From Me to We: The Heart of Rosh Hashanah

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kesivah vachasimah tovah.

When Pesukim Walk the Streets

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that mindset is not one of Torah.

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

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

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

That short response carries a lifetime of hashkofah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t in denial. He was in tune.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When will it end?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is why we read the parsha of bikkurim now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kesivah vachasimah tovah. Shnas geulah v’yeshuah.

Nachas

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this journey doesn’t happen in a vacuum.

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

What makes a teacher great?

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

Great teachers don’t just teach. They care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s chinuch. That’s greatness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speechless

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

With the paper closed for two weeks to give everyone here a chance to reinvigorate themselves, I decided to take a trip to Europe. I had only been there once and thought that it might be nice to visit Paris, London, or other cities to see how Jews live there and to tour the historic sites, famous buildings, and towers.

But more than that, I wanted to visit the shtetel where my mother was born, a small place called Vashki, where her father and grandfather served as the town’s rabbonim. From what I’ve read, the houses still look exactly as they did when my mother lived there. Maybe I’d even be able to find her family’s home and see if it still had the same dirt floors she once walked on.

I imagined walking those same roads, picturing how my ancestors lived, and spending time in the shtetel that was once theirs.

I would visit the cemetery and daven at the kever of my great-grandfather, whose kesovim I later published. I’d also go to the kever achim, where the cursed Nazis murdered the town’s Jews in cold blood. I would think about what was done to them and thank Hashem that my mother’s family survived.

I thought about the awful churban that took place in that shtetel, and in every Lithuanian town and city. I thought about the lives cut down, the Jews slaughtered simply for being Jews, and the nations that stood by and did nothing. Six million murdered, not only by the Nazis, but often aided by their neighbors.

I had the whole trip played out in my mind.

And then I thought better of it.

Why should I travel to a country whose soil is soaked with Jewish blood? Why spend a single penny there? Why reward them for their complicity?

No, no. I would not go.

And then I asked myself: Why would I even want to go to France, a capital of Jew-hatred? Why support them? Why admire their architecture, their history?

No, I decided. I won’t go. I won’t see the Eiffel Tower, or Versailles, or the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.

I won’t experience the angry stares in Paris or the nasty looks in London.

I’ll go to Yerushalayim, where I belong. The city at the heart of the Jewish people. I’ll daven at the Kosel, spend Shabbos in the holy city, and travel around Eretz Yisroel, gathering mitzvos with every step. I’ll meet family and friends, and the avira d’ara d’Yisroel will uplift and invigorate me.

So, off to Israel we went.

But our plans changed soon after we arrived. We landed at 4 a.m. on Tuesday, and as we stepped outside to find a taxi to Yerushalayim, it felt as though we had walked into an oven. The heat was stifling — 100 degrees and rising. That oppressive heat lasted through the week. We ventured out only in the early mornings and late evenings, spending the sweltering days indoors.

But it wasn’t just the heat that cast a shadow over our trip.

There were levayos.

Soon after we arrived, we learned that Rav Shmuel Deutsch had been niftar. He was a towering talmid chochom, a gaon hagaonim who seemed to know kol haTorah kulah. I had known him for 43 years.

My mother was a special woman who passed away way too young. After I got married, I decided to publish a sefer l’illui nishmasah. Her father, Rav Leizer Levin, gave me teshuvos that had been written to his father-in-law, Rav Avrohom Hoffenberg. He had brought them with him when he left Lita. I thought that publishing them as a Sefer Zikaron would be a proper tribute. I had no experience publishing seforim or deciphering rabbinic handwriting, but I was determined.

My interest in seforim led me to befriend Rav Yosef Buksbaum, head of Machon Yerushalayim. I consulted with him about aspects of publishing a sefer, but the teshuvos touched on some sugyos I was not well versed in, and I lacked the marei mekomos needed to properly understand them.

Rav Buksbaum said to me, “There’s a talmid chochom in your neighborhood who can help you. His name is Rav Shmuel Deutsch. He lives right near you in Ezras Torah, on Rechov Even Ha’azel.”

I asked around and was told that he was a prized talmid of Rav Shach and Rav Berel Soloveitchik. I’d often see him after davening, talking with Rav Shimon Moshe Diskin, another talmid chochom muflag. I was too intimidated to approach him. Who was I, a young American yungerman, to ask for help with matters that must have been elementary to him? Surely, I thought, he’d look down on me or dismiss me.

But actually, from the first time I stepped into his home, he was warm and welcoming.

I visited him often. Anytime I had trouble reading a manuscript, understanding a rov’s intent, or tracking down marei mekomos, I turned to him. And he always helped, quickly and with clarity. He could decipher any handwriting, identify every source, and explain the most complex topics in minutes.

We became close. As long as I lived in Yerushalayim, I would visit him regularly.

Rav Deutsch earned renown as a rosh yeshiva at Kol Torah and as a close talmid of Rav Shach, instrumental in founding Degel HaTorah and other key initiatives.

When I returned to America, I’d visit him whenever he came to Monsey and then we lost touch for a while but reconnected when he opened his yeshiva. The last time I saw him was in Lakewood, where he was recovering from an illness in his son’s home.

I was deeply saddened by his passing, as was the Olam HaTorah, which mourned the loss of a rosh yeshiva, moreh derech, and oveid Hashem.

In the Olam HaTorah, it was known that from his youngest years, Rav Shmuel was immersed in an atmosphere of Torah greatness. His profound connection with Rav Shach shaped his life. Rav Shach saw in him not just a sharp, brilliant mind, but also a rare sense of humility and responsibility. With Rav Shach’s guidance, Rav Deutsch combined harbotzas Torah with powerful leadership.

For over 40 years, he served as a rosh yeshiva in the famed Yeshiva Kol Torah, inspiring thousands of talmidim with his depth in lomdus, his personal warmth, and his sincere care for their growth. To his talmidim, he wasn’t just a rebbi. He was a father figure, a mentor, and a role model whose influence continued long after they left yeshiva.

Beyond the bais medrash, he played a key role in shaping Torah policy in Eretz Yisroel through Degel HaTorah and later the Peleg Yerushalmi. Yet, despite his stature, he remained a man of quiet humility, focused on Torah and his talmidim.

His levayah was a manifestation of kavod haTorah, and we were blessed to be in Yerushalayim for it.

We visited some family and friends, and davened at the Kosel a few times. But most people, including many of my rabbeim, were away.

Still, Shabbos in Yerushalayim is always special. Some members of my wife’s family joined us. The oppressive, historic heat finally lifted, and we basked in the warmth of a Yerushalayimer Shabbos.

But when Shabbos was over, I was struck by the cold reality of life: I learned that my dear, beloved uncle, Rav Berel Wein, had been niftar over Shabbos.

Rav Berel Wein wasn’t just beloved by me. He was cherished by the entire Jewish world. His life embodied Torah scholarship, insight, and timeless mentchlichkeit.

He was a briach hatichon, a central pillar, heir to an illustrious rabbinic family and student of the great transplanted Lithuanian roshei yeshiva. From them, he absorbed Torah, hashkofah, and what the Slabodka mussar tradition refers to as gadlus ha’adam, the greatness of man. Though they taught in Yiddish and heavily accented English, he translated their values into the clear, modern language of American Jewry and transmitted their timeless wisdom to generations of baalei batim, talmidim and the many other people who fell under his influence.

With dazzling brilliance, eloquence, and clarity, he brought hundreds of thousands closer to Torah, to Hashem, and to a deeper understanding of what it means to be a Jew.

Although he was a distinguished rov, rebbi, and rosh yeshiva, he became renowned as a historian almost by accident. He had begun giving a weekly Jewish history class in his shul, which became popular. He recorded the classes and sold them — “Rabbi Wein’s History Tapes” — as a fundraiser for his yeshiva, Shaarei Torah.

The rest, as they say, is history.

His breadth of knowledge and unique ability to convey eternal Torah truths with clarity, warmth, and relevance drew countless listeners. With masterful storytelling and a warm, engaging, Chicago-accented voice, he became the storyteller of Jewish destiny.

He brought Jewish history alive, not as a list of facts and dates, but as a living saga of the Jewish people. He transformed it from something distant into something vibrant and deeply personal. He helped his listeners feel part of a nation with a noble past and an enduring mission. He taught us to be proud of our people, to draw strength from their trials, and to see ourselves as links in an unbroken chain stretching back to Har Sinai.

As a maggid shiur and rosh yeshiva, he was revered for his penetrating lomdus and for the personal guidance he offered with humility and care. As a rov and communal leader, he combined halachic integrity with deep sensitivity, standing as a spokesman for Klal Yisroel and a representative of Torah Jewry in the modern world.

At heart, Rabbi Wein was a gentleman, a beautiful human being: approachable, gracious, and filled with quiet dignity. A man of few words, he always had the perfect vort, story, or quip — sharp, thoughtful, and on point. He wore the mantle of Torah leadership and scholarship with grace. He never sought honor for himself; instead, he elevated those around him.

He was a personal inspiration to me, a model of what one can become when G-d-given talents are used in service of the greater good. For as long as I can remember, he was always teaching and guiding me, through his words, his presence, and his example. He never imposed, never lectured. It was all so natural that I often didn’t realize how much he was being mechaneich me — in Yiddishkeit, in public life, and in service to others — until much later.

And one more thing: When he spoke publicly, he took my breath away. Literally. He would deliver a drosha or a speech, and when he was done, I just sat there, frozen in place, wishing he would go on. His brilliance, his depth, and the way he conveyed his message left me speechless.

His teachings, seforim, and books are an enduring legacy. His voice will continue to guide. His stories and insights will continue to inspire generations to come.

I was privileged to be at his levayah, and as I sat there, I realized that Hashem had brought me to Eretz Yisroel — for no apparent reason — so that I could be there to say goodbye to my last surviving uncle.

The last time I saw him was this past Shavuos. As always when we were in Yerushalayim, we went to visit him. It was a typical family visit, warm and familiar. He told me that he had published a new book and wanted to give me a copy. Though he could no longer see, he reached for a book, then for a pen, and said he wanted to autograph it, which he did.

Then he said, “It was so nice of you to come. I love you — and I’ve loved you for many years. I wish you well.”

He wasn’t one to express emotion openly, so the words struck me. And then he said: “This is not my last book. I have one more coming, and that will be it.”

And then, without drama or sadness, he added: “And that book has already been written.”

His tone was so matter-of-fact. I searched for something to say, but the right words didn’t come. I finally asked, “Uncle, why do you speak that way?”

And he said: “Pinny dear, that is what life is all about. Eventually, it comes to an end.”

And once again, for one final time, he left me speechless.

● ● ●

I had come to Eretz Yisroel with a vague plan and no clear reason, only to realize that Hashem had brought me there not just to daven at the Kosel or escape the blood-stained soil of Europe, but to say goodbye. To be present for the final chapter of a man who shaped my life and the lives of so many others.

In a land soaked with kedusha, during days scorched by sun and softened by Shabbos, I found myself standing at the crossroads of history, family, and Torah. I came to walk in the footsteps of ancestors, and instead, I found myself walking alongside giants of my own lifetime.

Rav Shmuel Deutsch and Rav Berel Wein were unique individuals who shaped generations through their brilliance in learning. Though they were very different from each other, each taught in their own way that Torah is not only learned, but lived and given over.

And so I left Eretz Yisroel not only with memories of unbearable heat and unexpected levayos, but with something deeper: a renewed understanding of what it means to be part of the unbroken chain of our people — to carry memory, to honor legacy, and to live a life that gives back more than it takes.

Yehi zichrom boruch.

The Enduring Promise

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

I had the zechus to play a role in the rescue of Sholom Mordechai Rubashkin from prison. Since his release, we speak at least once a week, exchanging thoughts on life, emunah, and the goings-on. Last week, we were speaking about bitachon - the faith and trust in Hashem that carried him through unimaginable darkness - and how he now goes around sharing his story and spreading the message that bitachon saves, using his experiences as examples.

Lesser men would have broken under the weight of what he endured. But he never gave up. He never stopped believing that Hashem was watching, guiding, and ultimately preparing a path to redemption. Even in the depths of his nisayon, when he sat alone in a prison cell, separated from his family, stripped of his business, vilified in the public eye, he never questioned whether Hashem had abandoned him. He didn’t understand why it was happening, but he knew that it was all part of a Divine plan.

And now, years later, as his story continues to uplift and inspire, he sees clearly what was once hidden: that only because of what he experienced, he is now uniquely equipped to speak with authenticity about emunah and bitachon. Through his messages, many have found strength in their own trials and challenges.

As we emerge from three weeks of mourning, of reflecting on the churban and the long, bitter golus, we are reminded of a miraculous truth: Am Yisroel chai. We are still here. Still strong. Still growing. Through centuries of persecution, Hashem has never abandoned us. Behind the veil of suffering, He has been gently guiding us, comforting us, and preparing us for redemption.

Without reflecting on what we’ve endured, we wouldn’t appreciate the miracle of our endurance. We wouldn’t recognize the beauty of our survival or the Divine orchestration that has sustained us as a nation.

“Nachamu nachamu ami - Be comforted, be comforted, My people.” Look how far we’ve come. Where are the empires that sought to destroy us? Where are those who chased us through the centuries? They are gone and we remain.

Soon, we will see the fulfillment of the tefillah, “Ohr chodosh al Tzion to’ir - A new light will shine upon Tzion.” In that light, all the pain will make sense. We will see that everything we experienced was, in truth, for the best.

Rav Yaakov Neiman, rosh yeshiva of Yeshivas Petach Tikvah, would recount a parable in the name of the Alter of Kelm that I am adapting for our day and age. A man travels to a wedding. The flight is long, the seat is cramped, and the food is barely edible. But he doesn’t mind. He is going to a joyous celebration, and he knows that soon he will be dancing with friends, enjoying a lavish feast, and sharing in the simcha of a new Jewish home.

This, said the Alter, is the journey of life. Someone who understands where he is headed can endure the discomforts along the way. His heart remains calm, even amid turbulence, for he trusts the journey and the One guiding it.

We are not the pilots. We don’t see the flight map. But we are passengers who trust the Captain.

Those who stay behind may avoid the inconvenience and the fear, but they also miss the joy, the music, and the connection. They miss the wedding.

Life is full of turbulence. Some days lift us high, while others weigh us down. But that ebb and flow is the rhythm of human existence. Feeling joy and sadness, and hope and despair, is the sign of a soul that is alive and engaged.

So too with our people. We’ve known moments of greatness and seasons of grief. We’ve seen days when the world seemed to embrace us and times when it turned against us with fury, when we were chased through the streets, hunted, beaten, and massacred.

We’ve faced sorrow, loneliness, and confusion. We’ve wandered and wept. But we’ve also built and blossomed. Against all odds, we have survived. More than that, we have thrived.

We may not understand the why, but we know the Who. Through it all, Hashem has never left us. He walks beside us in the darkness, even when we cannot see Him, carrying us forward toward the light.

As we emerge from the mourning of Tisha B’Av and enter the comforting embrace of the Shivah Denechemta, we’re reminded that our survival is not a historical coincidence. It is the fulfillment of a Divine promise. A promise that sustains us, even when the world is cold.

There is much we do not understand. But when we reflect on the churban and all that we’ve endured throughout the ages, we begin to see a pattern. We begin to feel the presence of a Father who never left His children. He is with us, comforting, strengthening, and guiding.

And so, we stand today, strong, proud, and hopeful, taking comfort in those eternal words: Nachamu nachamu ami - Be comforted, be comforted, My people. You are not forgotten. You are not alone.

The journey may be difficult, the challenges that test our spirit are tough, but the destination is glorious. And soon, very soon, the light will shine and we will understand that it was all good.

Think about it. Last week was Shabbos Chazon and the signs of mourning were everywhere.

This week is Shabbos Nachamu and you can feel the happy energy. Celebration is everywhere.

What has changed between last week and this one? Last week, we mourned the absence of a Bais Hamikdosh. This week, it still lies in ruins. We are sorely lacking so much. Why are we suddenly happy?

Yeshayahu, the novi of nechomah, speaks to us seven weeks in a row. This week, we read the first of those seven haftoros. What is nechomah anyway? What does the word mean?

The posuk in Bereishis (6:6) states after Adam and Chava sinned, “Vayinochem Hashem,” indicating that Hashem, kevayachol, “regretted” what He had done. Rashi explains that the word nechomah also refers to stepping back, reevaluating a situation and shifting perspective.

Apparently, this is a facet of comfort, the general use of the word nechomah. When we are able to look back and view the entire picture, everything comes into focus. We see the rough spots, but we also see the sun shining above the clouds.

Once again, we approach Shabbos Nachamu in a challenging place. The nations of the world are aligned against us as we attempt to live decent, honorable, peaceful lives. As we are forced to fight against evil, they chant for our deaths.

They hate us.

Throughout our history, the Jewish people have endured persistent hatred, sometimes masked by civility and other times expressed openly and violently. Today, we’re witnessing a troubling resurgence of that age-old animosity, now dressed in the language of politics and human rights.

What was once whispered is now said aloud. Public figures, celebrities, and influencers use their platforms to spread dangerous rhetoric. While they may claim to speak on behalf of the oppressed poor Palestinians, it’s often clear that their outrage is selective. They don’t really care about the Palestinians. They hate Jews and their true target is the Jew.

In Europe, Jews once again feel unsafe. This is not just history repeating itself. It’s history warning us not to forget. On a continent soaked with Jewish blood, it is in vogue to bash Jews, demonstrate against them, and create an atmosphere reminiscent of the darkest days of Jewry that many believed we would never return to.

In universities across the U.S. and beyond, those who stand with Israel find themselves silenced or shunned. Anti-Zionism is indistinguishable from anti-Semitism, as Jews are condemned for defending their lives and their homeland. The Left battles Israel at every opportunity, offering nonsensical, hypocritical excuses for their anti-Semitism.

Hatred adapts. The slogans may change, but the essence remains the same - an irrational resentment that stretches all the way back to Yishmoel’s hatred for Yitzchok and to Eisov’s jealousy of Yaakov. Whether disguised as medieval blood libels or modern accusations of genocide, the thread of hate continues, unbroken but unrefined.

And to top it all off, Western governments are falling over each other to proclaim that they will recognize a nonexistent Palestinian state. The hypocrisy of their pronouncements doesn’t bother them as they reward Hamas for what they did on October 7^th. While Hamas refuses to release hostages or stop the bloodshed, global leaders still point the finger at Israel, absolving murderers while condemning those who defend themselves.

And yet, through it all, Am Yisroel chai. We stand tall, resilient, and unwavering, not because the world has treated us kindly, but because Hashem has carried us through every storm.

We wonder when justice will triumph, when care and concern about the good and the kind will be paramount. We wonder when problems will be dealt with honestly and when the world will recognize us for what we truly are.

We recognize that we suffer persecution and discrimination because we are Jews. The world’s hatred of the Jew is not derived from their concern about human rights violations or political decisions.

Since we gathered at Har Sinai to accept the Torah, we have been cast apart from other nations, despised, reviled, stomped on and murdered. Miraculously, we endure.

Where do we find answers to our questions?

A young man boarded a bus to Bayit Vegan and saw one of its most distinguished residents, Rav Moshe Shapiro, sitting there. He approached the rov and asked, “How are we to understand what happened during World War II?”

Rav Moshe looked at him and nodded. “Shalom,” he said, effectively ending the conversation. He didn’t say another word.

Later, someone asked why he hadn’t answered the questioner. Rav Moshe explained, “He knows where I live in Bayit Vegan, and he knows how much time he had until the bus reached my stop. He asked a question whose answer is much longer and more complex than the few minutes of the bus ride, so he clearly didn’t want the real answer but a conversation, and I don’t have time for small talk.”

To understand the events of Jewish history, we must peer beyond the curtain, studying and scrutinizing the happenings of our people and the pesukim of the Torah. Small talk and pedestrian thoughts will not lead to understanding what has befallen our people throughout the millennia.

But to be deserving of Hashem’s protection and aid in battle, we have to be committed to Torah and those who are loyal to it. Israel was just miraculously saved from Iran, beating them in a twelve-day war. Ever since the dastardly October 7^th attacks, people have been recognizing the Hand of Hashem and seeking out a path to Torah observance.

However, while paying lip service to Hashem’s assistance, the majority of the country and many of its leaders repay the kindness with a renewed war on those who eschew careers and resources as they dedicate their lives to the study of Torah. As they upped the pressure and propaganda, France, England, Canada and others announced that they will recognize a Palestine state, a move that makes no sense on any level.

We read in this week’s parsha how Hashem will lead us into the Promised Land, where we will find homes filled with good. It is an attainable goal, assured to us by He who is “ne’eman leshaleim s’char.” If we follow the word of Hashem as laid out in the parsha, we will merit salvation, prosperity and peace.

We merit nechomah when we recognize that we are kachomer beyad hayotzeir, wholly dependent upon Hashem’s mercy for our very existence.

Parshas Vo’eschanon and the Aseres Hadibros are always lained on Shabbos Nachamu to remind us that our nechomah arrives when we follow the Aseres Hadibros and the Torah. It is through fidelity to Torah and Hashem’s word that we merit living peacefully in Eretz Yisroel and everywhere else.

A young bochur davened in the bais medrash of the Bluzhever Rebbe. On Chanukah, the mispallelim would file by the rebbe after hadlokas neiros to receive his brachos. The boy asked his friend to take a picture of him as the rebbe spoke to him.

The Bluzhever Rebbe noticed. When the bochur reached him, the rebbe took the boy’s hand and held it. “Bochur’l,” he said, “you probably want a picture with me because I am a relic of a vanished world. And while it’s important to remember what was, it is also important that you understand that within you and your generation lies the ability to guarantee its survival.”

We study what was because it gives us a charge for the future and a path forward.

That is why we rejoice now, comforted and secure in what we have learned over the past three weeks. Over this time, we got in touch with our source, origin and destiny, and recognize what we must do to own the future. We even draw comfort from the fact that we mourned and that we have never forgotten, despite so many years and so much suffering.

After studying the messages of Eicha and Chazon, we study the words of Nachamu. We understand where we were, where we are, and how we got here. We are thus able to experience consolation.

We studied that the Bais Hamikdosh were destroyed because of internal strife, machlokes and sinas chinom. And so, we resolve to love instead of hate, to build instead of destroy, and to bring peace into our lives, our communities, and our nation.

From the ashes of mourning, we emerge more aware, more connected, and more determined. We carry the memories of the past not as burdens, but as fuel - fuel to light the way forward. We cry not only out of pain, but also out of hope. Because the fact that we are still crying after all these years is itself a nechomah. It means we remember. It means we care. It means we still believe.

Now, as the voice of the novi echoes through the haftorah - “Nachamu nachamu ami” - we feel it in our bones. Comfort is not the absence of pain, but the awareness of purpose. We have not only survived, we have grown. We have not only mourned, we have dreamed. And we are getting closer.

Closer to geulah, closer to clarity, closer to the day when all pain will be healed and all questions will be answered.

May this Shabbos Nachamu be not only a moment of comfort, but the beginning of everlasting joy. May we soon hear the sound of the shofar shel Moshiach, dancing not just at the wedding of another Jewish home, but at the rebuilding of the eternal home, the Bais Hamikdosh.