an errant American president. The American presidents who empowered Iran ever since, or ignored its threats, didn’t do so by accident. All of this is part of a larger, unfolding script authored by the Ribbono Shel Olam.

The reason Trump won the presidency was so that he could carry out the wishes of Hashem. Because Hashem wants to set up the world for Moshiach to reveal himself and redeem us, He brought the world to this juncture.

He caused the wicked regime to threaten Israel and work towards obtaining the means with which they could actualize their dream of wiping out Israel. He brought the right players onto the scene and allowed Netanyahu to remain in power so that the next step in preparing Eretz Yisroel and the world for Moshiach could get underway.

When we forget that, we get distracted by headlines and forget our headline: Hashem watches over me.

And it’s worse.

The Rambam begins his Hilchos Taanis like this: “Mitzvas asei min haTorah, it is a mitzvah in the Torah, to cry out to Hashem and to do teshuvah when any type of tragedy strikes.” This mitzvah is derived from a posuk we lained last week in Parshas Beha’aloscha (10:9).

We have to know that when there is tragedy, it is because of our sins, and therefore, the way to overcome the calamity is by doing teshuvah.

People who attach natural explanations to what happened and explain the war or catastrophe with political or scientific considerations are cruel. They are engaging in cruelty because by doing so, they are denying Hashem’s involvement and preventing people from recognizing the real cause of what took place and doing teshuvah.

Surely none of us want to be defined by the Rambam as a cruel person, especially knowing that when the Rambam writes something in his sefer, he is not merely offering an opinion, but is articulating halacha and describing the true nature of the world according to the Torah.

In Shaar Cheshbon Hanefesh, the Chovos Halevavos teaches that someone who puts his faith in Hashem is never left alone. Hashem opens the gates of understanding, reveals hidden truths of His wisdom, watches over him with a guiding eye, and never abandons him to the limits of his own strength.

The Gemara in Maseches Avodah Zarah (2b) states that when Moshiach comes, the nations of the world will protest the punishment they are about to receive for their treatment of the Jews. They will claim that everything they did was to benefit the Jews and their service of Hashem and the Torah.

The Gemara says that Poras, Persia, which is today’s modern state of Iran, will proclaim that everything they did was to help the Jews. “We built many bridges, conquered many towns, and waged war,” they will say, “to enable the Jews to learn Torah.”

We can understand the grounds for claiming that they built bridges and other infrastructure to enable the study of Torah, but how does waging war help the Jews learn Torah?

Perhaps this can be understood to mean that they will claim that they waged wars and threatened the Jews in order to scare them into doing teshuvah and to engage in Torah study.

When the ruler of Iran repeatedly proclaims, publicly, to the entire world, that he intends to destroy Israel, we can believe him that he intends to do so. As he was engaged in his feverish race to arm the country with the nuclear weapons and the ballistic missiles needed to carry out his bloody intentions, the world stood by and pretended to work to curtail his ambitions.

And then, in a matter of hours, Israel cleared the way to fly freely over the country, bombing hundreds of targets and eliminating military leaders, nuclear scientists and the nuclear infrastructure.

In just a few days, a nation seventy-five times smaller and vastly outnumbered dismantled decades of Iranian buildup. Despite being a strong and proud country, Iran was unable to stop the repeated Israeli attacks or respond in the way it had planned and desired.

Though Israel took out many of its rocket launchers, Iran answered with fire, shooting hundreds of their deadliest missiles. But Hashem answered louder. Almost all were stopped. The death toll was minimal. Every life is precious and every death is mourned, but comparing what happened to what could have happened cannot be explained by any or all the experts in the world. This only happens because Hashem is on the side of Eretz Yisroel. This only happens because Hashem protects the Jewish people when they are deserving. This only happens because the entire scenario was planned by Him to bring us the promised redemption.

This only happens because Hashem watches over His people.

This is not strategy. This is not luck. This is not political genius.

This is Hashgocha Protis. This is the unfolding of a Divine plan. This is the sound of the approaching geulah.

So let us not waste the moment.

Let us raise our voices in passionate tefillah that Hashem will continue to spare us from the evil intents of the anshei Poras, Yishmoel and Edom.

Let us strengthen our commitment to Torah, to chesed, to tzedakah, and to the refining of our middos.

Let us build zechuyos with every word of Torah learned, every tefillah properly recited, every act of kindness done.

And let us not stop storming the heavens until we merit to see the day we have been waiting for with the coming of Moshiach.

May it happen very soon.

Echoes of Holiness

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Once again, I was granted the zechus to spend Shavuos in Eretz Yisroel, a land where holiness is not remembered but felt, where the air itself hums with ancient echoes.

When coming to Yerushalayim, you are coming to a place beyond space, to a rhythm beyond time.

Yerushalayim on any Yom Tov is a jewel alight with kedusha, but on Shavuos, it shimmers with something deeper. As the night unfolds, thousands flow like rivers through her narrow streets, drawn to the botei medrash by an inner fire, eyes wide, hearts yearning, feet quick with purpose.

By dawn, those same throngs converge upon the Kosel, seeking the moment of vosikin, as the first rays of sun bathe the wall from where the Shechinah never departed. At the moment the sun rises over Yerushalayim, the tens of thousands of people davening in dozens of minyonim of various dialects and nuschaos suddenly fall silent. There is a hush, a collective breath, as everyone begins to recite the silent Shemoneh Esrei at the same moment. And then the songs of chazoras hashatz return, followed by gorgeous renditions of Hallel, Rus, Akdadmos and Musaf. As minyonim finish, their mispalelim begin streaming home to celebrate the rest of Yom Tov.

To watch it and be part of it is like participating in a celestial symphony.

Another deep zechus was to daven at Kever Rochel, the resting place of Rochel Imeinu, the mother who still cries for her children. The Vilna Gaon writes that the Shechinah resides there, and as you stand at the kever, you feel it—not as a thought, but as a presence. A gentle weight. A listening stillness.

Although Chazal say that when we sit to learn Torah the Shechinah joins us, and there are definitely many other occasions and times when the Shechinah is present, in golus the Shechinah can feel distant, like a beloved voice heard through static. But in Eretz Yisroel, that voice grows clear, close and insistent.

At the Kosel, tefillah becomes something else entirely. You slow down. You breathe the words. You don’t just say them, you live them. With each syllable, your heart whispers, “Hashem is listening. I am seen.”

Even in the simplest shuls, modest buildings tucked into quiet alleyways, you see it: People davening with focus, dignity, and an inner calm. No one rushing in with coffee in hand. No tallis slung casually over the shoulder. Davening isn’t an obligation. It’s an encounter. A sacred audience.

Life there is different. Simpler. Not easier, but purer in a way. The apartments are small, the budgets tight. But the simcha, the sense of purpose, fills the space like sunlight through narrow windows. Bnei Torah live with less, but they live with more.

And in that spirit of simplicity and greatness intertwined, one of the most moving moments of my journey was visiting the soon-to-open museum in the humble home of the Chazon Ish.

To call it fascinating would be an understatement. Using modern tools, the museum gently draws you into the past. The screen flickers to life, and suddenly you’re in the shtetel of Kosovo. You hear the cluck of chickens, the creak of old wood, the voices in the bais medrash where the young Chazon Ish once learned. And then, as if aboard a dream, you find yourself seated in a train rattling through the Lithuanian countryside, heading toward history.

The life and experiences of the Chazon Ish comes alive vividly before you. You are then led into the Chazon Ish’s one-room apartment where he learned and lived in Bnei Brak. There is a period bed, the same size as the one used by the great gaon. There is a nearby table where he studied until he had no more strength, where he wrote the chiddushei Torah that are studied today by lomdim around the world, where he wrote teshuvos that changed behaviors, and where he wrote letters of chizuk and hadrocha that inspire and guide until today.

There is no comparable experience in our world. To be able to stand in a room of such historical significance, to be able to look around and see exactly what it looked like when the tzaddik lived, and to be able to stand there and contemplate what transpired in that room and the amount of Torah and kedusha that was generated there is an overwhelming experience. At least it was for me.

After being given the opportunity to stand there and let your mind wander, you are brought into the adjoining room where the Chazon Ish davened along with his minyan. You can stand in the very spot where the Chazon Ish stood and offered his tefillos to Hakadosh Boruch Hu. I said a few kappitlach of Tehillim, hoping that my words might follow the same path, riding on the tefillos paved by that great talmid chochom and tzaddik.

Adjacent to the shul is the small mikvah the Chazon Ish used, which is available for use for those who wish.

Bnei Brak today is a city of Torah in full bloom, a bustling metropolis of avodah and purpose. Yet, at its core, it remains rooted in that one-room apartment at Rechov Chazon Ish 37. From those walls, waves of Torah and kedusha spread outward, generation upon generation. What a sacred undertaking it is to preserve that beginning, to recreate the space where light once entered the world.

I was privileged to be guided through that space by Rav Reuven Korlansky, who graciously hosted me and brought me to meet his mechutan, the great gaon and rosh yeshiva Rav Isamar Garbuz. His brilliance shimmered through his words, as did his warmth.

Bnei Brak is close to me. Three generations of my relatives lay buried there: my grandfather, Rav Leizer Levin; his son-in-law, Rav Chaim Dov Keller; his son, Rav Avrohom Chaim Levin; and his grandson, Rav Shmuel Yehudah Levin.

At their kevorim, I davened with the weight of gratitude and longing, asking for brocha and hatzlocha in their merit. I felt their presence, quiet and strong, their voices and memories bright and sharp in my heart.

As I walk the streets there memories come back to me from the days I would go there to see Maran Rav Shach, the Steipler, and the city’s other gedolim throughout the years.

During our stay, I also visited my rabbeim, Rav Avrohom Yehoshua Soloveitchik and Rav Dovid Cohen, who provided chizuk and direction for our troubling and trying times. They were effusive and warm as they encouraged me to maintain emunah and bitachon, as we recognize that everything that is happening is being arranged by Hakadosh Boruch Hu. There is no better way to maintain equilibrium in a time when nothing that is happening seems to make any sense.

During our stay, we traveled from one end of the country to the other, from Naharia in the north, where the anteroom of Rav Dovid Abuchatzeira was filled with people waiting for a brocha and for clarity, to the Gaza border in the south, which was thankfully very quiet.

It was nice to be in places I had never previously visited, such as the supposed kever of Yehudah in Yahud, Castel, Moshav Chemed, and other off-the-beaten-track locales. I wandered through towns I’d never known, their silence steeped in stories. But no matter how far we traveled, no place stirred my soul like Yerushalayim.

Yerushalayim doesn’t just contain kedusha. It breathes it. Each stone tells a story, each alley whispering tefillos of centuries. She takes my breath away each time I visit all over again.

From being at the Kosel, to visiting and speaking with some of the iconic residents and characters, to walking the streets of Geulah where we stayed, there is a definite chein, a holiness wrapped in beauty.

When you meet the city’s rabbonim, tzaddikim, nistorim, storekeepers, tradesmen, people on the street and even the shleppers and the taxi drivers, there’s a sparkle in their eye, a touch of knowing. When you speak with them, you hear it: chochmah dipped in bitachon, humor laced with humility.

I love standing anonymously in the street, blending into the stones of the walls, and studying people as they scurry about doing their pre-Yom Tov errands. A purposeful rush takes over them, but they maintain their dignity and sense of kedusha as they engage in preparations for the various mitzvos hayom. Carrying bags of different sizes and colors, they patiently look for the best of everything with which to celebrate Shabbos and Yom Tov, as they traverse Rechov Malchei Yisroel and its little offshoots, patronizing the various shops.

Here, we hop into and out of our cars, storing our bags and stuff in the trunk, as we dart in and out of megastores filling our wagons. And there is nothing wrong with that. But it doesn’t come close to the beauty and color of carrying those bags of Shabbos and Yom Tov goodies along the holy streets and bumping into legions of holy, interesting and colorful people engaging in the very same activity.

The scene is a living painting, rich in color, alive with heart.

The Kosel is a place where you can study people’s faces as they encounter kedusha, some more serious about it than others. Faces are turned heavenward, eyes closed in pleading or thanksgiving. Some daven slowly, tears tracing silent paths. Others stand quietly, fingers grazing the stones, unsure of what to say, but knowing that something holy is happening.

There were the regulars, ehrliche Yidden who speak to Hashem with deep familiarity, and the visitors, with temporary yarmulkas and curious eyes, drawn by something they can’t identify.

Many came with children, holding little hands, whispering words of awe. You could see it on their faces: This was not just tourism. It was an encounter.

You hoped it would linger with them.

There were special personal moments as well, such as when my dear friend, Rav Natan Feldman of Tzuf Seforim Publications, presented me with the latest sefer authored by my son, Rav Yitzchok Elchonon, hot off the press. Celebrating my mother-in-law’s 90^th birthday was a great highlight, as was visiting my 90-year-old uncle, Rav Berel Wein, and being presented with his latest book on anti-Semitism, which came out this week. Visiting incognito the Shuvu school in Petach Tikva where the Bais Medrash is named for my father and seeing the learning going on there and the children’s angelic faces, was a special nachas.

My special friend, the tzaddik of Rechovot, Rav Zvi Shvartz, honored us with a visit on the second day of Yom Tov, along with some members of his family. He regaled us with divrei Torah and stories of how he began his kiruv revolution in that city, starting with a small shiur that he established while in kollel there, an effort that has led to thousands of baalei teshuvah over the decades. He is indomitable, exhibiting no signs of slowing down in his holy work of teaching and spreading Torah. His fire burns bright.

There were other visitors too. One came bearing flowers, but they weren’t for us.

A deliveryman arrived, flushed and sweating. The beautiful bouquet was meant for someone else, ordered from Brooklyn, but the address was wrong and the phone was off. He’d been searching door to door across buildings for over an hour. As Yom Tov approached, the flowers were wilting, and so was he.

We invited him in, gave him water, and offered him a seat.

He didn’t seem frum, at first glance. But when he began sharing divrei Torah, I noticed a small yarmulka resting at the back of his head. “Hashem sent me here,” he said, “so I’d have someone to share Torah with.”

There he stood, flowers in one hand, Torah on his lips, radiant with bitachon. He wasn’t worried about finding the correct recipient. Hashem would guide him to the right address. Repeating divrei Torah about the rapidly approaching Yom Tov of Shavuos was more important. Eventually, we found the intended recipient. He continued on, but the moment lingered.

Only in Yerushalayim.

Another encounter came in a taxi. Our driver had no yarmulka, but he possessed a mouth full of maamorei Chazal.

We asked him, gently, “If you know so much Torah, why no kippah?”

He answered, “I don’t want to be a chillul Hashem. If someone cuts me off and I yell...I’d rather that they think I’m a chiloni.”

And sure enough, when another driver—an Arab woman—tried to squeeze ahead, he leapt out of the car and began yelling. “Achshav atem meivinim?” he said, turning back to us. “Now you understand?”

I wanted to give him a shmuess about how a Yid is supposed to act in all situations, but I didn’t want to get into an argument with him.

He explained that he is religious, that his children are as well, and that his grandchildren—who all have names from Tanach—go to a mamlachti dati (religious public) school. His parents live in Nachlaot in Yerushalayim and are from Kurdistan. They follow the masoret of Yehudei Kurdistan and even speak Aramaic to each other and to their children. That’s right. They speak the language of the Gemara still today. Fascinating stuff.

There are more stories I could share, like my meeting with Uri Maklev of Degel HaTorah, a devoted servant of the klal and a shliach of the gedolim. But for now, I’ll close with what happened just as I left.

Sitting on the plane, the sadness of departure filling my chest, a man approached me.

“Are you Rabbi Lipschutz?” he asked in Hebrew.

I nodded. I didn’t ask how he knew.

He introduced himself as Avraham Elkaim. “I have a gift for you,” he said. His suitcase had been slightly overweight and airport security made him remove a book. It was a biography of his grandfather, Rav Nissim Toledano. He had  more copies in his other suitcase.

As an ehrliche Yid and baal bitachon, rather than complain and argue, he placed the book in his carry-on and said to himself, “Hashem wants this to end up with someone on the plane.”

He looked around, and when he saw me, he knew.

He handed me an autographed copy of this beautiful new sefer on his grandfather. The biography goes through his life, with each facet portrayed through another of the 48 kinyonim of Torah. I began leafing through it and found it to be a compelling work on a great man. Look for it in the bookstores. It should be there soon.

Receiving the book was emblematic of the way things happen in Eretz Yisroel, and since it happened on an El Al flight, legally we were still in the land where you see and feel the hand of Hashem all the time. As the posuk states, “Eretz asher…tomid einei Hashem Elokecha bah.”

And so, in that moment, I felt it again: the gentle nudge of Hashgocha, the quiet wink from Above.

Ashrei mi shezoche, fortunate are those who live in that land, who walk its streets and breathe its air. Fortunate are those who visit, who taste its sanctity. And fortunate are those who long for it, who whisper in their hearts: Ribono Shel Olam, bring us home.

May we all be reunited there soon b’vias goel tzedek bimeheirah b’yomeinu. Amein.