The War We See and the Plan We Don’t

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

The United States and Israel are currently jointly fighting a war, and there is ample reason to worry about where it may lead. Our brethren in Eretz Yisroel are under almost constant attack, targeted by Iranian missiles. Lives have been lost, people have been injured, and millions are regularly rushing to and from shelters, living with a constant sense of unease.

The memories of the joy we experienced on Purim are still fresh, along with its enduring lesson: even when events appear dark and chaotic, salvation can already be quietly unfolding behind the scenes. When we place that lesson alongside this week’s laining of Parshas Hachodesh, the message becomes even more powerful.

Parshas Hachodesh announces the arrival of Chodesh Nissan, the month of geulah. But it carries another profound reminder as well. Chazal teach that Am Yisroel is compared to the moon, constantly renewing itself. Just as the moon wanes until it nearly disappears, only to reemerge and shine once again, so do the Jewish people pass through periods of darkness before returning with renewed strength and light. The bleakness never endures. The blackness is never permanent. We always come back, budding and blooming.

The special laining also reminds us that Hakadosh Boruch Hu relates to Klal Yisroel in a way that transcends the normal order of nature, lemaalah m’derech hateva, just as He did when He redeemed us from Mitzrayim. Through the makkos and Krias Yam Suf, we witnessed that even when a situation appears insurmountable, when the odds seem overwhelming, Hashem’s salvation can arrive in ways no human mind could have predicted.

The messages could not be more fitting.

Less than two weeks ago, we celebrated the deliverance of our people from Haman and what appeared to be certain destruction. And this week, as we conclude Sefer Shemos and proclaim, “Chazak, chazak, v’nischazeik,” we are reminded that no matter how unfortunate circumstances are, renewal is always within reach.

That truth is what the yeitzer hora seeks to obscure. His goal is not only to lead a person to sin, but to drain a person’s spirit and convince him that his situation cannot be improved, that he can never escape the rut in which he finds himself. He works subtly, distracting us from our purpose and persuading us that if we falter, we cannot rise again.

But his strategy rarely begins with dramatic failure. Instead, it starts with small cracks. A minor compromise here, a small concession there. When a person yields even slightly, the yeitzer hora senses weakness and drives the wedge deeper, slowly chipping away until the individual finds himself drifting further and further from where he belongs.

Then, after drawing a person into wrongdoing, he convinces him that he has fallen too far to recover, that teshuvah is beyond him, that the path back has been closed.

But the message of these days of Adar and Nissan declares exactly the opposite. Together, they proclaim that despair has no place in the Jewish heart.

Purim teaches us that even when Hashem’s presence is hidden, He is orchestrating every detail of events. In the Megillah, there were no open miracles. The geulah unfolded through what appeared to be ordinary developments: a sleepless king, an overheard conversation, a series of political decisions. Yet, when the story concluded, it became clear that every step had been carefully arranged from Above.

Parshas Hachodesh carries that message one step further. It introduces the month of Nissan, when the hidden hand of Hashem becomes revealed in open and undeniable ways. In Mitzrayim, the Jewish people were trapped in what seemed to be an irreversible reality. They were enslaved by the most powerful empire in the world, with no army, no political leverage, and no natural path to freedom.

Yet, Hashem demonstrated that the forces that appear most powerful are ultimately powerless before Him. With makkos that shattered the illusion of Egyptian dominance, and with Krias Yam Suf that overturned the natural order, He revealed that when the moment of geulah arrives, no obstacle can stand in its way.

Taken together, the lessons of Purim and Pesach form a complete picture of how Hashem guides the world. Sometimes His salvation unfolds quietly, concealed within the ordinary flow of events. And sometimes it bursts forth openly, shattering the rules of nature. But whether hidden or revealed, the Guiding Hand is always the same.

That is why these weeks are so powerful for us.

The yeitzer hora tries to convince a person that the darkness he experiences, whether in his own life or in the challenges facing Klal Yisroel, is permanent. He tells us that the situation is too entrenched, the obstacles too great, the failures too numerous. But the rhythm of the Jewish calendar testifies otherwise.

Adar teaches us that what appears to be a hopeless situation can turn upside down in a moment. Nissan teaches us that renewal, hischadshus, is built into the very fabric of Jewish existence.

The Jewish people emerged from the depths of Mitzrayim to become the Chosen Nation, blessed with Torah and a special closeness to Hashem. Just as the decree of Haman was transformed into deliverance and celebration, so too, the darkness we encounter can never define our future.

And perhaps that is the message we most need to internalize today.

When rockets fall and enemies threaten, when uncertainty fills the air and the future feels unclear, the yeitzer hora attempts to plant seeds of fear and despair. We must remember that Klal Yisroel has always been guided by the Ribbono Shel Olam, Who renews His people again and again.

And just as He has done throughout our history, He will do so once more.

That truth is not only a national one. It is deeply personal as well.

The struggle between despair and renewal does not play out only on the stage of history. It unfolds within the heart of every Jew. Each person encounters moments when he feels distant from where he wishes he were, times when spiritual goals seem beyond reach, when habits feel too entrenched to overcome, and when the distance between who he is and who he hopes to become appears too wide to bridge.

That is when the yeitzer hora presses his advantage. Having drawn a person into a stumble, he quickly attempts to redefine the failure as permanent. He tells him that change is unrealistic, that growth is reserved for others, and that the path back is closed.

But the Torah itself rejects that notion.

The first mitzvah given to Klal Yisroel as a nation was the commandment of “Hachodesh hazeh lochem.” Before Krias Yam Suf, before Matan Torah, before everything else, Hashem taught the Jewish people the concept of renewal. Kiddush Hachodesh was given to us to let us know that we can never be kept down, that the essence of Torah is that we possess greatness, and that greatness can never be suppressed for long.

We are people of destiny, each one of us, and as long as we remember that and remain loyal to our mission, we are a force of light in a world of darkness.

Chazal were mesakein that we lain Parshas Hachodesh as we approach the month of Nissan because this month not only commemorates the geulah from Mitzrayim, but is the eternal reminder that no Jew is ever trapped by circumstance.

For the generation that left Mitzrayim, the obstacles appeared insurmountable. They were enslaved by a mighty empire and surrounded by a hostile society. They were so suppressed that they could not even bear to hear, much less accept, Moshe Rabbeinu’s words of comfort when he told them that Hashem was about to redeem them.

And then, in a flash, the geulah arrived, and before they knew it, they were at the other side of the Yam Suf, a free people on their way to Har Sinai to receive the Torah.

Again and again throughout our history, the pattern has repeated itself. Periods that appear to be defined by darkness ultimately become the very moments from which renewal begins to emerge.

We do not know how events will unfold, nor can we predict the path that history will take in the coming weeks and months. But the message of these weeks assures us that what we see on the surface is never the full picture. Behind the turmoil of the moment, the unfolding of Hashem’s plan continues.

And just as the moon inevitably returns to fullness after its darkest night, so does the story of Klal Yisroel continue to move toward renewal and light. History often reads like the Megillah. While we are living through the events, the meaning is hidden. Only later do we see the pattern.

That lesson resonates powerfully in our own time.

For decades, Iran cultivated the image of a fearsome regional power. Its leaders repeatedly threatened that Eretz Yisroel could be destroyed in minutes and that American bases across the Middle East were within easy reach of Iranian missiles. It surrounded Israel with proxy armies and militant movements and projected an aura of unstoppable strength.

Governments treated the regime with extreme caution. Diplomats pursued agreements and concessions, fearful of provoking the conflict Iran claimed it could unleash.

Over the years, Iran built a vast network of armed proxies throughout the region, organizations such as Hezbollah in Lebanon, Hamas in Gaza, the Houthis in Yemen, and Shiite militias across Iraq and Syria. The network was largely coordinated by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Quds Force, once commanded by Qassem Soleimani.

The strategy seemed formidable. If Iran were attacked, these groups would strike Israel and American interests from multiple directions at once, overwhelming defenses and igniting a regional war.

But when the moment of confrontation finally arrived, the outcome was strikingly different from the one Iran had long promised.

Instead of the massive regional assault that had been threatened for years, the response proved hesitant, fragmented, and surprisingly limited. The very proxies that had been built up as instruments of intimidation failed to deliver the overwhelming blow that had been feared for so long.

In that moment, Hakadosh Boruch Hu demonstrated how fragile the illusion of power can be.

Hakadosh Boruch Hu demonstrated that the country everyone feared could crumble when He decides that its time is up. Successive American presidents had made a variety of misguided deals with Iran out of fear of confronting them. Iran was sent planeloads of cash and was allowed to continue its nuclear buildup because, though Western leaders spoke strongly, vowing never to permit them to attain nuclear weapons, when it came down to it, they were afraid of the country’s power.

For years, the strategy seemed to work. Iran’s influence expanded across Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, and Yemen, forming a regional arc of power stretching to the Mediterranean.

Hakadosh Boruch Hu blinded the leaders of Israel, and Hamas launched a devastating assault, killing over 1,200 people, wounding many more, and taking 251 hostages.

Hezbollah opened a northern front against Israel. Iranian-backed militias attacked American bases in Iraq and Syria. The Houthis began targeting international shipping lanes in the Red Sea.

But in the war that followed the Hamas attack, Israel was able to degrade much of the terror infrastructure that had been painstakingly constructed over decades.

Over the following months, Israel systematically targeted Hamas leadership, Hezbollah commanders, weapons depots, and supply routes throughout the region.

Senior terrorists were killed in precision strikes. Infrastructure was destroyed. Intelligence operations penetrated organizations long thought to be impenetrable.

When Israel and the United States eventually launched strikes against Iranian military infrastructure, the response exposed the limits of Tehran’s power.

For years, Iran had warned that any attack would trigger a regional firestorm.

Instead, the retaliation largely consisted of waves of missiles and drones, many intercepted by Israeli and American air defenses.

For decades, the regime projected the image of a rising superpower capable of challenging the United States and destroying Israel.

But when confronted, Iran was barely able to fight back.

To those who view events only through the lens of military strategy or geopolitics, these developments may appear surprising.

But to a believing Jew, the message is clear.

We are witnessing, before our eyes, another reminder that the destiny of Klal Yisroel is never determined by armies, alliances, or weapons. Behind the shifting events of history stands the guiding Hand of the Ribbono Shel Olam.

There has been terrible pain and loss, and every Jewish life is infinitely precious. Yet, within the din, there has been tremendous rachamim. The regime that openly sought the means to destroy Israel and threaten millions of Jews has been unable to achieve its goal. Many of its leaders have themselves been killed, and the instruments of power it spent decades constructing have been weakened or dismantled.

We do not know how this war will ultimately unfold or what challenges may still lie ahead. But we do know that nothing occurs outside the unfolding plan of Hakadosh Boruch Hu.

And during these weeks, as we move from the hidden salvation of Purim toward the redemption of Nissan, we are reminded once again that the story of the Jewish people is never written by the forces that seem most powerful at the moment. It is written by the One Who renews His people again and again, and Who will soon bring the final geulah with the coming of Moshiach.

Sirens, Tehillim & Faith

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

On Purim, we celebrate the deliverance of the Jewish people from Haman’s sinister plot to annihilate them. We read and study the Megillah, reliving the stunning reversal that transformed a decree of destruction into a day of light and joy, and tracing the downfall of the wicked Haman.

The Megillah is unique in the fact that the name of Hashem is not mentioned openly anywhere in the entire narrative. Unlike other moments in our history, the Hand guiding events remains concealed between the lines. Purim was the first major miracle of national deliverance in which Hashem’s presence was hidden, His orchestration discernible only in hindsight. As the story unfolded, it appeared to move forward through political maneuvering, palace intrigue, and human courage. Only once the salvation was complete did it become evident that every detail — including the seudah of Achashveirosh, Vashti’s downfall, Esther’s rise, the king’s sleepless night, and everything else described in the Megillah — had been precisely arranged as part of a Divine plan.

Until Purim, Hashem’s role in our redemption had been revealed openly and unmistakably, often through events that transcended the laws of nature. The makkos, Yetzias Mitzrayim, Krias Yam Suf, and the miraculous sustenance in the midbar proclaimed Hashem’s mastery for all to see. The supernatural was evident, the message undeniable.

But the salvation in the days of Mordechai and Esther ushered in a new era. It was accomplished b’hester, within the natural order, through seeming coincidence and ordinary events. And so it has been ever since. We celebrate Purim not only to commemorate what happened then, but to internalize what it teaches now: That nothing is random, nothing is happenstance. Even when Hashem’s name is seemingly not written into the story, His presence is there. What appears fragmented and confusing is, in truth, carefully choreographed by Hashem Yisborach, guiding His people toward their ultimate redemption.

Once again, Klal Yisroel finds itself confronting grave danger. Nearly 2,400 years after the wicked designs of Haman to annihilate the Jewish people, we faced an existential threat from the regime in Iran.

For 47 years, since the Iranian Revolution, Iran’s leaders have openly proclaimed their hostility toward Israel and the United States, funding terror proxies across the region while pursuing nuclear capabilities and long-range missile technology. Israeli officials have warned for decades that a nuclear-armed Iran would pose an intolerable threat, not only to Israel but to global stability. American administrations, along with other Western governments, have insisted that Iran must never obtain a nuclear weapon, though diplomatic efforts and negotiated agreements often fell short of eliminating the danger.

This past Shabbos, after years of escalating tension and repeated warnings, the United States and Israel launched coordinated strikes targeting senior Iranian military leadership, nuclear facilities, ballistic missile installations, drone infrastructure, and command centers.

The objective was to halt a program that had crossed declared red lines and was rapidly advancing toward operational capability. Last year’s attacks apparently slowed, but did not stop, Iran’s efforts to build and expand its nuclear and missile programs.

The regime that repeatedly pledged to wipe Israel off the map appeared to be inching closer to that goal. Negotiations were attempted, but as the threat intensified and intelligence assessments grew more alarming, leaders concluded that the window to act was narrowing. When the opportunity presented itself to rid the world of the country’s leadership, the war was launched.

And thus, in the very region where the Purim story unfolded, and in the week of Purim, we find ourselves holding our collective breath. As in the days of Mordechai and Esther, events are moving swiftly, alliances are shifting, and the stakes are nothing less than the safety of millions. We recognize that beyond the military maneuvers and political calculations, Hakadosh Boruch Hu guides everything.

We are living through dangerous and historic days. Across Eretz Yisroel, families once again began the week hearing the wail of sirens and rushing to shelters as barrages of ballistic missiles streaked across the sky. Regrettably, some of those missiles landed in populated areas and claimed lives.

We daven that this conflict ends swiftly, that innocent lives be spared, and that the threat hanging over Klal Yisroel be decisively removed.

Just as the hidden Hand became clear at the end of the Megillah, we pray that soon we will merit to see, openly and unmistakably, the yeshuah that is now unfolding.

Boruch Hashem, most of us reading these words have never had to scramble to a shelter with minutes to spare. But for our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisroel, this has become an all-too-frequent reality. And yet, no matter how many times they have done it, they never grow accustomed to it.

War is not merely headlines and briefings. It is not maps and military jargon. It is fear. It is disorientation. It is being jolted awake in the middle of the night, or abandoning what you are doing in the middle of the day, clutching your children as you race to safety, reciting kappitlach of Tehillim as you run. It is the collapse of normalcy, with schools closed, businesses shuttered, flights canceled, and deliveries halted. It is the steady, unrelenting anxiety that settles into the body and clings to the soul.

Having your day interrupted by sirens and a frantic dash to a shelter before a missile strikes is more than inconvenient. It is nerve-racking, frightening, and life-altering. It reminds a person, again and again, how fragile life is.

And yet, amidst the chaos of sirens and explosions, a Jewish heart responds instinctively: “Hashem yishmor. Hashem will guard us.” Every rocket intercepted is a manifestation of His mercy. Every near miss is an indication of His will and rachamim. Ultimately, no defense system and no army operate independently of the Ribbono Shel Olam. He alone determines who will be protected, who will be spared, and who will emerge to say, “Hashem was watching over me.”

We are a nation that has endured more than any other in history, not because of our superior strength or political advantage, but because of our unbreakable bond with the Ribbono Shel Olam. That connection has carried us through empires that rose and fell, and through Hamans of every generation, and it sustains us still, in these days of sirens, smoke, rockets, planes, and peril.

With rachamei Shomayim, most of the intended targets inside Iran are being struck, and with each successful operation, the threat is further diminished. Missiles are intercepted. Catastrophes are averted. Entire barrages that could have wrought unimaginable destruction are stopped midair.

And yet, as we saw in Tel Aviv, Beit Shemesh, Yerushalayim, and other cities, there are rockets that penetrate the shield. They land. They destroy. They maim. They are painful reminders that alongside rachamim, there is also din. They remind us how fragile life is, how dependent we are on siyata diShmaya, and how urgently we must draw closer to Hakadosh Boruch Hu to merit protection.

As maaminim bnei maaminim, we understand that while armies battle on the physical front lines, we wage war on a spiritual one through tefillah, teshuvah, and tzedakah. Every added kappitel of Tehillim, every act of chesed, every extra moment of Torah learning fortifies the battlefield forces in ways we cannot measure. The unseen weapons of Klal Yisroel have always been its most powerful.

And when the war feels prolonged and the darkness thick, we cling to the promise of the novi: “Ki lo yitosh Hashem amo,” Hashem will not forsake His people.

Even now. Especially now.

In times of conflict, many are tempted to become amateur geopolitical analysts. Conversations quickly turn to speculation — why the enemy acted, what strategic calculus was at play, how deftly this leader or that one responded. Pundits dissect the decisions of presidents and prime ministers, attributing outcomes to political brilliance or failure.

But we know better.

This war, like every war, unfolds because Hashem willed it so, not because a particular leader desired it, and not because of one treaty or another speech. Events do not generate Divine plans. They implement them.

It is not that circumstances aligned and therefore history moved. History moves because the Ribbono Shel Olam directs it, and circumstances align accordingly.

Just as Paroh ascended to power to set the stage for Yetzias Mitzrayim, so are contemporary leaders positioned precisely where they need to be to fulfill a larger design. The revolutionary regime that took control of Iran in 1979 did not emerge by accident. The global powers that enabled it, restrained it, negotiated with it, or confronted it did not act outside the framework of Hashgocha. Each played, and continues to play, a role in a script authored long before any of them took office.

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.

Presidents and prime ministers occupy their posts because, at this juncture in history, the Ribbono Shel Olam requires them there. The world is being guided, step by step, toward its destined culmination. The threats we face, the alliances that form, and the confrontations that erupt are all part of a process moving creation toward geulah.

Because Hashem wants to set up the world for Moshiach to reveal himself and redeem us, He brought the world to this juncture.

We may not yet see the full picture. But just as in the days of Purim, when the Hand was hidden until the final moment, so too, we now live within a story still unfolding, guided with precision, purpose, and promise.

When we forget who we are and Who sustains us, when we allow ourselves to be distracted by headlines and worldly analysis, we risk becoming like the Jews of Shushan, threatened by Haman after having sinned by indulging in the feast of Achashveirosh and drinking from the keilim of the destroyed Bais Hamikdosh.

The Rambam opens Hilchos Taanis with a powerful statement: “Mitzvas asei min haTorah, it is a mitzvah in the Torah, to cry out to Hashem and to do teshuvah whenever any tragedy strikes.” This is derived from a posuk in Parshas Beha’aloscha (Bamidbar 10:9). When tragedy strikes, it is ultimately a reflection of our own shortcomings, and the path to overcoming it is through teshuvah.

Those who reduce wars or calamities to purely political or natural explanations, or who deny or ignore Hashem’s role in the unfolding of events, are engaging in a form of cruelty. They obscure the truth, prevent people from recognizing the Divine Hand, and hinder the opportunity for teshuvah. None of us wish to be counted among the cruel, especially when the Rambam is not offering opinion but articulating halacha and revealing the true nature of the world according to the Torah.

The Chovos Halevavos teaches in Shaar Cheshbon Hanefesh that someone who places his faith in Hashem is never abandoned. Hashem opens the gates of understanding, reveals the hidden depths of His wisdom, watches over him, and does not leave him to the limitations of his own strength.

The Gemara (Avodah Zarah 2b) tells us 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 all their actions were intended to benefit the Jewish people and facilitate their service of Hashem and the Torah. Persia, modern-day Iran, will argue, “We built bridges, conquered lands, and waged wars all to enable the Jews to learn Torah.”

While it is conceivable that infrastructure projects could indirectly support Torah study, what of war? Perhaps the Gemara is hinting that even wars and threats can serve as wake-up calls — to frighten, to warn, to inspire teshuvah, and to redirect hearts toward the Torah.

When the Supreme Ruler of Iran publicly declared his intent to destroy Israel and raced to arm the nation with nuclear weapons and ballistic missiles, the world largely stood by, making only nominal attempts to curb his ambitions.

During last year’s twelve-day conflict, Israel cleared the skies, striking hundreds of targets and neutralizing military leaders, nuclear scientists, and key infrastructure. In just a few days, a nation seventy-five times smaller dismantled decades of buildup, despite Iran’s strength and pride. Though rockets were fired in retaliation, Hashem’s protection was unmistakable. Most were intercepted, and the death toll remained minimal. Every life lost is a tragedy, yet the contrast between what could have happened and what actually occurred can only be explained by Hashgocha Protis.

This is not strategy. This is not luck. This is not political brilliance.

This is Hashem’s Hand. This is the unfolding of a Divine plan. This is the sound of the approaching geulah.

Let us not waste this moment. As the war continues, as sirens wail and bombs threaten every part of Eretz Yisroel, let us raise our voices in passionate tefillah that Hashem spare us from the evil intentions of the anshei Poras and Yishmoel.

Let us strengthen our commitment to Torah, chesed, tzedakah, and the refinement of our middos. Let us build zechuyos with every word of Torah learned, every tefillah sincerely recited, and every act of kindness performed.

Just as in the days of Mordechai and Esther, when danger loomed and Hashem’s Hand was hidden, we live today with the awareness that nothing is by chance. Every challenge, every threat, every moment of uncertainty is part of a Divine plan. Purim reminds us that even when Hashem is hidden, His providence is real, guiding every event and protecting His people.

We are reminded that our role is not passive. While Hashem orchestrates the world, we are called to act as only we can through Torah, tefillah, tzedakah, and chesed, refining ourselves and building zechuyos for ourselves and our people. Just as Esther and Mordechai played a crucial role in the miracle of Purim by leading Am Yisroel to teshuvah, so will our spiritual efforts today help bring about the hidden yeshuah for which we all yearn.

Let us live with clarity and courage, seeing both the dangers and the opportunities that lie before us. Let us be a people who respond to fear, threats, and uncertainty with emunah, bitachon, and unwavering trust in Hakadosh Boruch Hu.

May this be the last war, and just as the Megillah ends with orah, simcha, sasson and yekor, may we soon see peace break out in the Middle East and throughout the world and be zoche to the coming of Moshiach Tzidkeinu.

From Decree to Destiny

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

As Jews, we are meant to live with joy. No matter the situation, we know that everything comes from Hashem, Who seeks our ultimate welfare. That is a fundamental principle of our emunah. Yet, Adar is the only time of year when the obligation to rejoice is emphasized, to the degree that Chazal teach, “Mishenichnas Adar marbim b’simcha.”

What is it about this month that obligates us to increase our joy?

It cannot simply be that there was an edict calling for our annihilation. Tragically, that has been a recurring theme throughout our history. We recite in the Haggadah that in every generation there are those who rise up to destroy us and Hashem spares us from them. What, then, was so unique about the salvation of Purim in Shushan that it continues to generate such enduring joy?

The story of Purim began, for all practical purposes, at the lavish celebration hosted by Achashveirosh to mark his reign. Jews attended that grand seudah and drank from keilim that were plundered from the destroyed Bais Hamikdosh. That desecration of holiness, that defilement of the memory of the Bais Hamikdosh, evoked a Divine wrath and set into motion Haman’s plot to destroy the Jewish people across the vast Persian Empire.

Mordechai and Esther gathered the nation and led them in sincere teshuvah. When their repentance was accepted, the gezeirah was annulled. The Jews were spared, and their enemies met the fate they had intended for the Jews. A great celebration followed.

But the story did not end there. The same empire that had issued the decree ultimately permitted the Jewish people to return to Eretz Yisroel and resume construction of the second Bais Hamikdosh.

The simcha of Adar is rooted in something deeper than rescue from danger. Klal Yisroel witnessed the transformative power of teshuvah. The very failing that contributed to the threat—disrespect toward the Bais Hamikdosh—was rectified through repentance, and that teshuvah paved the way not only for survival, but for rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh they had sinned against. It brought about a geulah for that era that endured for generations.

As we continue through our long golus, this message strengthens us. It proclaims that if we would correct the sins that delay the geulah in our days, we, too, would merit Moshiach and the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh. The teshuvah of Adar led to the geulah of Nissan in the days of Shushan, and that same thing can happen again in our day.

What could be a more joyous thought than that?

And perhaps that is precisely why this message is so urgent today.

We live in what many describe as an age of noise. Not only literal noise, though there is certainly no shortage of that, but a deeper kind: endless information, constant commentary, perpetual outrage, and a relentless stream of stimuli competing for our attention. Everything feels loud. Everything feels urgent. Everything demands a reaction.

The news unsettles us. War with Iran appears on the horizon. The choices seem bleak: Strike now and perhaps unleash a deadly war or allow a dangerous regime to strengthen its arsenal and expand its nuclear ambitions.

Anti-Semitism grows more brazen. Political instability intensifies. Economic pressures mount as expenses rise and the strain of keeping pace becomes crushing. Our world seems to have misplaced its bearings, and we pay the price.

And then Purim arrives.

Suddenly, there is joyous music. Happiness. Laughter. Mishloach manos piling up. Costumes. Friends with arms wrapped around one another, swaying in song.

The contrast is jarring.

Yet, Purim is not an escape from reality. It is a return to reality.

It reminds us of the steady Hashgocha Protis that guides history beneath the surface chaos. It reminds us that what appears random is anything but. It reminds us that teshuvah changes trajectories, that gezeiros can be overturned, that rebuilding can follow destruction.

And that certainty is a deep source of simcha.

We study the Megillah, and initially it appears as if random events are happening that have no historical importance or relevance to the Jewish people. A Persian king throws a lavish feast. A queen refuses to attend. Political reshuffling. An ambitious minister rising to power. Sleepless nights. Coincidences. And then the noose tightens around the neck of our people. Only at the end do we see what was happening all along.

Purim was a time of hester ponim—the Ribbono Shel Olam hidden behind curtains of politics, ego, power, and fear.

And if that sounds familiar, it should, because we also live in a time of hester. Things that appear to be random are actually setting up the world for geulah.

Purim reminds us that nothing is random.

One year, on Purim, surrounded by multitudes of chassidim hanging on to his every word, the Chiddushei Horim began speaking. This is what he said: “When we start reading the Megillah, we might wonder why we are being told stories about some Persian king. Why do we care that he feasted for three years after being crowned? We continue reading and are told stories about a queen who refused to attend a feast and her punishment. Then we read about the procedure of finding a new queen. And we wonder: Why do we need to know this?”

The rebbe was quiet, deep in thought. He sat up and answered his questions. “In the time of Moshiach,” he said, “many strange things will happen. Nobody will understand what is happening. And then, suddenly, they will realize that it was all tied to the geulah.”

To say that strange occurrences are taking place in our day is an understatement. We are confounded by the daily happenings, so many of which seem to make no sense. Soon the day will arrive when everything will become clear. For now, we have Purim.

We live in a period of darkness that will prevail until the coming of Moshiach. With his arrival, a great light will begin to shine and everything will become clear. But until then, we can cultivate our senses to hear and perceive the footsteps of Moshiach in all that is taking place. Purim is part of that training.

All through the year, we strain to “see”—to understand what is happening, to conjecture what this leader will say and what that one will do. Purim teaches us that what counts is what is happening behind the scenes, beyond the headlines, where we cannot see. We are reminded that it is not the politicians and bosses who dictate events, but Someone much more powerful.

The spiritual light of Purim, the Arizal says, is brighter than any other light that has shone since creation. The clarity of Purim brings joy along with it. After laining the Megillah, current events are not as menacing.

Purim declares that beneath the decrees of history stands the steady Hand of Hashem.

The Jews of Shushan believed the lot had sealed their fate. The calendar had marked their destruction. Yet, through teshuvah, tefillah, and Esther’s courage, guided by Mordechai, the script flipped.

A day designated for annihilation became a day of eternal celebration. That pattern has repeated itself through centuries of Jewish history. Again and again, we stood on the brink. Again and again, the curtain lifted just enough for us to survive.

All year long, people carry burdens, but on Purim something softens. The guarded expressions fall away. The inner emunah surfaces.

On that day, we gain clarity.

Purim is not an escape from reality. Purim is reality, unveiled.

It tells us that no Haman rises independently. No Achashveirosh rules alone. No sleepless night is insignificant. No hidden act of courage is wasted.

No matter what challenges surround us, when Purim approaches, something shifts.

Our hearts beat a bit faster. Our smiles stretch a bit wider. Even people weighed down by worry find themselves humming a niggun, singing along with the crowd, uniting in simcha shel mitzvah. Though we may be mired in personal struggles, dulled by routine, distracted by headlines and burdens, the simcha of Purim breaks through.

The joy that erupts among Jews, from the most learned to the most distant, testifies to the intrinsic greatness of the day. Something real is happening. Something ancient, yet entirely present.

The simcha that Hakadosh Boruch Hu shined into His world in Shushan so many years ago was not a one-time illumination. It was implanted into the fabric of time. Wherever Jews live, that joy can be felt every year on this day.

Purim is not just a commemoration of something that happened nearly 2,400 years ago. It is a celebration of its yearly recurrence on that day. It is a celebration of its lessons, which provide daily chizuk for us.

Every year on Purim, the kochos that saved the Jewish people from annihilation are reawakened. The miracles of Purim are not locked in the past. The days of Purim have a redemptive power that we can tap into. In Al Hanissim, we thank Hashem for the miracles that took place “bayomim haheim bazeman hazeh.”

The knowledge that Hashem guides every detail of our lives and directs the destinies of nations reminds us that our story will be as comforting for us as it was for them.

Every generation has its Hamans and Achashveiroshes. Every generation experiences threats against Jewish lives, hostile regimes, economic fluctuations, illnesses that confound doctors, political climates that feel increasingly unstable, and cultural confusion that erodes clarity. The names change. The geography shifts. The methods evolve. But the pattern is the same.

A month after Purim, at the Seder, we will declare, “Vehi she’omdah la’avoseinu velanu… shebechol dor vador omdim aleinu lechaloseinu, v’Hakadosh Boruch Hu matzileinu miyodom.”

In every generation we have challenges and Hashem saves us.

When we unroll our Megillos each year, we are not just unrolling a story that took place in the past. We are opening a channel of salvation.

The Sefas Emes teaches that just as Elul prepares us for Rosh Hashanah through teshuvah m’yirah, the month of Adar prepares us for Nissan through teshuvah m’ahavah, repentance born of love and joy.

Just as Mordechai gathered the Jews of his day and instructed them to fast, daven, and do teshuvah to bring about their salvation, that koach remains embedded in the day. The salvation of Shushan ultimately led to the building of the second Bais Hamikdosh. The teshuvah of Purim reshaped history.

Who is to say what our Purim could build?

The events unfolding around us may appear disconnected—random political shifts, unsettling global movements, personal upheavals that seem to make no sense. But the Megillah teaches us that what appears fragmented is often tightly woven.

At the time, Achashveirosh’s seudah looked like decadence. Vashti’s refusal seemed like palace drama. A sleepless night appeared trivial. Only later did those details reveal themselves as steps toward redemption.

Purim trains us to live with that awareness.

This day is marked for deliverance.

On this day in Shushan, a decree of death was transformed into celebration. Since then, Jews have experienced yeshuos on Purim in ways public and private. It is a day stamped with light and possibility.

If we are worthy, we will soon witness how the threats that intimidate us today, the forces that seem to gather strength, and the pressures that weigh upon Klal Yisroel and upon each of us personally are necessary chapters leading to a geulah.

The Megillah teaches us not only that redemption is possible, but that it is already unfolding beneath the surface.

May we merit to see it clearly.

“LaYehudim hoysah orah v’simcha v’sasson viykor kein tihiyeh lonu.” May the light that shone in Shushan pierce the darkness of our golus as well and lead us to the geulah sheleimah for which we have been waiting so long.

Ah freilichen Purim.

The Carrot, the Fish and Moshiach

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Imagine a land where people have no appreciation for music, where the sounds of song are never heard. In a country like that, instruments are viewed with suspicion, and voices raised in harmony are quickly stilled.

Unbeknownst to each other, there are lone individuals scattered throughout the country who love music, but they keep it a secret. In the solitude and seclusion of their homes, they might play a few bars and hum a melody, but only quietly.

One day, word spreads of a gathering where all of them will come together, the musicians and the singers, those who love to sing and those who love to hear. They will ignore the disdain and disapproval of the masses and congregate, their instruments and voices joining together.

It will be the most glorious song ever heard, the secret longing and hope of so many, more than a thousand sounds fusing as one.

The very fact that this gathering will take place gives vent to the song within the participants.

This analogy helps explain the way the Vilna Gaon (Shir Hashirim 1:17) describes the power of the Mishkon. Every individual Jew was walking around with a flame in his heart, but until they had a place where they could unite - a physical location where they could connect - those passions lay dormant.

The Mishkon allowed the collective fires to unite and light up the world. There, the secret could emerge. Like musicians meeting and creating song, a nation of dveikim baHashem found each other in this sacred structure, elevating the landscape.

The Shechinah resides inside the heart of every good Jew. The Mishkon is the place where all those Jews gather, as the Shechinah that dwells within them comes alive and expands, kevayachol. Hashem therefore commanded them to take a “terumah” from every “ish asher yidvenu libo,” allowing every person to contribute from his heart toward the construction of the Mishkon, enabling all the hearts to join together in this special place.

In the Mishkon, every feature reflected Divine mysteries, and each element was filled with cosmic significance. Just as the calendar ushers in the month of Adar, we begin reading the parshiyos that detail the particulars of the construction of this special place.

The month of Adar has taught us that, as a nation, we can achieve salvation. The shekolim that were collected symbolize that the Mishkon was meant to achieve the sense of shared purpose and desire that defines every Jew.

Achdus is a current buzzword, often misused as a catchphrase manipulated to paint those of us who have standards and traditions as haters. If we dare call out the falsifiers of the Torah for what they are, we are condemned for lacking achdus.

The Mishkon, which was the epicenter of unity in the universe, came with severe restrictions. While everyone could contribute to its construction, there were many halachos delineating who could approach the Mishkon and who couldn’t, who could perform the avodah there and who couldn’t. Achdus comes with rules. It is not a free-for-all, as some would have you think.

The pesukim at the beginning of Sefer Bamidbor (1:50) charge shevet Levi with assembling and dismantling the Mishkon and its keilim when the Bnei Yisroel traveled. Any outsider who dared approach and attempt to do the coveted work specified for shevet Levi would be killed. There were also precise rules for each one of the keilim.

Achdus doesn’t mean an absence of rules. It doesn’t mean that anything goes. It means that everyone who beholds holiness has a unique role to play in the mosaic of Yiddishkeit.

While detailing the laws of the Mishkon, the posuk says, “Vehayah haMishkon echad - And the Mishkon will be one.” What does the Torah mean with this addition? The Ibn Ezra explains that the oneness of the structure reflects the oneness of Hashem’s creation. It reflects harmony and unity.

The Bnei Yisroel became one, coming together at Har Sinai and then at the Mishkon, the individual sparks of fire within each person joining together in a torch. The Shechinah in each person joined together at this special place, bringing back experience of Har Sinai, forming a home for the Shechinah in this world and a place where the voice of the Shechinah could converse with Moshe.

The Me’or V’shemesh writes that chassidim would make it a priority to travel to their rebbe for Shabbos to be inspired. But the prime growth was not necessarily derived from the rebbe’s Torah or tefillah. He writes that chassidim achieved more than anything else from simply being together. Each chossid who went to the rebbe for Shabbos had tens of new teachers, as each of the other Jews with whom he had gathered possessed the ability to teach him something. From this one, he learned about kavanah in davening. In that one, he saw the definition of oneg Shabbos. And in a third, he observed extraordinary middos.

The achdus created multiple rebbes.

The Arizal told his talmidim to recite the words, “Hareini mekabel olai mitzvas asei shel ve’ahavta lerei’acha kamocha,” before starting Shacharis. These words are printed in some siddurim. What is the significance of the particular mitzvah of ve’ahavta lerei’acha kamocha before beginning a new day’s tefillah?

The Kitzur Shulchan Aruch (12:2) explains: “Unity and connection in the lower realms create a bond in the higher spheres, and the tefillos join together and are beloved by Hashem.”

The feeling of connection that a person experiences as he walks into shul - Yankel’s cheerful good morning, Moishe’s careful Birchos Hashachar, the way Chaim respectfully holds the door for an older man - opens gates in Shomayim. The shared fire they have created is more powerful than their individual points of light.

When I lived in Monsey, I had a delightful Sephardic neighbor who enjoyed teasing me on Friday nights as we left shul. Week after week, he would ask me what purpose the carrot serves on gefilte fish. He would laugh heartily at his own question. While I’m not privy to the mysteries concealed in ma’acholei Shabbos, of which there are many, I enjoyed the exchange, because it hammered home a beautiful truth. He would go home and eat his traditional Shabbos foods, and I would eat mine, yet we agreed about why we were eating them, Whom we were honoring, and what we hoped to achieve. He reveled in his points of light and I reveled in mine, and together we thrived on our individual mesorah, handed down generation after generation through the millennia of the exile.

Rav Avigdor Miller would say that Shabbos is our Mishkon. He explained that this is hinted to by the fact that the 39 melachos are derived from the building of the Mishkon. Note the similarities in the way Jews prepared to enter the holy structure and the way we prepare for Shabbos. Look at how each has strict rules that must be observed, the danger of ignoring them, and, most of all, the way each is meant to create an earthy sanctuary for Hashem, carving out a physical resting place for the Shechinah.

On Shabbos, there is a sense of achdus, because we don’t see our neighbors as carpenters or lawyers, mechanchim or electricians. We are all Jews who have come together in our bigdei Shabbos - much like the bigdei avodah - for Hashem’s glory, a reflection of what life was like around the Mishkon.

With the words of the Vilna Gaon as our guide, we can understand the oft-repeated lesson that achdus will lead to geulah. It is not merely in the merit of unity. It is the synergistic effect of unity - when we camp around a place and allow the song within each of us to emerge, fusing with the melodies of others - that lays the opening for the geulah.

When that moment comes, our shared hopes, dreams, and ambitions will combine to create a place where the Shechinah will rest.

I can do it, you can do it, we can all do it - if we do it together.

Forged in a crucible of holiness, we keep the embers alive, awaiting the day when we rid ourselves of the ashes that prevent us from joining all the holy embers and bringing about the great reunion.

This brings us to Chazal’s dictate: “Mishenichnas Adar marbim b’simcha - When the month of Adar enters, we increase our joy.” With this dictum, they are teaching us not only that Adar is a month of simcha, but that we are commanded to increase it. Simcha is not merely an emotion; it is an avodah, a spiritual practice.

The obligations of most months involve us doing things. During Elul, we do teshuvah. During Tishrei, we continue doing teshuvah, construct a sukkah, eat and live in the sukkah, purchase the arba minim, and shake them. During Kislev, we light the Chanukah menorah. During Nissan, we rid our homes of chometz and eat matzah. And so on. But the defining mitzvah of Adar is unique. It is not something we do with our hands, but rather something we cultivate in our minds and souls - the obligation to be happy and to increase that happiness.

The obligation Chazal place upon us is not a superficial happiness brought about by escaping reality or ignoring pain. On the contrary, the story of Purim is born in a world of danger, uncertainty, and hidden threats. The Megillah recounts that the Jewish people stood on the brink of annihilation. Yet, the Megillah does not recount open miracles, such as the splitting of the sea during Krias Yam Suf and other open miracles described in Tanach. Instead, it describes a quiet, concealed salvation unfolding behind the scenes.

And that is precisely where Adar’s simcha lives - not in the absence of struggle, but in the discovery of meaning within it.

The Megillah does not mention the explicit Name of Hashem, yet His presence saturates every posuk. Coincidences align, reversals occur, hidden turns become redemptive. Adar teaches that joy is the ability to perceive the Hashgocha Protis - Hashem’s orchestration of events - even when b’hastorah, masked by ordinary circumstances. Simcha does not come from being naïve. It is spiritual vision.

The simcha of Adar is the joy of trust. The joy of realizing that what appears random is in fact precise. That which feels chaotic is being gently guided. In a world where so much feels unstable, Adar proclaims the quiet truth: What happens to us, to Am Yisroel, and to the world is all part of a story being carefully written.

Sadness contracts the soul. Simcha expands it. A sad person shrinks into himself. A joyful person has space for others, for appreciation, for emunah and bitachon. When Chazal say marbim b’simcha, they are telling us to widen our hearts, to make room for others and for hope.

When we widen our hearts and souls, we can appreciate all that Hashem does for us and prepare for geulah. By connecting with others through achdus, we open ourselves to experiencing simcha and allowing it to expand beyond ourselves. For simcha is not a reward for when life makes sense. It is the tool that allows us to make sense of life. It flows from the courage to smile when Hashem is hidden, to trust in His goodness before it becomes visible, to dance even when the music is faint, and to recognize that everything that happens is purposeful and, ultimately, good.

Mishenichnas Adar marbim b’simcha. When Adar arrives - in the cold of winter, in the darkness of a fearful world, in the confusion of worrisome news, as our land is surrounded by unfriendly neighbors and we feel the tightening of golus - we are joyous anyway. For we know that the megillah of our existence has already been written, and we are approaching the happy ending that will usher in Moshiach tzidkeinu bemeheirah.

Tasting History

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

This week’s parsha opens with the words, “Ve’aileh hamishpotim asher tosim lifneihem - These are the laws that you shall place before them.”

Rabi Akiva, in the Mechilta, hears in these words not merely a command to teach, but a lesson in how Torah must be transmitted. Tosim lifneihem, he explains, does not mean to present information in the abstract, but to lay it out like a shulchan aruch, a fully prepared table, arranged with care, clarity, and invitation. Torah is not meant to be delivered as raw data, but as nourishment: accessible, enticing, and alive.

Great teachers exhaust themselves in pursuit of this ideal. They labor not only to know Torah, but to serve it, presenting it with flavor, with structure, with an inner music that allows the student not merely to learn, but to taste and appreciate. A good rebbi does not speak at his talmidim. He sets a table before them and invites them into a feast.

One such rebbi was Rav Mendel Kaplan. His shiur was not simply a classroom. It was an atmosphere. We did not merely absorb Torah from him. We breathed it in. He fed us a wide menu of spiritual food, equipping us not only with knowledge, but with the tools to interpret the world beyond the walls of the bais medrash. Headlines became texts, and world events became commentaries, refracted through the prism of Torah until their deeper meanings emerged.

There is a story told of a villager in the legendary town of Chelm who returned home from shul one Shabbos and repeated the rov’s sermon to his wife.

“The rov says that Moshiach may come very soon,” he told her, “and he will take us all to Eretz Yisroel.”

His wife wrung her hands in distress. “But what will be with our chickens? Who will feed them? How will we live?”

The husband stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You know, life here is hard. The goyim harass us, we are poor, the roof leaks, and our feet freeze all winter. Maybe it will be better there.”

She thought for a moment, and then her face lit up. “I have a solution,” she said. “We’ll ask Hashem to send the goyim to Eretz Yisroel - and we’ll stay here with the chickens.”

We smile at the foolishness of Chelm, but too often, we are no different. We live inside history, yet fail to read it. We experience events, but miss their meaning. We mistake warning signs for noise, and blessings for burdens. We assume we understand the world, when in truth we need teachers - living meforshim - to explain to us what is really happening between the lines of the newspaper.

Chazal tell us: “Why was the mountain called Sinai? Because from it descended sinah - hatred.” From the moment the Torah was given and the Jewish people became a nation with a mission, a new force entered the world, a relentless, irrational hostility that would accompany us until the arrival of Moshiach.

This hatred is not merely a historical artifact. It is not confined to ancient exile or medieval blood libels. It is alive. It breathes. It mutates. It adapts to each generation’s language and technology.

The world recently marked the 81^st anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. Much has changed since those dark years. Entire institutions were built to ensure that such horrors would never return. And yet, the ancient sinah remains intact, resurfacing in new forms, under new banners, with old obsessions. Jews are mocked, judged by double standards, and vilified. The very state created as a refuge from hatred has become a magnet for it.

Anti-Semitism rises not only in Europe, but in America. Digital platforms amplify it, spread it, and normalize it. What once required mobs now needs only algorithms.

Rashi tells us that Yisro came to join the Jewish people after hearing about Krias Yam Suf and Milchemes Amaleik. The meforshim explain that these events conveyed not only how deeply Hashem loves the Jewish people, but how intensely the nations of the world oppose them. Yisro recognized the paradox at the heart of Jewish existence - to be beloved by Hashem and resisted by history. He understood that truth itself provokes opposition, and that the more transformative the truth, the more violently it is resisted.

When Albert Einstein introduced relativity, the scientific world initially mocked him. A book titled One Hundred Scientists Against Einstein appeared. When asked about it, Einstein reportedly shrugged and said, “If I were really wrong, why would one not be enough?” He understood what Jews have always known: Truth does not generate mild disagreement. It generates disproportionate fury.

From Har Sinai onward, the Jewish people have lived inside that fury.

After World War I, the League of Nations was created to ensure peace. After World War II, the United Nations rose from the ashes of Auschwitz, pledging that tyranny would never again be allowed to flourish. After 9/11, world leaders announced a new era with a global war on terror, a united front against evil.

And yet, history keeps repeating itself, not because of a lack of institutions, but because of a surplus of illusion. They did not factor in apathy. They did not factor in corruption. They did not factor in moral exhaustion. They did not factor in hatred.

Everything now moves at a blistering pace. Wars begin, fade, and are replaced before their consequences are understood. Iraq, Afghanistan, Russia, China, Iran - each crisis dissolves into the next.

The world feels unstable, yet we continue our routines as though nothing is hanging above us.

The sword is suspended - and we discuss the wallpaper.

As anti-Semitism intensifies and the old sinah resurfaces, we argue over trivialities, chase distractions, and obsess over matters of little weight. We scroll while history groans.

Perhaps, a place to begin is with what we allow into our minds and homes. Since the invention of print, ideas have traveled disguised as information. Newspapers and books have always been vehicles for more than news. They are carriers of values, assumptions, and worldviews. The Maskilim mastered this art, writing heresy in poetic Hebrew, quoting Chazal while emptying their teachings of meaning, as they mocked gedolim, rabbonim, lomdei Torah, and shomrei Torah umitzvos. Generations were torn away not by open rebellion, but by subtle infiltration.

Words are never neutral. They shape taste. They train perception. They define what feels normal.

That is why those who write, teach, and speak bear responsibility under the same command: “Aileh hamishpotim asher tosim lifneihem.” What we place before others must be honest, just, and true - a table that nourishes, not poisons.

The Alter of Kelm taught that tosim lifneihem k’shulchan aruch means that real intelligence emerges only when learning has flavor. Depth is not dryness. Wisdom is not sterile. A melamed who teaches with clarity, elegance, and taste awakens in his students not only understanding, but desire and a hunger for more.

The difference between superficial knowledge and deep understanding is the difference between eating and tasting. One sustains life. The other transforms it.

The task of man, the Alter concludes, is to become truly intelligent - not clever, not informed, but wise.

That wisdom begins with refusing to settle for shallow readings of Torah or of life. It demands that we study more deeply, interpret more honestly, and live more consciously. It requires that we understand not only what is happening around us, but also what it is asking of us.

We must speak more truthfully, treat people more carefully, and live in a way that creates kiddush Hashem rather than its opposite.

The Meshech Chochmah, in one of his classic elucidations, writes in his sefer on last week’s parsha that the Jews merited the many miracles Hakadosh Boruch Hu performed for them upon leaving Mitzrayim even though they were still entangled with avodah zorah because their middos and interpersonal conduct were refined. But in generations whose people speak lashon hora, quarrel, and act without derech eretz and sensitivity, Hashem removes His Shechinah from their midst, as He did at the time of the Second Bais Hamikdosh. Even though the people were engaged in Torah study and observance, nevertheless, because there was sinas chinom - hatred - among them, the Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed.

I saw in a new sefer by Rav Yitzchok Kolodetsky something both amazing and frightening that Rav Chaim Greineman would relate from his father, Rav Shmuel Greineman, brother-in-law of the Chazon Ish. He would say that the Chazon Ish taught that the Holocaust came about as a result of sins bein adam lachaveiro, failures in how Jews treated each other.

When we look around us, when we contemplate what is happening in the world and wonder what we can do, what is demanded of us, and how we can help draw Moshiach closer, it would do us well to ponder the message the Chazon Ish and the Meshech Chochmah sent.

Parshas Yisro, in which the Torah discusses how Klal Yisroel was presented with the gift of the Aseres Hadibros and the Torah, is followed by Parshas Mishpotim, which we study this week. By arranging the parshiyos in this way, the Torah teaches us that to maintain the lofty levels reached at Har Sinai, we must properly follow the laws of Mishpotim, which deal with interpersonal conduct.

It is not sufficient to be on a high spiritual level intellectually and theoretically. We must match that with our actions and conduct. If we cut corners financially, if we are careless with another person’s dignity, and if we are not scrupulous in ensuring that we do not harm others financially, then we are lacking in fulfilling the obligations we accepted upon ourselves at Har Sinai.

In Parshas Mishpotim, Klal Yisroel reaches its highest moment when it declares, “Na’aseh v’nishma - We will do, and later we will hear and understand.” Action before comprehension. Commitment before clarity. A nation stepping into destiny with certainty, armed and motivated by faith.

May we merit to return to that summit, to toil in Torah, taste its depth, refine our character, and hear in the background of all we do the sounds of Sinai, so that we can raise ourselves and our people and bring us closer to the geulah sheleimah bekarov b’yomeinu. Amein.

Past, Present & Future

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Everyone needs to step away now and then. When winter tightens its grip, many northerners head south to Florida, searching for warmth and escape. Nothing against that. When I feel the need to breathe again, though, I go to Eretz Yisroel, to Yerushalayim.

That is where I feel most like myself, where the noise fades and something steadier takes its place. I don’t need much there. Even though every time I go, I make time to see a place I’ve never visited before, it is enough for me to walk Yerushalayim’s streets, worn smooth by thousands of footsteps, and watch its people go about their lives. I can do that for hours, until my feet give out and my thoughts quiet.

Last week, I returned once more. Just by standing at the Kosel, at the place from which the Shechinah has never departed, I felt recharged and was reminded why I had come. My tefillos slowed and sharpened, each word carrying more weight.

I traveled to Eretz Yisroel for what was meant to be a short visit. The plan was to spend Shabbos with my beloved mother-in-law and return on Sunday to produce the paper. Hashem had other plans, and thanks to the interference of the huge snowstorm, I did not make it back until Monday night.

Of course, everything Hashem does is for the good, and an extra, unplanned day in Yerushalayim was a gift.

Over the years, I have had the privilege of seeing much of what Yerushalayim has to offer. I have stood among the remnants of the churban haBayis, gazing at the massive stones toppled near the Kosel and the scorched city wall burned by the Romans. I have walked the very paths taken by the Bnei Yisroel in the days of the Bais Hamikdosh as they came up from Chevron and points south to be oleh regel. I have recited Tashlich at the Mayan Hashiloach, from where water was drawn for the nisuch hamayim of Sukkos and mayim chaim for parah adumah. I have stood where Dovid Hamelech is believed to have lived, moments that bring Tanach vividly to life.

Those experiences are very touching. Walking on the same path as our ancestors as they went to fulfill their obligations gives the neshomah a tingle and causes the heart to skip a few beats.

Seeing those huge stones, which comprised a strong defensive wall in the times of Nach that we study with much reverence, makes everything come alive, as does viewing the stalls that catered to the olei regel. Your imagination begins to stir as you envision millions of people standing in this very spot.

Seeing what is thought to have been the palace of Dovid Hamelech is another manifestation of bringing Dovid Hamelech alive and making everything about him so real that you can almost touch it.

And of course, there is the Kosel. Standing at the place from which the Shechinah has never departed, uttering the holy words written by Dovid Hamelech in tefillah, is always profoundly moving. As you daven Shemoneh Esrei before those eternal stones, distractions fall away and kavonah comes naturally, as it has for thousands of years.

As you daven, you feel the Shechinah nearby, and you know that He is listening to your tefillos at this special place.

All of that is deeply meaningful, but it is not what this piece is about.

This time, beyond the stones and the streets that always leave such a deep impression, the extra day afforded me the opportunity to take up an offer from my friends. Yitzchok Pindrus and Yehuda Soloveitchik took us to visit a place that, in its quiet way, embodied the same holiness and continuity I feel in Yerushalayim’s ancient walls.

We arrived at Har Tzion and learned about the extraordinary history of the area, and of the Diaspora Yeshiva located there, a yeshiva deeply tied to the Jewish presence in that part of Yerushalayim. We visited the yeshiva, which is headed by Rav Pindrus, and were given a guided tour by Rav Yitzchok Goldstein, who heads the Diaspora Yeshiva. Rav Yitzchok is a fascinating person whose life revolves around Torah and continuing the mission his father began when he took over the site after the Six Day War.

The yeshiva also maintains a Holocaust museum, the Marteif HaShoah, a place I had never visited and barely knew existed. Established by Holocaust survivors, it contains deeply moving artifacts, including the shofar that the Klausenberger Rebbe blew in the concentration camp, Sifrei Torah stained with the blood of kedoshim who were shot while holding them, and many other sacred remnants of a shattered world.

The Marteif HaShoah also contains memorial plaques, crafted like matzeivos, for the residents of 1,200 Jewish communities destroyed by the Nazis. Survivors would gather there on the yahrtzeits of their towns to say Kaddish and remember. Talmidei chachomim, including Maran Harav Shach, would learn there as a zechus for the neshamos of the martyrs. It is a hallowed place, well worth visiting when in Yerushalayim.

From there, we walked through the beauty of Har Tzion toward the Zilberman Cheder, the famous school known for its unique and remarkable method of learning based on the educational concepts of the Maharal and the Vilna Gaon.

We observed a class of five-year-old boys learning Parshas Vayeira. They were reading aloud with their rebbi, with full trup. Five-year-olds. Every boy was able to read, follow, and understand. But more than that, they knew all the pesukim from Bereishis bora until the parsha they were learning that day by heart, and they understood their meaning. They answered questions with clarity and confidence, living the words of Chazal: Ben chomeish l’mikra.

For whatever reason, most of our schools do not learn this way. Seeing it in action was astonishing, a living demonstration that children, even at a young age, are capable of absorbing and retaining Torah at a remarkably high level.

Rav Yosef Zilberman told me that the classes are not composed of geniuses. The student body reflects the same spectrum found everywhere: some very bright, some smart and some who aren’t, some average, and some weaker. But children are hungry for knowledge and are able to absorb much more than people think.

We observed older grades as well and saw the same success: boys who know Shishah Sidrei Mishnah by heart, and older ones who have learned sedorim of Shas and retain them.

It was a beautiful sight to see Bnei Yerushalayim so attached to Torah. Everyone there, from the rabbeim on down, carried a special look of satisfaction and geshmak.

The Brisker Rov would say that the true chein of Yerushalayim is not its buildings, but its children. On my “extra” day there, I felt that truth with complete clarity.

I am certain that children in chadorim throughout Yerushalayim are also blessed with tremendous chein and yedios, but this is the place we happened to see. In fact, at the home of Rav Dovid Cohen, I met my old friend, Rav Avrohom Pinzel, who heads Chochmas Shlomo, the largest cheder in Yerushalayim. He invited me to visit his school as well, something I hope to do during a future trip.

From the moment we entered the Zilberman Cheder, I was struck by the dedication, warmth, and energy that filled every corner. Walking the halls and watching children learn Torah with such enthusiasm, I felt a different kind of tingle — not the kind that comes from ancient stones, but the kind that comes from witnessing a living, breathing commitment to the future.

Here was the spirit of Yerushalayim, alive in a new generation, shaping hearts and minds in real time. It was inspiring, humbling, and deeply moving. It was a reminder that the holiness of Yerushalayim does not only live in its past, but is unfolding every day, in places like this unique yeshiva.

We traveled to the ancient city of Shiloh, where the Mishkon stood for 369 years. With the parshiyos of the Mishkon approaching, it felt like the right time to be there. I had visited once before, some fifteen years ago, before it had been developed into a formal site. Even then, it was powerful. Now, standing again on that ground, it was impossible not to feel the weight of what once stood there.

This is the place where the Mishkon itself is believed to have been situated. And nearby was the sha’ar — the gate — where Eli Hakohein is said to have been sitting when he heard the devastating words: ki nishbah Aron HaElokim — that the Pelishtim had captured the Aron. Upon hearing the news, he fell backward and was niftar.

The Novi tells us in Sefer Shmuel Alef (4) that the Bnei Yisroel were at war with the Pelishtim, and the battle was going badly. In desperation, the ziknei Yisroel sent for the Aron to be brought from Shiloh to the battlefield. It was a tragic mistake. Chofni and Pinchos, the sons of Eli who carried it, were killed, along with thirty thousand Jews. And when Eli heard what had happened, sitting at the gate opposite the Mishkon, his heart could not bear it.

To stand there — to see the site of the Mishkon and the place where Eli sat — is to feel the long, trembling story of Am Yisroel beneath your feet. The stones do not speak, but somehow they remember.

You can almost hear Shmuel Hanovi calling out across the centuries, repeating his nevuah urging the people to do teshuvah and abandon their avodah zarah. They believed they were righteous. They refused to listen. And they were punished. The war was lost and the Aron was taken.

Standing there, I found myself wondering what Shmuel would say if he were alive today. What would his message be to us? What would he be admonishing us about? What would he be urging us to fix, to strengthen and to change in order to bring the geulah closer?

We are no longer blessed with nevi’im. But we still have their words. We have Nach. We have our rabbeim. We have the sifrei mussar and machshovah written over centuries, offering us guidance, perspective, and a Torah lens through which to view our lives and our responsibilities.

In just a few weeks, we will be learning the measurements of the Mishkon. And there in Shiloh, on an ancient mountain, stands a flat area, preserved and marked, measuring one hundred amos by fifty amos, the exact size of the Mishkon. You stand there and try to imagine it: the yerios, the two mizbeichos, the crowds lining up with their korbanos, the smoke rising to the heavens in a rei’ach nichoach, the kohanim moving swiftly, purposefully, immersed in avodah. And suddenly, you realize how much we are missing in golus.

But then you look down.

Scattered everywhere are shards of pottery, fragments of the very vessels in which people once ate their korbanos, vessels that became assur b’hana’ah because of the kedusha they had absorbed. They have been lying there for thousands of years, silent witnesses to the kedusha and taharah of Yidden, exactly as Chazal depicted and described.

And in that moment, something shifts. The Mishnayos we hureved over are no longer abstract. They are no longer theoretical. They are real. Alive. Tangible. What a chizuk in emunah.

You can bend down, pick up a broken piece of clay, and suddenly, history is not something you learn.

It is something you touch.

There is so much happening in the world today — in the wider world and in our own. Some of it is good. Much of it is not. People feel unsettled, unsure of what the future holds. Anti-Semitism is rising. The specter of war with Iran hovers.

For many frum families, simply making ends meet has become an ever-growing challenge: housing, tuition, clothing, food, insurance — the basic obligations of life weigh heavier each year. Beneath it all, there is a quiet sense of division and discontent that we struggle to mend.

Where will it all lead? How will it end?

There are opportunities for chizuk all around us, and in our daily lives we can often sense Hashem’s steady hand guiding us, sustaining us, carrying us forward. But sometimes, we need a change of scenery to see it. To step outside ourselves. To be reminded — not intellectually, but viscerally — of who we are and where we come from.

Walking among ancient shards of pottery in Shiloh, standing on the stones once trodden by the olei regel, facing the remaining walls of the Bais Hamikdosh, and watching Yerushalayim’s zekeinim and ne’arim move through its streets — all of it speaks quietly but powerfully. It tells the story of eternity. It reminds us that despite everything our people have endured, we are still here. Alive. Learning. Building. Dreaming.

We walk through the streets of the Eternal City and see before our eyes the living fulfillment of the nevuah of Zechariah Hanovi: “Od yeishvu zekeinim uzekeinos b’rechovos Yerushalayim… Urechovos ha’ir yimale’u yeladim v’yelados mesachakim b’rechovoseha.”

We stand in a city that was destroyed, emptied, burned and mourned, and now we see old people sitting peacefully along the streets and children playing in them.

And in that vision, we find our answer. Not to every question, but to the deepest one of all. We are not a people of endings. We are a people of continuity.

Other nations write histories that conclude with a rise and a fall, with glory followed by disappearance. Our story is quite different. For us, Am Yisroel, destruction is never the final word. Golus is never the last chapter. The dark moments become bridges to something good that follows each time.

That is what Yerushalayim teaches us when we walk its streets.

Am Yisroel exists in a story whose final word has not yet been written. And the story won’t end, as most stories do, with “The End,” but rather with “The Geulah.”

May we merit to see and experience it speedily in our days. Amein.

The Beauty of Shabbos

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Finally, after generations of enslavement in Mitzrayim and a dramatic redemption, Klal Yisroel reaches the apex of creation, standing at Har Sinai and receiving the Torah from Hakadosh Boruch Hu. They hear the Aseres Hadibros and are awed and inspired to live lives of holiness, following the will of the Creator.

One of the mitzvos included in the Aseres Hadibros is Shabbos. We study the posuk of “Zachor es yom haShabbos lekadsho” (20:8), which literally translates as “Remember the Shabbos day to make it holy.”

The pesukim then state that we are to work six days of the week and rest on the seventh, not doing any work on that day, because Hashem created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. Therefore, He blessed the Shabbos day and sanctified it.

The Ramban explains the posuk of “Zachor es yom haShabbos lekadsho” to mean that it is a mitzvah to remember to sanctify Shabbos and keep it holy. He cites the posuk which states, “Vekarasa laShabbos oneg likdosh Hashem” (Yeshayahu 58:13), and writes that when we rest on Shabbos, we do so because it is a holy day. We therefore take a break from even thinking about mundane matters. Instead, we seek to satiate our souls in the way of Hashem and study Torah.

In Parshas Beshalach (16:28–29), the Torah discusses Shabbos in reference to the monn. A double portion fell on Friday because none fell on Shabbos. The posuk states, “Reu ki Hashem nosan lochem es haShabbos — See that Hashem has given you the Shabbos.”

The Seforno explains that the posuk is teaching us to reflect on the fact that Hashem has given us Shabbos, which has two components that set it apart from the rest of the week: firstly, through its mitzvos, and secondly, because it is a gift that Hashem gave to the Bnei Yisroel.

This is probably based on the Gemara in Shabbos (10b), which states that Hashem told Moshe that He has a good gift among His treasures by the name of Shabbos, and He wishes to present it to Klal Yisroel.

What is the gift? Is it the entirety of Shabbos, or is it a component of Shabbos?

In the sefer from Rav Meir Soloveitchik al haTorah, in Parshas Beshalach, it is brought from the Brisker Rov that he deduced from a Rashi in Bereishis (2:2) that the rest component of Shabbos, menucha, is not just a lack of work, but a special creation that Hashem presented to us. He says that Shabbos has two components. The first is its mitzvos, and the second is the menucha.

The Brisker Rov concluded that the menucha of Shabbos was especially created for the Jewish people and is the gift that Hashem gave us.

What is the gift of menucha?

Rav Shimshon Pincus (Shabbos Malkesa 3:4, 2) explains that when a person engages in intense physical labor, he naturally becomes tired and requires rest. This is rooted in the laws of nature, as it reflects a deep spiritual truth: that the source of all life is spiritual. The physical realm, by contrast, is not only distinct from the spiritual, but also serves as a barrier, distancing a person from his spiritual essence and, in turn, from his true source of vitality.

When someone immerses himself entirely in physical labor, he becomes disconnected from this spiritual energy, leading to exhaustion. However, when he ceases his physical exertion and rests, his physical side no longer obstructs his spiritual side. This allows him to reconnect with his true source of life, replenishing his energy and restoring his vitality.

This is compounded when we sleep and our neshamos ascend on high to their Creator, becoming reconnected to their life source. They return to us fully charged, and we wake up energized to take on the day.

The gift that Hashem gave us with Shabbos is that on this day we totally separate from gashmiyus — physical labor, activities, and thoughts — and return to ruchniyus, that which is spiritual. The holiness of Shabbos envelops us. Once we are unburdened from the physical aspects of life that have enveloped us for the past six days, we enter the realm of the kedusha and menucha of Shabbos, as we proclaim, “Yom menucha ukedusha l’amcha nosata.”

Shabbos disconnects us from gashmiyus, enveloping us in the source of energy and life. This is the ultimate gift of menucha that Hashem presented to us.

In order to merit this gift, however, we have to do our part and not only refrain from doing the physical labor of the 39 melachos, but, on Shabbos, elevate ourselves from the mundane through our actions and also through our thoughts. We refrain from discussing, reading about, or thinking about work and the everyday concerns that occupy our minds during the week. Shabbos is a time to step away from the ordinary and reconnect with a higher, spiritual realm. The more we do so, the better off we are and the more energetic we will be.

Menuchas Shabbos is not about lounging around, engaging in shallow conversations, or indulging in gossip without regard for the truth or the harm it may cause. It is not about speaking ill of others, mocking them, or simply passing the time with vacuous chatter.

Those who seek to experience the gift of menuchas Shabbos do so by elevating their ruchniyus through learning, refining their behavior, thoughts, speech, and what they read and focus on.

Shabbos is not solely about refraining from the 39 melachos. It is about rising above our physical, material side as much as possible. It is an opportunity to connect more deeply to our spiritual essence.

Shabbos is a precious gift from Hashem. The more we recognize and appreciate this gift, the closer we draw to Him and the better off we are. Viewing Shabbos as a burden only robs us of the deep opportunities it offers. It keeps us stuck in the triviality of the physical world, sapping our energy and preventing us from experiencing the true depth and perception that this holy day can provide.

The holiness of Shabbos is so profound that, according to the Vilna Gaon, when we eat and drink on Shabbos to fulfill the commandment of oneg, experiencing the joy of eating and drinking on Shabbos, it is as sacred as if we were partaking in a korban. The reason for this, he explains, is that by engaging in these physical acts, we bridge the gap between the physical and spiritual realms, connecting the material (gashmi) and the spiritual (ruchni).

Rav Dovid Cohen elaborates on this by explaining that the essence of kedushas Shabbos lies in elevating the physical world and connecting it to the neshomah. Eating and enjoying food, though a physical act, becomes a spiritual one when done with the intention of fulfilling the mitzvah. As a result, this act is considered so holy that it is as if the person were consuming the meat of a korban.

Imagine that, although we are in golus, without the Bais Hamikdosh and without korbanos, every Shabbos we have the opportunity to eat in a way that is equal to eating korbanos. We don’t have to travel anywhere or do anything special. All we need to do is sit at our Shabbos table, immersed in the sanctity of the day, enjoying the delicacies our mothers and wives prepared for us and the family. Most likely, the recipes they used were handed down to them from their mothers, who received them from their mothers for hundreds of years, each one of whom cooked for a family of mekadshei Shabbos who had the pleasure equivalent to eating korbanos that were shechted in the Bais Hamikdosh.

No matter where they lived or how hard they worked all week, they all enjoyed the transformative powers of Shabbos, the yom menucha ukedusha.

Davening in the Zichron Moshe Shul in the heart of Yerushalayim’s Geulah neighborhood is a special pleasure. The shul and its shtieblach welcome Jews of all stripes, who combine to form the beautiful mosaic that is Geulah in particular and Yerushalayim in general.

I have written previously about the Friday morning when I was there and saw a man sleeping on a bench. His clothing was dirty. His sleep was repeatedly interrupted as he scratched himself in pain from not having showered in many days. It was a pitiful sight, though not unusual in that hallowed shul.

On Friday evening, I passed the shul and stopped by the window of the large bais medrash. I looked toward the mizrach, and there, next to the rov, was the man who, that morning, had been sleeping in squalor on a bench in that very room. From the window, I saw him as he sat at the mizrach wall, facing the mispallelim. He was bedecked in a Yerushalayimer gold bekeshe and shtreimel. He was shining as he sat there with a broad smile on his face. He looked like a malach.

Shabbos transformed him. He was a new person.

It was Shabbos, and he was a new being, almost unrecognizable from what he had been just a few hours before.

I stood there, soaking in the image and thinking that this is how the geulah will be. We are overcome with shmutz, dirt, pain, and sadness. We are in golus, exiled among the nations and among those who have strayed. We are far from home but we do not despair because we know that the day of our redemption is quickly arriving. We will be cleansed, freshened, and made anew. Joy will return. And in the very place where we experienced pain, humiliation, and suffering, we will find comfort.

Meforshim wonder about the connection between the geulah and the heightened moments when Shabbos enters every week, moments that are combined in the universally recited Lecha Dodi.

We raise our voices and sing, welcoming the kallah, yet the words we chant aren’t as much about Shabbos as they are about Yerushalayim.

We shift from Likras Shabbos to Mikdash Melech, focusing on the Palace of the King. We hope for Hisna’ari and call out for Hisoreri, breaking into dance as we envision the time of Yosis Olayich Elokoyich.

Commentators ask why we chant these poetic expressions about the redemption and Yerushalayim as Shabbos begins. What is the connection?

In Zichron Moshe, as I stood at that window, I saw the transformational power of Shabbos and understood the answer to this question.

Every Shabbos, we are each able to rise from the dust of the workweek, from the darkness of golus — mei’afar kumi.

When Moshiach comes, we will do so as a people, together, just as we sing in Lecha Dodi: “Hisna’ari mei’afar kumi livshi bigdei sifarteich ami al yad ben Yishai bais halachmi korvah el nafshi ge’olah.”

May we all merit, each week, the transformation that Shabbos offers, and the ultimate transformation that Moshiach will bring when he redeems us from the struggles of the six days and ushers us into the world of eternal Shabbos.